#and i did the shoulder seams already so i just gotta do up the sides

[bigcats-birds-and-books]

whaaat. if. i finish this cardigan over the weekend

#text #personal #knitting #cardigan #listen im almost done with the first sleeve and it went so fast once i knew whats up #i can deffo knock out the second one with all the class adjacent things i have this week #and i did the shoulder seams already so i just gotta do up the sides #sew on sleeves #pick up and knit collar #weave in ends #like its a Lot but. whaat if. i do it and i finish

[forever-eternal]

Father’s Day

Gov forgets Father’s Day, but his family doesn’t.

———————————————————————

“This weekend?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, sure— we can fly in.”

“Awesome! Ma’s agreed to drag him out of the office when we’re ready, we just gotta prepare and grab the others.”

“Any of em agree?”

“Boe and the others did. Mikala can’t make it due to lack of flights, but she said she’d send a gift.”

“Mom and the Old Man send their gifts to the Older Men?”

“Yeah, Pa didn’t sign ‘em but his handwriting is really recognizable.”

“The gift for Ma and Old Man is being delivered, yeah?”

“Yup! Amy and I are setting up before we join you!”

“Thanks Em.”

“Alright everyone! Let Operation Pa’s Day commence!”

———————————————————————

Gov was used to being at work early in the mornings. Every morning.

Rarely did he ever have time off.

Robin always woke at the same time he did, their schedules and minds so entwined it was second-nature. Yet, she had not joined him. He knew she made her rounds to check in on the children and the grandkids, and was not worried, but it never took this long before.

But then he felt the crackle and fuzz of her teleport and he relaxed. She sat on the arm of his office chair and leaned against him, looping her arms over his back to rest on each shoulder.

The feeling of cool metal as she pressed the side of her face to his, her earring pressed against his skin.

…

His Ro didn’t wear dangling earrings to work.

“Hello, my dear Adam.” She said sweetly, and he was immediately suspicious.

That’s her ‘Ignore Work Today’ voice.

“Robin.” He says slowly, leaning into her as he surveys his circumstances, “You’re late.”

She’s in a short-sleeved sun dress, one she’s owned a since the 1950’s— where the top looked like a button-down shirt and there was a piece of same-colored cloth around her waist to hide the seam that attached the skirt.

Dangling earrings and bracelets, a matching pearl necklace: a set he bought for her nearly a century ago. Ankle-strap cone heels on her feet, the same color of her dress.

Union blue.

He raises a brow, pulling his arm from her grip to wrap both around her waist, looking up at her.

“You’re not dressed for work.” He comments, and she just smiles down, leaning in to give him a ‘bunny kiss’ as she often calls it. He hums.

“Change your clothes.” She says as she leans back, patting his chest with one hand, “We’re going out today.”

“Alright.” he says easily, he never said no to her, “I’ll just have to clear it—“

“Already done!” She slides the paper into his grip, and he looks at it.

Signed by the President and all.

He has the day off.

He relaxes further into his chair as Robin smiles, “Anything I should wear?”

“Something comfortable.” she replies, sliding off to stand next to his chair, “We have much to do– I’ll be outside, my dear.” she presses a kiss to his cheekbone, before she’s gone.

He stares off after her, feeling the faint crackle still, before he sighs and pops back home to change.

———————————————————————

Khakis and a polo, the same color as her dress, were as dressed down as he is willing to be– other than days they go dancing. His loafers stay, though, specially designed to support his feet in a way to minimize his back pain as much as possible. He tucks his sunglasses into his pocket and pops to where he knows Robin is waiting for him.

“Alright—“ he says, but is immediately cut off by several weights barging into him, “Jesus Christ—“

“Hey Pops!” USDA, Elizabeth, grins with her one missing tooth— a result of an accident on her farm out in California. She’s still wearing her usual get-up— yellow shirt and pale blue overalls with a pair of brown working boots — but seems to have forgone her gloves and hat for the time being. He wraps his arms around her tightly, pressing a kiss to her temple despite her dramatic ‘bleh’.

Behind her, he sees his oldest four children— Robert, Gideon, Oliver, Jack (the quadruplets), and Daniel- with his crutches.

They’re all grinning, wearing their civvies like it was the most normal thing in the world.

He hadn’t seen many of his children in a while. Not physically.

The boys get close and he hugs them all as best he can— he’s missed his children.

Robin loops her arm with his, the same smile from earlier still on her face.

“Careful with your Pa, kiddos.” She says easily as the younger entities step away to his other side, “We’re going to have a fun day today.”

“C’mon, Old man.” Daniel is grinning at him, and Gov— Adam, can’t help but smile back.

“Where are we going, then?” He asks with a hum.

Oliver presses a finger to his lips, “Top Secret, Pops.”

Adam rolls his eyes as they drag him off down the sidewalk.

———————————————————————

They go on the old boat, the one that they hadn’t ridden since the 80’s…

———————————————————————

Adam had always been a bit reckless when it came to driving his boat, sharp turns the thing shouldn’t be able to make and large splashes of water evident.

But its a boat specially made for their preferred adrenaline rush of fun.

Daniel is half-hanging over the rail as his Pa makes a sharp turn, a cackling laughter leaving him and his brothers and his sisters aboard the boat. Robin, his mother, as unphased as ever by the sharp turns— not even swaying in her seat despite the speed they’re moving at.

They’re far out from the coast, not even able to see the land in the far distance.

Adam’s grinning, spinning the wheel with skilled hands and a muscle memory that had been dusted off the moment he’d seen the old hunk of metal.

———————————————————————

They take him up to Albany…

———————————————————————

“Lookit, Pa!” Jason calls, standing dangerously on the edge of Liberty’s torch. He has Amanda on one arm and a squirming Zachary thrown over the other. “View’s great, ain’t it?”

“Put your brother down, please.” He says, watching them rigidly, “Your mother will kill us both.”

At the mention of their mother, Zachary is set on his own two feet and they’re all backed several feet from the edge just as Robin reaches them.

She pays no mind to Amanda sitting on Jason���s arm, it was a normal thing for the Department of Labor to carry his siblings and children around.

“Oh, isn’t it lovely?” Robin asks with a smile and a clap of her hands, “It’s much prettier when the sun sets, perhaps we’ll have to come back sometime!”

“Sounds lovely, dear.” Adam agrees— and he can hear his kids snickering wildly behind him, muttering amongst themselves.

“God, Dad’s so whipped for Mom. I’m telling the groupchat.”

“Everyone already knows.”

“Yeah, but it’s funny.”

Adam just rolls his eyes once again, taking his wife’s hand in his as they gaze out over the ships coming into the harbor.

———————————————————————

Within hours they’ve been to every capital, every state, everything they could’ve done— his children switching out every time until he’s seen all of his departments in one day.

And not even at work!

———————————————————————

“Close your eyes, dad!” Barbara whispers excitedly, hands coming up to cover his eyes where she’s standing behind him.

She has to stand on her toes, even in her heels, but she does it.

He hears the other kids that had joined him— excitedly whispering and scampering past him into the house; manor, more like, but he’s never been one for such specifics.

“They’re closed, they’re closed.” His chest rumbles with an affectionate chuckle as he feels his wife’s gentle hands guiding him to the door, keeping his eyes closed because his kids asked— no matter how much he wanted to see where he was going— even as Barbara runs by him into the house.

He hears shushing, even as Robin leans closer.

“Are you excited?” She asks, a lilt to her voice. She’s teasing him.

“I’m excited to see what they have.” He says just as quietly as all the noise in the house dies down. “They’ve made me curious all day.”

“You’ll see.” Something in her voice makes him worried, soft and quiet— like she had been the few times he’d ever seen her cry— but still a happy tone.

She guides him into the foyer, the massive expanse with two staircases on either side leading to the second floor.

“Open your eyes.” She whispers, and he does.

Standing around him— all of his departments and their kids, 18 of the 19 States they raised after the Civil War— with their cities. They’re packed into every crevice of the building, several climbing on top of each other as he stares with wide eyes at the scene.

“Happy Father’s Day!” They call out, the sound loud but one of the best things he’s heard in years.

Most of his kids and grandkids in one place. In his home, where he can watch over and keep them safe.

And as he follows grand gestures to the gift they had gotten him— how did he forget Father’s Day??— he chokes.

When Robin and he got married, back in 1786, their parents had commissioned a massive portrait of them— and it was the only one ever made of their wedding. The only portrait Adam had trouble standing still in because he was so happy and excited to be marrying the woman at his side.

It had been destroyed years ago, when fires struck by rebels burned the house it had been kept in— the one in Georgia, where they got married— was burned during the Civil War.

Adam hates what the war did to him and his family most of all, but the destruction of the portrait was a close second— even if no one knew the house they kept it in.

The frame survived, miraculously, and now bordered the…exact recreation of his wedding day.

The portrait was exact in every detail from the original, the frame painted and detailed until it looked new.

Juneau, one of his grandkids- Alaska’s capital-, crept up beside him.

“The Older Men helped out.” They murmur quietly as Adam can only stare. “All together they remembered every detail, and G-pa had found the frame in the rubble back then. He fixed it up for us.” They rub their hands together nervously, shuffling their feet as they all await his reaction, “Do you like it?”

He chokes on his breath, blinking rapidly.

“Ro,” his voice is hoarse with emotion, “Ro, it’s— it’s our wedding day.”

She slips to his front, wrapping her arms around him comfortingly as he turns to look at her.

“I know.” She soothes, always so easy for her to do, “I know, dear.”

“It was gone.” He shudders, as several of those crowded in the room creep closer, “It was burned.”

“But it's back.” She hums, breath choked just like his own. “Isn’t that great, hmm?”

“It’s the best gift I’ve ever gotten!” He pulls her close and spins with a loud, teary laugh, the declaration startling several of those stationed around the room.

At his reaction, the room fills with boundless excitement— his kids and grandkids surround him on all sides, and he’s so happy he thinks he could die.

But it’s not complete.

———————————————————————

Shaking hands hold onto the leather-bound book they had just pulled from the box.

Thirteen similar books, one for each of them, filled with older letters and quick messages they remember in Congress’ elegant script.

Letters and messages they would receive and reply to until they didn’t, and yet the notes still came. They stopped reading them at some point as well, the heartache of not being allowed to see either Adam or Robin— even if neither were aware of the ultimatum they were given by the Government— one that made reading the worry and care and love that practically spilled into Congress’ words (even if what he wrote was simply about business) an unbearable pain.

And as they get closer to the back, the letters get messier, full of half-coherent ramblings and questions and why are you killing me?!— with faded splotches of what they knew had to of been blood on the parchment.

And, carved into the cover of each book, was a title.

The Letters Sent

With their names in slightly smaller letters underneath.

No, not their State names. Not Pennsylvania or Rhode Island or Georgia.

No.

It’s Patrick Jones, it’s Stephen Jones, it’s John Jones.

Each page is dated, and the last dates to August, 1864.

1864.

Congress died before the war was even over.

Even if his body hadn’t, his mind and the boy they know most certainly had. DC had mentioned spells of lucidity, and if Congress’ mind broke before his body…

…

Each book had appeared in a box on their doorsteps, at their respective homes in their own State. Each with a small, well-written note in handwriting both familiar and yet so different.

Happy Father’s Day.

———————————————————————

Congress had given many gifts to his children, but they all had a favorite one he gave them. Be it a gun, a coat, a blanket, a knife or book or hat or jewelry.

Things they used often, before.

Things that had been kept in storage at the start of the Civil War, fighting to destroy the Union their people hated yet unwilling to destroy something their Pa had given them with only love in his heart.

Things that had since been taken out of storage, yet remained unused, untouched. What if something happened and it broke or got ruined in some way?

They would lose the thing their father left, the thing they love most.

But today, they take them out.

They polish the guns and sharpen the knives, read the books, wear the hats, coats and jewelry, wrap themselves in the blankets or whatever else they do with the items that remind them most of the father they killed.

“Happy Father’s Day.” they say, voices soft and sad and sharp and choked and angry and empty.

———————————————————————

‘Happy Father’s Day!’ the note on the box reads.

“She sent anotha blanket.” Jersey says as he pulls the fabric from its confines. He opened the gifts from his cities, all practical little knickknacks– he had hundreds of empty shelves just to keep the things his kids bought or made for him.

Robin always sent a blanket.

She’s always been a crafty girl, ever since the first four departments were created and she decided to learn to make their own clothes and such instead of buying it– the materials were cheaper than the item, after all.

She always sent a blanket, massive enough to fit all three of her fathers and then some.

This year it had weight to it, and Jersey knew it would take up permanent residence on their bed.

It was a deep, navy blue in color, with white trim on all sides and soft to the touch.

“We’re running out of space for ‘em.” York points out, and Jersey knows he’s right.

A lot of the blankets she had sent them had grown old and worn, and so were folded up and stored in the attic to preserve them as much as possible.

And still, every bedroom in the house had at least two on the bed and several in the closets.

Mass looks up with a raised brow.

“Ya gonna tell her to stop?” he asks knowingly.

York shakes his head, “Course not!”

It was nice to know their girl still loved them, still considered them her Pas after so long.

A Happy Father’s Day indeed.

They don’t look at the leather-bound books on the coffee table.

#wttt gov #wttt oc #wttt assistant #welcome to the table au #welcome to the table #family ties au

[divine-mistake]

'till death blooms us art

Summary: You’d rather die loving him than never getting to see the sun ever again.

(“Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice messaging system. This number is not available. At the tone, please record your message.”)

Characters: Sam Wilson/Plus-sized Reader

Warnings: 18+ (no smut), strong language, Hanahaki AU, angst with a happy ending, weight insecurity, allusions to eating disorders, talk about death, blood, past domestic abuse and trauma, gun violence, original male character, book quotes, anxiety

Word Count: 12796

A/N: Thank you for reading! This fic won the vote during my 500 follower celebration and it's finally out now! This story has a lot of meaning for me, due to it being a bit of a metaphor for disorderly eating. I know that will make some people uncomfortable, but as someone who has struggled for a long time, I want to talk more openly about this kind of thing. Anyway, thanks so much for sticking with me and I hope you enjoy!

main masterlist | AO3 | playlist by @tripleyeeet

—STUBBORN WEEDS—

They are everywhere—covering the space of the sitting room like an overgrown garden made of glass and paint, canvas and pages torn from old waterlogged books, stained mugs filled with decaying brushes. Wanda walks through your room like it’s a maze, her fingers trailing over the air but never touching the art. She’s pretending she’s in a museum, or a gallery, or something fancier than what you could ever appear in, but a twinge of something akin to warmth stabs through your heart at the thought.

“These are incredible,” she says, not looking at you. “How do you do it?”

With a shrug, you bend down and pick up one of the canvasses from the floor, holding it out to look at it.

“I don’t know,” you lie.

White space in the shape of flowers, uneven and missing petals here and there, is outlined in streaks of paint that go every direction, in every different shade, hard edges and soft, blurred lines and covering the entirety of the canvas except for those spaces where flowers once sat, pinned to the medium.

“They are beautiful,” Wanda says.

Your nail sneaks under one of the dried chunks of acrylic and you chip it—a fleck of ultramarine blue falls from the painting.

When you turn, Wanda studies a different piece in careful hands. It’s a glass case, trimmed with shitty, shaky lines of gold you painted on a whim. But inside, between the thick panes, dried flowers painted over are encased in eternity, arranged to match their exact placements on the canvas where your brushes stroked life onto them, around them, through them. Two perfect pieces that once belonged together, separated like an act of Adam against his God.

Maybe they were meant to be together, but no one will ever know their story.

“They’re amateur,” you tell her, laughing. “I’m not much of an artist. It’s just for fun.”

She smiles at you, placing the glass piece down. “You have a talent.”

Wanda takes another turn about the room, another circuit, another spin. She looks at every piece in such focus, taking in every single detail, fingers stretching and curling as if she wants to caress the dried flowers, the dried paint, and feel their meaning. You wonder what she would say if she could read their minds—the art you’ve made. Would your pieces tell her the true meaning behind their existence? Or maybe they would laugh, or cry, or howl in pain.

But Wanda only stares, at the paintings and at you, a small smile on her face like she knows something you don’t. Like she’s keeping a secret. Is she keeping the secrets that the flowers have whispered to her when you weren’t looking?

“What inspired them?” she asks, the very tip of her nail tracing a different glass box filled with dyed petals reconstructed into a larger artificial flower, protected by its own display.

You wring your hands together. “I like flowers.”

She laughs. “That’s obvious. But what makes them special enough to paint? To—To make such lovely art out of?”

Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you place the small canvas you’d been holding back on the side table, crossing the room to your bookshelf. Your fingertip finds the spine of a hardcover book you’re too familiar with, pulling it out and into your awaiting hands. Sheets of paper, a little bent and crooked, stick out of the pages.

You crack it open, the dulling white petals of a daisy pressed flat between the crackling spine fluttering from between the black inked words, then fall to the floor at your feet.

“The Devil’s hand directs our every move,” you read. “The things we loathed become the things we love.”

Wanda stares at you as you fiddle with the book, tracing the words of the cover.

“Les Fleurs du Mal,” you say. “The Flowers of Evil.”

Gently and without word, she bows at your feet and picks up the drying daisy, cradling it in her pale hands, but you don’t have the strength to take it from her.

(“Hey there darlin’, it’s just me. I had to run some errands this morning, y’know how it is, so I’m out of the Tower right now. I was just wondering if you needed anything while I was out. Anything—really, anything at all. Even breakfast, or maybe a latte? Just a little pick-me-up. Well, give me a call back if you need anything. If not, I’ll be back soon. See ya.”)

—BETTER TOGETHER—

“Steven Grant,” you say his name like a curse, shaking your head. “This is why you spend three hours a day in the gym.”

Too busy shoving the first bite of his first hoagie into his mouth, Steve doesn’t reply. You roll your eyes, but the smile on your lips gives you away. When he’s finally swallowed, wiping crumbs from his mouth, he looks a little indignant.

“Are you calling me fat?”

“Well, you would be if you didn’t have that serum running through you.”

He frowns, brows furrowed, a little confusion on his face. “I thought it was because I work out three hours a day. And I’ll have you know—”

“—you work out six hours a day between your morning runs and training, I know, I know. I’ve heard it all before Steve.” You groan at the thought. “It’s like it’s your job.”

“It is my job. Saving the world and all that.”

“Okay, you really need to let America know that it’s giving you a complex, ‘cause if I hear one more thing about you saving the world, I think I’m going to scream.”

He shrugs, taking another gigantic bite out of his sandwich. Scraps of shredded lettuce fall out from between the buns and litter his plate. You pick at your own, pulling uneven pieces of sliced onion and stray pickles from the hoagie, content to sit and stare at it instead of eating.

Food is good. You brush the grainy crumbs of bread from your fingers. Food is good, but you just aren’t hungry. And you don’t work out three hours a day. Maybe you should start. Your body feels like a balloon with all your insides threatening to come up in a retch and choke you. Food is good. Food is good. You just have to pick up the sandwich and eat it.

Fingers shaking, you take the sub in your hand and stare at the corner where you mean to take the first bite.

“You good?”

Steve, still chewing, looks at you with concern clear in his crystal blues and it makes you put your food back down on the plate. Instead, you busy yourself with another sip of your water, nodding at him.

“Yeah. We can’t all be Steve Rogers, demolishing two hoagies in less than two seconds, y’know.” You throw in a snort, trying to sound nonchalant. “Wipe your mouth, Captain. You’ve got mayo on your cheek.”

He doesn’t, but him grabbing a napkin to embarrassedly wipe a nonexistent condiment from his face gives you enough time to pick your sandwich back up and contemplate taking the first bite. You’ve just gotta start with the first bite and the rest will go down.

But you aren’t hungry. How can you be hungry when you’re already so full? Stuffed, even. There isn’t room in your insides. All your organs are bursting. It’s so painful sometimes, the expanding of your skin to accommodate. Waves of sickness roll through you, spreading. Your stomach is stretched, bloated, filled with all the swallowed—

“What are you doin’ to my girl, huh Steve?”

The sound of his voice alone makes the ache inside of you dissipate, the nausea escapes from your throat, the anxiety twitching through your hands steadies. Your head perks up, shoulders rolling back as your entire body relaxes, and you look behind you.

And there, dressed in a tight blue polo and a pair of pants clinging to his legs like they were made for him, the very angel who blessed you, the devil who cursed you, the god of the fucking sun and everything it could ever touch, stands before you with a smile saved just for you.

Sam Wilson.

His dark eyes are piercing, like he’s trying to peel back the layers of your skin to see underneath, as he shoves his hands in his pockets and grins with all his teeth.

“Hey honey,” he says—simply and easily and not serious. Never serious.

Your lungs burn. Your mouth feels too dry to answer him.

“Oh, your girl?” Steve asks him, brows a little too furrowed to be joking. “When did she become your girl?”

Sam shrugs, walking toward the empty seat next to you, placing his hand on the back of your chair so dangerously close to your body that it makes you pull in a deep breath. His thumb could brush against the fabric of your shirt, run along the seam of your spine. And, goddamn, it should be illegal for him to look so casual and so unbothered while still looking that handsome.

Like this, you can smell the spice in his cologne, a powerful mix of something you’re sure is designed to drive you crazy.

He looks down at you, still hovering over where you sit, and throws a wink your way that brings heat to the surface of your cheeks.

“Aw, she’s always been my girl, ain’t that right? Tell him, darlin’.”

You stare at Sam for one second too long, breaking away to gaze down at your uneaten sandwich again. With every flutter that Sam sends down your stomach, the heaviness inside it seems to fade away. Your fullness is replaced by a familiar hunger—the rawness of your throat waning as a burning itch takes over. A cough is threatening to bubble up. You choke it back, smiling instead.

“He’s right, Stevie,” you say all bright and cheery again.

Steve meets your eyes with a stony gaze, unreadable, his blue eyes looking gray in the light. Beside you, Sam throws himself down in one of the chairs and pulls up to the table, hand still sitting on the back of your seat. His knees are spread a little wide, thigh resting against yours.

It’s so innocent but your brain thinks it’s so intimate. A lie. A lie.

In the end, Steve relaxes back, his eyebrows lifting as he watches the scene unfold in front of him. He tosses one of the sticky plastic menus toward Sam, nodding at it.

“Order up, man,” Steve says, his tone more neutral than you think you’ve ever heard it in regards to Sam. “But I’m not paying for yours. You’re on your own.”

At that, Sam laughs, full and robust with his face up to the ceiling. He rocks back in his chair, shaking his head, and he looks so beautiful even in the shitty sub shop that Steve drags you to for lunch every other week that it makes you ache and your lungs contract in an attempt to cough.

You swallow it back again, trying to even out your breathing. The itch in your throat is so bad that you almost pick up your sandwich to eat again, but your hand passes it up to take another few sips of your water. It’s cool, clear, refreshing—but it can’t make the tickle of the cough go away.

“So,” Sam starts once he’s finished ordering his own hoagie, “how’s that apartment hunting going? Found anything good yet?”

A frown forms, heavy, on your lips. You pick off a flaking piece of bread from your sandwich, watching it turn to crumbs underneath your fingers.

“It’s going,” you say, but anyone who ever responds to a question of how’s it going with it’s going is absolutely lying and it is absolutely not going—and maybe Sam knows that, or maybe Steve does, or hell, maybe they both do but it makes you look weak to admit that things aren’t going so well out loud.

And you—you can’t admit the truth, so it’s just better to lie about it.

You don’t want to leave the Tower.

“It’s going, huh?” Sam asks, his tone proving that he can see right through you. “You need help looking at some places or something?”

“Well—”

“You know,” he barrels through your words as if they are nothing, “I think I actually know a realtor around here. Maybe he can get you some leads on rentals or something. I could make some calls for you, honey.”

It’s not supposed to—Sam only means well, he always does, always trying to do so much for people—but it hurts to hear. Because you don’t hear him saying that he’s trying to help you out. You hear him saying he doesn’t want you around the Tower anymore.

Because, well, why would he want you there?

To him, you’re just an outsider. A girl who doesn’t belong. Someone who daydreams and doodles flowers on every surface as soon as she thinks of him. And you always think of him.

Before you can think about it, your hand flies to your mouth reflexively to hold back a cough. Instantly, Sam’s leaning closer and that damned hand of his falls soft against your back.

“You okay?”

There’s barely a moment for you to nod, signaling that you’re fine, before Steve’s got on his game face, all hard lines and furrowed brows and thin lips pressed tightly together.

“Hey,” he says, grabbing Sam’s attention. “She’s allowed to stay as long as she wants, alright? The Tower is her home now, too. So there isn’t a rush for her to find a place unless she wants to leave.”

The passion and care in Steve’s voice is strong, almost so overpowering it’s oppressive, and something rises up from within you and threatens to send salty tears careening down your cheeks if you don’t blink them away.

Sam raises his hands in front of him dramatically. “Okay, okay, I get it. I wasn’t trying to run her off or anything, just wanted to lend a hand if I could. Damn, Steve.”

Something changes at the table, then. It’s like a fog, thick and cloying, falls over the three of you and keeps you lethargic—so much so that the only words spoken in the next few awkward minutes are Sam’s thanks when the waiter brings his sandwich by.

You still haven’t even touched yours, and you hope it seems like you’re just waiting for Sam to get his, because Steve’s tearing into his second and by the looks of the mustard dripping down his fingers messily, he’ll be done any minute now.

But as you prop your head up on the table, leaning on your elbow boredly, Sam nudges his leg into yours to grab your attention. When you turn to look at him, he’s got that grin again, all pearly and white with the little crooked gap you think you could stare at forever as long as it meant he was smiling and laughing and happy.

“You gonna eat, girl?” Sam picks his sub up in his hand and gestures at you to do the same. God, he makes you dizzy just by talking. The butterflies in your belly are fighting tooth and nail against your organs, trying to take up all the space, but they aren’t really butterflies. The soft monsters in your stomach leave a taste on your tongue you can’t explain.

“Oh.” You mimic his movement and then Sam toasts his hoagie against yours with a chuckle.

“First bite,” he says, and there’s no thought in your head or balloon in your stomach and no bloated skin to make you second guess yourself.

You follow Sam, sinking your teeth into the bread of your sandwich, and its flavor explodes over your tongue just enough to take away all the bitter, floral, fragrant taste of the daisies that are building up in your stomach, their petals choking you out, downy fluttering things inside you.

(“Hey girl, it’s me. I couldn’t find you anywhere—where you at? I was coming to see if you wanted to grab a bite with me for lunch, maybe at that little Italian place you like to go to around the corner? Or maybe sushi or something? Been a while since I got to go out for lunch, so I thought I’d ask, but I guess you’re busy right now. I’ll catch you later, darlin’. Enjoy your lunch.”)

—NEW BEGINNINGS—

You’ve got to call him. You have to. You have no choice anymore.

Danny is on the other side of the locked door, his fist pounding on the wood and threatening to cave it in from the repeated force. The sound is louder than it should be, really, echoing off the tile of the bathroom you’ve barricaded yourself inside. He’s shouting above the sound.

“You fucking bitch. I’m gonna kill you. I’m gonna fucking kill you. You lied to me? What else are you lying about, huh? You fucking whore. I took you in, I gave you a home, I gave you everything. Fucking fat slut—how many other guys are you sleeping with, huh?”

None, you had answered earlier when he was questioning you in your shared bedroom, his fist tight around your soft arm and squeezing so hard it made you want to scream. None.

But that wasn’t the answer Danny was looking for. And, well, once he threw you onto the ground and stomped to the dresser, clothes strewn around the room as he furiously ripped through it until he found the shiny black firearm you didn’t know he had, you were gone.

But there was only one place to go and that was the bathroom.

Now, trapped inside, you know you have no choice. You have to call him—the man from the coffee shop you’ve been going to regularly for a few months. The man who noticed the bruises Danny always left on you after a rough night. The man who pressed and pried and tried to do anything to get you to open up to him even as you refused over and over again. The man who put his number in your phone because he wanted you to call him if you ever needed him, not because he was a hero, but because he was worried about you.

You press the number two on speed dial. The phone rings.

“Hello? Who is this?”

“Steve?” Your voice is nothing but a sob. “Steve, you were right.”

He doesn’t miss a beat, but you hear the rustle of clothes and a jingle of keys on the other side beyond the static, a sound that makes you almost cry with relief or hope or maybe just stress.

“Hold on,” he tells you. “FRIDAY is pulling up your address. I’ll be there as quick as I can. Are you safe?”

“Bathroom,” you’re able to mumble out from behind the waterfall of tears rushing down your face. “He’s locked out but—but I’m scared.”

“I’m on my way. He’s not going to hurt you. I promise you.”

And then Steve hangs up, and you wish he hadn’t because now you’re left all alone with just a flimsy wooden door, painted fucking white so the blood will show up real pretty when Danny kills you, between you and your boyfriend.

Well, ex-boyfriend if you get out of here alive.

“Four fucking years!” he shouts from outside. “I gave you four fucking years of my life, you stupid bitch. I put up with your dumb fat ass for four years and this is what you do? Is this love? Do you think this is love?”

You figure anything is love as long as it doesn’t look like this. The ring of bruises around your upper arm from Danny’s grasp is already turning black and blue, a sight that makes you flinch.

Honestly, if it’s anyone’s fault, it’s yours. All the cash you were stashing should’ve been hidden better. You knew better. A shoebox up on the top shelf of the closet? Amateur. You should’ve cut a section out of one of your prized books or something. Danny never fucking reads. He probably doesn’t know how. He would’ve never found all the money if you’d stashed it there.

“Six thousand dollars!” he roars, punching the center of the door. The wood bends slightly. “How long’ve you been fucking stealing from me, huh? Fucking bitch. Stupid fucking bitch.”

And then it happens.

Danny’s fist breaks through the first layer of the door with a curse of pain falling from his lips. Then, a laugh. He’s laughing.

“I’m gonna kill you.”

He punches the door again and then his hand is through, wood splinters shattering and flying toward you, and with a scream you shield your face with your arms and duck down. You’re sitting beside the bathtub, squished against the toilet, and you scoot back as far as you can trying to wedge yourself to safety.

But there is no safety here. Danny’s bloodied fingers find the doorknob and unlock it with a click, and it’s over. It’s over. It’s fucking over.

With a kick, the door comes flying open and you’re screaming again at the top of your lungs, throat tearing itself raw. Danny’s broad frame possesses the entire room as he shoulders his way inside, his lips pulled back to show all of his teeth in a feral grin, the overhead lights catching the shine of the sleek gun he’s carrying.

You can’t even look at him. All you can do is stare at his back in the bathroom mirror hanging over the counter, your mind completely devoid of thought.

“Fuckin’ dead,” Danny says, and you don’t see him aim the gun at you. You stare in the mirror, right in the mirror and memorize the pattern of the plaid jacket he’s wearing, how the colored stripes form new colors, how the fabric all blends. It’s a pretty shirt. You bought it for him two Christmasses ago. He looks good in it.

You are going to die.

Then, suddenly, you can’t see the plaid anymore. Instead it’s a gray shirt on a much bigger body blocking out the mirror, and when you turn your head to look, Steve’s there.

Steve’s here.

He’s got Danny in a chokehold, grappling for the pistol in your boyfriend’s hand. Ex-boyfriend. Despite Steve being completely unarmed—he’s Captain America for christ’s sake, a goddamn super soldier, he doesn’t need a fucking weapon—he easily brings Danny down to his knees and onto the floor, kicking the gun away from their bodies and out of the bathroom completely.

“Fucking whore,” Danny manages to spit out, the sound strangled as Steve’s arm buckles over his neck. “You’re fucking him too, huh? I’m gonna kill you.”

“Shut up,” Steve grits through his clenched teeth, pulling Danny toward the destroyed door. “You’re done.”

They disappear from the bathroom in a tangle and thrashing of limbs. Danny curses the whole way down the stairs, struggling to break out of Steve’s grasp you presume. He’s a fighter—that’s what he always said. Dog meets dog eats dog world, he would tell you. You can’t ever trust anyone.

And, well, he certainly proved his beliefs. You had the bruises to show for it. The scars as evidence.

Sitting alone in your wrecked bathroom, still sprawled out on the tile, you stare down at your hands. The lines run deep in your palms, fingers stubby and chubby and not at all feminine. Too small to grab Danny the way he always grabbed you. Too soft with fat to deliver a good punch.

You don’t know how much time passes before a much larger hand enters your vision, slowly, like approaching a kicked mutt on the street, and when you don’t flinch, Steve lays his fingers across your palms. Apprehensively, you grab onto his hand, and he squeezes back.

Looking up, he’s crouched in front of you, the beginnings of a bruise forming on his left temple. With your free hand, you reach out and let your fingers brush over it, but Steve just smiles at you.

“Let’s go,” he murmurs.

“Where?”

“Anywhere but here,” he says, gently tugging on your hand. You hold onto him a little tighter and let him help you up off the ground, his arm immediately sliding around your waist to steady your shaky legs.

“I don’t have anywhere else to go,” you say. “The money I saved…”

You don’t even know what happened to it. For all you know, Danny burned the cash. Or stashed it somewhere else.

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” Steve says in a soft voice. “I’m taking you back to the Tower. The police are dealing with Danny right now. Can you help me pack some clothes for you?”

And so you sat on the bed among your wrecked bedroom as Steve picked through the messy drawers that had been pulled from their dresser, some articles of clothing crumpled on the floor where Danny flung them in his mad search for your secret money stash. And the gun. You almost forgot about the gun.

Steve helps you pack, his face only a little pinker than normal when you’re shoving your intimates into the black duffle bag he fished out of his car, and then he’s helping you slip on your sneakers and guiding you out of your house.

You don’t say goodbye to it, though. That house. Even after four years, you don’t call it home. In a lot of ways, you’re happy to watch it disappear from Steve’s rearview mirror, hoping you’ll never be back.

“They’re going to love you there,” he says quietly in the silence of the car, both hands tight around the steering wheel. He glances over at you, then back at the road. “You’ll fit right in. You’ll be safe. Right at home.”

But you think Steve is a bit of an optimist. Homes, you think, are for people who are loved.

(“Hey honey, just me here. Look, I remembered you saying something about how you wanted those, what were they called, the fairy lights for your room? The ones that look like Christmas lights? I thought we could go pick some up and I’ll hang ‘em up. You’re too short to do it yourself, girl, you know that. Anyway, give me a call if you want to, or just come down to my room and get me, anytime. I’ll be waiting. Talk soon, honey.”)

—KEEPING SECRETS—

Wanda hums a tune under her breath. “I just can’t wait to get out of this place! It’s been too long. Mission after mission after bloody mission.” She sighs and starts to apply a thick coat of mascara, eyes wide as she stares in the mirror.

“Agreed,” Natasha says from somewhere behind you. The sound of her bare feet on the bathroom tile is the only warning you have before she sidles up beside you, gracefully lifting herself up onto the counter and sweeping various cosmetics aside to make room.

You’re still undressed, standing in your panties and an old t-shirt with a stretched out neck, just finishing up your eyeshadow when Nat taps a black bottle on the marble top near your fingers.

“Want me to do your eyeliner?” she asks.

A few months ago, you would have seen it as an insult—a beautiful, dangerous woman telling you in less words that your makeup looked like shit. Now you know it’s an expression of Natasha’s unending love for you. A willing act of service. A small thing she can do for you.

“Yes please.”

Natasha motions you forward, between her legs, and when she takes your face in her hand you close your eyes.

“Pretty colors,” she says, probably about your eyeshadow.

“Thanks,” you reply, and then you feel the cool wetness of liquid liner right on your lash line as she begins to paint a wing on your lid. “You always look pretty.”

“So do you.” She blows softly on your left eye. “It’s like you never need makeup, I swear. Are you even wearing foundation?”

A smile works its way onto your face. “Nope.”

From beside you, Wanda giggles.

“Slut. You’re so perfect it makes me want to scream sometimes,” Natasha says, tongue clicking her teeth as she finishes off your right eye.

All the breath seems to leave you in that moment. Like someone punched you straight in your gut, your bones like the gel shock-absorbing layer protecting your organs. Your eyes want nothing more than to shoot open, but Nat is blowing cool air over the newly formed wing and you force yourself to relax so you don’t mess everything up.

“I’m not perfect,” you tell her. “Have you looked in a mirror lately?”

“Don’t deflect.” You hear her cap the eye liner and set it down on the counter, then her palms engulf your cheeks. Slowly, you let your eyes open, blinking gently.

She’s staring at you, eyes narrowed.

“Just because I’m beautiful doesn’t mean you’re not beautiful,” she says, simply, as if it’s just easy for her to not compare herself to anyone else. “If you’re perfect, you’re perfect. Doesn’t matter if I’m perfect, too. And that Wanda is perfect. Or that anyone is perfect.”

Natasha takes your chin in her fingers and grabs a tube of lipstick—the one she and Wanda always tell you to wear because it looks so damn good on you.

“Your beauty and your worth doesn’t come from other people.” She runs the silken rouge over your lips. “It comes from who you are, not comparisons to other people.”

And, god, you want to scream at her. You want to shout and tell her that she isn’t allowed to say that to you when she looks the way she does—slim and picturesque and every human being’s wet dream. She doesn’t get to say that you shouldn’t compare yourself, with your heavy chest and your wide hips and all your soft pockets of skin, to someone like her. To someone like Wanda. To anyone else that doesn’t need liposuction with a side of diet pills, please.

You can’t be perfect, because if you were perfect, if you were enough, you wouldn’t be dying in agony every night over someone that doesn’t look twice at your too-large stomach and your too-large thighs.

They’re just trying to make you feel better, but all it does is make you feel worse.

“Look,” you say when she’s done with your lipstick, “I get what—”

In a split second, your chest is wracked with hard coughs, lungs struggling for air. It’s choking you, your own insides, and you’re hacking and wheezing and grasping at the bathroom counter and Natasha’s hands are on your shoulders and Wanda is slapping your back in hope that it will help and someone, somewhere, is saying the word heimlich and you can taste it on your tongue like old wallpaper from the 70s, floral and disgusting and toxic and ugly.

You throw your arm over your mouth, smearing your lipstick. It doesn’t help. Natasha is looking at you, eyes wild. You’re coughing and coughing and you think you taste blood underneath the overwhelming velvet on your tongue.

They’re saying your name. Shredded petals are between your teeth.

And then you break, pushing past them to the toilet, skidding on your knees until you’re doubled over and retching. It’s all burning acid and fresh flowers. Rot and fester and earth and greenery. A pair of cool hands—Wanda’s, you think—rest upon your forehead and move your hair away from your face.

Vomit and daisies leak from your mouth until your stomach is done contracting and your insides are empty. All that’s left is your sputtering coughs that taste caustic and beautiful.

It’s getting bad.

When you finally pull away from the toilet, slumped back and wiping your mouth, the toilet is full of an explosion of crisp white and bright yellow, tinged with the faint pink of blood. Wanda is glancing back and forth between you and the unflushed toilet, horror stitched on her face.

Before Natasha approaches, a glass of tap water in hand, you lean over and flush the petals down the drain. The look you shoot Wanda is pleading, but you don’t even know what you’re asking for.

Everything on the inside hurts, burning like a pit of snakes in your belly, hissing and spitting venom and biting into you like they mean to kill you. Perhaps the daisies have grown fangs. Your lungs feel chewed.

Nat places the glass in your shaking hands, her fingers holding your own as if she knows you can’t do it yourself. She helps raise the glass to your soiled lips and you gulp the water down like it’ll flood the valley unfolding in you.

“Who is it?” she asks, her voice calm but her eyes uneasy. You nearly choke, a hand pressing against the middle of your chest as if you need to feel your lungs as they work to assure yourself of your own survival.

“What?” you barely eke out, throat thick and scratchy. One of Wanda’s hands strokes down your back and she doesn’t speak, only shakes her head.

“Who is it?” Natasha repeats.

You look away.

“God.” Wanda sniffles behind you. “How could we not have realized?”

“Because it doesn’t happen,” Nat says, shifting from crouching in front of you to sitting on her knees on the floor, a hand resting on your thigh. “I’ve never known a single person—until now, I guess—who had it. I thought it wasn’t real.”

“They tell it like a fairytale in Sokovia,” Wanda says, her words just as watery as her eyes. “A story you lull children to sleep with! But I should have seen it. We should have seen it.”

A new abundance of petals tickle the back of your throat.

“All that art,” Natasha hisses, but she isn’t looking at you. She’s glaring down at her lap.

“All the daisies,” Wanda cries. Her head drops against your shoulder. You feel the wetness of her tears.

“It’s okay,” you tell them, but your voice is too small. “It’s okay,” you say, louder this time, tasting the flowers like they are the blood of your bitten tongue.

“Who is it?” Natasha asks again, a begging in her voice you don’t think you’ve ever heard before.

“It’s okay,” you say again.

And with this, Nat’s face changes from one of concern to something of realization—like she’s been struck with a thought she never considered, like she’s seen the future.

“It’s him.” Her jaw is slack, staring at you even as Wanda looks at her with confusion etched on her visage. “You have to tell him.”

“No,” you say simply.

“This is bad,” Nat snaps, as if you don’t know it already. “This is getting bad. You need to tell him or you’re—you’re going to die.”

A laugh breaks through the bathroom, echoing. “How can I tell him? How could I ever tell him that I love him when the simple fucking fact that these flowers are growing—rooting—in my goddamn lungs is proof that he doesn’t love me the way that I love him?”

You lean back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling.

“Sam Wilson doesn’t love me the way I love him,” you whisper.

The tips of Natasha’s fingers catch the tears you don’t feel streaking down your cheeks like the screaming of shooting stars, hot and bright and dying.

“It’s sort of beautiful, don’t you think?” Your nails dig into the fat flesh of your thighs, trying to puncture skin. “To make art of your own death. To make something lovely out of something so tragic.”

You can’t swallow it back this time. A cough wracks through you, jostling your bones, and you fold yourself in half as soft white petals emerge from your esophagus and choke you. You grind them against the backs of your teeth with your tongue, trying to mash them into nonexistence, but it’s not enough. You retch another wave of daisies into your awaiting hands.

Wanda calls your name and it sounds broken.

“Death like this,” you rasp, catching your breath, “is the most beautiful way to go.”

Your finger drags over one of the downy petals, a bead of blood catching on your skin and smearing across it like a brushstroke of paint, ruining it.

“Death like this is the only way I want to go.”

(“Hey beautiful, it’s me again. I heard you were going out with the girls tonight—I hope you have fun. I just wanted you to know that if you need a ride back home, or you get into trouble and need a hero, or anything, really, I’m just a phone call away. You need me and I’ll be there, ‘kay honey? I’ll be up if you need anything, at least ‘till you get home. Have fun, girl.”)

—INNOCENCE—

You’re beginning to ask yourself if the mirror lies.

It doesn’t. You know that. You’ve been trying to find the lies in it for years at this point, pinching and pulling at all the places you find are thicker than the women you see on TV, the women you see floating around the Tower, the women you’ve seen on the arms of Sam Wilson. Chubby hands caress down your soft belly, poking and prodding the skin you wish you could make disappear. The mirror never lies.

But you wish it did when you stare at yourself and all you see are the bruises beneath your eyes, the hollows in your cheeks, the drained look in your gaze. The longer you stand there, the less you recognize yourself.

You aren’t hungry anymore. You never get hungry—the flowers filling up all the space in your stomach, coughed up from your lungs and swallowed back in pieces. Perfume is what your mouth tastes like now. Perfume and iron. The vomiting hasn’t stopped since the night your secret was revealed to Natasha and Wanda.

And you’ve never looked better.

That’s the part you hate. The part where when you look in the mirror and you can see the places where those daisies have shaved you thinner. It almost makes you laugh. People say you pack on the pounds when you find love. Maybe they should try having toxic flowers take root inside of them and slowly steal their lifeforce while they watch the person they love never love them back.

It’s a slow process, this death. You wonder which will kill you first—the starvation or the suffocation.

The walk down to the gala is as equally exciting as it is dreadful. You’ve never been to a Tony Stark gala before and you’re eager to dance the night away with your friends. But you’re also exhausted.

Oh well. The makeup helps you look less like a corpse and more like a dancing queen. The dress, which you’re sure someone paid far too much money for, is part of the solution. It’s all flowy and gorgeous as if you are a Greek goddess meant to be worshipped and highlights your figure while hiding all the imperfections the mirror seemed to find.

And when you finally enter the room, classical music playing from the live band and people laughing loudly and champagne twirling about the floor for people to take, the first thing you see is him.

Grin taking up his entire face, lighting up the entire ballroom, dressed beautifully in a navy suit that makes him look utterly dashing, is Sam Wilson.

He’s surrounded by people—women who are better dressed than you are—so with a shaky breath and a pain in your lungs, you quickly turn on your heel and head toward the next familiar face.

“Woah there, doll, where you hurryin’ off to?” Bucky, hair neatly pulled back and wearing a black suit, grabs you by your waist.

“Nowhere,” you blurt. “The bar. I just got here.”

He raises a thick brow at you, a silent question, but when you choose not to answer he shrugs.

“Well I can’t refuse to escort a pretty lady, can I?” With a charming smile, he holds his elbow out to you and gestures for you to grab on. You slip your hand around his arm and grasp him tightly, shooting him a grateful smile.

“Thanks, Bucky.”

But as the two of you start dodging through the crowd of excited party-goers, on your way to the bar in the back, Bucky stops short and gets a look on his face that you’re not quite sure you can describe as mischievous, but it’s close enough to make you frown.

“Y’know what,” he says, glancing over at you with that boyish grin, “I think we should take a spin on the dance floor instead.”

“Oh no,” you tell him, eyes wide. “I can’t dance—”

He snorts. “I’ve seen you dance around the kitchen, doll.”

“I can’t dance in front of all these people.”

“Can’t is a word for losers.” Bucky closes his hand over yours, locking you to his elbow. “Don’t wanna be a loser like Stevie, do ya? Oh Buck, I can’t stop fighting, gotta teach ‘em a lesson. Oh Buck, I can’t rinse out my cereal bowl, I gotta go for a run.”

It makes you laugh, maybe a little too loud, but it eases you just enough for Bucky to pull you into the menagerie of dancing couples, and then he’s moving your hand from his arm and onto his shoulder and clasping your other in his fingers.

“There we go.” His eyes shine like the ocean sparkles under the Tower lights.

Bucky has something magic in him, you decide, after two songs of him swinging you along the floor. He has something magic that makes everything so easy, which is something so admirable after all he’s been through. He has you laughing and smiling and spinning across the room with so little effort you forget all your worries in an instant.

“See?” Bucky dips you in his arms, making you squeal with glee, collecting the stares of the people peppered around the room. “Knew you could dance, doll.”

Panting, you rest a hand on his chest, still giggling. “Only ‘cause you’re so good.”

“Song’s over, Buck,” a new, familiar voice cuts in. When you look up, Steve is standing there, eyes crinkling with his own smile. “I can’t wait for another.”

At that, Bucky rolls his eyes with such drama it has you laughing yet again.

“See? I told you. It’s all can’t this, can’t thatwith Stevie. But fine.” Bucky guides you by the waist over to Steve, passing your hand over, and then gives you one last grin with all his teeth. “I had fun, doll. Thanks for dancin’ with me.”

“Anytime,” you tell him, and then Steve’s adjusting your grip on him. The song changes from the upbeat tune Bucky was twirling you to down to a slower classical piece.

“You doing okay, sweetheart?” Steve asks, his eyes roaming over your face.

“Yeah,” you hum. “Bucky and I had a lot of fun.”

Steve’s grip at your waist tightens a little. “No, I mean in general. Are you doing alright?”

There’s worry there—in the wrinkles on his brow, the blue skies of his eyes, the curve of his lips. You know he’s staring at you and seeing everything the mirror told you. All the gaunt places. The hollow, haunted look you’re parading around. The weight you’ve been steadily losing. You know he sees it.

“I’m okay,” you tell him, and you wonder yet again if the mirror ever lies. You know you do.

Steve sways you gently, more carefully than Bucky had. Steve dances with you like you’re made of something fragile. You still don’t understand why. You don’t know why he ever looked at you and saw something important, someone to protect. Maybe it’s just how he was born to be.

“You can tell me anything,” he says, so seriously that your heart breaks a little.

You move your hand from his shoulder and up to cradle his cheek, smiling.

“I know, Steve. I know.”

And if he pulls you into him, crushes you against his chest, and holds you like that for the rest of the song, no one mentions it. Steve lets you rest your head on his shoulder and, not for the first time, you think this must be how it feels to have a family.

But then the lights in the ballroom brighten a little and a spark finds its way into the music, changing into something jazzy and fun, and someone slaps Steve on the shoulder.

“Alright Rogers, she’s ours now.”

There, dressed like she could kill a man with her heels alone, Natasha has her arms crossed over her black satin gown. Beside her, in a red, flowy dress, Wanda has her hands on Nat’s shoulders, giggling from all the bubbly you’re sure she’s consumed.

Steve pulls away from you with a chuckle, holding his hands up in surrender.

“Alright, alright—she’s all yours, ladies.”

With that, Natasha pounces on you, and the three of you start to shimmy the night away together.

You lose count of the songs you spend dancing with them, sweaty and out of breath and having the time of your life, before you wave them off and step out onto the outside patio where hardly anyone is loitering. You pass up a couple sitting on a bench, cuddled up in the cool air of New York, and leave a man smoking a cigarette to himself.

Instead, you find a lonely bench far away enough from the gala that you can hardly hear anything but the bass strings resounding through the building. There, you sit, and turn your head up to the stars you can’t really see anymore.

“You okay, girl?”

Startled, you whirl around to face the object of your affections, standing behind you with his hands shoved casually in his pockets. He isn’t wearing his usual smile. Just staring.

And then you taste dirt. Freshly upturned soil coated in congealing blood. You cough into your hands and hear him approach, laying a warm palm on your back as you choke the daisies down and down and down, swallowing as many as you can, the pungent taste still ripe in your mouth.

“Honey,” he calls out all smooth and sharp like whiskey. “Honey, are you okay?”

You lick the blood from your lips. Sam crouches before you, gathering your cold hands in his, looking up at you with such a fucking expression that you want to kiss him so solidly he can taste the vines growing up your throat. You want his tongue to taste the soil of your suffering—the flowers of your own doom.

“I’m worried about you,” Sam says, his dark eyes searching your face for something.

“I’m okay,” you tell him, just as you’ve been telling everyone.

“You’re not looking so good these days,” he murmurs, and you recoil.

“Wow.” The hurt in your voice is so palpable it makes you cringe. “Thanks, Samuel.”

You move to get up from the bench, heart twisting, but Sam grabs your arms and cages you there.

“I didn’t mean it like that, darlin’, you know better than that.” He gives your arms—too soft too wide too fleshy too—a squeeze of reassurance. “You’re not painting much anymore either. You think I wouldn’t notice?”

Sam holds your gaze until it’s too much and you have to break away.

“C’mon, girl. Are you even sleeping?” Sam shakes you a little. “Eating?”

The flowers of evil root in your chest. See, you know how this book ends. You don’t need to read the last page to find out. It’s just as Baudelaire wrote, you know: “My heart is lost; the beasts have eaten it.”

Your organs have been replaced by daisies. Sam Wilson won’t love you—not tonight, not tomorrow, and not in time.

So you shrug, forcing your lips to curl into what you think might be a smile.

“I can’t paint. I’ve got too many flowers to press,” you tell him. Sam’s visage morphs into confusion, and he shakes his head slightly. He doesn’t understand. He won’t understand.

You take his arms from your body, holding his hands for a split second, long enough to steal their warmth and imagine what it would be like to hold them every single day, and then you pick yourself up off the bench and give him a wave.

“See you inside, Sam.”

And you leave him there, confusion still frozen on his face, the gritty blood ripping shreds in your damaged throat as you swallow it again and again and again in an attempt not to taste it anymore.

(“Hey, uh, it’s Sam. I was just calling to, uh, y’know, remind you about the gala. You have a date yet? I didn't ask anyone. I, uh, I wanted to ask this girl, but uh, I ended up waiting too long and I’m a little late so… I’ll see you there, honey. Try not to kill me with your good looks tonight, you hear? Save a dance for me, baby.”)

—THE SUN AND ALL ITS STARS—

Dishware rattles into your room, signaling Nat’s arrival. By the time you gather the energy to sit up in bed, she’s already entering, a tray of food in her hands and an icy look on her face.

“Breakfast in bed,” she says monotonously.

You shift and pull your duvet up as she fits the tray over your lap. There’s not much—a sweating glass of cold water beside an amber glass of apple juice, two slices of buttered toast, and some melon she cut up.

“Thanks,” you say, voice strained and weak.

Natasha doesn’t leave, but you wish she would. She seats herself on the edge of your bed, staring you down as you sip on your water. You purse your lips in frustration, but pick up the fork and begin to poke at the fruit.

“Eat,” she says.

“I’m trying,” you grumble back. “Stop staring at me.”

Natasha throws her hands up on the air. “Well if I don’t watch you, you’ll just sit here and waste away,” she snaps. “You’re not eating, you’re not sleeping, hell, you aren’t even coming out of your room anymore. You go to work, you come home, you don’t talk to any of us. Steve says—”

“Steve doesn’t know anything!” you shout, interrupting her. As soon as you do, her eyes narrow into slits and you shut your mouth, gulping. That wasn’t what you wanted to do.

Natasha takes a deep breath. “Steve says you’re still looking for a place.” It’s eerie how calm she keeps her tone. “Leaving isn’t going to stop them, you know.”

Even now, not doing anything but staring at the food in your lap, you can taste them like a funeral home, saccharinely floral, covering the smell of death.

“I can’t stay here,” you say.

“You’re dying,” Natasha stresses. “Please. Please, I am begging, krasavitsa. I’ve not begged for much in this life. But I am begging you to please, please tell him. Tell him or consider the other option.”

Two options in the scale, tipping weights. To die or to have the roots of true love carved out of your lungs, peeled away from where they wrap around your heart.

You stab your fork into the tender flesh of the melon. It gives way so easily, letting the tines puncture it. Natasha stares at you, her gaze heavy. Your fingers fumble with the fork and it falls, clattering, to the tray of dishes.

The blood is too hard to swallow anymore—it builds up in your mouth and stains your teeth red, the petals colored pink when they fall from your lips.

“Okay,” you whisper. Maybe you don’t even say it aloud.

“Okay?” Natasha asks. You nod your head, not looking at her.

“I’ll tell him.”

It takes you hours, it feels like, to gather the courage. With all the energy you have left in your bones, muscles only satiated a little by Natasha’s breakfast, you drag yourself out of bed and to your bookshelf. It’s memorized, the place where your book sits, and you pull it out with a gentle tug of your finger.

The Flowers of Evil, its pages nearly chock-full of pressed daisies that have ejected themselves from your body, eager to find the man you love and spill all your desires to him. You thumb through it, gaze flitting over all the damn flowers that have dried in this damn book, and you close your eyes in order not to cry this time.

You press the book tight to your chest, feeling the desperate beating of your heart echo through it, and you head to Sam’s room.

The walk is long and lonely—the Tower feels empty. Devoid of people. You’re a little glad because you’re sure that anyone could see the sickness painted on your body, the illness from inside you that’s staining your outsides. It’s not anyone’s fault but your own, really. The flowers are too beautiful to supplant.

And now, you’re in front of his door, a fist raised to knock, a loud buzzing in your head that keeps saying no, no, no. But your heart, traitorous thing still hammering away in your chest, it just keeps saying yes, yes, yes, finally.

Sam Wilson doesn’t love you.

But do you have any other choice except to take a garden spade to your lungs and dig them out of your chest cavity, to destroy your ribcage and break through the mulch that makes up your nervous system? Is the only option left to die at the hands of Sam or to wither away until your decomposition will feed the very things that killed you off?

You shudder a breath and knock on the door. And you wait. And wait. And wait.

He doesn’t come. He isn’t there. He doesn’t love you.

The tears come suddenly—unexpectedly. They are hot and stricken and fast. They drip off your chin and careen down your neck and dampen the collar of your shirt and your hands are trembling, grasping your book too tightly, to even begin to wipe them away.

You don’t know why you’re crying. You already know this. Sam Wilson could never love you the way that you love him. Sam Wilson is perfection, you know. He possesses the strength of gods, he radiates love, he’s passionate about every fucking thing he does. He’s beautiful. He’s everything and you are nothing when standing next to him, but you love him. You love him.

Sam Wilson doesn’t fucking love you.

“Well,” you laugh to yourself, “I can either die a fool or live a life without you.”

I can either die in love or live my life not knowing what it feels like to be in love with you.

Something tickles your tongue. You reach between your lips and pluck it from your mouth, letting it sit upon the center of your palm. Blood drips down your arm like a river, violent and sooth.

The daisy covers your entire hand, white petals tinged with pink reaching toward your fingers. The center, all yellow florets seeming to seek out warmth, are so bright and full and so big—these are too big, they could choke anyone, anyone, they are choking you.

And like them—god, just like them, just like these daisies that grow from your lungs and destroy you from inside out—you are heliotropic. Everywhere you go, you’re focused on the sun, looking for the sun, stretching toward the sun.

You need the sun.

So you crumble the daisy in your hand, fist tight, blood still easing from between your fingers. You back away from his door, then turn and break away to head back to your room in silence.

You’d rather die loving him than never getting to see the sun ever again.

(“Hey girl, it’s me. Just calling to let you know that Steve and I got called for a mission. It looks like an emergency, wheels up in ten and all that. I wanted to catch you before we gotta go, in case you wanted to say goodbye. To Steve, I mean. Just in case. Take care of yourself while I’m gone, sweetness.”)

—FAREWELLS—

It happens faster than you think it will. You swear you have weeks, or a month at least. You swear you have time.

Four days later, your knees buckle and slam into the wooden floor beneath you, stomach contorting and contracting, balloon finally bursting. Someone is shouting your name from the common room, something is knocked over, scrambling. You barely hear it over the sound of your own vomiting.

On your hands and knees, you stare down at the lump of flowers you couldn’t swallow back. They’re coated in a mixture of soil and blood and stomach acid, but the sweet perfume scent breaks through the rest and makes you retch again. It smells so sweet. So sickly sweet. Dead people and churches.

Did churches always smell so much like blood?

There’s a hand on your shoulder. It’s pulling your hair from your face. Someone is saying something—something—something you can’t make out over the blood rushing between your ears.

You’re dying. This is it.

You collapse upon the ground, rolling onto your side, arm thrown over your mouth as if that will stop the flowers from pouring out of your body. And when you blink, trying to see through the dizziness, it’s him again.

The god of the fucking sun, your sun, mouth moving frantically as he says things you can’t hear and the little gap in his teeth that makes you feel at home when he smiles at you and his eyes, oh, Sam Wilson has eyes that set you on fire and burn you alive and you’d be happy to die like this, you’re so happy you get to die like this, so thankful that the daisies chose you, so thankful you chose him.

You were right. Death is so beautiful like this.

“It might be too late.”

Helen Cho’s heels clack on the tile of the medbay’s room as she shoos the nurse out with a wave of her hands, shaking her head. He shoots to his feet, fingers already curled into fists, and he shoves them in the pockets of his jacket to hide them.

“Too late?” It’s impossible for him to keep his voice low. “How can it be too late? What even—What’s wrong with her?”

She frowns at Sam, folding her hands together in front of her.

“It’s… rare,” she says. “Some of us didn’t think it was real, to be frank with you.”

His brow furrows. “What is it?”

“A disease caused by unrequited love,” Helen says plainly, staring straight at him. “Typically, the patient finds themselves in what is regarded to be true love, but the feelings are not returned, so they build up. It’s theorized that the stress of that creates the problem.”

Sam swallows and it tastes like vomit. “Unrequited love?”

She ignores him, continuing, “The part that is normally so hard to believe is that flowers begin to grow inside the patient, the roots puncturing their lungs and creating masses that eventually will suffocate their host.”

It’s a bag of bricks to his stomach. A super soldier punch to the gut. A bomb blown up in his face. Sam doubles over, clutching his middle, trying to breathe again. He can’t breathe at all. The flowers. The flowers.

“It seems she was swallowing them in an attempt to save herself,” Helen explains. “It’s what kept her alive much longer than she should have been. But now, I don’t know. It may be too late to save her. If she’d just said something earlier, than the surgery might have been able to stop it, but—”

“Surgery?” Sam asks, still gasping for breath. “What surgery?”

“You can extract the roots,” she tells him, glancing at the sleeping woman in the sickbed. “It’s a difficult procedure but it would have saved her. But, from the very little research we have on it, removing the roots also removes the feelings entirely. The love that the patient has disappears. They aren’t able to ever feel anything for that person ever again.”

He falls back into the plastic chair, his limbs numb. Or, at least that’s what he wants to do. But Sam doesn’t. He steadies himself, crosses his arms over his chest, plants himself so firmly there in the hospital room that he doesn’t think an earthquake can move him, and looks at her.

She’s sleeping, but she doesn’t look at peace. Her eyes, lovely things, are sunken in and it makes him so mad. Her collarbones have shadows beneath them and he feels fury wracking his own bones. And how long has it been since he’s seen her smile?

“Do the surgery,” he demands.

“You know I can’t do that without her consent,” Helen says, sighing.

“Then I’ll wait until she wakes up and get her consent,” he seethes through a locked jaw.

Helen’s face doesn’t change. “She might not wake up.”

“She will.”

Sam doesn’t get it. He understands—in a way—but he doesn’t really get it. He knows why she wouldn’t want to get a surgery like that. But he loves—he loves just as fiercely as she does, and that’s why he understands. Why he knows.

So why did the flowers pick her? Why would they pick her and not him?

Helen glances down at her feet, says nothing, and turns to exit the room. He’s left there in the silence, with the crowing of the machine keeping her alive to punctuate all his thoughts. If there is one thing he hates in the world, it’s feeling helpless.

He lowers himself in the plastic seat, leans his head back against the wall, and closes his eyes.

“You’ll wake up,” he says to her, but he can’t look at her.

Or maybe he’ll wake up and it’ll all be a dream.

There’s a soft rapping of knuckles on the door, and it opens slowly and quietly, and Sam has to lock his fingers around the arms of his chair to keep from jumping up and sending a right hook right at Steve’s face.

“How’s she doing?” Steve has the audacity to ask, has the audacity to look worried, has the audacity to pull up another plastic seat next to Sam.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he mutters under his breath, spite burning his tongue.

Steve glares at him. “Yeah, that’s why I asked. What’s your problem?”

“My problem is you, Rogers.” Now, Sam can’t help but stand, towering over the super soldier. He immediately grabs Steve’s arm and hauls him out of his chair, through the door, and out into the hallway. Steve stumbles, a hand on the wall, and Sam’s nostrils flare.

“How could you do this to her?”

“Me?” Steve sounds genuinely taken aback, but Sam doesn’t buy it. “What are you talking about? Helen told me—”

“I thought you loved her, too!”

He really did. That’s why Steve brought her to the Tower, didn’t he? That’s why they go out for lunch every other week and why Sam never gets a chance to take her out himself. Why he always makes sure to say goodbye to her before a mission, like he doesn’t want to leave her behind. He really thought Steve loved her too. If he had thought for one second that Steve didn’t love her...

“What?” Steve’s jaw slackens. “Not like that! She doesn’t—She’s not in love with me, Sam!”

He pants, unable to catch the breath that’s leaving him like a slow leak.

“Then who the hell is she in love with?”

Steve stares at him, a look that Sam can’t recognize, can’t name, in his eyes. Steve stares at him and smooths his hand down his beard, shaking his head.

“She’s in love with you,” he says, and Sam chokes.

Because all the pretty things in his world lead back to her and man, if she loved him, it would all be so perfect that he would never want to leave it. He would never want to say goodbye. He’d ask god and anyone else who would listen to grant him a deathless life so he could look at her forever, with no end in sight, because he would. He would. Sam would love her forever.

“No,” he says, a dry chuckle escaping his lips. “That can’t be true.”

“It’s true,” Steve says.

“That’s impossible.” He backs up, against the wall, holding his head in his hands and staring at the floor. “It’s impossible.”

“It’s true,” Steve repeats, staring past Sam and through the window of the medbay’s room to look at her, lying so still in her bed. “I know it is.”

“Steve, I’m in love with her,” Sam confesses, an ache in his chest. “It can’t be me. I’m in love with her. I’m so fucking in love with her.”

A heavy hand clasps his shoulder, and when Sam looks up, his breathing unsteady, Steve has a look of regret smeared all over his face.

“But does she know that?”

And, for the first time in years, Sam cries.

(“It’s me. I need to tell you something. Even if it will hurt, even if it will destroy—destroy what we have, I don’t know. But I need to tell you, baby. I need to.”)

—SINCERITY—

Sam Wilson thinks she’s starlight.

When she first arrives she’s a collection of stars and their ashes, explosions and deaths, supernovas and black holes and earthbound meteorites.

What he means by that is she’s covered in bruises but she’s so beautiful, and he wants to gather her in his arms and tell her it’s going to be okay.

Steve introduces her, and Sam tries to bite his tongue, but all his words pour out of him anyway as she holds out a hand to him and he takes it, soft and trembling, and he knows she’s special somehow. She’s special.

“You’re the prettiest thing I think I’ve ever seen,” he says, and he means it, but she ducks her head and tries to hide the little smile on her face.

Sam Wilson thinks the world of you. But even when the bruises fade, you’re still left with all the land and the water and the galaxies hidden in your eyes when he catches your gaze, and he looks at you and he swears that you’re reaching into his chest and taking his heart in your small hands and squeezing him dry. You have realms inside of you, he’s sure, all the worlds and all their wonders. But you—you look at Steve like that sometimes, and then Sam is just grateful that you even let him breathe in your general atmosphere.

He can fly, sure, but he certainly isn’t an astronaut, so this is about the closest he can get to you.

(“Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice messaging system. This number is not available. At the tone, please record your message.”)

—TRUE LOVE—

The first thing you see is the ceiling, hazy and sleep-filtered, but it looks just like the ceiling in that bathroom, back in Danny’s apartment, back when you thought the pain of love was bone crushing, before you knew the pain of love was slow suffocation.

It makes you stutter back to life and that sends you into a coughing fit. You can still taste them—the daisies. They taste like the rawness of sunlight.

Hand pressed against your chest, your eyes dart around the room, trying to catch your bearings. There’s an IV in your arm, the bed railings are plastic, Sam is sitting in the corner, the lights are dimmed.

Sam Wilson is sitting in the corner.

You gasp, looking at him, and he’s staring right back at you, a familiar book in his hands.

Sam Wilson is sitting beside your bed, holding The Flowers of Evil, and the look on his face is far from happy to see you. It’s not anger. And it’s not sadness. It just… is. And Sam is never “just” anything.

Even if he thinks that sometimes, like the times when he calls you and says, “It’s just me,” as if he isn’t something special, so important you can’t live without him in your life.

Well, you can’t live with him, either.

After a solid minute, Sam looks down at the book between his dark hands, and he begins to sift through the pages. He stops sometimes, lingers on the sheets of dried daisies that have been pressed, their color leaking onto the text only slightly. But then he moves forward, searching for something. You don’t know what.

“How long have you been here?” you ask, throat sore when you speak.

“How long have you been in love with me?”

Your teeth gnash together, bite into your bottom lip, worry a sore there as he doesn’t look at you. He just keeps flipping through the book as if he didn’t just thrust a dagger straight through your heart, as if it isn’t beating so fast and hard like it’s trying to stay alive. You feel like you can’t breathe and you don’t know if it’s the flowers crawling out of your lungs and trying to get to him or if it’s the fact that he knows.

You can’t answer him.

Sam stops on a page, his finger trailing over the script, and then he begins to read.

“And yet

to wine, to opium even, I prefer

the elixir of your lips on which love flaunts itself;

and in the wasteland of desire

your eyes afford the wells to slake my thirst.”

“Les Fleurs du Mal,” he says, shutting the book with a thump and striking his palm with it. “Baudelaire sure had a lot to say, didn’t he?”

Your mouth is suddenly so dry. There’s a pink pitcher of water next to the bed, just like a hospital would have, and you reach weakly for it. Sam grabs it immediately, pouring you a cup, and passing it gently to you. You gulp what you can down through the straw, hardly breathing.

When you finally feel like you aren’t going to cough your lungs up into your hands again, Sam takes the cup back from you, and embarrassment is a cold shiver down your spine.

He sits back down beside you, looking straight at you. “Do you want to get the surgery?”

Your lips part to speak, but he interrupts.

“Be honest.”

Chewing your lip, you take a deep breath. “No. And I never planned on it, either.” From the corner of your eye, you see his jaw tighten.

“Why not?”

“Because what is a life without the fucking sun, Sam?” The words are spat from your mouth. “A life spent not loving you—not knowing you, not feeling you anymore—it wasn’t worth it. Because I love you, Samuel Wilson. I have loved you since the day I met you and you told me—told me I was pretty for some goddamn reason. And I’ve loved you every day since. I love everything about you and there is not a single iteration of life that I would want to live if it meant not loving you.”

This time, nothing tastes like blood. It’s all just daisies, like they’re populating your mouth, changing the way your tongue works, turning to paste in your teeth. It’s so strong that it hurts. Like you’re eating paper valentines and crying too many tears as you say goodbye to a body in a casket.

But it’s beautiful and lovely and gorgeous because you swear that, somewhere beneath it, you can taste what you think love might taste like.

Sam doesn’t speak and it hurts, but it tosses your book down on the side table and reaches into his pocket and it still hurts. He pulls out his phone. You swallow down the rising earth in your chest.

He pulls out his phone—no, it’s your phone. He turns the screen toward you and punches in your password. You furrow your brows. When did he learn your password? But it doesn’t matter, really, because he just swipes to your call log and pulls up your voicemails. And then he begins to play them.

“Hey there darlin’, it’s just me. I couldn’t find you anywhere—where you at? I thought we could go pick some up and I’ll hang ‘em up. You need me and I’ll be there, ‘kay honey? I, uh, I wanted to ask this girl, but uh, I ended up waiting too long and I’m a little late so… I’ll see you there, honey. I wanted to catch you before we gotta go, in case you wanted to say goodbye. I need to tell you something. Even if it will hurt, even if it will destroy—destroy what we have, I don’t know. I’ll catch you later, darlin’. Have fun, girl. Save a dance for me, baby. Take care of yourself while I’m gone, sweetness. But I need to tell you, baby. I need to.”

The sobs fall from the broken seal of your lips, loud and crashing, like a waterfall. Your hand, shaking and weak, comes up to try to cover your mouth, but Sam lunges forward and catches your wrist in gentle fingers.

He’s looking at you like you’re everything—and you know, you know now that you are—to him.

“You’ve been saying that this whole time?” you ask, a laugh bubbling up from your lungs. No flowers retch up your throat.

Sam smiles, lips pulling back to reveal that gap in his front teeth.

“You haven’t been listening, baby girl. I’ve been tryin’ to tell you I love you for months.”

He rests his forehead upon yours, and as close as he is, all you can smell now is the spice of his cologne. Nothing smells floral.

“I never would have thought,” you whisper. “I was sure—so sure—that you didn’t love me. I thought because of the flowers, I thought that meant for sure that you didn’t love me. I mean, why would you? Why would you ever love someone like me?”

“Honey,” he says, so softly, “you’re starlight.”

Tears flood your cheeks and Sam cups your face in his large hands, wiping them away with gentle thumbs.

Sam Wilson is sunlight. You never considered that you could be starlight.

“Why wouldn’t I love you, darlin’? You’re so good, so gorgeous, so perfect.” He laughs and it makes you laugh too, but it comes out like a sob. Your heart feels lighter. “But you’ve never considered yourself worthy of love before, have you?”

“I’m sorry,” you cry. “I’m so sorry, Sam.”

He hushes you, soothes you, smooths his palms over the planes of your face and over your hair,

“You don’t have to be sorry, baby. It’s okay. You’re okay.” He presses a warm kiss to your forehead and the memory of every single time he’s kissed your forehead like this flashes through your mind, an electric current, and you wonder how you never saw it before now.

“I love you,” you say, and this time, your lungs don’t feel as though they will burst from the pressure, the roots, the vines twined around them. You don’t feel choked by petals. You don’t taste blood in the back of your mouth.

“I know,” he says, “and if you let me, I will spend the rest of my days with you convincing you that you are worthy of love, honey. Because I’m in love with you. I’m so in love with you.”

When he presses his lips to yours, he doesn’t taste like flowers. Not like the daisies that wrote your death sentence. He tastes like golden pools of sunlight, warm and wanting. This is your heliotropism. You are a magnet for him, Sam Wilson, god of the fucking sun.

And maybe he’s phototropic, always drawn to you, moving toward your starlight.

(“Hey, it’s me. Sorry I missed your call! I’m on my way home now, and guess what? I have a surprise for you. It’s a bit ironic, but I think you’ll like it. What do you think of the name Daisy for a baby girl?”)

#sam wilson #sam wilson x reader #sam wilson x plus sized reader #plus sized reader #sam wilson angst #sam wilson fanfiction #hanahaki au #sam wilson fluff #thanks for supporting me! #divine masterlist #the flowers of evil

[eaucian]

★ ushijima wakatoshi; hc’s

impt. ushijima wakatoshi x m!reader

w. obviously going to be the mentions of sexy time, shush — size kink — mirror sex — bottom!reader — and i believe that is it, but pls tell me if anything should be added!!

n. there will never be enough toshi hc’s. ever. and that’s it, that’s the whole a/n

★ the safe side 

◉ this boy!

◉ don’t even get me started cause i can go on for ages. meaning you will literally end up in the grave, and i won’t even be finished. but is that really so bad-

◉ anyways

◉ y’all are cute together and because ushijima is ushijima, he definitely did not tell anyone about the two of you being in a relationship. so when someone catches y’all together they’re just like “excuse me? when did this happen?” raised eyebrows and all

◉ he shrugs and you’re like “uhhh”

◉ you literally have no clue of how to answer but eventually you get it together and everything is solved and.... now your officially a part of the family

◉ welcome bitch

◉ goshiki?

◉ all over you

◉ basically becomes your child, and ushijima is just like “aight, that’s fine”

◉ did i hear cuddles? cause i’m pretty sure i did

◉ this maN. he gives the best cuddles, no cap-

◉ cuddles commence as follows, he grabs you, takes you to the bed/couch, anywhere comfy rlly, wraps his arms around you and then tucks you into his chest, and boom—he’s asleep in 0.2 seconds flat. he literally only holds you for warmth but like

◉ it’s still love :,)))

★ the other side 

◉ size kink

◉ y’all see this everywhere but it’s true

◉ ushijima, even if he don’t know it himself, has a size kink

◉ it literally isn’t even confined to sex, it literally is just about size

◉ oh? you’re shorter than him?

◉ well you’re in luck!

◉ first time y’all actually had sex started like this: he just put his head on your shoulder, held you and was like “sex?”

◉ it leaves you stunned the first time he says that cause in your head you’re like, “he just asked to have sex and is hugging me at the same time wtfff?”

◉ but yes. accept it bby. it will be good, great, fantastic, and all of the above

◉ he’s fucking hung. y’all gotta know that, he’s naturally a large human being soo, dick? big?

◉ yes, big dick

◉ he literally doesn’t even know it until y’all get together and you’re like “that’s supposed to fit in mE?”

◉ and yes, yes it is. and yes, it will fit or you do not get your fucky time with him. so shut up and take it. it’ll feel good in the end honey :)))

◉ after a while, he starts to notice he actually gets more aroused if he watches his dick stretch you. he likes watching you tear up as you go down on it, and he likes the way your own dick is so eager to be touched. and no, he will not touch your dick until you deliberately ask him to

◉ mirror sex?

◉ the answer is yes btw

◉ once y’all figure out what you like, he will buy a mirror for one purpose

◉ which is to fuck you senseless

+

“toshi...” you whine, barely able to watch your own reflection in the mirror. if it was out of embarrassment or the tears welling up in your eyes was unknown. the tears themselves were a mix of pain and pleasure.

a perfect mix according to how euphoric you felt.

“it won’t go in toshi, please,” you begged. it felt like you were bursting at the seams, his dick was only half way in and you were already seeing stars.

ushijima grunts, “it has before baby. you know it’ll feel good, you can do it.” he praises, holding your hip with one hand, the other lifting your leg to put his dick and yours clearly on display. he slowly lowers you further onto his length as your head falls back onto his shoulder with a moan. he barely speaks, and during sex it’s even rarer. you would do anything to hear him speak into your ear, to hear him whisper praises and sweet-nothings.

unlike you, ushijima has no ounce of hesitation in looking at yourselves through the mirror. he can’t help but look at how nicely your sweet little hole is being stretched by his dick.

“only a little more baby boy,” he tells you, placing a kiss to the side of your neck.

the moment he’s fully in you, you barely get a chance to breath before he starts rolling his hips into yours, only successfully making you cry out more. he doesn’t pull out once but each time he manages to hit your prostate perfectly.

“come for me baby, come on only my cock for me, yeah?” ushijima says, this time lifting your hips slightly before slamming back down.

how could you ever disobey your toshi?

#ushijima x male reader #ushijima x m!reader #ushijima x reader #ushijima smut #ushijima x reader smut #ushijima x male reader smut #x bottom reader #x bottom male reader

[drcalmreid]

pretend - s.r.

pairing: spencer x female!reader

summary: angst/fluff - you and spencer are forced to go undercover together as a couple...weeks after you broke up

content warning: female unsub with female and male victims (tw: female unsub, female and male victims, drugging, murder, relationship issues/breakup, arguing) please feel free to let me know if I missed any others :)

word count: 2.7k

authors notes: “—” indicates a flashback; also this is my entry for @railmereid​’s 2.0k writing challenge! (congrats!!) I hope you all like it and good luck to anyone else who enters! xx

gif credit: @prettyboyspence​

YOUR POV

“You guys sure you’re okay with this?” Preteniss asks, while securing my microphone wire. I nod hesitantly, and give her a weak smile. She glances up at Reid who stands to my right, Rossi attaching his wire to his undershirt. Spencer smiles his classic tight-lipped grin and nods too. Four female victims have been found near Washington D.C., three of them being in relationships with wealthy men. All of the women’s boyfriends are also missing and have not been heard from since the women disappeared weeks before. All four of the victims were last seen at a local restaurant with their partners in the days prior. Rossi suggested Reid and I go undercover to see if we could find any new leads or even catch the unsub in the act. As partners, we have gone undercover a handful of times. As boyfriend-girlfriend, we were practically forced to go for any case that required it (Prentiss insisted it was only because we were the most natural ones to play a couple...but, I don’t buy it, I think the team liked the idea of forcing Reid out of his comfort zone). As exes, this would be a first…

“Alright,” Rossi pats Reid’s chest. “You guys look good, now let’s go get this son of a bitch”.

—

“Spencer, you’re being ridiculous.” I say dropping my go-bag on his leather couch. I turn on my heels and watch Spencer close his apartment door behind him.

“I’m ridiculous? y/n, you could have been shot!” Spencer says, grabbing his face.

“Yeah, Spencer. That's our job. You can’t expect me to not do my job because it makes you uncomfortable.”

Spencer laughs ironically and leaves his satchel on his desk, knocking over a stack of books in the process. He says nothing and disappears into his bedroom. “Spencer, c’mon,” I say following him towards the bedroom and he shuts the door before I even get there. “Spencer!” I yell, pounding my fist on the wooden door, but there’s no answer.

—

Spencer and I step out of the SUV into the cold Virginia night and instinctively I loop my arm with his. Spencer stiffens under my touch and I glance up at him through my lashes. He nods gently and I rest my head on his shoulder...just to sell it, even though I truly just missed his warmth. The cold wind bites at my legs exposed under my dress, I shudder against the cold and Spencer readjusts his arm and wraps my shoulders in his embrace. I blush and my heart begins to race. Our steps continue down the sidewalk, towards the restaurant in question.

Spencer places his free hand over my torso and muffles my wire, I glance up at him raising an eyebrow. “Do you think they know?” He whispers.

“I didn’t tell anyone,” I mumble back. “You didn’t want to, remember?”

Spencer coughs slightly and releases his grip on my microphone.

“Nice one Reid, next time you want to flirt with your girlfriend you don’t have to mute yourselves,” Prentiss chirps in our earpieces.

“Right, sorry,” Reid says, flustered.

“Baby, where are we going?” I ask and Spencer smiles. He used to love when I used this pet name for him, but now it hurts me too much to even think about.

“It’s a surprise.”

—

I wake up to the smell of fresh coffee and my back is pressed up against the wall. I had fallen asleep propped up against the wall next to the bedroom door, hoping Spencer would open it. Typically one of us ends up sleeping in the living room before giving in and crawling into bed with the other. Apologizes are mumbled between us and we fall asleep to the sound of each other's heartbeats. Usually when we argue it’s like a tornado: fast, centered around one thing, and usually caused by one of us spinning out of control….but this fight, I could sense it would be more like an Earthquake: seemingly from nowhere, groundbreaking, and dividing the land that was once so stable.

“You’re up,” Spencer says standing in the entryway of the kitchen.

“Yeah,” I say while standing from the floor, cracking all my joints in the process.

“I made coffee.” Spencer says as if it is more of a comment than an offer.

“I smelt.”

“So we’re really gonna do this?” Spencer asks, even though we both know it’s not a question. He sits down at the kitchen table and rests his mug down. I follow him inside the small kitchen nook and lean against the counter.

“Looks like it.”

—

Spencer and I sit down across from one another at a circular table with a booth curving around one side. The restaurant is dimly lit, candles flickering on the tables, red silk table cloths covering the tables, and well-dressed waiters and waitresses attend to each of the guests. It reminds me of the restaurant that we went to for our first anniversary, and I know it reminds Spencer too. He keeps his eyes down, glued to the table and barely looks up at me as I try to make conversation.

“This restaurant is beautiful,” I say, flashing my best smile. “I’m glad I dressed up. You remember this dress? I haven’t worn it in forever.”

Spencer clears his throat and finally looks up, “of course I do, baby.” My heart practically jumps to my throat. “You wore it on our first date.”

“Yeah, I did” I look down at the simple, black lace dress I have on and play with the seam. Our waitress approaches the table just as Spencer is about to speak up again.

“Good evening, I’m Lydia and I will be your waitress tonight, can I get you started with our wine-”

“No,” Spencer cuts off the waitress in the middle of her rehearsed speech.

“Spence,” I shoot him a look across the table. I smile at the waitress, “We’ll both just have water, thank you.”

“Okay,” Prentiss speaks to both of us through our earpieces. “If we are right, the unsub should approach your table and try to initiate a fight between the two of you. Think you can manage that?”

“Oh, we can manage.” I say glancing up at Spencer, who’s already staring at me from the other end of the dining table.

—

“No, y/n you don’t get it, do you? God, you’re so stubborn. I can’t watch you get hurt! It will kill me, don’t you understand that?” Spencer yells, pacing around the small kitchen.

“Spencer,” I reach out for him, but he brushes past me. “Of course I get it…but it’s my job. I don’t know what you want me to do. You, of all people, know what this job requires. I can’t just not go on missions because my boyfriend doesn’t want me hurt. How do you think I feel when you go on cases without me?”

“That’s not the point,” Spencer yells, running his hands through his hair. “You went into the unsub’s house, alone-”

“You were there,” I suggest, leaning towards him.

“Outside y/n,” Spencer spits, his word laced with venom. “You were unharmed, unprotected, and out of reach! What if something happened?”

“Well,” I say rubbing the sides of my arms. “Nothing did.”

“I can’t keep doing this,” Spencer says sitting down again at the kitchen table. “I can’t, y/n.”

“What- what are you saying?”

“We can’t be together if all we do is worry about each other,” Spencer looks up from his empty mug to meet my eyeline. “It isn’t healthy.”

“So, you’re breaking up with me? This is really happening?” I ask, tears welling in my eyes.

“This isn’t healthy anymore, and you know it just as much as I do.” Spencer says, pain stinging more and more with each word.

I scoff at his words and actually feel myself begin to laugh at the obscurity of the situation. Dr. Spencer Reid, the only who willingly gives himself up to unsubs countless times, can’t handle it when his girlfriend does it once. A chuckle escapes me and I swing my hand across my mouth trying to muffle the sound. “Are you laughing?”

“I’m sorry, Spencer,” I say as the laughter intensifies. “But this is fucking ridiclous. I always thought if we ever broke up it’d be because one of us got murdered, not because we arrested one.”

—

“Excuse me,” a blonde woman interrupts, standing near our table. “Sorry to interrupt, I just love your tie. It really brings out your eyes.”

“Thank you,” Spencer smirks and glances at me. “She hates it, always thinks it makes me look like a stock broker.”

“Accountant,” I correct, taking a sip of my water.

“Sorry, an accountant,” Spencer says and smiles at the blonde.

“Seems like I brought up a sore subject, sorry- uh, have a nice night.”

“Morgan,” Prentiss whispers through our headsets. “Keep eyes on her.” Morgan and Tara sit just across the restaurant at the bar, with eyes on the entrance and exit points.

“She's sitting back down at the bar, I’ve got her.”

“We’re going to need more guys, we gotta get her moving,” Prentiss orders and I nod while setting my glass down.

“You know,” I say leaning forward, chest pressing to the table. “You only ever take me out when there’s something you need to talk to me about...so talk.”

“I- I just,” Spencer mumbles. “I know we haven’t talked much since,” he looks up at me and lets out a big sigh.

“What? Since you belittled me? Made me feel like I couldn’t do my job? Then?” I ask, running my fingers across the table, letting them rest just a few centimeters from his.

“y/n,” Spencer says, dragging out my name. He sits back in the booth and presses his back to the leather seat. “I never belittled you.”

“Sure felt like it,” I raise my eyebrows at him.

“You are so stubborn, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told,” I roll my eyes at him. My mind starts to wander back to the night that sunk our ship. The same points being repeated over and over, neither one of us backing down or admitting fault.

“I just wanted to protect you, I can’t see you get hurt.” Spencer says, his eyes glossed over and lip quivering.

“When you said you couldn’t do this anymore, was that to protect me, or you? Because based on what we’re doing tonight...seems like it didn’t work out for either of us.” I say standing up from the table.

“y/n-” Spencer starts.

“She’s on the move,” Morgan cuts into our earpieces.

“This was never about me was it? It was all just to protect you, and I fucking believed it.” I say, as the realization hits me. Tears sting my eyes and I choke the words out, “You never cared about losing me, all you cared about was how you would feel if you lost me.”

“y/n, please.” Spencer stands from the table and reaches for me. I shake my head at him and step back.

“Don’t touch me,” I say backing away from his touch, even though I want nothing more than to fall into it. I turn quickly and walk right into the blonde again. “Excuse me.”

The next moments run through my mind like a blur.

The blonde sat down with Spencer, ever so elegantly slipping a pill into his drink before Morgan and Tara were onto her, cuffs snuggly placed around her wrists. She didn’t resist, didn’t ask for a lawyer, she just smiled and asked if her ex-boyfriend would know she was arrested. Even though I tried my best to stop crying, my tears kept streaming down my face and neck. I gave up on wiping my cheeks, just letting the mascara stain my skin. The car ride with Reid, Morgan, Lewis, and myself is eerily quiet, no one wanting to say the first word… or address the sobbing undercover agent in the passenger seat.

“Good job you two, if you keep bringing in unsubs like this, we’re going to have to put you in the field more often. And that fight? Felt like you two we’re really in it,” Emily says and I flash her a quick smile. Spencer and I are at our respective desks, shoving case files into our suitcases in silence. We haven’t spoken since the restaurant and honestly I don’t know if I’m even ready to yet. “Anyway, have a nice night.” She smiles back at us while passing through the bullpen before heading out the doors.

“Thanks, Em. Goodnight,” I smile again as she exits, leaving just Spencer and I in the empty BAU office. I quietly grab my things and walk around my desk, heels in my hand, focused on the door.

“Y/n,” Spencer calls after me, just as I pass his desk, “please, wait.” I stop in my tracks, just a few feet away from his desk. I turn to face him and shrug my shoulders, indicating for him to keep talking. “I missed you.”

“Spencer,” I huff and set my bag and shoes down on JJ’s empty desk. “We’re always together. How could you miss me?”

“I meant, I missed us. Going out to dinner, laughing, just being us.” Spencer says, scratching the back of his neck. My lips curve into a weak smile and I nod. “Do you think we could pretend?” He weakly asks.

“Spence,” I half-heartedly laugh. “We just had a whole night of pretend…apparently an Oscar’s worthy night of pretend.”

“No no, I mean...do you think we could pretend that you don’t hate me?” He asks and his eyes are glazed over again. He blinks quickly to clear away his tears, but one escapes before he can hide it. “I never wanted things to end, I just- I was scared. I can’t lose you…” He says and I stand there silently, contemplating his words. “...and maybe that’s selfish...and I know that now, but I want to talk about this.”

I tug my lip between my teeth and take a deep breath. Silence settles between us for a few minutes as I keep my eyes to the ground, too nervous to look at Spencer.

“I could never hate you,” I finally say, stepping towards him. “Even if I forced all my attention to it and focused on everything that went wrong. I could never find it in myself to hate you.”

“You don’t hate me? You don’t hate me,” Spencer repeats almost like he’s solidifying it in his mind. He looks up at me through his curls as he sits down on the edge of his desk and collapses his head into his hands. I step even closer to him and place myself between his knees.

“Spencer, look at me.” I say and he blinks rapidly before glancing up to meet my eyeline. “I don’t hate you, the only thing I hate is how much I love you.” Spencer laughs lightly and a smile creeps across his face. “And for the record, I missed you too.”

Before I can say anything else, Spencer reaches forward and pulls me into his arms. His arms wrap around me tightly and hook together at my back. The shock wears off and I lower my hands to his head, pressing him to me. Luckily, he still sits on the edge of his desk, with me between his knees, otherwise I think we both would have collapsed into a puddle on the floor. I run my hands through his curls and I feel Spencer’s tears wet my dress. His grip only gets tighter and when I go to step back from him he mumbles a quick, “please”.

“Spence,” I whisper down at him. My fingers twisting in his chestnut curls, “we can’t stay here all night...we gotta go home.”

“I don't want to go home without you, I can’t- I-” He rambles, pulling away from my chest.

“So, don’t. Let’s go home.” I say and he smiles weakly up at me, I run my hand down from his hair and cup his cheeks. “You ready?”

He nods weakly and gives me a full-Spencer-smile, “let’s go home.”

—

OK YAY! I hope you guys liked this and it wasnt too confusing flashing back and forth, again congrats to @railmereid​ on 2.0k! :) xx

leave requests here! // masterlist

stay safe and wear a mask! -m

#renswritingchallenge #tw: female victims #tw: male victims #tw: argument #tw: murder #tw: relationship struggles #tw: breakup #tw: arguing #Spencer reid #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid angst #spencer reid writing #dr spencer reid #dr reid #spence reid #criminal minds #criminal minds writing #criminal minds imagine #spencer reid x female!reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid blurb #tw: drugging

[weresasquatch]

So when I turned back to you, you were already sniffing the poppers. “Dude!” I whispered, in indignation. “What the fuck?” You just smirked at me, like you knew what it was about, even though I had no idea what was going on. You drank your cocktail in one sip, and just kept smirking. My foot was no longer pushing against your groin anymore, not since I had turned around, but I just knew you were still hard. That regard of complicity in you, it made me shiver, for a moment. You gave me the bottle so I could read the label. It just said “sniff me” in big black letters, like some kind of porno Alice in Wonderland parody featuring anal sex. I noticed, then, you started sweating. Your skin glistened under the restaurant’s warm light, and you seemed odd. Like you weren’t comfortable inside your own skin, you seemed to be containing some kind of struggle within yourself. I saw a drop of sweat fall down your temple, from beneath the coils at the top of your hair, down into your faded undercut, and then just down your cheek.

That’s when I felt your knees bump against mine. Just like that, the solid pressure of your knees against mine, and then surrounding my legs. You smirked, and cursed, and looked everywhere around for some reason I couldn’t fathom at that point. I heard the stretching sounds of your clothes, your already wide shoulders becoming even wider, and the sleeves of your shirt struggling to contain your swelling muscles. I saw your feet beside me, down below, your shoes could barely contain your feet and I thought you might be in pain, but you didn’t express it. Then, with a loud rip, the shoes just burst, and I saw your toes emerge from the broken leather, and the mouth of your shoe stretched around your ankle, unable to withstand its growing girth. When I looked up again, away from your growing legs, I realised you were much taller than before. All that sweating must’ve made you thirsty, because you went to lift your glass of water, and when you did, your sleeve just ripped at the seams, it just… exploded. It would’ve been hilarious, if it hadn’t been so hot. You just watched it, eyes wide open, fall onto the table. All I could look at, at that point, was your bulging bicep, perhaps as big as my own head. I was so entranced by it, so completely taken by that peaking muscle… Something hit me right in the face, and it awakened me from my trance. I looked down on my plate and saw it was a button, from your shirt, that had come out flying like a projectile. Inevitably, I looked at your shirt: your chest had grown so huge, so powerful, the buttons had become completely useless, a joke. Another button shot out from your shirt, and hit my right in the chest. “Restroom,” you said. You pushed your chair back and it creaked with a horrendous sound, as if it were on the verge of breaking. You were careful enough not to push the table into me, which I appreciated, and I still do. Then you stomped towards the restrooms, with your shirt torn at the seams, sleeveless now and, on your back, a huge rip, like a trench, that had opened all across it, vertically. Your pants were in a similar state, the two legs shredded to strips that hung from your waist. As for your shoes, they were barely there anymore, your feet had completely destroyed them, and they were in the process of tearing your socks apart next. Everyone was looking at me, after that happened. You had stormed out and they were left looking at me, but they weren’t surprised, or scared, they were just… annoyed. Like they disapproved of what had just happened. I remember I wanted to shout to all of them “fuck off!” but I didn’t. The two twinks on the other table just looked at me with furrowed eyebrows, like I was somehow guilty or making a scene. “Cunts,” I said. So I went after you. I got into the restroom and saw there were four stalls. I could hear you moan and grunt, like some sort of wild animal, a beast unleashed all of a sudden. I approached the stall you were in and I asked: “Hey, Rick, you alright?” “F-FUCK, Laz… Laz, I’m growing... “ your voice sounded so deep, so manly, even manlier than it already is. “I’m fucking growing!” “Dude, calm down, please, I…” At the time I was a bit desperate, but I have to admit it was also so hot. I needed to see it, I wanted to see it. So I kind of just… Dropped down to all fours, and watched under the stall. I could see your feet against the floor, and right then I saw what was left of your shoes at the heels just burst into pieces, while your socks had stretched so thin they looked like onion skin, and they were drenched in sweat. The whole stall smelled of your musk, probably the whole bathroom too. You turned around and kicked the stall door down. It flew right above me and hit against the other side of the restroom, shattering a mirror and falling on the floor with a loud series of thuds, like a coin ebbs. And so there I was, at your feet, still on all fours. I swear, you had to be at least seven feet tall, and your muscular figure was tremendous, unlike anything I’ve ever seen before in my life. You towered above me like a Greek god from myth, your muscles ballooning with power and strength, your skin glistening with beads of sweat. You then squatted down, and your pants simply ripped into pieces until you were only in your underwear, which revealed the outline of your godly cock under the strained fabric, its meat hard as rock and so gargantuanly big that the tip reached your hip. Below it, I saw your balls were about to make the fabric burst with their weight, like two massive oranges, or even bigger. In your hand, you still had the bottle of poppers, and it was so fucking tiny, even smaller than your thumb. “Laz… You gotta do it…” you said, and the husky tone in your voice almost made me cum all by itself… So I did it, I took the bottle in my hand, and when I felt your skin on mine it was as though it burned. The heat coming from your body was intense, and so was your musk. Not a stink, but an intense scent that screamed with the musky power of man. As if it had grown more intense and manlier, the more your muscles grew. I raised the bottle to my nose and sniffed. I remember the feeling then, a heat traversing my entire body, a heat so… so hot, like scalding coffee down my throat but instead just going down my nose, reaching my lungs, and then down my spine and then filling every limb, as though my body had been empty inside, and suddenly that heat had filled it. You smiled, then. You smirked, when you saw me squirm like I did. I began to sweat, just like you, my clothes started to get drenched. “Sniff it more.” And I obeyed.

#story #footgrowth #bigfeet #bigfoot #maletf #growth #muscleinflation #sizeincrease

[miracleonice87]

anything with matty tkachuk! but maybe a fluffy one where it’s your first season living together after being long distance for awhile and it’s like the moments you guys go through? first fight, first night together, new game day rituals, etc.

a/n: the last of the requests for the moment! I’ll probably open them back up soon. here’s a piece with a few vignettes referred to in the request. enjoy! 

warnings: partners arguing, brief mention of sex

_____

Firsts

first night…

“You’re going to throw your back out.”

Matthew scoffed. “You think you’re so heavy but you weigh next to nothing,” he insisted, scooping his arm beneath the crooks of your knees, the other steady beneath your underarms as he lifted you off the ground.

You chuckled, covering your face with your hand shyly.

“Matthew,” you whined. He shook his head.

“Nope, we’re doing it,” he told you, walking toward the front door. “You’re finally moving in with me. We’re doing the cheesy ‘carry you over the threshold’ thing.”

You couldn’t argue with that. Smiling, you looped your arms around his neck and resigned to his resolve. A few yards more, and Matthew was kicking open the door with one foot.

As he stepped into the house, he let out an adorable “ta daaa!” and beamed at you.

“Welcome home, princess,” he said sweetly. You leaned in to kiss him and pinched gently at his cheek.

“Thank you, my love,” you said. Matthew put you down carefully and closed the door behind him. As you stepped forward into the living room — your living room — you spotted not only a gorgeous bouquet of blush pink roses, but also an overflowing gift basket filled with an array of your favorite items. The jasmine candles you always burned in your own apartment, the lavender tea you drank each night before bed, your favorite shampoo and conditioner, the shower gel you always stocked up on at your favorite St. Louis boutique — all of it, and more, was tucked inside.

“Baby…” you began breathlessly, running your hand along the perimeter of the wicker. “What did you do?”

Matthew approached from behind with a smile, wrapping his arms around your middle and burying a kiss in your hair.

“I just wanted you to have some things that’ll hopefully make you feel at home here,” he said somberly. “And I gotta admit, Taryn helped me track down the stuff from St. Louis,” he added with a chuckle.

You turned in his hold to face him, and he noted the glistening in your green eyes as he reached for your face.

“You are so sweet. Thank you, baby,” you said, pressing your lips against his. When you parted, Matthew noticed the way your bright smile had faded. He knew why.

As thrilled as you were to be moving in with Matthew at last after a full year of dating long distance, you were still anxious leaving your hometown of St. Louis. You couldn’t wait to start your life in Calgary with Matthew, but living so far from your family and childhood friends had you battling homesickness from the second you took off from Lambert. The reality had caused you to break down on the plane and was bringing tears to your eyes once more.

“You okay?” Matthew asked kindly, kissing your forehead repeatedly. You held his wrists and nodded.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” you said.

“I know it’s not gonna be easy, sweetheart,” Matthew said, pulling you closer. “But your parents are welcome here anytime, and you can go visit them literally whenever you want. And you know my parents are gonna be up here way more now that you’re here. We all know they like you better than me,” he told you, pulling a giggle from you as you looked up at him with a smirk.

“There’s a smile,” he said. You nodded, sniffling.

“Trust me, Matthew, I’m so happy to be here with you,” you assured him. “This is where I’ve wanted to be for so long, and you’re so gracious for having me here. And I can’t believe how thoughtful these gifts were. The excitement I feel to start my life with you outweighs any sadness I’ll feel. Trust me on that.”

Matthew grinned, and you couldn’t help but reflect his joy in your own expression.

“I love you, princess,” he said, hugging you tight. “Welcome home.”

“I love you, too, Matthew,” you said against his shoulder.

_____

first fight…

It had taken a few weeks, but you soon settled into your new life in Calgary with little trouble. Spending every day with Matthew felt like a dream — you were both giddy when you hopped into bed together each night and woke up next to each other the following morning.

As Matthew began training camp, you found your own routine with your work as a freelance graphic designer. You only put in about twenty to thirty hours per week, which Matthew knew you did because you wanted to, not because you felt you needed to. He reminded you every so often that you could quit at any point if you no longer felt the need to work — though you told him not to hold his breath.

Matthew refused to let go of his housekeeper, as he wanted to save you from doing all of the chores, though you did insist on taking over the bulk of the household duties because you actually found them enjoyable — scheduling, grocery shopping, meal planning, cooking, laundry, and paying bills.

It was that last little item that caused the first tiff between you and Matthew since you had moved in with him — in fact, the first tiff the two of you had had in months.

One afternoon, after Matthew returned home from practice, he kissed your cheek and grabbed a glass of water before sitting down at the kitchen table to chat with you, as he did almost every day. As you worked on a logo design for a client, Matthew sat scrolling through his phone; then, eyebrows furrowing, he paused.

“Hey, babe?” he began. You acknowledged him with a distracted “hmm?” without looking away from your screen.

“It’s no big deal if so,” Matthew spoke, “but did you forget to pay the water bill this month? And maybe… maybe the electric bill, too? I don’t see that they’ve been deducted from my account yet, so I just wanna make sure they’re not late.”

Heat crept up your neck and chest as you slowly closed your laptop, pursing your lips to the side. When you didn’t respond right away, Matthew looked at you curiously.

You took a deep breath and pulled your legs underneath you, curling up and wishing you could hide from this altogether.

“Don’t be mad…” you said softly.

Not a good start, Matthew thought to himself. He clicked his phone to lock it and set it aside, folding his arms on the table.

“Babe…” he said, a warning in the single word.

You picked nervously at the seam of your leggings. “Okay. I kind of…” you cleared your throat, stalling. “I kind of paid those two out of my own account. But just those two. I swear.”

Matthew rolled his eyes, pushing himself out of his seat as he muttered, “oh, my god.”

Yep, he was pissed.

After pacing for a few moments, Matthew crossed his arms against his chest and faced you.

“I thought we talked about this,” he said, clearly frustrated.

You dropped your head. “I-I know…” you said timidly. “We did. I just-“

“And you paid them yourself anyway? Despite having already discussed it?” he questioned, his volume rising.

With lightly shaking hands, you tucked some hair behind one ear and swallowed hard, unable to meet his gaze, which was sure to be intense.

“Yes,” was all you could manage.

Matthew tossed his baseball cap on the table and sighed loudly, resuming his pacing across the hardwood.

“Baby, we can’t start out like this,” he said firmly. “I didn’t ask you to come live with me so we could split the cost of living like you’re some random roommate of mine. I asked you to move in because I want to share my life with you — I wanna share everything with you. I make more money than I’ll ever be able to spend, and you should not be spending your own money to pay our bills.”

As he spoke, you chewed anxiously on the inside of your cheek. When he paused, he sighed once more.

“Can you look at me, please?” he requested.

With a shaky inhale, you did as he asked, and his gaze softened the moment he saw the unease on your face.

“What’s goin’ on here, baby?” Matthew asked. “You’ve gotta talk to me. We’re partners.”

You pulled the sleeves of your sweatshirt down to cover your closed fists as you considered how even to answer him. Finally, you decided on a simple response.

“I feel like a mooch,” you said quietly, your eyes traveling downward again.

Out of your frame of vision, Matthew’s face fell. He felt sick at what he had just heard. He crossed the room swiftly, easily pulling out your chair and turning it to face him. He knelt before you and gathered your hands in his own.

“Princess… hey,” he said gently as he reached to smooth his hand over your hair. “Look at me.” This time, it wasn’t a question.

You forced yourself to look at him, finding immediate comfort in the tender way he was now looking at you as compared to before. He squeezed your thighs soothingly as he spoke again.

“You are anything but a mooch,” he said with conviction. “You are my girlfriend, who I love — who I’m obsessed with. You’re the person I want to spend my life with. I wanna take care of you in every way I possibly can, including financially. You know what I mean?”

You nodded slowly, unable to think of a convincing argument against him.

“I don’t want to fight about this with you,” Matthew continued, shaking his head. “We shouldn’t be fighting about money. Listen, if you want to spend your money on things that are only yours, that’s fine. Even though I really wish you wouldn’t even do that.” He muttered the last part and you offered the tiniest smile. “I don’t want you footing our bills, babe. You don’t need to worry about that. Okay? I want you to let me take care of all of that. Please?”

You nodded slowly. “I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t want to go behind your back. I just felt like I wanted to contribute.”

Matthew gave you a disbelieving expression. “Contribute? Babe, you contribute so much. You’ve barely been here a month and shit around here is more organized than it’s ever been. You’ve already got this place running like a well-oiled machine,” he told you as you breathed a chuckle. “You take care of me in countless ways. Let me handle the money. That’s the easy part.”

You let your head roll back with a sigh, knowing that Matthew was being the logical one in this instance. “Okay,” you agreed as you wrapped your arms around his neck. “I will. I’m sorry.”

Matthew shook his head, kissing the tip of your nose and then your lips. “Don’t be sorry,” he said. “Let’s just go upstairs and have make-up sex since this was our first fight in forever.”

You threw your head back in laughter. “You are something else,” you told your boyfriend, who was already picking you up out of your chair and toting you upstairs.

_____

first game…

As you stood in your closet selecting an outfit for Matthew’s home opener, you felt a familiar pair of arms snake around your waist and a set of lips you knew well come to rest on your cheekbone. A grin overtook your face.

“Good morning, sunshine,” you teased as Matthew relentlessly planted kisses on your skin. “How was your nap? I didn’t wake you, did I?”

You turned his direction, and Matthew shook his head. You smoothed the short curls atop his head and he nearly purred, making you laugh.

“My nap was good,” he said with a yawn. “And you’re gonna make me fall asleep again if you keep doing that.”

You snickered, kissing his jaw, before you turned back around and reached for a couple articles of hanging clothing.

“Once you pick what you’re wearing, can you make me a cup of coffee?” Matthew asked from behind.

Your brows pulled together, puzzled, and you cocked your head as you turned back toward him.

“Are you really that helpless?” you said in your best teasing tone.

Matthew rolled his eyes lightheartedly and said, “No, I can make my own, but I don’t want to. We’ve got a good thing going.”

You shook your head, amused. “Okay, I’m lost,” you told him, hanging your outfit on the back of the closet door to steam later. “What are you talking about?”

Matthew followed you out of the closet and toward the hall.

“You made me my coffee before the last three preseason games at home, remember? And we won them all,” he said matter-of-factly. “So yeah, if you don’t mind, we’re gonna keep that going. Unless you wanna be the reason we lose…”

“No!” you exclaimed immediately. Matthew laughed — he knew that would do the trick, as you were nearly as superstitious as he. “I’m going now,” you said. As you turned to descend the stairs, you glanced back at him, batting your lashes. “Cream and sugar?” you asked sweetly. 

Matthew laughed hysterically and tickled your sides as he followed you down to the kitchen, thankful once more that you were here to share not only his home with him, but his life. 

#m answers #requests #matthew tkachuk #tkachuk #my writing #matthew tkachuk writing #matthew tkachuk one shot #matthew tkachuk imagine #matthew tkachuk fic #matthew tkachuk fanfic #matthew tkachuk fanfiction #hockey #hockey writing #nhl #nhl writing #nhl hockey #hockey fanfiction #nhl fanfiction #hockey fanfic #nhl fanfic #hockey fic #nhl fic #hockey one shot #nhl one shot #hockey imagine #nhl imagine

[dirtychocolatechai]

meet-cute | b.b.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader Warning(s): fluff, awkward Bucky, vet appointment stuff, Alpine Request: Babes if you're lowkey taking requests can I lowkey make one? 👉🏼👈🏼🥺💕 something flirty and cute and maybe a lil spicy with Bucky and vet!reader where something's going on with Alpine? Not self indulgent at all 😻💖 Notes: This was the first thing I’ve written in months and it felt damn good. Funny story, I actually almost went to school to be a vet tech + shadowed a vet for two weeks and got to see some wickedly cool things.

This was a bit self-indulgent on my part because I had a cat who passed away some years ago because of struvite stones and I wished he had a happier ending like Alpine so I thought why not 🤷‍♀️💖

Taglist is open

(gif from google)

There’s nothing Bucky hates more than the stringent smell of industrial cleaners and clinical white walls - too many associations and shades of memory long laid to rest - except for when something’s going on with Alpine. The Turkish Angora was fine up until a few days ago when he started to hide away and sleep all day.

That wasn’t too concerning at first...

But then came the pained little noises, the frantic running back and forth from the litter box, the excessive grooming. The pit that started forming low in his belly grew, his instincts screaming at him that something was wrong, very wrong, with his little buddy. 

Bucky wasn’t about to fuck around and set up an appointment with the first vet office he could find that had a same-day opening. And now he’s trying not to fall apart at the seams while he waits for the docs to do their magic and tell him what the hell’s going on with his cat and what he has to do to fix it.

The vet tech collected Alpine a bit ago and every minute stretches into years, the cat’s pitiful meow echoing in his ears and those betrayed eyes burned onto the backs of his eyelids.

I know, Bub, I’m sorry but they gotta figure out what’s going on. It’ll be okay, they’ll take care of you. 

His ass went numb from the plastic chair ages ago, his leg jiggling up and down at a rapid pace as he chews on his thumbnail and waits.

And waits.

And waits.

God, he knows these things take time but he’d rather be back at home, curled up on the couch with Alpine pigging out on breakfast food and watching space documentaries. 

How much longer-

“Alright, Mr. Barnes?”

The heavy door swings open with a click, a kind, professional voice preceding a pair of sensible shoes as the vet steps into the room with a clipboard cradled against her chest. His eyes snap up, skipping over her completely to look at the tech holding his cat who looks absolutely miserable. 

She introduces herself but he’s not paying attention. He’s not meaning to be rude but all his focus narrows in on that white little face, the knot in his chest unfurling at the little mew.

He smiles, his eyes crinkling around the edges as he breathes, “Hey there, Little Buddy.” 

The vet doesn’t push, in fact, she seems a little enamored with how much he melts at the sight of his pet. Her own lips quirk up into a soft smile while she stands off to the side patiently as Alpine’s set down on the metal table.

Bucky gets in a few good scritches under his chin, the beginnings of a purr just starting to vibrate his hand when the vet clears her throat delicately. 

He clears his throat, heat burrowing into the apples of his cheeks. “Shi - uh, ‘m sorry.” A hand scrubs over the back of his neck. “I’m just - uh - y’know...” 

Her laugh trickles down his spine like warm rain, the sound effectively drawing his attention away from the cat rubbing up against his side. He gets his first look at her and oh.

A bare face and a no-nonsense hairstyle greet him, her scrubs and white coat adding to the overall doctor vibe but she’s still breathtaking. The natural beauty in the curves of her face, the slant of her brows, the sparkle of her eyes.

He feels like he got sucker-punched in the chest, his heart giving a sudden throb that has him coughing like an idiot as he scrambles to not look like such a jackass.

“So,” he clears his throat, scratching at the stubble along his jaw, “What’s - what’s wrong with him?” 

Glancing down at Alpine’s chart, she hums and writes a note before glancing back up with a reassuring smile. “Nothing that can’t be managed with a special diet and watching his water intake.”

It’s like the weight of the world disappears from his shoulders, his broad frame practically heaving with his sigh of relief. “Oh thank fucking- ahem, ‘scuse me - thank god.” 

Her chuckle and sly smile have him blushing from the roots of his hair to the collar of his shirt, his stomach squirming in discomfort. Old habits are hard to break, especially ones his momma taught him with a box to the ear.

“You’re allowed to swear, Mr. Barnes,” she says, reaching down to run her fingers through snow-white fur. “We’re all adults here.” 

“No, no, I know...” 

“Hm, anyway, his blood work came back and everything looks fine which is a good thing.” 

And it’s back to business like that, any hint of personality hidden behind cool professionalism that Bucky thinks even Tasha would admire. Except for the playful gleam in her eyes as she sneaks peeks at him while going over everything they did and what they found. 

“Struvite crystals are quite common in cats at low levels, especially males because their tract is longer and narrower.” She pauses, flipping to a new page. “Depending on the severity, they can clump together in the urinary tract and actually form stones. That’s where the true problem lies because get one large enough, and it can cause a blockage.”

He’s listening with rapt attention, soaking in the knowledge she’s imparting to him all the while, petting Alpine who keeps nuzzling him and making little sounds. Honestly, he could listen to her talk for hours even if he didn’t understand a goddamn thing. 

She’s so animated when she speaks, holds eye contact and makes sure he understands everything without making him feel like an idiot. He’s had so many doctors who talked at him rather than with him, staring through him without seeing, more interested in the paycheck rather than their patients.

But not her, she cares.

Deeply.

He can see it all over her face and it’s utterly enchanting. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little enamored, charmed.

Turning the tablet towards him, she shifts closer and a waft of whatever perfume she’s wearing tickles his nose as she explains what the x-ray of Alpine’s abdomen found.

“These are the stones but thankfully they’re relatively small,” she points to several hazy white ovals starkly visible on the radiograph, “We caught them in time before they became a really big problem.” 

Shit, she smells so good...

 “Now, we’ll send you home with a special diet and see how he does. Also, make sure to up his fluid intake as much as you can. The food can take several months to start dissolving the crystals so we’ll have to do everything we can to help. Sound good?”

Bucky hasn’t pulled his eyes away from her face once this entire time, and how fucking creepy is that?

Quickly looking down at Alpine, embarrassment gnawing at his belly, he nods and wishes for the first time since he cut his hair that he hadn’t so he’d at least have a passing chance at hiding the blush burning its way across his face. 

“Yeah,” he says, picking up the ball of white fluff to hold against his chest, a makeshift shield. “Is there anything else I should do?” 

“No.” She smiles, writing another note and tapping away at the tablet next to her. “I do want to see him again in about a month for a check-up.”

Fuck, he doesn’t want to leave so soon.

The irony isn’t lost on him either.

How does he make this last longer? What can he do? If Sam was here right now, he’d be kicking him in the ass and bitching at him to ask for her number already, Ice Pick.

The clack of the chart being set down rings through the room, bouncing off the walls and sounding so fucking final that he starts to panic. 

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. 

She’s already halfway to the door when she asks, “Do you have any questions?”

The word vomit spring from him, unbidden and sudden without any thought, more forward than he’s been with a woman in years.

“Can I have your number?”

As soon as the question leaves his lips, he curses, cringes and wishes he could snatch the very words from the air itself.

Great, I just hit on my vet.

No amount of backpedaling can salvage this but goddamn it if Bucky doesn’t try, stuttering out some half-assed excuse about wanting it just in case he thinks of something later.

When he glances up, he wishes he hadn’t. The vet tech is in near tears in the corner, biting her lips so hard he wouldn’t be surprised if they started to bleed.

But it’s the absolute surprised bafflement on the woman he just inappropriately hit on that does him in, makes him about ready to burn all forms of identification and run for the hills. 

Her brows nearly reach her hairline, her mouth slack, eyes startled. She gets ahold of herself before he does, and he barely stops himself from slapping a hand over his face.

Right when he’s thinking there’s no way he’s going to be able to show his face in the office again, her expression softens with gentle amusement and her lips twitch. 

Struck dumb, he can only watch as she writes something down on a slip of paper before handing it over to him. He barely believes the string of numbers and the cheeky little call me anytime :).

The wink she sends his way is there and gone, so fast he almost believes he imagined it. 

“For emergencies only,” she says, slyly. “Of course.”

“Of course,” he agrees, almost tripping over the cat carrier as he hurries to stuff Alpine back in. “Of course, thank you. I...appreciate it.” 

“Anytime, Mr. Barnes.” 

Bucky leaves the room in a stupor, the world sharply shifted to the left as he heads to the front desk to make the follow-up appointment, but not before hearing the whispered, “Girl, you’re lucky. He’s fine!” and the “He is, isn’t he?”. 

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky x reader #bucky x you

[elysiadjarin]

Sword and Shield 7

Tags: Bad Batch x reader (you), fem!coded, poly!relationship, multi-part series, nonhuman!reader, Echo later on

Part 6: https://elysiadjarin.tumblr.com/post/655814128564355072/sword-and-shield-6

Warnings: not really much, some mentions of fights etc.

Notes: Well, after this chapter y’all... I think. You know. Where this about to go...

7: Tumbling

Tipoca greeted you the way it always did: a bustle of commotion as soon as you stepped foot off of the ship. You’d dressed in the standard gear that the Kaminoans had given you: a modified pair of blacks that essentially fit you like a jumpsuit.

Following Hunter, you and the rest of the team let him lead the way down the halls. Clones moved through the hallways as well, some of them giving you looks but the majority just ignoring you. By the time Hunter had opened the door to the Bad Batch’s usual barracks, you’d begun to brace yourself for the usual checkups and procedures you knew would follow.

“Hey Shiv, looks like they’ve moved your stuff in already,” Wrecker said, bounding into the room and over to his bunk.

You went over to the singular trunk that had been set in the middle of the floor, labeled with your designation number Unit 526934. Opening the trunk, you found your extra few changes of clothes and the random odds and ends that you’d left behind. Most of your favored possessions you’d either left with the 501st or taken with you onto the ship already, so the little you’d left in your quarters on Tipoca held little to no value.

Digging through the trunk, you grabbed the one item you’d hoped they hadn’t forgot, relieved it was still there. You let out a breath as you closed the trunk and turned to the table. Turning over the small holoprojector, you placed it down on the table and flicked it on, watching the images flicker into view. You smiled as you flipped through the couple of pictures of you with the 501st when you’d first been taken to Tipoca.

Pictures of you, soaking wet from the rain, laughing with the 501st. Fives, splashing you as Kix chased after you both with a towel. Your smile faded a little as you came across a picture of Echo, his grinning face fixed on you and Fives as he watched you both slip on puddles and slick durasteel.

Flicking it off, you stuck it into your bag and looked around. Apparently you were required to stay with the Bad Batch now, not that you’d protest.

“Uh, Shiv— looks like they didn’t bother to put another bunk in here.” Hunter turned to you.

You shrugged. “That’s okay. I can go on the floor or something.”

“You could share with me.” Tech adjusted his goggles. “Mine can extend a little further.”

You turned to glance at his bunk. “Oh... are you sure?”

“Awww, no fair Tech! I wanna sleep with Shiv!” Wrecker leaped up from his bunk, promptly cracking his skull against the top of it and letting out a yelp.

You could have sworn your entire face flushed at the double entendre of the words, but you tried to swallow and push it away. “Um- if you’re alright with it....”

Tech’s face looked a little colored. “If you want.”

You gave him a grateful smile. “Thank you, Tech. You sure I won’t make you uncomfortable? I tend to gravitate toward heat... I’ve been told I’m a little cold-blooded.”

He opened his mouth to reply when Crosshair snorted. “Really Shiv, do you think any of us would complain about that?” he asked, sending you a dark smirk from the other side of the room.

You swallowed thickly as Wrecker laughed and Tech sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck. Hunter chuckled.

“Well, it’s not as if you haven’t all fondled me already,” you said smartly, turning on your heel to go back to your trunk.

A dead silence filled the room for a moment as you bent over the trunk and started rummaging again, trying to search for the pair of night clothes you’d left behind last time. They’d been comfortable, and you didn’t want to give them up.

Then Wrecker burst into hearty laughter again. He walked up to you, grabbing you and hoisting you up as you squeaked a startled protest. “That’s the way, Shiv! Give it to him!” He swung you around as you squealed, grabbing onto his shoulders.

“Wrecker— Maker, wait—“ you tried to say through laughs, the world spinning.

He playfully tossed you down onto his own bunk as you shrieked, hair falling into your face. Grinning, he bent over you and handed you something.

“I want you to meet Lula,” he presented with a flourish. “Made ‘er myself!”

You brushed hair out of your eyes and took the little stuffed bunny, smiling at the stitched-on smile. Leaning forward, you had to bury your face into the plush tummy and breathe in Wrecker’s unmistakable scent. It smelled like the sizzle after a rain of blaster fire, the plume of smoke from an explosion barely wafting through the air, all underscored by a hint of sweat and a warm, thick scent that you just knew was wholly him.

“Lula is really warm, and soft,” you said softly, fingers squeezing the arms as you smiled up at Wrecker.

He hovered over you, face lighting up as you approved. “You like it? It’s coming apart a little, though. I gotta get ‘er fixed.”

You looked back down at it curiously, then turned it over. A seam had started to unravel at the back. “Oh— I can fix that, if you have the materials,” you offered, tugging carefully at the thread to see how loose it had gotten. Frowning, you tied a knot in the thread to keep it from further unraveling.

“You can?” Wrecker leaped up, managing to avoid hitting his head that time, and went to go rummage in all the miscellaneous parts.

“Here, Wrecker,” Hunter said, tossing him something from the other side of the room.

Wrecker caught it, squinting down at it. “Oh goody, it’s the thread.” Then he resumed looking for what you hoped would be a needle.

“Do you need anything, Shiv?” Hunter asked, turning to you briefly from his bunk.

You shook your head, scooting to the edge of Wrecker’s bunk and carefully holding Lula. “No, thank you. My trunk is here, and I guess I’m sharing with Tech, so... I should be good. Besides,” you sighed, rolling your eyes, “the Kaminoans will give me whatever they see fit anyway.”

“Oh, right.” Hunter walked over to you, handing you a datapad. “You’re being called into the medbay at 1800 Standard. I assume for a checkup.”

You glanced at it, then nodded and scrunched your nose. “Yeah, it’s going to be a long one,” you sighed, shoulders slumping. “Especially since that stupid stunt I pulled on that first mission.” You absently reached up and rubbed your arm, feeling the phantom pain of melting flesh tearing away.

Hunter glanced at your arm with a frown. “I thought it healed?”

“It did,” you said, “but now they’re going to poke and prod at it for a while to figure out the cellular regeneration most likely. Plus, they never have figured out why bacta patches tend to do more harm than good on me.”

He nodded. “Fair enough.” He walked back to his bunk just as Wrecker returned triumphantly.

“Found ‘em, Shiv!” He presented them, sitting back down next to you.

You set Lula down in your lap in order to take the materials, threading the needle with the thick, dark thread. Trying the knot, you turned Lula to the nearest light source and carefully inserted the needle.

“How’d you learn to sew, Shiv?” Wrecker asked, watching you start to mend the split seam.

You tucked in a bit of the stuffing. “Slave days.” You shrugged slightly, focused on getting the seam pushed together properly so it wouldn’t unravel as easily. “Gotta sit still and look like a useful and pretty ornament, y’know. Whims of the rich and whatever.”

“I still don’t understand,” Hunter spoke up, a growl in his voice. “Why would a Separatist choose to make you an ornamental slave instead of a weapon partner?”

You took a moment to tie the knots and snap the thread, then started re-threading the needle to do another tight layer. You finally answered with a sigh. “Bragging rights. Besides, I wasn’t a person to them. I was just a biological weapon, nothing more. What’s the point in treating me like an independent being? It’s one of the biggest reasons I found family in the Clones.”

The thoughtful silence told you that your point had hit home, and you started the second layer carefully. “I’m going to do another layer just so that it won’t tear as easily next time, Wrecker,” you explained, watching the needle push through the fabric and the stitches crisscross over each other.

“Oh, yeah! Thanks, Shiv.” Wrecker nodded, still apparently finding the process interesting.

You hummed, double-knotting the last stitch and snapping the thread again. Turning, you handed him the newly-mended Lula.

He cheered, taking her back excitedly and beginning to babble about it.

You had to watch him with a smile even as you pushed the needle through the spool of thread. Wrecker’s innocent joy in the simple things had always drawn you, the way he let himself be unapologetically enthusiastic about what he cared about. You had to fondly smile as you watched him toss Lula about and razz Crosshair.

Standing after a moment, you went and put the needle and thread back on the table and resumed your interrupted search in your trunk. Thankfully, you’d found the sleepwear and set it on top. Standing, you ran a hand through your hair and glanced at the wall chrono. It read 1730, so you grimaced and grabbed your ankle monitor.

“I have to go to the medbay,” you called over your shoulder, hopping as you slapped the monitor on your ankle. “I should be back around 2100, hopefully before.”

“Good luck, Shiv,” Hunter said with a nod.

You threw them a wave as you rushed out the door, headed for the medbay. They usually wanted you to be early so you could take a quick sonic shower and change into the proper clothes. As you’d expected, you found a droid waiting for you as soon as you entered.

“Greetings, Unit 526934,” the droid bleeped. “Please make your way to the showers. You’ll find clothes waiting for you when you’re done.”

You nodded, biting back a sigh as you made your way over to the shower cubicles. Getting clean, you clambered out of the shower and changed into the loose-fitting robes that they’d provided. Picking at the hem of the shirt, you walked out into the attached room.

The droid waited by an examination table. “Please lie here.”

Without a word, you climbed onto the table and laid down, staring up at the ceiling. The monochrome color swirled in front of you, making you grimace and close your eyes against the brightness. A few minutes later, the doors opened just as the wall chrono chimed. You didn’t even bother opening your eyes.

“Hello, Unit 526934. Welcome back.” The smooth tones of the female Kaminoan washed over your ears. She started to move through the room, her silent footsteps only marked by the rattling of tools. “I trust your missions have been successful.”

“Depends on your definition, but sure,” you said flatly.

“You seem distressed,” she noted.

“Tired,” you corrected. It wasn’t a lie. You were definitely tired of these checkups, the way they always insisted on poking and prodding at you, picking you apart, shoving things into your bones and veins. Taking things from you. You hated it. But this, as you knew, was the price you’d chosen to pay.

To stay with the Bad Batch? You’d be the most cooperative patient they’d ever seen.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Would you like a tranquilizer while we do this checkup?” She offered.

“No thanks.” You kept your eyes closed, not protesting when her long fingers rested against your wrist.

The rest of the preparations took place silently as you forced every other thought out of your mind. You’d have to make sure you weren’t projecting too much so you didn’t bother the others. Sometimes, the way the Kaminoans experimented left you with an aching jaw as you grit your teeth against the pain.

Hooked up to an IV for a blood sampling and a medley of other liquids that they regularly drained into you, you felt the table jolt as you were pushed to the other side of the room. You opened your eyes, staring blankly above at the top of the machine that now hovered over you. It hummed to life, a soft light glowing at the edges of the smooth metal.

“According to your most recent report, you received a substantial injury on a mission,” the Kaminoan remarked smoothly. “Did you sustain any damage?”

“No,” you answered blankly, voice expressionless. “It healed over in two days. I had to cover it.”

The machine beeped, the droid puttering around the room coming over to check your IV. The blood sample had been taken, so it unhooked that line and instead gave you a small injection. Your arm numbed almost immediately, and you closed your eyes in resigned exhaustion.

“It looks like your scans show that you’ve completely regenerated sixty percent of the tissue in your arm recently,” the Kaminoan reported. “I will have to take samples to test. Did the injury reach your bone?”

“No.”

“Did you sustain any broken bones?”

“No.”

The Kaminoan tapped at the screen controlling the machine, readjusting the table so your head was mostly covered by it. You closed your eyes again, ignoring the other metallic clinks of instruments being prepared.

The Kaminoan returned. “It seems as though the removal of the inhibitor chips has continued to prove successful. Your brain functions have seemed to recover well,” she remarked clinically. “In time, you may have regained enough stability to consider a new one.”

You sourly hoped not.

The Kaminoan pulled the table back out, then settled you against the wall. The droid kept the fluids steadily dripping into your veins, and you felt the cold start to creep its way into your bones. Despairingly, you hoped that Tech wouldn’t mind if you ended up clinging to him like a leech by the time morning rolled around. It always came as a side-effect of the fluids. Though you knew that they boosted a lot of your internal functions, it still demanded a price.

“I will start taking samples.”

You grit your teeth, jaw ticking as you felt the cold needle press against your arm. It pushed, entering your skin without a sting thanks to the numbing agent, but you knew it wouldn’t last the deeper it went. And it continued to push. The pain started welling, and while you were used to pain, there was something about the cold metal point burrowing further down that always took you off guard.

The needle hit bone.

It took every ounce of willpower you had to shove back the scream that tore through your chest, welling in your throat. Ruthlessly, you shoved the pain away from the Bonds and down deep into yourself, willing yourself to stay quiet.

Your eyes nearly rolled back up into your skull with sheer relief when the needle pulled back out. The deep-tissue sample was usually the worst part. You could feel the light sheen of sweat that had broken out on your body start to cool even further, adding to the way your temperature dropped.

The ankle monitor beeped, warning about your plummeting temperature, and the droid instantly began to dial the fluid drip back. The Kaminoan nurse swiftly pulled a heat lamp down over the table, letting the artificial heat wash over you. Your muscles had started to tense with the cold, your eyes still stubbornly screwed shut against the pain.

“Your temperature should start rising soon,” the Kaminoan tried to soothe, adjusting the heat lamp.

Darkness plucked at the edges of your consciousness, and you blacked out.

~

Exhausted and still cold, you limped back into the Bad Batch’s quarters with the ankle monitor still on and a medbay blanket wrapped around your shoulders.

“Shiv?” Hunter sounded incredulous.

You looked up and waved them off. “This is normal, don’t worry about it,” you sighed, going to your trunk.

“What do you mean, normal? None of us have every come back from medbay looking worse than when we went in,” he demanded.

“Lemme get changed and I’ll explain,” you promised, grabbing your night clothes and heading for the bathroom. Changing into the comfortable pair of shorts and tank top, you wrapped the blanket around your shoulders again and shuffled back out into the room.

Tech was already sitting on his bed, so you went to go sit next to him, pulling the blanket to cover your feet. With a groan, you reached up to rub at your eye.

“Are you alright, Shiv?” Tech turned to you with concern, eyebrows furrowing.

“No, I’m freezing cold,” you said miserably.

“What did they do to you?” Hunter asked again with a frown.

You sighed, leaning into Tech’s shoulder. “Normal procedure for me is going in and getting a blood check, physical, and brain scan. I also have to get a bag of fluids that’s made to boost some of my biological functions, kind of like how you’re modified to be enhanced. It helps with my physical upkeep, but the side-effect is brutal. I’m going to freeze like an icicle for the rest of the night,” you grumbled. “And since I had to regenerate sixty percent of the tissue in my arm, they took a deep tissue sample.”

“A what?” Wrecker asked, tilting his head from his bunk. He held Lula up, craning his neck toward you quizzically.

“A deep tissue sample is when an injection has to be made in order to obtain cells from a section of a patient’s body,” Tech answered for you. “Oftentimes I’ve heard it can be very painful when it reaches bone.”

“They’ve got that right,” you said, eyes drooping closed with a heavy sigh. “They even had to turn on the heat lamp this time to get my temp back up. Oh, Tech,” you added as an afterthought, “I hope my ankle monitor won’t bother you. I have to keep it on tonight to monitor my vital functions. Like I said, the fluids tend to drain me of any and all heat.”

“It’s not a problem, Shiv,” Tech reassured. “If it goes off, what should I be prepared to do?”

“The only reason it’ll probably go off is if my body temp drops too low,” you sighed. “If I can’t, tap the monitor for me and it’ll manually send a burst of heat to regulate me.”

“Are you sure you’re going to be alright? You said the process was painful.” Hunter checked.

You shrugged. “Nothing I’m not used to,” you said. “If anything, I hope I don’t bother Tech. I’m going to become an ice-cold leech.”

“I suppose it’s a good thing I volunteered, then,” Tech said dryly, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “I’ll have to take advantage of whatever chances I get.”

You let out a laugh despite yourself. “Be careful what you wish for. You might regret it in the morning.”

“Nah, if Tech doesn’t want ya I’ll take ya, Shiv!” Wrecker grinned. “Lula and I can make room.”

“Thanks, Wrecker.” You smiled, feeling the sleepiness descend. Yawning, you leaned your head against Tech’s shoulder.

The cold dragged you into sleep.

~

“Shiv. Shiv, it’s time to get up.”

You let out a groan, pulled out of blessed sleep. You didn’t want to move. You felt perfectly, comfortably warm, and something heavy was draped across your waist. Instead, you whined petulantly and buried your head into the source of warmth you were so tightly pressed against.

A sharp inhale of breath hissed against your ear, but you were already falling back asleep-

“Shiv.” Someone’s mouth had pressed against your ear. “We have to get ready for the conditioning in an hour.”

Slowly, the words bled into your sluggish mind. Conditioning... an hour. Tipoca. Kaminoa. Right. Training exercises. An hour-?

With a yelp, you jolted awake and found yourself flailing. Your entire body went off the edge of the bed, slamming against the unforgiving floor. Grimacing, you reached up to rub the spot where your hip had landed.

“Ow, ow— don’t scare me like that, Maker—“ You opened your eyes to see Tech peering over the edge of the bunk at you.

“You alright, Shiv? Sorry I didn’t catch you, you startled me,” he said.

You stared up at him for a minute, your brain starting to put pieces together. You’d... probably been pressed against him. And that weight: his arm on your waist. The soft murmur and his kiss to your ear. You flushed.

“Oh, Tech— I’m sorry, I told you I’d probably end up being a leech,” you groaned.

“I wasn’t complaining, Shiv,” Tech said, swinging himself to a sitting up position.

You sat up, still rubbing at your sore hip. “Well there’s another bruise,” you muttered. “Thank you, Tech. I feel back to normal, I think.” You stood gingerly, patting at yourself. Your body temperature felt pretty normal, a bit chilly from waking up but nothing unusual.

“As much as I’d like to continue seeing you walk around in that, I think you might want to get ready for the conditioning,” Hunter remarked, walking past.

You blinked, then flushed as you remembered the shorts and tank top. Shaking your head, you grabbed your outfit from your trunk and went to go change.

By the time everyone was geared up and ready to go, you were starting to feel a little less sore from the needles. While the numbing agent had worked, it sill left a bit of an ache deep in your arm where it had hit bone. You walked down the hall following Hunter and absently rubbed your arm.

“Is your arm still hurting?” Crosshair asked sharply.

You started a bit. “Oh... I mean, it’s more of an ache. The needle hit my bone, so it feels weird,” you said, shaking your head. “It’ll go away.”

You arrived at the training deck on time. Taking in a deep breath, you tried to mentally prepare yourself. You didn’t know exactly what they’d throw at you this time around. You had to be prepared.

The Kaminoans watched from the observation deck above as you walked in, the doors sliding shut with a hiss behind you. The Prime Minister was there as well, to no one’s surprise.

Force 99, please prepare yourselves for a standard simulation. Unit 526934, please prepare to engage yourself as a non-lethal training weapon only.

You simply turned to Hunter, waiting for directions. He nodded to everyone as they started pulling their helmets on. “You guys know the drill. We’re used to Shiv by now. Just act like you would any other mission. Shiv.” He turned to you, holding out his hand. “Permission to Transfer.”

You sucked in a breath and grasped his hand. “Transfer Granted.” As soon as you’d Shifted, you didn’t even bother projecting an astral form as the simulation began. You’d already defaulted to Hunter’s preferred modifications, though you carefully made sure that your fire was stun-only.

The combat droids started to swarm, causing Hunter to duck and weave through the barriers and start firing. A pattern soon presented itself, and you picked up on it as soon as Hunter did.

“Tech!” Hunter yelled, tossing you.

You guided the weapon into Tech’s outstretched hand, instantly splitting into two. You whispered across the Bond. Pattern of four, flanking both sides and driving a wedge down the middle.

Tech nodded as he continued to fire and make his way closer to Hunter. “So it’s trying to funnel us toward the center and get us trapped,” he deduced.

“Wrecker, clear a path down the middle, Tech and I will cover you!” Hunter shouted.

“Wrecker, catch!” Tech called.

Wrecker whooped and caught you easily, charging straight into the middle of the arena. You formed yourself into a stun grenade launcher, and he eagerly fired a few into the swarm. Manually charging in as Hunter and Tech picked off the ones that got too close, Wrecker used you to both shoot as well as physically bat away some of the droids.

From a vantage point, Crosshair had already started sniping down the towers and picking off droids that threatened any of his other teammates.

Droids started swarming you and Wrecker even more, and you were pressed to focus on both keeping a second eye out for him as well as making sure your shots were still stun-only instead of live fire. They swarmed towards the center, and you quietly murmured across the Bonds.

Wrecker laughed heartily, elated by the action and the promise Hunter’s conveyed plan presented. “Let’s do it!” He roared, swinging you in a circle and firing gleefully. “Come and get it!”

It only took another moment before Hunter yelled “Now!”

Wrecker barely hesitated, pushing himself off the ground in a mighty leap to the side. He fired unerringly toward the mass of droids, a stun-grenade arcing through the air. A bolt from Crosshair hit the grenade dead-center, and it went off in a mighty pulse as you dragged Wrecker down to the ground to avoid the shockwave of the blast.

All the droids hovering in the air instantly dropped, sparking.

Slowly, Wrecker looked up. A moment of silence, then a bell chimed from above.

Simulation complete. Prepare for phase 2.

Wrecker scrambled to his feet. “What? Phase 2? What’s that?”

Hunter, Crosshair, and Tech quickly came up.

You materialized over Wrecker’s shoulder. “Phase 2 is my fault,” you said quickly. “It’s meant to be a test of how well I can switch between all of you as need be. There’s going to be most likely a set of obstacles of some sort that will lean on your individual strengths and see how well and quickly I can adapt.”

Hunter nodded. “Everyone keep as close as possible and support Shiv. Keep sharp and listen to the Bonds and each other.”

Everyone nodded and scattered to nearby barriers. For the time being, you stayed with Wrecker.

As soon as you caught sight of a droid staring to rise from a panel in the floor, you sent a pulse over the Bond. Wrecker barely paused before turning and chucking you clear across three barriers.

Hunter caught you as you Shifted into his modified blaster. “Any ideas, Shiv?” he asked tightly.

It’s a heavy fire unit, You guessed by its build. I don’t know what mods it might have, but I think treating it like an armored assassin droid would be best.

He nodded, then leapt over the barrier and started to run towards the droid. He weaved and dodged the bolts, and you Shifted into an energy shield to help block any stray blasts. Hunter dropped and skidded across the floor as you Shifted back into a blaster. Leaping up, he shoved the blaster into the crack between the two chinks of chest armor and fired.

Dodging out of the way, Hunter instantly turned and kicked at the droid’s legs. You Shifted into a vibro-shiv, and he slashed instantly at the droid’s back plate. The droid fell to its knees, and Hunter sank the shiv into its head plate, carving it open. You Shifted into a blaster again, and he fired instantly into the now-open head.

The droid crumpled, and Hunter whirled around to look for the source of the faint buzzing he’d heard. As soon as he caught sight of the tiny, round droid speeding around the edges of the room, he whipped his arm back.

“Cross!” He shouted in warning.

You Shifted midair, guiding yourself into Crosshair’s hands, already complete as his preferred modified sniper rifle. He smirked, then sprinted over to one of the towers in the room. You positioned your astral form in the usual place to his left. He climbed the tower, taking up a spot and propping you up on the railing.

Peering through your sight, Crosshair let out a quiet breath. You took the moment of complete silence in his head to gather yourself, preparing for his next order. His warning came a split second before the shot itself, but you were prepared. His shot hit the tiny droid almost dead-on, and a moment later you’d deflected a last ditch-effort shot made by the now-useless droid.

Crosshair turned his head to catch sight of the tower’s control panel flickering on. “Tech,” he hollered down, dropping you.

Tech looked up, catching both blasters you’d Shifted into flawlessly. Crawling around his barrier, he started into a dead-sprint toward the nearest tower. He lifted you as you Shifted into another shield, holding you above his head just in case. You took a single shot thanks to his weaving and dodging, so you were ready when he reached the tower.

He instantly propped you up and began slicing into the tower’s controls. It took him all of a minute while you braced yourself. You kept Shifting sizes of the shield depending on the shots aimed toward you. If you concentrated on a shot, it was much easier to conserve energy, maybe even absorb it and use it to refuel yourself. But the larger the shield, the more the shots would take out of you.

It didn’t take long for Tech to finish slicing and recoding the tower. Its turret rotated and started firing at the others until they were all down.

Tech grabbed you, letting you Shift back into his twin blasters. He sent you the schematics for a set of weapons, then shouted “Wrecker!” You automatically became an IWS as Wrecker caught you, but you studied the schematics Tech had given you with interest. A pair of armored gloves?

You started to copy the weapon, figuring why not? Wrecker looked down in surprise as you covered his hands, forming into the heavy gloves.

“Whoa, what are these?” Wrecker’s eyes lit up with interest as he turned his hands over.

Why don’t we find out? You asked with a smile. So far, this had been the most successful Phase 2 you’d ever experienced, and while you could feel the stress, it didn’t debilitate you like it had before.

Wrecker looked up just in time to see the center floor panel open up to reveal a giant droid ambling forwards. He grinned, then slammed his fists together in front of himself. The gloves started sparking, and you quickly made them stun instead of live energy.

With a whoop, Wrecker leapt forwards toward the heavy-duty droid. His first punch with the gloves made the droid shudder, sparking; but after a moment, it recovered itself and pressed forward again. You kept half a mind on Wrecker and continued studying the schematics of the gloves, refining the gloves and streamlining it as you familiarized yourself with it.

“Hey Shiv,” Wrecker grunted, still punching away at the droid, “what else do these do?”

You absently flicked on a button, and faintly heard Wrecker whoop as energy coils started threading between the gloves. Wrecker knocked the droid’s legs out from under it and started to wrap the energy coils around its head and neck joints. Still, you only half paid attention as you continued to study the schematics. They had aspects that made you wonder if Tech had been modifying it himself. There were mods that clearly hadn’t been made for a standardized weapon.

“Gimme a last good punch, Shiv!” Wrecker hollered.

You looked up from the schematics, shifting your attention, and powered up the gloves to as high of a safe extent as you could. Wrecker let out a shout and slammed his full weight into the chest of the droid. The entire chest plate caved in, and you winced as the stun energy rippled though the entire rest of the droid, reducing it to a heap of smoking parts.

Wrecker stood, nodding in satisfaction and smacking the gloves together. “These are awesome!” He cheered, shaking his fists in the air. “Hey Shiv, can we use these more often?”

You materialized over his shoulder, staring at them yourself. “I haven’t figured out all of it yet, so it might take me some time to make it better. But yes, if you’d like,” you agreed.

He turned his head to you in surprise. “You haven’t?” he asked as the rest of the team approached, the finish bell ringing.

You shook your head. “Tech gave me the schematics before he passed me to you.”

“You mean you made it functional on the fly?” Hunter asked, surprised.

You nodded. “Yes. I’ve studied weapons for most of my life, so it’s not as difficult anymore. But this schematic has modifications that weren’t meant for this weapon originally, so I’ll have to further study it to make it as practical as possible without compromising the rest of the weapon’s functions and overall integrity.”

Tech adjusted his goggles. “I didn’t expect you to try it right away. It was a weapon I’d found base schematics for on a mission. I thought I’d try to make some mods to accommodate Wrecker’s particular preferences. I figured I’d share what I had with you for the time being, since you’re now our partner and weapon.”

You disengaged, staggering a little as you dropped to the ground. Catching yourself, you shook your head from the giddiness that bled over from Wrecker.

“I like it,” Wrecker said with an adamant nod.

You smiled dizzily. “G-good.”

Hunter caught your arm. “You good?” His eyebrows furrowed for a moment.

“I’m fine, just-“ you squinted, balancing yourself. Taking a breath, you re-centered and shook your head. “I’m a little... that was the best I think I’ve ever done for a Phase 2,” you admitted breathlessly.

“You did great.” Hunter gave you an encouraging nod.

“I believe that was also one of the quickest battle sims we’ve managed to complete,” Tech noted, scrolling on his wrist unit. “We took a total of eight minutes and fifteen seconds for the first one. During Phase 2, Shiv Shifted weapons a total of 12 times in the span of twelve minutes and twenty seconds.”

Battle Simulations Complete. Performance Satisfactory. Prepare for mission assignment within forty-eight chrons.

You flushed as your stomach let out a loud growl. You hadn’t really eaten since lunch the day before, and you were now feeling it.

Wrecker laughed. “Let’s go get food!” He clapped your shoulder and started toward the doors.

Tech fell into step beside you as you all walked towards the now-open doors. “You did very well,” he offered. “I saved the footage in case you wanted to review it.”

You gave him an appreciative smile. “I’d love that, thanks, Tech. I’m glad I did well.” You let out a sigh of pure relief. “It was really stressful.”

As soon as the Bad Batch walked into the canteen, you mentally braced yourself for snide comments. It was always the same no matter who you were with, and worse if you were alone. Still, you hoped that the others wouldn’t be too effected by it.

Grabbing a tray, you felt your shoulders hunch a little. You just... wished others would simply ignore you. Their comments didn’t even matter, but it always felt so awkward. And sometimes, you’d found, ignoring them only earned you more trouble. Putting the bland food on your tray, you wished for a moment that you could just cook something yourself on the ship.

You followed behind Wrecker’s bulk as he confidently made his way to an empty table. Feeling a presence behind you, you glanced back with wide eyes to see Crosshair following behind you.

“Sit on my side of the table, Shiv,” Cross said coolly. “Wrecker always starts something in the canteen when others make comments.”

Though you didn’t really mind either way, you nodded and slid into the spot next to Crosshair on the bench. Hunter slid in on your other side, while Tech and Wrecker sat across from the three of you.

You just silently tucked into your food, grateful for the nutrition at the very least. Wrinkling your nose at the dubious soup, you decided to dunk your bread into it instead to avoid the taste as much as possible.

“The soup never is good,” Hunter said with a roll of his eyes as he copied you.

You nodded with a soft hum, spooning the other food into your mouth.

A group of troopers passed by your table, chuckling and nudging each other. “Well if the outcasts don’t find each other,” one of them sneered in your direction.

Another snorted. “Yeah, looks like the Sad Batch found the flimsi-opener.”

You were fully prepared to ignore it all when Wrecker leapt up from his seat.

“Leave Shiv alone,” Wrecker fairly growled, glaring at the group of troopers.

Choking on a spoonful, you pounded at your chest at the unexpected rush of heat that traveled down your body at the sound of Wrecker’s voice dropping that low and raking down your spine. It was the sound of his voice as much as the abrupt defense that took you off guard, and the way your body reacted to it completely unbalanced you. You could feel color burst in your cheeks as you stared wide-eyed up at Wrecker still glaring balefully at the troopers.

“Sit down, Wrecker,” Hunter said, waving his hand. “They don’t know what they’re talking about anyway.”

Wrecker huffed. “They don’t deserve to talk to Shiv like that,” he complained.

You shook your head wordlessly, trying desperately to shove the memory of Wrecker’s face contorted in a feral snarl, his growl rolling through your mind. You weren’t even sure why it had effected you so heavily, but... You shifted a little in your seat, realizing with despair that Hunter would probably be able to smell your reaction at this rate.

“You okay, Shiv?” Wrecker turned to you, back to his normal husk as he frowned.

You coughed, shaking your head and then nodding. Swallowing thickly, you pressed your thighs together and desperately tried to refocus on your food.

Beside you, Crosshair let out a low, knowing chuckle. His hand under the table briefly brushed up your leg, and you let out a squeak, instantly clapping your hand over your mouth.

“You look flushed, Shiv, are you alright?” Tech frowned, observing your face.

“No- ye- no-“ you choked out, pointedly trying to look down at your tray. Biting your lip hard, you picked up your spoon again. Why was everything suddenly so... sensitive?

“If they say anything again, I’m throwing this table,” Wrecker said darkly, glaring around the canteen.

You couldn’t take anymore. You needed out. Standing abruptly, you grabbed your tray. “Excuse me, I’ll- I’ll be in the room-“ You fled, choking on your own words. Fairly throwing the tray at the return, you started running down the hallway and out of the canteen.

You barely made it to the barracks before your knees gave out. Leaning against the table, you sucked in a burning breath and closed your eyes, shivering. You didn’t even know why, but something about the way Wrecker had instantly stood to his full 6 foot 6 inches and growled at the person who had insulted you just... did something. It was like someone had flipped a dusty switch in your mind and broken a dam in the process.

Sucking in a breath, you grabbed your sleep clothes and went to go change in the fresher. You needed out of your blacks as soon as possible. The heat that spread through your whole body was the polar opposite of what you’d felt the night before.

Still, even after you’d changed into the tank top and shorts, your body still felt like it was on fire. The heat puddled in your lower belly, making you press your hand against it. Your skin felt so hypersensitive, the comfortable clothes rasping against you in a way that made you squeeze your eyes shut.

Grabbing a datapad, you shakily tried to scroll to the report of your last medbay visit hooked to the ankle monitor you’d shed that morning. Scrolling through it, you pulled up the list of the fluids you’d been injected with. A particular side effect listed on one of them made you let out a broken groan and sink down onto the nearest bunk.

The door flew open. “Shiv?”

Tag list:

@subbing-for-clones

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@mo-i-ra

@dolphincommander

@ladydiomede

@alis-gore

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If you’d like to be added to the tag list, please message me! Thank you guys for the support!

#sw tbb #star wars #the bad batch #x reader #my writing #bad batch #clones #tech #wrecker #hunter #tbb x reader #tbb fanfiction #Crosshair #sword and shield #clonesimp #star wars x y/n #star wars x reader #y/n #Star Wars

[adael-is-adeal]

Maid Leviathan

Dom GN!reader x Leviathan

Why didn’t I think of this before?? Imagine fucking Levi in a maid outfit. Just— I’d be on my knee for him so fucking fast. Anyways good job brain. More parts for both male and female if you want.

Tag: Blowjob, slight humiliation

You sigh as you dropped your bag of treats on the floor as you enter your room. You just came back from spending most of the night in the Purgatory Hall with the angels, the four youngest brothers, and Soloman. Although you weren’t one for Halloween, racing Beel towards Luke for the last of his pumpkin spice cookies was both hilarious and fear inducing, even wearing a costume wasn’t so bad. 

Though you were very doubtful when Lucifer said he had a costume for you... 

“What was the costume in the other bag...” You mumbled, but you quickly dispelled that thought from you mind when you remembered the way Lucifer smiled. You shudder; feeling chills on your arms, from what you aren’t sure. You just shook your head and chuckled. Although the brothers were all very, very attractive, there was only one that you thought of all day. In fact, you should go see your little otaku right now.

You and Levi have been together for a while so just walking right into his room without knocking is just your norm now. Plus sometimes he has his headphones on for his raids so even if you did knock he wouldn’t hear you, leaving you outside. Which has happened.. multiple times... But this setup you two have now is much better and has been very beneficial for the both of you; especially, for you. Not only do you get free access to Levi all time, it also means that he can’t hide whatever might embarrass him quick enough.

Your lips quirk slightly, thinking about his adorable blushing face, his ears turning red, and the blush going all the way down past his neck. You wonder where else he blushes. You grin thinking to yourself 

‘Ah geez, now I have to tease him more.’ 

A little sadistic, but hey you gotta do something to rile up your adorable tsundere. Speaking of the demon, the moment you open his door you see Levi looking at his reflection from his aquarium, looking very pleased with himself.

You swallow thickly as you stared at Levi, he was wearing a short skirt maid outfit, with white high thighs, lacy white gloves, and black kitten heels.

“Huh, I wasn’t expecting this,”

You see Levi’s eyes widened in the reflection, with what seems to be horror. Levi spins his head towards you so fast that you almost worry for his little maid headpiece.

“W-wha I- MC- this, this isn’t wha-“ Levi stammers, avoiding eye contact with blush creeping up his neck. You smile seeing his now cute cherry red face with tears in the corner of his eyes. Wow, you really were sadistic. Still smiling, you slyly lock the door behind you.

“Levi,” your low voice makes him slightly flinch, it seems as though he can’t meet your eyes.

‘No, that won’t do,’ you thought as you approached the blushing demon. Levi tries to look for a way to escape, but you already have your hands on his waist pushing him into the glass of the aquarium. You lean close to his ear,

“What’s wrong, Maid-sama?” You breathed into his ear as you began to pet his hip. Levi lets out a breath as he shudders and leans into you, placing his arms around you. You grinned as you lightly place your leg against his growing erection; Levi jumps but moans softly slightly gripping your shirt, trying to rub more against you, but you pull your leg slightly away.

“Hm? What’s wrong Maid-sama, I can’t help you if you don't tell me what’s wrong,” you softly kiss Levi’s neck. Levi blushes even harder as he hears your grin in your words, he doesn’t need to see you to know you’re smiling.

“Please,” he moans quietly as he caves in. You hum not satisfied, but still press onto him lightly as he bucks.

“Were you waiting for me, Levi?” You questioned, slowly rubbing him with your leg.

“Mmf!” Levi moans, trying to buck harder, but your hands keep him moving too quick.

“What if one of your brothers came in and saw you like this?” You rub him a little rougher. He lets out a louder moan into your shoulder. 

“Did you want them to see you like this, Maid-sama?” You grin moving your hands to grope his ass as he ruts against your leg

“Please, ah- no!” Levi grips your shirt hard, grinding harder. He’s close.

“Levi,” you gently move his hips away from you and step back to look at him

“Ah- no please MC,” you can see his drool on the side of his mouth and tears in his eye.

‘So cute,’

“MC!”

“Shh it’s okay, it’s okay just let me look at you,” you lift one hand to caress his cheek. Levi nuzzles into your hand. You smile,

“So good for me,” you kiss him sweetly as he moans. You lick the seam of his mouth and he opens up easily. Levi submits, letting you explore his mouth.

“MC,” Levi whines as you two part

“Okay,” you laugh as you look him in the eyes as you get down on your knees, dragging your hands down his body. You lift his skirt to see his very prominent erection pressing against a pair of panties. Wow,

“Hold this for me, love,” you placed the edge of his skirt into his mouth. Levi nods, breathing a sigh of relief as you slid his panties off. Levi shivers, feeling you rub your hands up and down his legs getting close to him, but never touching.

“I’m loving the high thighs, Levi,” you say facing his erection.

“Mmph!” Levi jerks feeling your breath on him.

“So needy,” you grin as you wrap a hand around him. Levi thighs quiver as he sighs in relief, but you don’t let that last for long. You immediately began to stroke Levi, teasing his tip. You feel Levi’s gloved hand placed on your head, petting your (h/c) locks. As you started to lick his tip, you felt his gloved hands threading through your hair. And as you took him into your mouth, you felt the hand beginning to grip. Levi is moaning louder as you swirl your tongue his cock, the hand that was rubbing his thigh changed its focus and was now cupping and fondling his balls.

“Mmph!” You hear Levi’s muffled moan as you started to take him deeper down your throat. 

“MC I’m- I’m close, so-” Levi tries to push you away gently, but you place your hand around his thigh to keep yourself in place and continue blowing him.

“MC~ no please, ah~ I’m gonna cuM-“ you felt Levi’s thighs quiver as hot cum hit the back of your throat. You moan as you swallowed his cum, and watched Levi’s teary face full of pleasure. You slowly slid him out of your mouth and got up. You smiled as Levi immediately leaned on you for support. You led him to his tub, and helped him out of his heels and into the tub. Levi let out a sigh of thanks and closed his eyes.

“What are you doing, Maid-sama.” Levi opened his eyes to see you getting into the tub. You grinned sadistically as you got on him,

“I’m not done with you yet,”

#obey me smut #obey me imagines #obey me shall we date #leviathan #shall we date leviathan #leviathan x reader #leviathan x mc #gn!reader #x gn!reader #gn reader #x gn reader #male!reader #male reader #x male reader

[lyssismagical]

72 w Parkner pls 🥺

just some bb fluff between the Keener-Parker-Stark family uwu

*

“I'll see you in a few hours, babe,” Morgan says, leaning up to kiss her partner. “I love you.”

Saylor smiles and gently pushes a strand of hair behind Morgan’s ear. “I love you too. Have fun. Tell them I said hi.”

Morgan and Saylor have been together for three years now, having met in Morgan’s third year of college, studying to become a teacher. Saylor’s in med school.

They live together in New York, only a few hours’ drive away from Stark Towers where Harley and Peter live.

She hasn’t had a day off between school and her job as a teaching assistant, not to mention having just gotten a puppy with Saylor who needs constant attention and care.

The drive to Stark Industries is a little boring, traffic a little heavier than usual on a Saturday morning. She feels a little bad about not spending the weekend with her partner who’s also rarely free, but she also hasn’t made the trip to see her family in quite a while.

Harley and Peter are sitting at the breakfast bar, knees touching and Harley’s laughing bright and loud at something Peter must’ve said. They both look tired, despite the weekend beginning, but she knows the business has been under some heat lately.

Peter’s up, out of his seat as soon as he sees her, pulling her into a warm hug. “I’ve missed you, bug. How are you? How’s Saylor? How’s school?”

“Let her breathe, darling,” Harley says, leaning over his husband to ruffle Morgan’s hair. “You want a coffee?”

“Yes, please, traffic was awful.”

Harley smiles and heads off towards the kitchen, leaving Peter to fuss over Morgan.

“You look tired, have you been sleeping alright?”

“Peter, I’m fine, I promise. I’m twenty-four, you don’t need to worry about me like I’m still fourteen.”

He sighs wearily, it’s obvious it hasn’t exactly been an easy week for him. “I know. But you’ll always be my little bug.”

“I’m good, really, Peter. I’m happy.”

Harley returns, pressing an old Iron Man mug into her hands. “How’s Saylor? I miss that kid.”

“They’re good… Busy, that’s for sure. Med school, the internship at the hospital, taking care of Nova. We’ve both been busy, but they’re happy. They’ve got the weekend off to just play with Nova and rest.”

Peter goes to respond, but his phone ringing cuts him off. “Sorry, I should probably… Hello?”

Harley sighs, leading Morgan to the living room. “It’s been complicated lately.”

“I heard, is everything okay?”

“One of our rival companies, they’re fighting dirty and it’s putting a lot of pressure on us. We’ve already lost a few employees, as well as some investors because of them. But we’re making progress and it’ll all blow over soon enough.”

Morgan nods, pulling her knees up to her chest on the couch, tucking herself into the warmth. It’s the same old couch that Tony bought decades ago, there’s a few photographs of her here when she must’ve been two to four years old, her dad holding her in his lap. On one hand, she knows why they haven’t bothered to replace it, every memory of Tony is important to all three of them and seems almost wrong to get rid of anything that belonged to him. But on the other hand, it really is just a couch. An old, worn-leather couch, with rips in the seams and stains along the back.

“Peter looks exhausted,” she says, watching carefully as Harley’s face shifts into worried sadness.

“He is. You know how he gets when it comes to anything surrounding your dad.”

Peter slips into the room, rubbing a hand down his face. “I’ve gotta go. I’m sorry to cut this short, but PR needs one of us downstairs.”

“I’ll get it,” Harley offers, already bringing himself to his feet.

“No, it’s okay. You took the last one. I’ll go, sort this out, I’ll hopefully be back within an hour or two. I’ll bring takeout for lunch, sound good?”

Harley sighs and Morgan knows she makes the exact same expression as he does whenever Saylor picks up extra hours at the hospital or stays up all night to study.

She’s never really known the two of them apart, she was too young to remember them before they got together, way back when they were eighteen and nineteen. They’ve been together ever since, bar the one time in college where they split up for nearly four months, long-distance having become too much for them.

She’s never known Harley without the permanent wrinkle between his brows from the constant worry of dating a selfless superhero. She’s never known Peter without the messy curls, having given up gel and product when Harley convinced him he looked better without it.

When she was young, she always worried that she’d never find love the way her parents did, the way she saw Harley and Peter, so unconditional, so pure, so endless. She worried she wouldn’t find the person who was clearly meant to be her other half like Peter is for Harley and Harley is for Peter.

But then she met Saylor.

“Bye, bug, I’ll be back soon, I promise.”

She hugs Peter goodbye, settling back into the cushions beside Harley.

“How did you know you were going to be with Peter forever?” Morgan asks. She adores the way Harley’s expression goes gentle and nostalgic and loving.

“Peter likes to say that he knew when we met, that very first time, at the cabin. But I don’t think it was ever quite that simple, you know? I knew I loved him when we were in college and he was in Massachusetts while I was in California, and I woke up one day, and found Peter in my dorm room. He’d flown all the way out, on his long weekend, just to spend time with me. He was sitting next to me, reading the book I had to write an essay on so he’d be able to me. It was so simple, so easy, and it was clear, in that moment, that I could do that forever. Wake up next to him, live in simple domesticity with him.”

“And you wanted to do that forever?”

She knows that moment with Saylor, too. They had come home from a long day at school and a long evening at the hospital, and they had picked up her favourite meal for dinner on the way home. They had curled up on the couch together, eaten dinner, and watched a movie, and smiled when Morgan had ranted about the antagonist of the film.

“For as long as he’d have me.”

“And you’ve never once gone back on that?”

Harley shrugs, eyes far away. “I fucked up in college, I nearly ruined the best thing I’d ever had, and that’s the biggest regret I’ll have to carry with me. That’s the only regret I’ll ever have about our relationship, is hurting him and losing four months with him.”

“I think I want to ask Saylor to marry me,” Morgan says. She’s certain about that, but god is she ever nervous. “I love them more than anything.”

“I know.” Harley nudges her with his shoulder. “Every time you talk about them, you get that same look that I see on Peter’s face constantly. And that- that’s a lot. I see it on Saylor’s face too, when they talk about you.”

“You do?”

Harley’s smile widens. “I do. It’s clear how much that kid loves you. And if you’re even a fraction as sure as I was when I proposed, then you should go for it.”

“How did you do it?”

“It’s about as dramatic as you’d expect from us. He was-” Harley stops, swallows visibly. “He was dying. He’d been hurt while on a mission and I was there, I was holding him and he was- he was dying. Bucky had to physically restrain me while Sam got him to help… It was the most scared I’d ever been.”

“He was okay, though.”

“Yeah, somehow he always is. He was in that goddamn hospital bed and he was so high on pain killers and I just, I asked him to marry me.”

“That simple?”

“That simple.”

Morgan laughs a little. “And he said yes?”

“He did. He said yes. And when he was released from the hospital, he laughed so hard he cried because he couldn’t believe that’s how I asked him.”

And god does Morgan ever want that with Saylor. She loves her partner like crazy, loves them to the moon and back, she never wants to go another day without them, she doesn’t want to spend another second without being able to call her partner, her fiancé.

“I want to marry Saylor,” she says again.

Harley grins. “I’m proud of you.”

“For being in love?”

“For being unapologetically you and going after what you want.”

Morgan leans into Harley, his arm coming up to wrap around her shoulders. “You think they’ll say yes?”

“No question about it, kid.”

“If they do…” She trails off nervously. “Would you and Peter walk me down the aisle?”

Harley presses a kiss to her temple. “We would love to. And I’m sure we could have Nova trained to be a ring bearer in no time.”

Morgan laughs at the thought of her clumsy, bouncy little puppy trying to do anything with finesse.

Peter returns with lunch a little while later.

As soon as he walks in, he drops the bags down on the table and says, “I want a baby.”

“What?” Harley lets out a little surprised laugh and Morgan bursts into giggles at the absurdity.

“Quinn brought her baby in for the meeting because she couldn’t get a babysitter in time,” Peter explains, pouting childishly. “And I want one.”

Harley shakes his head, more dumbfounded than disagreeing. “You want a baby.”

“I want a baby,” he repeats. “I want a little tiny thing with ten fingers and ten toes and a beating heart.”

Morgan laughs again, walking up to hug Peter. “God, I missed how absolutely crazy you are.”

“Okay, darling, how about you eat some food and we’ll talk some more later?”

It’s not a no and Peter grins triumphantly.

“When did you know that you wanted to be with Harley forever?” Morgan asks before she can stop herself.

Peter’s smile widens and he looks to Harley with the softest, most lovestruck eyes she’s ever seen. “I was fifteen.”

“Fifteen? You were seventeen when we met.”

Peter slides a hand over Harley’s shoulder, tucking himself into his husband’s side. “I was fifteen and I was here with Tony. Right here, actually. We were having a lab night and he mentioned something about a potato gun kid. And I asked him to tell me about you. About dumbass Harley Keener who didn’t know when to stop, who was talkative and loud and sarcastic and annoying. Harley who helped save Tony’s life. And I thought, wow, if anybody would know what it feels like to be me, it’d be Harley.”

“Really?”

“I googled you later that day and I scrolled through your mom’s entire facebook, wondering just who was special enough to stay in Tony’s head for so long, so fresh. I told Ned, I said to him, I’m gonna meet this kid and I’m going to marry him one day because who else is worthy of my love than somebody who could save Tony Stark’s life.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not! It’s all true. Ask Ned, he’ll tell you.”

Harley rolls his eyes in pure adoration. “You never told me that.”

“I was embarrassed and then it didn’t seem relevant anymore.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever stop wanting to learning things about you, Parker.”

Peter grins up at him. “Like how I want to have a baby?”

“You two would be amazing dads,” Morgan says, almost shyly. That part of their relationship isn’t talked about very much, how they might as well have raised Morgan, filled in the spot that her dad left when she was so young. “Any kid would be lucky to have you.”

“Thanks, bug,” Peter murmurs.

“If you take tomorrow off, we’ll start researching, alright?” Harley bargains. A day off is hard to come by with Peter, but with an ultimatum like that, Peter can’t possibly say no.

Peter kisses him in response.

April Parker is the flower girl at Saylor and Morgan’s wedding that fall.

Taglist: @littlemissagrafina @spideyspeaches @romeoandjulietyouwish @c-artara @shadedrose01 @likeaphoenix13 @misskirkstark @you-get-killed-walk-it-off @kitkatwinchester @emo-girl10 @hold-our-destiny @imalivebecauseirondad @spiderman-peterman @dykeragee @maryserrao @heeeyitskay @parknerandirondad @lilacsandlilies4 @loveliestdisappointment @joyful-soul-collector @genderfluid-and-confuzled @fallenstar07 @gyurolls @sdottkrames @you-did-it-sir @not-today-thx @fandomstuffff

{Let me know if you wanna be added or removed}

#lyss writes #parkner #lyss answers #harley keener #peter parker #morgan stark #mcu #spider man #tony stark #parent peter parker #dad peter parker #dad harley keener

[raindownforme]

Writing Event

Hi! I was tagged by @jschllatt for a writing event, and this is for her!

———

5. Charlie slimecicle x reader [they/them used] (reader had freckles for context)

y/n stirred in their sleep, doing their best to shift with the almost unfamiliar weight. Almost, as if they didn’t know what it felt like to have someone else laying on top of them.

“Charlie?”

“No no no, go back to sleep.”

y/n peeked one eye open, looking at their boyfriend. Charlie was lazily propped up on one arm, the rest of his weight draped over y/n’s once sleeping self.

“Good morning I guess.” y/n tried to move, but found themself still stuck under Charlie. He had a leg wrapped between theirs and a hand holding the side of their face. “Can I get up yet?”

“No wait I’m counting.” Charlie’s voice was hushed, just above a whisper. y/n watched him squint as he focused on various points of their face.

“Maybe you’d be quicker if you put your glasses on.”

Charlie gasped, letting go of y/n’s face to reach over to the bedside table. He returned with his glasses resting on his nose, starting to fall off from the angle. “Okay. Now I have to start over.”

“Do we have to do this right now?” y/n yawned.

“Aw, you’re adorable. And yes I do.”

“Babe, I want to get up. Can you do this later? Some other time I’m asleep?”

“Fine I’ll stop counting.”

“Thank you.”

“Now it’s time to play connect-the-dots!” Charlie pulled y/n closer with his legs. He began to very gently drag his finger across the surface of y/n’s skin, following made-up patterns and lines.

y/n hummed lowly, feigning annoyance with their boyfriend. “Can you stop playing connect-the-dots with my freckles?”

Charlie drew back his touch. “Fine.” He rolled over, releasing y/n from his weight, and rolled over.

y/n propped themselves upright, frowning. “Don’t tell me you’re upset?”

Charlie mumbled a response and y/n leaned closer to try and hear him. He leaned closer a bit as well, repeating himself. “I wanted to see.”

“They aren’t even patterns, it’s just dots.”

“No, these ones-“ Charlie turned back and very gently put his thumb over the side of their face, right over where the cheek bones began and to the side of the outer corner of their eye. “It’s almost a triangle shape. Or a couple triangles. There a couple patterns, you just don’t see them.”

y/n paused, almost freezing under Charlie’s touch, then leaned into the contact. “Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Get back here and keep counting loser.”

y/n opened their arms, allowing Charlie to get back to his previous position in the shared bed and continue happily connecting the dots.

———

8. Charlie Slimecicle x reader [they/them]

y/n shivered. It was that kind of early morning cold. The being on a leather car seat while the wind whipped outside. The early morning chill of January.

y/n and Charlie knew this was coming. They’d known for two months know. Earlier, in the beginning of November when they planned the trip, neither one of them felt the sadness they feel now. They’d both been happy; y/n had the ability to come stay the whole month with Charlie. Usually, the couple could only see each other a few weeks out of the year. Usually it was Charlie with the looser schedule, and usually that made Charlie the one to drive or fly the distance between them.

y/n stared out the window lazily. There weren’t very many people out on the roads at this hour. They watched the grey industrial buildings pass as Charlie turned into the airport, going up to the third floor of the parking garage and finding an empty spot.

y/n quietly and slowly unbuckled themself from the car. They left the car, turning to see Charlie already holding their large suitcase. y/n smiled at him, small tears coming to their eyes. They reached out politely, trying to take it from him.

“No I want it.”

“It’s okay, it’s not even yours.”

“Let me. Please?”

y/n gave in with a smile, taking Charlie’s free hand in theirs as they let Charlie lead them into the airport. They made their way across the patterned carpet to the check-desk.

“Hi there.” There was a lone employee working the front desk. She extended a hand outwards. “Boarding pass and ID please?” y/n fished though their carry-on bag, bringing forth the paper and plastic card. The employee scanned it and looked over at their computer. “Alright, just you y/n?”

“Yes.” y/n knew it wasn’t meant to be cruel, but the words still dug at their skin and itched at their bones. Just them. No Charlie. They’d be alone. Again.

“Alright. That’ll be gate 36B. Unfortunately, sir, you can’t come to the gate.”

“What the farthest I can come?” Charlie glanced over to y/n.

“Just to TSA.”

“Is there any way?”

“I’m sorry I can only bend that rule if you’re accompanying a minor.”

Charlie nodded and the couple walked away. They walked towards the large LED bord that displayed the flight information. y/n watched Charlie scan it with squinted eyes.

“401 right? Flight 401? We’ve got— shit.” Charlie frowned. “40 minutes. We move gotta get you through security.”

“We?”

Charlie looked back to y/n. They had tears brimming their eyes and were fiddling with a loose string on the sleeve of their sweater. They were still wearing Charlie’s sweater.

“I guess I can’t take you any further.”

“I know that.”

“You don’t have to get mad at me.” Charlie frowned at y/n. He set their bag to the side and gently took the carry-on from their shoulders, placing it near the bag. Charlie pulled them closer, wrapping his body around them and leaning his head against the top of theirs. “I’ll see you again.”

“But when?” y/n did their best to not cry, but it seemed impossible in this moment. They were tired. They were cold. And they had to leave the person they cared for more than anything within the next ten minutes.

“I don’t know. Valentine’s Day? I can try and drive over in maybe April?”

“But that’s such a long drive. God why can’t this be fucking easier?” y/n groaned against Charlie’s shoulder, grasping onto his shirt tighter with their fists. “It took me so long to save for this and I don’t know— I don’t know anything.”

“Then move in with me.”

“What?” y/n looked at Charlie with a strange smile. It wasn’t the first time Charlie had suggested the idea, but they’d only been dating for a few months the last time it was mentioned. Now they were a year and 6 months deep and it was the first it had been mentioned in a while.

“Or I’ll move in with you. We wouldn’t have to be separated, and I could work virtually anywhere.”

“We don’t have— I don’t have room at my place for a streaming set up.”

“We can get an all new place. Just us. We can go look around when I’m down there.”

y/n thought for a moment. “Alright. You better hurry then.”

“Of course.”

The two stood in silence for a minute, still hugging. y/n glanced over at the clock that hung near the LED display. “I gotta go. I still gotta get through security.”

“No. Wait, don’t pull away… not yet.” Charlie pressed y/n even closer, leaving light kisses on the top of their head and the side of their face. “I love you. Please text me when you land. Like seriously.”

“I will I will. I love you too.”

“Okay.” Charlie let y/n go. He handed them all their stuff and stepped back, taking them in before not seeing them for the next few weeks. “How many other sweater did you steal?”

“Only two more, but I think I deserve them.”

“Alright.” Charlie laughed a bit. “Go get on your flight.”

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

Charlie watched silently as y/n made their way through security. It took them almost five minutes, but once on the other side, they sent a sad wave to Charlie and walked off to the gates. Charlie waited a moment, hesitating, then made the walk to his car alone. He crossed the airport street alone. He walked in the parking garage alone. And he got in his car and drove home. Alone.

———

12. Canon! Charlie slimecicle x reader [they/them used]

Las Nevadas was on fire. The water feature had died out hours ago. The casino was crumbling to stone. The tower had been cut in half. The strip club had been shattered. The restaurant had been torn apart. The roads were destroyed. The toll bridge had collapsed.

But they won, right?

Quackity stood alone. He watched his allies from a short distance. Foolish supported Purpled’s weight as he leaned against the god with a broken leg. Fundy rested against a wall, panting and covered in blood that didn’t belong to himself. Sam was no where to be seen, but they knew he was still alive.

But Slime? He was running. He was running in a large circle, searching through rubble and ash as he shouted.

“y/n?” Y/N?” He leaned on his hands and knees in the sand. His suit had been ruined for a long time now. The seams of his button up shirt had begun to rip in battle, the bottom of his pant legs had been singed and torn and blackened by the battle, and he wore only one suspender now, the other one much too weak and quite easily forgotten. He did not wear his tie, however he knew who was wearing it. “y/n?”

“Quackity,” Fundy looked upwards to his ally. “We can’t let him.”

Quackity ran a shaky, blood-stained hand down the front of his own suit in a nervous manner. “He has to find out somehow. Do you want to tell him?”

Fundy didn’t say anything, instead watching his friend run around. “Y/N!”

“This is cruel.” Foolish whispered to Purpled. The young boy could only nod in agreement, just a little too weak to do much else. Foolish, realizing this, helped the teen move over to sit next to Fundy, resting him against the crumbling wall of the fountain. Foolish turned around with the intent to aid Slime in his search, but was stopped by a simple hand placed upon his shoulder.

Quackity stood to the left of Foolish. He could see Quackity do his best to hold in the tears that had already left small tracks through the dust that had settled over Quackity’s face. “Just— let him. I can’t tell him. I can’t.”

The group watched Slime dig by hand. The rouble almost phased through his skin, but he kept digging. When he got too frustrated by one building, he ran to the next one, repeating the process. They watched on in pain for only a minute longer. Fundy looked to Foolish and Quackity. “Do we know where-?”

“Y/N.” Slime screamed in utter joy, pulling out y/n from the rubble. He proudly carried them back over to where Quackity and the rest of the group sat, gently setting them down on the ruined pavement. He kneeled with them, resting their head in his lap. Slime very gently carded his fingers through their hair, seeming to think to himself. He reached deep into the pocket of his pants, pulling out a neon pink healing potion.

Foolish shrugged off Quackity’s grasp and walked over to where Slime sat. He kneeled down next to the green guy, placing a hand on his shoulder to try and pull him away. “Slime, buddy—“

“Let me go.” Slime’s voice was gentle and somehow mature. He spoke sadly, but also as though he understood what was happening still. “I can still save them. I know I can.”

Foolish glanced back to the group to watch Quackity shake his head solemnly. “Buddy, I know it’s hard-“

“No, I promised.” Slime’s voice began to shake. He desperately poured the potion over the parts of y/n’s body where damage was obvious; bruises from the crushing rubble, burns from the fires and explosions, and the gaping cauterized sword wound to their abdomen. Slime smiled as he gazed at their peaceful face. It almost looked like they were sleeping. “I promised them.”

“Promised what buddy?”

“I told them everyone turns to dust and goes away, but I promised them I wouldn’t let it happen. I’ve seen it happen. I watched it. And I wouldn’t let them turn to dust.” Slime leaned down, pressing a light kiss to y/n’s forehead. He stayed close, whispering to the corpse in his lap. “Im so sorry.”

Foolish placed a hand on Slime’s shoulder again, trying to pull him away. “Buddy-“

“No!” He pushed Foolish away, leaning closer to y/n and holding them in a protective embrace. Slime gently laid a hand on y/n wrist, feeling the material of his neck tie in a knot around it. “I can still help them, please just let me— let me save them. Please.”

The group sat in silence. Slime’s shoulders shook as he sobbed over y/n’s body. Fundy and Quackity wiped away a few tears as well, listening to their friend wail into the night.

———

14. Charlie slimecicle x reader [they/them]

“Listen, man, hurry up. We were supposed to leave twenty minutes ago.” Schlatt leaned back into the plush leather seat, resting a hand over his eyes.

Charlie sighed, looking over the stuff he’d piled on the couch. He huffed, looking around. “Okay. I’ve got my phone, charger, wallet, jacket, I’m dressed, teeth brushed, what the fuck am I forgetting?”

“Uh, buddy.” Ted cleared his throat and tapped at the side of his face. Charlie paused for a moment, squinting before realizing what he missed.

“My glasses! My goddamn glasses. Alright gimme a minute.”

The two boys watched Charlie walk back down the hall of Ted’s apartment. Schlatt groaned and lazily stood up from his seat. He walked over to the small pile of Charlie’s stuff and began sorting through.

“What are you doing?”

“If I can find these faster, maybe we can actually get out of here.” Schlatt stuck his hands into the pockets of Charlie’s jacket. “Hate this fucking smog— oh.”

“Oh?” Ted sat up slightly, watching Schlatt pull a small black velvet box out. “Oh. Oh! Holy fuck.”

“Did he talk to you about this?” Schlatt dropped the volume of his voice, trying to not alert Charlie.

“No not at all. Is it for y/n?”

“I guess.” Ted and Schlatt had never met y/n in person before, only talking when they would be nearby if Charlie was in a discord call. But the two knew that Charlie loved them dearly, he talked about them whenever he got the chance. He boasted about anything y/n did, anywhere they went, any thing he could say.

“Do we— do we give him advice? Do we say anything?”

“Do you have advice to give someone who’s about to propose?”

Schlatt bit the inside of his lip. Instead of responding to Ted, he opened the box and his eyes went wide. “Holy shit dude.”

“What?” Ted got up and walked over to Schlatt’s side. The ring Charlie had gotten was beautiful; a silver band with ornate vines that held very small diamonds, all encasing a round amber gem. Ted very gently took the box from Schlatt, rotating it back and forth to see how the light glimmered on the gemstones.

“Ted this is… where’d he even get that?”

“I don’t know.” Ted stared into the ring. “We shouldn’t be hanging this. We should put it back.”

“Why do I want to wear it?”

“Why do you?”

Schlatt took the box from Ted, staring at it for a moment, then put it back in the coat pocket. He shuffled the jacket around, trying to make the setting look natural. “Now wha—“

“Okay I found it.” Charlie ran out of the room, rubbing at the glass with his shirt material. “What are we standing about?”

“Nothing.” Ted turned to Charlie quickly, awkwardly smiling. “Ready?”

The three boys made their way from Ted’s home to his car, then out onto the streets of Hollywood, headed towards Santa Monica. It was only a half-hour drive, and no one had too much to say.

“So. Charles.” Ted glanced at his friend in the backseat through the rear view mirror. “How are you and y/n doing?”

Schlatt made a pointed look at Ted as Charlie began talking. “We’re great! They got this really big job and we’re going to celebrate when I get back. There’s this restaurant downtown that’s so pretty— it’s their favorite! I mean, it was going to be a surprise, but hopefully it all goes well.”

Schlatt, thought for a moment, catching on to what Ted was thinking. “Is there something that needs to go well? It’s just dinner isn’t it?”

“Actually, can I tell you both about something?”

“Yes.” They both answered in unison, turning to look at Charlie as they stopped at the red light.

“Well, I wanted to, at dinner, I mean we weren’t doing dinner until I get back home, but I have this.” Both boys held their breath as Charlie went fishing in his jacket pockets. It took him a few minutes to procure the small black box, but eventually his found it and held it forwards, showing it off to his friends.

“Wow. Proposing?” Schlatt laid surprise thick into his voice, and thankfully Charlie didn’t notice.

“Yeah! I picked it out myself. Here look.” Charlie opened up the box, showing off the gems that sparkled in the sunlight. Schlatt glanced up at Ted who stared forwards at the 10 freeway.

“That’s really cool, thanks for telling us.”

Charlie frowned. “Is it not as good idea? You don’t sound that excited.”

“No it’s a great idea! I mean obviously we don’t know y/n as well.” Schlatt gestured to himself and Ted. “But it’s obvious you love them. I mean look at you, buying a ring and everything. Making dinner plans, Charlie this is amazing.”

“Also Schlatt found the ring earlier.”

Schlatt smacked Ted on the arm, sending him a glare. “So you guys knew?” Charlie smacked the box shut.

“Not on purpose. I was trying to find your glasses and I just happened across it. You didn’t hide it very well.”

“I—“

Ted laid on the horn, repeatedly honking at the Tesla that had cut him off. “Son of a mother fucker.”

“Starting to hate LA?”

Ted peered over at Schallt with a glare, then went back to driving. “We are happy for you Charlie, we were just kind of waiting for you to mention it to us.”

“Yeah, and we want to meet y/n! It’s been two years now?”

“Of course you can.” Charlie scratched at the back of his neck. “I’m just scared? I don’t know. I mean, I’ve never felt so strongly about anyone before. I’m terrified.”

“Hey, you’ll be okay. It’s y/n. You fly home tomorrow right?” Charlie nodded. “Let us know how it goes man. I’m invested now.”

Charlie laughed. “Alright. Tomorrow.”

Tomorrow, Charlie took the 7 hour flight home. In that same day, Ted and Schlatt each received a picture of y/n wearing the engagement ring around their finger, both them and Charlie smiling wide.

———

Congrats Nat on getting 1k!

#charlie slimecicle my beloved #charlie slimecicle #charlie slimecicle x reader #slimecicle #slimecicle x reader #dsmp #dsmp x reader #dsmp fanfic #chuckle sandwhich x reader #chuckle sammy #chuckle sandwich #lunch club x reader #lunch club #origins smp #smpllive #jschlatt #schlatt #ted nivison #ted nivision

[blessedboo]

Home | Angel Reyes.

Angel Reyes x Reader

GIF CREDIT: @thedevilsmoonshine

Summary:  Angel has come back from his run feeling extra needy & lost puppy-like. 

Requested: No.

Warnings: None, just that cute, fluffy shet. 

Word Count: 1.4K; Sorry for the weird format, it was easier to write in bullet points, so it’s like a lengthy headcanon thing, kinda? But not? IDK LMAO.

A/N: Would you look at that? She’s back-ish. Finding the time to write has been a real struggle lately, but I’m trying my best to get into it again, sOoOo this is what I came up with (please go easy on me, ah). I love y’all, aaand I hope you enjoy reading - mwah! <3

Being away from Angel was always a struggle.

The only entities to keep you company were your irrational thoughts and constant worries. 

To help ease your mind, you would wipe the bar down and absentmindedly clean away while you waited for the men to come back from their run. 

Soon enough, there he was in all of his gentle giant glory and your world was complete once again. 

Angel stumbled in through the clubhouse door with his head hanging low.

He carried the weight of the world on a slouched back and heavy feet that dragged across the wooden floorboard. 

As if things weren’t bad enough already, he tripped over the threshold.The soft giggle that came from you was not appreciated.

You shook your head and continued to wipe the insides of glasses, biting your lip as you stifled the rest of your laugh. 

Angel’s jaw slacked as he scoffed, throwing you the funniest little nod and a tilt of his head. 

“You got something to say, huh?” Angel prodded with an exaggerated display of machismo, his lips pursing into an unamused expression. “You think that’s funny?”

You inhaled deeply as his towering figure invaded your personal space.The intoxicating aroma of Angel’s cologne, cigarettes and motor oil diffused within the close proximity.

His leather-clad palms slammed onto the tabletop, his face hanging inches above yours from where he stood on the other side of it.

You playfully rolled your eyes while your fingers lightly trailed up and down his tattooed arms. 

Angel gave you a small, sad smile after he felt you visibly relax in his presence, and your heart warmed. 

Tilting your head upwards, you studied his hardened features. As beautiful as they were, his eyes told you everything you needed to know. They were dark, lackluster. 

You helped him slip his gloves off, and he tucked them into the pockets of his kutte. 

Angel sighed loudly as he slowly dropped his forehead to meet yours before cupping your face in his rough hands. 

He placed the lightest kiss on your nose, and whispered,  “I missed you, querida.”

Angel’s thumb skimmed the top of your cheek, back and forth … back and forth, almost as if he was being reacquainted with the feel of you, the natural warmth you emanated. 

Angel was sweaty, his beard was rugged, his voice was gruff, there were patches of blood, soot and dirt on his skin.

And yet, you held onto his wrist, closed your eyes, and let yourself fall into his love, into the arms of an angel that kept himself alive to make it back home to you. 

Angel’s eyes were no longer on yours, but instead focused entirely on the way his fingers glided across your delicate features, and how yours lovingly danced across the back of his hand. 

Taking a hold of your chin, he gently pulled your face closer to capture your lips with his.

His velvet tongue traced the seam of your mouth, coaxing you to let him in, and he groaned lowly when you did. 

Angel’s large, calloused hands clasped around the back of your neck to deepen the kiss.

Without caring for the others around, he moaned against you. He drank up and savored your tenderness, your sweet taste. 

He was so lost in you, your heavenly touch and the yearning you reciprocated.

“Oh, baby … fuck. I really fuckin’—” Angel’s eyes fluttered closed, his head tipping backwards as he gulped. “I really needed that” he choked out breathlessly.

Even after pulling away, his outstretched arms held you, which made him realize that there was still a barrier in between. 

“Stupid ass bar won’t even let me make out with you,” he grumbled with a pout. “Stupid ass design too, and stupid ass wood, and … and dumb fuckin’ … fuckin’ architectural, interior design shit, and wh—”

“Angel! Calm down, just walk around it, baby.” 

You couldn’t help but chuckle at his frustration. You knew he was moody right now, but mans was really about to fight the bar for you.  

He sucked his teeth and furrowed his brows, even flipped his middle finger at it. 

After his temper tantrum, he hopped onto the countertop before swinging his long legs over and landing in front of you. 

“There we go,” he wrapped himself around you, engulfing your body into his strong frame. 

A boyish grin took over his face as he immediately became less tense.

He rested the side of his face on the top of your head while hugging you tight. 

“That was a little dramatic, Angel,” you whispered. He could hear the humor in your tone. 

Angel humphed, “So fuckin’ what?” 

“Baby, I need you to take the attitude down a good couple of notches, yeah?”

“Sorry, mama,” he kissed your hair. “Just got a lot on my mind.”

You rubbed his back soothingly, still caught in the embrace he didn’t want to part away from. 

Every time he felt you wriggle, even slightly, his grip on you got tighter and he would annoyedly murmur in your hair.

“I know, my love. That’s okay. Look, I just have to clean a few more glasses and I’ll be all yours. Wait for me on the couch?” 

Finally releasing you, he nodded. 

You turned around to finish up the chores, but with every step you took, the sound of boots stomping followed right behind you.Turning around, you smirked and cocked an eyebrow at a puppy-eyed Angel.

“Angel … do you need something before you head over there?”

“Mm, nope,” Angel shook his head cluelessly. You paused, squinting your eyes at him.

The look on his tired face was so innocent. His fingers toyed with the waistband of your jeans, simply for the sake of being attached to you, desperate to be close to your body after the run he had. God, he missed you, and he needed you badly. 

You kissed his cheek before going about your business once more, only to have Angel shadowing you from behind. Except now, he was significantly closer - his crotch on your lower back type of close. 

Angel was breathing down your neck and left barely any room for you to move. 

You took a step to the right? Angel took a step to the right.

You stepped back? Angel gripped your hips, wrapped an arm around your waist and shifted you in the direction you wanted to go in. 

Angel’s head dipped down to rest on your shoulder while his hands wandered up and down your sides, or lingered on your belly, or squeezed your thighs. 

He did not want to leave you alone; all he wanted was to be with you and bask in your presence. 

“Angel, babe,” you sighed. “I promise you’ll have me soon, you just gotta let me finish first.”

He nibbled on your ears, his lips brushed the skin of your neck, and then he started sucking there. He enchanted your skin with open-mouthed licking and smooching.  

“Okay, mi dulce,” Angel pressed his cheek against yours, his smushed face rubbing all up on you, and his beard lightly scratching you. “I understand completely.”

“Great, love to hear it. Now, when do you plan on sitting down?” You laughed. 

“Oh, we can sit down if you want,” Angel took your hand in his as the cheekiest smile flourished onto his lips. 

At this point, you realized that finishing up was just not going to happen. Everything you told him went in one ear and out the other. 

As he grabbed onto your ass, you held his face in your palms, “Angel.”

“Heeey,” he winked, flashing a lopsided grin. 

“You’re my everything, you know that?”

He hummed and looked down, not knowing how to react. “You’re mine,” he mumbled. 

You lead him over to the couches in the corner. He pulled you onto his lap, and you snaked your arms around his neck. 

You both settled into each other’s comfort. And for Angel, that also meant stuffing his face into your chest. 

He left kisses all over your tits, his hands groped the swell of your breasts. 

Your fingers slowly ran through his hair, manicured nails moving along his scalp

“Home sweet home,” he let out a muffled groan.

The rest of the night was spent cuddling Angel’s needy self while he praised you, rambled and vented, or napped on your titties.

__________________________________________

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[marvelfansince08love]

Hey Neighbour! - Part 3

Word Count: 2.5k 

Pairing: Ally Mayfair-Richards x Reader 

Warning: just a bit fluffy x

A/N: Here’s part 3 - I hope you enjoy, loves x

Tags: @waitingfortheendtocome @natasha-danvers @mssallymckenna @grilledcheeseandguavajelly @pearplate @r0an0ke @minavenable @coconutlipss @creepingwolfberry @saucy-sapphic @venablemayfairgoode @veteranwerewolf95 @chewbacca0805 @pluied-ete @nyx-aira @witchxaf @supremeinlilac @black--widxw​ @fireflyglass​ @cordeliafoxxe​ @d14n4ol

Part One, Part Two 

Not my gif! 

Hey Neighbour! - Part 3 

The school gate is full of parents and guardians anticipating the ear-screeching sound of the school bell. You stand fidgeting slightly as the slight breeze picks up crossing your arms against your chest, actively wrapping the long coat around your body for warmth. A handful of children burst through the double doors of the building heading straight over into your general direction. Your eyes scan frantically for your sweet girl, relaxing a little once you eye her signature beanie. Her innocent eyes clash with your own, a bright smile appearing on her lips as she races towards you. 

“Mommy!” she screeches without a care in the world, her arms stretch out wide as she collides into your stomach making you grunt at the impact. Wrapping your arms tightly around her small frame you allow your nose to rest on top of her covered hair, basking in her presence for a moment. 

“I’ve missed you today, sweet pea. How was it? Did you make any new friends?” you ask excitedly, bursting at the seams. Amelia matches your enthusiasm as she lists her new classmates and her wonderful teacher, she gasps suddenly as if remembering the most important piece of information. 

“And the best part of it all is that Oz is in my new class!” she exclaims, stopping in her tracks to allow you to remove her backpack so you can carry it for her. You gasp excitedly at her words genuinely happy that her already new found friend is in her class putting some of your worries a side. You’re still rather apprehensive about the new move from within the city but you know deep down this a good fresh start for you both. Before you can continue to walk back to the car, a loud voice calls out Amelia’s name making you both turn at the sound. Oz rushes forward making his way over to you both, a woman you don’t recognize racing after him to catch up. 

‘This must be the babysitter,’ You think, remembering your conversation with Ally over the weekend when she invited you into her home. Ally had a big senate dinner in the city and couldn’t get out of it, you debated offering to babysit Oz while she was stuck at work but realised you were still a complete stranger to her despite only living next door and seeing how well set up her home is regarding security you knew Ally was hesitant when it came to trusting people. 

Oz stands next to Amelia as he tries to catch his breath, he waves tiredly at you before adjusting his glasses, his babysitter not far behind.

“Hi, Miss.Y/N.” He greets, still slightly breathless. You grin fondly at the sweet blonde boy, holding your hand out for him to high-five which he reciprocates happily. 

“Hey Oz! How was your first day back at school?” you ask, knowing that Ally had her worries about him despite her attempts to hide it. He smiles shyly and shrugs indifferently.

“It was okay, I guess. Still the same kids and teacher except for Amelia, we’re in the same class this year!” he informs you, making you chuckle at their excitement to be able to spend more time together. You’re secretly grateful that they have become such fast friends. 

“That’s amazing buddy!” you comment, just as his babysitter places a hand on his shoulder. Her flustered state did not go unnoticed. 

“Oz! You gotta wait for me okay? You can’t be scaring me like that.” she scolds softly, fear evident in her tone. Oz nods guiltily before whispering to Amelia who giggles nodding at whatever he told her. You narrow your eyes at the mischievous pair before glancing at the woman who puts her hand out for you to shake.

“I’m so sorry about that, I’m Lily. I babysit Oz when Ally can’t get away from work,” she explains, grinning sheepishly. You take her hand and shake once before awkwardly letting go.

“Hi, I’m Y/N and this is Amelia. We’re Ally and Oz’s new next door neighbours,” you inform her, watching as something clicks within her eyes. 

“Of course! Ally mentioned new neighbours, well it was lovely to meet you both but we gotta run and get home,” she murmurs, as Oz groans in protest. 

“Can’t I hang out with Amelia, Lily please?!” Oz begs, jittering his bottom lip, his big brown eyes wide as you watch her struggle under his adorable gaze. You crouch down to be eye-level with him as his attention draws to you.

“Oz, Lily here probably wants to prepare dinner for you and get you sorted before your mom comes home, yeah?” you justify, watching as he frowns at your words. Knowing you’ll have a battle on your hand you try a different tactic. Leaning forward you take a big whiff in scrunching your nose for extra effect and sniff near him again, he giggles at your silliness. 

“Y/n why are you sniffing me?!” he asks through giggles as Amelia begins to sniff him as well laughing in the process. 

“I think we have one stinky boy on our hands, what do you think Amelia, Lily?” you address the two females watching as Lily picks up on your efforts, nodding along with you. 

“We don’t like stinky boys, mommy,” Amelia comments, scrunching her nose. Oz gasps and protests through more giggles as your fingers meet his ribcage. 

“Noooo, stoo- stop! I promise I’ll bathe!” he says through giggles. You lax from your tickle attack and stand winking subtly at Lily who looks at you gratefully. 

“How about you go home with Lily and then once I’ve spoken to your mom, you can come over to our house during the week for dinner?” you compromise, watching on in amusement as the clogs turn inside his youthful mind. He looks you in the eyes and nods, putting his hand out for you to shake to seal the deal. 

You pretend to spit into your hand before going to take his small one, watching as he pulls a face full of disgust at your gesture but you can see the amusement in his eyes. 

“Deal,” he says, finalising your little exchange. You nod and grab hold of Amelia’s hand who smiles brightly, her cheeks red from the laughter. 

“Bye bye Ozzy, see you tomorrow at school!” she waves her free hand at him. You say your goodbyes to the blonde boy and his poor babysitter, already discovering that behind that shy exterior there is one adorably cheeky little boy.

“Come on you, let’s get you home.” you murmur to your daughter, feeling your arm swing at your side as she skips happily next to you. 

***

The house is quiet with only the low muffled sounds of the news presenter that echoes from your TV screen in the living room, you sip from your favourite alcoholic beverage as you lazily watch the bright screen while dressed down in a pair of sweatpants and an old big Fleetwood Mac shirt. You were almost ready to call it a night when the sound of keys jingling in the keyhole from outside startles you from your daydreaming, the sudden sound causes you to spill reminisce of the drink onto your pants making you groan before you tense realising that the only other people with a key is your brother and father; who are both back in the city. Wearily walking over to the door you grab hold of the big umbrella by the front door, peeking through the peephole. A faint blurred figure stands next to the door on the other side, the familiar brown short hair and stature makes you relax almost instantly as you place the umbrella down and unlock the door. Ally sways slightly on her feet at the sudden sound and movements of the door opening, her eyebrows furrowed in confusion as she eyes you dressed in a black pantsuit which shows off her curves beautifully. 

“Not that I’m mad about this but why are you in my house?” she asks, her voice slurring slightly in her drunken state making you bite your lip to hold back a smile. Her big brown glossy eyes take in your attire before scanning the hallway past your shoulder, you step closer to her noticing her off balance to help guide her into the warmth of your home. As soon as your hand touches her arm she leans in closer to you, shivering from the night's cold air. 

“I believe you, it is you who is trespassing onto my property, Senator.” you tease, a soft grin appearing onto your lips as you gently guide her into the living room sitting her onto the sofa and taking a seat next to her. Her eyes squint as she takes in the bare living room trying to piece the room together in her head, her red lips forming a perfect ‘o’ as her eyes land onto your amusing form. 

“Oh,” she whispers, before you nod to her silent conclusion. You laugh at her apologetic face which makes her giggle too. “Oh god, I am so sorry. I may have had a little more wine than I originally thought,” she tries to explain through slurred words as she sinks heavily into the sofa, closing her eyes briefly as she places a hand over her them. You pat her knee in comfort still rather amused that someone who is usually so well put together can be such a sloppy drunk.

“Would you like a drink of water, Ally?” you whisper, hoping that the disruption downstairs hasn’t disturbed a sleeping Amelia. She spreads her fingers apart and peeks through the gap nodding, a small pout forming onto her full lips making you linger on the enticing soft red a moment longer before quickly diverting your eyes away and standing muttering “I’ll be just a minute”. 

You let out the breath you're holding and fill the glass up with cold water, taking a few minutes to gather your thoughts. You’ve noticed the small sparks between you both ever since you laid eyes on her through her kitchen window, her eyes always lingering on your lips that little bit longer whenever you spoke when you went to introduce yourself. Rubbing at your temple gently you argue with yourself knowing that the whole reason you moved here was to have a fresh start, just you and Amelia. After your ex-fiance left right after giving birth to Amelia you decided right there and then that you don’t need anyone and even if you did try you would only be blindsided and hurt again. Ally is like a bright burning flame and the more you see her the more that light intrigues you to step forward and become close to it.

‘But at some point that bright light goes off and you are left to feel nothing’ you conclude, shaking your head at your conflicting thoughts before stepping away from the sink and heading back to the living room. You stop in your tracks by the staircase, your eyes widen at the familiar young voice from behind you.

“Why is Miss. Ally in our house, mommy?!” Amelia’s tired voice asks, you turn around and hold your hand out for her to take as she descends from the last few steps. You glance briefly over to Ally who sits on the sofa still, leaning her forearms against the top of the sofa she grins at Amelia. 

“How do you know you’re not in my house?” she questions, a teasing glint in her eyes as Amelia’s eyes widen for a second innocently believing any word from an adults mouth. Her gaze turns to me for confirmation making you quickly shake your head, scolding playfully over to Ally who shrugs innocently. 

“I see the wine has flown from your head to your mouth,” you grumble playfully, watching as she scrunches her nose apologetically. Amelia glances at you confused before turning her gaze back to Ally.

“Are you having a sleepover with my mom?” her innocent eyes stare openly at Ally, who’s lips twitch at your daughter's words, her eyes lingering on your form for a moment, making you squirm slightly under her dark gaze. 

“Well wouldn’t that be fun, huh Melia! Unfortunately silly me got confused and thought this was my  house!” she explains to her gently, her words more clearer now that she’s aware of her current state as well as Amelia’s presence and being a mother herself she knows when to switch back into the role despite the alcohol that swarms around in her head. Ally squints in discomfort as she lightly grazes her temple with her fingertips making you move forward quickly handing her the glass of water, she quietly thanks you and takes a delicate sip sighing in relief at the cold texture. Amelia moves forward and sits next to Ally on the sofa, swinging her legs as they hover above the rug. 

“You gotta headache, Miss. Ally? Mom always tells me to drink lots of water when I get a headache,” she informs, smiling pleased to have informed Ally of something so important. Ally places the glass down on the table and cups Amelia’s cheek, stroking her thumb across her full cheek, smiling adoringly at her. You stand still by the doorway, a sense of warmness spreading across your chest as you watch them interact. Usually you would be wary of new friends touching Amelia so freely but Ally has such a natural instinct to comfort and show simple displays of affection, especially to Oz it almost feels safe to have interacted with Amelia in this way. 

“I’m okay, sweet girl. I was a bit silly at dinner tonight and the wine has made me a little loopy,” she explains to her, smiling wide as Amelia giggles into her hands. 

“Wine is yucky! Mommy says it’s only for adults and it tastes funny,” You nod agreeing with before moving forward and crouching down next to her. 

“That’s right munchkin. Now why don’t you quickly grab your coat and boots so we can walk Ally to her door,” you suggest, watching her once sleepy eyes widen in excitement at the prospect of a late night adventure on a school night even if it’s to walk across the yard. 

“Oh Y/N you really don’t-” you stop her protests with a flick of your hand. 

“It’s fine Ally, I’d feel better if I got you home safe,” you insist, standing to grab your shoes to stop any further protests from the brunette. 

Once you are both ready, you open your front door to allow her and Amelia to step outside. Amelia skips ahead a short feet away leaving you side to side with the brunette beauty, her shoulder brushing lightly against your own making you shiver at the innocent brushing. Ally looks over to you in concern. 

“Are you cold? Honestly, you and Amelia go back in I’m about ten steps away from my doorstep,” she chuckles but you can see in her eyes under the bright glow of the streetlights that she’s grateful for the company, still a little unsteady on her feet. As you reach the porch steps you instinctively place a hand onto her back to steady her balance as she ascends, you feel the small tension in her back from the cold slowly relax under your touch, glancing briefly at her face you notice a small smile gracing her lips softly. As you reach the top Amelia is already waiting for you both rocking back and forth on her heels. 

“Is Ozzy awake? Can we play hide and seek?” she asks excitedly, as she yawns straight after. You share an amusing look with your neighbour, knowing all too well the persistence of a tired child. 

“No sweetheart, he’s in bed or he should be. I’m going to check now to make sure before I go to bed myself,” Ally murmurs quietly, bending down to brush some of Amelia’s escaped strands of hair from under her trusted beanie. Amelia pouts and you groan to yourself knowing what's coming. 

“Okay Amelia Cakes, we’ll see Ozzy tomorrow but you gotta go back to bed once we get in ready to hang out with him tomorrow in school,” you justify, raising an eyebrow at her grumpy expression which falters under your stern but kind gaze. Her shoulders slump as she realises her defeat. 

“Okay, Mommy.” she grumbles tiredly moving closer over to you and cuddling into your side. Ally watches on in light amusement staying quiet while you speak to your daughter. Looking up at her you notice the tiredness forming around her eyes too, deciding to call it night you wait until Ally unlocks her door before giving her a shy smile and wave. 

“Night Neighbour,” you murmur, a small glint of amusement in your eyes as she matches your expression. 

“Good night, dancing queens. Thank you for walking me home,” she whispers, leaning against her door frame a soft smile playing on her lips. You nod once before turning your gaze onto Amelia as you feel your coat tuck downwards on your body. With big pleading eyes you sigh fondly knowing exactly what she wants, crouching you turn away from her and grunt as the new found weight lands onto your back, little legs wrapping around your hips and arms circling around your neck. You stand and smile once more at Ally who watches on fondly before nodding towards your house, she nods in understanding and places a hand on Amelia’s back. 

“Sweet dreams Amelia,” 

“Nighty night, Miss. Ally.” her tired grumbles come from your back as she flaps her fingers in some sort of wave making you both laugh. 

Stepping down the steps carefully you steadily make your way over to your drive, turning back slightly as you see Ally peep over and wave one finally before stepping into the house. Keeping Amelia on your back you make your way through the house and into her bedroom, placing her gently onto the bed with the smallest of bounce making her giggle tiredly. Pulling off her boots and coat you wait for her to crawl under the duvet, beanie still in place. Once settled you take the beanie off and leave it by her bedside, brushing her hair from her face watching her eyelashes flutter as she struggles to stay awake. 

‘Hide and seek huh? Maybe next time kid’ you smile to yourself. Placing a gentle kiss to her forehead you turn her lamp off and switch on her starlight's before leaving the door ajar. 

Making your way downstairs, you go to grab Ally’s empty glass and take it through into the kitchen. Standing by the sink you rinse the glass out and place it onto the drying rack, a light from across the way makes you glance over curiously. To your surprise, standing by her own kitchen window drinking a glass of water is, Ally. As if sensing eyes on her, brown eyes find your form through the window making you tentatively raise a hand and wave in greeting. Ally places her index up to you indicating for you to wait there, she disappears from view for a moment before returning again her gaze falling to the floor for a few moments before locking onto you again an amusing grin in place. 

“Are you sure this is my house?” the question written in bold for you to see from across the way. Clicking onto her game you turn to look for one of Amelia’s old notepads, grabbing a black marker from the draw. 

“I can show you the lease if you like?” her mouth opens wide indicating her laughter before looking down again for a few moments.

“I’ll believe you for now…” 

“Phew, I was worried for a second there” she grins at that, biting down onto her bottom lip as if debating her next move.

“So sleepovers huh?” her eyebrows raise in a teasing manner, wiggling the dark brows for extra effect making you chuckle. 

“Sorry only cool kids allowed ;)”  you shrug indifferently but the small grin that appears upon your lips shows you enjoy teasing her back. 

“That’s a shame, I’m rather inclined to the idea of an adult sleepover” her wicked grin shows her victory over this silent flirting game as you flush and gap at her for a second unable to follow up. Not wanting her to have the last word you confidently write out your next sign. 

“I’m more of a wine and dine first kinda gal, I’m afraid” you say but gulp once you realise the opening you’ve given her. 

“Is that you agreeing to a date that I haven’t even asked you out on yet?” her teasing message makes you groan as you feel your cheeks warm at the question. Placing both hands over your eyes, you miss the fond expression that makes its way onto Ally’s face as she waits patiently for you to look at her again. Peeking through you notice she’s placed a new sign upon the window with a wide smile grazing her lips. 

“8 o’clock Friday? x” are the only words written as she waits for your reply. Biting your lip you contemplate her offer, wanting to push down the negative thoughts that begin to surface. The feeling of nervousness spreads low in your stomach as you think about the last time you even went on a date knowing how well that turned out, looking back over to her face you notice the slight falter in her expression as you take your time to reply. Before you can contemplate further, your hand begins to trace the words that seal the deal. 

“Can’t wait x”

#ally mayfair richards x reader #ally mayfair richards #ally x reader #sarah paulson x reader #sarah paulson #ahs cult #Hey Neighbour! series #american horror story

[chronicallylatetotheparty]

Float Like A Butterfly... Chapter 5: So Last Season

Summary: Now that Adrien is no longer Chat Noir he doesn't have to get hit all the time. Unfortunately, his luck doesn't seem to have gotten the memo... Or has it?

------------------------------

"So, how're you holding up?"

"Please, Adrien, it's my mother! I'm positively ecstatic!"

"Exactly. It's your mother."

Chloe looked down for a second before her eyes snapped back up, any doubts she had hidden in an instant. "She's finally coming back! I'll finally be able to show her what she's been missing." Chloe tossed her ponytail back to emphasize the unspoken Me. "Now, I've gotta go. Sabrina insisted we do an 'emotional support routine' or whatever beforehand. Ciao!"

Sighing, Adrien stared at his phone for a moment before putting it down. He knew Chloe was grateful for Sabrina's help but it was still a struggle getting her to admit it.

Or getting her to admit how much Audrey had hurt her.

It was one thing to travel halfway around the world for your career and leave your daughter behind. It was something else entirely to completely ignore her. In all the years since Audrey left Chloe hadn't received a single birthday gift, phone call or text message. Adrien would know. Chloe would've bragged about it endlessly if her mother had taken so much as two seconds to acknowledged her existence-

Adrien's foot jerked, striking the vanity table and making the connected mirror tremble. Heart suddenly pounding against his chest as tension built up in his forehead. Distressed expression reflecting back at him.

Breathe, Adrien. Breathe.

Slowly, he inhaled.

Then exhaled.

Again.

Good.

He was okay.

Adrien was okay.

Guilt pricked like a thorn for thinking of his own problems when Chloe needed him. Adrien crushed it with his anger and annoyance but it was still there. Like a splinter that wouldn't come out.

I hate you.

Swiping out of the video chat Adrien tapped on Nino's number. It rang... and rang... and rang...

He's annoyed with me. I did something wrong again and Nino doesn't want to-

Adrien smacked both sides of his face. No, dummy! Nino's just busy or something. Stop that!

It wasn't every day a teenage DJ provided the music for Paris Fashion Week, after all. Nino had to make sure all his equipment was working properly.

The door to his dressing room burst open.

"Adrien, your friend Mlle. Dupain-Cheng will be bringing the last article of the new Gabriel line," Nathalie announced. "Your father expects everything to be perfect for Audrey Bourgeois."

"Doesn't he always?" Adrien deadpanned.

Nathalie stared at his watery eyes before typing something into her tablet. "Your performance on catwalks only has a 99% success rate. He expects you'll do better."

Father thinks you're a failure just like everyone else. He-

Shut up! Adrien felt something heavy settle in his chest.

One of the makeup artists came rushing in and Nathalie gestured her towards Adrien. "Touch up his eyes," she instructed and then left.

Jaw clenching, Adrien sat perfectly still as the makeup artist did her job. He was never entirely sure what the staff thought about him. 'Professional' was a word that was tossed around a lot. That used to fill him with a little pride... Before all of this.

The last person to suggest that a thirteen year old mourning his mother wasn't 'professional' so much as he was 'depressed' had never come back to work... Oh. Adrien had forgotten about that.

Finishing quickly, the makeup artist left too. Leaving Adrien with his thoughts. He didn't want to be with his thoughts at the moment. They were distracting and Nathalie had not been subtle.

I hate-

His phone vibrated as it received someone's text.

Ni-Non: hey dude!

Ni-Non: it's crazy over here man

Ni-Non: break a leg! ;)

Adrien smiled as his unpleasant mood faded to the back of his mind... And if he saw similarities between his family and Chloe's, well, that's why he could empathize with her.

Adrien: That's theater but I guess there's not much difference.

Adrien: Thanks. ^_^

 ---------------

There was a knock at his door. Adrien stopped fidgeting in the awkward suit to go answer it.

"Hello, Marinette." Adrien smiled in greeting.

"Oh, uh, hello!" Marinette gave a small wave as she stepped up the short stairs and-

Adrien braced himself with one foot while his hands went to her shoulders. Steadying Marinette as she quickly removed her weight from him.

"Oh! Uh, sorry." Marinette looked away in embarrassment at having tripped into him.

"... No worries!" Adrien smiled as he shook his head. Marinette seemed... subdued. Reaching down to pick up the hat that had fallen. "Oh, no." The artificial feather Marinette made for his allergies had come loose. "I hope it's not too hard to fix it."

Marinette looked down. "Uh, y'know, it doesn't really matter. This hat is a complete failure anyway."

"What? No, it's not!" Adrien rose to his feet quickly in shock. "Why would you say that?"

"Because... the queen of fashion, Audrey Bourgeois, saw it and hated it!" Marinette's hands covered her face, voice breaking. "I'm sorry, Adrien. I really messed up. I'm a total no talent!" Her arms wrapped around herself in a hug. "Please, don't put it on," she pleaded.

Adrien's heart went out to Marinette as she laid her insecurities bare. "Marinette, everything's going to be fine." He searched for the proper spot to reattach the feather,  fiddling with it as Adrien reassured her. "Your hat looks great. I think it's awesome and so does... my father." Adrien cleared his throat as he managed to fix her hat. "Otherwise he wouldn't have picked it for me. Look!"

Putting Marinette's hat on Adrien walked across the dressing room like he was already performing. Striking a few poses to ease Marinette's anxiety. "See?"

It seemed to work as Marinette gave a small smile. "You got that catwalk down," she complimented.

Adrien rubbed the back of his neck. "Really? Thank you."

"Ah-hem," Nathalie cleared her throat. "We have to go." Without waiting for Marinette she turned on her heel and started walking towards the viewing area.

Adrien rolled his eyes but smiled at Marinette's back as she hurried to catch up. Turning back to look at himself in the mirror Adrien scanned his outfit. The suit may have been generic and a few seams too close to last year's entry but Marinette's hat was fire.

"Okay!" Adrien was gonna go out there and make sure they recognized Marinette's talent!

---------------

Holding Marinette's hat to his chest Adrien stuck his head out in a decidedly 'unprofessional' manner. Spotting Marinette's family and a bunch of his friends in the first row. Adrien's blond head caught Nino's eye from across the catwalk and he gave him a thumbs up.

Adrien waved as he ducked back behind the corner before the photographers could take any pictures of the Agreste heir acting like a kid.

You got this, Adrien. Nino's DJ-ing, your classmates came -even though most of them don't care about fashion- with any luck Alix and Kim will tease you about it for the next month.

That would give Adrien the opportunity to dish out a bunch of jokes he never got the chance to use!

The music started; that was his cue.

You got this!

Adrien posed on the runway. Camera flashes already starting. Strutting down the catwalk Adrien smirked at Marinette. See? Stopping at the platform's end he posed in various angles for the photographers. Nino seemed to be enjoying himself too and that made Adrien's smile come much more naturally.

A small eruption boomed behind him and Adrien turned to see Hawkmoth's latest fashion disaster. Gasping, as his heart started hammering in his chest.

"A fashion show without the Queen of Style!? Glitter-ally unacceptable!" The akuma villain announced. "Where's that ungrateful Gabriel Agreste. I demand that he kneels before me!"

Ugh, what has he done now?

"My father isn't here," Adrien snapped in annoyance. Hearing people running for the exits.

"Well, then. If fashion disaster daddy isn't here I'll just have to settle for Agreste Junior! You're fired!"

Adrien's eyes widened as he stepped back. Golden glitter exploding everywhere as his body became numb and his senses dark-

-Glowing ladybugs swirled around him as Adrien had the disorienting feeling of laying  down when he could've sworn he'd been standing. Glancing around, Adrien realized he was now at the Eiffel Tower.

"Adrik- Adrien!" Chloe tackled him as he stood, throwing her arms around him. "I was so scared!"

Adrien blinked in surprise as Chloe set her head on his shoulder. Not letting him go... Adrien smiled as he hugged her back. Enjoying this genuine display of affection.

"Pound it!"

Head snapping towards the sound Adrien saw another Black Cat, this one a girl with long, reddish hair, fist bump Ladybug. They grinned at each other in post battle relief.

I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!

A chill to rival Frozer's ice covered Adrien from head to toe. It was one thing to see Ladybug working with a different Black Cat on the news. Quite another to have his replacement. Three. Frickin. Meters. In front of him!

Chloe didn't notice... Or rather Adrien didn't notice when she'd let go to help her mother. Who tried to fire her own daughter as thanks.

Adrien jerked his eyes away from the superhero duo-

I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!

-Away from the Miraculous holders and forced himself to listen to whatever the Bourgeois were saying. Ears ringing as Ladybug and the Black Cat talked about something behind him...

"Oh, mom. If only you knew what a great team we made!" Chloe trailed after her mother as they walked down the tower's stairs; attempting to capture her attention. "We fired a bunch of incompetents. It was awesome. We should really spend more time together! What if I went back to New York with you?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Casserole- Eh, Chloe!" Audrey dismissed. "First I have to get back to Gabriel Agreste's fashion show. And they better..."

Adrien's eyes narrowed as he looked down from the railing, his grip on it tightening. Heat from a growing indignation melting the ice he felt. What did she just call Chloe?

"Adrien Agreste, right? I can give you a lift back if you want."

His tensed body jerked in surprise as Adrien realized Ladybug was standing right behind him. Throat and chest constricting as his thoughts whirled. Spots darkened his vision as he felt lightheaded. Adrien's knuckles becoming white, the metal railing digging into his skin. A single thought rose above the ringing in his ears.

I don't wanna talk to her.

Giving his best model smile, Adrien schooled his features. "Ah, thanks but-" he pointed down, "-I should really check on them."

"O-oh! Of course!"

Ladybug's face was out of focus but Adrien could still feel the melancholy in her voice.

Powering past his queasy stomach Adrien made his way to the stairs. The sound of Ladybug's yo-yo whirring reached his ears; signaling her departure. Adrien took a shuddering gasp as he leaned against a metal pillar for support. Body suddenly limp.

Breath accelerating Adrien tried to calm himself. Why was he up here? Had- Had Audrey's blast mind controlled him? Again!? He couldn't breathe.

Adrien sank to his knees as he felt his skin crawl at the idea of that- that- asshole reaching into his mind and taking away his free will. He hated it! He HATED it!

Gasping as his rage broke him out of the panic, Adrien steadied his breathing... He wanted- no, needed to know what happened... Which meant getting up and moving forward... Forcing himself to his feet Adrien wiped the sweat from his brow and followed the others down.

---------------

"Remind me to tell your father to fire the person in charge of the Eiffel Tower elevators..." Audrie panted. "This is... unacceptable... utterly unacceptable!"

"Of course, mom. Oh!" Chloe glanced down to see what she'd stumbled on.

Adrien looked up as he fanned himself with Marinette's hat.

And dropped it.

He stared open mouthed at the small, black, octagonal box in Chloe's hands. Heartbeat leaping into his throat.

What the hell is THAT doing here!?

"Ooh! What's this?" Chloe turned the box around in her hands but didn't open it.

Adrien suddenly forgot his exhaustion and rushed to her side. The lie coming easily to his lips. "Oh, I recognize that! They sell them at antique shops."

"Ew, it's old! Get it away from me!" Chloe practically hurled it at Adrien.

Catching it easily. A thrill ran up Adrien's arms and down his spine as the box made contact with his skin. The hairs at the back of his neck standing on end.

Chloe dusted her hands and kept walking. Glancing nervously at her mother. Hoping Audrey hadn't seen her with something so outdated.

I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! The voice in his head said.

Shut up, Adrien told it as he stared at the unknown Miraculous in his hand. Heartbeat hammering in his chest. But it wasn't from fear. No, it was... anticipation.

The corners of Adrien's lips curled upwards.

------------------------------

Notes: Oh, would you look at that. I'm back! It only took... eight months!

#style queen #ml au #adrien angst #adrien agreste #chloe bourgeois #audrey bourgeois #ml fanfic #ml angst #canon divergent au #canon divergence