#its always so funny to see him shuffle his ass to the box

[ratatatastic]

the ekky experience

[littlefreya]

Santa Baby

Summary: For over a decade, detective Walter Marshall kept a dirty little secret, thinking no one would ever find out about his past. Sadly for him, you are somewhat of a detective yourself.

Challenge prompt: the song Santa Baby.

Pairing: Walter Marshall x reader

Word count: 1.6k

Warnings: Some sexy themes but mostly fluffy floof fluff.

A/N: This is for @toomanystoriessolittletime​​ Christmas challenge, which I am sadly a day late with. Remind me to never sign up to challenges. I stumbled upon erotic book covers that looked a lot like Walter (this and this) so decided it’s a funny idea. I never read these books, so I am not mocking it or the artist who drew it. Many thanks to @wondersofdreaming​ for helping me out. Not beta’d, I own my mistakes.

Please feedback, comment, reblog if you enjoyed reading. 💖

Title: Santa Baby

It’s not that Detective Marshall was the Grinch or anything, it’s just that he couldn’t afford to be merry. With crime levels peaking during that time of the year, and sunlight being scarce, his body ran strictly on caffeine and stale doughnuts. 

The temptation to spend Christmas eve sprawled on the worn-out leather sofa in his office was quite strong tonight. But even big hulking bears had their weaknesses, and as exhausted as he was, he dreaded every morning he woke up without your warm body curled up beside him. 

With his energy level blinking red, he finally decided to call it a night and drive home. Heavy growling and thundering drums roared within his truck, the extreme Scandinavian black-metal he listened to served as a complete contrast to the soft snow that fell from the sky and quietly piled up on the sides of the road. Pausing at the street-light, he watched the little crystals striving to form on his windshield and melting just as quickly against the heat of the car. 

For a single moment, all the terrors of the night diminished by the little flame that was the reminiscent of you - his little firefly who led him through the darkness, tender as snow and wild as fire. Accelerating just a tad, he imagined you’d be asleep by the time he’d get there, and if not, Walter hoped to at least be in your good graces. 

Luckily, ther warm orange hues beaming through the windows assured him that you were still very much awake, and he couldn’t help but spare one of his rare smiles.

Muffled tunes of a familiar song played beyond the door, the bass vibrating through the polished wooden flooring and the walls. Slow and sensual like honey rolling off one’s finger, the jazzy beats filled the spacious house along with the sweetest scent of crushed peppercorn and red berries. Smiling wider, he held onto the doorframe and kicked off his heavy boots.

“Pet?” he called and followed into the living room, hearing you humming along with the lyrics.

“Santa baby, just slip a Sable under the tree for me.”

Oh, he was indeed in your good graces. 

Sitting on your knees with your ankles hunched below your ass, you wore a velvety Santa hat and a sheer, red nighty finished by fake white fur that outlined your breasts. Your hands held a shiny green present over your thighs, and you gave him one of those coy looks that made him want to fall before you and pledge himself as your servant.

Instead, he crooked an eyebrow and unzipped his thick winter coat, carelessly discarding it on the floor and making his way toward you.

“Have you been an awful good girl?” 

Sleeves rolled up; he crossed his muscular arms together while towering over you. His cobalt eyes drank in your sight, trying to decide what to do with you first. The scent of musky sweat mingled with dark cologne wafted over you within seconds, making your chest rise and sink in a primal instinct. 

“Oh, I’m definitely going down your chimney tonight,” he growled upon your reaction to his presence and sucked in his bottom lip with growing hunger.

“At least three times,” you dared him in return and then casually lowered your gaze to the box perched on your lap. 

The large man caught on the hint and carefully knelt before you. One of his hands reached to stroke his beard while his mind rummaged to figure out what surprise hid behind the shiny package. 

“Got something for me over there?” he wondered with a playful beam, “I thought we’re not doing presents until tomorrow morning.”

“Just a little teaser,” you answered. Your eyes shone brighter than the large decorated tree that stood at the corner of the living room. 

Being a detective, Walter could practically smell the mischief that drenched every teeny hair on your body. As usual, his naughty vixen was up to no good. It always made him laugh how bad you were in trying to surprise him, which worked in his favour. Walter hated surprises. 

Intrigued, he snatched the gift from your hands and shook it against his ear for shy second before beginning to unwrap it. His eyes briefly scrutinised yours, darkening, smokey with lust while he tore at the chrome paper and absentmindedly threw pieces of green wrapping all over the living room. 

You watched carefully, your cheeks rounding and filling, your teeth flashing with wickedness upon seeing the colour drain from his rugged face.

“Where…”

Walter paused and swallowed the lump in his throat. Fingers oily with sweat and knuckles turning white, dug into the object held in his hand.

“How did you find this?!”

The snort you’ve been trying to hold back for the last couple of minutes finally made its way out, followed by a fit of uncontrollable giggles that made you fall to your back with your hand held over your torso. 

Walter, on the other hand, was anything but amused. He always feared the day someone would dig up his dirtiest secret.

It was more than a decade ago when he was struggling to pay his tuition to the police academy that Walter found an easy and quick way to make money. As a British immigrant who barely had friends and blended with the crowd, he made the mistake of thinking no one will ever know about his short-lived modelling career for cheesy erotic novels. 

He should have known better. He might have been a professional police detective, but you had a skill for uncovering the truth.

“Where did you find this?” Walter repeated with a frown, clenching his jaw and waving the colorful book in the air.

Pausing your giggles merely for a second, you took a gander at the cover, focusing on the image of your dear husband’s open white shirt. There he was, the man you knew as a brooding, black-sweater wearing grump, lost in some green meadow with a half-naked chick. A deep dramatic gaze crisped his younger face, his nose inhaling the scent of her hair, and his hand laid flat upon her juicy rump. 

Oh the drama!

You tried to speak, but all that came out of your mouth was an uncontrollable peal of chuckles. The corny title of the book didn’t help either; his fiery love rod.

Walter sulked and suddenly shuffled to hover above you, one hand snapped at your wrist before the other discarded the book onto your sternum and joined in restraining your other arm. Led purely by instinct, your legs spread to straddle his wide waist and wrapped around his muscular ass.

Staring at your strong, intimidating husband, the laughter rolling from your lips slowly died down, yet the smile was still smeared between your cheeks, especially once you felt his groin pressing into yours.

“Woman!” the big bear growled at you, “I am not going to ask you more than once, where on earth did you bloody find this?”

“The second-hand bookstore,” you answered and glanced at the book lying upon your chest, “was looking for something raunchy to read when suddenly I noticed a familiar face.” You explained and then swallowed the dryness in your throat. 

“At first I thought I was hallucinating with all them Christmas carols eating into my brain, but then when I took a closer peek, I recognised my husband’s ‘fuck me’ stare.” 

Walter felt a burn rising in his throat and swerving to tingle at his bristly cheeks. If there ever was a moment when he regretted a life decision, that moment was now. He knew he’d never hear the end of it from you. You were dauntless and unyielding as the ocean, one of the reasons why he was utterly in love with you. 

Nostrils flaring, he tightened the grasp around your wrists and rolled his hips into yours, eliciting a small moan from your quivering lips. The thick bulge in his groin hardened at the calling of the hot, wet patch in your panties.

“Name your terms, woman.”

“You are going to read it to me,” you answered without even overthinking and gestured toward the book with your chin. “Every. night. before. bedtime. I want you to hold me in your big strong arms and read me a chapter from ‘his fiery love rod’, or else…”

“Or else?...” 

The fire from the mental suddenly illuminated your face, causing dark shadows to form over your irises and the hollows below your brows. “Your friends at the MPD are going to find out about this one,” you paused, “and the 12 others that you made.”

Taken back by your words, Walter gulped, his fingers became moist around your wrists as sheer horror seeped into his mind.

“You... you know about the others?”

You nodded at him and then snaked your legs around the back of his thighs to cage him in your grasp like a fickle dryad growing her roots around a helpless wanderer. With his attention faltering, you twisted your hips and rolled the two of you so you were on top. Fingers lacing into his, you pinned him down and leered over him with cascading triumph.

“12 books, all under our Christmas tree, detective, so you better be good to me tonight and satisfy all my needs.”

Adam apple bobbing up and down, Walter watched you with a mixture of awe and agitation. There was nothing he hated more than losing control, but damn if he didn’t adore his wicked queen, especially when you were in a joyous mood, which, as he found, tended to be contagious. The moments in which the grouchy detective felt at peace were rare to non-existent. It was only in the embrace of your thighs that he thought that for a minute, everything is going to be okay.

Noticing the muscles of his jaw somewhat relax, you reached for the Christmas hat and slipped it off your head, placing it atop of his curly mess instead. Your hands held firmly onto Walter’s shoulders, and with a careful twist, you flipped the two of you over once again and shoved him down your torso while blissfully chanting.

“Santa baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight, hurry down the chimney tonight, hurry toniiiiiiiiiiight.”

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it, ideas or parts it and claiming it as your own

Dividers by @firefly-graphics​

Disclaimer: I don’t own Night Hunter/Nomis or Walter Marshall

[shoutogepi]

Best Friends

┌───────── ⋆⋅✧⋅⋆ ─────────┐

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 : 𝐓𝐨𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐢 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐨 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 : 2.7k

[ ☁︎ ]  angst

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 : unrequited feelings :’( really brief mention of sex (not nsfw tho!) & also (underage?????) alcohol consumption! 

𝐛𝐢𝐨 : On your last night in the dorms, Shouto realizes he has feelings for you, his best friend. 

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 : idk honestly i started writing this last night and was gonna abandon it... but then val tagged me in an angst ficrec and i was like ok well! this is a sign to post bc then i will have at least one sho angst on my masterlist lolll oops :o

└───────── ⋆⋅✧⋅⋆ ─────────┘

   ─── ・°* ﾟ✧:* • ｡ﾟ:*･☽･*: ｡ﾟ•*:✧ ﾟ*°・ ───

🅃onight was the last night in the dorms. Three long years had come and went, and now everyone’s belongings were cleaned out and secured away with cardboard and tape, leaving an empty wing that was currently filled with bodies, neon lights, and red solo cups. Music was pounding through the hallways, reaching every room and allowing no one total escape from the celebration.

You had been occupying the dance floor with Mina and Tsuyu for the last half hour, and now that you had sweat off the latest drink of the night, it was time for you to set off and find your more moderate-tempered companion. The pink-skinned girl wiggled her eyebrows at you when you alerted them of where you were heading off to, Tsuyu planting a love tap on your ass as you made your way from the swarm of people. The frog girl wasn’t usually so loose, but the alcohol that pumped through everyone’s veins had left only a select few unaffected. Tsu, just like you, was one of the ones that was happily allowing the weight of daily student life slip from her shoulders.

There were plenties of warm bodies swaying with the heavy bass rattling the hallways, shadows of couples and interested singles leaning against the walls, whispers and rowdy laughs echoing as the entire graduating class of UA partied the night away. Skimming by the line outside the bathroom, your feet found their way toward the end of the hall easily enough, taking the path you had so many times before.

A creak sounded as you pushed the cracked door open, the sight of the open shoji screen allowing moonlight to stream onto the bamboo mat floor which crunched quietly underneath your tentative steps.

“Shouto?” you whispered his name, eyes taking in the silhouettes of the packed boxes against the walls before you turned and saw a shadow sitting on the mattress beside the door.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Your voice jolted Shouto from his wandering thoughts, his attention turning to you right away. He seemed surprised to see you standing there, and he peered up at you from his slightly hunched position on the couch. He acknowledged you with your name, his voice low and steady. By the sound of it, you wondered briefly if he had even had a drop to drink tonight.

Blinking at him a few times, you tried to adjust your eyes to the contrast between the bright moonlight and dark shadows. When you could finally see the planes of his handsome, somber face, you spoke, trying your best not to slur. “What are you doing over here all by yourself?”

He paused, lagging for a second before the corners of his mouth curled and his eyes crinkled at the sight of you. “Just thinking,” he answered, examining you in that intrigued way he always did. After a moment he must have reached the conclusion that you were some level of smashed, for he patted the empty space next to him on the bed with a smirk and said, “Come sit with me.”

For a moment you wondered why he was alone, but then your brain caught up with you, and you realized that his other friends were probably busy with their own issues or endeavors. Ever since Midoriya finally grew a pair and asked Uraraka out, the two had been going at it like rabbits every spare second they had. And you could only imagine how busy Iida was as class rep, trying to keep the party at least a little bit under control. Momo was definitely helping him, and you had seen Bakugou begrudgingly holding Kaminari up with Kirishima under his other arm when you’d passed by them in the hall… Leaving only you to come and rouse the half and half hero from his solitude.

“Well that’s not allowed tonight!” You exclaimed, fist slapping against the side of your thigh. You would’ve used both hands for emphasis had the other not been occupied with a half-full plastic cup. Your legs felt like jello as you moved toward him, his cool hand wrapping around your arm to offer his support and steer you into the spot beside him. You almost fell but he held you up with the one arm, chuckling as your butt finally met the safety of the duvet.

“Thinking’s forbidden?” he laughed at your insistence, the sound rich and deep as his hand lingered on your wrist.

“Yes,” you nodded vehemently, pulling your hand away from his to cradle your precious cup and shooting him a playful, sideways glare.  “Brain turned off for the night. It’s in the fine print of the party rules, of course.”

Shouto gave you a funny look, eying you from the side. He repositioned himself, sitting upright and closing his eyes. It was hard for him to remain stoic when the quiet sound of your amused giggles tickled his ears, but he managed a nod before his eyes settled on you again. “Okay, I think it’s off.”

Conversation was always natural between the two of you, he never had to struggle to keep it flowing. And he liked talking with you, being in your presence. Which was the only reason why he was still entertaining this ridiculous charade.

“How do you feel?” you inquired, a goofy grin on your lips.

There was a twinkle in your eyes as you teased him, but Shouto held no qualms with your playfulness. Most people were still afraid to joke with him, believing that he was too obtuse to understand humor. Sure, he had struggled with the transition to school life in the beginning of their first year, but after you had transferred into their class second year, he found himself opening up even more than he already had.

“I feel… the same.” The grin on his lips remained, his eyes settled on your drunken form. His gaze flicked to your smile, shining in the moonlight and making something twinge in his stomach. He cleared his throat, pushing down the feeling that haunted him every time he looked at you too long. “This doesn’t really work, does it?”

You pretended to entertain the thought for a moment, eyes rolling as you considered it animatedly before your lips broke into a beautiful smile again. “No,” you giggled, shoulders shrugging in your cute, drunken fit. “But it’s easier when you’re not sober!”

He turned, faux surprise hung from his brow. “You’re drunk?” Sarcasm dripped from his voice and splashed onto you where his jean-clad thigh brushed against yours.

“Shut up!” You punched at his shoulder and pushed him away from you, shuffling yourself in the process.

Your hair swished with the movement and suddenly the soft, sweet scent of you was crashing over him. He breathed it in shamelessly, allowing himself to indulge in the warm feeling that suddenly emanated through his chest.

“You could try it, if you wanted. It really does help,” you offered your cup to him, shrugging.

Shouto eyed the red plastic cup, hesitant. He really wasn’t one to drink, but then again, neither were you. Tonight was about celebrating your graduation from UA, opening the next chapter of your lives. The thing was, he wasn’t sure if he was ready to move on when it meant leaving all his relationships either behind him or pushed to the side. Okay, maybe he was kidding himself… there was only one person he would miss having in his daily life, and that person was sitting right beside him— the same one who was the source of his conflicted feelings.

“Or not!” your hand retreated and you took a little sip, the sweet jungle juice washing down your throat easily. “No pressure. It’s your choice, Sho.”

He nearly groaned at the nickname, the one he only allowed you to call him. Grabbing the cup from you, his calloused fingers brushed over your soft knuckles. He smirked at the excitement that surfaced in your gaze as he brought the lip of the cup to his mouth, emptying the contents in one long go. The liquid was sickly sweet, masking the bitter poison that entered his body alongside it.

“That was… truly disgusting.”

“Whaaat?” You balked, grabbing for the cup in dismay. He kept it out of reach, even though it was empty, setting it on the far table instead. “It’s good, I dunno what you’re on. It’s really, really good. Heheh, just like me…”

Shouto blushed at the innocent innuendo, looking at you as you closed your eyes and let out a noise between a sigh and a laugh. He gulped, realizing that the alcohol was already taking effect and he was beginning to slip under its influence. Your method of “turning your brain off” was proving to be much more effective with the alcohol’s aid, but that was a whole other issue which he failed to foresee. 

He usually preferred to keep his brain on and fully functioning, especially when he was alone, with you. That way, when you roused the butterflies in his stomach and pulled on his heartstrings, he could tell himself to just ignore it and focus on how important your friendship was to him. But now, his defenses were failing him, and there was nothing he could do to stop his heart from beating faster, palms getting clammier.  

“You’re good?” he reiterated quietly, watching the way your tongue swiped across your lips, enchanted by it.

You chortled, finding the thought entertaining, apparently. “Yes! I feel really good right now.”

“Ah,” he murmured, sitting back and allowing the pillow he had propped up to sink around his form. “I feel... kinda good, too.”

A mix between a laugh and a scoff escaped you at his confession. “You feel something already, Sho? Wow, that’s so efficient.”

Shouto didn’t really know what you meant by that, but he only smiled softly at the happy look on your face. He closed his eyes and listened to the fast rush of blood in his ears, the feeling of warmth prickling at his skin. He wasn’t drunk, per se, but he felt a little lighter than usual.

You had said that drinking would turn his brain off, but it seemed only part of it wasn’t functioning. The other side of his mind was working overtime, much to his chagrin. 

He was suddenly aware that this would be one of his last moments with you before everything would change. You were going to an internship not too far from his, only an hour away by train. But seeing you wouldn’t be nearly as easy as walking down the hallway… and it could only happen if the both of you found a time that worked and had the motivation to travel the distance to meet one another. He wasn’t sure if you wanted to do all that, just to see him.The realization hit him hard. 

No more sneaking to one another’s room and having whispered, midnight conversations. No more studying together and simply being in your presence. No more opportunities to let his gaze linger on you longingly, nor chances for him to grab your hand when your knuckles brushed against his in the middle of your walks. 

He felt sick at the thought of living without you. Maybe… maybe it was time for him to face his feelings head on. He had spent so long denying the recognition of them, the acceptance of them. The loss of you was imminent, unless he could finally force himself to say something, and it had to be soon.

As if you had picked up on his distress, you hummed quietly and shuffled closer to his side. His quirk spiked at the sudden proximity, heat flaring up as your head came to rest on his shoulder.

“I’m a sappy drunk, so I apologize for what I’m about to say,” you mumbled into his t-shirt, his skin prickling as your warm breath wandered through the seams and onto his skin. 

He huffed out a laugh to ease your worries, but he stayed absolutely still, unwilling to move a muscle in case it would somehow scare your body off of his. 

Then you whispered, “M’so lucky to have met you, Sho.”

Shouto choked on thin air, subtly wiping the moisture on his palms across the tops of his denim-covered thighs. Your scent surrounded him, and he couldn’t resist resting his head on top of yours, slowly breathing between your locks. “I… I feel the same, Y/n…”

It was quiet for another moment, his mind playing out a hundred ways to confess, trying to find the right words. Meanwhile, you were simply enjoying his reciprocation and the peacefulness of the quiet away from the party, completely unaware of his inner turmoil.

You sighed and he shivered as your breath scattered across his collarbone again, almost jumping when your fingers landed softly over his. How you remained so soft with their vigorous training, he had no clue. But your fingers felt so warm, so right lacing with his. His throat was thick with apprehension, a lump forming there as the seconds ticked by. It wasn’t often the two of you were sitting so close together, and he wondered if he was a piece of shit for thanking whatever God there was out there for you being kind of inebriated and so touchy right now. 

Slowly, he turned to look at you, eyes wide and conflicted, taking in how truly astonishing your beauty was up close. You lifted your head from your perch on his shoulder, gaze locking with his before your lips curled into a meek smile. Digits tightening around his, you squeezed his hand and rubbed your thumb across his knuckles.

He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, screaming at him to do something— anything— whatever it took for him to just form the words and tell you that he was in love with—

“Thank you for being my best friend.”

—you… He blinked, the words registering. 

You continued. “I know we’re moving away from each other, but I never wanna lose you. I cherish our friendship too much for that to happen, Shouto.”

Your words cut him. 

Friends. Friendship. 

His blood felt like it had frozen in his veins and he had become a statue, stock still as you carried on thoughtlessly, eyes now flickering over to the moon hung low in the indigo night sky. 

“Please promise me that we'll never change. We might grow as people, but… our friendship will stay intact, right? I don’t wanna grow apart.”

It hurt. 

Time had stopped and his lungs shriveled up, his body aching as if you had just lodged your knee straight into his ribs. His tongue tasted bitter suddenly, and he could almost hear the sound of his heart cracking.

But Shouto was good at hiding his emotions, years of compartmentalizing them giving him an edge that no one else he knew had. He kept his face neutral, even if it felt like he was withering and dying inside.

“I just… don’t ever wanna lose you.”

It was almost impossible to force his lips into a thin, hollow smile. But he managed, even if it felt like prying iron with a crowbar. He looked into your eyes and nodded.

He understood. To some extent, he truly understood. 

“I don’t want to lose you either, Y/n... Don’t worry,” he took a deep breath, forcing the next words out even if he felt like he was about to be sick.

He cherished his bond with you too much to risk chancing it, confessing to you, and throwing it all away after your certain rejection.  He loved you too much to ever hurt you, and he was too selfish to let go of you, too. The only one that would suffer from this was him, and he was alarmingly alright with that.

If it meant that he got to hold onto you, even for just a little bit longer. 

If it meant that you would be happy... Even if he wasn’t.

“We’ll always be friends... I promise.”

   ─── ・°* ﾟ✧:* • ｡ﾟ:*･☽･*: ｡ﾟ•*:✧ ﾟ*°・ ───

.

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˚‧º·(˃̣̣̥∩˂̣̣̥)‧º·˚ ˚‧º·(˃̣̣̥∩˂̣̣̥)‧º·˚ ˚‧º·(˃̣̣̥∩˂̣̣̥)‧º·˚ 

afJSNKJKDKJ WRITING ANGST FOR MY BABY IS SO HARD AHH I LOVE U SHO PLS... reader is so dumb to see u only as a friend i hate that dumb bitch  ughhh (TдT)

➥ masterlist

𝐂𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 © 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐩𝐢 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟏 . 𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝.

[joaquinwhorres]

alone together (Diego Hargreeves x Reader)

SUMMARY ››››› Dating is hard. But it's even harder to watch the person you love dating other people.

REQUEST ››››› 11 +13 with Diego? (11. Telling them a dumb joke just to see their smile. 13. Playing your fingers through their hair while sitting next to them on the couch.) 

WORD COUNT ››››› 2,261

WARNINGS ››››› dirty jokes

A/N ››››› This idea popped into my head right as I was going to sleep the other night, and it just kind of poured out. I always feel a bit guilty when I turn love story requests into something a bit angsty, soooo I added some fluffy moments in here as well. And let me just say, I love their dynamic. Also I *slightly* changed 13. 

They've been close since the Academy. Not the Umbrella shit, the police academy--which was, pretty much, more of the same shit. Still had to dress up in a dapper little uniform and take orders from superiors who hardly deserved the title. He spent his childhood training to take down the bad guys and some thirty year old asshole who got his badge five years ago and aced some written test knew better than him? Bullshit.

She was one of the few people who put up with him at the time. Everyone else talked their shit and played the stupid game, as if blowing smoke up the instructors' ass would save them in the field. She was the only one who listened. Who took his tips on how to disarm over the trainers. Who questioned rules that would cost lives. Who put him in his place and drew lines between Number 2 and Diego Hargreeves he didn't know existed. 

So yeah, he's been in love with her for a while.

Which is why, when she calls asking him to come over, he turns off the police scanner, takes off the mask, and gets in his car. 

When she opens the door to her apartment, he can't help the small smile that quirks at the corner of his lips. She's so goddamn beautiful even in her leggings and Synchronicity baseball tee he got her as a joke when she graduated the academy. She had laughed so hard she cried and then serenaded him with "Roxanne". It was the wrong album, but he couldn't have given less of a shit.

She, Sting, and the other two bastards are looking at him expectantly, so he quirks an eyebrow hoping that it turns his smile into more of a smirk. "You gonna let me in, or did you just want to show me your front door?"

She gives a mirthless pity laugh to tell him how not funny he is. "I was hoping you were the pizza guy."

"Sorry to disappoint," he shakes his head, and the smile situation is getting out of control.

"Not sorrier than I am," she says, heaving a long suffering sigh as she steps aside to let him inside. He doesn't even make it past her before she breaks and offers him a smile.

 Diego snorts and turns towards what might as well be his second home. Or first. Hell, he's here more than he's ever in his shitty room at the boxing gym. The TV is on, blankets pooled in a semicircle on the couch, a bottle of wine and half empty glass in front of the spot. Her purse and keys sit on the table, heels kicked off under a chair. Other than that, the place is pristine as usual. 

He doesn't like the way this scene looks. 

"Thought you had a date tonight," he remarks, heading into the kitchen to get himself a wine glass. Behind him, the door clicks shut and her bare feet patter lightly against the floor.

"There was a miscommunication."

It's the way her voice is too light-- each word is carefully chosen. How under the chair's legs one shoe is on its side while the other is still standing. The fact that she's drinking red wine instead of those stupid Whiteclaws.

"He didn't show." Diego turns to her as he says this, watching to see the words reach her. When they do, her eyes shoot down to the ground and she gives a small shake of her head. 

"No." Her voice is soft and her eyes run over the scratch marks on the wooden floor from when she had him rearranging the furniture to make her new coffee table "aesthetically fit". It's threelong seconds before she speaks again. "He uh--meant to meet up with someone else."

Anger shoots through him, burning and vicious and fuck wine as a solution. Diego strides forward, heading to the front door, when she reaches out a hand to stop him. "Don't."

He looks at her and tries to arrange his features into some semblance of innocent concern. "I'm just going to my car to get a bottle of whiskey I keep there." He has to pry his gaze away from hers because the look she's giving him makes his heart feel like it's going to implode. She looks at him as if she sees him. She's the only person who's ever given him that look.

"Diego. Do not go interrupt his date to pick a fight."

"Fuck," he curses under his breath because she sees right through the lie. He turns back to her, mouth open to deny the accusation when her look intensifies. 

"I know you Diego Hargreeves." 

No one has ever told him they love him.

But that sounds pretty damn close. 

She releases his arm because she knows that she's won or maybe she has some misplaced faith in his self-control. "I really appreciate that you want to kill him. Really, really appreciate it. But I don't need you going to jail on assault charges. I need you here, drinking wine and watching TV with me. Unless you actually have that whiskey."

He shakes his head, thankful he doesn't have to respond because the fact that she needs him leaves him just about breathless. 

This time she curses under her breath, a soft damn. "You're such a tease," she comments, heading back to the couch and he goes back to get a wine glass from the cabinet.

“It's only for you, baby,” he calls over his shoulder. 

They’re two bottles of wine deep and it’s only 11 o’clock. She had apparently been joking about the pizza guy, much to Diego’s disappointment. When he voiced as much, her eyes got big and bright, and she grabbed his face in her hands. “Then let’s order a fucking pizza.” 

And then she slapped him, one cheek after the other and went to get her cell phone.

They’re still waiting on the pizza.

But his attention has been less on the grumbling in his stomach and more on the fact that y/n hasn't laughed once in the last forty minutes. She hasn't so much as cracked a smile. Not even when Esther stabs her hand in front of Hank. In fact, since the phone call for pizza she's hardly even said a word, and he can see what she's doing. She's torturing herself. Her attention isn't on Barry, it's on the asshole she left at whatever bar to go on a date with someone who wasn't her.  

"Hey," he says, and she turns to look at him, eyebrows raised. At least she isn't that far down the rabbit hole. That's good. He's been there enough times to know how hard it is to pull yourself out of the cycle. To silence out the memories of voices you shouldn't give two shits about anymore and focus on what's in front of you. "How did Burger King get Dairy Queen pregnant?"

Her nose wrinkle and brow creases in confusion, and she stares at him like he's clinically insane. "What?" 

"Come on," he gestures, turning towards her so that their knees brush together. "How'd the Burger King get Dairy Queen pregnant?" 

She seems to catch on then, her face more skeptical than concerned for his sanity. "How?"

"He forgot to wrap his whopper." 

She just shakes her head, turning back to the TV. He wouldn't be Number 2 if he gave up now. "What should you do if you come across an elephant?"

"What?" her voice is flat and unamused, but it's not the same tone she gives him when she's done with his bullshit.

"Apologize and wipe it off." 

She cracks then, her lips fighting against her will to keep a straight face as the corner of her mouth twitches up into a smile. A small burst of air exhales through her nose. It's not a laugh, and it's not a smile, but it's a start.

""What's the difference between 'Oooh!' and 'Aaah!'?"

"Oh no--" 

"About three inches."

She bursts with laughter then, slapping a hand over her mouth to stifle her giggles. Her eyes crinkle in the corner, as she looks at him, shaking her head. He's gotten what he wanted, but what's one more joke?

"What goes in hard and dry and comes out wet and soft?" 

She almost chokes on the wine she's sipping to help her stop laughing. "Diego!" 

"Chewing gum. Why, what were you thinking?" 

"Fuck you," she says, pointing a finger at him, but she's laughing, so he starts laughing too. She sets her wine glass back down in front of her and crawls all the way on the couch, shuffling closer to him so she can beat his arm with both of her fists. 

"It's a good joke," he protests, laughing harder as she continues her assault. 

"It's so not a good joke!" she argues back, tears streaming down from her eyes. But they're from laughter rather than what's going on in her head, so he'll take it. His arm is saved from the punching by a knock at the door. Naturally she moves to get up, but he shakes his head, gently pushing her back down into the couch and reaching into his back pocket to pull out his wallet. 

The guy takes in his tactical outfit with a raised eyebrow, but doesn't say anything about it. Diego feels a bit sorry that he took off his knives. Scaring the pizza guy was always mildly entertaining for himself. Instead he passes along the money with a "Thanks man," and returns to Y/N who has settled back into her spot. 

She gives him a warning look and holds up a finger at him again. "No jokes during the pizza." 

"What?" It's his turn to look at her like she's crazy. 

"I'll choke and die, and you don't want that on your conscience--and don't turn that into another joke," she adds quickly, preventing him from using the innuendo before he can even find it in the sentence.

"Fine," he says, sinking into his seat and putting the box of pizza on the coffee table. "No jokes. Just pizza."

She narrows her eyes suspiciously at him even as she reaches forward to pull out a slice. She doesn't break her gaze until she's swallowed and he bites into his own piece. There's a few moments of quiet between them, but it feels better than it did before the pizza. There's something lighter in the air between them, and he hopes she feels it too. 

"Thank you," she says, suddenly. 

It takes him a second and a quick glance around the apartment to realize that she means the pizza. He scoffs and waves the thanks off. 

"No, Diego, seriously. Thank you. For coming over," she sighs. "I needed this." 

"I'm always here for you," he said, nudging her with his shoulder. "You know that. Can't get rid of me even if you tried." 

She offers a small smile, and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, wincing as she notices the pizza grease on her finger tips. Diego shouldn't be watching her this closely. He should focus on his pizza like a normal person. But he can't take his eyes off her. How she seems just a bit slower, just a bit quieter today. She runs her fingers over a napkin leaving a trail of yellow grease. "Do you wanna hear something sad?" she asks, her voice small.

"When you say it like that, how could I say no?" It was supposed to be a joke, but his voice is too soft.

She doesn't look at him, instead keeping her eyes fixated on the used napkin. 

"This isn't the first time that's happened. It's not even the first time that's happened this month." 

He wants to kill. He wants to wage a war against the boys on Tinder or Bumble or the force or wherever it is she's finding these assholes. But she needs him here. She told him she needs him.

"They're idiots," he says. "Complete fucking morons." 

"Statistics would suggest otherwise," she shook her head, looking back up at the tv, frozen on a close up of Bill Hader's face. "I mean...guy after guy, I'm always the one getting broken up with or ghosted. Is there something I'm not seeing? Seriously, Diego, is there something wrong with me?" She looks at him then, eyes shining and heartbreaking in the earnestness of the question. 

"There's not a single fucking thing wrong with you," he says quickly wiping his own hands off so he can pull her in close. She wraps her arms around his middle, leaning her forehead into the crook of his neck. He can feel her breath against his skin. Feel her heartbeat. He holds her even tighter.

"I'm going to put that in my bio from now on. Not a single fucking thing wrong with me. Verified by Diego Hargreeves." She gives a single quiet laugh at her own joke, and Diego smiles, running his fingers through her hair. He isn't sure if it's as calming to her as it is to him, but her head feels a bit heavier as she relaxes more into him. 

 “I don’t know. I think I’m just done with this all. Maybe I’ll like being alone," she sighs, wiggling a little bit closer. "With you of course. We can be alone together.”

'Yeah," his smile is bigger now, and he can feel her smiling against him too. “Yeah, we can do that.”

[kashimos-hajime]

cookies and rings and things | b.b.

summary: “What do you want for Christmas?” “I’ve got everything I want right here.”

WARNINGS: swearing, but it’s all soft, cute and just love!!! lots of love :) pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader word count: 8.3k 

a/n: written for @sunmoonandbucky for no particular reason other than i saw that she needed fluff and i was more than happy to provide. make sure y’all show her some love bc she just ACED AN AUDITION and literally,, i love her,,, so much,,, NOW HAS A SEQUEL TITLED: POSITIVELY PERFECT

“How much do you love me?” she asks, winter gleaming on her bare skin and firelight playing in her eyes. It’s Boxing Day of 2024, the first truly normal one after the Blip, and Bucky watches as snow falls like feathersoft stars outside his window at the compound.

“Count the snowflakes, multiply by a million.”

“Big number,” she muses and he can feel her nails scratch at his waist lightly as her socked feet nudge against his. He wonders what kinda insane person wears socks without any clothes on, but then decides that it’s the kind of person who’s fallen in love with him.

“Well, I love you more than that,” he replies. She wrinkles her nose and snuggles in tighter against him. The fur lining of those ridiculous reading socks tickle the inside of his calf as she curls against him and he doesn’t think he should be able to love a girl this much. Then, he can feel the cold metal of the ring she slid onto her own finger less than twenty-four hours ago and realizes that he had thought a lot of things shouldn’t be possible, and yet they still are.

“Dork,” she murmurs against his neck.

“Lover,” he replies against her ear.

.

Bucky doesn’t mean to notice her. He’s running laps around the newly rebuilt compound, she has a whistle in her mouth as she shouts drills around the metal thing. Sharp cracks of ‘Pick up the pace!’ and ‘Move it, kids!’ nip at his ears when he runs by and Sam says something about how he’s getting distracted. He hadn’t realized at all.

“Who’s she?” he asks, wiping the sweat from his brow. He’s just finished five laps and he stands on the inner edge of the track, watching as recruits run past. A towel is slung over his shoulder and Sam skids to a stop in front of him, stepping in beside the soldier. The rookies’ shirts are soaked and they pant as they whip past, but none dare to slow down when she stands waiting just a few metres away.

“New trainer.” Sam’s got a glint in his eye Bucky thinks he knows when he says her name. He’s just getting to know the guy but he’s a pretty easy book to read anyway. “Heard she’s a hard ass on the newbies but it’s ‘cause she has a rep.”

“Then they’re getting what they signed up for,” he says shortly. Despite the cool autumn breeze brushing against the thick heat of his neck, his heart burns into his chest as he heaves another breath. 

“Alright, walk it off. We meet by the pool in fifteen.” She catches their attention again, and Bucky notices she’s wearing a half-zipped up windbreaker and joggers, and nothing underneath. Not that he intends to notice. Her hair is tied up back, and he kinda can’t help but look at her neck and her collarbones and, oh, no, he’s looking at her black sports bra—

“Dude.” He blinks at Sam’s amused snap. “You’re staring.”

“Shut up.” Bucky’s voice roughens up as his cheeks begin to flash red and he hides his face in his towel when Sam nudges him with a sweaty elbow. 

“She’s cute. I can get you her number,” Sam says but Bucky lets out such a strangled sound that both Sam and the cute trainer look at him. 

If it were possible, Bucky’s skin would melt off.

“Hey,” Sam calls her over by a name Bucky can barely hear because he’s too busy staring at his feet and wishing the ground would swallow him up. “You’re the new trainer, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.” Her voice is so much softer than before. Guess it’s like that when you’re not yelling at recruits and talking to Avengers. Bucky raises his head, absently running a hand through the few strands of hair that’ve fallen from his ponytail. “You’re Sam, right? I feel like we’ve met before.” She cocks her eyebrow and tilts her head. “Did you use to live in Washington?”

“Yeah, I did.” Sam’s smile pinches his cheeks and Bucky’s lips press together in a displeased frown when a grin flickers across her face. “Did you work in the VA? ‘Cause you’re starting to look familiar.”

“Yeah.” When she smiles, it morphs her face into something startling warm and lovely. Bucky dips his head low, trying to act like he’s not really part of the conversation—a mere bystander—because if he looks at her for too long, he knows it’s just too intense to be anything but creepy. “I think we used to bump into each other at the gym. I was a physical therapist at the office, and—”

“You made cookies any chance you got, I remember now!” Sam exclaims and she laughs loudly. “You always made my vets’ day when your cookies came in, so thank you.”

“Yeah, well, I’m here now. It’s funny how life works.” She shrugs and Bucky can feel her gaze land on him. “Hi, I don’t think we’ve met.” Her name slips off her tongue like poetry and Bucky, midway through a swipe of sweat down his neck, looks at her with narrowed eyes. He doesn’t mean to glare, but he’s caught so off-guard by the sudden change in direction of their conversation that he isn’t even a part of that his face reverts to something less than friendly.

“Bucky,” he says stiffly, although he doesn’t know why she doesn’t know the names of every Avenger. She probably does and is just being polite, a stern voice in Bucky’s head reprimands and he can feel Sam almost sigh in disappointment. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“It’s nice to meet you, too. You haven’t tried my cookies yet, so I haven’t proven my worth but I promise they’ll change your life,” she says, completely unphased. Bucky guesses she’s more than used to grumpy guys. “Fall equinox is tomorrow, so wait just a tiny bit longer?”

“Uh, yeah, sure.” Bucky doesn’t understand the question at the end of her sentence but she seems satisfied with his answer as she shoves her hands into the pockets of her windbreaker. “You probably have to get back to work,” he adds lamely and she turns to look at the compound. The autumn breeze curls hair against her cheek and Bucky bites his lip to resist the urge.

“I’m free later tonight,” she says, eyes squinting a bit when she turns back to Bucky and Sam clears his throat when Bucky himself doesn’t say a word. It’s like he’s drowning in her eyes. There’s something so effortlessly patient and warm in her gaze that Bucky can’t help but just… rest. It’s almost as if he can rest in her presence.

“So is Barnes.”

“What?” He snaps back to reality harshly, as usual. “We’re supposed to—“

“Actually, I can handle it on my own. She, however—” At this, Sam gestures wildly to the trainer who stands there, the beginnings of an amused grin growing on her face—“needs help with cookies.”

“I can’t,” he croaks after a minute of stuttering, and he simply clamps his mouth shut, averting his eyes. She’s too pretty for him. 

“I mean, company is always welcome,” she says, but he shakes his head.

“I’ll just get in your way and I don’t wanna mess up your cookies.”

“You can’t mess them up. I always think of something and it always works out.” She reaches over to take hold of his flesh arm and despite the coolness of the day when they’re not running their lungs out, her hand burns against his skin. She gently squeezes his elbow. “Don’t worry so much, okay? I’ll be in the kitchen after dinner in the mess.” 

She lets go too soon and slips her hand back into her pocket as Bucky opens his mouth to reply. 

“I’ve got to go to the pool,” she says, jerking her head towards the compound. Her eyes flicker to Sam whose grin nearly splits his face. “Bye, Sam. It was nice seeing you again, although I suppose we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other now.”

“Big building,” he says with a shrug. “Who knows?” She chuckles lightly, and then her gaze slides to Bucky.

Her eyes just seem to find his so calmly. It’s magnetic, and if he believed in love at first sight, this would be it.

“See you later, Sergeant.” She magpie salutes and he can’t help but mimic like a monkey, a lazy swipe of his finger from his brow. It’s so relaxed, so slow and he’s slouched on one hip, his metal hand on his towel, that he thinks he’s never felt so light. It’s almost routine—he could get used to this.

Man, it’s so easy with her. 

Her smile brightens remarkably and she heads back to the compound with a little spring in her step.

Sam waits until she’s inside before grabbing Bucky by the neck and giving him a noogie.

.

“You gotta dress up nice, man,” Sam advises like he’s on the same level as Tan from Queer Eye. Bucky stares at his reflection in the floor-length mirror and frowns in response. 

“We’re baking, not going to a gala.” Maybe I should take her to one. Get invited to enough of them as it is, a part of him muses, but he quickly chases that thought of his head. “Besides, she just saw us earlier today sweating like dogs so I don’t really think she’ll care if I show up in a t-shirt and shorts.”

“But this is your first date, man. You gotta dress to impress.” Sam shuffles through Bucky’s closet whilst its owner gapes at him.

“It’s not a date.”

“Yeah, and I’m not Captain America.”

“Shut up, Sam.” Bucky catches the pair of dark washed jeans and a cozy little sweater Wanda said would be cute on him. Glancing at his reflection in the mirror, he sighs. The warm white and the dark blue are so not his style. His style is black in different shades and fabrics and he is going to kill Sam. “This? I’ll look like—”

“Husband material. You’ll look like a straight up husband. She will cuff you on the spot,” Sam declares much to Bucky’s annoyance. “Are you gonna wear the photostatic veil Banner programmed for you?” He glances over to see Sam holding the mesh of tech, and he frowns thoughtfully.

“Should I?” He hasn’t had the opportunity to try it on, and although he knows everyone is used to his metal arm… He sighs. This is way more complicated than the forties. “Yeah. Good impression, right?” he says lamely and Sam claps him on the back, helping him seal it to his metal arm. As the nano-sized cells connect to the metal plates, a fleshy color blooms from the shoulder down and he feels like silk brushes against the tiny fibers of his arm. He can feel every single little cell, buzzing in a way that’s barely even noticeable. Bucky hopes that when he doesn’t focus on it, it’ll fade into the back of his mind.

“Atta boy. Come on. We’ve got dinner and then it’s time for your date! Wanda made paprikash.”

“Great,” Bucky intones dully, nerves biting at his stomach. He has no appetite for this. “I love paprikash.”

“We don’t sulk on first dates, Barnes.”

“It’s not a fucking date!”

.

After a dinner full of questions from Dr. Banner on how the photostatic veil was feeling and from everyone else on why, Bucky volunteers to do the dishes and clean up to make sure everything is spotless for when she comes in. Despite confusion among the rest of his colleagues, Sam assures them that ‘this is the plan, guys. Barnes’s got a hot date coming over.’ 

This, of course, only results in Bucky threatening to throw a skillet at him.

He wipes down the countertops, cleans the sink, and reorganizes the fridge while he waits for her, and he absently wonders what kind of cookies she intends to make. Chocolate chip, jam, sugar, shortbread…

Ingredients! His eyes widen and he turns to look at the dark pantries in slight horror. I should probably get them out for her. And measuring spoons, that’s what she needs, right? His stomach is in knots as he runs around the kitchen island, trying to find all the tools they might need. He tries to think of when Wanda had last made something sweet—what had she used? He ducks to pull out the biggest drawer, relieved to find three metal bowls of different sizes.

“Small, medium, large,” he murmurs under his breath, and he puts them all out beside the other instruments he thinks might be needed. A whisk, a bunch of different spoons, a glass cup and metal scoops… He glances around and tries to figure out what he’s missed before deciding to just open up every possible drawer and cupboard, and see what pricks his imagination.

He only gets to the second set of drawers when a soft chuckle catches his attention. 

Whipping around, he feels his heart drop into his stomach when he spots her leaning against the doorframe. Her hair is pulled away from her face, and she has a book and aprons hugged tight to her chest. 

“I didn't want to disturb you,” she says, an impish curl to her mouth. Bucky steps back from the kitchen island as she walks around and her gaze sweeps his collection. “It was cute.”

“Not many people can sneak up on me,” he says, a bit defensive as a flush makes its way up his neck. He doesn’t mean to sound like it, but maybe it’s the embarrassment of being caught that makes him oddly proud of his work.

“Not many people help me bake cookies,” she replies, standing next to him. She sets down the book and aprons down and he can catch the faint whiff of dinner at the mess hall clinging to her t-shirt. His heart hammers hard enough he’s sure even the deaf would be able to hear it as she gently plucks at different tools, thinking about what they will and won’t need. 

Not the thing that looks like a weird wire version of brass knuckles, got it.

“Uh, pastry cutter,” she names, returning it to its place without a mistake. “We won’t really need it since we’re not cutting up big portions of fat.”

“Good to know.” He nods and writes that down in his head. “Anything else we don’t need?”

“We can use it all if you want,” she says with a laugh living in her voice. “It doesn’t really make any difference to me.”

“Okay, well, let’s just get started, then.” 

“Aprons first.” She unfolds the two things, one white and navy, and the other black. The black one says Kiss the Cook and Bucky feels a flash of heat at the print. “Which one?”

The white and navy striped apron has a blue pocket with tiny white polka dots, the same pattern frilling the bottom and on the shoulder straps. The black, it’s clearly larger and for a man, and Bucky wonders if these were truly the only aprons she had or if she only bakes with guys she’s interested in. A flicker of jealousy runs through him. How many guys cooked with her before him?

Stop it. Not a date. Bucky shakes his head and shrugs.

“Whatever looks best on you,” he says. “Not that either of them would look bad or anything, but—”

“Thanks, Sarge.” Her eyes crinkle when she smiles big enough and she slips the black apron over her neck before sticking out the white and navy one to him. He stares at the piece of fabric for a moment before slipping his arms through and twisting his arms to tie a tight knot. She does the same and it’s pulled tight against her, Kiss the Chef smack in the middle of her chest.

“So where do we start?” He swallows because he thinks he’s just signed up for more than he bargained for. He looks at all these raw ingredients, ingredients he’s pulled because he thought it might be useful and doesn’t even know where to begin.

“First, we have to decide how many cookies and which type,” she says, pulling over the book and making space for it. She opens it up and his eyes widen at all the tabs poking out, different colours surely meaning different things. It’s an organized mess.

With a piece of scrap paper and a pencil, she writes down the number of required cookies. “Around there,” she says with a swift circle around a number bigger than Bucky had thought. “And these are the cookies we can make that everyone can eat,” she continues, writing a list down one side and then sectioning it off with a line, “these include nuts,” another section, “and these will have icing on them.”

“That’s a lot of planning for the fall equinox, ma’am,” he begins, trying not to sound daunted. She laughs, her eyes darting to his face. Her stare burns into his cheek as she shrugs.

“Hope I’m not scaring you away.”

No. Never. “Maybe a little.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll do the math and teach you a few tricks, and you’ll be a natural. Promise.” He’s surprised by how easily he believes her. As she talks about all the different types of cookies, the textures and ingredients one can use, Bucky finds himself slipping. He lets her scoot closer as she shows him how to sift the dry ingredients.

“Just tap it against your hand like this,” she says and Bucky copies her. She shows him how to prep the pan, and he preheats the oven. They mix the dough with their hands, and Bucky watches as her skilled hands manipulate the oily dough she’s created like it’s second nature. He glances down at his own pile in a glass bowl that doesn’t look too shabby, and almost smiles. “Yours looks really good, Bucky.”

“Thanks.” His eyes stick to the chocolate chips and he pokes it with a half-proud smile. “I had a great teacher.” She laughs again. She’s easy to laugh and smile, and every time she does either of those things, something in him feels like it’s going to burst with light. He wishes he was like that, but at the same time, he feels brighter than he has in days. Maybe it’s something about how she treats him like any other guy, or maybe it’s that she makes him smile more than anyone has in a while.

“Well, this is only batch one and two out of like, twenty billion,” she says as they begin to shape their cookies. Bucky had ripped the parchment paper for their trays and laid them flat and while they roll these balls of chocolate chip cookie dough, he can’t help but listen to her go on and on about things she wants to talk about. Life since the Blip, the recruits, hobbies and childhood memories. He can’t help but give his two cents too, and she tilts her head as she listens, a soft smile on her face.

“You’re a great listener,” she comments as he sets the trays in the oven and closes the door. She sets the timer on her phone and begins to prepare for the next batch.

“It was all I could do for a while,” he says with a shrug. “You get good at stuff you do for a long time.” Her actions slow and she turns to stare at him. He focuses on cleaning up his work space, swallowing down the smell of butter and sugar. “Guess something came out of it,” he adds uncomfortably when the silence grows. He looks beside him, at her, where there is a smear of flour across her cheek, where she merely stands there in silence, and sighs. He’s ruined it. “Sorry.”

“Is that why you hid your hand?” she asks softly and his eyes widen noticeably. “I didn’t want to ask to make you uncomfortable, but I did wonder.” She looks down to make sure she’s measuring enough sugar and she closes her eyes for a moment, clearly cursing herself. Bucky wishes he could say something, but his mouth doesn’t click with his brain. “Forget I even brought it up. I’m sorry, I—”

“I wore it for tonight,” he blurts out and she looks at him, eyebrows furrowed together. “It’s a photostatic veil Banner coded for me and… and I wore it for you.”

“Why? It’s not like I’m afraid of it.”

You should be. “I guess I just wanted to be normal for a night,” he sighs and she stops sifting for a moment to really look at him. Setting down the sieve, she leans on the counter and places the other hand on her hip, waiting for him to explain patiently. “Sam called it a date, and I think it got to my head.”

“Oh,” she breathes. He tears off the photostatic veil carefully, letting the mesh crumple in his hands and she swallows. The air is thick with an emotion neither of them can quite name and Bucky is quite sure she will never want to see him again. God, is this what it’s like to flunk a date? He sets down the mesh on a clean countertop, watching the hologram flicker as he flexes his metal fingers. They gleam in the artificial light and he hides it behind his back, shame pooling in his chest.

“I’m so sorry. I… I didn’t want to make it awkward for you,” he mutters and she reaches to touch his metal wrist tentatively. Kiss the Chef wrinkles against her chest and his gaze falls to the floor. He doesn’t quite know how to describe how utterly disappointed in himself he is when she steps closer, fingers curling over his. No pity in her eyes, she squeezes his palm carefully.

“I don’t want you hiding yourself away,” she murmurs, tilting her head so he is forced to look at her. His eyes stare dejectedly into hers and she smiles, using her other hand to cup his face. Powder dusts against his eyes and he squints. The smell of dough clings to her skin and she smiles fondly at him, fingers stroking his cheek. “I like you just as you are.”

“You like me?” he asks, confused, and she chuckles. “All I’ve done is help you make cookies.”

“‘Course I like you, dork. You’re hot.” A teasing bite in her tone, she taps his nose with her thumb before returning her palm to his cheek. “And I know you didn’t have control of anything in your past, and you’re trying your best, Bucky. That’s all any of us can do, now that we’re back.” Her eyes avert for a moment, and then find his again. There is a gooey softness that reminds him of molten chocolate and snow on Christmas eve. “I really do like you, you know. Have a big ol’ school girl crush on you, to be honest.”

“On me?” Why not anyone else? He’s bewildered. Sam, or that new receptionist on two, or even some other trainer because… 

Frankly, Bucky thinks he’s lost all appeal to those who know him since 1945.

She takes his silence as rejection and it shows in the uncertainty that mars her face. Bucky wishes he knew how to articulate that he is insanely attracted to her and how the way she laughs makes his heart believe it can jump mountains, but instead he is stunned into a quiet that fills the kitchen. He only met her a few hours ago. How can he even begin to explain it?

“We have cookies to make,” he says instead, eyes flitting to the open ingredients and he turns his head against her hand. She springs apart from him, cold rushing to fill in the space she’s left behind as she draws her hands towards herself.

“Oh. Yeah, I guess we do.” Her face falls and she grabs the sieve, a wobbly smile built on her lips. “Forget I brought it up, then.” She begins to sift her dry ingredients once again and he mentally groans to himself. Why is he such an idiot?

He mumbles her name softly, and she pauses, turning just so to look at him.

“I like you, too,” he says with a difficulty that shouldn’t be there, because it’s true. “I know I just met you today, but you’ve already made me feel… different, I guess”

“Different?” A tentative, stronger smile begins to curl the corner of her mouth and he nods, his lips twitching upwards. His hand, flesh and warm, settles on her hip all on its own, a fluttering touch that he is completely unsure of as he gently turns her to face him fully. She’s so damn gorgeous with flour on her face and eye bags beneath her eyes that he’s sure she will inevitably make his heart burst. It pounds in his head as he tries to grab at reasons he needs to step away, to stay away, but his heart battles his head ferociously. 

I’ll hurt you and I can’t stand the thought. I’ll hurt you or kill you or lose control and you can’t stop me and I don’t want to hurt you ever. His brain screams the words H.Y.D.R.A had thrown at him, the looks handlers had tossed at him flashing in his head—terrified, wild dog, monster.

I want to protect you, I want to love you, you light me up, I can protect you. I won’t hurt you. I’ll be better for you, if you could love someone like me. His heart whispers, louder than the silence. It’s the forties boy in him, the son his mama raised and the brother Rebecca loved, and he can recall the faces he’s adored—Steve, Ma, Becca.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” Bucky murmurs and she hesitantly touches his face. His eyes flutter at her gentle touch and she takes it as an invitation to cup his face once again. “It’s just… you.”

“I’m not special,” she tells him bashfully, words brushing against his lips as he closes his eyes for a moment against her hand. When he opens them once again, he finds her watching, transfixed. There is a new serenity in her eyes, one that tells him she is completely enchanted on something that cannot be him—he is anything but an angel.

“You really are.”

“Now, now, Sergeant Barnes.” Her voice is warm as whiskey and he can get drunk off the sound of her laugh. He can feel her smile just by how her energy shifts and Bucky falls, for the first time in his life; he falls harder than he ever has. “Go on like that and you’ll get anything you want from me.” 

“Even permission to kiss the chef?” Bucky’s words, thick and hot, jumble in his mouth. Her nose brushes his, sparks tingling in his veins as her hand trails to cusp the back of his neck.

“That permission will always be granted without question.” 

He kisses her softly, hesitance laced through his lips and it is only when she crushes him against her does he bury his hand in his hair and kiss her like she is meant to be kissed: feverently, reverently, forever reminded that Bucky Barnes is lucky enough to be completely in love with her.

.

Bucky is quite sure Sam is in love with his girlfriend in the fact that he’s in love with the fact that his girlfriend is possibly in love with Bucky. Bucky himself doesn’t think that she could possibly be in love with him, but Sam is more than eager to prove otherwise.

“Sam asked what I’m getting everyone for Christmas.” She’s on the shoulder press, the muscles in her back flexing and waning in a slick sheen of sweat while Bucky completes his set of push-ups. 

“He’s thinking too far ahead,” he mutters. “It’s only the start of November.”

“Well, you know him. I think he just wants an opinion on what I’m getting you.” Standing up, she grabs her water bottle, squirting a stream of ice-cold water into her mouth before laying down beside him. “What do you want for Christmas?”

He pauses mid-way up from his two-hundredth push-up. “You don’t need to get me anything, doll.” The nickname is still a bit strange on his tongue but he thinks he can get used to it.

“Yeah, but I wanna get you something.” She juts out her bottom lip in an adorable pout, a telltale sign she wants him to kiss her and he leans on one hand to press a quick kiss onto her lips before resuming his workout. He knows the signs on what she wants fairly easily now. He’s grateful she’s spelt it out so many times for him. 

Playing with his fingers means she wants attention, a pout is a kiss, suctioning kisses to the neck means she’s feeling some sorta way and he’s more than happy to oblige that feeling. There’s a long list of little tells that Bucky’s starting to think it’s a whole other language.

“How about cookies?” he deflects and she rolls her eyes, getting up and sucking down some more water. 

“I make cookies for everyone. You deserve something special,” she argues and he sighs. “I really want to make our first Christmas special.” He lies down and pushes on his palms, stretching out in a cobra pose while she rolls over into the splits. He pulls back into child’s pose while she leans forward and he’s thankful for the silence.

What do I want? he wonders. What do I want that I don’t have already? His eyes drift to her form only a few centimetres away and he thinks, Nothing. 

“I’ve got everything I want right here,” he intones seriously, crawling forward and she turns to him, eyes wide. Sitting upright, she changes legs. “I guess I want nothing to change.”

“Dork,” she mumbles, and a sticky heat pools in his face as she pokes his cheek. He sits down and she offers him his water bottle with a shake. He shakes his head, the argument that his own is only in the locker room. “Come on. Locker room’s too far away from me.” A sweat drop tracks down her jaw and he smiles softly, brushing it away. Legs crossed, he takes it without taking a sip. “Besides, I told you you can take what you want. I don’t mind.”

“Okay,” he says, knowing full well it just doesn’t feel right to take back the hoodies she’s stolen from him. Maybe one by one, he’ll take them back and wear them for at least twenty four hours before giving them back. Then, his scent will stay with her. “What do you want for Christmas, then?”

“I—” Her sentence is cut off by an alert on his phone, one they both know not to ignore and she sighs. There is disappointment, their little bubble popped with a simple text. He sets down her water bottle to get it, gut dropping at the message displayed on his screen. “How long is it?”

“Emergency response in Cairo, I don’t know,” he murmurs. Pocketing his phone, he grabs his towel and rushes back to her. He grabs her face and presses a desperate kiss against her mouth, eyes squeezing shut and she mumbles words he can’t decipher against his grieving lips. Her fingers touch his jaw gently, a reminder that he must go, and he pulls away. “I’ll text you as soon as I can.”

“Stay safe.”

He smiles shakily and promises that he will.

.

“Barnes. We got a package for you.” Sharon Carter’s voice catches his attention from his sniper post and he blinks away the winter sun from his eyes. No movement still. “Merry Christmas.”

The blonde extends a box towards him, a slight smile curling her lips and he frowns at the stark bleakness of it. Black, and absorbing no light, it feels heavier than he thought it’d be. 

“Thanks.” He shifts, his bones clicking as he glances out the tiny slit of a window. There hasn’t been movement for weeks. Crossing his legs, he sets the box before him and a tiny blue hologram pops up from a tiny hole in the center. His eyebrows furrow together as it scans his face and he squints.

“Facial scan complete: Hello, James Buchanan Barnes.”

F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s voice echoes in his small little perch and he still thinks it’s weird without having the side effect of Stark in his suit chasing after him to hear the A.I. but he shoves that uncomfortable feeling of the dead man out of his head. That is too much regret to unpack right now on a mission.

The box unfolds, the mechanical whir humming in his ears and a waft of sweet sugar rushes into his face as he peers within.

Cookies. Sugar cookies, butter cookies, frosting and crystal sprinkles, gingerbread, snickerdoodle, a note in her writing.

“She requested I ask you to read her note before eating the treats,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. says and Bucky pulls out her note. “She also requested that you stay safe, despite not being home for Christmas.”

Taking the blue cue card, he sighs at the mere sight of her writing. His heart aches much more than he realized and he wonders if she misses him half as much as he misses her.

Buck,

Times may be tough while we’re apart, but absence only makes the heart grow fonder. Stay safe, Sarge, and come back to me.

Merry Christmas. Forever thinking of you. 

When he bites into one of those cookies, he melts into the wall he’s leaning to and closes his eyes, just imagining her standing in the kitchen with that Kiss the Chef apron tied tightly around her. The taste brings back memories, and brings him back home to New York, to her. Home, he muses wistfully, home is waiting for me with her laugh and smell and eyes. Home.

.

Bucky drops his bags as soon as he’s off the quinjet because he spots the dark blur that is his girlfriend in a track pants and a big poofy parka running down the road towards him. He barely gets his arms up in time before she’s flying into his arms and he lets out a grunt, stumbling back as he flings his arms around her waist and holds onto her tightly. Her legs squeeze his waist as she burrows her head into his neck and Sam laughs as he unpacks the equipment.

“Bucky,” she says, pulling back and his arms hold her to him still, gently supporting her back and her bottom. Her hand cups her face and she brushes hair out of his face, tracing a healing cut on his lip. “You’re home.” She embraces him again, thighs tightening as if she’s afraid to see him leave again and he merely closes his eyes, letting the first day of 2024 snow against his skin. “You’re home.”

“I’m home, lover,” he promises, and she laughs, face wet when she steps back onto solid ground again. He opens his eyes to admire her, a vision; a sight for sore eyes from the arms length he holds her at. The snow melts as it lands on her skin but it nestles in her hair, a frame of white for her pretty face that he’s missed far too much. “God, I’m home.”

She laughs, a watery smile surfacing as she leans up to kiss him. They are rapid, wet with emotion and she smiles against his lips, just laughing in relief. “I love you so much,” she whispers and he blinks, drawing back. Her face is the epitome of happiness as he gawks at her and she wipes at her eyes. “You don’t have to say it back, but I just… I love you.” She doesn’t look afraid, only confident in her feelings for him and he scoops her up, his heart bursting with sunlight.

“I love you, too,” he whispers into her ear, embracing her tightly. She lets out a tiny exhale at his strength but hugs him back tightly anyway. What is love if not hugs that barely allow you to breathe and kisses until you’re dizzy? Bucky doesn’t know. “God, I love you.”

.

Bucky learns a lot dating her.

She hums when she cuts his hair—which she does every so often—and likes to cuddle in her sleep. She bakes for every occasion she can think of and likes to spoil Bucky rotten. Although their jobs often keep them apart during the day, Bucky likes to just watch her in her environment, ordering the recruits around.

She has a different sport she favours for every season. Jogging in the fall, hockey in the winter, tennis in the spring and swimming in the summer. More often than not, she drags a happy Bucky with her to the rec centre and he’s more than happy to participate, whether he shows it or not.

She expresses her feelings through cooking, which Bucky has learnt the hard way. One time, they got into an argument over something stupid—he can’t even remember what started it—and came to the kitchen at 2AM to see her sitting at the kitchen island crying her eyes out and surrounded by baskets of muffins.

“Lover,” he had called out softly, already too loud for the eerie time between midnight and morning. “You’ve got a bit of a muffin problem.”  

“I know,” she had replied dejectedly. “I don’t know what to do with all of it, Buck.”

They had donated it to shelters around the city, going on their own from street to street with baskets full of muffins. It becomes ritual, to have days where they bring baked goods and homemade meals to those who need it.

She doesn’t really know how to take care of herself, based on how she treats herself during assessment season, so Bucky has to pick up her slack and feed her more than caffeine. He feeds her diets that are balanced and healthy, and makes meals that he learns in his spare time to share with her while she shouts herself raw at the soldiers. 

He remembers her favourite foods and music, and knows just how to put an exhausted girl to bed with makeup and bra off. He remembers to write when he’s gone for too long during missions, and he remembers her birthday, favourite colour, and which show she’s currently obsessing over. He always downloads the seasons to catch up so he understands what she’s talking about.

It’s safe to assume he knows when to propose, hell, he’d been ready the night they first baked together, but he just has to remember to catch her ring size. There’s so much of his mind cluttered with these useless yet utterly adorable facts about her that he can’t bring himself to delete, that it’s always the one thing he forgets to do.

Here is where his friends come in.

.

They’re all hanging in the lounge on a lazy autumn day. Their one year anniversary is coming up and Bucky and Sam are watching football while she talks to Wanda about potential plans.

“Popcorn,” Sam says without tearing his eyes off the screen, shoving the bowl in their general direction. Bucky grabs it unceremoniously, popping a few into his mouth while she twists in his grip to pass the bowl to Wanda. 

“I have cookies cooling, boys,” she warns them and Wanda chuckles. The witch puts the bowl back on the table next to the empty nacho plate while Bucky’s girlfriend decides to curl against him, and his arm around her waist squeezes her close. His hand trails down to her thigh, hoisting her legs up while she peppers kisses on the underside of his jaw. 

“I don’t understand anything about this game,” Wanda intones once commercials hit, amused when Sam lets out a shout of disappointment. Beeping from the kitchen, a timer, breaks whatever retort he was prepared to throw back at the Sokovian and Bucky lets out a whine when his girlfriend unwinds from his lap to get up.

“Sorry, babe, but I gotta get them before they get too cold,” she says and Bucky frowns before nodding. He cups the back of her neck, and she kisses him quickly before pulling away and skipping to the kitchen. Wanda immediately crawls into the space on the other side of Bucky on the couch, pulling out her phone while Sam leans over to whisper.

“She sends me pictures all the time,” Wanda begins nefariously and Sam pulls out a strip of paper, a line in pencil across it. As he rolls it up into a ring, Wanda leans over to show Bucky pictures of the girls’ conversation. “She adores all of them, but she cannot decide.”

“And here you go, man.” Sam gives the paper ring to Bucky. “Got it while she was taking a nap.”

“She wants silver rather than gold,” Wanda says.

“And she doesn’t care about a venue.”

“But she likes the idea of a seasonal wedding.”

“Dude, she wants your babies.”

“She wants two or three kids.”

Bucky’s head begins to spin as they continue to bombard him with facts or proof that she actually wants to spend a life with him, and he blinks, staring at the commercials that still flash in his face. Grabbing Wanda’s phone, he focuses on the images that his girlfriend had sent the witch, gorgeous silver rings with diamonds, some with less, some with more, and simply tunes the two out, trying to internally decide what he should buy her. Meanwhile, Sam and Wanda have fallen into some argument about whether or not Bucky’s wedding is going to be a summer or winter wedding, when a new voice pierces the air.

“Who wants cookies?” 

Immediately, a hush falls over them. Bucky tears his eyes away from the phone just as Wanda snatches it back just in time for her to appear, striding into the room with the smell of cookies rushing in after her. She sends them an odd glance, and the trio of Avengers merely separate as she sets down the plate. A fresh batch of chocolate chip cookies are stacked ontop of a porcelain plate and Sam lunges forward to grab one while she picks one up delicately and resumes her place on Bucky’s lap.

“What were you three talking about?” she asks, amused, and he takes the cookie with a click of his mechanical arm. She tucks her head underneath his chin while his hand goes back to her thigh and he bites into the cookie.

“Nothing you gotta worry about,” he says. The game starts again and she can’t pipe up to argue without Sam telling them to shut up, so she doesn’t. Instead, she rests her head on his chest and Bucky hopes she doesn’t hear his heart beating like crazy in his chest. 

By the tiny smile he can feel against his chest, she can hear it.

.

Bucky holds the ring in his pocket for four months.

He had bought it the very next day after the football game because if he had let it sit, the nerves would’ve gotten to him, but now, new nerves are causing him to become paranoid: waiting for the perfect moment, scared that she’ll find out.

He thinks the proposal should be grand and all about how much he loves her and how much she’s shown him and loved him and it needs to be perfect. It is anything but that.

“Morning,” she whispers as her eyes flutter open. She’s laying against him in their comfy, toasty bed, and he doesn’t want to move for Christmas festivities except they both have to—a charity breakfast for veterans where Bucky is speaking, then a novice hockey game because his girlfriend just had to teach the cutest little seven year old boys how to utterly destroy their opponents, and then dinner. 

He traces shapes along the slope of her back lazily, craning his head to look at him and she smiles dazedly.

“Hey, lover.” He grins easier now, and when his smile splits his face, her own does too. “We’ve got a day ahead of us.”

“A day that’s way too long for Christmas,” she mumbles, closing her eyes and pressing her cheek against his chest. “Convince me to get up.” It’s still dark outside, a blissful 5AM full of snow delicately fluttering outside their window. He wraps a leg around her waist, pulling her close while she dozes and she lets out a contented sigh at his arm draped over her side.

“Don’t want to,” he replies, eyes closing. “Want you to stay right here with me.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Kinda want to stay here forever,” he continues drowsily, eyes fluttering shut and she shakes in his arms with a silent laugh. “Wish everyday could be like this.”

“You wake up earlier, and maybe it could be,” she retorts. Of course the early bird in her is perfect for her morning drills with her recruits, but Bucky prefers to sleep in like the owl he is, and he lets out a snort, kissing her hairline. “Just saying.”

“I’m too busy catching up on your shows.” His arm tightens around her.

“Catching up. Liar. I know you were up at 2 AM this morning binge-watching.” She tilts her head up, eyes opening. A spark lights up her face and a mischievous curl of her lip tells Bucky she’s about to say something that’s going to make him blush. “Just admit you like Gossip Girl and go, babe.”

“Alright, I like it.” Rolling his eyes, he pecks her forehead and she smiles victoriously. It’s so adorable that Bucky, with less than three hours of sleep, adds, “God, I want to marry you.”

“What?”

Oh.

Shit.

Bucky is suddenly more awake than if someone had thrown him into an ice bath. She almost throws herself off of him, sitting up and he follows her with his eyes as she twists to turn on the lights. Golden light paints her a goddess, and her hair is messy atop her head as she stares at him with wide eyes.

Bucky sits up slowly, the blanket pooling around their waists, and she blinks at him as he chews on the inside of his cheek.

“Do you not want to get married?” he asks slowly, almost afraid. Although he’s nearly 100% certain she wants to be with him, a part of him still bites at his stomach with doubt. “Have… have I been looking at this wrong?” He doesn’t tear his eyes away, holding this staring contest as she continues to stare at him, lips slightly parted and he reaches over to touch her hand. “You okay, lover?”

“You wanna marry me?” she asks, and he nods slowly, fire rising in his stomach and crawling up his neck as he makes a mental note never to keep secrets from her because when he’s been running on three hours of sleep, he likes to spill his guts where he feels safe. 

“I… I got a ring and everything.” He turns to open the drawer on his nightstand and pulls out the dark navy box, velvet brushing against his sleep-numb fingers. “Wanda and Sam helped, and I was going to make this a big thing, but—” He’s tripping over his words as he pries it open, and he watches as her gaze falls to the silver ring, the exact one from one of the pictures Wanda had shown him—”I know I don’t really deserve you, and god, you deserve better than a proposal at 5 AM but I really do want to marry you.”

“Buck—”

“I love you. I love you so much it’s crazy because I didn’t think anyone could love me, or that I could open my heart to someone like you, and I know you deserve more than this, a better man, but—”

“Bucky—”

“All I’m trying to say is… thank you. For loving me.” His sleep addled brain tries to scramble for more things to say, and he smiles, almost sad but so, so, very much in love. “Thank you for bringing laughter into my life again.”

“Bucky, you fucking dork,” are her first words and he blinks as she lunges into his body. The blankets twist and her warm muscles wrap around him as she peppers kisses all over his face. “You wonderful, wonderful man. I love you so much. I love you, I love you, I love you.” His arm props him up against her body as he holds onto the box and she straddles his waist, twisting to look at the box. Her smile is tender as she takes out the ring and slides it onto her finger and he smiles bashfully when she shows him the fit. He lets the velvet box slip from his hand to cup her waist and he sighs blissfully when she leans to kiss him.

“Remember when I asked what you wanted for Christmas last year?” she murmurs against his lips and he smiles as the cool metal of her new ring trails down his neck to his shoulder. “And you said you wanted nothing to change…”

“I guess I just didn’t want anything more than you,” he whispers fondly and she smiles, eyes closing as she knocks her forehead against his. “But this one change I can handle.”

“Yeah?” She opens her eyes to stare deeply into his and he smiles, a warm curl to his lip.

“Yeah.”

[passivenovember]

Sometimes I get really high and cry about how I don’t have anything from my childhood home. So here’s this.

WARNINGS FOR: mentions of suicide, Billy healing from the incident at Starcourt.

--

He’s never been fed by what is inherently sentimental. Even as a little boy, those precious creatures that lived on the highest shelf in his heart were easily destroyed or ripped away by the person he was becoming. Stuffed toys fell to pieces under the heat of his anger, the toxic potion that was brewing under the surface of his skin ate away at the rose-colored hue surrounding his childhood home to the point of absolute degradation. 

Billy doesn't remember a time when he longed for the sanctity of his bedroom. For the pale yellow sunlight streaming past blood stained Thomas the Train curtains, or the box of broken toys that Neil had left alone. He doesn't remember when it happened, when the flip switched and his longing went from missing Saturday morning cartoons in his parents bed to simply missing his mother and all the things she had taken when she jumped off the roof.

It wasn't always like that. Billy remembers something else. He remembers a blanket that smelled like cinnamon toast crunch, adorned with microscopic holes he liked to such his thumb through. He remembers a set of roller blades the color of crushed mustard seeds; Neil taught him to skate. No one knows that, no one remembers, but Billy. Does, he. Remembers strong fingers laced with his own, holding tightly while Billy figured out how to maneuver the cracks in the sidewalk. 

Billy is haunted by a time when his fathers hands were good for other things. 

--

Before Hawkins. Before that night when the demon punched a hole through his chest, Billy had been giving things away. To lighten the load, he supposes, that which had become unbearable.

First it was his skateboard. 

Max wanted it.

At the time he didn't think it was as simple as all that; his bitchy kid sister begging, day in and day out for access to the magic carpet that sat entombed in Billy's closet. He hadn't used it in years, ever a slave to the bright blue ocean, but it didn't matter. It was the principal of the thing, the skateboard to his kneecap.

Max took and took and took until Billy had nothing left to give. She said you don't even use it anymore and Billy said doesn't matter, you can't skate.

Neil told him it could be good for bonding.

Neil told him Max was a good kid, she deserved to have something of her own in their house on Willowbrook Avenue.

Neil told him to hand it over before I stick it up your ass, kid.

So Billy ground his teeth together and tried to push down the aching emptiness at tossing away the last thing his grandmama had given him before she passed away. It was the principal of the thing--if Ruthann were still around she'd tell him to let the kid have it. Let her have something of her own, so. He polished its bearings and left it outside her bedroom door, pretended to read until she came knocking an hour later with confusion twisting her freckled face to shit.

You're sure I can have it. She asked.

And.

Yeah.  I'll teach you. 

He wonders if Max remembers those afternoons in the driveway that morphed into weekends at the skatepark with Max scuffing up the wheels and Billy tapping into his thin line of patience. Wonders if she's plagued by the memory of hidden smiles and misplaced affection, because. Billy had thought it would hurt more, giving away a piece of his childhood like that, but. He had long since stopped attaching emotional worth to things that broke. Things that crumbled.

He wonders if Max remembers a time when his hands were good for other things.

--

Billy made a habit of throwing away the things that weighed him down. 

The skateboard, the blanket that smelled like cereal milk, he thought all of it made him weak. The more shit he had that mattered to him the more he had to lose, so. Every Spring Billy would wrap his fingers around the mouth of a big black trash bag and lighten his load. Scoop armfuls of his childhood into the abyss that always, somehow, incredibly operated as a portal to Max's room.

Sometimes he wondered if she even had a personality or if everything she had, everything she was, came directly from Billy's dumpster.

One man's trash, and all that. 

She wore his old shirts. Read his books, hung discarded posters of naked chick's on the insides of her closet doors for some fucking reason, and. In a weird way Billy felt like maybe he was being immortalized. Every phase of his life was shone back at him like the surface of a lake, or a shiny new penny on the dashboard of the Camaro, and he felt good. Useful, for his trash becoming someone's gold. 

So Billy kept tossing things out.

Reorganizing and downsizing until his room looked like a generic movie set for a troubled teen. Every weekend Billy packed the little pieces of himself into neat trash bags, tying the lip closed and leaving them for max. Nestled at the foot of her door, like a bargain brand Christmas gift that was not at all what she had asked for. Gifts that came 52 times a year.

The bags always vanished. Billy felt heavy and light. Heavy and light. In the end he wasn't sad to see it go.

--

Maybe it was just a side effect of growing up in the big, empty house on the hill and fighting the incessant need to fill it with shit but Steve Harrington was a packrat. The kid never got rid of anything. Before Starcourt. Before that night when the demon punched a hole through his chest, Billy would tease him about it.

What, like you need five binders full of empty laminate pages?

Steve's tongue would poke out of the corner of his mouth while his fingertips brushed the offended plastic. I'm going to start scrapbooking. 

And that was is usual way, to find an explanation, a inarguable reason for all the junk in his life, but.

Billy thought it was okay to have things around for comfort.

Wasn't really his style, but it was Steve's and Billy didn't stop the kid from collecting whatever he could get those slim fingers on. Old NATARI cartages, broken HAM radio antenna's, torn polaroid's, annual Moms of Loch Nora Bake sale t-shirts; he kept everything in case an old timey push mower could prove itself to be useful.

Before that night when the demon punched a hole in his chest, Billy would smirk. What sad sack wants a MILF's face on his chest?

Steve just shrugged his shoulders. Someone could need it.

And Billy just snorted, because.

Harrington's a weird guy.

Thoughtful and pretty and so, so fucking weird.

When they brought Billy home from the hospital he slept in a shirt with Karen Wheelers face on it, every night for a week.

Funny how it all comes back around.

--

He spends a lot of time in bed with the covers pulled up under his chin. Draped in Steve's ridiculous knit sweaters and thick woolen socks because everything is cold, now. As if winter has settled rough and desperate into the very marrow of his bones and even though the fabric rubs too harshly against the healing rise of his stitched skin, Billy can't shed even a single layer for fear of freezing to death.

That's what it had felt like Before Starcourt. Before the monster punched a hole through his chest, when it just had its fingers inside his skull.

Endless winter.

Steve buys every type of heated blanket on the market. Searches high and low for expensive down t-shirts that will help you feel more comfortable, but. Billy doesn't even remember what that's supposed to feel like.

Steve says comfort feels like sleeping in on Saturday mornings because you don't have anywhere to be. Home sounds like your mother fixing pancakes just before lunch time but--oh. Everyone always remembers half a second too late. Billy tries to smile, tries to accept the help Steve gives him--he wears the sweaters and keeps the socks on after his morning bath even though he's not really a sock person because Steve is so hopeful.

Bright.

Steve smiles over the mug of hot cocoa he fixes Billy every morning and hopes. If we start the day warm, who knows?

Billy doesn't have the heart to tell him.

--

Steve spends a lot of time in bed. Plastered to Billy's skin--chest to back because Billy needs to feel like he's protecting something, after Starcourt. After that night when the demon punched a hole through his chest. 

Sometimes Billy feels like Maxine. 

Stealing bits and pieces from someone's garbage can. Here he is, sleeping in Steve's bed wearing Steve's clothes taking up such a large part of Steve's life, and.

Pretty Boy just snuggles closer and lends his warmth in more ways than one.

Billy doesn't always know how to handle it when those milky brown eyes watch him roll around under the covers until his body finally feels at peace. Every night Billy closes his eyes says the same thing. "I can be out of here by next week, if you--" Afraid to look for fear that he'll see relief reflected back at him.

Every night Steve says the same thing in return. "You're my whole world now, Billy." 

As if that's supposed to get the car back on track. As if Billy hasn't veered off the road and crashed into a tree every single day since--

"Maybe it would make you feel better if, you know." Steve shuffles impossibly closer, the hot line of him charring Billy's skin even through the layers of wool. "If you had something familiar."

"You're familiar."

Steve's flesh burns even hotter. Eyes shining even bright, at that. Something almost like love. "I meant something from your childhood."

Billy rolls onto his side.

Steve moves with him without even thinking about it--chest to back because Steve needs to feel useful, after Starcourt. After that night when Billy hit the floor and the light went out of his eyes. Billy's chest rises against the palm of Steve's hand, where it's pressed against him. Steve will never get tired of that motion.

"I don't have anything from my childhood."

Which. "Not even at home?"

"This is home now." Billy sounds like he doesn't want to talk about it, but.

Steve can't bring himself to care. Or maybe stop caring. "I meant at Neil's."

"Got rid of all that shit." He can hear the tremor in Steve's voice, when the boy finally finds it.

"Neil got rid of your--"

"No." Billy says simply. "I did."

He can hear the wheels turning in that beautiful head. Steve swallows, the movement palpable in the thick night air. "But. Don't you miss it?"

After a while Billy shakes his head in the darkness, curls catching on the plaid pillowcase. It takes Steve a moment to decipher what it means, how it makes him feel that Billy can so easily toss away the things that no longer serve him. 

They're quiet for a while. So long that Billy's breathing goes deep and even, a clear indicator that he's fallen asleep. Steve knows it won't last long, knows the nightmares wake him up, and.

Steve always stays awake through the first three to give Billy something familiar to hold onto.

[bi-robins-club]

jason had just settled onto his couch with a jane austen novel and his favourite peach iced tea when damian crept in through his window. he sighed internally and decided to simply ignore him. he had told damian to use the front door (nevermind the fact that jason rarely used the door) and more importantly? he was freaking comfortable. after a few minutes as jason flipped idly through the book, damian cleared his throat. jason sighed again, outwardly this time and reluctantly dragged his eyes up to his youngest brother. baby bat was shivering slightly from the rain outside and jason simply rasied an eyebrow as he sipped at his tea. scowling, dami stomped over to jasons bathroom to dry off. he rolled his eyes. how dramatic. damian was acting like he sentenced titus and alfred the cat to their deaths instead of how he was actually saving jason from deep cleaning his rain soaked carpet. (he was still going to deep clean the carpet the next time he tidied up but still)

when damian stalked back into the room, looking less like a wet, angry kitten and more like a dry, angry kitten, jason titled his head back and established eye contact.

"so what brings you over to my neck of the woods, demon spawn?"

instead of snapping back like jason expected, damian simply stood there looking extremely uncomfortable. he shuffled his feet, opened his mouth then closed it and sat next to jason on the couch he splurged way too much on.

"i don't know how to tell you this" dami began, hesitant "but i believe harper is experiencing thoughts of suicide"

jason jerked up, almost knocking over his tea (and what a damn waste that would be) before fixing damian with a look. he hadnt noticed anything different in roy lately but he knew more than anyone that depression acted strangely and was hard to pinpoint. his mind raced with thoughts of why roy might be suddenly suicidal, from a sudden relapse to not getting a happy meal toy included in his 3.99 box of clogged arteries. "why do you say that, damian?"

"i have been keeping an eye on his health since he became a close confidant to you and last night he said something worrying that i am still not able to parse the meaning of" jason smiled lightly at that, in damian speak he was basically declaring that he cared for roy- if for nothing else than for how happy he made jason. still he shook it off and asked what roy had said that was worrying dami.

"he was patrolling last night" jason knew that. roy had been picking up his patrols since jason had a nasty leg wound. it was the reason he wasn't out tonight. "and he was on the phone with an unknown person, though i am inclined to believe it was either Starfire or Canary" okay, still not surprising "and then he said that the only place he could die happy was between your thighs" oh hello blue screen. yes jasons mind was in the middle of rebooting but could you hurry it along? he almost missed what damian said next. "not only does he wish for death upon himself, he wishes for you to give it to him!"

"damian" jason managed, frantically trying to figure out a way to explain to his baby brother without including his sex life. "uhh its just an expression"

damians face brightened up slightly. "really? he does not wish to smother himself between your thighs?"

"yeah, its like...like just a way to say... mind your business? mmhmm" he struggled to get out, pulling an explanation out of his ass.

"you have told father to mind his business a thousand times but i dont recal you ever using that one. is it new?"

oh god. jason would rather die again than continue this conversation.

"uhh its only used if you're close to someone" jason didnt know what he didnt wrong but dami's eyes widened in clear worry. "i thought you and father were reconnecting? has something happened? are you fighting again?"

well shit. jason had not thought this one through. fuck roy and fuck his mile wide kink that centered around jasons thighs. he was going to kill him. and he wouldnt even use his thighs. "oh nonono dami we're fine, just not as close as me and roy" he hedged, pleading to gods he didnt believe in to stop this conversation with whatever means necessary. strike him dead if need be but *please*. damians eyes narrowed "and exactly how close are you with harper, jason?" jason stared in disbelief. how had his nice relaxing evening turned into such a shitshow? damian was fine with roy when he and jason were just friends but now that he was (correctly) assuming a relationship, his over protective instincts were kicking in? christ. he remembered how when dick and babs finally started dating (again), damian seemingly lost all respect for her and called her an evil harlot more than once.

thankfully he was saved by answering in the form of the best person jason had ever met aka duke thomas. he announced his presence by awkwardly coughing. jason met his dark eyes and mouthed 'help me' over damians head. duke smiled as if it was getting pulled out of him by torture but nodded.

"hey dames, dick wanted you to join him by the docks when you finished up here" damian scowled "cant you see i am clearly not finished yet"

"hah, well dick was facing up against scarecrow and i think he needed some back up but you know him"

"yes, he wont admit he needs help when he very clearly does" damian sighed "very well, ill go check on dick. you stay and question jason. " and with that damian clambered out the window and after he disappeared from sight, jason threw his head back to stare at his ceiling and groaned. duke laughed at him.

"hey daisy duke?" duke grumbled at the nickname and jason cracked a smile "how did you know i needed back up?" duke winced and ran a hand over his dreads. he made a face and jasons soul was slowly draining out of his body. "oh haha funny story" duke rocked back on his feet and faked laughed "damians com was still connected to the channel" jason froze.

"who was on the channel oh my god" duke smiled thinly and his hand paused on his head. "other than me? everyone." jason buried his head in his hands and let out a high pitched whine. duke consolingly rubbed his shoulder. this is why jason loved him. he hadn't even laughed at jason like tim, dick or steph would or started plotting death like damian started to. he and cass would just offer support. jasons favorite brother and sister right here folks. duke sat down beside him

"listen. i know what it's like to be outed when youre not ready and when i heard damian grilling you about roy, i thought i would help" jason turned and stared at his brother. duke was staring at his hands and avoiding eye contact. "i got caught with a boy when i was 15 in high school. its pretty shitty to be gay and poor in a homophobic neighbourhood but its worse to be gay, poor and black." jason knocked shoulders with him. "if you tell me the name of whatever asshat outed you, I'll shoot him for you." duke let out a waterly laugh. "they kept bullying me for being gay but if they even listened, they would have realised that im pan" he joked "its a completely different thing after all". jason snorted

"that was horrible"

duke winced "yeah, it was wasnt it. im bad at this" it was jasons turn to avoid eye contact now.

"talia once caught me with a league operative. a male operative. i was so paranoid for days until i caught shiva leaving her rooms. i got the courage to tell her i was bi and she just patted my cheek and asked how my training was going."

duke huffed out a laugh. "bruce gives you shit but i for one think your lesbians moms are cool"

jason laughed with him "just wait until you meet Ducra. shes a badass"

"ducra?" he questioned with a weird look. "how many moms do you actually have? i knew about diana and your assassin moms but thats a new name" jason burst into laughter at the expression on dukes face. "its not fair man. steph is the only other one with a mom and you have four! you need to share" jason choked on his laughter and shoved duke.

"first of all, its only *three*. ducra is like my badass abuela"

"dont you already have a badass grandma? have you forgotten about Ma Gunn? she threatened to shoot bruce in the dick last week!"

"yes well excuse you i need strong female role models in my life, fuck you" the two of them continued to joke around for a little while longer before jason caught a flash of black kelvar outside his window and sighed. duke followed his eyes and smiled before patting jasons shoulder and pushing off. "have fun with the one strong male role model in your life. im going to see if cass needs help" both of them knew that cass wouldn't need help but jason accepted the excuse for what it was. "me and steph are still coming over to study tomorrow. college is kicking my ass and i need you to explain this English assignment to me"

jason scoffed "im not writing your essay for you"

"eh worth a try. bye jace" duke gave a two fingered salute and slipped out the window. jason took the brief reprieve to sip his tea and mourned when he discovered the ice had melted and watered down the peach taste. for the third time that night, someone crept into his window. oh well. third times the charm right? jason wasn't going to acknowledge bruce until he said something himself. it was a repeat of damian. jasom read his book as it got increasingly uncomfortable.

"jason."

"bruce" jason drawled, not lifting his eyes from his book. bruce grunted like the neanderthal he was and jason finally huffed out a heaving breath before marking his page and looking up. bruce looked supremely uncomfortable. actually his face looked exceedingly neutral but jason knew how to read bruce and that was the brow furrow of how do i deal with jason without fucking it up? jason was well famailairsed with that one.

"you know i love you" jasons own eyebrows rose. bruce only said 'i love you' like four times a year tops. and he usually never wasted it on jason. bruce deflated at whatever face jason must have made. goddamn it. this was why jason always fought with bruce with his helmet on, he couldnt control his facial expressions for shit. "no you dont know that." bruce smiled thinly and to jasons suprise, quickly crossed the room and knelt, placing his hands on jasons shoulders.

"even if you dont believe it, and its my own fault that you do and i hate that i ever caused you to even doubt my love for you, i swear that i do, jay lad" jason was completely frozen. he had expected bruce to yell at him for letting roy go unchecked on patrol last night and how irresponsible he was yada yada, not this declaration of feelings that he had no clue how to deal with. he couldnt remember the last time bruce called him that. it had to have been when he was still in those scaly green panties and pixie boots. and not the adult verison that jason picked up from a halloween store on a whim just to see roys eyes.

bruce sighed and drew jason into a hug. when bruces shoulder started getting wet, jason was horrified to realise he was crying. "i wanted you to know that i wouldnt love you any less for loving a man. but you have to know that i love you in the first place for that to happen" bruce said self deprecating.

"shut the fuck up" jason said sniffling and gripping his dads back. "i hate you"

bruce laughed softly at him before pressing a kiss to the side of jasons head. "i want you to know that i expect roy-and you- over at dinner on sunday. i need to meet the man that stole my babys heart" he murmured. jason laughed wetly "youve already met roy, you just want to con me into actually coming to family dinner"

bruce smiled "that was before i knew you two were dating. roy needs to know what hes getting into" jason leaned back enough to stare into bruces eyes and weakly punched him in the chest "dont threaten my boyfriend. he refused to look at me for two weeks after t was done with him" bruce sighed longingly "its times like this when i remember what caused me to love talia in the first place."

"bruce!" the aforementioned man laughed and hugged jason tightly before stepping back a few steps. "Sunday dinner. you and roy. 8 pm." on a whim jason reached out and snagged bruces hand. "hey" he started, swallowing "you wanna stay for a while? we could watch a movie or something" bruces eyes softened and he nodded. "let me change out of the suit."

and if roy had crept in after patrol only to see jason napping on his dads chest to a shitty action movie playing in the background and took several pictures, well that bruces fault for not waking up when roy stumbled it. (nevermind the fact that bruce had every single one of those pictures saved on his phone) (nevermind the fact that after roy put his phone away, he was greeted to the sight of batman glaring at him as he twisted a batarang around his fingers. it was sorta ruined by the fact that jasons curls was hiding the lower half of his face but roy was still adequately terrified)

[pagingevilspawn]

stick it

What even is this fic? Idk, but i was missing gymnastics, so this is what y’all get. Its super bad, super weird, and not a whole lotta jolex, but whatever. 

Also, nobody cares, but the way I'm giving the scores is (most likely) different than what is averaged for Washington. I’ve never competed in Washington so i don’t know how hard their scoring is, but I did compete in one of the hardest regions in the US for gymnasts, so scoring was always a LOT more harsh than it was in other states and areas of states. Even though nobody is gonna pay attention to that I just thought I'd say something lol. 

And fun fact- our girl is a (much) better gymnast than i ever was, so… tea 🍵🍵  

~*~

Jo watched her husband do their daughter’s hair from the doorway, some kind of a braided bun she didn’t know the name of. She smiled at the sight. It never failed to bring a smile to her face, even though it had become pretty common these past few years. She cradled the bottom of her six month baby bump in the palm of her left hand, her right holding her piping hot tea in a thermos. Once Alex was done putting in all of the excess pins, she watches as he puts a hand over their daughter’s eyes, pulling out the can of hairspray and spraying it into her hair. 

The almost nine year old girl lets out a giggle, commenting on how the hairspray smelt funny. Alex pulls out an Amped Up brush, combing back any flyaway hairs that might have escaped the spray. She snaps out of her trance when she hears her phone alarm go off, alerting the other two in the room of her presence. 

“Mommy!” her daughter exclaims, running over to her to give her a quick hug, much to the dismay of Alex. He was just thankful that he was already done with her hair. Even after three years of doing hair it still took a long ass time to do buns, especially when his daughter was the perfectionist she was. 

“Hey Dyl,” Jo reaches down, returning her daughter’s hug, giving her a tight squeeze before she watches Dylan retreat back to her dad, sitting in front of the mirror once again. 

Jo looks at Alex, who’s attention was focused on adding the shiny black scrunchie into the little girl’s hair. “I’m gonna get Aub up.” she whispers to him, watching him nod before she turns and makes her way down the hall, where their three year old daughter was sleeping. It was only five-thirty, so she knew what a hassle it would be. Aubryella was exactly like her parents in that way, a complete night owl. It was always a hassle to get the girl down at night, but even tougher to wake her up in the morning. She flicks on the small night on the girl’s bedside table, the lamp shade casting a soft pink glow around the all pink room. 

Much like her name, Aubryella was the definition of a girly-girl. She was all about pink, barbies, fashion, makeup… anything that would be described as girly, the three year old liked. Alex always gave props to Jo for that, since while she was pregnant with their youngest daughter she claimed that the tiny life growing inside of her was going to be an ‘all that and a bag of chips little diva’, so she thought it was only appropriate to give her a name to suit that title. (Good thing her mommy instincts were correct. She knew that if she gave Dylan that name and not Aubryella she would hate it more than life itself.) 

She shakes the girl lightly, hoping that it was enough to wake her up, which it ultimately wasn’t. She begins to run a hand through her hair, which ends up failing too. Jo lets out a sigh. 

“Aub. Aubrey. Elle. Ella. Ree. Aubryella. Get up sweetie.” she shakes the girl harder, finally stopping when the tiny blonde lets out a loud groan of protest. Yep, definitely a Karev.

“No mommy,” the girl says, her word muffled since her face was buried in her soft pink pillow case, using one hand to sleepily push her moms face away. It was too close to her ear, and she just wanted to sleep.

Jo chuckles, rolling her eyes at her daughter's antics. “It’s state’s day.” she whispers, knowing that that would get Aub’s attention.

As expected, the little girl gets up immediately, rubbing her tired as, not looking as asleep as she probably should, the talk of the upcoming meet more than enough to get her blood rushing. Though Aubryella wasn't a gymnast herself (she had started dance class a year ago and had found her calling then), watching gymnastics was something she loved to do, especially when it was her own sister competing. Not to mention, it was the topic of nearly every dinner for the past month and a half.  

The mom watches as the girl hassles out of the bed quickly, picking up her blanket and rushing to the bathroom to brush her teeth. Jo stays behind, making the bed. Normally, Aub would need to do it herself, but since they were on a time limit, she decided it would be best if she did it instead. When the girl gets back in the room Jo picks out her clothes, a dusty rose sweater and black jeans, both wasting no time in putting them on. She runs a comb through her daughter’s long dirty blonde hair, a trait she inherited from her Aunt Amber and Grandma. Aub actually looked more like the two than her own parents to most people, with her dirty blonde hair and blue-green eyes. But anyone who actually looked at the girl could see that she had Jo's nose and Alex’s chin. Not to mention, that crooked grin was all Alex Karev.

Jo picks up her daughter from her spot on the bed, grabbing a jacket that was hung on a hook before heading out of the door and down the hall, stopping when she went down the stairs and entered the living room. She sets the girl down by a chair in the kitchen, going to the cabinets and pulling out the doughnuts and cereal. “Which one?” she asks, holding up each dessert in a different hand. 

The girl grins mischievously, making the mom let out a small chuckle before pulling a powdered sugar doughnut out of the box. She didn’t know why she expected anything else. 

Aubryella accepts the doughnut gratefully, giving out an absent minded thank you before shoveling the treat in her mouth, getting the white sugar all over her face. Jo doesn’t need to wait long before she hears two sets of footsteps come down the stairs, Dylan dressed with her white and light blue leotard on, black warm ups on over it, Alex in a simple pair of jeans, back t-shirt, and the damn black jacket that he never got rid of, no matter how many protests he got from his wife. 

“Ready?” Jo asks, all three of them nodding in response. “Okay, you got your bag, shoes, extra hair ties, water bottle, lucky bear, extra bobby pins, thera band, notebook, phone, mascara, lip gloss, hair brush, wallet, tiger paws, ankle brace, knee brace, and wrist brace?” she questions again, going over the list she had memorized from years of training. 

Dylan rolls her eyes impatiently. She didn’t want to be late. She couldn’t be late. It was States for god’s sake! Everyone in the state of Washington (who qualified) would be there. The judges would be scoring harder, and some of the competition was going to be new. She was going to go up against girl’s she hadn’t before. Her goal was to win everything. Maybe it was extreme, but it was true. This season she had done well, really well actually. Her first season as a level seven had started off in the best way. She swept the first competition clean, getting first on vault, floor, and all around, second on bars, and third on beam. As the season went on she just got better, scores getting higher and snatching more golds with each meet. She knew she wasn’t going to be in the Olympics one day, but getting a college scholarship was looking more promising with every first place medal she had stacked around her neck. 

“Yeah, now let’s gooooo,” Dylan drags out, grabbing her dad’s hand and pulling him to the door, not even waiting for her mom and sister to follow. The four Karev’s shuffle into the car and drive an hour and fifteen minutes to the convention center where the meet was being held. They pile out of the car and check in, Alex taking a few minutes to add an extra layer of hairspray to Dylan’s hair while Jo puts a light coat of mascara on the girl’s eyelashes and dabs the lip rosy gloss on her lips. 

Before the eight year old can run off her coach, her parents kneel down in front of her, her eyes letting them know how scared she was behind her calm facade. “Hey,” Jo grabs a hold of her little girl’s shoulders, making her hazel eyes that were identical to her own stare deeply into hers. “You got this. Go out there and have fun, alright? You know your routines, you won’t mess up. Okay?” she reassures her. Jo pulls her daughter into a hug, “I love you baby.” she whispers into her ear, passing her off to Alex. 

Instead of staying on the ground, he picks her up and puts her on his side, much like you would do a small child. Dylan had always been on the smaller side, since neither one of her parents were very tall, but gymnastics had definitely stunted her growth a fair amount. For most people it would be a curse, but as all gymnasts know, it was a blessing. 

“We’re right here if you need us. Go kick some ass Dyl, and win that state title. You want that banner right?” he teases. Dylan did want a banner though. At her gym, whoever won a state, regionals, sectionals, or nationals title got a banner hung up from the ceiling. She had one from last year, when she won floor, vault, and the all around as a level six, and even more from the years before that in levels three, four, and five. 

But a banner as a level seven? Now that would be a dream come true. Why break the streak now? And not to mention, her group would be the last level seven group to go for the weekend, so if she got a high enough all around score, it could be factored in for the team’s total, which could mean another banner (this one provided by the competition) and trophy, if their total score was in the top three. And believe me, she was determined to win that banner, not for her, but for her team. 

Another thing she inherited from her parent’s, their competitiveness. 

Dylan gives her parents and sister one last hug and ‘I love you’ before ducking under the chain and meeting her coach and teammates on the floor.  

...             

“Camera, camera, camera.” Alex mumbles, fishing through Jo’s bag until he pulls out the phone. Dylan was about to go up on bars, and he was designated photographer, since his wife couldn’t film for the life of her. The one time she tried, she ended up shooting the ceiling instead of Dylan’s floor routine. Their daughter was not very happy about that. 

He presses the start button just as the girl salutes, flashing the judges a smile before she begins. She rolls her neck and then adjusts her grips, stepping onto the mounting block and taking a deep breath before swinging her arms and launching into a kip, drowning out all of the excess noise in the background. 

“Legs, legs, legs.” Jo mumbles to herself. It was Dylan’s biggest deduction, having her legs separated. 

Straight legs, pointed feet. Kip cast handstand, hit the 180 degree mark, hold it, clear hip, hit 180 again, hollow body, her feet don't hit the ground, cast up to a squat on, she catches sight of the high bar before jumping to it, keeping her legs together as she goes into another kip, casting up into handstand, holding it at 180 for a second without an arch before hollowing back and beginning her giants, hollow body, tap, feet up, over, and again, see the toes in front, release, layout flyaway. Stick. 

Dylan beams as she salutes the judge again, going over to her coach and giving her a large hug, finally hearing the cheering coming from her family. A series of whoops and whistles come from her mom and dad, while her little sister claps her hands and gives her a wide smile. 

She waits a minute and a half for her score to flash up on the screen, a 9.725. The cheering from her section gets louder, and her teammates engulf her in hugs. It was a hell of a way to start off the meet. 

…

Alex pulls out the camera again when Dylan salutes the beam judge, trying to mask her nervousness behind a smile. Alex and Jo both knew how she felt about the beam. She hated it with every fiber of her being, no matter how good she was at it. She glances over at her family, who all give her encouraging smiles. It was just enough to give her the confidence she needed. 

He watches as she places her hands on the beam, going from a support to a press handstand for her mount. She stands, doing a few different moves and poses before swinging her arms up by her ears. 

“C’mon Dyl.” he whispers to himself. His daughter didn't mind cheering on any other events, but beam was a different story. She was always worried whenever she was on the apparatus, so whenever a sudden noise came through, she struggled. It was something she was working on, but it was going to take time. 

She lifts up her left leg, beginning her connection, a back walkover to a back handspring step-out. The girl circles her arms behind her immediately to prevent any balance checks. Jo and Alex both let out audible sighs of relief, knowing that if there was one thing that could go wrong in the routine, it would be that. From the looks of it, Dylan seemed relieved too. Her movements were less tense, she completed her jumps with perfect form, a split jump to a sissone. Her leap hit 180, and her full turn was controlled. All that was left now was her dismount. All three Karev’s sat on the edge of their seats, the baby in Jo’s belly kicking non stop, letting her know that it was in on the action as well. 

Dylan kicks her leg into the air, toes pointed, knees locked. Cartwheel step-in, back tuck. Stick. She lets out a breath, turning to the judges and saluting, flashing them a smile, giving her coaches a hug before darting to her family, who had moved closer for the event.  

“You did so good.” Jo says, pulling her into a hug over the plastics chains that separated them, Alex doing the same after. 

“What score do you think I got Bree?” Dylan asks her little sister, who lets out an adorable giggle before holding out her hands. 

“Ten!” she says, making her family laugh. One could dream. 

The score flashed up on the screen then, 9.775. 

Well, this was going to be a damn good meet. 

…

The camera was locked on Dylan as she made her way to her spot on the floor, striking her beginning pose before her music blared through the speakers. She dances around the floor, gliding with an ease neither of her parents had ever experienced themselves. It was a wonder really, how both of their daughter’s were good dancers while they couldn't move for shit. 

Her first pass was her hardest, a roundoff back handspring back layout. The family holds their breath as the girl sets high, finishing the rotation with ease, dancing around more before her leap pass, a switch leap to a straddle jump. She dances more, making eye contact with the judges as she moves. Floor was where she had the most confidence, being able to express herself through her music and choreography, that’s why it was always her favorite. 

“C’mon Dyl!” 

“You got this Dylan,” 

“Yay Tissy!” 

The family cheered before her second pass, a front handspring front pike, which she had a small step on, but nothing that would make a large difference in her score. She did some floor work, showing off her flexibility in her back with a series of rolls, standing up and doing a full turn. She makes her way to the corner, Jo and Alex watching the scene intently, Alex having Aubryella perched on his knee. This last pass sealed the deal. She runs, hurdles into a front pike, and connects to a front tuck. Stick. 

A smile breaks out on the little girl’s face. She moves her limbs in unison to her ending pose, hitting it just as the beat dropped. A series of cheers come from everyone around her. Her family, teammates, coaches. She doesn’t need to wait long for her score to flash up on the screen. A 9.675. 

…

Dylan’s last event was vault, her personal best. She had already done her warmups, and now she was just waiting for the judge to hold up the green flag. She adjusts her tiger paws after she salutes, just as Alex starts the recording. She sprints down the runway, hurdling into a roundoff, and pushing back into a back handspring. Her vault was a yurchenko drill. She keeps her form, legs together, knees locked, toes pointed. She finishes, salutes, then goes again. The three in the stands cheer. It was the last event. Her all around score depended on these vaults. 

When she does her finishing salute a second time, she knows that it was even better than the last. She looks over to her family and gives them a smile, wanting nothing more than to run over to them, but she knows she can’t, they were too far away. 

Her score takes a while to come up on the screen, which could either be a bad or good thing. The Karev’s hold their breath in anticipation, Jo stroking her baby bump with one hand, while holding Alex’s with the other. Even Aubryella was on the edge of her seat, well, more like the edge of her dad’s lap. Her hair was no longer down, but in a braided bun similar to her sisters, since she insisted that she wanted to look just like her. Alex was thankful Jo had packed extra hair ties in not just Dylan’s bag, but also her purse.

A series of loud cheers come from this section as they see their daughter’s score. A 9.800, a personal best. 

…

“And now, your vault state champion in the eight to nine year old category with a score of 9.800 is… Dylan Karev!” The announcer cheers as the little brunette makes her way up to the first place podium, an abundance of applause coming from the crowd. A gold medal is placed around her neck by an assistant, who she thanks with a megawatt smile. 

“These are your 2029 vault state champions, gymnasts salute.” the announcer says, causing all the girls to raise their arms to the position, all the families in the crowd taking photos of their daughters. Jo, Alex, and Aubryella cheer the loudest, more than proud of Dylan. 

As awards went on, more categories were called. 

“Your bar's state champion in the eight to nine year old category with a score of 9.725 is... Dylan Karev!” 

“Your beam state champion in the eight to nine year old category with a score of 9.775 is… Dylan Karev!” 

“On the floor, in second place with a score of 9.675 is… Dylan Karev!” 

“And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for. Your 2029, eight to nine year old all around state champion, with a combined score of 38.975 is… Dylan Karev!” The audience erupted into applause, her parents, her teammates, coaches, and even her teammates parent’s cheering for her. She accepts her fifth medal with a wide smile, hopping down from the podium and back into the crowd. She had just won her ultimate goal, an all around title. 

After a few of the older groups were called, it was time for the team awards.  

“In first place, with a combined total of 115.575 is… Seattle Gymnastics Academy!” Another first place team award. The team accepts the banner and trophy and poses for photos alongside the second and third place team, proudly showing off their trophy by raising it above their heads.  

When she gets down and the awards finish, she runs to her parents, crashing into Alex with a gigantic hug. When she finally lets go, she hugs her mom and sister. 

“I’m so proud of you Dyl.” her mom says, touching her cheek affectionately. Gymnastics was her daughter's passion, something she lived and breathed for. Seeing that light in her eyes and that grin was something she would never get tired of. 

Aubryella hugs her big sister’s legs, “good job Tissy.” The name came from when the tiny blonde was younger and couldn’t say ‘Sissy’, and had stuck to it ever since. 

The family of four makes their way out of the convention center, the drive back to their house was peaceful, the limited hours of sleep they got the night before catching up to them. They all crash onto their respective beds, the girls in their rooms and Jo and Alex in their’s. 

Alex runs a hand through his wife’s hair, his other tracing circles on her baby bump, feeling the little life inside of her kick like a crazy person. 

They stay like that for a while, savoring the quiet. With two kids in the house, it was a major rarity these days. Jo hums, nuzzling into his embrace. “I love you.” she murmurs into his shirt, on the verge of sleep. He reaches down and places a small kiss on the top of her head. 

“I love you too.”

[kareofbears]

asymmetric styling

“I like the way you dress.”

Akechi looks up from his crossword (one word left, ten letters horizontally) to see Ann waiting for a response.

“What?”

—

read on ao3 or below the cut :) 

“I like the way you dress.”

Akechi looks up from his crossword (one word left, ten letters horizontally) to see Ann waiting for a response.

“What?”

“Your outfits are nice,” she clarifies, nodding at his winter attire. “I like how you present yourself, and the colors you pick. You have a knack for clothes, I think.”

“Okay,” he says for lack of a better response. “Why are you telling me that?”

“Because I want to?”

He sets down his crossword. “Why would you want to?”

Ann stares at him. “Because you have good outfits?”

“Yes, we’ve been over that, but you hate me, so why would you want to compliment me?” If this useless back and forth goes on any further, Akechi’s going to pop a vein.

“I can still hate people and compliment them,” she replies, rolling her eyes. “That’s called high school.”

“This,” he gesticulates at the empty interior of Leblanc. “Is us waiting for the rest of the halfwits and Sumire to show up, and that I’ve apparently been granted the unfortunate lottery ticket of spending alone time with you.”

“I think it’s called a blessing, actually,” she grins. “I’m something of a hoot. A rockstar. A Hollywood badass.”

“A nuisance?” he offers, smiling thinly in return.

“Are you always like this or is it because I’m just too pretty?”

“I feel like this is a trick question from how stupid it sounds, but it’s most definitely not the second one, I promise.” Akechi shrugs off his jacket, and moves to grab his crossword puzzle again. “How about you go back to your phone, and we can go back to the delightful silence we had before?”

Her hand slams down on the newspaper. “I knew it.”

Raising an eyebrow, “Are you about to tell me the final answer to this crossword? Because not only do I legally have to say that you seem like you’ve never attempted a mental aptitude test in your life, but because I’m generally against spoilers.”

“You do like fashion!”

Akechi represses a sigh. “What are you on about?”

“Your jacket,” she points at his brown peacoat. “That was on page thirteen of Vague, the July edition predicting sales on which winter apparel for men will take off later that year. That peacoat was rated number one in Japan and ended up being something like a self-fulfilling prophecy by using their earlier predictions and turned it into sales.”

He scoffs. “Okay, sure. Let’s say that I’m an avid follower of fashion.” Akechi leans forward, and his head tilts in mock-concern. “But doesn’t that mean that you rebuked your own statement? Since this was…what was that? ‘Rated number one in Japan?’ Won’t that mean that everyone would be trying to sell this coat? And it could be a complete coincidence that I have this jacket because it can be replicated in every fast-fashion store in downtown Shibuya?” He gasps. “Oh no, looks like you’re wrong about the very field you think you know the most in! How humiliating.”

Ann leans forward, her smile is wide but her eyes are sharp. “Silly me. I guess I forgot to mention a fact about this specific brand, color, and fabric on the very first day of release: it’s near impossible for manufacturers to try and replicate it.” She tilts her head to mimic him. “Humiliation’s a bitch, isn’t it?”

“Maybe, if I had ever experienced it the way you just did,” he replies pleasantly. “‘Near impossible,’ means statistically difficult, but not quite impossible.”

“Very true, but since that brand is on such high demand, they actually have a foolproof method to fight against fake brands. Perhaps they thought it was a good idea to have a small symbol that can be easily overlooked. Let’s say—” she reaches forward and grabs his coat, grin stretching even further when she points at one of the big brown buttons. “Something like a rabbit engraved on top of the first button?”

Akechi raps his fingers on the table. “Perhaps, but if you had done your research, this brand has two foolproof methods: the rabbit, as you annoyingly mentioned, and the code that you can enter in the website to prove its legitimacy. However, as you may have noticed—” he pinches the label near the collar of the peacoat. “No code. Sorry.”

Ann groans, throwing her hands over her face. “Dammit!”

Letting himself cheer internally, he makes sure the condescension is layered thick in his voice. “Not your fault. You tried your best.”

“Yeah…I’m sure you did.” Blue eyes peek from between her fingers. “Too bad you forgot the cute little fact that four years ago they actually put the code inside of the label.”

His shoulders tense.

“Do you mind flipping it for me, Akechi? Actually, no need,” propping her chin on her palm, he probably could have felt her smugness from three blocks away. “Even if there isn’t, I know that you live and breathe fashion as much as I do.” Her expression turns cheery. “Well, almost as much.”

“Congratulations, you beat me in a game you know you’re more knowledgeable in than I am,” he deadpans. “An outstanding feat. Can you let me finish my puzzle now?”

“I should’ve guessed you were a sore loser,” Ann says, ignoring him. “I still remember when Akira beat you in a round of Tycoon. Your face was stuck like—” she scrunches her eyebrows together and morphs her features into a menacing scowl. “For like four hours afterwards, it was great.”

“He only won because his cards were better than mine.”

“Actually, if I’m not mistaken, the cards you drew were basically as good as his, and you still lost.”

“Oh, I see, you’re trying to be funny. Hilarious. I can hardly breathe, please call an ambulance.” He rubs his temples. “I yield. I’m going to ask you this one last time: What do you want? And no games, I beg of you, you’re going to make my head burst.”

“Killjoy,” she sighs, before straightening up. “You know that we hate you.”

“I think I’m aware, yes.”

“And you hate us—”

“But Sumire doesn’t count,” they both say in unison.

“But you not only hate us, but I’m pretty sure you hate, like, everyone else,” she continues, gesticulating with her hands. “Japan, Asia, the world. I’m sure you have some random vendetta with some guy across the Pacific Ocean. He probably breathed too hard and made one of your hairs move two weeks later.”

“Is there a point to your prattling, or…?”

“I’m getting there,” she gives him an accusing look. “So with all that in mind, why does a guy like you, who would get in a boxing ring with just about anyone on the planet, know so much about something like the fashion industry?” Smoothing down his jacket, “Why do you put so much effort in how you dress when it’s so clear that you don’t care what other people think about you?”

“Is that what you think?”

Ann pauses at his tone. “Am I wrong?”

“No. Not necessarily.” She continues to stare at him, unblinking. “Do you ever learn to back down?”

That makes her grin. “Not in this line of work. If you think I’m bad, you should go a few rounds with Ryuji.”

“Sounds like a nightmare.” If information is the price for temporary silence, then he’s willing to pay the price. Even at the cost of prolonging his crossword. “I didn’t care what other people think about me, but I wanted them to see me in a certain light.”

She squints. “What?”

He finds himself fiddling with the edge of his newspaper. “The very first thing people notice about a person is how they present themself. In their hair, their expression, their posture. But above all that, is the clothes that they wear. The shoes on their feet, the jacket on their back, how expensive their watch is. All that information is melded together in an instant. That split second—” he snaps his fingers. “Is all they need to form an opinion of you. To define you, before you can even open your mouth.”

“I don’t care about fashion,” Akechi admits. “But I cared about what it could do for me. I got to have a say in who I am.” His eyes flicker to her. “Done?”

The look Ann gives him is unreadable. “You’re a liar.”

Akechi leans away, taken aback. “Well, yes, of course. I thought we all knew that by now.”

“You do care about what other people think about you, Akechi,” she accuses, realization dawning on her. “‘Want to see you in a certain light,’ my ass—all you’re doing is shuffling around what your words mean to justify your actions through your thick, annoyingly soft-haired skull. You’re right, you don’t care about fashion, because at the end of the day…” Ann shrugs helplessly, and her words are spoken with something like awe and dismay. “All you care about is how people see you.”

A beat passes. “Wanted.”

“Huh?”

“It’s ‘wanted,’” he corrects, unfazed. “Past tense.”

Ann gives him a hard look. “Correcting me on my grammar, now? Real mature.”

“Only because it changes the meaning of everything you just said.” Akechi reaches over to his jacket’s collar, and flips the label to reveal the code. “Thanks to your reminder, you helped me recall something.” He taps at the seemingly randomized set of numbers in front of him. “This lets you know when you bought the coat. What number is this?”

Reluctantly, she peers at what he’s pointing at. “‘10?’” she says quietly. “October?”

“I bought this about a week before my well-deserved beatdown in Shido’s ship,” he clarifies. “So about four months ago from today.”

“Okay? And?” she urges, still confused.

“And this coat is the newest thing I own.”

“Meaning…?”

“Meaning…” how strange it was, saying this out loud to another person. “That something between Shido’s ship and now, I stopped caring. About up-to-date fashion, about appearances, and especially stopped giving a damn about other people’s perception of me.”

Ann is silent for a moment. “Was it because of what happened in Shido’s ship?” she asks. There’s no trace of superiority or teasing in her tone—only curiosity.

“Could be,” he answers honestly. “Perhaps I realized that there was no need to uphold a specific personality anymore. Perhaps I was just tired after playing that song and dance for as long as I can remember. Bottom line is: I don’t give a single shit about fashion anymore.”

Her lips quirk up, “Even though you got into a fashion pissing contest not five minutes ago?”

“That’s different. I love to win.”

“I can tell,” she breathes out a laugh. After a moment, a thoughtful expression clouds her features. “Can I say something?”

“If I actually had a say in that, we wouldn’t have had this conversation at all.”

“How would you, Akechi Goro, feel about trying to get back into fashion?”

For once, Akechi looks surprised. “Did you not listen to anything I just said?”

Her hands drum on the table eagerly. “Just hear me out. You don’t care about fashion because it sort of, kind of, maybe represents how much you tried to be someone you’re not, which hey, I get that, super relatable, and it’s great that you don’t care about that anymore. But—and give me a chance here—” Ann grins. “Wouldn’t it be more interesting if you wore clothes that you wanted to wear?”

She shifts in her seat, excitement radiating off of her. It’s difficult to watch. “I’ve been studying fashion ever since I could understand the color wheel, and if there’s one thing I learned is that fashion is power. If you make it your own, then,” Ann shrugs. “All the more power to you, right?”

Akechi is struck with silence, and is saved from having to reply when the door to Leblanc swings wide open. An entourage of loud teenagers steamroll into the cafe, all brushing off various amounts of snow from themselves.

“Took you long enough!” Ann yells over her shoulder.

“Sorry for the delay,” Haru answers. She raises her hand to reveal a full plastic bag. “But we got snacks!”

“Takoyaki?”

“Pork kebab.”

She makes a face. “Stop indulging Ryuji!”

“Mm, literally impossible,” Akira replies, combing the snow out of Futaba’s hair.

Akechi sinks back into the booth, waiting for Sumire to walk in and prance by his side, when Ann turns back to him. “By the way, I think it’s ‘asymmetrical.’”

“What is?”

“The last word on your puzzle,” she nods down at his crossword. “‘With two halves, sides, or parts that are not exactly the same in shape or size.’ I read it while I was grabbing your coat.”

“Oh.” He reluctantly scribbles down the answer, lacking the usual enjoyment he gets from finishing a crossword. “…Thanks.”

Somehow, she’s still not done talking. “I heard Akira went shopping with Sumire last week. She came back with the cutest dress I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“I’m aware.” He’s pretty sure he’s compiled enough for a slideshow of it by now, given how many pictures of it Sumire’s sent to him.

She hesitates, before seeming to steel herself. “Wanna go shopping tomorrow?”

Akechi blinks. Twice. He’s about to open his mouth to say no as rudely as possible, when he lets his eyes wander the cramped coffee shop. All of them are in clothes that scream their personality, even if it clashes or has horrible style (he can barely look at Ryuji’s winter outfit without cringing).

But, as terrible as some of them may look, all of them seem content to be in the clothes that they chose.

“Maybe.”

Ann’s smile is bright and genuine. “I can work with a maybe.”

[alolowrites]

A Beautiful Blessing

Summary: Someone leaves a mysterious box outside your apartment in the middle of the storm. Fortunately, no one gets hurt. 

Author’s Note: This is my first story for @bnhabookclub​‘s Hero Camp Bingo event happening right now! It officially runs from June 5th until August 15th and I received my very own bingo card to fill out. Fun fact, I wrote this story prior to the bingo event happening (lol), so I’m glad it worked out! 

I posted my bingo card below. Each time I submit a story for this event, I will cross off the prompt I used as well. The first prompt I crossed off was Adopt a Pet! Please enjoy!

Word Count: 1.5K

A powerful storm rages through your neighborhood.

It is the perfect excuse to stay inside and watch random Netflix movies with your favorite person by your side. You snuggle closer to Shinsou, resting your head on his shoulder; his arm comfortably holds you and acts like a weighted blanket that nearly puts you to sleep. You suppress a yawn as an impromptu lullaby emerges from the raindrops pelting against the glass window.

The movie ends, and you stretch forward, “Pick the next one.”

Shinsou reaches for the remote, moving the bowl of popcorn sitting in the middle. You snatch it before the snack falls, avoiding a great tragedy. Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said for last week’s popcorn mess; the couch wouldn’t stop crunching up a song that night. Shaking your head, you shove a handful of the buttery goodness into your mouth and check some text messages. Your ears perk when a distinct sound rings outside.

“Did you hear that?” You glance at the window. A ray of lightning scatters across the dark clouds, which looms above the apartment building, “It sounded like a high-pitch mewl.”

Shinsou shrugs, “Probably your thought process at work.”

You whack his stomach. He snickers and continues scrolling through the selection.

“Very funny,” you dryly remark. The wind howls as the storm picks up its strength. A bright, white sheet temporarily blinds the entire sky, followed by a ferocious thunder that shakes the apartment complex. Through your munches, you hear the high-pitch noise return. With narrowed eyes, you stand up from your couch, “I’m gonna go check it out.”

“I’ll start the movie without you if you take too long.”

“Pfft, sure.” You stride toward the door, but regret opening it when the rain rudely greets your face. Groaning, you rapidly scan around until something catches your eye. An odd, medium-sized cardboard box sits near the door, a raggedy shirt flapping on top; you become suspicious.

“Hitoshi!” His eyes immediately peel away from the TV at the sound of your worried voice. You look over your shoulders, “There’s a random box outside.”

Shinsou springs into action, “Don’t touch it and get away from the door!”

He snatches his scarf and rushes to the entrance. Just as you turn around, the same mewl cries from inside the box; it sounds like a baby animal. Your curiosity ultimately wins as you kneel to inspect the package. Shinsou screams out your name, but you ignore him like an idiot. Tossing the torn cloth aside, you gasp at the sight below—it’s a little kitten.

“Oh, you poor thing!”

The frightened animal shivers in the farthest corner from you. It helplessly cries like a broken record, and your hands reach inside to comfort the wet bundle. Shinsou arrives with his scarf ready to protect you from an attack. His defensive stance weakens when he sees a black kitten in your grasp.

You shield the animal from the rain, “Let’s get inside! Find me a towel!”

A trail of water droplets follows you to the kitchen. Shinsou hands you a towel before heading outside again to inspect the box. The kitten meows as they get dried, their head twisting nonstop and body squirming around. You couldn’t blame the innocent feline for being petrified. After a few minutes, you uncover the kitten and scratch behind their ears to calm them down; it works like a charm.

Cradling the fur baby in your arms, you search for a warm blanket and head to the couch. Shinsou finally joins you with a puzzled expression. His eyes land on the kitten comically wrapped up like a burrito. The animal sneezes and owlishly blinks at Shinsou; the hero fights back a snort.

“Was there anything else inside?”

“Nothing. Not even a single note.”

You frown, stroking the kitten’s forehead, “Who the hell left this poor baby outside in that dirty box? Especially in the middle of this horrible storm! What if we weren’t home to save them? I don’t even want to imagine how much this fur ball would have suffered.”

“I’m wondering why they chose our apartment,” Shinsou mutters, his mind trying to remember anyone who might know his address. He tries to keep his personal life under wraps, even if he works more as an underground hero. Only his closest friends know where he lives, but they never would do something like this. Shinsou didn’t find any explosives or deadly chemicals inside the box, ruling out a villain. Maybe a crazed fan? He’s had a few run-ins with them before. Your giggles interrupt his brooding thoughts.

Lilac eyes shift down and watch as the kitten chews on your finger. A small grin curves on Shinsou’s lips at the adorable sight. You loosen the blanket so the kitten can move more freely. Little paws press on your thighs as its button nose sniff your clothes.

Shinsou tilts his head, “Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?”

“Good question,” you hum and inspect the kitten’s behind, “It’s a girl!”

“We need to take her to the vet tomorrow,” Shinsou’s hand immediately gets attacked by the kitten’s paws and he chuckles while playing along. The exuberant fur ball distracts him from his thoughts, nipping the hero’s fingers with their sharp teeth. It does not hurt Shinsou one bit; if anything, the bite feels more like a small prick. He then grins, “Got to get this little rascal properly checked out for any injuries and see if she’s a lost pet.”

“I doubt she’s a missing pet.” An annoyed thumb jerks behind you, “This little angel was left outside our doorstep in a wet cardboard box. If anything, I want to find the person who abandoned her like this and kick their ass.”

A meow squeaks below. You gesture at the kitten and chirp, “See? Even she agrees with the idea!”

“Let’s take this one step at a time,” Shinsou smirks before searching for the nearest veterinary office on his phone. You roll your eyes and continue to play with the energetic kitten. Shinsou does not react when you reach for his scarf to entertain your new guest. Dangling the fabric in the air, you squeak when the kitten jumps and grabs it; the scarf quickly engulfs the fur ball’s tiny frame. After a few shuffles, her head pops out, and you laugh.

“Got the address,” Shinsou takes a screenshot of one location. He glances at the kitten who endearingly tilts her head at him; he shakes his own, but a faint smile creeps on his face, “I guess we’ll create a make-shift bed for her in our room.”

“Ooooh, yes! I got some old clothes we can use.” You scoop the kitten in your hands and jump off the sofa. Heading to the bedroom, you cry out, “C’mon! She needs some rest; poor baby has been through a lot for one night.”

Shinsou doesn’t argue with you as he snatches his scarf off the couch and follows closely behind.

༛༛ ༛ ༛༺༻༛ ༛ ༛༛

“Well,” the veterinarian does a quick once-over at her patient. You wait with bated breath for the doctor’s results. Shinsou stands beside you with arms crossed, “Despite missing some vaccinations, she appears to be a healthy three-month-old kitten. I gave her a couple of shots, but she will need to come back in a few weeks for the next doses, though.”

You are relieved, “Thank you, Dr. Sasaki!”

“You’re welcome,” she smiles, bopping the animal’s nose, “The kitten also has no prior owner since I did not detect a microchip. She’s all yours!”

The curious kitten almost falls off the exam table, but you grab her with lightning speed. As soon as the doctor leaves, you face Shinsou and slice the air with your hand, “We have to keep her!”

“Huh?”

“I’m not taking ‘no’ for an answer. She has no home, and I don’t want her ending up in a shelter. Besides, look at her!” You raise the kitten to his eye level and pout to strengthen your case. Shinsou arches an amused eyebrow. “How can you say no to that itty-bitty face?”

On instinct, the kitten meows and instantly melts the hero’s heart. He scratches the back of his neck while saying, “Okay, fine. We’ll keep her.”

You squeal, cradling the bundle of joy closer to your chest; she purrs softly in your arms. Shinsou enjoys seeing you this happy. Unbeknownst to you, he already made his decision after yesterday’s events. You and Shinsou played with the kitten all night long, laughing as she eagerly swatted a piece of yarn dangling mid-air. Once the mini tigress tired herself out, Shinsou tucked her into her make-shift bed.

Your smile brings him back to the present, “We still need a name for our little girl.”

“How about Emi?”

“Emi…” You test out the name and your eyes sparkle, “It’s perfect!”

Shinsou wraps an arm around your waist and fondly looks at his new child while grinning, “Welcome to the family, Emi.”

She is indeed a beautiful blessing.

Which prompt will be crossed off next? Who knows, depends on what my brain comes up with lmao. 

As always, thank you for reading! 

Hero Camp Bingo Masterlist

[paperwayne]

steady.

50 Wordless Ways to Say “I Love You” ➡ 1. Holding their hands when they are shaking.

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

Word Count: 2,450 words

Warnings: None

I.

You’ve known Jason Todd long enough to know how sticky his fingers can be. It’s a talent, really, something to be admired in the slums of Gotham; an apple here, a wallet there, and more recently, tires right off of cars.

Stealing isn’t wrong if you’re trying to survive. But sometimes, you can’t resist doing it out of pleasure rather than necessity.

Jason’s hand is clean and warm as it curls firmly around your wrist – a habit that has now become a signal, back when you had been loose-lipped and jumpy whenever the two of you walked past the cashiers at stores – and you tear your gaze away from the crude caricature of Batman you had been scribbling onto an Etch A Sketch you had found, blinking as your friend glances at your artwork.

“Funny,” he compliments, and you crack a smile before he jerks his head slightly toward the exit. “C’mon, let’s go.”

You give the gummy Etch A Sketch a few vigorous shakes and slide it back onto the dusty shelf from whence it came. As you and Jason make your way to the door, the old man at the register stares suspiciously. You smile at him, innocent in your youth.

The door is just about to close completely before it swings open again, but by then you had crossed the street.

“You little brats, get back here!”

Jason’s grip on you tightens and that’s another signal.

Run.

You don’t have to look to know that Jason’s biting down a grin as you drag each other along the dirty, buckling sidewalk, evading indifferent passersby as the cashier shouts out a few expletives in vain. You keep your breathing in time with his, pumping your arms as you leap over cracks and clumps of yellowing grass. Jason’s hand slides down from your wrist to wrap around your own hand, vicelike and stubborn. It’s easier to run that way, you think.

Eventually, you find yourselves in an alleyway that’s mostly empty, save for a homeless woman dozing off next to the dumpster. Jason lets go of your hand to unzip his jacket while you do the same. The trash bag behind you crackles when you shuffle back to lean against the brick wall, panting.

“So,” he murmurs, blue eyes a steely shade of grey in the shadows of the alley, “Purple or green?”

“… Green.” You try to swallow and moisten your parched throat. “R-Red or orange?”

“Something wrong, [Y/n]?”

You pause when Jason asks that question, one of his eyebrows raised. His gaze darts down to the pairs of socks in your two hands. That’s when you realize that they are shaking, and it’s a split second later when you realize that it’s because your hands are shaking. Trembling, more like.

“Oh.” Immediately, you clench your fists, embarrassed as you try to still your jittery fingers. “I didn’t even – it’s nothing.” In the brief moment of skeptical silence, you say the only other thing that automatically comes to mind. “Sorry.”

Jason’s curious expression morphs into one of confusion. “The hell’re you saying ‘sorry’ for?” he asks. His tone is a little rough, but when you blurt out another ‘sorry,’ he has the sense to soften a bit. “’S’nothing to say sorry for. We didn’t get caught, so you don’t gotta be shaking.”

You nod, looking down, and he sighs.

“Here.”

He takes your red pair of socks and tucks it into his pocket, then unceremoniously presses the candy bar with the green wrapper into your hand and places your other hand over it. You think that he’ll pull away soon, but he doesn’t; his hands engulf both of yours like some sort of sandwich, and then they stay. His skin is no longer warm like it had been in the store, but his hold is just as firm as it had been when he gripped your wrist not ten minutes ago.

Jason stares intently at his hands and yours, and after a few minutes, he finally lets go, satisfied.

“It’s choco-caramel,” he says, as if nothing had just happened. “Lucky guess.”

You tuck the candy bar into your jacket pocket, hands steady.

II.

You’ve known Jason Todd long enough to know that sometimes, he feels too much.

There’s a whoosh of air as your bedroom door opens, and you think you hear yourself mumble a few protests as the door slams loudly behind Jason. Eyes squinting, you reach out to turn on the bedside lamp, flinching when you click it on.

Heavy, angry breaths heave from the boy’s chest when you fix your gaze upon his hunched-over figure. His mask is gone, but the rest of his uniform still displays its bright and cheerful colors, a stark contrast to the darkness rolling off Jason in waves. Your eyes trace downward from his hair, matted and sweaty from a night of patrolling, to his arms and his hands, straight and stiff at his sides.

Anger still bubbles beneath the surface of his skin, you can see; it escapes in the form of shaking arms and fists.

“Jay?” you murmur in the choking silence.

As if awakened, Jason whirls around to kick the wall. It’s enough to jolt the rest of the sleep out of you, and you blink as he continues to slam his foot against the plaster and concrete, cursing both under and over his breath.

“Dammit! Dammit! Dammit!”

“Jason!”

You throw the blankets off you and cross the room, grabbing his arm. He tears away just as quickly, jaw clenched as he shoots you a venomous glare that’s not quite all there.

“Why the hell are you in my room?!”

“This is my room!”

“No, it’s —” Jason cuts himself off as he finally registers the contents of your bedroom, gaze flitting across your stuffed animals and the Etch a Sketch on your bedside drawer. His mouth tightens, and his expression crumples back into one of irritation.

“No, you’re staying here until you tell me what’s wrong,” you state firmly when he moves to open the door again. Reaching out to touch his arm once more, you hold it as you lead him to your bed and sit down at the edge. “Did Bruce get mad at you again?”

Jason scoffs, high-pitched and loud. “He’s always mad at me during patrol. He’s got a stick up his ass.”

You examine the way he clenches and unclenches his hands in his lap. His breathing is still uneven. “… Something went wrong, didn’t it?”

“He got shot.”

“Bruce?” You frown. Though it’s obviously painful, you know that Bruce’s been shot before, and he gets over it pretty quickly every time.

“No. A – a kid. He was little. I wasn’t quick enough. It was in the leg, but Bruce said if I stayed back the bastard wouldn’t have fired the gun in the first place.” Jason spits out the words like they’re poison. “The hell does he know? He’s never used a gun in his life.”

You chew on your lip. You can picture the scene all too well, bits of memories of Crime Alley shootouts and family homicides filling in the gaps. You can imagine the scream of the child. You can imagine the argument in the Batcave afterwards, Batman glowering over Jason like the Gotham Clocktower, dark and disapproving, as Jason throws his mask down and stomps away.

“Did the kid get to the hospital?” you whisper.

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” You breathe out slowly, deliberately. “That’s good. I’m glad.”

Jason is quiet. You look at his hands again, and as if in a daze, you reach out to hold them.

The gloves are dirty. You pull them off as his hands unclench, blinking down at the pale skin mottled with purple bruises at the knuckles. You turn them over to inspect his palms and fingertips as if you’re about to read them, prophesy about his fate or something, but really you just mean to look at them for the sake of doing so. It brings you back in time, touching his hands. They’re still rough with callouses. Still shaking.

“As long as you’ve stopped them,” you mutter, relaxing your hold as the tremors slow, then fade from his muscles. “It doesn’t matter how you do it as long as they don’t do it again.”

“Thanks,” he says. It’s forced out, but it’s sincere. You meet his eyes when he extracts his hands from yours, fingers pulling away as slow as pulling taffy, and they’re tired but resolute.

You almost kiss him that night. But you don’t, thinking that a better time would probably come, when both of you are older and wiser and happier, and when Jason would perhaps not mind kissing you.

That chance is buried along with Jason a few months later, and with it, a part of yourself.

III.

You used to know Jason Todd.

Used to, because Jason is gone. You had been there at his funeral. You had watched his casket get lowered into the ground, and you had thrown a dumb flower at it like it would magically make a wooden box with a dead body prettier somehow. You had cried for him.

Jason Todd is dead. But then Uncle Alfred calls, and all of a sudden, you aren’t so sure anymore.

Although Bruce had initially objected, Alfred tells you about the empty casket and the Red Hood. He asks if any men had visited you lately, or if you feel like someone’s watching you. You tell him that you’d probably be dead if either of those things happened. He chuckles.

He tells you that Bruce sends his regards. You hang up.

It’s kind of ironic that you almost get killed that same night.

Your ears are still ringing and the frigid night air makes it hard to breathe; the ghost of a cold, hard pistol pressed against your temple renders you dizzy. The whole thing could have been avoided if you’d remembered to test the battery of your damn taser this month, but you hadn’t, and now three bodies are in the alleyway – yours; the man that had touched you, now deceased, lying on the asphalt; and a strange man with the gun that had won.

The rest of the smoke finally dissipates from the barrel. Your savior for the night spins the weapon in his hand before tucking it away at his hip, strolling over to crouch down at the thief’s side. With no great effort, he shoves a hand underneath the corpse to roll it over.

You stand, still quite in shock, as the man in the red helmet reaches into the dead man’s back pocket and plucks out a square, leather object. He stands up and holds it out to you, and you realize that it’s your wallet.

You take it. “Thanks … er …”

“Red Hood,” he says, looking down at you. It feels like he’s staring.

“Yeah,” your heart is in your throat and you will the next few words to come out smoothly, “I know. I’ve heard about you.”

“Well, shucks, I’m flattered. I bet the rumors are full of sunshine and rainbows.”

The words seem innocent, but the tone is familiar. You know this tone and manner of speaking. It’s baiting, a subtle prod to reveal yourself, and overwhelming curiosity leads you to reciprocate.

“There’s not many vigilantes out in Gotham who aren’t under the bat, you know.”

The Red Hood barks out a sharp laugh. “Don’t need the bat when I’ve got a gun.”

He’s right, though you know Batman certainly wouldn’t appreciate that reasoning. Your gaze darts down to the leather holster cradling that deadly weapon. You wet your lips, cautiously, as he leans against the wall opposite you and waits for you to talk again.

“You could’ve just knocked him out.”

“I also could’ve let him splatter your brains out. Life’s full of possibilities.” He uncrosses his arms, and you, for some insane reason, stay where you are as he suddenly pushes off the wall. His voice lowers. “So’s death.”

Your next words are exceptionally careful. He’s getting closer, the white eyes of his helmet washed in shadows as you meet them as solidly as you can. “I’ve heard about that too.”

(Despite your greatest efforts, you feel your hands begin to shake. No no no. You cross your arms to hide them and look more put together than you feel.)

“Really,” he says. “Do tell.”

“My uncle,” you begin slowly, “was just telling me today about a casket that was recently dug back up in the cemetery. They found that the person in it – who was supposed to be in it – was never there.”

“Wow. That’s wild.”

“Yeah. Wild.”

God, your hands won’t stop shaking. They tremble, suffocating in the crooks of your elbows, and you’re growing more and more frustrated as the Red Hood just stands there, infuriatingly silent as he watches your patience slowly unravel until the last thread snaps.

“Look,” you finally exclaim, taking a single step forward; your voice is hoarse and desperate and barely above a whisper. “Jason, if that’s you, tell me. It was just us for so long – you owe me a yes or no, goddammit!”

Your fingers are achingly, annoyingly stiff. Tremors wrack through each tendon and joint. Breathing heavily, you realize that you’re now gripping his biceps, blunt nails digging into the soft leather of his jacket, and that you’re standing much closer to him than you thought you were.

A solid minute passes. Then, slowly, the Red Hood reaches up to grasp your forearms, his hands dragging down to meet yours as they pull away from his jacket. You bite your tongue, glaring at the space between you.

Jason squeezes your hands tight, and then he lets go.

Your arms drop down to your sides, limp, as he pats your shoulder, looking to his left. “Your apartment’s just across the street, right? You’ll probably make it,” is all he says.

You just nod emptily and amble out of the alleyway, mind blurry while he trails close behind, leaving the corpse of your assailant where it had fallen. There’s no cars driving around right now so you just walk across the street without looking both ways, only stopping once you reach your apartment door and have your key out to unlock it. 

You turn around before opening the door; no one’s around, naturally, and you exhale and step inside.

As soon as the lock clicks, your legs give out underneath you. You crumple on the cold tile, hands folded and crushing against your mouth in some semblance of a prayer, and start to cry – and you can’t, for the life of you, figure out why.

__

[50 Wordless Ways to Say “I Love You” prompt list (requests using this prompt list are CLOSED)]

[thegreatestshowfan]

I don't know what a chill is so here's more for @the-passenger-if

Hours of debating went on in the Newman household before Nash's mother finally allowed them to get their own apartment. She insisted they weren't fit to live alone due to their migraines, they argued they had enough of a routine someone would know if they hit their head. She argued they didn't know how to function on their own, they pointed out they had taken care of her when she was sick plenty of times. Eventually they came to an agreement.

Nash would move into the apartment complex two blocks away from home and would make sure to call or text every morning. Their mother worried, they knew that, and this seemed like a good compromise.

"This is the last of it," Livvy said as she sat another box down on the ground in Nash's new livingroom.

"Do you want help unpacking?" Mom asked, looking around at the apartment.

"Nah, Jonny and Roach are coming later to help unpack," they responded.

"Alright, well Bruno and I need to get going anyway," Fiama said.

"I'll walk you all down," Nash offered and scooped up Bruno.

They hadn't really thought they would like children, but they were suprised at how much they liked Bruno. As they walked downstairs he made sure to tell them to look out for the ghosts of old women who died here. He said he had already seen a few hiding in their closet and Nash made a mental note to check it out before going to sleep that night. Also to make sure the doors were locked.

Nash said goodbye to Mom and Livvy and gave them a hug. They gave Bruno a high-five and Fiama a hug as well then watched them all leave. It had been a long time since they had truly been alone, but it felt exhilarating in a way. Jonny and Roach would be over in a few hours, but in the meantime they could enjoy the solitude.

Back in their apartment they grabbed a couple boxes labeled bedroom and set to work. While they waited for their friends they could unpack their clothing and start putting together the furniture. They flicked on the radio and got to work.

Soon enough they found themself struggling with a screwdriver and a drawer of their nightstand. They grumbled and threw the screwdriver down. It was time to take a break and Jonny and Roach should be appearing soon. They pushed themself to their feet and turned the radio off. That's when they heard voices down the hall.

They froze.

They couldn't quite hear what was being said and inched closer to the door. One of the voices broke out in a laugh and the other groaned.

"Nash we're here!" Jonny's voice finally called a bit louder.

Nash relaxed at the sound of a familiar voice and headed into the living room. Roach had a grin on his face and Jonny's was red.

"What's going on?" they asked.

"Jonny wants to look at your underwear," Roach laughed.

"WHAT? NO! I NEVER-" Jonny began to protest.

Both Nash and Roach began cackling at his reaction. He huffed and grumbled about them ganging up on him. Nash just placed a gentle hand on his arm and smiled.

"Hey, I've got a nightstand in my room that's giving me trouble. Can you go take a look?" they asked.

"Sure," Jonny nodded.

"Oh inviting him to your bedroom already?" Roach laughed again.

Nash hit him upside the head and Jonny gave him one last glare. They pointed to a room down the hall and Jonny walked into it. Roach continued to giggle as he opened up a box of Nash's things. Rather than doing anything productive he just started going through it.

"If you don't help you don't get pizza," they warned, opening a box of dishes.

"Whatever," Roach rolled his eyes but began to help unpack.

They had managed to unpack most of Nash's belongings in the livingroom and kitchen before Jonny came back from the bedroom. He wrapped his arms around Nash and pressed a kiss to the top of their head. Roach made an overly exaggerated gagging noise.

"Pizza time?" he asked, blatantly ignoring Roach.

"Sure, hand me the phone Roach," they held their hands out as Roach tossed it across the room.

Nash ordered the pizza and in the meantime they set up the television set. Jonny flipped through their collection of movies. He groaned at most of them and made jokes about Nash's taste. Roach went through everything he discarded and insisted they watch it. Nash just placed little decorations here and there about the space until the pizza arrived. Eventually the group settled on Jurrasic Park two (Jonny nearly walked out after finding Nash had only the second film) and their pizzas arrived.

Almost halfway into the movie Nash started giggling, drawing both Roach's and Jonny's attention away from the screen.

"What?" Roach asked.

"Just realized something that's going to make Jonny real mad..." they smiled.

"What did you do?" he sighed and removed his arm from around them, already knowing he would be disappointed in what they were about to say.

"I've never even watched the first Jurrasic Park movie... Or the third for that matter," they said.

Just as suspected Jonny stood and made his way to the door. He shoved his shoes on silently as Roach and Nash cackled on the couch. He grumbled to himself, looking at them in disgust.

"I can't believe I'm dating you," he shook his head.

"Awww, baby c'mon..." Nash reached their hands out to him.

He stopped and let out a groan. He could see Roach's eyebrows raising as he kicked his shoes off again. Nash had him wrapped around their finger and Roach seeing this would cause endless teasing... But the way Nash smiled at him pulled him back to the couch and his arm back around them. He could already hear the teasing from Roach.

After pizza and a movie Roach was predictably gone. He claimed to have "something dire to attend to" but when asked what it was said it "wasn't important". Nash let him be, knowing he wouldn't be much help with the rest of the unpacking. At least Jonny would stay, and he seemed to have more of a grasp of what an apartment should look like than Roach ever would. Jonny tossed the empty pizza boxes and looked around at the scattered mess. Without any prompt he started working again.

"Hey Nash, where do you want this weird looking dog figurine?" he asked.

"That's an otter Jonny..."

"Okay, where do you want this weird looking otter figurine?"

"Next to the picture of us on the shelves," they laughed.

"Wait..." Jonny paused, "you actually kept that picture?"

"Well yeah," Nash looked up from folding the blankets next to the couch. "Its evidence of you smiling. I had to keep it."

Jonny shook his head and placed the figurine next to it. He smiled at the picture. It was from Nash's birthday the year prior, Livvy had snapped it while neither of them were paying attention but had gifted it to Nash a couple weeks later. It was a little blurry, but there was still a distinct smile that played on his lips as he looked at Nash who was busting in laughter. Roach had made some stupid joke and as always, they laughed at it. He wasn't sure how exactly he fell for someone with the same humor as Roach, but looking at the way they smiled in the picture reminded him exactly why he had fallen in the first place. It was always their smile that reminded him that the world wasn't always evil. Their smile was a breath of fresh air.

He sighed a bit and pulled it off the shelf. Nash looked up at him. Now stationed at the last box in the livingroom, they were surrounded by the small collection of books Mom had sent with them.

"How'd your sister manage to get this?" he asked.

"Well there's this thing called a camera-"

"Don't be a smart ass."

"Okay," Nash laughed. "I don't know how she got one as clear as that. I don't even remember what we're laughed at, but Livvy's kinda magic like that."

"Roach said something stupid as usual and you thought it was funny," he said. "I wasn't laughing at him though, I was smiling at you."

Nash tried to hide their blush by looking back down at the books around them. They knew Jonny had probably already seen the red on their face, but that didn't stop them from looking away. They weren't prepared for him to be sweet like this. He just chuckled and placed the picture back on the shelf before taking the organized books from Nash and putting them beside it.

Everything was finally done except...

"Nash you can't sleep on the floor did you seriously not get a bed frame?" Jonny asked shuffling through empty boxes.

"I've got a mattress what's the problem?" they asked.

Jonny stared at them for a moment, trying to decide if they were serious. He shook his head and grabbed the sheets to put on their matress.

"It gets messed up real easy without it, but it's your bed I guess," he shrugged.

"If you clean under it and let it air out that won't hurt it. Plus I didn't want to drag the whole bedframe over here," they said, pulling the sheets across the bed. "Mom's probably going to freak when she realizes I left it..."

Jonny chuckled, fluffing a few pillows and throwing them down as Nash smoothed out the comforter. They looked at their work and immediately crawled under the covers, pulling Jonny down onto the bed. He laughed but pulled the blankets over him and then Nash closer.

"You're all moved in now," he said.

"Yeah... Feels nice," they nodded.

"Why didn't you move out before now?" he asked.

"Migraines," they sighed, "I'd gone to a doctor who suggested that until they let up or I can easily predict them I shouldn't live on my own. I'd fallen one too many times after they hit suddenly and had to get some stitches because the coffee table is in a really bad place when you black out from pain."

"Jeez Newman," he shook his head. "Maybe your mom was right."

"No. No she wasn't because if it becomes a problem I can just babyproof everything and I won't hit my head," they explained.

"Nash if it 'becomes a problem' that means you'll be getting hurt," he pointed out.

It was normal for humans to want independence, but Nash wasn't human. They weren't sure why it mattered that they have their own place. They felt coddled back home. Knowing they could crush this world easily with their full power, but yet not being trusted to live alone drove them insane. Nobody took them seriously due to their fragile casket. If only they knew how powerful they were.

"I'm not getting into this with you," they shook their head and threw the blanket off of them.

"Woah, hey, Nash stop. I didn't mean to upset you," Jonny said and grabbed their arm.

"I'm not a kid Jonny," they snapped.

"I know-"

"Do you? Because it sure seems like everyone thinks I'm incapable of functioning without help. I'm not a kid, I can do things, I can function. Why can't anyone see that?" they pushed Jonny away and stood up.

Jonny stood as well and quickly walked over to where Nash was. He put a hand on either shoulder to stop them, then tilted their head to look at him.

"Hey, look at me... I know you're not a kid. I know you could probably fight off an entire army if you wanted to," he turned Nash's face again as they yanked it away. "You are amazing, I know that. You-"

Nash pushed him away again. They looked at him for a moment and shook their head.

"Don't patronize me. I thought you'd be happy that I finally got my own place or maybe actually be proud of me. If you really don't think that much of me then you can just leave," Nash spat.

"I'm not-"

"Jonny I'm not going to listen to you doubt me too."

"Nash, stop! I'm serious! Look at me! I'm not trying to patronize you, I said that because I worry about you. I don't want to get a call from your mom or Livvy saying you got hurt because you hit your head and I wasn't there-"

"Are you crying?"

"I-fuck... Yeah I'm crying. I just... I don't want you to get hurt... Are you crying now?"

"...shut up..."

"What?"

"Shut up and just... Just hold me for a while."

Jonny didn't hesitate to bring Nash closer to him. He could spend forever in this moment, but he didn't know how long Nash would stay like this before they got mad again. He took this moment to savor it, because he knew arguments often lead to break ups. This could be the last time he held Nash in his arms, and he couldn't leave without taking the memory with him. He loved them...

"I wasn't trying to say anything bad about you I promise," Jonny whispered after a while of silence.

"It just feels like sometimes nobody takes me seriously... I can do things. I HAVE done things, and yet when I try to move out nobody thinks I can do it," they shook their head.

"I'm sorry," Jonny mumbled and kissed their head.

"It's okay..." they said, taking a step back. "What time are your folks expecting you home?"

"Whenever. I can stay as long as you want... Or-or leave if you'd rather," he gulped.

"You can spend the night," Nash murmured.

"Are you sure you want me to?" Jonny asked.

"Look I'm not happy with you assuming I'm not capable of taking care of myself..."

"I know..."

"But I really want you here..."

Jonny smiled softly and kissed Nash's forehead. He lead them back to the mattress and wrapped them in his arms. He again tried to savor that moment, unsure of how much longer this would last. He had always been a second choice, if even a choice at all. He was certain Nash would soon realize a better path, but right now he was able to savor the moment.

Savor them.

[starrybbarnes]

sticking together [b.b]

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader 

Summary: just a normal day where Bucky happens to see a familiar face stuck on your laptop

Word Count: 1,710

Author’s note: this was inspired by this interesting sticker I saw, and it made me laugh. but please, if you have seen that person, lemme kno. I also wrote this at 1am, and scheduled it for later today so let’s hope it's published.

“Y/N! Pizza is here!” 

“In a minute!” you yelled, closing your laptop and swiftly getting out of the couch. It was a slow Tuesday afternoon, and you and Bucky decided to just stay in.

“Hurry up or else I’m gonna eat it” Bucky lamely threatened, placing the plates onto the kitchen table. 

You feigned horror, hand draped across your forehead: “You wouldn’t dare Bucky!”

Laughs erupted the kitchen as Bucky set the box of pizza and wings in the middle and handing you a cold beer. It was a warm summer afternoon, a breeze coming through the kitchen window. 

You both dug into the pizza, with you almost burning your tongue. A chuckle escapes from Bucky’s mouth as you smile back at him.

“So,” Bucky started, speaking with his mouth filled with pizza, “I saw that you were looking super concentrated on your laptop. Work got you stumped?”

You scrunch a paper towel and chuck it at Bucky, “What’d I tell you about manners, Buck! I don’t wanna sound like an old geezer that’s mad at the youth.” 

“Hey, that was one time!” Bucky interjected, “Those teenagers were being a nuisance outside, so obviously I had to straighten ‘em up somehow.” 

“That doesn’t mean you walk up to them in your tactical gear and a gun.”

“But have you seen any teenagers making a ruckus outside our apartment?”

“Nope.”

“Exactly. You’re welcome.”

“You’re really something else, babe,” you sighed, taking a sip from your beer, “anyways, I wasn’t concentrating on work. I was looking for something on an online store.”

“Oh? Did you find it?” Bucky asked. He knew you loved to online shop, but was very particular about certain things. You’d check the reviews, the descriptions, and anything else to make sure the item comes as described. Also because sometimes you’d pay for 5.99 shipping and that made your wallet wince. 

“Well I’m not sure,” you replied, “I’m just window shopping at the moment, but I need some new art to put up somewhere around the apartment.” 

Bucky hummed in agreement and got up, “well, whatever or wherever this art is, I know you have a very good eye for it. Anything you choose is beautiful, and I appreciate you for adding so much color in my life.”

He planted a kiss on your forehead and then hugged you from behind. Your heart fluttered at what he said and you replied, “You’re such a sap, Buck. You’re making me blush.” 

Bucky just flashed his signature smile at you and made his way to the living room. Once you finished up eating and cleaning the dishes you joined Bucky on the couch, reaching for your laptop to resume your art scouting. 

An hour has passed, and Bucky has passed out on the couch, his quiet snores filling up the silence of the room. You were still searching far and wide on your favorite art website, but still no luck. 

You were about to call it a day when you hear Bucky almost choke on his spit while sleeping. He semi-coughs kinda chokes and then goes back to his nap as if nothing happened. 

You decided to type Bucky Barnes on the art website and click search. 

Almost immediately, you see photos of Bucky photoshopped with flower crowns, a halo, or him in a polaroid-type background. You have stumbled upon fan art for Bucky, and boy have you hit the jackpot. 

You clicked on the sticker section, and there it was. 

The perfect sticker for your laptop. 

It was in the style of a wanted poster, and it read: 

Wanted: Have You Seen This Person? No Crime (Other than stealing my heart). Reward Available. 

And right in the smack-dab middle was a photo of Bucky that you vaguely remember seeing in a magazine. People really loved your boyfriend, and the sticker brought an absolute smile to your face.

You saw the dimensions of the sticker and decided to go with the medium-sized one, to put it front and center. 

You also found some art of the skyline of your favorite show, so you decided to buy a decent-sized canvas print of it. 

You added to cart, and once you bought you saw they’d be ready in 5-7 days. 

You absolutely couldn’t wait. 

。。

Days passed, and the mail finally came in. Luckily for you, Bucky was still at the compound, so you didn’t have to worry about hiding the package this time around. 

You opened up the box and saw the canvas print. It looked absolutely beautiful, you mentally thanked yourself that you got a size big enough to put above the couch. The hues of blue, purple, and pink really made it stand out in the living room, and definitely complimented your living room. You knew Bucky would be constantly admiring it. 

You rummaged around the box a bit more and then felt the cool sticker paper. You yanked it out the box and saw the sticker in its entirety.

It was more than you asked for and saw it would fit perfectly on this lower-left corner of your laptop. You cleaned the spot it was gonna be on, and once it was on, it looked amazing. 

You couldn’t stop giggling to yourself because there was an actual picture of Bucky on your laptop, and he looked just adorable, might you add. You also bought 3 other miscellaneous stickers: one of a koi fish, another of some poppies, and the last one that simply read “lol ur not bucky barnes.” 

You put the 3 stickers on your metal water bottle. After being content with the placement, you collected the box and its trash and started to make your way to the front door.

As you turned the knob, the door wouldn’t budge open. And when you decided to let go, a very eager Bucky almost swung open the door. Almost. 

Bucky looked at you wide-eyed and started apologizing profusely, “Babe! I didn’t see you there! Were you gonna take out the trash? Don’t worry I’ll do it.”

“Bucky, I’m okay! Just come inside already and give me a kiss.” 

He happily obliged and pulled you into a hug. “So I’m assuming your art came in?”

“It did!” you beamed, “come looked at it!”

You practically dragged Bucky to the living room and had him stop in front of the couch.

You saw Bucky’s eye light up in admiration. “Wow...” Bucky whispered, “this is an amazing art piece, sweetheart.”

“You think so?”

“I know so,” Bucky reassured you, “this might be my favorite piece to date. You buy anything else?”

“Well, I did buy some stickers.” you hesitantly said. Your ears went pink and Bucky saw immediately.

“Can I see them?” Bucky asked.

“...yes?” you coughed. 

“Are they nude stickers or something? You’re acting funny.” Bucky added.

“Psh, no!” you interjected, “why would I put that on my water bottle??”

“Then show me!”

You took your sweet time to get your bottle from the kitchen while doing a quick scan of the apartment, quietly thanking yourself that your laptop is nowhere to be found. 

You finally grabbed the bottle, and since bucky was growing impatient, he just walked up to you and stuck out his hand. 

“I really don’t see anything wrong with the bottle,” Bucky said, as he was examining the bottle. What he didn’t realize was the “lol” sticker was covered by his hand.

“Scoot your hand to the left,” you said.

He did so and raised an eyebrow. “L o L, you’re not Bucky??” he asked incredulously, “but I am Bucky?? Or am I ?”

“You are Bucky, silly,” you said as you snatched your bottle and set it on the table. “the sticker just means that whatever fool is talking to me, it won’t matter, ‘cause they’re not you.”

“Interesting,” Bucky responded, “and you can just buy stickers like that?” 

“Pretty much. There were a lot of stickers related to you.” 

“Really?” Bucky said with interest in his voice. “That’s pretty neat.”

“If you’re thinking, yes they’ll probably have some embarrassing ones of Steve and Sam,” you added. Bucky did a small cheer and you just rolled your eyes. 

You turned on the TV and decided to catch up on the news while Bucky was raiding the fridge.

“Hey Y/N, it seems that there’s nothing good in this thing,” Bucky started.

“Is that so?”

“Yup. I’m gonna order take out, sound good with you?” Bucky asked.

“I’m game, babe!” You replied, not taking your eyes off the TV.

“My phone just died, I’m gonna borrow your laptop real quick,” Bucky hollered as he walked to your shared room to retrieve it.

“Sounds good,” you yawned, feeling your eyes flutter closed. The silence and the low volume of the television were about to engulf you into sleep until you heard your name.

“Y/N..”

You froze. You just remembered about the sticker on your computer.

“... yeah, Bucky..” you responded.

“Uh... can you just come to our room real quick?”

You shuffled your legs as quickly as possible as you see the sight before you: Bucky is holding your (closed) laptop up to his face, wearing an incredulous look.

“Bucky, I can explain!”

“Out of all the pictures, you chose this one??”

“I, uh, what?” you stuttered, processing what he said.

“Was this the only picture they had??”

“Well, yeah, someone made it and I just bought it.” you explained, your face turned pink and you kept hiding your face.

“Oh, babe, I didn’t mean to embarrass you!” Bucky said as he embraced you in a hug. “It just threw me off that there’s a whole ass sticker of my face on your laptop.”

“It’s a good photo!” you argued, “Besides, people need to know that you are a criminal, for stealing my heart!”

“Someone alert the media,” Bucky joked, “because I’m gonna make sure you’re falling for me, hard.”

He started kissing you all over your face and pulled you closer to him.

“Oh Buck,” you sighed, kissing him on the lips and wrapping your hands around his neck, “You already did that ages ago.” 

Bucky smiled. “Do you think I can get that exact same sticker with your face on it?”

“I hope so. Let’s investigate together.”

。。

A/N: as always, feedback is greatly appreciated. love you guys!

[mooleche]

A Tale of Ink and Venom

A/N - It’s happening! I’m reworking the old story I was working on to hopefully build a better version in its place! Multi-chapter fic involving OC x Colossus where OCs story unfolds while trying to do a heroic act that ends badly and the chaos the unfolds in the aftermath. Might do a few chapters on here and then move over to AO3 fully eventually to keep from making super long posts but we’ll see how it goes! ( *’ω’* ) Let me know if you’d like to be tagged!

Also BIG THANKS to @leo-writer for proofreading, you are a saint ily! 

₍₍ (ง Ŏ౪Ŏ)ว ⁾⁾

Chapter One: The Video

Moments.

Buddha says that one moment can change a day, one day can change a life and one life can change the world.

I was never one for religion but I think he was onto something there. Look at heroes, for example, they’re faced with moments like these every day. Ones that will save a life and ones that will take them away the second you hesitate. Moments that will give you the upper hand if you’re lucky and others that will leave you flat on your ass if you're not.

 Or worse. 

Now, I'm no hero by any means, but I like to think that the moments I experienced today would help shape what was in store for me tomorrow. A moment that would maybe even help shape me into something more someday.

So with that, let me ask you this:

Just what moment was it that led me to witness the death of a real superhero in his time of need? And not just any run of the mill death either. I'm talking blood everywhere, in my mouth, in my hair. 

Everywhere.

How had it all gone so wrong so fast?

I suppose in order to know that we have to go to the beginning, back to the morning where my life was about to be given a serious overhaul into chaos.

Back to college.

-

It was late. Very late.

A judgemental 3:45 AM stared back at me from the corner of my laptop's screen and a sigh of defeat escaped me. The Witching hour no longer belonged to ghosts and demons, but to college students that waited until the very last minute to get their 10-page essays written before it was too late. I was no exception to this, sacrificing the last remaining brain cells I had left to crap out what I deemed a passable paper on the artists of old. 

At least that's what I had been doing. 

Now I sat with my legs drawn up to my chest as I stared with growing exhaustion at my laptop. The glowing screen was flooded with news reports of the latest superhero successes and the villains they caught around town. This wasn’t exactly an uncommon thing for a city like Brooklynn. In fact, it was because of this city being such a hot zone for criminal activity that we had things like ‘Top 10 Villain Blunders of the Week’ to begin with.

Then, strangely, my eyes spotted something that I hadn’t expected to see.

I lurched forward, immediately feeling my body protest as I inspected the article that had grabbed my attention. It was a few days old, a journalist touching base on a series of unfortunate events from almost 6 months ago. A superhero trainee under the name of Deadpool had landed himself in hot water after murdering an orderly from the Essex House for Mutant Rehabilitation in what was seen as a cold-blooded attack to the media. Just reading the name of the facility left a bad taste in my mouth, but the video it included to recount the moment made the sensation even worse.

It was old, I had watched it over a dozen times in the recent months and yet I still found myself glued to the screen with morbid curiosity. The cameraman who had been focusing on a tense-looking reporter at the scene now fumbled clumsily over to the main event, a stout looking teen who had earlier called himself Firefist. I’d give you three guesses why he called himself that but taking a look at his clenched fists answered it all too well. 

He stood separated from a cautious crowd of police and bystanders with hands that radiated heat strong enough to cause everyone surrounding him to keep their distance. That was if all the destroyed wreckage around him hadn’t given them more than enough reason to stay back already.

As many times as I had seen this, I still felt bad for him. He looked worn down and angry, but more than anything was the noticeable expression of fear he wore, like a trapped animal willing to do anything to escape. A feeling that I was once all too familiar with.

I sank back into my chair and sighed. No amount of times seeing that clip made that look any easier to see. It was one that hit so close to home and yet I couldn't pinpoint it no matter how many times I tried. I closed my eyes and listened to him continue to threaten the police ballsy enough to step towards him:

"Stay back, I'll burn you!"

The words didn't resonate, but the tone did. Somewhere in the back of my mind was a memory lurking that I couldn't quite touch no matter how hard I focused on it. A memory sealed away so tight that even thinking about it caused my thoughts to grow numb, but that panic in the boy's voice always caused it to stir. Sometimes I felt like I was close enough to grasp it, all I needed was to push a little farther-

A loud bang erupted nearby and my eyes shot open in a panic. Whatever unconscious soul searching I had been doing was broken as I scrambled to catch my headphones now threatening to fall off my face. I looked around, both frantic to find the source to the sudden noise and also hoping no one saw my embarrassing act only to be greeted with muffled laughter nearby.

"Buenos Dias, Princesa! Did I wake you?"

I rubbed my eyes haphazardly and looked to the side of the small room to find a redheaded amazonian grinning back at me from the window. To my utter surprise, the sun was now out and shining it’s smug rays straight into our dorm as I stood to greet the grinning assailant. My bones protested with various cracks in response before I shuffled to my bed and threw open the window to face her.

"That wasn’t funny, Ava! What are you even doing up so early?" I asked through an unavoidable yawn, but I already knew the answer. Ava Santana was a Dominican powerhouse of energy, a mysterious enigma that seemed to only love running, German beer and, for a few crazy months, me. When she wasn’t burning the candle at both ends to keep her insane track record and an intimidating 4.0 GPA up, she was usually creating some wild new building blueprints that she was proud to show off to you before stealing your girlfriend. 

I didn’t know how she did it all and at this point, I was too afraid to ask.

She lifted herself onto the windowsill before tossing her shoes inside, swinging her long tan legs onto my bed to join me all in one fell swoop. All I could do was blink in surprise, knowing I would have faceplanted halfway through if I even attempted this motion. Her gaze studied me curiously now. 

"We both know why I’m awake, or were you expecting someone else to carry our track team to victory?" She teased, her face close to mine with a devious smile planted on her lips. “What's your excuse though, Sleeping Beauty? Building more schematics? Spying on the police scanner? Or maybe staying up late to watch him again?”

“Me? What? Hah, no. Can’t a girl just finish her essay like a good normal college student?”

“You could...if you’re not Nina Knight,” another voice announced beside us and I turned quickly to see another familiar face smirking back at us. Her name was Bambi Banks and she was known as the bad influencer extraordinaire of our dorm when she wasn’t taking candid photos for the Daily Bugle. You thought you had a bad idea? She had 10 at the ready that would probably get you put on the Top 10 lists. Despite this, she was the best friend a girl could ever ask for. 

Even if she now held my laptop in her hands frozen on a very particular shot of the clip that caused my face to burn.

“I really was working on my essay!” I protested as I reached for it only to fall short as Bambi moved just out of my range and looked to Ava curiously.

“I don’t know, Ava. Does this look like an essay to you?”

“You’re the journalist in training, tell us what you see.”

“Well if I had to title this ‘essay’, I would say ‘10 Reasons I Want This Man to Sit on My Fac-’”

“Alright, enough! You caught me,” I protested as I made another attempt to grab the laptop and succeeded, cradling it in my arms with a frown plastered on my face. “I just wanted to hear the update on this story…It put a lot of people in hot water y’know.” I added before taking a seat back at my desk, ignoring their victorious snickers. As much as I did have ulterior motives for watching the clip I really did want to see the outcome of the nationwide fiasco. Despite both the trainee and the kid being taken to the Ice Box to be reprimanded the X-Men and mutantkind as a whole were put under fire for their actions and the remainder of the story fell to a hush to the media in the months after.

Bambi rolled her eyes and ran her hands through her hair, flecks of hot pink from her bangs peeking through her blonde locks as she gave an exasperated sigh over my earnest answer.

“I really shouldn’t be saying this but the guy that looked like he was a walking talking condom was in the right all along.”

“No bullshit? How?” I pressed, now fully taken by the sudden turn of events.

“I heard it from some guy at the Bugle. That Essex place was nasty for mutants, another conversion camp or something so the government was desperado to keep it under wraps.”

“Leave it to the government to try and kill the truth,” Ava muttered under her breath as she stood to leave, pausing to take one of my hands in hers to inspect it thoughtfully. The contrast was big between us; her hands were long and slender while mine were smaller and discolored to a sooty black at the tips. “At least this means you won’t have to hide anymore.”

I knew that she meant well but the words still caused me frown. Not many people knew that I myself was a mutant. Hell, when you lived in a society where people who weren’t old, white, or male were already frowned upon like the next bubonic plague it wasn’t something you wanted getting out. Throw a genetic mutation that gave you unusual powers into the mix and you were the plague. I was lucky to have people around me that knew and accepted me like I was normal, but the reminder still stung. 

Bambi seemed to sense this and absent-mindedly pressed the play button on the video once more as if to distract my thoughts and boy did it work. I felt my face grow warm once more as the clip played. There, once frozen on the screen had been the perfect back shot of a man sprawled over the trainee after his killer shot, a man that now stood a good few feet over everyone else as the police did the cleanup of the area.

A man covered head to toe in metal.

He went by Colossus, but his real name was Piotr Rasputin. At least this is what Google told me when I went super-sleuthing around after I saw him in action for the first time. When he wasn't saving the day with his ragtag team of heroes he taught at Charles Xavier's School for Gifted Learning, a sanctuary for mutants who wanted to feel safe while honing their skills to help mold a better tomorrow. 

I had met Xavier himself years ago on my own tour of the school with my parents. He was very nice and very bald. The school itself had been created in his families estate and transformed into the bustling safe haven that it now was, when it wasn't getting blown up by the villain of the week at least. Despite this terrifying fact I was always envious of those who could attend because I had always wanted to enroll myself. The only downside was that my parents didn't want a burnt corpse for a daughter in the aftermath. How selfish.

I threw my hands up to my face and groaned. “That could have been me on his team! I could have been hot for teacher!”

“And? What’s stopping you? If you like him so much why don't you just go to the school?" Ava called from our bathroom and I groaned again.

“It doesn’t work like that. You can't just go back to that school.”

“And why not? You’re a mutant right? You wanna meet other mutants, right? Maybe get some chrome dome in the process if you get my drift,” Bambi winked. 

I glared at her in response.

It was true, I was a mutant, and maybe I did want that chrome dome. But I had tried the whole superhero vigilante thing before. 

It didn’t go well. 

An ancient proverb once said ‘You can't swim, you can't dance and you don't know karate. Face it, you're never gonna make it.’ and you know what? I stood by that. It’s why I took my very particular set of skills and decided to waste away in one of Brooklynn's most prestigious art colleges -they're words, not mine- instead. It wasn’t ideal, with a dorm that I was convinced was made for ants instead of four people with questionable living styles, but I had friends and I finally felt normal. I didn’t need to mess it up by visiting that school again.

As if reading my thoughts Bambi frowned and took one of my hands in hers, inspecting my inky black fingertips with thoughtful blue eyes.

“I know you’re deadset on having a normal life here but you have a gift, Neeners. And you deserve to be able to show the world what you can do with it.”

“Yeah, I’m really going to turn the world around with my ability to control ink,” I scoffed before taking my hand back gently and sighing. As much as I wanted to bury that side of me I did want to meet others like me, be a part of something bigger and save the day once in a while. 

This? This life was boring. But it was safe. And I needed safe.

I looked up to her and smiled softly. “I...will consider going back there, if only to pay Mr. Xavier a visit and...maybe see how the school’s doing.”

“Code for visiting Mr. heavy metal man, got it.” Bambi winked while imitating a heavy Russian accent as she moonwalked poorly out of the room. 

“You’re a terrible influence, Bam,” I called through stifled laughter before standing and stretching. As much as I hated her pep talks sometimes she was the reason I kept using my powers, keeping them as fresh as I could in case the chance ever arose to use them. Even now the schematics that Ava had so casually mentioned as a joke were tucked away under my desk to play with on a rainy day.

I must have stared at them too long because I felt Bams hand gently touch my shoulder and I jumped in surprise.

“Did you hear Ava? Your alarm is going off,” she asked softly before nodding towards my phone. She was right, the soft tune alerted the room once more before I had the chance to turn it off and blinked in surprise. 

“Sorry, my mind was somewhere else...”

“Between Professor Colossus’ thick thighs we knooow. Don’t let that mans glutes cost you your job,” Ava teased before motioning for Bambi to follow her out the door. She held back and gave me a reassuring squeeze.

“Hey, don’t let our conversation from earlier freak you out. Baby steps, okay? No rush,”

“Right. Baby steps…” I whispered, my gaze falling back to my hands that I had begun wringing absentmindedly with growing anxiety. I looked back up to her and smiled. “Thanks, Bam. I appreciate it.”

“Hey, that’s what friends are for, right?” she grinned before disappearing behind the door. She was right. Friends were there to steer you onto the better path when you doubted yourself. This is what I tried to convince myself as I headed to the bathroom to prepare for the day ahead.

Now that I look back on it I was grateful for that peaceful moment of clarity between friends because after what happened later on, God was I going to need it.

[eulerami]

Not Quite Old Times: Saints Row 2 Fic Troy x M!Boss, (Ignacio.) [Song Inspiration]

        It was always raining in Stilwater. 

          Every time he looked, it seemed the waves would swell a bit more, swallowing some of the coastline, sinking a chunk of road or silted bank, until another piece broke off and took the better part of a block with it. The plains were eradicated, the fields muddy ditches, now rebranded as summertime getaways for unbeatable prices. Finally Stilwater became an island, isolated, alone--paradisaical, with all undesirable at the bottom of the lake. Yet all anyone complained about were their shoes getting wet.

It was ironic, perhaps a little disgusting-- yet there he sat, seat reclined, watching from a parking lot. The Arena District; way out here, across town. He’d come to watch the coast, same as every evening after a long day of doing the right thing.

The ignition was off, rain battered the windshield, and a few rogue droplets still managed to find their way through a cracked window. His fingers flicked the nub of a cigarette while he saw the waves ebb and flow, crashing mere feet from the sophisticated aesthetic, yet technologically useless, dams.

Across the canal was where it happened. The lights of the refurbished bridge shone foggy in the storm. It brought a grunt, as he turned his eyes down to check the contents of the Styrofoam cup in hand, lukewarm coffee halfway drained. It wasn’t that good anyway.

The quiet was welcome. A day of ringing phones and paperwork left his ears still ringing, and he found it pathetic in its own right that he was sore from it. He barely left that gilded office, only to find reprieve in a sketchy parking lot full of dumpsters and sputtering barrel-fires. Smirking, he took a long drag, exhaling through his nose slowly.

Yeah, that felt like home—at least for a few minutes.

He pushed his neck against the headrest, annoyed--despite the generous budget of their glowing benefactors, Ultor still couldn’t supply a car with substantial headspace, let alone leg room. He missed the days of low-rider muscle cars and midnights spent on the hood, watching the stars half-baked and rambling about the future. A dream or a facade, it didn’t matter.  

In the passenger seat, a box of paperwork waited where someone wanting to spend the night with him used to be. Had six years really gone by so fast? The years piled on after a while, and then they were gone.  

As he sighed again, tapping his knee against the door, he let his eyes fall closed to stifle the special sort of exhausted frustration he felt these days. To his left, however, somewhere out there in the storm, the shrill revving of a motorcycle grew louder. He cocked a brow, opening an eye only to peek through the windshield.

As quickly as he had, a motorcyclist shot by, body arched, head low in the night. Sitting upright, he grimaced, squinting through the dark. The cyclist spun out in the barren street,  foot coming to catch, thick back tire skidding with a squeal.

They drove up to the parking lot, a long, methodical pace this time, before rolling to a stop. They seemed to lock gazes with him, out there at the edge of the street, from a face cast in hooded shadow. Overhead lights of closed businesses illuminated their silhouette in warm light, but they were still anonymous. Their hand flexed, the bike responded with a piercing roar of its engine, smoke kicking up behind the tire. “...a’ite, hotshot,” he muttered, sitting upright in his seat. He watched the cyclist, brow knitted, evidence that his souring mood would end up even more bitter before he got a chance to find his couch for the night. The figure in the distance goaded him, revving the gas, coming to burnout but stopping just short with a squeal of the tires. Finally, their hand went to the pocket of a thick sweatshirt, and brandished a pistol.

“Shit--!” Troy ducked under the dash, as a bullet pierced the hood of the car. Once, twice, two pops fired ringing in the night, deafened by the storm--an all-too familiar sound. He hissed between his teeth, raising tired eyes to the ignition, and turning the key. The red-blue lights blared on the cab, siren sounding. The cyclist revved again, foot forcing the sportbike into a circle before speeding off in the other direction.

His foot slammed the gas and the cruiser sped after the other, turning a corner into the empty highway. He accelerated, but the rain painted the other’s tail light as little more than a dull orb to follow. He squinted, the wipers doing jack to mitigate the storm, but he knew this town before the streetlights and levies, and no self-respecting race car had wipers. The sportbike bucked as it hit the dirt, the rider relying on their leg to steer it through the mud, as they crashed through a locked gate. Troy locked his jaw, now gaining ground, as his vehicle fared better than a motorcycle in the mud. Somehow, the cyclist still managed to go speeding up the dirt road through the mountain pass, twisting when needed to force a sharp turn through junk and soggy leaves.

“Where you goin’?!” He yelled to no-one, eyes never leaving the other, as trees and tall dynamited cliff walls blurred by. He was dragged out to the woods, spiraling around the bluff of Mt. Claflin. He nearly rammed the cyclist over the bumps of dirt road, as the bike ahead sped only to come to a slowing halt in the clearing.

Troy sat there, engine idling, white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel. A crash of thunder roared overhead, rain heavy and unrelenting, wipers in full speed. He waited a moment, turning off his siren but not the lights, and they flashed and shone over the wet bark of the surrounding forestry. The cyclist leaned over, kick-stand propped, as they dismounted. They turned to stare at him, yet again—soaked to the bone.

Troy reached for the radio, but didn’t dial. Instead his other hand found the gun at his belt, and without taking his eyes from the other, he opened the car door.

Several beeps, interior light, red and blue flashing. The pounding rain soaked his jacket in moments, cascading over the brim of his hat. He raised his chin—structured, disciplined.

“Put your hands where I can see ‘em,” he called, but his voice lacked conviction; those words meant little. He didn’t want to shoot this idiot, for no other reason than he wanted to be home. Hand resting over the gun, still standing behind the car door, he unclasped the snap. When the other didn’t move, hands lazily in their sweatshirt pocket, stance loose, he gritted his teeth. Pulling the gun, he aimed, one-handed and irritated.

“I said ‘hands up,’ shithead!”  The other’s shoulders moved, as if they’d chuckled.

“¡Tanto tiempo sin verte, güero!”

He froze, eyes widening slightly. He squinted again to get a better look through the rain, confusion spreading across his face as his mouth twisted, “...Nacho?”

“That any way to say hello?” A coy, taunting head tilt in his direction brought Troy to exhale, his arm slowly lowering. Scowling now, he shuffled slightly, arm to his side.

He stood there, disgruntled, before exasperation laced his demand, “whataya want?”

“Just wanna’ talk; you don’t seem to know how to pick up a phone, so.”

Troy stared, indignant-- “You shot at me!”

“Got your attention.”

He scoffed, shaking his head, letting it hang. He re-holstered his gun, eyes settled in the mud. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he took a steady breath, before gesturing with annoyed urgency.

“Get’n the car.”

“Más vale que sea digno de mi tiempo--”

“Just shut up and do it, will ya?” He half-barked, voice cracking, twinge of desperation betraying the anger. Ignacio raised his hands in mock defense, but he did as he asked and closed the distance between them. Troy watched him go to the door, moving his box of paperwork to the backseat, muttering, “it’s open.”

Two car doors slammed, and silence.

Ignacio sat in the passenger seat with relaxed indifference, green eyes set ahead to the overlooking cliffs. He raised thick brows, turning his head to look at the other’s profile as he removed his hat, tossing it on the dashboard. The only sound was that of water dripping from their clothes onto the leather interior.

“...You look good.”

“Ha-ha, very funny.” Troy quipped, teeming with reproachful sarcasm, smoothing his hair back.

“I’m serious,” he said convincingly, but Troy still hissed between his teeth. “Never thought I’d see you in blue.”

“Yeah and I never thought I’d see your ass walkin’ again,” he retorted, “...let alone talkin’.”

“I guess I have you to thank for that, don’t I?”

Troy pulled a crumpled pack of smokes from his breast pocket, shaking his head lightly to himself again as he took one in his mouth. Finding the cheap lighter, he flicked it a few times, aggravated when it sparked uselessly. He opted instead for the dashboard lighter, Ignacio looking on in tense silence. “So…” he began, voice trailing off into rasp, patting his knees in fidgeting rhythm, “why’d you do it?”

“Do what?” Troy snapped, finally lighting his cigarette and taking a long drag. Ignacio shrugged, quiet, before looking up at him with genuine eyes.

“Save my life.”

Troy paused, seeing him there with his peripherals, face still obscured by the hooded sweatshirt. He exhaled, smoke wafting in the car’s cab, before he cracked a window and waved it away.

“...Why else?” He asked finally, incredulously, voice breaking again. “Call it habit, maybe. Whataya think I am, huh?”

“I’m not so sure what I think you are,” Ignacio responded coolly, slowly, expression calm and unwavering. “A liar, first-off.”

Turning to him, he got his first good look at the other since he last saw him lying there in a hospice bed. Scarred face from chemical burns, scarred neck from a 6-year-long tracheostomy. His eyes were unchanged, fiercer, but the same as he remembered. He felt his own fierceness soften.

“Yeah, alright.” Troy answered with a defeated tone, turning away again. He continued to puff on his cigarette, before squinting angrily at nothing. “You here to kill me? You wanna’ try that? Ask Gat how that went.”

“No need to get touchy,” Ignacio shook his head, “Just here to talk.”

“About what?”

“What I asked you. Why’d you do it, seeing as you and Julius wanted me dead and all—“

“That isn’t true,” Troy slapped his hand down on the center console, turning to him abruptly. Pointing, cigarette in hand, “I had nothing to do with that—I was pissed and terrified, Nacho, what the fuck do you think—“

“So it isn’t true, then.” He interrupted loudly, tone skeptic and taunting. “You weren’t in on it? You didn’t know how he planned to disassemble the Saints and sell us out? You probably didn’t know about the bomb either, right?”

“Correct.” He replied slowly, sternly, with a locked jaw.

Ignacio chuckled dryly, looking at the floor before glancing at him again. “Should’ve stayed a Saint, Troy; you’re a shitty cop.”

“Any other pearls of wisdom?”

Ignacio said nothing, simply blinking before tilting his head.

Troy’s lips formed a line, thoroughly exhausted, frustrated, and hurt all at once. He wanted to scream at him, he wanted to punch him too, probably, but he also was overcome with the worst of all--relief.

“You want answers? Fine,” he muttered, returning to his slumped position in his seat. Knees apart, head reclined, he smoked for a moment in silence while he tried to lower his blood pressure. “Don’t pretend that I don’t know why you brought me out here, a’ite? I remember this place. It’s yesterday for you, but it’s yesterday for me too. And I was awake the last six years.”

Ignacio remained quiet, simply raising his eyebrows as he reached to lower his hood, patting down his dampened hair. “It’s true that I knew Julius planned to disband the Saints, that was the plan from the get. What I didn’t know is that he planned for you to be the fall-guy for it, so he could fuck off to who knows where.”

“You don’t know where Julius is now?”

Troy shook his head, exhaling more smoke. He closed his eyes for a few moments, before continuing. “You took the fall for Julius, but here I was in the same proverbial boat for Monroe. Lucky for me, you got him before that could happen.”

“He what-now?” “Yeah, you missed all that. I’ll tell you about it sometime.”

Ignacio stared ahead, calculatingly a moment, before Troy interrupted the thought. “Point is, I thought I’d just have to arrest you. I didn’t want to do it, especially not after...we, well. You can believe that if you want, but it’s the truth. Julius took it further, knowing you’d never stop.”

“Damn right.”

He inhaled deeply again. “It was a real mess.”

Ignacio watched his face, before looking out at the storm again. He really couldn’t remember much, not even pain.

“I remember you visiting. TV on, you talkin’. Don’t remember what you were sayin’, though.” “Huh?”

He smirked, shaking his head. “Yeah, it’s weird.” His shoulders slumped, and he reached for the seat lever, adjusting it and reclining. He stared at the interior light, looking over at Troy, who looked back in confusion. Ignacio outstretched his arm, and plucked the cigarette from his lips, bringing it to his own. It was Troy’s turn to chuckle dryly, shaking his head and looking at the roof of the car too.

“...I knew you’d wake up.” He murmured. “The first year...was the hardest.”

“You’re right about one thing; it is still all yesterday for me. Even sitting out here, even with that eyesore.”  

Troy turned his head, glancing at him, and then to the Ultor Pyramid in the distance, bright as ever. “Real weird hearin’ you say that.”

“I got a lot to say.”

“I couldn’t even get a peep outta’ you back then, now you won’t shut up.”

Ignacio smirked a bit, scratching his beard. “Depended on the situation.”

“A-ha, yeah, don’t get cute.”

“What was this, anyway?” He gestured between them, “A way to pass the time?”

“Jesus, Nacho—“

“I get it, at least be fuckin’ honest about it.”

“What do I have to do to prove myself at this point, huh? What do you want from me? You really think all the stunts you get away with are all on your own merit? I keep my guys, the FBI, the news, off your nuts on a daily basis. And here you are asking me if—if it was—uh,” he searched for the word in his frustration, “...real.”

“That’s right.”

“Christ,” he sighed, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Why’s it so hard to say?”

“Because I don’t know, alright? I don’t know. I was under a lot of fuckin’ pressure, walking a fuckin’ tightrope—“

“That tends to happen when you lie.”

“I didn’t have a choice!”

“Of course you did, and you’ve made them. So have I.”

Ignacio sat up, taking another drag of the cigarette before holding it between his lips. He started to raise his hood again, as Troy watched him with conflicted eyes.

“I ain’t gonna bother you. But, don’t fuck with me, or my Saints.” He reached for the door handle, as Troy sat up quickly.

“Wait a minute—“

“We’re done here.”

Troy grabbed his sleeve abruptly, forcing him to turn. Ignacio tensed, fists balled, but Troy took hold of his face, yanking him forward, before gripping the back of his neck sharply, pulling him somewhat over the center console.

Still stronger than he looked. “I watched you lay in a bed for six years, with everyone in my ear tellin’ me you were done for, a waste of time, a waste of money. I dragged your bloody-fuckin’-body out of the water when half’ur face was hangin’ off. I had to sit there with the life drainin’ out of you on the fucking cement, you get me?!”

Ignacio’s lips parted to speak, but Troy’s fingers flexed angrily, “shut the fuck up a minute, huh? You have no idea what I’ve been through to keep you breathin’. You have no idea what it did to me  to see you like that. You think I wanted any of this? Someone has to take responsibility and abide the red tape, otherwise, all of it was--...was for nothin’.”

Ignacio stared into his eyes, dark and tired, but the spark of who he remembered still clear behind them. He dipped his chin slightly, eyebrows furrowed, eyes piercing and challenging.

“You really want to play this game?”

“No,” he spat, voice tight. “no I don’t.”  His eyes darted between each of his, brow quivering, before he lowered his head. His grip loosened, as Ignacio’s shoulders relaxed, but only slightly. A long shuddering breath left his nose, as he closed his eyes, feeling the familiar sting. “I don’t care what you do.” His hands left him, trembling, unsure if it was rage or...something else. “It’s over for me. It ain’t for you.” “Estas son chingaderas--” “Eh, ha—I have no idea what that means.”

“Fine.” A gloved hand rose, flicking the stolen cigarette out the window. He took hold of his jaw, Troy opening his eyes, startled. “Good thing I don’t believe that.”

He leaned forward, lids heavy, before pressing his lips to his. A sense of familiarity washed over him, for the first time since he awoke to find his home a reformed metropolis. Everyone in it had changed, moved on, forgotten him and what he was—what he stood for, what so many had bled for. This was his city--it was free under him and his Saints. Even Johnny was oddly...domesticated, matured. The whiplash lingered, an obscure vertigo only he knew.

All save for one.

Troy’s fingertips found his arms, as he tilted his head, deepening their kiss with exhausted reprieve. Nostalgia seared his heart, and brought a lump to his throat he couldn’t force down. Yet, he was overtaken in the smell of rain and smoke, and for a moment, reclaimed his youth he’d left behind.

They parted only for breath, some odd suspension of time. Ignacio felt his forehead press against the other’s, and with a light inhale, his fingers toyed with his hair, and stroked the nape of his neck. A semblance of reality, something present to remind him it wasn’t all a dream.

Troy’s eyes squeezed shut again, before he opened them, glossy and pained.

“I...missed you,” he finally managed, choking out his words. “You don’t know how...how damn hard it’s been, I—“

“It’s all gonna’ change now,” Ignacio told him quietly, “I’m gonna’ retake this city and make it right.”

Troy exhaled slowly, breath catching in his throat before he leaned away slightly. “You can’t go around so carelessly, Nacho, these people, Ultor, they’re bad news man—“

“I ain’t scared.” He told him, thumb coming to stroke his cheekbone. “I don’t want you worryin’ about it right now.”

He let out a heavy sigh, hand raising to rest atop the other’s, before meeting his gaze again.

Ignacio’s lips formed a slight grin, eyes peaceful, yet an undertone of mischief. “...Y’know, this ain’t my Bootlegger. Not much room in here.”

“Yeah,” Troy half-sniggered, letting his head hang, and press into Ignacio’s shoulder, “tell me about it; I bang my head on the door all the time.”

“We could...go someplace?”

“You actually have a house these days? Your car’s gotta’ feel so betrayed.”

“As a matter of fact,” he muttered proudly, brow quirking. “I don’t think you’d wanna’ be seen out that way, though.”

“I happen to have an apartment in Barrio.”

“Really?” He looked at the other in playful disbelief, a brow raising. “Chief of police lives in the Barrio?”

“Yeah, wanted to uh...well, be nearby, I guess. Your hospice was down the road a bit. ...That, and the food’s great.”

Ignacio silently laughed once,“...I guess I owe you an apology.”

Troy leaned up, returning to his seat, peering at him with a somewhat sheepish expression before looking away.

“Eh,” he waved it off, “make it up to me.”

“Oh, I plan to.”

He exhaled through an embarrassed smirk, shaking his head as he ran a hand through his hair, pushing rogue strands out of his eyes. “What uh—what about your bike?”

Ignacio reclined in his seat, bringing his arms behind his head and relaxing. “I’ll call somebody to pick it up.”

Troy glanced at him, before nodding a bit, clearing his throat. “Well, alright then.” He turned the key, starting the car.

He pulled forward, before backing up and leaving down the dirt road. The downpour continued, darkening the night in pounding rain. Still, as they drove and they talked, crossing the bridge, reminiscing in hesitant, short sentences, the air was calm--despite the inevitable storm to come.

[the-reader-to-my-hero]

It’s Raining Somewhere

Note: i think Candy and Rain are homonyms in Japanese? Feel free to correct me!

A sequel to Voice

Tears fell onto his phone screen, magnifying little splotches of the dead chat. Tomura grinded his teeth, trying to bite back the sob in his throat. He shook like porcelain china in an earthquake, rattling further and further toward the edge until finally he’ll—

“Hey…” a soft voice whispered into Tomura’s left ear, sending his muscles coiling and his body whirling around to face the intruder. Yet all he saw was empty space, and he tried to gulp down air, tried to make sense of the disembodied voice from beneath the howling winds of his emotions.

“Hey, hey ssssh it’s okay, it is me. It is Rex,” the voice soothed as it shifted around to stay in both earbuds. It sounded like...a girl. “It is okay...I am here. I am here.” Her Japanese, while not as obvious as some, had hints of an English speaking accent. Her words were slow and carefully thought out.

“R-r-rex?” Tomura warbled, before clapping his hand over his mouth like a child after saying a bad word. God. He sounded pathetic. He was pathetic. He was supposed to be the horrific prodigé of All for One himself, to be the most notorious villain this damn hero society had ever seen. And yet...yet here he was, blubbering like a weakling, to a person he’s never even met.

“Yeah, yeah it is me,” she replied rather breathlessly. “Sorry, I know I do not speak Japanese very well.” Was that why she didn’t talk before? “But I am...I am here for you I—“ there was a huff of breath, an awkward chuckle “I did not...think this through. I am sorry.” Another chuckle.

“Why are you apologizing?” Tomura snapped irritably while he tried to absorb her voice into his head. This was a bit of a game changer simply put. It shouldn’t have been, but could he really be blamed for assuming that his friend was a dude or some non binary blob? But Rex’s voice was soft, husky, sounding like she was relaxed even though her words were all over the place.

“Habit,” was her curt response. If Tomura could strain his ears he would. He listened to the muffled sound of footsteps that slowed with creaking wood like she was climbing stairs. There was a squeal of a door opening and the faint tell-tale slam that it shut with behind her. A twinge of jealousy shot through him. He would have been berated by Kurogiri for slamming the door.

It struck him she mentioned living all alone. He wondered if she was lonely. He decided that if she was it was her fault. That didn’t stop the fact Tomura was… feeling things. Things that scared him more than any pro-hero or plan going wrong; this warmth blossoming in his shivering body.

“Oh,” she remarked with insightful commentary “it is candy*”

“Candy??” he blurted, thrown both by the tone and the statement. What was candy? Why did she just realize whatever it is was candy? He didn’t hear the sound of something being opened, no creak of a door, or a box.

If Tomura hadn’t cranked up his volume he would have missed Rex muttering “candy...candy…” under her breath. Suddenly RaticalRex exclaimed: “Oh! Rain!” forcing her friend to rapidly turn his volume back down.

Tomura scoffed, “You say you speak japanese, but you can’t even distinguish candy and rain?” She was silent for a few long moments, making him wriggle impatiently. What little patience he had rapidly dried up in just a few seconds. “Seriously?? Are you that slow even understanding it?!”

He just got an awkward chuckle immediately in return. Her comprehension seemed fine… Or maybe she just thought he sounded funny or something. He already felt like a joke.

Just when it seemed she spontaneously dropped dead, Rex replied, “Well. Not….exactly.” There was the sound of light footsteps. What was she doing? “I—uhm…. I am not used to talking...out loud.” Another awkward half-laugh. “I can’t even speak in English, and that’s my first language.”

“That’s your fault. I told you to go outside…” Tomura hissed sourly.

“Mhm. You diiid” she recalled nonchalantly. She seemed completely unphased by his hostility, but that wasn’t anything new. Infact, it was like his biting remarks comforted her, her Japanese loosening up like muscle memory was kicking in. “Doesn’t mean I talk to strangers.”

“You’re talking to me,” it was an automatic response that flew right out of his mouth. There was a pregnant pause. Shigaraki sat back in his bed with held breath, the springs of his mattress creaking loudly.

“Heh! Yeah…” she hummed, before falling into silence. Tomura swore he heard the faint drumming of a downpour. “But you’re not…

really a stranger… a-at least not to me,” there was a quiver to her matter-of-fact tone, a subtle wavering of confidence. Did it really matter to her that much?

“Hm,” Tomura grunted, not knowing what to say to that. They’ve known each other for… about a year now? They didn’t even play games that often anymore, they just… talked. Talked about… things. Things like video games, movies, and trends. They had discussed anything and everything, like it was natural, like one of them wasn’t a dire wolf dressed in sheep’s clothing.

Tomura glanced at his bedroom door. He felt thrilled, like a kid sneaking out under their parent’s noses. Nothing had changed, but then again that wasn’t true was it? Rex spoke,something they (or she) had always made up excuses for not doing.

“Hey,” Rex called out of the blue, her voice so quiet it was barely above a husky whisper like she was afraid she’d scare him. Damn, he wasn’t some skittish rabbit. He was Shigaraki Tomura...not that she knew that.

“What,” he snipped, instinctively lifting his chin as he stared at his phone like she could feel his glare.

“Is it raining where you are?”

“How the fuck should I know?”

There was a faint snicker, and a shift of feet. “By looking out a window silly goose.”

Silly goose?? What were they 12???

Yet for whatever reason, Shigaraki still got to his feet with a displeased groan, and slunk toward the tightly drawn blackout curtain. He shuffled with the blinds, squinting at the light, before letting his eyes adjust. Lo and behold, it was pouring outside, water falling in thick sheets with the wind howling.

“Yeah it’s rainin’, why?” he muttered impatiently, staring out over flickering city lights as the lights bounced off the water. Huh. It was almost kind of pretty.

“I just… I-I like the rain,” her tone was a little shy, unsure, clearly hearing just how odd that sounded. “I live outside the city… so I can’t really see it that well but it's...its nice. I think so anyway.”

“Hm…” There was another pause, but Tomura waited, pressuring her to say something else. She was just spouting nonsense like she always did (her speaking voice practically an exact match to her texts), but she just… intrigued him.

Rex snorted “Y’know, I don’t get out all that much, gotta listen to a lot of ...noise when I’m working,” there was the faint sound of footsteps. “Nice to hear the rain for a change.”

“You’re fucking weird Rat,” Shigaraki flopped back onto his bed, starfishing out and staring up at the ceiling.

What followed was a genuine guffaw, an outburst that sounded like a bootleg Godzilla scream. Tomura’s eyes about popped out of his head at the bizarre sound, and the series of giggles that followed afterward. Before he could as so much as open his mouth, she had already opened hers.

“Sorry sorry it’s just!” she couldn’t finish her sentence before devolving back into senseless snickering. God, her laugh was weird, like someone with a faulty spray bottle.

“Why are you laughing at me? The fuck is so funny?!” Paranoia seeped into Decay_God’s skin like he was soaking in a bath.

“No no! I’’ not—I’m not laughing at you!” Rex tried desperately to reassure him. “It's just—what you said was true and it just—!” She laughed more, and Tomura sullenly folded his arms and stared at his decrepit ceiling, counting the seconds it took her to pull herself together. “It’s just something that you would say.”

“What is that suppose to mean?” Decay drawled with a curl to his lip.

“N-no! Thats not—“ she caught her breath “It’s just...Cool that you don’t treat me any different cause...I probably wasn’t what you were expecting.”

“Why? Cause you’re a girl?” she didn’t reply. Bingo. “I couldn’t give less of a fuck. You kick ass in the arena. You get results. That’s what matters to me, not if you have fucking tits.” He heard her snort, the sound muffled like she was covering her mouth. Tomura smirked a little, caught off just a tad how she laughed rather than strangled him.

‘It's just something you would say’. Did she think about him? How often? What other stuff did he “say”?

“Thanks Decay,” jesus was she trying to murder him with kindness?

“For what?”

“Being a good friend.” The gentle tone was so earnest, it single handedly shut down Tomura’s 2 working brain cells. Him??? A good friend? No. No that wasn’t right…

“Huh?” he grumbled, feeling his eyelids drooping. He was crashing, the exhaustion of the day and his breakdown creeping in slowly. Chances were he hallucinated that statement.

“Well, like, you’ve done a lot for me a-and… I dunno…” cue another nervous chuckle, “I’m glad...we’re friends.”

Tomura didn’t know what to say, how to reply, he never did. RaticalRex had thrown these curve balls at him before, but hearing the warmth in her voice was...a whole different ball game. In times like these, Tomura’s brain would shift gears, try to take control of this situation by throwing out whatever came to mind first.

“Why were Amaria’s tits so fucking big?” was what won the lottery for his emergency slot machine of words to say. He was too tired to even kick himself over the shitty

There was a beat of silence, 1, 2; “Amaria’s tits were one hundred percent fanservice and it’s bullshit. She was actually so well-written too! Someone clearly put a lot of work into her but hur dur someone thought that she looked better with double-d titties to slap around and—“

RaticalRex kept talking, audibly moving around with the clink! of dishes and running water following her. sounding like she was making dinner. Decay_God quickly sank into the purgatory between dreaming and waking realm, listening to the sounds someone he never met but felt like he knew.

He was so tired, that he thought he heard RaticalRex whisper a soft “Goodnight Tomura,” before he sank beneath the waves of sleep. Yet when he awoke 8 hours later, the words had not evaporated with the foggy dreams.

“Goodnight Decay, get some sleep” lied in the chat from around 6 hours ago. It was a dream. It had to be his subconscious and conscious intertwining xXDecay_GodXx and Shigaraki Tomura. It was just a dream.

...Right?