#kindness makes many things easier to handle

[xiaprint]

frat rules | minors dni

the minute that caleb got his acceptance letter in the mail, you had mixed feelings. there was plenty of pride, so much that it felt overwhelming. he had worked hard from the start and remained top of his graduating class, he was a model student. things were never once handed to caleb but he always managed to make the most with what he had. it was a talent and he did it with charisma, making it impossible for others to pity him. he didn’t like to accept charity or kind favors, so taking everything on the chin with his boyish smile was his signature move.

still, everyone knew what college was about. a stepping stone for a sparkling future career, sure— but the real fun was in the freedom. away from the family and childhood friends, given that golden opportunity to completely rewrite who you were. it was the prime time to drop the formalities and sleep around, get shitfaced, make new connections with people who were thrown into the same situation of the unknown.

maybe it scared you, just a little. he’d be forever away, he’d be establishing new friendships, he’d possibly be dodging flirty advances left and right. the caleb you knew, sweet and doting and utterly in love with every fiber of your being could very well take a liking to the change.

of course, voicing these insecurities and doubts wasn’t an option. caleb had been practically buzzing since he learned that he’d be attending flight school in skyhaven. killing the fun, ruining the good mood— it felt harsh. this was the first time that something was being offered to him without asking for anything in return, the one chance to be selfish and put himself first. you knew that if you said something, he would surely reconsider. that’s who he was.

so dwelling was the way to go. you sulked in private, supported in caleb’s face. you focused on saving face at his celebratory dinner. you counted down the weeks, mood souring as they turned into days. you kissed his cheek once you said your goodbye’s at the airport. it felt like sending off a piece of yourself but caleb was capable of handling himself. he’d be just fine.

however, you were completely unaware of how much he struggled. he was a socialite at heart and had no problem making friends with his roommate, no problem meeting his roommates friends. the classes started up about a week after move in and before long, he was familiar with skyhaven and what it had to offer. caleb blended in perfectly with the atmosphere, content with his professors and the hands on aspect of his training.

despite being miles upon miles apart, he still put forth the effort. he door dashed your favorites around dinner time on the occasion and he tracked your location like a hawk. he facetimed you when he had downtime and picked up every single call even if he was busy. after all, it was in his nature to take care of his little slice of home back in linkon city now that she was on her own.

the adjustment became easier with time for the both of you. life went on, things got hectic. there would be a few days of pure radio silence on both ends because the course load was heavy in flight school and you had your own business to worry about.

holidays rolled in and you finally had an excuse to fly out. it was a deliberate little plan that you conjured in secret, leaving caleb out of the many details. you bought your own plane ticket, took it upon yourself to travel to the academy. things calmed down in your personal life so the time was right, everything in place.

you didn’t, however, expect a guy who wasn’t caleb to answer his dorm’s door. the dots were connected rather quickly when you were reminded that caleb was rooming with another student for his first semester, recognizing gideon from photos posted by the academy’s official socials. it was clear that he had company, a bunch of guys laughing and joking around over bass playing from the tv. your eyes fell to study the can of busch light in his roommates hand, raising a brow.

“is caleb around?”

it takes gideon a few seconds to process your words, especially over the shouting and loud music blaring behind him, scratching his chin before lighting up like a christmas tree. he recognized you from all of the photos, the facetime calls, caleb’s never-ending rambles about his girl back home. “oh shit! he’s gonna be over the moon!”

with some introductions and gentle guidance around the house, gideon leads you to caleb’s room. clean, neat, very little decor. he was a minimalist at heart, only ever taking it upon himself to make things look nice if he knew that you’d be sharing the space with him. you were shocked but not surprised to find caleb at his desk, red solo cup tipped sideways on the wood. his cheeks were flushed as he rests his head against his elbow, bleary eyes staring at the single picture frame by his laptop.

it held a photo of you, of course. taken from his point of view, his hand reaching up to help you off of a tree. all you ever did at the time was giggle and refuse to come down, only worried about keeping your bucket hat on your head.

“i didn’t know my caleb was a sentimental drunk,” your voice coos in his ear gently as your arms curl around his shoulders, tucking your face against his warm face. it causes him to jump, slow in reaction to breathe you in. a few beats pass before he’s shooting up like a rocket to pull your body into a hug. it was snug and tight, his balance faltering a bit.

he smelled. smelled familiar, smelled like aftershave. he smelled like jameson whiskey and spice mixed with home. it lingered on the collar of his dress shirt, black with a popped collar. there was no helping the way you stuffed your face into the fabric, huffing him in and letting the scent pull you in like a riptide.

“why are you here?” he asks softly, reeling back to get a good look at the girl in front of him. he was thankful that gideon read the room for once, exiting and closing the door behind him. “how are you here? i thought you were preparing for a hunter’s exam.”

the flurry of questions is a little out of character for caleb and it’s obvious that he’s a bit tipsy, stumbling over his excitement and need to know. this was the reaction you’ve been looking for after handling the specifics in secret— catching caleb off guard was always fulfilling. he got so giddy, forever easy to please.

“it’s called a surprise, you big dummy,” your voice sounds like liquid honey in his ears, so overwhelmed with love and happiness as he simply stares back at you. a few blinks, really taking you in. it felt as though you matured more since the last time he saw you, growing into your features. it tugged at his heart and he doesn’t even realize the way he’s backing you up slowly, guiding you onto his bed.

it’s hard, very unlike the one back at home. the frame is rough and made of wood, the mattress flat and small. it’s a miracle that caleb can even sleep comfortably on it but he was good at making the most of any situation. the man grew to be very simple, never one to be picky. your head hits the pillow and giggles fly out of your mouth, caleb taking that chance to rain the skin of your extended neck in kisses.

everything following blurs. his friends are still being loud just a door away, chanting as they initiate a stupid drinking game. their endeavors are the last thing on your mind as caleb grinds against your leg, as he kisses you until your lips hurt with the desperate weight of them. he holds you like glass, runs his calloused fingertips along your skin with carefulness. one track mind, only focused on getting you bare against his sheets.

your jeans are a struggle to pull off of your thighs in his inebriated state, groaning softly in annoyance when they get caught at your knees. you assist with a huff of a giggle, unable to ignore the way his eyes flutter at the sight of you. a breathy laugh leaves him at the sight of the pink bow on your panties. “you never change, huh?” he whispers with a shake of his head, expressing his disbelief.

the urge to slap his arm in retaliation is strong but this wasn’t the time and place. there was a heavy amount of tension in the air that needed to be fixed, an ache that he needed to soothe between your legs. the impatience was only getting stronger and he could sense it in the way you pawed at his own pants, swift in the way you pop the button open.

he works at his shirt at the same time, practically ripping the buttons off of the fabric, shoving his sleeves down his arms until it lands on the bed with your top. the sheer rush of flipping you onto your tummy with the brute strength he’s built in the recreation center, of making sure you’re ready with his fingers before sliding inside. it floods you with adrenaline, moaning weakly once his dick finally sinks in.

and oh, he got bigger since you last saw him. you could feel it in his grip strength, holding onto your hips and fucking you back onto his cock. it was inevitable that he would grow over the course of the year but it was so much at once. bigger biceps, beefier pecs, thicker thighs. it had you winded, gasping for oxygen as your cheek rubs against his comforter.

“oh, baby,” he coos between heavy pants of hot air, leaning to hover, pressing his bare abdomen along your arched back. he cages you in like a predator, his chain being the only cool touch as it settles between your shoulder blades. “oh, baby. you got tighter since last time. pussy’s so hungry, baby.”

filth fills the air. skin on skin, the scent of sex and juice and sweat mixing with the apple scented air freshener he has plugged in by his dresser. your moans drown in the fabric of his pillowcase, barely having enough restraint to keep quiet. all you want to do is pull your face out of the pillow, to scream and let caleb know just how good he’s giving it to you. how it’ll never be anyone but him for you, how he’s the only man who can feel you this deep.

not that you needed to know, but caleb had been missing you terribly so. every weekend would be dedicated to partying, his roommates constantly dragging him out for some beer and a good time. he wanted to embrace the chance, he wanted to make the most of his young adult years. still, he couldn’t get out of his own head. wondering what you were doing, who you were talking to, if you were drying yourself off after a shower and keeping up with the show you told him about and watering the bonsai tree he left on his nightstand.

he couldn’t get over the fact that you were alone. for the first time, you were genuinely alone. it saddened him to think of you eating dinner alone, folding one basket of laundry, waking up in an empty bed. this surprise visit was just what he needed to soothe his nerves.

“they assigned me a plane, my very own aircraft,” caleb murmurs into your ear with sensual kisses to the lobe. the pace never falters, guts battered by his tip while he sucks your skin into his mouth. his tongue swirls along it and a groan leaves him as he lets it go. “i’ll show you after this, yeah? take you to my plane and fuck you in the cockpit.”

the pace simply never slows. it’s consistent, steady. his headboard ruts against the wall with soft thuds that would be otherwise extremely noticeable if not for the rowdiness happening in his kitchen. he hasn’t felt the warmth of your cunt in such a long time, hasn’t felt like himself since he left your side. it has him gasping, has his jaw nearly locked open with groans that mold with your own.

your ass rocks so nastily with every thrust, rippling for his eyes only. he can’t resist the urge of grabbing for a feel, watching the skin flood between his fingers. you’ve always been the prettiest, have always been the only girl his eyes dared to study. nothing hits right when it isn’t you, getting off has been a struggle in itself. porn could never capture this.

heat coils in his stomach, knots up in warning. your pussy is soaking him, glossing his thighs and his pelvis. your essence sticks to him like glue, creating filthy smacks each time his hips slap against your ass— just the way he liked it. it told him he was doing his job, let him know that your body loved him just as much as your mind did.

“i missed your cock,” the sound of your broken voice pulls him out of his trance, the pleasure so burning hot that his toes curl in his shoes. you’ve always fed his fantasies like a fire, spiting dirty words right back at him on reflex. you were the most beautiful to him when you were speaking your mind, all he ever wanted was to pick your brain.

“stretching you out just right, isn’t it?” he murmurs sweetly between pants, nuzzling his nose into your hair. the hand you’ve got twisted up in his duvet is quickly covered by his own, sluggishly threading his fingers with yours. “just the way you like it. i’ve been neglecting my baby.”

his words earn rapid clenches from your walls. it makes him shudder, gnawing at his bottom lip in hopes of masking a pathetic moan. the thought of ever straying from this, of having to wait another few months for another chance to make love to you physically hurts him. he wants to make the most of it, wants round after round until your legs are shaking and your body is twitching.

a knock interrupts his train of thought, sends electric shocks up his spine. gideon’s slurred complaint is barely audible through the thick wood of the closed door, the mere thrill mixed with slight panic making caleb shamelessly shoot a thick load inside of you.

[noisytenant]

You can stop capitalism and the attention economy from sucking the joy out of art for you right now*

*at the small price of, perhaps, your hopes and dreams.

Commodification and competition only suck the joy out of art when you buy into them. If you want to make art for fun and not worry about attention economies and algorithms then literally just stop worrying about them, and accept the consequences of that.

What are the consequences? There are artists who have successfully risen to a living wage off posting their art online, and in the shadow of these prominent but rare figures it is difficult not to dream of having even a sliver of their luck. And this is to say nothing about the social and emotional fulfillment of sharing art with others, but I'll be focusing on the economics here.

It's luck. Commercially successful artists who seem to have "gamed the algorithm" are prone to survivorship bias--it's impossible to know how many artists have tried the same tactics only to get nowhere. And most will attest that every step of these attention-economy-appeasing rituals is demoralizing and exhausting. Many--even those who succeed--give up or take a step back.

But if these rituals are so awful, why perform them? To potentially increase the meager chances of economic success as an internet artist? To see your engagement numbers go up?

I don't want to tell people to give up on this dream because I believe it is impossible. Instead, it is possible, which is the trap. And when the entire economy and job market are so dire, it's difficult not to dream of that lottery ticket.

I do believe we can live in a world where we can survive and make the art that brings us joy--Through significant effort and numerous systemic changes at every level of culture and society. And in the meantime, there is a huge grey area of economic sustainability--if you make even a little money off your art, that's more in your pocket.

But hobbyist artists have been making and continue to make art out of joy and curiosity regardless of how popular or commercially viable it is, it's just harder to find them on common online platforms. They're in your neighborhood, at work, in your family and probably among your friends, sitting at the library leafing through a "How to Draw" book or signing up for an adult beginner's class, if they have the money. And when we promote the idea that art is fun for everyone, we make more space for people to enjoy it.

We have a finite amount of time and energy every day. Our capitalist economy saps us of both such that we have very little left to devote to our passions. But we fail to realize how much more we lose investing in an arbitrary and fickle economy that is, in fact, entirely optional. If you work a day job with clearly defined hours, you may spend several hours miserably--and that is a problem that needs addressing--but your day ends. Meanwhile, the work of a professional internet artist is never done--You are always on the clock.

I feel heartbroken when I see artists lamenting how joyless, soul-sucking, and uninspiring art has become for them in the midst of our current circumstances. I think they are correct in identifying that the attention economy saps them of this joy--But they are not seeing the forest for the trees.

It is the difference between the expectation of success and the reality of disappointment, rather than the disappointment itself, that leads to such a depressing state of affairs. Let go of the idea that sufficient effort scales with reward in a system as arbitrary as ours. Save your energy. The best way to win is not to play.

Art is as beautiful and life-affirming as it ever was. Realize what it has to offer you, and realize what you need from elsewhere. We still need food and a roof over our heads. We still need friends and community. If we want art to occupy a joyful space in our lives, we need to rely on other parts of ourselves to get through the sometimes boring, tedious, and depressing work of living our daily lives.

Our capitalist system and its associated attention economy deserve every criticism they can get, but if we fail to question their fundamental assumptions, we will never truly move past them. We have the autonomy to untangle capital from our artistic lives, if not completely, at least to a more manageable state.

So, believe that art can be fun again. The things you want to see in the world are waiting for you to make them.

[arolesbianism]

Tiphereth suppression finally complete babeyyyy

[knitmeapony]

It still just appalls me that people will look you square in the eye and tell you that they won't mask because it's inconvenient to them.

I find it fascinating that every time I say hey, it'd be great if more people were masking at this event, out of nowhere someone who calls themselves a medical professional (usually because they don't want to admit what that actually means, often because their profession doesn't provide them with any special knowledge about masking safety) to lecture me about all the things they suddenly think that I don't know, and half the time to present completely incorrect facts - most recently that people who mask incorrectly are increasing their infection risk.

If you have trouble hearing or understanding me through a mask, I will happily compensate, the same way I would anyone who has trouble hearing or understanding me regardless of masking!

If you don't like how masks feel, I guarantee you there are different types of masks or additional masking equipment that I can help you get that will make you comfortable!

In both cases of people more regularly wore masks, there would be a whole industry out there of products and services ready to help you handle the issues!

There are so few places that test or mask that unless you proactively make it clear your event does either or both, many disabled folks will just assume they can't attend. There are people out there who have genuinely given up even trying to be part of the world anymore. That's why you don't hear from them anymore, so many people made so many excuses that they gave up.

Masking isn't my accessibility issue. But I have had so many people mow me down, ignore me, or treat me like an inconvenience that I am willing to be the cranky and noisy person on behalf of people who do need masking, in hopes that other people will do the same for me when something is physically inaccessible. Most disabled people are just so fucking tired of being dismissed or derided for attending to their own needs, it's often easier to do your best to help someone else instead.

I don't know, this is just a venting post, but after I went to an ADA conference for work and was literally the only one wearing a mask for the entire conference, and then having my friends let me down again, I just needed to say it.

It feels like that everyone wants a revolution but no one wants to do the dishes kind of problem. I'd just love to see one able-bodied person run a fully masked event of any kind. Just once.

[lemonlover1110]

𝐁𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐅𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

Sukuna

[Chapter 5] Food Difficulties

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Pairing: Trueform!Sukuna x f!Reader

Warnings: Puking

Discord +18 - Twitter - Ko-Fi

Sukuna is practically forcing food down your throat, ensuring that you’re eating and keeping his baby healthy. He’s convinced that you’re expecting twins, but he’s not going to get his hopes up in case that you aren’t. It has to be twins though, the amount of cursed energy that your body transmits is too much for just one baby.

“The food is good, is it not? Finish it.” Sukuna urges you, but you can’t stomach the entire meal. You’re nauseous, the mere smell of the food makes you want to puke. You’ve gotten overly sensitive the past few weeks, eating has become one of the hardest tasks for you.

Sukuna has gone from ignoring you, to coddling you in his own weird way. He’ll get you almost anything you’d like, but he makes sure he’s mean to you when he does it. He won’t show you a weaker side of him– At least that’s what he considers kindness, the weaker side of humans. 

“I’m full.” You tell him, but he’s having none of it. He won’t let you leave the room until you eat every last drop of food that’s on your plate. He’s ensuring that you’re growing healthy babies, and that can’t happen if your belly isn’t full of food.

“You have to eat.” He insists, and you can’t bring yourself to open your mouth. You can’t even bring yourself to swallow the food that you chew, you want to throw it all up. He sees you gagging, about to puke all the food that he’s forced you to eat. The food can’t be that bad, could it?

He brings the bowl up to his nose, trying to figure out if something is wrong with the meal. Sure, he tasted it to make sure everything was okay with it, but he held his nose to not taste it. Sukuna can’t stand many things, human food being at the top of his list. He can’t stand the taste, the texture, or even the mere smell of it.

He can’t force you to eat the foods he enjoys, so he guesses he’ll put himself through this pain to get you to finish your meal. He takes a mouthful of the food, and forces himself to chew. He gags as he tastes it. He can’t blame you for not wanting to eat it.

“It should be up to your standards.” Sukuna spits out the food onto the floor, not having the will to swallow it. “You have to make a healthy, strong child.”

“If I continue to eat, I’ll throw it all back up.” You warn him, and Sukuna rolls his eyes. He’ll choose his battles wisely. Uraume told him to be more gentle with you and to listen to you more… He guesses he’ll take their advice. 

“Fine. Do whatever you want.” He finally puts down the utensils, and you let out a sigh of relief. You push the plate of food away from you so the smell doesn’t hit your nostrils. You’re more sensitive than you expected. You’ve dealt with pregnant women before, and you knew that they would get nauseous around certain foods, but never quite like this. Perhaps you’re a special case, which wouldn’t be shocking since Sukuna is everything but normal.

“What do you want to do then?” Sukuna crosses his arms, staring you down. The stare that once made a chill run down your spine, no longer has much of an effect on you. It’s been two weeks since you found out that you’re expecting, and you’ve found out that Sukuna won’t dare to lay a finger on you unless it’s to make your life easier.

“I’ve been reading a book.” You tell him, and he raises his brows. What is that supposed to tell him? It seems that forcing you how to read and write has proven to be useful. It entertains you and Sukuna isn’t forced to do some mundane task in order to keep an eye on you. Sure, he misses action and adrenaline from doing his own vile activities, but in your state, he doubts you can handle watching it.

“So what? Are you staying inside and doing that?” He asks, and you nod in response. He almost scolds you, he wants to hear you use your voice, but he decides against it. You do whatever the fuck you want to do, who is he to say otherwise? Your dumb husband. Sukuna will let you do whatever you want, and treat you higher than himself for as long as you carry his heir.

“I can read out loud so you’re not bored.” You say, and he glares at you. You must be trying to make a fool out of him or something. He keeps repeating in his mind that he won’t yell at you. You’re expecting, he won’t distress you.

“You barely know how to read, keep it to yourself.” He snarks, and you hate to admit it but the comment hurts your feelings. You’re used to his attitude, but your kindness being used to mock you hurts. Perhaps you’re a little sensitive, especially since you know Sukuna– He treats you like a fragile petal, a treatment no one else will ever receive from him.

“I wouldn’t like to read to a grump anyway.” You retort, standing up to walk away but Sukuna grabs you and puts you down on his lap. He stares down at you, pure annoyance in his eyes.

“What did I teach you?” Sukuna snarls, and you purse your lips together. You’ve been getting away with a lot, so it shocks you that he reprimands you for something so simple… Perhaps it’s your insult that’s sent him over the edge. 

“I follow you after you leave the table, not the other way around.” You murmur, and you hear him scoff. Your response is correct, your delivery doesn’t delight him though. 

“You’ve gotten bratty.” He points out, and in response you dare to roll your eyes. You know you hold something massive over his head, therefore he won’t do anything to you no matter your reaction. He lets go of you, nearly pushing you off his lap, “Go away and read your dumb book. I’ll join you soon.”

“Just stay here, what are you going to do there?” You ask, standing up once again to walk away. Sukuna doesn’t answer, he doesn’t need to. Sure, you’re his wife but he made it clear that you wouldn’t have any sort of control over him. It was something to make you fulfill your duty. 

He hears your footsteps as you exit the room, leaving him alone to sink into his annoyance. Annoyance that a group of people will pay for later. Because his feelings don’t just disappear when he’s by your side, he’s still temperamental; the only change is that you don’t pay for your actions, someone else does.

Sukuna guesses you could be acting worse, so he can’t get too upset with you.

He stands up, and walks out of the room to follow behind you. Soon, he won’t be following you but after a miniature version of himself. His heir. The day could not come sooner. He’ll go back to being able to do whatever he wants, and bringing his heir along to witness his atrocious acts. But for all of that to happen, he must put up with you first. 

He picked you for a reason, he can deal with you. Perhaps he’s a little lost on how to get you to eat, but he can deal with the rest.

“Sukuna.” You walk out of your room to find Sukuna leaning against the tatami door. He’s shutting his eyes, for the first time ever you’re watching him fall asleep. In your mind, Sukuna never rests.

When you wake up in the middle of the night, he’s there, watching you sleep. A looming gaze watching over you during the dead of night. A sight so scary that it sends shivers down someone’s spine, bearing them unable to move. A sight that you’ve grown accustomed to.

You shouldn’t bother him when he’s falling asleep. You assume he doesn’t get much rest, so maybe you should leave him alone. You just want to go for a short walk before a stressful dinner. It’s the same scenario every night: you can’t stand the smell of the food so you refuse to eat it, and Sukuna tries to shove it down your throat.

You decide not to bother him, getting on your tip toes to try and sneak out of the place without disturbing his ever-so-rare peace. You just need a moment outside, take in a breath of fresh air and walk while you still can. You’re gaining weight faster than you expected, you doubt that you’ll be able to move freely in the next couple of months. 

“Where the fuck are you going?” His hand wraps around your ankle, stopping you from taking another step. You’ve been caught red-handed, and from the tone that you pick up in his voice, he’s not particularly happy about it. He stands up, quickly towering over you.

“I just need a breath of fresh air.” You tell him, hoping that he won’t get too mad. Sukuna made it clear that he must be near you at all times. He’s most worried about his delicate baby, he doesn’t need someone potentially harming him. Him, as if you had any way to know the sex of the baby.

“The sun is setting, you can’t.” He’s firm, you shouldn’t dare challenge his authority. Yet, you pout and cross your arms, hoping to get to him. A foolish trick that would never work on Sukuna.

“I’m tired of being inside.” You comment, making him scoff. You should’ve thought about that hours before, not now. You slightly tilt your head to the side before questioning, “Isn’t this place supposed to be safe?”

“You’re a fool to trust anyone here.” He quickly replies, and you click your tongue. “It’s time for you to eat, let’s go.”

“Please, I’m not hungry.” You respond, though it falls on deaf ears. Sukuna picks you up, throwing you over his shoulder before carrying you to the dining room.

“Uraume! Get dinner ready!” He yells, while you kick your feet so he lets you go. Sukuna wants to laugh. Not a scoff, a genuine laugh. You’re so pathetically weak, yet you try to break free from his grasp by kicking him. You’re probably using all of your strength, but it doesn’t feel like anything to him.

He puts you down on the floor of the dining room, and you frown at him as he takes a seat across from you. You’re acting like a child. You don’t want to eat, you’re refusing anything and everything. Your stomach is too sensitive and you absolutely hate the feeling of regurgitation. You never thought you’d hate a feeling as much as you hate that one. But Sukuna doesn’t take your feelings into consideration, as to be expected.

You refuse to speak to Sukuna as you sit across from Sukuna, waiting for your dinner. Typically you’re trying to keep some sort of conversation going, but you’re not in the mood at this moment. Sukuna isn’t going to say anything about it, he enjoys the peace. 

Within minutes, your food is in front of you. But neither of you dare touch the plates. Sukuna watches you like a hawk, waiting for you to make the first move on your food. 

“Eat.” He orders, but you dramatically turn your head. You refuse. No one is going to make you eat, not even the brutish monster before you. “I ordered you to eat!”

“No.” You keep your voice calm. You keep up your composure. It’s a simple answer that sends him over the edge. Before you know it, he’s reaching over the table and trying to get your mouth open so he can shove food inside.

Your lips are sealed, refusing to let any food into your mouth. He’s trying to get an opening, but you’re not letting him in. He sees tears well up in your eyes, suddenly becoming sensitive about the situation. He shouldn’t care. It’s stupid. It’s so stupid. His heir has to eat. 

“Fine!” Sukuna ends up letting go, giving up as a tear streams down your cheek. Before he can even blink, you stand up and run out of the place. Sukuna makes sure to follow behind, only to watch you puking the little food that you had in your stomach.

He rolls his eyes, sighing. He has to find a way for you to eat, and apparently the way he just attempted isn’t the right way. Whichever way it is, he has to figure it out soon.

[jaysgirlx]

"Need help sweetheart?" Bookstore Customer!Jason Todd helps you reach the books on the higher shelves. You were his favorite employee and he wanted to make your day easier. He'd been coming here for a while but you always forgot how tall he was and how good his body felt pressed against yours. You only knew how to mumble out a couple words because you didn't know what else to say to a man like that. "Uh sir, you don't need to-"

"Please call me anything but sir sweetheart, you know I'm not new here"

Bookstore Customer!Jason enjoyed teasing his favorite employee aka you of course. He teases you about working at the bookstore even though he's constantly there and he'll always be flirting with you even if you're working the counter that day. He knows he's holding up the line but he's a paying customer so he doesn't care.

"How's my favorite pretty girl doing?"

"M'tired today Jay, I can't handle your nonsense right now"

"Okay that was mean- wait, Jay? that's a first"

"Buy a book or get out Jason"

You could easily tell Jason liked classics and poetry but for some reason he was willing to read your favorites even if they were a smut-filled mess. One time, he backed you up into a corner, after reading one of those books you liked, "Hmm, you like this kind of shit baby? cause I can do all that to you and so much more"

Over time, you learned that Jason also likes to follow you to the store, whispering to you about all the things he could do to you if you'd let him. His hand is always on your hips, pressing his body fully into you. He knows you like it especially when you roll your hips into his when nobody's looking. He wishes you'd use your words and just say you were his but he knew he wasn't even close to getting that, at least not yet.

Jason tried to buy a new book every week, sometimes not even to read. He needed an excuse to be there since your boss has never been fond of him ever since he had caught him feeling you up near the back shelves once. He learned his lesso so now he purposefully buys the books you like, just so he can watch you ramble on and on about them without getting kicked out of the store.

Bookstore Customer!Jason thrived on the feeling he got from watching you go from being so nonchalant around him to the most talkative girl in the world. he wants you comfortable if he's going to fuck you. You find yourself shutting up one time because you thought you had bored him but he quickly gets rid of that thought for you, "Keep talking sweetheart, I'm just wondering how pretty your mouth would look with my cock stuffed down your throat"

"Jay I don't- I can't- I haven't-"

"Don't worry, you will and I'm sure you're a fast learner"

It wasn't that hard for you to notice that Jason got a little jealous when his brother Dick hits on you the first and last time he brings him to the bookstore. Dick easily chats you up and Jason watches the two become a bit too friendly for his liking but it wasn't his place to speak, "Now I see why my little brother brings home so many books"

"It's good he does, I like guys who read"

"I actually quite the fan of classic literature-"

"Oh shut up Dick"

Bookstore Customer!Jason had all your coworkers wondering if you'll ever let the poor guy hit. They weren't sure if Jason was interested in you or your body, regardless they couldn't ignore the smile you got whenever he walk in. Or the way you'd laugh at his dumb jokes. You had him on a leash and you didn't even know what to do with him. He's begging to take you out or just even spent a night with you. He didn't just want you, he needed you. "C'mon I promise to take care of you princess, I'll even take you to that little coffee shop in Bludhaven"

"Who told you about that?!"

"…Dick"

When he finally manages to convince you to let him kiss you, you're nervous as fuck. You thought this was just another one of his antics but no, this was real. He'd promised to stop hitting on you if you felt nothing and you should've know it was bad idea when you could hear your own heartbeat still your let his lips touch yours. It was such a bad idea because before you knew it, he's got you pushed up against the wall, leg parting your thighs with your hands gripping at his shirt. "Jay, more please" Suddenly after all this time, you're pleading for him. Oh how the tables have turned. You're begging for all he's got, and you know he has so much more to give.

"Just give me a moment baby, got be patient" Within a matter of minutes your pants are discarded on the floor, and your panties are still on but being pushed aside while two fingers are being pumped in and out of your pussy. He's got one hand on your hips holding you down while one of your legs is wrapped around his waist. "Didn't I tell you I could do some much for you baby?"

You nod quickly while he's sucking on your poor neck, that would definitely be red all tomorrow. you feel his teeth sink into your skin, not too hard but rough enough to leave a mark. "Now keep quiet, I don't want any of your coworkers hearing us back here" The next thing you know you're cumming on the boy's fingers and he wants you to do it again. and again. and possibly 50 more times if you're willing.

The next time Jason comes, he's holding what you think is flowers and you know he'll be your victim today.

"So I thought real flowers would be cheesy and you'd probably not want to take care of em, so my brothers taught me how to make these paper flowers and…here just take them"

"Wow, I'm getting hand-crafted flowers from THE Jason Todd? Someone must have a really big crush on me huh? Are those bandaids on your fingers? Want me to kiss your boo-boos? "

"Are you going to finally go out with me or do I have to make you cum-"

"Yes yes! Just do not finish that sentence out loud"

"You are soooooooooo in love me"

"Jay, get out"

[bingbongsupremacy]

Post-It Notes

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Avenger!Reader

Warning: None that I can think of

Summary: Steve starts leaving Post-It notes around the compound to encourage the Avengers. You’re the only one who writes back.

Neither of you ever mentions it out loud -but deep down, you know the notes mean more than they should. Are you finding love in the middle of your chaotic life... or are you just misreading Steve’s kindness? +Bonus Stuff at The End (Notes, Steve's Reaction, After you're together)

No details of the reader's appearance, race, weight, etc. Reader is however able-bodied.

*Not Proof Read*

It starts because Steve is trying.

Trying to be better. Trying to be enough.

The compound has been heavy lately. Too many missions, too many close calls, too many days where people come back with haunted eyes and blood on their boots. The usual buzz of laughter and noise has calmed into a tense silence.

Steve sees it, the weight pressing down on all of you. So he starts leaving Post-It notes.

Little things. Encouragements. Reminders that somebody sees you.

"You're stronger than yesterday."

"Thanks for having my six today."

"You matter more than you know."

You find one stuck to your laptop after a long mission, and your chest aches so badly you have to pretend you’re just tired.

Because it’s been a long time since anyone said something like that to you-without expecting something in return.

At first, everyone thinks it’s cute.

There’s teasing. Eye-rolls. Laughter.

Clint wears one on his forehead for half a day. Nat rips one in half and deadpans, “Look, now it's a 'half-assed compliment.'” Sam pins one to a dartboard and throws knives at it for practice.

And slowly, quietly, the notes stop appearing for everyone else.

Not because Steve stops writing them. Because no one answers back.

Except you.

You’re the only one who writes him back. You don't even really mean to, at first. It's instinct- this ache in your chest spilling over in ink.

One morning, when he's busy training with Bucky, you tuck a note under the handle of his shield.

"You’re doing a good job too, you know."

The next day, there's a note waiting on your coffee mug:

"I’m trying. Thank you."

After that, it's just you and him.

A secret conversation nobody else knows about, carried out in scribbled handwriting and curling edges of sticky paper. A secret conversation that's built up to mean a lot for the both of you.

Some mornings you wake up to find one on your door.

"Hope today is kinder to you."

You leave one tucked into the crack of the training room door:

"It never is. But you make it bearable."

The notes shift- slow and tender, almost too tender. You two begin to dive into a different area of your relationship, one deeper and softer. Unexplored territory neither of you have dared to enter before. One that shines light on vulnerability from the both of you.

They start to say the things you’re too afraid to say out loud.

The things that weigh on your mind when the halls are too empty and the world feels too big to survive in. Personal things you've never shared before.

The notes feel like a conversation between different versions of yourselves -the braver, softer ones who aren't so afraid to be seen.

In person, you and Steve never talk about them. You don't acknowledge them. You don't elaborate. You just keep moving through life like the conversation never happened.

But you know.

You both know.

Maybe it’s because the notes make it easier. Easier to open up. Easier to say the things you’re too scared to say out loud.

There’s none of the pressure that comes with looking someone in the eye and trying to be brave. None of the fear that they’ll see right through you -see how fragile you really are underneath it all.

Maybe it's because, deep down, you're still terrified of being vulnerable with another person.

And maybe he is too.

Neither of you really knows how to start the conversation. So you don't try.

You just keep writing.

And somehow, that becomes enough.

Weeks pass.

You almost don't notice when you start carrying the notes in your jacket pocket. It's become something so natural and comforting -a way to cope with the harsh world.

You read them over and over when missions go bad, when your hands are shaking too hard to hold a gun steady, when you feel like you don't deserve to be here. You find comfort in them in the middle of the night when the world is silent, but your mind is not.

The words are always simple.

Never elaborate. Never heavy-handed.

Just real.

And they always find you when you need them the most.

You don't realize how much it means until one day, one awful day, there isn't a note.

Not on your laptop. Not on your door. Not anywhere.

Just silence.

The kind of silence that eats at the hollow spaces inside you.

You try not to let it get to you. You fail.

Maybe it was stupid to think this meant anything.

Maybe you were just a charity case to him.

Maybe you’ve been reading too much into scraps of paper and wishful thinking.

But then, just as you're about to crumble under the weight of it all, you find one.

Not neatly placed, not obvious.

Crumpled. Half-shoved under your door. Like it was left in a hurry. Like he almost couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Your hands tremble as you unfold it. Your heart pounds, nervous to see what's inside.

It's just four words.

Scrawled in handwriting you know better than your own name by now:

"Please don't give up."

You sit down hard on the floor, clutching the note like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the earth.

Because he saw you. Even when you thought no one did.

Because somehow, Steve Rogers, the man who carries the whole damn world on his shoulders, still had room to carry you, too.

That night, you leave him a note.

You don't sign it.

You don't have to. You know he'll know it's you.

You stick it to the outside of his door and pray he finds it before anyone else does.

"I wasn't going to... but only because of you. You make me happy. Steve, you mean the world to me."

You don’t sleep that night, too busy tossing and turning as you anxiously wait to see what happens.

You tell yourself you’re not waiting for a reply.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter if he doesn’t answer. You're lying.

Morning comes, gray and sluggish, and there's no note waiting for you.

Just a yawning, hollow ache in your chest you can’t quite fill.

You feel disappointed. Maybe you had read the situation wrong. Maybe you shouldn't have exposed your heart so much to the man. It felt right in the moment-natural. But maybe it was too much for the soldier to handle.

You go through the motions anyway. You have to.

Training. Weapon checks. A mission briefing you barely hear.

Oh, the mission debriefing.

You’re sitting across from Steve in the debriefing room, trying to act like nothing’s changed, trying to ignore the way your heart still stutters when you think about the note you left for him. It’s harder than you thought it would be.

He’s sitting there, too -still Steve Rogers, still wearing that perfectly calm, unreadable expression like he’s the last person in the world who could possibly be nervous. You’re probably projecting. He’s probably fine.

You’re not fine.

Your fingers drum softly against the table, your gaze shifting between the notes scattered in front of you, the faces of the other Avengers, the screen showing the mission brief. Anything but him.

It’s been hours since you left the note.

Hours since you put yourself out there, so far out, you almost can’t see the shore.

But here you are, sitting across from him, trying to act like nothing’s changed.

Like, there was no unspoken admission of everything between you in that tiny yellow square of paper.

And he hasn’t said anything.

Neither of you has mentioned it.

You almost wish he would. You almost wish he’d do something, a single glance, a soft laugh, some acknowledgment that the elephant in the room isn’t just suffocating you.

But he doesn’t.

And you’re not sure if that’s worse.

Instead, he’s talking about the mission -mission details, coordinates, all the tactical stuff that’s so second nature to him.

You’re nodding along, your mind only half in the room.

How could it be?

How could you pretend you’re not tangled up in the mess of whatever happened between you two?

You look at Steve -really look at him this time.

He’s focused and determined. Serious.

And yet...

It’s like there’s something in the air between you.

Something that’s heavy, like it’s waiting to fall.

He has to feel it. Right?

But neither of you is going to say anything. Not here. Not now. You don’t know if you’re scared of what it would mean if you did.

Or if he is.

You take a small breath and force your focus back to the mission details. You have to focus. This mission is important, and this is what you do, right? You’re an Avenger. You can compartmentalize, you can handle this. You’ve handled worse. Lives depend on you. You can't fuck up.

That's so much pressure. It's suffocating, stacking on top of the stress with Steve. But there's nothing you can do about it. This is your job.

But it’s harder when the person across from you is Steve Rogers -someone who somehow changed everything with a few quiet notes. Someone who isn’t supposed to make your heart race just by walking into the room. Someone who isn’t supposed to make it feel like the world has stopped just because he didn’t say anything at all.

This is all too much.

A small part of you wonders if you’ve made a mistake. Maybe you shouldn’t have left that note. Maybe you shouldn’t have let yourself be so vulnerable. It was too soon. He's probably weirded out. He probably doesn't feel the same. The friendship is ruined over one little note -a note with big words.

But then the tiniest thing happens.

His hand moves slightly toward the pile of notes in front of him -the ones you left out for the mission brief -and just before he grabs one to make a point, his finger brushes against the corner of your note. You know it’s yours. You can tell by the way the edge is slightly crinkled from being tucked into the pocket of his jacket. The one with your handwriting.

He doesn’t look at it.

He doesn’t acknowledge it.

He just… moves on. Like it's nothing. Like your words were forgettable.

But that small moment? It shatters you.

Because you know, deep down, that he saw it. That he felt it. That the note meant something to him, too. But you’ll never know if it’s the same thing it meant to you.

You bite your lip, trying to keep the flush from creeping up your neck. You can’t look at him. You can’t do this.

But somehow, you do.

Just for a second, your eyes flick to his face. And there it is -just barely visible, a shadow. A flicker. Something in the way his jaw tenses. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe you’re imagining it.

Maybe it's everything.

The words you almost say -the words that almost leave your mouth, they die in your throat, buried by the tightness in your chest. So you keep your gaze low, nodding along with the others, trying to act like the weight of the world isn’t in your heart. Trying to act like everything’s normal, even though it’s not. You know it. He knows it.

And neither of you is brave enough to speak.

Later that afternoon, you're still thinking about it.

And you tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself that maybe it meant more to you than it ever did to him. Maybe you made the whole thing up in your head. Maybe—

When you get back to your room, there's a Post-It stuck crookedly to your door.

You stop breathing.

You peel it off with shaking fingers, heart rattling so loud in your ears you almost miss the words.

"Roof. Midnight. — S"

Just that. No smiley face. No little joke.

Just a place and a time, like an order you could disobey but never would.

You almost don't go. You almost convince yourself it’s safer to stay inside, stay in your room, stay tucked away behind all the walls you built around yourself. In here, you can predict what happens next. You'll binge-watch a show and try to drown the pain in your chest with distractions. Out there -on that roof...there's no telling what's next. In here, things are safe.

But the thing is -you don’t want to be safe anymore.

You want him.

You climb the stairs to the roof just before midnight, the compound quiet around you. The sky is clear and sharp above, stars scattered like someone spilled salt across black paint.

He’s already there. Leaning against the railing, looking up at the sky like it’s speaking a language only he understands.

You stop a few feet away. You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

The silence is deafening. And for a second, you think maybe you’ve made a mistake. Maybe he’s here to tell you it was nothing. That you misread everything. Maybe he's here to let you down softly before building up another wall.

You turn the Post-It over and over in your pocket with clammy fingers, wishing you were braver and knew where to start.

But then...he looks at you.

And in that moment, you realize: He’s just as scared as you are. There’s something raw in his eyes. Something almost broken. His face isn't the way it was earlier in the debriefing. His usually calm expression is more tense and nervous.

Slowly, carefully, he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a crumpled stack of yellow notes.

Yours.

Every single one. He kept them. He kept all of them.

Your throat burns.

“I didn’t know how to say it,” Steve says finally, voice rough. He looks down at the notes in his hands. His thumb gently caresses the Post-it note on top of the stack, so careful like they're made of glass. “Any of it.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

He huffs a laugh -bitter and soft. “I can fight armies. I can stand in front of bullets. But when it comes to you... I just-I didn’t know how to start.” His eyes meet your gaze.

You take a shaky step closer.

The air between you feels electric, thrumming with everything unsaid.

“I didn’t either,” you whisper. “I still don’t.”

His hand tightens around the notes.

"You made it easy," he says. "You made it feel like... maybe it was okay to be scared. As long as I wasn’t alone in it."

You feel something inside you crack, something old and brittle and terrified -and you step forward again until you're close enough to touch.

You’re shaking.

So is he.

Very carefully, like he’s afraid you might shatter, Steve lifts one hand and brushes a knuckle along your cheek.

“You’re not alone,” he says.

And this time -this time, you believe him.

You surge forward and wrap your arms around him, burying your face against his broad chest. His body radiates warmth and comfort. Immediately, you feel safe.

Steve lets out a soft, broken sound and pulls you in tighter, like he's been waiting forever for this.

Neither of you says anything else.

You don't need to.

Because you both know. You always have.

----

Extra's

The Notes

In The Beginning (Before You Respond)

"You’re doing great. Don’t forget to take care of yourself today. — S"

"Coffee's on me. Kitchen, top shelf. — S"

"That report you turned in? Impressive. Don’t sell yourself short. — S"

"Training room at 4? I’ll save you a punching bag. — S"

When You Begin Replying

"Bad day? You’re stronger than you think. — S"

"Sometimes even heroes need a break. Hope you’re giving yourself one. — S"

"Maybe. Sometimes it feels like I'm barely holding it together.

But it helps, knowing someone thinks I can. — You"

"Working on it. (Still figuring out how to not feel guilty when I take one and how to remember.) Thanks for the reminder. — You"

"The way you handled yourself yesterday… you remind me why I believe in people. — S"

"I don't always believe in myself. It means more than I can say that you do. Thank you. Really. — You"

When Feelings Develop and Vulnerabilities are Shared

"Some nights I wake up gasping. Still stuck in old battles that aren't mine anymore. Hard to remember I’m safe. — S"

"You’re not alone. I still get nightmares too -about mistakes, about people I couldn’t save. It doesn’t mean we’re weak. It means we remember. — You"

"I think the fact you worry about it means you won’t. You care too much. You feel too much. That’s what saves you. — You"

"I worry sometimes that remembering makes me dangerous.

Like I’m just waiting to crack apart. — S"

"I never learned how to ask for help. Old habits die hard, I guess. But lately... I think I'd like to try. — S"

"You don't have to do it alone anymore. You never did. (I'm still learning too. Maybe we can figure it out together.) — You"

"I saw the way you looked out for everyone today. You don’t even realize it -how steady you are. You’re the strongest person I know. — S"

"I'm scared most days that I’ll never be enough. That one day, someone will see through me and realize I’m not who they thought. (Thank you for seeing me anyway.) — You"

"You are more than enough. You’re extraordinary. — S"

The Notes That Made Both of You Wonder if There Could Be More

"You light up a room without even trying. Not sure if you know that. — S"

"You’re more than just your shield, you know. I hope you see that the way the rest of us do. (The way I do.) — You"

"I feel a little less lost when I’m around you. Strange, huh? — S"

"Don’t tell anyone, but... You’re kind of my favorite Avenger. — You"

"I’m starting to think books are better when you’re the one who recommends them. (Or maybe it’s just because they remind me of you.) — S"

"Strength isn’t just muscles and grit. Sometimes it’s quiet and steady and shows up when no one’s watching. That’s the kind of strong you are. — You"

"You make the hard days softer. Just thought you should know. — S"

Steve's Reaction To Your Note:

The hall is quiet when Steve gets back to his floor.

It’s late enough that most of the lights are off, the compound humming softly around him like a sleeping giant. He rubs the back of his neck, exhausted -physically, emotionally. He’s not even sure why he checks his door.

Maybe it’s habit. Maybe it’s hope.

And there it is -a small square of yellow, stuck crookedly against the wood.

He peels it off carefully, thumb brushing over the crumpled corners and familiar handwriting.

"I wasn't going to... but only because of you. You make me happy. Steve, you mean the world to me."

Steve stares at it for a long time. Long enough that the words blur together.

He sinks down against the door, the note clutched tight between his fingers like it might disappear if he lets go. His heart pounds quickly.

He can't believe what he's reading.

His chest feels too small, too tight, like there’s not enough room for everything suddenly crowding inside it.

Because he knows what she’s saying. God -he knows.

It’s not just about the notes. Not just about the inside jokes or the good mornings or the careful, clumsy affection that’s been blooming between them like a secret garden no one else can see.

It’s about her. Her heart. Her hurt. Her hope.

It’s about the way she trusted him enough to say it -even if she couldn't say it out loud.

And Steve...

He feels like he’s been standing at the edge of a cliff for months now, too afraid to jump. Too afraid to fall.

But she jumped first. She jumped for him.

He swallows hard, blinking up at the ceiling like maybe that'll stop the burn behind his eyes. It doesn’t.

Carefully, reverently, he folds the note and tucks it into the inside pocket of his jacket, right over his heart.

Then he pulls out a fresh Post-It, his hands only shaking a little, and scribbles three words:

"Roof. Midnight. — S"

Simple. Plain.

But it’s the start of something he’s been too afraid to reach for. Until now.

Steve's heart pounds louder as he walks closer to her door. When he's finally in front of it, he's so close to pressing the note on it, when fears fill his mind.

What if he's misreading the situation? What if she doesn't like him the way he's thinking she might? What if he ruins everything they've built between them?

Steve's thoughts get the best of him. With the note in his hand, he turns back around to his room. As the distance grows between her room, his heart sinks lower. He's unsure. He's...scared.

Steve makes it to his room, setting the Post-it note on his desk. He sits on his bed, staring down at the small piece of paper with his writing. He'll decide tomorrow if he should leave it for her or not.

Tonight, he'll go through her notes again and make sure he's not reading this wrong.

After They're Together

The Post-Its don't stop after you and Steve finally find your way to each other. If anything, they multiply.

Now they're not hidden anymore. They're not careful or scared. Now they’re everywhere -like tiny, living proof of your love for each other.

You leave some for him. Next to his shield, waiting for him before training.

"The world is lucky to have Captain America. I'm luckier to have you. — You"

On his favorite hair gel, you bought when you noticed he was running low.

"Thinking of you. I hope your day is wonderful, just like you. -You"

Next to the breakfast you make for him.

"I love you more than the moon and the stars. Never forget that. -You"

Inside his pocket before a mission:

"Come back to me. (I believe in you.) — You"

He leaves them for you. On the cup of coffee he sets out for you every morning.

"Love you more than caffeine. (And that's saying something.) — S"

On your dresser, near your mirror.

"You're beautiful, even when you think you're not. Especially then. — S"

Tucked under your pillow on a rough day:

"You don't have to be strong tonight. Let me hold you. — S"

In your sketchbook, slipped between the pages:

"You make the world better just by existing. I hope you know that. — S"

Sometimes you find them in your shoes, or taped to the door, or tucked between the pages of a book he knows you’re reading. Sometimes he finds yours in his wallet, his glove, or the inside of his gym bag. You two leave them everywhere.

They're sloppier now, the handwriting messier, rushed -because there’s no more fear weighing down your hands. You don't have to be perfect for each other. You just have to be.

And when he kisses you goodnight, you swear you can still feel every unsaid word from all those early notes written against your skin.

Still there. Still unfolding. Still yours

[keferon]

I just want this fic to be here too👍 Part 1? Eh

_____________

“He's stalking his celebrity crush.”

“That's not stalking!” resents Swerve ”I'm just worried.”

Rewind makes a gesture that looks vaguely apologetic and looks at Tailgate again.

“Watching. He's watching his superhero celebrity crush who's a member of the Wreckers. And so far no one's survived long in the Wreckers, so he's shaking on every notification like a crazy mom.”

Tailgate tries to peer sideways into Swerve's phone

“That sounds stressful. Is that him? Is he dying?”

_____________

Blurr/Swerve, Superhero au, fic under the cut⤵️ Heavily inspired/based on this post

Blurr doesn't think life and death is something he can control.

He's about 99.99999% sure.

The remaining microscopic fraction of that idiotic statistic is held in place by one small but important factor that Blurr can't explain and isn't sure he even wants to explain. It's like the dream logic. The moment you realize exactly how things work is also the moment you wake up to realize it.

The very nuance understanding which destroys all magic or reveals the fact that magic never existed.

That nuance?

Blurr can't die.

And it's certainly not because he's not trying hard enough.

That last one sounds a little radical. But he has a history. His team has a history.

“Wreckers is a pretty peculiar collection of superheroes. It's easy to get into and even easier to get out of (usually feet first and in a bag). No other hero organization loses so many people so often. No other hero organization can also handle the level of threats that the Wreckers eliminate.

Their fans affectionately refer to them as the Suicide Squad. There is...a lot of black humor among the Wreckers fanbase and Blurr doesn't condemn it. Not after having to memorize new names and faces of teammates every six months.

The thing is.

He probably should have been dead a long time ago. A lot. A lot of “that was close” ago.

Just two days after joining the Wreckers, he found himself in the middle of an absolutely monstrous fire and miraculously escaped death by getting away just moments before the entire building collapsed on his head.

Only a week after that, he gets shot. Fifteen times.

And. Look.

Blurr is fast! Being fast is kind of his main thing as a speedster. He did the only logical thing and made an honest effort to dodge, but three of those fifteen bullets still ended up inside him and only miraculously didn't hit anything that couldn't be repaired.

Half a year later, a car falls on him.

Another month - some freaking supervillain decides to infect an entire country with a homemade super lethal virus and guess who becomes the only victim.

At least once a month, various psychopaths try to break his legs.

At least once every half a year he ends up being the one who “heroically saved all the hostages but didn't have time to save himself”.

It's like an endless stream of negative karma.

It's really amazing how such a small piece of civilization like Iacon can contain so many disasters. Even more amazing perhaps is how people manage to survive through all this neat smoothie of misery and violence.

Earthquakes, villains, villains, more villains, terrorists, natural disasters, monsters from outer space, and it all comes out of nowhere and it all takes a hundred percent effort to pack Blurr in a coffin.

Blurr... doesn't know why he's still alive.

He honestly has no idea how he's doing it. He may get into life-and-death situations more often than he does haircuts but every time things come within an inch of killing him. It's impossible luck. Statistically improbable chance. One-in-a-thousand odds. A fucking lightning caught in a bottle, but it happens so often it's like someone somewhere in heaven decided to open a bottled lightning factory and then reward Blurr with the title of their honorary loyal customer.

Blurr doesn't think he has power over life and death.

But here's the thing.

On some particularly violent nights, he wonders that maybe...

---------------

Sometimes Swerve thinks being a dedicated fan should be on the list of “unhealthy” high-paying jobs. One of those where they give you extra cash for the fact that you even bother to show up and then give you insurance and paid vacations.

Okay, that last one might be a bit of an overkill, but it would be nice if he at least had an endless supply of sedatives.

At least some chamomile. Preferably not from the sidewalk. He's not picky.

See, their world decided to change the rules of existence not too long ago and turned such a trivial thing as “trust” into a new in-game currency.

Simply put. If enough people believe something, it becomes true.

What has society chosen to do with that? Of course create an absolutely insane cult of celebrity worship, essentially giving a bunch of already rich and beautiful people superpowers as well.

As if they weren't already living luxuriously enough!

Swerve is not jealous. Certainly not. His first thought when he found out about the new “rules” was definitely not to tell everyone he knows that he won a million dollars and wait for the power of belief to make it true.

He surely wasn't trying to do that. Anyone who claims otherwise is either a liar or their name starts with a T and ends with Gate.

Speaking of.....

Tailgate scratches the back of his head puzzled.

“So you didn't actually win a million dollars?”

They are sitting in a small cafe, the name of which Swerve has honestly forgotten. Or rather he never memorized it, because the local owner of the place prefers to hang huge posters with superheroes right above the name. Swerve is a rather controllable customer.....

Rewind, sitting at the same cheap plastic table as them, hums.

“And here I was trying to figure out if your holey slippers were a cry for help or one of those crazy expensive 'fancy' designs.”

“Ha. ha.” says Swerve slowly and deliberately unhappily “If I get rich one day, I won't tell any of you.”

He slowly takes a sip of some obscure looking substance that Rewind ordered for them all as an experiment and turns to Tailgate.

“Look, it's a pretty fun system. Things that people believe in strongly enough - become real. So if uh, if uh, if we as a whole country believe that our government is honest - that will, in theory, make it honest. Or if a hundred thousand people genuinely believe you can fly, you will be able to fly. That's how it works now.”

Tailgate stares at him. With very large, puzzled eyes.

Swerve tries not to laugh too hard. Poor Tailgate had once gone off to explore the caves and somehow, by some incredible means, managed to get lost and stuck in them for two whole months. Then he crawled out and discovered that magic had appeared in the world while he was gone. Swerve thinks that if he were Tailgate, he'd look very stupid too, trying to realize the absurdity of the situation.

Tailgate is toying with his curled straw.

“So is the government honest now?”

Rewind makes a loud “snrk” noise into his cup.

Swerve chuckles. Not as “funny” haha but more like “we fucked it all up” haha.

It shouldn't be possible to fit all the sense of doom from the world's level of damnation into one expression, but he confidently goes for it.

“GOD NO, did you ever believe that government could be honest?”

“Well...now that's just sad...” decides Tailgate ‘Something good was supposed to come out of this, right?”

Rewind raises a finger victoriously.

“Oh! There are no more incurable diseases! The placebo effect is the new big thing now that a bunch of people have gotten the ability to cure any illness at the snap of their fingers.”

Swerve nods, dangling his drink in his hands.

“There was a guy who claimed he had magic hands that cured everything and gathered a crowd of fanatical admirers around him. So...now his hands are really magic because his followers believe it. Crazy stuff...”

Tailgate puts his elbows on the table, propping his head up with his hands.

“So if I tell everyone I won a million dollars.....”

“I recommend--” Rewind waves his cup “...first make sure you're not wearing holey slippers.”

“Аh”

“That, and you'll need at least about a million people loving and supporting you wholeheartedly if you want this to work.”

“That's...a lot of people,” Tailgate groans.

Swerve shrugs

“That's why all the really cool stuff only goes to celebrities.”

_____

Tailgate cranes his neck curiously.

“Hey Swerve, while you went to place your order your phone started buzzing.”

Swerve falls back into his seat as fast as if he'd just decided the entire floor was lava and starts scrolling through notifications, cursing at spam and useless newsletters.

“When??”

“Just a couple minutes ago” shrugs Tailgate ”Are you expecting someone?”

“I'M...OH NO NO I'M JUST. Shit, wait a minute.”

Rewind leans over to Tailgate and smiles deviously, not even trying to pretend to whisper.

“He's stalking his celebrity crush.”

“That's not stalking!” resents Swerve ”I'm just worried.”

Rewind makes a gesture that looks vaguely apologetic and looks at Tailgate again.

“' Watching. He's watching his superhero celebrity crush who's a member of the Wreckers. And so far no one's survived long in the Wreckers, so he's shaking on every notification like a crazy mom.”

Tailgate tries to peer sideways into Swerve's phone

“That sounds stressful. Is that him? Is he dying?”

Swerve slides down the back of his chair slightly and tilts the phone toward Tailgate

“No, it's not him. He's the one in the blue suit on the left. And no, he's not dying. That bastard is impossible to kill.”

Tailgate lets out an understanding “ooh.”

“Although,” Swerve admits, “ Following him was a lot easier when he was driving cars instead of saving the world.”

He's been a Blurr fan for so long that it can probably be put on his resume already. He remembers watching the Iacon 5000 race with friends with Rewind starting to joke about how they should all bet on someone brand new this year. To fuel the fun, they sat down to pick candidates to bet on based solely on the color of their cars.

Swerve then poked his finger at a random bright blue car and said he'd bet on it because “blue is a fast color.”

Later, his friends would joke more than once that Swerve had the gift of prophecy that day. Because blue wasn't just fast. Oh, God. No. Blue turned out to be the absolute leader, dominating the race track from start to finish.

Swerve remembers vividly the first time he looked at a racer getting out of that car and thought “who the hell is that” and then immediately “how do I find his socials”.

The answer to the second question came quickly. The answer to the first...well. The guy, Blurr, soon turned out to be a faceless celebrity. Shining at numerous races, but never showing his face. Swerve highly doubts it's due to shyness, given...some character traits. (Swerve has a running theory, which is that ...Blurr has no shame. Even as a concept.) Probably just to keep his life anonymous and quiet, he believes.

It's understandable.

He's not judging. But he has to admit that a billion fanarts on what a face under a racing helmet could look like in theory...really...fuels his fantasy.

He's a very normal and sane fan. He tries very hard to be a normal fan and he's doing a great job at it. Maybe except for those moments when Blurr gets into another car accident. Lots of them. Lots and lots of bloody accidents actually and Swerve at first catches a micro heart attack every time he sees the news, but eventually he gets used to it. Blurr is incredibly resilient. And just as rich as well.

Swerve is used to hearing updates about another incident and then seeing Blurr back in the race a couple months later. Just as energetic, carefree, and frankly . Really handsome. As if nothing had happened. As if any danger would just bounce off him without leaving a dent.

It was familiar. It was habitual.

Until, of course, the universe started handing out faith magic to people. Until Blurr walked up to this imaginary box of lottery numbers and pulled out a ball that said “congratulations you're lucky now go and fucking die.”

Blurr is a racer. A damn good racer. Incredibly popular too. Of course his many fans who adore him beyond measure gave him a superpower.

Of course that power was speed.

Of course.

Blue is the color of speed. What else.

As a racer, Blurr is undefeatable.

As a superhero, ..

Swerve still thinks this guy is impossible to kill, but that doesn't mean he doesn't get worried every time he sees the news headlines and live feeds.

“You're alive” Springer states ”Literally how are you still alive?”

Blurr tilts his head because it's the only part of his body he can still move while trapped under ten tons of mangled steel from a Decepticon flying base falling out of the sky.

“Hello to you, too.”

Springer tentatively pulls the nearest sheet of metal and hums in satisfaction when he feels the structure is stable enough.

“Bleeding? Fractures?”

“I think my hair's ruined.”

“No one can even see your hair.”

“Doesn't mean I shouldn't care about it,” snorts Blurr

Springer tosses aside another piece of metal and reaches for his earpiece

“Smoke...? Nah...no really.....REALLY. ....No, you're not going to believe this. ......Aha, digging him out.” he looks away from the earpiece and leans over Blurr ‘Smokescreen wanted me to tell you that he's impressed and,... I quote ’personally saw that damn wagon fall right on your head'. He also wants to know if he needs to shoo away the paparazzi.”

Blurr tries to shrug but remembers in time that it's best not to fidget too much.

“Tell him I'll need a new suit. Let him keep everyone, I'm fine.”

“Literally...like...” barely audibly mutters Springer. “Like.h ow..”

Blurr smiles “My guardian angel is working overtime.”

Swerve takes a deep, nervous exhale, unhooking his fingers from the phone on which he's watching the live feed. Ah shit. Okay. Okay. Alive. Fine.

Rewind looks over his shoulder.

“Looking out for your pookie?”

“HE'S NOT MY

__________

Smokescreen stops right in the middle of an inspired argument with the advertisement agent when his side vision registers a flash of blue to the right of the entirely destroyed street.

“Blurr??”

“Oh, hey!” waves Blurr, “'Sup Smoke?”

The crumbled asphalt beneath his feet crunches softly. Just a few minutes ago, this street was a complete mayhem....

Smokescreen waves the clipboard in his direction

“I thought you had your head ripped off, you suicidal son of a bitch! Do you know how hard it was to calm your hysterical fans down??”

Blurr knows no one can see his face but rolls his eyes anyway. Almost immediately his brain tells him that this was a bad idea, sending a whole bunch of black spots in front of his eyes.

“Hey, you're getting paid for th...ugh...this.”

Blurr doesn't elaborate on the fact that he was sure he was going to be left headless today as well. One of the Overlord's freaking monster minions grabbed him and for a split second Blurr could swear he heard his own neck crunch.

He tries not to think about it.

The more he thinks about it, the less sense it will make.

The more he analyzes, the louder becomes the voice in the far corner of his head saying he should have been dead a long time ago.

A week ago when an entire air base fell on him. Three weeks ago during the battle with Menasor that practically broke his spine. Even earlier, when he was so busy evacuating hospital staff that he ended up being the only one present when that hospital exploded.

He's afraid that if he starts looking into the causes, this magical effect..this life-saving placebo will disappear.

He's convinced it's a placebo. It's the way this world works.

Someone out there must be doing some complex mental magic, keeping him more or less alive and whole and...Blurr is probably going a little crazy. Probably.

Maybe one of those many blows got him harder than he thought. Maybe it's his own self-confidence manifesting miracles of salvation one after another.

(It actually...doesn't sound that unbelievable. Blurr has a lot of belief in himself. Many people would say even too much. The question is whether it counts.)

(He prefers to think it counts.)

__________

Swerve sees red. Lots of it. LOTS of red.

More than he ever wanted to see in his life.

Uh-oh. That's not good.

His vision is blurring. His head buzzes with a nasty sharp static and his left shoulder hurts like a BITCH.

Above him is the flickering, faltering light of the bulb and below him is a growing puddle of his blood. His hair is wet and sticking to his face, making it hard to focus his already shaky gaze.

He makes an attempt to shift, but all it brings him is an explosion of pain.

Ugh.

Sirens are blaring outside, warning the public to evacuate. He's not really sure he can make out exactly what the sound is announcing. He has memorized all kinds of emergency alerts, but the thought escapes him.

What was it

Oh, yeah.

He's been shot.

He's been shot and he's probably going to die because everyone he knows is either too far away or busy evacuating. He vaguely hopes they'll remember about him.

Maybe only after getting to a safe place, but he'll take even that.

The red around him is getting bigger.

He tries to reach for his phone to...where is his phone? Did he leave it in the kitchen? He probably did. Swerve seemed to have no time to grab it when the entire building shook and ugly semi-mechanical monsters fell from the sky.

One of these monsters noticed Swerve just moments later and activated something resembling a cannon mounted in his hands. Swerve then looked at the glowing muzzle and thought that firing this thing would probably send his atoms so far away that his dna would be found on the moon. He could stick his hand down that gun barrel. And his hands are far from the smallest and most delicate hands you can find.

Why did this have to happen on a Saturday? Why not a day later or earlier? If it were any other day, Swerve would be at work right now. In a different place, with other people and probably with a much better chance of not being killed like a loser.

Not sure he wouldn't have been shot, but at least someone would have seen this and picked him up off the floor, put him in their pocket and taken him to the rescue.

Ugh.

He realizes that he closed his eyes at some point and hurriedly opens them. His expertise is by no means professional, but he is almost certain that that weapon wasn't ordinary. He has no idea what it means for him. Maybe he needs stitches, painkillers and a kiss and he'll be good as new. Or maybe it's like one of those films where you get hurt by an unknown creature and then you grab the sink in front of the mirror at midnight and watch the veins under your skin move on their own.

He doesn't feel shot, as silly as that sounds. He feels numb. Falling. Farther and farther away.

He is falling and falling as deep as he's ever fallen in his life. Maybe not as far as "got lost in the woods" far. No, more like " a coin dropped behind the fridge" far. It's not really about the distance but more about the feeling that he's never going to get out of here because no one ever looks in here.

He’s falling until the state of falling starts to register as a resting point, because that's the only variable he still feels. This corner he falls into is very deep and dark and dusty.

He doesn't remember to open his eyes again.

___________

Smokescreen sounds frankly hysterical, yelling at Blurr through his earpiece.

“I understand you like to show off, but you can't outrun a freaking tsunami?!?!”

Blurr only speeds up, “Watch."

“You cocky IDIOT this is suicide!”

“Relax Smoke” laughs Blurr ”You say that every time.”

The half-destroyed bridge shakes and sways like a wounded animal as the water from the overrunning sea crashes into it, gouging into the concrete and bending the metal.

The whole scene is...depressing. Water and debris everywhere and damn. This isn't the first time Blurr is witnessing a large-scale attack by the "forces of evil" as the hero agency likes to call them, but looking at the wrecked cars and scattered debris doesn't get any easier with time. Maybe it just hasn't been long enough. Who knows.

Springer doesn't look like he is bothered by it. But Springer also has a lot more experience being a superhero. With his skill at giving out smiles and encouragement in absolutely any situation, not many can compete.

Blurr certainly can't. In fact. He's got a face with subtitles that turn on in almost any stressful situation. Wearing a mask is probably one of the best things he can do to calm down any random civilians waiting for him to save the day. If they can't see him making panicked grimacing eyes, they'll be feeling much better.

A few more seconds and he's on the collapsing bridge. The people stuck on it look hysterical and bruised, but no one seems injured, so it shouldn't be difficult.

Blurr's plan is simple. Get all the people out of the disaster's path. Then get yourself out. Easy.

Easy?

He can pinpoint the exact moment when something goes wrong.

It's the second that a crooked, hideous-looking monster grabs his leg and pulls him underwater. The second when Blurr fights it with all his might and realizes with sudden horror that his strength isn't enough. That he is. Not enough.

His lungs burn, begging him to take a breath and he doesn't even know which way is the surface because all there is around him is the dark, black, cold pressure of water. It's clinging to him, seeping through his suit, his hair, burning his eyes and making his fingers go numb. It's pulling him somewhere, and he's obeying whether he wants to or not.

His spine prickles with panic.

His personal miracle. His damn magic or guardian angel or cursed luck or whatever the hell it was called. That thing that was always there to catch him like in that game of trust fall. He'd gotten so used to it's presence, he began to take it for granted.

Like the air you trust to be there every time you need to take your next breath.

And right now?

It's not here.

His body takes a convulsive breath and finds nothing but water.

[sometimes-i-write-good]

Handling It

Top Gun: Maverick - Fanboy x f!reader [no use of y/n]

7.2k | Fanboy couldn’t remember the last time he punched someone square in the face. Today seemed as good a day as any. He’d forgotten the way pain blossomed behind his knuckles and webbed its way up his arm. Assault and battery charges were the last thing on his mind. Honestly the only thing on his mind when he threw that punch was you.

===

Genre: angst, hurt/comfort

CW: Mentions of Abuse and Stalking, Breaking of Restraining Order, one-sided bar fight, insults and confrontation by a past abuser (there is no mentions or illusions to physical abuse, but please handle anything to do with emotional/mental abuse, stalking, and breaking of restraining orders with care. If this story isn’t for you, that’s okay. Just be safe <3) 

Author’s Note: I’m a sucker for the ‘who did this to you’ style fics or any kind of ‘you came? you called’ - also, sorry to any Brent’s who caught a stray today. || cross-posted on ao3

===

===

“I can’t name just one thing.” 

Mickey laughed over the lip of his beer bottle.  A quick sip to, hopefully, mask the pink gracing his cheeks, even though he knew the effort was futile at best.  “You know that.”

Reuben wouldn’t listen.  He never did.  It was one of the many qualities that made him such a great friend at times, and such a frustrating one tonight.  “One thing you like about her,” Payback pushed for an answer.  “It’s not that difficult of a question, Mick.” 

But it was. 

They went through this once a week.  Minimum.  He and Payback skirted off base early - easier to secure a spot at the bar before the crowds rolled in - all to sip a few beers and lament over the fact that they both missed the clause in their kickass fighter pilot careers where it stated relationships wouldn’t fall into their laps.  If anything, their chances at love were as out of reach as the horizon in front of them.  They could speed towards it all they wanted.  The line would still always be there, a hair’s breadth away. 

Reuben often started.  Making sure to take his time in overanalyzing every interaction he had that week with the woman who worked in the control tower.  Fanboy could agree she had the voice of an angel.  Payback’s infatuation was completely warranted.  Even before they found out she also looked like an angel, Mickey could tell she was a good fit for his wingman.  Reuben would flirt relentlessly and she, ever professional, would instruct them with a smile in her voice.  Occasionally she’d joke around, but not enough for a week by week breakdown.  Her clearing them for landing wasn’t the easiest thing to warp into a ‘dude, she likes you. You should totally ask her out.’  

Creating a conversation around you took no effort for Fanboy at all. 

“She’s like no one else I’ve ever met, Reuben.” Once Mickey got started, he couldn’t stop.  His callsign hadn’t exactly spawned into existence because of his cool, detached, and nonchalant approach towards anything he remotely liked.

“I know what you mean,” Payback said.  

He motioned to the bartender for another beer.  Mav and Penny had a date tonight.  Precisely why he and Mickey were sitting belly up to the bar so early on a Thursday afternoon.  No eavesdropping from Penny.  She was known for meddling if any of her regulars were remotely interested in each other.

“Day,” Payback sighed, “she has the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard.  You know what she did last week?” 

Fanboy arched a brow.  He did know what she did last week.  The past few months of being stationed here sat in his mind, carefully cataloged away.  From the batting eyelashes to the extremely obvious attempts to get Reuben to ask her out on a date.  Mickey knew Day’s entire day all thanks to Payback’s crush.  At this point, he felt like he knew her well enough to consider her a friend despite having never held a conversation with her. 

Payback could easily do the same.  There was one memory in particular Fanboy would break down again and again - Reuben truly had the patience of a saint. 

“Does your mother call you Garcia?”  You asked the first time he took you out for drinks.

The rest of the Dagger Squad milled about the bar.  You all had shown up together, along with some of your fellow TOPGUN instructors, but somehow Mickey paid for everyone’s drinks that night.  The two of you ended up tucked away in a booth by yourselves.  He couldn’t help but to think of it as a date.

“No, she doesn’t.��  He remembered how to form words somewhere between watching you polish off your drink and feeling you lean in closer to show your interest.

“Does she call you Fanboy?”  A sheepish grin and a small shake of his head.  “So what does she call you?” 

He leaned closer to you, stopping just before your noses could touch.  “She calls me Miguel.”

You tested the word out for yourself.  Reuben swears that was the moment Mickey fell in love, and he wasn’t entirely wrong.  Fanboy melted when he heard his name on your lips.  This shift in power felt dangerous.  At any point you could have this man in a puddle at your feet, willing to do anything for you.  Yet, Mickey felt nothing but trust.  You had never been one to abuse power - unless, of course, it was to give Hangman shit or get Payback back for something.

“But I can call you Mickey?”  You smiled one of the most stunning smiles Fanboy ever saw out of you.  How could he say no? 

And that’s how you wormed your way into a first name basis.  On top of becoming a featured subject for their Friday debriefs.  If Payback took a shot every time Fanboy asked “Do you think her asking to call me Mickey was her way of hitting on me?” he’d have alcohol poisoning. 

“Mickey!”  

His head snapped towards the sound of your voice like a moth to a flame.  Icarus to the sun.  Maverick to bad decisions.  Hangman to asshole comments.  Thousands of similes all as timeless as the way his heart ached in your presence.  A romance for the ages.  

He only wished it could get off the ground.  

Reuben slapped him on the shoulder.  He passed Fanboy a tequila shot saying, “You need to make a move tonight.” 

You moved towards the pair, splitting off from your friends.  Surely that was something Mickey could overanalyze later tonight.

“Yeah,” he answered absentmindedly.  “Sounds good.”

“Hi, Reuben.”  You saddled up to the bar.  Payback crushed you in a hug, and Mickey couldn’t ignore the jealousy flickering about in his chest.  When would he build up the courage to greet you with a hug?  Why couldn’t he approach anything that had to do with you with the same surefire confidence he could impart towards flying?

You squirmed in Payback’s grip.  “Too tight,” you playfully choked out.  “I’m dyin’ here.” 

Payback released you, taking care to carefully shove you closer to Mickey, and laughed.  “Good to see you too, Einstein.” 

Both you and Mickey shot him a look.  You’d been through your fair share of shitty callsigns. Mouth, which finally got axed after filing enough harassment claims, started because you’d mouthed off to your superior once during Plebe Summer and had your whole squad in the doghouse for two months.  It took another two months for the disdain to finally drop off whenever someone called you.  By then, though, people had been shifted around, and most at The Academy (those with extreme insecurity) didn’t appreciate having a woman attempting to be a future TOPGUN flier.  

Needless to say, Mouth in the hands of young men with sexism at the forefront of their minds quickly became a problem. So the remainder of your time at The Academy, and sometime after, marked you as IKEA.  I Know Everything Anyway.  Not nearly as cool as Maverick, Slider, or Iceman, but you’d rather be known for your brain than your hotheadedness. Talking over everyone simply had to happen in class.  Otherwise you weren’t going to be heard at all. 

Einstein came later; from Iceman himself.  He came to personally congratulate you on your perfect score.  “You’re a regular Einstein, aren’t you?”  He’d said, and it stuck.  Sometimes spoken in awe, sometimes with disgust, but mostly in a playful manner like Payback always managed. 

“Watch yourself, Payback.”  You plucked the shot from Mickey’s fingertips.  It was gone in a flash.  “Can I have another round, please?”  You asked the bartender, then turned towards Fanboy with a grin.  “You’re having one with me, right?  And one more, probably, to make things even.”

The one thing Reuben asked about earlier came to mind.  Your refusal to take shit.  That would have to be his favorite thing (in this moment because Fanboy knew he truly couldn’t choose a single aspect) about you.

“What’re you starin’ at?”  How you tilted your head to scrutinize him reminded Mickey of his childhood dog.  A stray his mother swore up and down would never come in the house, only to end up sleeping in bed with her each night.  Kind of like you - except you snuck your way into his heart rather than his bed.  “Are you okay?”

Mickey could feel the heat radiating off his face.  In comparing you to his childhood dog, he had gotten the image of you in his bed stuck in his mind.  What a dream, and not even in the typical horny way people used the term ‘in bed.’  Fanboy’s fantasy consisted of being able to hold you, talk to you for hours in the early hours of the morning, and revel in the knowledge that out of anyone in the world you could choose, you chose him.  Anything more that came with a domestic love like that would be a bonus. 

Of course, you weren’t a mind reader.  Thank god for that.  No stumbling apology would ever be enough to save Mickey from the embarrassment of daydreaming about you while you were next to him.  This crush steadily reached towards schoolgirl doodling your joint married name in a notebook levels of delusion.  Whoever said be friends with your crush never mentioned the crushing anxiety of ruining that friendship with any given misstep.  When did Mickey know it was safe to take the next step?

“Hmmm?”  The tips of his ears grew hot as you stared.  Somehow he managed to grasp every chance to make a fool of himself around you.  “Yeah,” he breathed, acutely aware of Payback’s smirk off to the side, “I’m fine.” 

“Are you doing a tequila shot?” 

“I don’t know about Mick here-” Reuben brought a hand down on Mickey’s shoulder- “but I will definitely be having one.”  He turned his attention to the bartender pouring the shots.  “Lime and salt too, please.”

Your eyebrows practically shot to your forehead.  “You can’t handle a tequila shot?  I would not have guessed that about you, Payback.” 

If only she knew how Reuben truly partied.  Fanboy knew him longest out of anyone on The Dagger Squad; they'd been a pair for most of his career.  

Payback brought a hand to his chest.  He gasped dramatically and Mickey rolled his eyes.  “We call him Payback because of all the shots I paid for that he promised to pay me back for.”

“I did pay you back!” 

“When?” 

“How many times have I saved your life?”

You laughed, doing nothing for the heat still trapped in Mickey’s cheeks.  “Isn’t that your job?”

“I could be shit at my job.”  Payback shrugged.  He shifted his position to reach for the salt on the table.  All the confidence of a man who didn’t own this tab - Mickey, unfortunately, would be paying for more of the squad’s drinks tonight.  “The lime and salt,” he explained, “are a part of the experience.  There’s a comradery to a ritual done together.  After this, we’re bonded for life.” 

Long ago Fanboy used to be envious of the way people flocked to Payback.  This simple act transformed into a performance.  Storytelling was an art, and Reuben perfected it.  He even had you succumbing to the supposed weakness of using a chaser.

To not stare you down while you licked your hand, Fanboy busied himself with the salt.  However, his eyes flickered to you for the briefest of seconds.  Right as he dragged his tongue over the fleshy part between his thumb and wrist.  The want must have been apparent.  He had always been the type to wear his emotions on his face.  

But you weren’t.  So when your eyes widened, Mickey paused.  A horrible thing to do considering his current position.   Your chest stilled for a second, eyes trained on him, and time stopped entirely.  The knowledge that you might just want him too sent Fanboy crashing back to reality.  He salted his hand with as steady a hand he could manage.

“A toast!”  You cleared your throat, eyes darting around before settling pointedly not on Fanyboy.  He could see your desperation for control.  “Payback?”

Payback lifted his shot glass.  The two of you followed suit.  “May it always be the other guy who says 'This drink's on me.’”

Between Fanboy’s annoyance and your giggle Reuben licked the salt, threw back the shot, and grabbed a lime wedge to bite down on.  He grinned around the peel.  “I win.” 

The competitive nature of fighter pilots took over.  Mickey completed the sequence with ease.  His bank account wouldn’t appreciate the smooth taste of the liquor but nearly dying those few months ago made him realize two things.  One, he really didn’t want to spend all his time pining over you - he’d rather be with you.  Two, he was getting too old for cheap liquor.

“That’s really- hey!”  You felt around blindly on the counter.  “Mickey, that's so not fair.” 

He brandished your lime slice.  “You’re supposed to do the shot, then complain about Payback.  Everyone knows this.” 

You stuck your bottom lip out in an overdramatic pout.  “I wanted that.”

“Oh, yeah?”  Sure, Fanboy may have deepened his voice slightly.  He might have seized the opportunity to slide forward, closer to you.  What was he supposed to do?  Ignore your blatant attempts at flirting because someone else was standing right there?  He’d been doing that for the entire time he’d known you.  At some point the third wheel needed to read the room.

Placing the lime wedge between your lips helped Payback do precisely that.  His gaze flicked back and forth between Fanboy and his thumb gently pushing the fruit to your mouth.  “I, uh,” Reuben fumbled for words, “I’ll go over there.” 

No one acknowledged his departure.  Fanboy kept his eyes locked on yours.  After all, you were the whole reason he was at the bar in the first place.  You pulled the lime into your mouth, and he let his thumb linger on your bottom lip for a moment before leaning back on the bar stool.

“Done pouting?”  

You popped the lime out of your mouth.  “I wasn’t pouting.”

Being a gentleman became so much harder when you ran your tongue over your lips to lick up all the juice.  The movement killed Fanboy’s ability to speak entirely.  Your smirk confirmed what he already knew.  You were well aware of his weaknesses.

“So, Mickey…”

Like the sound of his name falling from those very lips.

It had been a while since the two of you talked about something other than work.  Hell, Fanboy couldn’t remember the last time you and him were one on one.  A lie.  Payback debriefed that last one on one conversation with Mickey a few days ago.  He couldn’t help it.  Every day you were gentle on his mind. 

“What have you been fanboying over recently?”  You toyed with the citrus peel.  Focused intently on pushing the thing around the counter.  “Anything interesting?”

“You mean other than you?”  

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.  His eyes locked on yours.  Widening by the second with embarrassment.  “I mean-”

A shy smile played on your lips.  You looked pleased with yourself as you said, “Yeah, other than me.  I try not to talk about myself too much.  Don’t want to be Bagman Jr.”

Oh, Mickey could kiss you right now.

“Then what do you want to talk about?”  He asked.  Straightforward in the hopes of appearing more confident than he felt.  Fanboy could face certain death, he could face Cyclone, and he could face Bob in poker.  Your pretty face on the other hand almost always left him flustered.

You tapped a finger against your chin.  Faking a deep concentration to pull a smile out of Mickey.  “What was that TV show you’ve been dying to get everyone to watch, again?”

He instantly perked up.  “You sure you want to open that door?”

“You’re right.  Let’s have one more shot first,” you teased.  Your hand rested on Mickey’s forearm.  He tried hard not to stare at the headliner for flirty behavior and focused on your beautiful smile instead.  The whole time his heart threatened to beat out of his chest.  “I’m sure, Mickey.  I like listening to you talk.” 

And, damn, did Mickey talk.  Somewhere in the midst of laughter, finding excuses to touch one another, and conversation the two limes turned into seven.  The liquor worked any and all tension from Mickey.  Tipsy - maybe leaning more on drunk - confidence coursed through him.  Any flirty freudian slips he took in stride.  

Tequila made a new man out of Fanboy.  A closer version of himself, might be a better way to look at it.  How he normally attempted to pick women up at bars.  You weren’t any woman.  Precisely why so many shots were necessary in the first place.

“Is it Thursday today?”  You slurred your words together ever so slightly.  The drinks brought a warmth to your cheeks that hadn’t been there earlier.  Fanboy resisted the urge to reach out.  Scared the slightest touch would shatter the illusion.  “Thursday is darts day.” 

“Thursday is karaoke day,” Mickey corrected, his sentence also fuzzy around the edges.  “ ‘s why Coyote’s not here.” 

He focused on the concentrated furrow between your brow.  An expression that only ever came out when you were drinking.  Sober you calculated everything immediately.  A beer or two in a loading screen appeared while you clicked the pieces into place.  “But Bob’s here.” 

Bob and Javy often skipped Thursday’s at The Hard Deck.  Karaoke was bad enough with sober people who couldn’t sing.  Adding drunkenness to the equation ended in certain disaster.  Case in point - Javy “Coyote” Machado almost became Javy “Wolf” Machado because of all the drunken howling he did onstage instead of singing.  

He hadn’t shown his face at karaoke since.

“Bob is here at Phoenix’s request.”  That request being he lost a bet, but semantics were lost on the squad.  “My guess is she gets him to sing ‘Sweet Caroline.’”

“All that attention on him?  He’d melt.” 

Fanboy shook his head.  Bob was shy, sure, but he could handle the spotlight with enough time to prepare.  “No, but Rooster is absolutely going to take the next three slots after to prove he’s the better singer.”  

You laughed, and Fanboy could have sworn you used that as an excuse to lean in close and squeeze his bicep.  “Oh, I’m telling him you said that.”  You swung around in your stool, using Mickey’s arm to stabilize yourself, and searched for Rooster in the sea of people.

In your time surveying the crowd, Fanboy traced the rim of his empty shot glass and reveled in being your rock.  Could this be your future together?  Inside jokes over drinks.  Innocent touches with serious potential to transform into something more.

Tonight everything became clear.  All questions would be answered - good or bad - Mickey decided.  You were the brains.  IKEA.  You could tell him if you knew your feelings for him.  If this pipedream had potential or would swirl down the drain.

Nails pricking skin pulled Fanboy from his thoughts.  Your grip went stiff along with the rest of your body.  Any traces of a buzz disappeared entirely in this strange rigid poster.  He carefully pried your hand off him.  “What is it?”

“Brent.”  Your voice escaped you in a panicked whisper.

The name registered with Mickey briefly after wracking his tequila soaked brain for a moment longer than necessary.   A few weeks ago, during downtime between practice hops, everyone traded stories about the worst ex they had.  Payback shared his egregious tale about a girl he dated in high school stealing his dog when he didn’t ask her to prom, Phoenix told everyone how her blind date ended up storming into the kitchen of the restaurant they were at to cook his own meal, and Mickey gave the pared down version of his longest relationship ending when she moved halfway across the country to reunite with her… other boyfriend.

No one had anything nice to say.  Except for you.  

Your most recent ex, it seemed, had boundary issues that couldn’t be solved in a relationship with someone in the military.  The constant reminders and communication simply weren’t compatible with where you were at in your career.  Always moving around from base to base, fully prepared to be whisked away on a secret mission without a word of warning, didn’t bode well for the two of you.  So, you split.

Everyone - Hangman - blatantly accused you of still having feelings for this man.  Mickey couldn’t help but lean forward with interest, waiting for your answer.  He prepared himself for crushing disappointment.  You simply dismissed the notion with a gentle, “He’s not bad people.  I wish him nothing but the best, and I hope that best for him is far, far away from me.” 

But your body language conveyed the opposite.  You stood, swaying on your feet, and shook your head. Mickey was immediately off the barstool.  Buzz be damned.  He let himself assume the worst and boost some adrenaline into his system.  Overpowering the effects of the alcohol with stress always pulled Mickey’s mind back together.  He called a constant state of anxiety home.  Fight or flight was where he performed best.  Fanboy had medals to prove it. 

“Einstein?  Are you okay?”

One arm wrapped around your waist.  The look of shock on your face had Fanboy scared your legs would give out from beneath you at any given moment.  His earlier thought of being your rock solidified in this storm.  He wanted to be your constant, a source of comfort. 

If only he knew how to help you.

For a second you didn’t answer him.  Your eyes were locked on the man who had just passed through the threshold of The Hard Deck.  Then you nodded.  “Yeah.”  You sounded far away.  “Everything’s fine.” 

Fanboy followed your gaze.  He wanted to know exactly which man you side-eyed.  

Smaller and skinnier than a lot of the men in the bar, expected from someone who wasn’t training with the Navy seven days a week.  He appeared unassuming.  Still, you knuckles were turning white from where you were gripping the counter.  Unassuming didn’t mean he wasn’t capable of harm. 

“What do you need from me?”  He asked.

You swallowed, and your eyes finally met his.  Mickey could have cried.  You looked… small.  The feared Naval aviator he knew so well had been replaced with someone else.  Someone hurt, clearly because fear wasn’t an emotion you willingly showed.  In all of a few seconds you’d become human.

“Einstein,” he repeated in a slow, gentle voice.  “What do you need from me?”

“I have a restraining order on that man.”  Shame, which Fanboy couldn’t comprehend why, lit your eyes.  You turned back towards the bar.  Eyes trained on the pile of lime peels.  “For stalking.”  

Boundary issues seemed like a serious downplay.

Mickey slid behind you to shield you from view of anyone approaching.  He brought an arm around to rest against the bar.  To anyone else, this would look flirty, but really Fanboy wanted to give you the ability to whisper to him without anyone else overhearing.  “We should get you out of here.”

You shook your head.  “I don’t know where he is.”  The way your voice broke, broke Mickey’s heart. What did he do to you?  “I don’t want to move if I don’t know where he is.” 

“Okay.”  Mickey nodded.  “If I tell you where he’s at, then we’ll figure out if we’re using the back door or the front door.” 

He keeps his eyes locked on yours, searching your face for any sign that you heard him.  Gears turned behind your eyes.  Emotions clicked away, compartmentalized to deal with later.  You were using your training.  Adrenaline killed if not dealt with effectively.  

“You okay?”  He whispered.

“I don’t want you to look away.”  Selfishly, Mickey nodded.  He didn’t want to look away until he felt confident he wasn’t leaving you to drift about in your anxiety alone.  “I have to… to get myself under control.” 

The bartender passed by without a glance in their direction.  Conversation around them continued loudly.  As far as Mickey could tell, no one paid you two any mind at all.

“You’re doing a great job.”

You closed your eyes.  “Thank you, Mickey.”  When you opened your eyes, any trace of fear vanished.  Einstein, the Navy’s top aviator, would do what everyone else on a particularly traumatic mission did - deal with the emotional shit later, and eliminate the threat now.  “Ready to go?”

Right now?  He shouldn’t be shocked.  When you were in action, you didn’t hesitate. 

Mickey nodded.  Now was as good a time as any.  He held out a hand and helped you step around the barstool.  You clung to him, the only impression that Brent’s appearance still had you rattled.  It didn’t seem like a good time for Fanboy to peel himself away from you.  Having a hand on you might be smart anyway.  You wouldn’t get separated as you made your way through the crowd.

“There you are.”  

Brent stood an uncomfortably close foot away.  His teeth weren’t sharpened fangs, but his smile cut Mickey to the core regardless.  This was worse case scenario - coffin corner.  “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you, but my calls go straight to voicemail.” 

Hands still clasped, the two of you turned to face him.  You stared straight past him, right over his shoulder.  Only when it became clear you couldn’t pass by without him being able to lay a hand on you did you acknowledge him.  “Brent.” 

The grin grew.  Mickey straightened to full height.  He wished he had the intimidating extra few inches most of the others on Dagger Squad had.  Brent’s eyes slid Mickey’s way, down to your enjoined hands,  but snapped back up to Einstein quick.  Like you’d vanish given the slightest opportunity.

“Please move.”  Your voice gave no room for further conversation but Brent made an attempt anyway.

“Went by your place, but your windows were dark.”  

A pit of unease grew in Mickey’s stomach.  Einstein had been going through this all on her own.  None of them knew the baggage she carried.  Some squad they were.  He glanced your way, but you had the same blank look on your face.

Brent barreled on.  “Key didn’t work in the lock.  The one you kept under that stupid garden decoration was gone.”  His eyes bore into your face.  Too aggressive to be considered making eye contact.  Fanboy had only ever seen a power display like this in interrogation training.  “Did you move or something?”

You lifted a shoulder in a noncommittal shrug.  “If you’d like to contact me, you’ll have to do so through my lawyer.”

The mere implication Brent was breaking his restraining order changed the set of his jaw.  Muscles feathered and he pressed his lips together.  “But,” he said around a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, “I’m here now.  Look.  This is the last time, I swear. I just need closure.” 

“If you’d like to contact me, you’ll have to do so through my lawyer.”  You gripped Mickey’s hand a bit tighter and moved to step around Brent, but he sidestepped in your way.  “Please move.” 

“It’s a public bar, darling.  I can stand wherever I fucking please.”  All attempts at playing nice slowly started to drip away.  “You don’t care about anyone but yourself.”

Darling.  Mickey’s stomach rolled.  He felt your hand jerk backwards but neither of you could back up without the bar digging into your back.  Brent seemed well aware of such a fact.  He took a lazy step forward.  “Whenever you want to ditch this one-” he spoke about Fanboy without sparing him a glance- “I’d like to talk to you.” 

Enough was enough.  Fanboy stepped forward with intent.  What exactly said intent was he would figure out halfway through the confrontation.  He wasn’t exactly known for his foresight in his personal life.  The only thing that stopped him was you tugging him back.

With one small squeeze, you removed your hand from Mickey’s.

“You can talk to my fucking lawyer.”  You used the same sickly sweet voice Fanboy heard you use on higher up’s that refused to take you seriously.  “Until then, you need to move.  Now.”

“Can we just talk outside?”  Brent asked.  He reached out to grab for your arm, but you dodged his advances.   

“Please, do not touch me.”  Your words were firm and flat.  “I don’t want you touching me.” 

“You owe me the courtesy of a conversation.”

Mickey never wanted to white knight on your behalf, but there wasn’t a chance in hell he was going to let this douchebag get anywhere near leaving his sight with you let alone get all the way to the front doors.  He could handle you being mad at him for fighting a battle for you.  He couldn’t handle what would happen if you took on a fight like this by yourself when you didn’t have to. 

“Can we talk outside?  Or are you going to keep letting your friends gaslight you into thinking I’m always the bad guy?”

When you failed to answer, Brent rephrased his question.  It seemed your lack of emotional response wormed its way under his skin in a way he couldn’t hide. 

“Can you stop being such a bitch and answer me?”  He asked, reaching out once again to put his hands on you.  A mistake.

Everyone in the bar fell silent at the dull ‘thack’ of your fist connecting with Brent’s cheek.  Somewhere in the wide arsenal of cinema there was a scene just like this that ends in an all out brawl.  Here Brent’s head snapped to the side thanks to the sheer force you packed in a single punch.  He blinked in disbelief.

Mickey, on the other hand, saw the first forming a while ago. He wasn’t one for violence, but watching you remind everyone you weren’t one to take shit always made his mouth water. And watching you throw a punch may just be the hottest thing he’d seen all week.

Excusing, of course, the fact that your creep of an ex boyfriend still stood there in front of you with a dumbfounded look on his face like he had no clue what he could have done to deserve that.

You cleared your throat.  “I asked you not to touch me, please.” 

Fanboy grew tired of the niceties.  The second you looked towards him for help, he was telling Brent to fuck off and he wouldn’t give him any choice but to listen.

Payback paced behind Brent.  He inched close enough to catch Fanboy’s eye.  Mickey and Reuben could always reasonably assume the other’s thoughts without words.  Half the time they only talked because they liked to hear themselves speak.  One look from Fanboy said everything, though.  His wingman was headed out the front door on the phone with the cops in an instant.

All Fanboy had to do was keep things from escalating. 

Brent straightened, eyes shifting around to all the Navy’s finest, and brought a hand up to where you punched him.  For a second, Mickey foolishly thought he would swallow his pride.  Brent looked ready to tuck his tail, turn on his heel, and run out of the Hard Deck.  

No one said anything while they waited for Brent to respond.  If he left, no one would bother him too badly.  If he didn’t take the warning punch seriously, Mickey could almost bring himself to pity the poor fool.  Almost, but not really. 

Creepy smile devoid of emotion in place, Brent reached out politely once again and, this time, caught ahold of you.  “I’m not leaving until I get what I came for.”     

At the sight of Brent gripping your arm, the sound of your first name falling from his lips, Fanboy’s self-control snapped.  This thin string holding himself together split.  

His fist flew up faster than he could process.  Brent’s teeth clacked as his jaw came together.  Fanboy clipped your ex’s chin in the perfect uppercut, and he dropped straight to the floor.

Unconscious.

You, who talked so highly of this ex those few weeks ago that Fanboy convinced himself you were still in love with him, turned to Mickey with panic written across your features.

“You punched him!”  You shouted to Mickey, eyes flickering between your ex on the floor and Fanboy.  The angle wasn’t the slightest bit flattering for the poor guy.  

Fanboy couldn’t remember the last time he punched someone square in the face.  He’d forgotten the way pain blossomed behind his knuckles and webbed its way up his arm.  Assault and battery charges were the last thing on his mind.  Honestly the only thing on his mind when he threw that punch was you.

“You punched him first.”  Mickey shrugged.  He shook his hand out in a gesture he hoped passed as nonchalant.  Pain lingered, though, and he couldn’t help but grimace when he flexed his fingers.

“I had a reason.” 

“So did I.”  You crossed your arms and arched a brow.  Mickey sighed and stepped over Brent’s unconscious body.  “He didn’t respect you clearly stating you didn’t want to be touched.” 

“I was handling it.” 

“I know,” he said, and shrugged.  “I just handled it with you.” 

You opened your mouth to argue, but, when your gaze moved from Brent to Fanboy one more time, he could see gratefulness.  “I have to call my lawyer.” 

—

Those bright red knuckles of yours had yet to fade.  From the sound of it, Mickey could guess you’d hit his cheek bone and would be sporting some nasty bruises for a while.  He didn’t bother to look at his own hand.  It throbbed to an annoying degree.  The chances of his knuckle being split was exceptionally high, but your well being in the moment mattered far more. 

Neither of you wanted ice for your hands.  Fanboy hoped it would make him look tough.  You had been more preoccupied with leaving a voicemail explaining Brent had broken his restraining order and the police had been called and “to please call me back as soon as humanly possible.”

Then you both collapsed in a booth in the furthest corner possible of the Hard Deck because you wanted to see when the cops walked through the door rather than tuck yourself in the back.  Fanboy refused to stray far.  You hadn’t asked him to leave, which he took as a good sign.  At least you weren’t too mad at him for stepping in.

“That’s one hell of a right hook you’ve got there.”  

He hoped to ease the tension with a teasing joke.  In classic Fanboy fashion, he misread the timing. 

“My lawyer is not going to like this one bit.”  You dragged a hand over your face.  The one with the angry knuckles.  “She told me, ‘If he breaks his restraining order, you can’t just punch him.  As much as he might deserve it.’”  

Mickey smothered a grin.  He wanted to throw out a joke about you being the only one to find a lawyer who talks like Bob, but instead he motioned for your hand.  

“Here.”  A towel of half-melted ice sat next to him, waiting for the opportune moment for Mickey to refuse to let you suffer any longer.  You extended your hand across the table for him to grab.  He set the ice down gently, muttering a soft “sorry” at your hiss of pain.  “You handled yourself pretty well out there.” 

You made no move to take the ice pack or your hand away from Mickey.  So he sat there, icing your hand, and watched you wrestle with your reaction.  Fear, anger, grief, aggravation.  They all shuffled over your features like Payback trying to pick a song from the jukebox.

Eventually, you settled on a classic.  Humor as deflection.  “I think I’d feel better if my punch was a one and done.” 

He lifted the makeshift ice pack and made a show of inspecting your knuckles.  “I’d say you packed a pretty good punch.” 

That same shy, flirty smile from earlier came back.  “Thanks, Mickey.”

“Of course.”  Any attempt to appear cool shattered the second he saw the gratefulness in your eyes.  “I hope I didn’t overstep.  I’m not really up to date on the laws surrounding restraining orders or stalker exes.” 

You shook your head with a self-deprecating laugh.  “I don’t think you would be.  You don’t strike me as someone who would ever turn out like Brent.” 

“If I do, you have full permission to punch me.  Whether your lawyer advises it or not,” he teased, and relief flooded him when you laughed.

“It isn’t self-defense to punch someone violating their restraining order.  No matter how scared I was seeing how he found me.” 

The tone in the booth shifted towards seriousness.  Any trace of a smile on your face vanished, and you curled your fingers around Mickey’s hand.  “I used to live out in Texas.  Stationed there so often, I rented out an apartment because living on base didn’t feel permanent.  I wanted a place to call my own.” 

Mickey glanced out towards the bar full of the Navy’s best.  Payback stood watch over Brent, who had finally come to and was arguing with the wall that was Rooster, Hangman, and Bob.  

“He followed you from Texas?”  He asked.

You nodded.  Whatever you attempted to say got lost in the tears welling up behind your eyes.  “Sorry.”  You swallowed and blinked rapidly to clear the emotion from your face.  “I saw him around town a few times, but this was the first time I felt like he actually knew where I was.  Like it was more than a coincidence.  When he talked about coming around to my place… there’s this part of me that can’t tell if he was talking about back in Texas or where I live now.  It’s terrifying.” 

Fanboy hoped the cops would hurry up.  The sooner Brent could get out of here, the better.  One punch suddenly didn’t feel like enough, and if Mickey threw another he didn’t think he’d be able to stop.

“And there’s a good chance I’ll be charged for assault.”  Your laughter was ice cold.  “I shouldn’t have reacted like that.  I know better- god, I’m so fucking stupid.” 

Mickey squeezed your hand, drawing your attention back to him, and shook his head.  “You are not stupid.  He put his hands on you.” 

“That’s not self-defense either,” you sighed.  “He wasn’t attacking.  The cameras are going to show him reaching out with a smile and he’ll, at most, get a slap on his wrist.  I’m screwed.” 

“He was attacking.”

“Did you not hear what I just said?  He wasn’t attacking.” 

“He.  Was.  Attacking.”  Fanboy emphasized every word, then gestured to the bar you were in.  “There’s at least 20 people I can count who will give that same story without needing to be asked.  I’m sure Phoenix and Bob are already out there waiting for the cops so they can be the first to let them know what he did.”

You turned to look at the crowd of people, mouth quirking up into a smile when you spotted the rest of the squad keeping Brent on the other side of The Hard Deck.  Fanboy watched your gaze lock onto the camera capturing the man acting like a saint for the sake of the security camera in the corner of the room.  

The smile faltered.  “You really think so?”

“You’re one of us, Einstein.  We don’t care what base you’re coming in from.  You’re assigned to our squad and we take care of our own.”  

Mickey moved the ice pack and released your hand back to you.  “Don’t worry about the security cam footage, either.  The cops tend to take our word at face value.  Plus, Penny’s got a good reputation for not calling unless it’s warranted.  There hasn’t been a single bar fight she hasn’t sorted out herself..”

“That feels…”

“Like how Maverick would handle something?”  He supplied.

You nodded with a laugh.  “Exactly.”  Your eyes traveled over Mickey’s face.  “I appreciate you handling things with me today.  I’ve been dealing with this on my own for a few years now.  I forgot what it’s like to know someone has my back on the ground instead of only in the sky.”

“I’ve always got your back, Einstein.  Ground, sky, and all areas in between.” 

The opening practically presented itself to him in the way you smiled at him.  

“Look, I know this might not be the best time or anything…” Mickey trailed off.  He cleared his throat in an attempt to keep his nerves at bay.  What kind of moron decided to ask someone out immediately after an incident like this?  “But, after all the statements are taken, would you, maybe, want to take a walk along the beach with me?  Just get out of here, get your mind off everything?” 

You sat up straighter in the booth.  For once, Fanboy wished he wasn’t alone with you.  If Payback were here, he could confirm if your eyes actually lit up at the proposition or if Mickey’s wishful thinking clouded his mind again.  

“Are you asking me out on a date, Mickey?”  You asked.  His name passing over your lips, over the teasing smile spreading across your face, rendered him speechless.  

He cringed.  “I’m an idiot, right?”  Nervous laughter escaped him.  “I mean, I planned on asking you out tonight anyway.  If that changes anything.  I don’t want you to think I’m, like, stepping in to take advantage of a bad situation.  You can tell me no, Einstein.  I know it’s been a… I mean, the past hour has been a lot.

“But I don’t want you to be alone while you’re dealing with all of this.”  He turned in his seat to glance around for Phoenix.  “Should we call Nat over here?  Would you rather talk to her?  I’m serious, this doesn’t have to be a date.  I didn’t mean to overstep… What?  Why are you laughing at me?” 

You sat across the seat, hand smothering the giggles slipping through your smile.  “Am I rambling again?”  He asked, and you nodded.  “Sorry.  I’m usually better at dealing with emotional situations like this.” 

“I’d say you knocked it out of the park today,” you joked.  Fanboy could only groan at the pun.

The two of you sat in silence for a bit.  Mickey hoped the flush on his face appeared to be alcohol induced rather than his lapse of judgement.  Your phone sat between them, screen still black while you waited for your lawyer to get the voicemail and call you back. 

“It took you long enough.”

He tilted his head.  Much like how you did when you first walked in today.  “What?”

“Asking me out,” you clarified, “that took you a while.” 

“Is that a yes?”

You threw your head back and laughed in a way Fanboy never heard you laugh before.  A mix of elation and pure joy.  Maybe the sound of your voice saying his name could be his second favorite sound.  That laugh needed to be bottled away in his memories forever.  “Yes,” you said.  “I’d love to go on a date with you.”

“I really like you,” he said, then, after a moment’s consideration, he tacked your first name at the end of the sentence.  It only felt fitting.

[lowkeyerror]

Death and Dinner

Rio Vidal x Reader

Word Count: 1.8k

Notes: Fluff, banter, minor angst, technically character death (you're dead), mentions of minor character death, more comfort than hurt, comedy aspects

Summary: You are Death's secretary. When she can't remember how you died, she convinces you to tell her over dinner.

An: This idea comes from that one person on tiktok that does the Death and Secretary skits I think you can find them @ FlickerSpark on tiktok.

Masterlist | Masterlist 2

The natural order of things can be very meticulous at times. While it may seem as though things just happen and the process is self-sufficient that is not always the case.

When it came to the process of dying, there were many steps to make it to eternal bliss or damnation or something in-between.

Death used to handle all of those pesky decisions on her lonesome, but eventually to make her job easier, she got a secretary.

Someone who could handle all the mundane aspects of the life cycle, so that all she had to do was collect the souls. It left the grim reaper with an abundance of free time to run amuck.

Rio loved to run amuck.

You hardly think she was Lady Death with all of the fun she had. There was nearly always a smile on her face, she always had something smug to say, she was something like a light. So bright that you could go blind just by looking at her.

“Y/n, how’s my 4 o’clock looking?”

Her presence startles you as it always does. Rio just likes to pop up unannounced rather than use the door.

You click a few things on your desktop, “Not that busy, but it seems like a lot of accidents. Slipped and fell with knife, choked on dinner, ingesting paint.”

“Ingesting paint does not sound like and accident,” Rio places her hand on her forehead.

You shrug, “All that to say you’re not dealing with the brightest bunch here.”

She groans, “I wish you could come with me on the pick-ups, you have way more patience than I do.”

“True.”

Rio scoffs playfully, “You were supposed to disagree.”

You roll your eyes at her, “Oh no Lady Death you are so patient and kind.”

She laughs at your sarcasm, “I’ll have you know I am very patient. Why do you think people get live past the age 30 now? When I was alive 30 was old, now we got people living past 100.”

You nod in faux-agreement, “Sure, if you say so.”

Rio narrows her eyes, “You’re not… you weren’t 30, right? When you died?”

It’s your turn to laugh, “No, I was not.”

She sighs in relief, “Whew, for a second there I thought-”

“I was 27,” you cut her off.

There aren’t many times that Death is left speechless, but this is one of them.

“And you died how?” She says after a long silence.

A small smirk plays on your lips, “You’re going to have to remember that one.”

“Y/n,” she whines. “People die all day, everyday.”

“But only one of those people is your secretary. Now go reap those empty headed souls, it’s 4,” you shoo her away

She points a finger at you, “This isn’t over.”

“Looking forward to it," you retort.

When Rio leaves you’re somewhere in the back of her mind. She remembers picking you as her secretary in the 90’s? Maybe it was the 2000’s? There was definitely internet.

She remembers picking you because of how smart you were. Being cute definitely didn’t harm the decision making process. She remembers the confusion when she saw someone like you was supposed to float off in purgatory for eternity.

She comes back into the office when she’s done, opting to use the door for once. She put her elbow on the desk, so that head could rest in her palm.

“Did you kill yourself?”

You don’t look up from your keyboard, “Not exactly.”

“What kind of answer is that?”

You shrug, “The true kind.”

“You’re killing me baby,” Rio puts a dramatic pout on her face.

“Statistically improbable,” you finally look up at her.

Her eyes are scanning over your face, “Ok, clearly I don’t recall, but I want to know. How about, as a sorry for not remembering how you died, I take you out of this stuffy old office? We can get dinner and then you can fill me in on your passing.”

“That kind of sounds like date,” you point out.

Rio just counters, “It sounds like dinner.”

“I can agree to those terms.”

She smirks, “Let’s go then.”

“Right now?”

She extends her hand to you, “No better time than the present.”

You put your hand in hers, “I don't get to get ready?”

Rio’s eyes drag over your figure, “You look perfect, but if wardrobe is a big thing for you, I can take care of that.”

With your hand in her’s it’s hard to hide your blush. You can see the cocky smile on her face already forming.

“Let’s just go,” you avert your gaze from her.

With a snap of her fingers you’re at a restaurant table. It’s nothing too fancy, but it’s nice enough to make you wish you’d changed.

“Worrying about your clothes and not having any questions about how you are on Earth again is pretty strange,” Rio whispers from across the table.

“Well in case you missed it I'm having dinner with Death. I feel like the rest is pretty self explanatory,” you toss back at her.

She sends you a lopsided smile, “Then you should trust me not to let you come to a place like this in a hoodie and jeans.”

You glare at her, “You said I looked perfect.”

You look down to find yourself in a more upscale outfit. Something that still felt soft and comfortable against your skin.

“You always look perfect to me,” she says it offhandedly, but there’s something there.

You don’t get a chance to answer before the waiter approaches the table. He’s speaking to you in French. Before you can work out what to say, Rio has ordered for the both of you and sent the waiter along with a joke that makes him chuckle.

“You speak French?”

“Honey I’m Death, I speak every language. Even the one’s that don’t exist anymore,” she teases you.

“So you remember forgotten languages, but not how your secretary died? Interesting.”

Rio pouts, “Did you ever tell me?”

You look at her slyly, “Maybe, maybe not? Shouldn’t you know regardless, I mean you were there.”

She rubs her temple, “I’m always there. For everyone.”

You take pity on her and sit back in your seat, getting a little more comfortable, “Tell me what you remember from when we first met.”

Rio recounts some details, “I remember that your soul was going to purgatory.”

You hum.

She continues, “You had to be wearing that hoodie. You literally wear it almost every day so I'm assuming it's sentimental.”

You nod, “I was wearing the hoodie.”

Rio looks in your eyes, “Did you save someone?”

Your eyes turn a little glossy, “I’d like to think I did, but I died before I really knew for sure.”

The conversation doesn’t progress any further before the food comes. You’re grateful for the break. The two of you eat with lighter small talk sprinkled throughout the dinner.

When you’re done Rio pays and you leave the restaurant. You walk the streets together enjoying the fresh air on your skin. You don't remember the last time you felt it.

Rio’s hand slips into yours at some point. She’s cold, but that's nothing new. You always found her cool skin comforting.

She leads you to a small park. The two of you sit on a bench. Her hand doesn't let go of yours.

“I remember now,” she breaks the silence.

You let out a heavy sigh, “A little brutal, but I did it to myself, I guess.”

Her eyes bore into yours, “No, you didn’t. You did it to save his life.”

You close your eyes to stop the tears from falling. You turn away from her. It might not help, but you can’t help it as you whisper, “Did I save him?”

It was a question you never knew the answer to. Something that haunted you relentlessly. Did you act fast enough to save your son?

“You did.”

Squeezing your eyes closed didn’t stop the tears from falling. He was okay. You had always hoped that when you pushed him out of the way, he survived. Part of you was skeptical, maybe you pushed him too hard or maybe you weren't fast enough. Hell maybe there was another car driving the wrong way on the one-way street.

“I always wondered if I had been quick enough,” there’s a small patch of relief in your voice.

“Life can be such a mysterious thing sometimes,” Rio murmurs.

You wipe at some of your tears, “Why do you say that?”

Rio gently lifts your face, just enough to swipe away your tears with the pad of her thumb, “I lost my son too.”

Your eyes soften for her, “You had a son?”

Rio smiles sadly, “Nicky was only 6 when I lost him.”

“Did you have to-”

She chuckles bitterly, “Of course, I did. I tried to make it as pleasant as possible for him. On the inside it felt like I was dying all over again. His mother never forgave me. I lost everything in one foul swoop.”

Everything is silent for a moment. There’s a heaviness blanketed over the both of you. Yet there is also some comfort knowing that neither of you is alone in this experience. She knows how you feel, and you know how she feels. Two sides of the same coin, with loss as the common denominator.

“I’m sorry, didn’t know that dinner would end in so many negative emotions,” you attempt to joke.

Rio leans into you, “Usually all the trauma comes long after the first date, but we’ve known each other awhile now.”

“Date, I thought you said it was dinner?”

She gets even closer, smiling when you don't back away, “Well it’s just dinner unless we kiss. If we kiss, then it’s date.”

“Is that so?”

Her eyes dart to your lips, “Last time I checked.”

This time you lean in, “Then what are you waiting for."

She doesn’t waste any time planting her lips against yours. It surprises you to find out her lips are warm. They’re plush-like as the carefully mix with yours. You could lose yourself to the sensation.

“You know we could kiss forever. Neither of us need oxygen,” Rio breaks the kiss.

“Then why'd you stop?” You whine.

Rio kisses your cheek, “Because I'm a gentle woman, and this is the first date.”

“Well you have a gap around 2pm tomorrow. Let’s do lunch,” you suggest.

Rio smirks, “Trying to speed up the process, so you can get into my pants?”

You send her coy smile, “And if I was?”

Rio stands from the bench extending her hand to you, “Then I’d say I’m excited for our lunch date.”

You take her hand and she pulls you into her side. Her arm drapes over your shoulder. You nuzzle into her warmth.

“Me too.”

[prettieinpink]

2024 WRAPPED⋆˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

₊˚⊹♡TOP LESSONS LEARNT 

Missing out gives you progress on your goals. So many times this year, I didn’t do things that I usually would’ve loved to do to make and maintain progress on my

goals. Simple things like cancelling plans, buying certain things and any other short-term pleasures. Allowing myself to overcome FOMO, and in return, I saw great progress in my goals. 

People hating you has nothing to do with you. I dislike a lot of things because it's my personal preference. Someone who decides to hate you is a matter of their preference. However, if they choose to show that hatred to you, it's a matter of projection. People will project onto you as a way to cope with their own life, cause they can’t deal with their own. 

Stop letting everything control you. Truly, you’re held back from nothing in life. Your circumstances, identity, environment and more can only hold you back so far. At one point, you’ve gotta start acting and stop blaming everything around you on why you can’t. This one… is still in progress for me. I do feel like my parents are a major factor in me being held back, but deeper down, I also feel that it's an excuse to not work up to my potential. 

Trying to fit in is fruitless. I wear and listen to what I want. I decide what kind of content I want to consume, and what food I want to eat. This generation is notorious for tearing down anyone who doesn’t fit in a cookie cutter. Allowing your authenticity to shine through, will guide those who are meant for you, to you!

All problems are temporary. This one does not apply to everything, but it applies to a lot of things. Your issues will not last forever, so don’t let it leave a permanent mark on you. Don’t let your situation deter you from your goals.

₊˚⊹♡ACHIEVEMENTS 

It's small, but I feel like I’ve created my room to be fully intentional for me. While it still can be improved, my room is much better in terms of clutter and decor compared to 2023. 

Consistent practicing soft social skills like keeping up small chats, giving compliments and handling disagreements gracefully. I ended the year with all B’s! Last semester was a bit of a flunk for me, but I managed to pull it up for the end of the year. 

Saved like 500$ for purchasing things off my wishlist. 

Read like 12ish books for 2024. Would’ve loved to read more, but I was in a reading slump and also didn’t have enough time to go out to my local library to borrow any books. 

₊˚⊹♡HABITS / RITUALS 

In bed by 9 pm, up by 6 am. Sleeping early has made me feel a lot more energised in the mornings, and I find that it's easier to get out of bed and continue with my routine. The later I slept will more I felt sluggish for the next day + waking up earlier hay motivated me to stay on top of my routines. 

Daily walks after school. It gets my steps in, but it's a nice way to debrief after school and regather myself before heading straight into studying. I sometimes do walk home, and it's great to plug in my earphones and just not think. 

Journaling. I preach it for a reason, as journaling helps plenty. It can help you to shift your mindset beliefs, identify self-sabotaging behaviours, allow us to truly reflect on who we are and see progress each day in our lives. 

Lighting candles more frequently. It's such a little habit, but it brings me so much joy. Usually, they’re just collecting dust as decor however when I started to use them, I loved the whole experience. The smell and the small warmth that it brings are just perfect for the ambience. 

Curating my social media. I have an absolute maximum of 5 hours per day, but I still want those 5 hours to count for something. I’ve redownloaded TikTok earlier this year, and I think it’s a great platform for looking for advice and inspiration. Creating a feed that works for you instead of the other way around, will definitely change how it influences you. 

Having alone time in the morning and at night. I need this time to myself to slow myself down and regather my thoughts and it's just what I look forward to, to get through the day. I usually do whatever I like in this time slot, on the condition that I am completely by myself, free from any tasks or distractions. 

Cleaning regularly. When I did a deep clean last year, it would just be vacuuming my room and wiping down all visible surfaces. That is good, but there’s a lot more to clean than you realise. One major thing that we forget to clean (yet is probably the dirtiest) is our devices. Wipe down all screens every single day!

₊˚⊹♡BEAUTY / FASHION TIPS

Turn down the toilet seat when you flush. The amount of times I’ve been in public toilets and flushed with the lid up is outrageous, and I just can’t believe that last year I didn’t even consider the bacteria that would fly up on my clothes or even my face. Not a major skincare tip, however, er I think this would affect it. 

Know your undertone. I would only use undertones to know what kind of jewellery fits me, but it goes way beyond that. Before I start, I would like to say, don’t buy any more clothes or makeup just because they don’t fit your undertone. If you like your confidence will override any undertone clash. I used to walk around with really yellow makeup, and the difference when I got a foundation that had more of a golden undertone was like day and night. The same applies to your clothes. Warmer clothes will complement me, becausI’m’m warm-toned. So, I tend to stay away from cooler tones. I don’t use colour seasons, Is anyone wondering? 

Stick to a palette that you like. Last year, I wasted so much money trying to experiment with new colours in my clothes and makeup, just to end up hating it. It’s also a bad consumerist habit, to buy things for your fantasy self. So today, I only buy clothes it's the colours I like and I only purchase makeup if its shades fit me. I’m not saying buy anything new, but keep it to a minimum to reduce waste and save your money for the things that you like. 

Avoid fashion inspiration with faces. Highly attractive people can pull off anything, quite literally. Their face can influence subconsciously them ly to love the outfit, even if the outfit is ‘bad’. So, when saving pictures from Pinterest, TikTok or magazines, avoid any outfits that show their face. I said avoid it as sometimes you just really like an outfit and you know it's nothing to do with their face, which is okay. 

₊˚⊹♡YOUTUBERS

JIlLZ GUERIN - Focuses on feminine energy, lifestyle and intellectual habits. I recommend her as many of her videos are new and fresh perspectives.

SANDY DIANA BANG - Mostly productive vlogs that inspire and motivate, with a sprinkle of wellness, health and beauty content. Her channel and vibes are so aesthetic too! 

ROSIE GRAHAM & LIDIA MERA - Both are fitness influencers that focus on pilates. Their workouts are so good that they always leave me sweating and strained (which is good!! lmao). If one of your goals for 2025 was to start working out, I would use their videos. 

THANK YOU BUBU - Another fitness channel that is one of my time faves, and they have a variety of exercises that target abs, glutes, legs and arms. Another channel I would recommend if I was starting to exercise again. 

MINA LE - She does research and creates video essays on various topics, which many videos I feel are relevant in current times. She’s great if you want to expand and explore new perspectives. 

HALIEY GAMBA - She’s for a more matured audience, but she’s such a hidden gem. All of her advice ly new things, not just the same things that have been rinsed and repeated. 

KELLY GOOCH - She’s a beauYouTuberber who mainly discusses the beauty industry and its products while recommending some. She’s one of the only beauty influencers who I will listen to, as I feel like her opinions aren’t constantly swayed by sponsorships or promotions. Even then I would still take any beauty opinions and advice with two cents.

ELLE CHU - A smaller, but underrated beauty influencer. She discusses a lot of beauty products whether they’re worth it, overhyped or overpriced. She does sometimes talk about the beauty industry, but those videos are infrequent. 

₊˚⊹♡BOOKS 

(I have read all of them libby- a reading app).

NJUTA by NIKI BRANTMARK. All about the Swedish art of enjoying the present. If you feel like you have a simple and unexciting life, I recommend you read this.

SPARK JOY by Marie Kondo. A popular decluttering book that uses the KonMari method that emphasises items that you want to keep, instead of focusing on what you want to get rid of.

THE HEALTHY MIND TOOLKIT by Dr Alice Boyes. This is the ultimate guide of mindset shifts to target self-sabotaging or destructive beliefs and gives strategies to overcome them.

MINDFULLNESS ON THE GO by Jan Chozen Bays. A collection of little mindfulness practices you can do almost anywhere, almost anytime. 

MY WISHES FOR 2025

To join any club at this point. It's hard for me to do anything outside of the house with my parents' schedules, and I do feel like it has eaten at my social life and the experiences, lessons etc I would gain. At first, I originally wanted to join so it's something I could put on my university application, however, I’m entering year 10 with absolutely no extracurriculars since year 7. (for anyone not down under, I'm talking about high school grades.) 

Expanding my social circle. I feel like I don’t have a secondary community outside of school, and it's definitely what can amplify my slumps or depression without having that one person I can talk to freely, without the worry of school. I feel like I’m making no sense here. 

Moving anywhere. I want to move schools, cities, countries, or whatever. Being in the same school since year 2 (elementary) has taken a toll on me. 

A million dollars. Very unrealistic, but I still want it! I feel like money is the only thing that can actively change my life at this point. 

thats it for this post! I encourage anyone else to do their own wrapped and tag me!

[ronearoundblindly]

Codename: Agent Alpine

platonic Bucky Barnes x Alpine!Reader Steve Rogers x shapeshifter!Reader

part of Companion Animal (see previous or series)

Summary: You finally get an outfit that can transform with you between cat and human whenever you wish.

Warnings for mentions of nudity but nothing overtly sexual. Steve's got the hots for ya 😉 that's about the size of things... WC ~600

“It looks…like leather,” Steve marvels, seeing the collar turned over and over in Bucky’s hands, a blue strip with red stars.

“It looks a little obvious,” Bucky balks.

“What’d’ya want?” Tony snatches it back and starts attaching it gently—but securely—around your neck. “Plain Jane black? Nah. She deserves something special.”

“Something gaudy and on-brand,” Natasha offers helpfully. 

“Exactly…” Tony steps away from you so you have space to shift.

“Pretty sure that wasn’t a compliment,” Steve mutters before turning to you. “Would you like us to turn around? Just in case it doesn’t work quite right?”

The idea is simple: like Tony Stark’s nano suit, a coverall dress of sorts will spring from the collar when activated by your transformation. When your neck expands, so does the collar and the garment. When your neck shrinks, the clothing retracts.

At least you had the forethought to request your ‘uniform’ not be skin-tight and shiny because that may flatter Nat but would be more embarrassing than nudity for you. It’s taken so long to get good at shifting that this group has seen you naked on what might be categorized as ‘many’ occasions: Bucky the most, because you live together; Steve the least, because he’s kind enough to shut or cover his eyes; Tony and Nat…equal, because they’ve been taking the measurements, readings, and scans to build the functioning collar.

You? You try not to think about that and focus on doing a Big-Girl-Task.

The gist is that if you feel that being a human benefits you, your body turns, and if you feel being a cat benefits you, your body turns. Fear is just easier to handle in a smaller body that can go unnoticed, hide, and run away more easily, and since you were never sure that being human around Bucky wouldn’t land you out on the street or worse, you weren’t convinced it would benefit you until you needed more weight, size, and strength to take down Duplicate. Controlling those base emotions has proved difficult. You’re ready now, though, totally ready.

Steve nods in acknowledgment when you shake you head, whiskers flat against your face in determination.

This is it, the moment of truth.

So you step up onto your back paws, think about how you could reach between these two workbenchs with your human armspan, and shift.

The nano tech doesn’t feel like microscopic metal robots—it’s like real gauzy panels that drape from your neck to your ankles, a flowing dress with breezy bell sleeves, all in snow white, sheer in some places, opaque in all the right ones. In all fairness, Tony Stark does know a thing or two about fashion. You should never have doubted him.

“Hot damn, pretty lady,” Bucky cheers. “Looking good!”

Tony cocks his head to the side. “Do we think it needs a belt?”

Nat slaps his hip.

Steve, however…oh poor Steve, he’s dumbstruck with a goofy smile. The affectionate awe makes you preen, giving a quick spin in your new ensemble, the skirts wafting like you’re Marilyn Monroe except you’re not hit by a gust of wind from below. Steve seems to be.

He huffs out all the air in his lungs and forgets to inhale again. He crosses his arms over his broad chest and covers his mouth briefly, collecting his thoughts before locking eyes with you through blond lashes. Those eyes, they are dark and adoring.

“How about it, Cap?” You ask with perfect innocence.

Steve chuckles, clearing his throat and licking his lips.

“That’ll do, babygirl. That will definitely do.”

[Next Part: Lineage]

[Main Masterlist; Steve Rogers Series List; Bucky Barnes Masterlist]

@hisredheadedgoddess28 @irishhappiness @fallenxjas @ilovetaquitosmmmm @venunsgirl @fries11 @lovinglimerence @creat0r-cat @navs-bhat

@bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes @stellar-solar-flare @deandreamernp

@rogersbarber @blogbog710 @yenzys-lucky-charm @thiquefunlover63 @bitchy-bi-trash

@supraveng @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @brandycranby @buckysprettybaby @ellethespaceunicorn @late-to-the-party-81 @bigtreefest @mistressmkay @astheskycries @veryprairieberry

[orellazalonia]

The Days We Built Out of Time

Summary: In the years that follow, you and Bucky slowly fall in love, build a life together with four children, and handle storms of joy, chaos, and sadness. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 5.2k+

Disclaimer & A/N: Fluff. ANGST. Hurt/Comfort. Lots of time skips. Other stuff to avoid spoilers. I hope everyone likes this as much as I did. Happy reading!!!

Main Masterlist | Part 1 | Part 3

Things didn’t change all at once. That would’ve made it too easy.

But they changed.

It was in the way Bucky started showing up more often. Not just for missions, not just in the training room, but everywhere. In the kitchen at midnight. On the common room couch, pretending to scroll through news he wasn’t really reading. By your side when the silence between you didn’t need filling.

Neither of you talked about her. Not right away. The grief was too tender, too strange. Like mourning a ghost of someone who hadn’t died, a memory that hadn’t happened yet.

But you felt her. In Alpine, who sat by the door every evening for weeks after, waiting. In the hallway, where you sometimes caught the echo of a laugh that wasn’t yours. And in the mornings, when you and Bucky made scrambled eggs out of habit, not hunger. You always made too much. You never threw it away.

One morning, you found Bucky at the window, holding that same little mouse toy she’d left behind. The string was even more frayed now, Alpine had dragged it around like a treasure for days.

You walked over, leaning against the frame beside him. He didn’t look at you, but his voice was soft.

“She looked like you,” He said. “Same smile. Same way of raising one eyebrow when she thought I was being ridiculous.”

You smiled. “She had your timing. That dry, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it sarcasm.”

He laughed once under his breath. “Yeah.”

Silence again. But this one was warmer. Safe. You let it linger, before asking softly.

“Do you think we’ll ever see her again?”

He was quiet a long time.

And then he said, “I think… if she’s real, and that future’s real, then maybe we already will.”

You turned toward him, brow raised.

“She said not to wait too long,” He murmured. “And I don’t want to.”

You blinked. “Bucky…”

“I’m not saying we rush anything.” He turned to face you fully now, the weight of too many years and too many almosts settling in his shoulders. “I just mean… I want to find out, with you.”

You hesitated for a moment before nodding with a soft smile.

“Okay.”

And that was all it took.

It wasn’t fireworks. It wasn’t fate snapping into place. Love didn’t sweep in like a storm.

Instead, it came in like fog. Soft and gradual, settling into the corners of your lives without either of you noticing at first.

It started with quiet company. You found yourselves sharing space more often. Not really talking, not planning anything, just… existing together. Reading at opposite ends of the same couch. Sitting on the floor while Alpine played between you. Making tea in the late evening and watching the sun set.

You started swapping small comforts. You kept an extra coffee mug in your cabinet. The black one chipped at the rim, the one Bucky always reached for. He started leaving the lights on in the hallway when you came back late, muttering something about “tripping hazards” despite always waiting in the chair until he heard your key turn.

There were no confessions. No grand, sweeping moments. Just slow trust.

You noticed he laughed more when you were around. It wasn’t the full, careless kind. Not yet at least, but the corners of his mouth tugged easier. His shoulders weren’t always braced. He started sitting beside you instead of across from you, like the distance between you had shrunk without asking permission.

He’d lean in just slightly when you spoke. He’d bump your shoulder with his when you made a joke. He’d start telling you things he hadn’t told anyone else. Like about the noise in his head, the quiet in his heart, and the weight he’d been carrying for decades.

You listened. You didn’t try to fix it. You just let him be seen.

And Bucky… Bucky made space for you, too. When you were too tired to speak, he didn’t push. When you needed to cry, he didn’t offer excuses or explanations. He just held out his hand and stayed close until the storm passed. He remembered things: how you liked your toast, the exact way you flinched when someone raised their voice, which music calmed you best when sleep wouldn’t come.

One night, weeks after the girl vanished, you found him on the balcony with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He looked like a man balancing on the edge of something, grief maybe. Or maybe hope.

You didn’t say anything. You just wrapped another blanket around your shoulders and leaned into him. He didn’t speak. He just shifted gently, so your head could rest against his.

You both stayed like that until the sky turned dark and the stars began to appear.

After that night, something changed.

You started finding excuses to touch, to be close to him. Your hand would brush his when you passed him the remote or your knee would bump against his on the couch. He didn’t flinch anymore. He didn’t retreat. His fingers started lingering just a little longer on your back when he passed by. His voice softened when he said your name.

You weren’t just comforting each other. You were choosing each other. You learned each other slowly. Not just the surface things, but the deep ones. What made the other shut down. What silence meant. What love looked like when spoken in gestures instead of words.

And somewhere in the years that followed, without ceremony or flashing lights, the “I love you”s slipped in. Not all at once, but in small moments.

Like when he sat at the edge of the bed one night, rubbing a hand over his face after a nightmare, and you handed him a glass of water, kissed his temple, and didn’t ask questions. Or when you walked into the kitchen and found him swaying gently to an old jazz song, holding Alpine like she was a baby. He looked up, grinned sheepishly, and said, “Don’t tell Sam.”

It crept in the cracks. It filled them. And you thought: This is how it starts. This is how it lasts.

You moved in together one late fall, after months of unofficial sleepovers and his things slowly multiplying in your apartment: a second toothbrush, his dog-eared paperbacks, and his hoodies mysteriously appearing in your laundry basket.

He never asked to move in and you never asked him to.

You just came home one day to find him fixing the sink and said, “Is this your way of paying rent?”

He simply grinned and said, “Guess that means I live here now.”

You picked out a little place just outside the city. Not too far from the team, but far enough to hear birds in the morning. The kind of house with creaky floorboards and a porch swing you built together, badly, and kept anyway because it tilted just enough to be charming.

The first night there, you sat on the floor with takeout containers, unpacked books, and no curtains. He looked around and said, “Feels like ours.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder and replied, “That’s because it is.”

You weren’t expecting it.

The proposal, that is.

You and Bucky had talked about forever, sure. In the quiet, in-between hours wrapped in blankets with your legs tangled, speaking without fear. There were promises in the way he looked at you. In the way he reached for your hand even in sleep.

But he never rushed. He always let the love grow like it needed to. Warm and steady.

Therefore, the proposal came not with a grand speech or some elaborate spectacle. It came on a Sunday morning.

You were in pajamas, hair tied up, reading the news on your tablet with Alpine curled against your leg. The smell of pancakes lingered from breakfast. Bucky was puttering in the kitchen, humming something low and probably old.

He walked in, wiped his hands on a dish towel, and knelt beside the couch.

You didn’t even register what he was doing until he held up a small ring. It looked handmade. Delicate, brushed metal. The stone in the center was a simple pale blue, like his eyes when he was soft with sleep.

He looked at you like he had all the time in the world. Like he’d already chosen you a hundred times before.

“I’ve loved you in every way I know how. And I want to keep learning. I want to build the rest of everything with you.”

You sat up slowly.

“Marry me,” He then quickly added. “If you want to.”

You blinked once. Twice.

Then: “Bucky, are you seriously proposing in socks and a coffee-stained T-shirt?”

He smirked. “If I waited for the right outfit, I’d chicken out.”

You leaned forward, took his face in both hands, and kissed him so hard the ring nearly fell from his hold.

“Yes,” You breathed.

He rested his forehead against yours and let out a shaky laugh. “Yeah?”

“Of course yes.”

Alpine meowed loudly between you both.

You didn’t want anything over-the-top. Neither did he.

So it was just the two of you and a handful of people who mattered most. Sam gave a toast that made you cry. Steve cried through the ceremony but denied it. Natasha smirked when Bucky almost dropped the ring. Wanda caught the bouquet with a knowing look and a wink. The others watching proudly, happy another of them found love.

Bucky wore a navy suit with clean lines. His hair was slicked back, but the same old dog tags were present and tucked under his collar. Meanwhile, you wore something soft and flowing with little sewn stars in the hem because he said once you reminded him of constellations. Like something he was always trying to find his way back to.

When you walked toward him, Bucky looked at you like he was witnessing a miracle he still didn’t think he deserved. His hands were steady when he took yours, but his voice cracked when he said his vows.

“I didn’t think I’d get this,” He whispered. “Not in this life.”

You squeezed back. “You do. You get all of it.”

“I don’t have a lot of firsts,” He told you quietly. “But this… this is my favorite.”

Your vows were messy and tearful. You forgot half of what you meant to say and had to laugh through the rest. He kept glancing down like he couldn’t believe you were real.

And when you kissed him, Bucky held you like he never planned to let go and kissed you like he’d been waiting for years. And maybe he had.

You found out you were pregnant on a quiet Tuesday.

You waited until after dinner to tell him, too nervous to find the words, so you just handed him the test and sat down on the edge of the bed.

Bucky held it in his hands for a long time, saying nothing. His thumb brushed over the faint pink lines again and again. He looked stunned, hollowed out.

You weren’t sure what that meant.

And then, so softly you barely heard him: “I get to be there from the beginning this time.”

You cried. He held you so close you could feel his heartbeat echoing in your spine.

The pregnancy was hard sometimes. Your body tired, your heart terrified of how deeply you already loved someone you hadn’t met yet. But Bucky never missed a single appointment. He stayed up late with you through cravings, through nerves, and through every little kick.

And when your baby was born, when he screamed for the first time and Bucky’s face broke open like sunrise, you knew.

Steven James Barnes.

Born with lungs full of determination and fists already clenched like a fighter. The moment Bucky held him, held this small, furious miracle, he stared down at him like time had cracked open.

When Steve met him for the first time, he didn’t speak either. He just held that baby in his arms, eyes full and voice thick when he finally whispered:

“You gave him my name.”

Bucky nodded.

“You gave me back my life. Seemed fair.”

Steven grew fast. He had your fire and Bucky’s eyes. Curious, bold, loyal. Always the first to throw himself into a sibling’s defense, even if it was just against a scary vacuum cleaner.

And throughout it all, Bucky? Bucky was all in.

Baby monitor clutched like a comms device. Diaper bag packed with military precision. He read Steven bedtime stories like they were classified briefings. He paced with him through fevers, nightmares, tantrums; never missing a beat.

He never once complained. He just loved quietly and fiercely.

“Steven’s gonna be better than me,” He said one night, watching him sleep. “That’s the whole point, right? Make sure they don’t carry the same ghosts.”

You reached over, threading your fingers through his. “And he’ll have you to keep them away.”

A year or two later, when life had settled into something beautiful and real, your first girl arrived.

She was gentler, quieter, but sharp. Watched more than she spoke. She clung to Bucky like a second shadow and slept best curled in the hollow of his arm.

She looked just enough like that girl from years ago to make your heart ache. But now, you didn’t fear it. She was yours in every way that mattered.

Steven adored her instantly. He named her favorite stuffed animal and promised her cookies in exchange for her blocks. He stood guard over her crib. Declared himself “first responder” for baby cries.

Bucky just kept looking at her like he knew. Like somehow, deep down, he remembered.

Even so, your family didn’t stop growing.

The morning started with the chaos only a house full of Barnes children could bring.

Pillow forts had been overtaken by war games. One sibling shouted something about spies; another had hidden Alpine in a basket as “hostage,” and the cat was not pleased. You stepped around building blocks and toy shields, holding a cup of tea like it was a peace treaty.

“Steven!” You called, raising the mug like a white flag. “We don’t hold Alpine for ransom, remember?”

A mop of tangled hair peeked out from behind the couch.

“She walked into the base willingly,” Your son declared solemnly. “We merely questioned her loyalty.”

You sighed and gave him the look. He groaned in defeat and unzipped the basket, and Alpine padded out with wounded pride.

From the hallway came soft, measured footsteps.

You turned and there she was. Not the stranger from years ago, not a time traveler with secrets. But your eldest daughter. Seven now. Barefoot, braid trailing down her back, wearing one of Bucky’s oversized shirts as pajamas and holding a book half as big as her face.

She blinked sleepily at the commotion, then glanced at you and smiled. Small, crooked, and familiar. The same smile she’d given you before, when neither of you had known why it felt so natural.

“Morning,” She murmured.

“Hey, baby.” You brushed her hair back and kissed her temple. “You slept in.”

“Had a weird dream,” She yawned, rubbing her eyes. “Felt like déjà vu.”

Bucky came in from the kitchen, coffee in one hand, his other already reaching for her instinctively. She leaned into him without a word, wrapping both arms around him and resting her cheek against his chest.

He bent down, kissed the top of her head. “Good weird or bad weird?”

She hesitated. “…Both?”

The other kids were too busy constructing a “shield launcher” out of couch cushions to notice the stillness in the room. But you and Bucky noticed.

You both looked at her and you both remembered. The girl in the hallway. Her sleepy grin. Her wide, knowing eyes. Her quiet heartbreak when she’d said goodbye.

And now, she was here.

The memory of that event wasn’t sharp, not anymore. Time had blurred the edges. Neither of you had talked about it in years not since she was born. It felt impossible to explain, impossible to believe.

But when she tilted her head and gave you both that same mischievous, unguarded smile, you knew.

You had really met her before. She didn’t remember it. Not really. But maybe… some part of her did.

Because she looked between you and Bucky now, then glanced toward her siblings causing a ruckus and said, offhandedly:

“I dreamt this, that we were all here. You two. Me.”

She paused. “Even Alpine.”

Bucky’s hand stilled on her back.

You said gently, “What happened in the dream?”

She shrugged. “I was older. And I… I think I missed you.”

A moment passed. Then she pulled back, brightening like she always did when she decided she’d thought too hard about something.

“Anyway,” She said, flipping the book open. “Can you read me the story about haunted space pirates again?”

And like that, the moment moved on.

Later, after the kids had fallen asleep in a tangle of limbs and blankets, you and Bucky sat on the porch swing.

You held hands without needing to say why.

“She really doesn’t remember,” You said softly.

“She doesn’t have to,” Bucky murmured. “She’s here.”

You looked out across the quiet yard, moonlight silvering the grass. The wind was warm. The house behind you pulsed with life and love and noise. And in the middle of it all was her, yours.

The girl from the future. Now exactly where she belonged.

The years moved fast. Faster than you ever thought they would.

But they were full, achingly full. And Bucky, for all his years spent frozen in time, finally started measuring life not by wounds, but by moments.

And those moments were everything.

Like when Steven was nine and he made his first “shield.” It was a pizza pan, dented from being used as a Frisbee too many times, painted red, white, and blue with permanent markers. You found him in the backyard with it as he held a mop like a spear.

“He says he’s gonna be a ‘peace soldier,’” Your daughter whispered to you from the kitchen window. “Like Uncle Steve and Dad but without punching.”

Bucky snorted into his coffee.

“He’ll still punch someday,” You murmured. “Just diplomatically.”

Later that week, you caught Steven trying to sneak out in a cardboard costume to patrol the neighborhood. You and Bucky stayed near the porch steps to watch until he tripped over the hose and blamed Alpine.

Or another time when the twins were walking now, and your house had stopped functioning like a normal space.

Someone was always crawling under the table, someone else scaling the cabinets like a mountain goat. One child asked for Bucky’s knife “just to look at it” while another sobbed because they couldn’t make their toy train “phase through walls like Vision.”

Bucky looked at you one night as he held a screaming toddler under one arm and a bottle of Pepto in the other and said deadpan:

“I think we’re outnumbered.”

You laughed until you cried. You’d never felt so full.

Five years passed in a blink.

Your son turned fourteen and started asking about being a superhero already. Your daughter started sketching out inventions of her own and trying to create them. One of the twins declared she would be the next Iron Man, but with better color coordination while the other found an old watch of Bucky’s and took it apart just to put it back together perfectly.

And you,

You were still you.

Still the heart of the house. Still the calm in the storm. Still the one they all turned to without thinking. The keeper of scraped knees and burnt cookies and early morning talks under too many blankets.

But lately, Bucky started watching you more closely.

You’d say you were just tired. Just a little sore. He’d nod. Trust you. But his eyes always lingered.

It started with small things. You were always the one up first, putting the kettle on, checking on whoever had wandered into your bed in the night, or moving around the quiet house like morning was something sacred.

But lately, Bucky was the one making the tea. Noticed it when he stood in the kitchen waiting, and you didn’t come. The first time, he figured you’d just slept in. He didn’t question it. Carried the mugs back anyway, set yours by your usual spot, waited to hear the sound of your footsteps padding through the hall.

You didn’t come.

Then it happened again. And again. You said you were tired.

“It’s nothing, honey. I’ve just been running around too much. It’s been a week.”

And it had been. Kids with fevers. Broken furniture from indoor superhero games. A trip to the city for a check-up that left everyone overstimulated and cranky. You’d smiled through all of it and kept everything moving like you always did.

But that smile… it had started to falter around the edges.

The next clue came when you forgot the grocery list.

Not just misplaced, forgotten. You stared at the fridge like it was supposed to write it for you, frowning in that quiet way you always did when your brain refused to keep up with your will.

“You okay?” He asked softly.

“I think I need to write things down more,” You muttered, and laughed like it was funny. “I’m going to turn into my own mom.”

He said nothing and simply kissed your cheek.

But he started watching. He noticed the way you held your side when you stood too fast. The way you let the kids climb all over you until suddenly, you didn’t. Until you started sitting out more. Hand on your stomach. Or your back. Or your head.

He asked once, “Should we go in?”

You waved it off. “I’ve got a weird bug or something. Just tired.”

You always said just tired.

And he didn’t push. He didn’t want to smother you. But the fear in his chest was a quiet, growing thing. A seed that had planted itself after all those years of learning what it meant to lose something. What it meant to feel a silence that lasted forever.

So he continued watching. He held your hand more often. He found himself counting your breaths while you slept. He memorized how your voice sounded when you called his name, just in case there came a day when you didn’t anymore.

One night, it was just the two of you.

The kids were finally asleep. The living room was littered with little bits of invention and toys from the day, scraps of wire, half-finished Lego sculptures, drawings on small chalkboards. The TV was playing low as the moonlight came in soft, spilling across your face.

You were curled against him, quieter than usual, eyes fluttering with the edge of sleep.

Bucky held you tighter than he meant to.

“You’re hurting,” He murmured. “Aren’t you?”

You were silent for a long time.

Then: “I didn’t want to ruin anything.”

He swallowed hard. “You won’t.”

“I didn’t want them to be scared.”

He closed his eyes.

“They won’t be,” He said. “They’ve got me.”

You laughed once, too softly. He rested his forehead against yours. His voice cracking.

“We’ll go in tomorrow.”

“…Okay.”

He held you tighter than usual through that night. Because somehow, without needing to say it, you both already knew what was to come.

The word treatable came first. Then: slowed, not stopped. Then finally, the one they all danced around like it was a cliff edge… Terminal.

It came wrapped in smiles, soft voices, and long timelines. But Bucky heard it for what it was. The beginning of goodbye.

But the house didn’t fall quiet overnight.

It happened in waves.

At first, life looked the same. You still smiled through breakfast, still tucked hair behind ears and kissed cheeks and pressed bandages onto scraped knees. You still hummed around the kitchen sometimes, still smoothed wrinkles out of Bucky’s shirt collar with a hand that trembled more now.

But the air had shifted. Like someone had opened the windows too wide in winter.

The kids didn’t know the details.

Only that something was wrong. And that their father, who never raised his voice and never missed a school drop-off, had stopped sleeping through the night. Who had taken to memorizing your favorite mug, your slipper placement, your cough patterns.

You tried to keep things light. Made jokes about “boring old people pills.” Laughed off Bucky trailing you room to room like he was on some invisible leash.

“I’m not made of glass,” You said once, swatting at his arm.

He didn’t respond. Just looked at you like you were made of time instead. Fragile. Precious. Finite.

The youngest two started asking questions. They didn’t know how to phrase them yet. The closest was:

“Why is Mom always tired?”

Bucky crouched down, hands on small shoulders, forcing his voice not to shake.

“Because her body’s fighting really hard right now,” He explained gently. “And that makes her extra sleepy. But she’s still here.”

Still here. Those words clung to everything.

Meanwhile, your daughter stopped building things for a while. Then quietly started again. But different this time. Not gadgets or play-weapons.

But comfort items. A heating pad you didn’t have to plug in. A headband with cooling gel beads. A remote that paused every speaker in the house at once so you could rest. Even if some of them didn’t work perfectly, you accepted each one with the proudest smile. You called them genius. Your voice was softer now sure, but still full of pride.

Bucky kissed the side of your head when you weren’t looking.

“She gets that from you,” He murmured.

You rolled your eyes. “She gets it from love.”

However, Steven took it the hardest. He didn’t say much. Just became… vigilant. Like if he stayed good, if he kept his grades up, if he helped with the dishes and fed Alpine and read bedtime stories to the twins, maybe the world wouldn’t take you.

He didn’t cry in front of anyone. But Bucky found him once in the hallway, gripping the doorframe so hard his knuckles had gone white. He didn’t speak.

Bucky just sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder, and let silence do the holding.

Throughout everything, you tried to stay up late some nights like you used to. Curled next to Bucky on the couch, as the firelight danced across both your faces. But your body, traitorous thing that it had become, began giving out earlier.

Some nights, Bucky would carry you to bed.

Some nights, he’d just sit there after you’d fallen asleep; your head against his chest, your breath shallow as he’d memorize the weight of you again.

Your laugh. Your warmth. Your heartbeat pressed close to his.

He never stopped being grateful. Even as grief slowly moved in like fog. He still thanked the universe for you. Every single night.

Until it took you away.

It rained the morning of your funeral. Not a storm. Nothing dramatic. Just a slow, gray drizzle. Gently falling, like it was trying not to interrupt. It was like the sky mourned you softly. No thunder. Just the kind of quiet that gets into your bones.

The kids sat in the front row, pressed in close beside Bucky like they were trying to hold each other up with the weight of their grief. Small hands in his. Shoulders tucked beneath his arms. No one cried loudly.

It wasn’t a loud kind of grief. It was the kind that hollowed things out.

The kind that made the world feel tilted, just slightly, like everyone was pretending not to notice that something vital had slipped out of place and wasn’t coming back.

There were flowers, but you never were a fan of flowers at funerals.

So they brought other things.

Letters. Little toys. A book you always read at night. A sketch one of the kids had drawn, stick figures with big smiling eyes.

And in the center of it all: your wedding ring looped around a ribbon.

Bucky didn’t wear his suit jacket that day. He couldn’t. Not without your hands tugging the sleeves right, smoothing the collar. So he stood there in a black shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, hair tied back, jaw clenched like he was holding in the ocean.

He didn’t say much. Didn’t need to. His silence was the loudest thing there.

Afterward, the house was full of people trying to help.

Steve came. Wanda, Natasha, even Tony too. Sam kept the kids entertained in the backyard for hours. Everyone brought food. No one touched it. The house smelled like casseroles and clean laundry and the faint trace of your perfume on your pillow.

Bucky sat in your spot on the couch and didn’t move for almost an hour.

And at night, it was even worse.

He waited for your footsteps out of habit. Waited for your voice in the dark. Sometimes he swore he could hear it, the soft hum of you brushing your teeth or the quiet click of the porch light.

But the house didn’t answer him anymore.

He folded your cardigan and left it on your pillow. He put your coffee mug back on the shelf, even though no one else would touch it. He whispered “good night” to the empty half of the bed.

The kids also changed in small, invisible ways.

Your daughter got quieter. The oldest got louder, like he was trying to take up the space you left behind. The twins asked fewer questions but clung more. At bedtime. At the sound of thunder. At the way Bucky hesitated before reading your favorite story.

He never got through it. Not all the way. Not yet.

When someone would come over to help babysit, Bucky took to walking late at night. Through the neighborhood. Past the trees you used to point out in the fall. Past the shop where you used to get extra muffins for the kids when no one was looking.

He’d walk until he could breathe again. Until the ache in his chest dulled just enough to let him go home.

And of course, there were photos. You’d insisted on them. Snapshots of life, pinned to the fridge and framed on the mantle or tucked into books, pockets, and memory.

You laughing. You braiding someone’s hair. You and Bucky at the kitchen table, arms tangled, foreheads pressed close, with that soft look that only ever belonged to you two.

He didn’t look at them often. He couldn’t yet. It was still too close. Still too raw.

But he never moved them. Never turned them face down.

You were gone. But you were here, too. In their faces. In their voices. In the quiet way your family still knew how to love.

And due to that love, it may have been why your eldest daughter grew more obsessed with her inventions; more specifically, time travel. Working with others to find a way to see you once again.

[skyenish]

“Don’t you dare worry about me”| Jamil Viper animatic 🐍

I love characters with a superiority/inferiority complex, gotta be one of my favorite genders

———

I got this sound from a MHA edit, and as many things do, it reminded me of Jamil. Bakugo and Jamil aren’t that similar in character, but they’ve got their similarities nonetheless! I found that particularly his monologue here fits Jamil.

“Don’t you dare worry about me”Because Jamil has said he hates how kind and caring Kalim is, how his smile makes his skin itch. Even after Jamil’s overblot, Kalim still wants to be friends, still worries about Jamil. Does Jamil even deserve that?

“Attack me! Why won’t you fight back?” Because that would make it so much easier to hate Kalim. It wouldn’t make Jamil feel so complicated inside if Kalim showed some resistance

“Why did I end up having to chase after someone who was always so far behind me?” Because it isn’t fair that his whole life Jamil has been better, at almost everything. Kalim, especially in Jamil’s head, grew to be behind Jamil when it came to what he could do, to usefulness. And yet Jamil has to bow down to such an imbecile? Someone he has convinced himself is stupid and incapable, and he has to serve him for his whole life?

Anyways, how is everyone doing? I’m actually really proud of this animatic! My test week and this school year is finally over! Though I’ll still be busy in the vacation, I’ll definitely try to make more animatics again. Also! I CANNOT handle this heat, and it’s only going to get worse, and this is why I don’t like the summer… But!! I have the TWST anime to look forward to! I’ll definitely try to make a Heartslabyul animatic for when the anime releases, I’m so excited!!!

[stellar-haikyuu]

work of heart ☆ kozume kenma x reader

synopsis: just when you think you're going to have a horrible day, someone's intervention turns it around. details: slight hurt/comfort | fluff | platonic/romantic | ~2k words | gn second-year manager! reader

Joining the Nekoma team has its perks.

Surprisingly, it was easy for you to warm up to them. It felt like having a big second family.

But even families can be a tad bit exhausting. Sometimes, the boys were… a lot.

The team had spent the whole day participating in various practice matches, and you had just finished preparing dinner for everyone.

With the amount of things you’ve had to keep track of, you’re often just as exhausted as them—mentally more than physically. But somehow, today seemed far worse than usual.

When the members file into the dining area, your energy is immediately sapped by the endless barrage of questions and demands, accompanied by a rising irritation towards everyone and everything.

“Senpai! Where are the chopsticks?”

“Wait, Lev. I’m just about to distribute them.”

And just when you reach for the chopsticks-

“Hang on, we’re missing a plate.”

“Sorry, I’ll get the other one.”

That was on you, you counted wrong-

“Oh crap, some water spilled. Senpai, where are the extra tissues?”

“Uh, I’ll check, but there’s a rag over there.”

Wasn’t the tissue pack just on the table earlier?

“Have you seen…”

“Where is the…”

“Senpai…”

Ugh!

Abruptly, you straighten up and turn your back to everyone, causing all eyes to fall on you. 

You can’t do this anymore. Not now.

“Wait, where are you going?”

With your heightened emotional state, you’ll end up turning this into a personal conflict when it need not be. So, you bite down on your lower lip and stay quiet, feeling the fire on your tongue.

You knew what you signed up for as a manager. Handling this wacky but loveable bunch of boys wasn’t going to be easy, and it’s days like this that remind you of that.

Sometimes, you want to blame them. Would it kill them to pay more attention or lower their voices? To be more considerate or observant? 

At the same time, you blame yourself for it. Perhaps you lacked the necessary patience. Kuroo knows how to deal with them. Sure, he gets annoyed every now and then, but he never lets himself get too riled up or snappy.

Or was today just a bad coincidence?

You kind of wish you had another manager on your side, just like Karasuno did. Would it have made things a little easier? Maybe you could try searching for one before the end of the school year—Nekoma making nationals could convince more people. 

Well, whatever the case, you’re left to sit with your ugly feelings now. You finally reach the second floor balcony, and a part of you wants to yell or throw something down onto the sidewalk. 

But, you can’t. Too many people. More questions.

You sigh.

Then suddenly, there’s a knock on the sliding door, followed by a soft greeting. You don’t even need to turn around to know who the meek voice belongs to.

“Kenma?” You acknowledge. “What brings you here?”

“Um…do you mind if I eat here? They’re being too loud.”

“Until now?” You frown. Kenma flinches slightly at the sharpness in your tone. As some sort of an apology, you scoot over and pat the clear space next to you.

“Yeah. Uh, here, by the way.” Kenma pushes a bento box in your direction. “The others said you haven’t eaten…it would be a shame, you spent a lot of time on it.”

“Oh. Thanks.” You accept it and immediately put it in your lap. In your anger, you’ve nearly forgotten how hungry you were.

For a few minutes, the two of you eat in silence, watching people and vehicles pass by. You’re surprised by how comfortable it is—you don’t feel compelled to start any sort of small talk.

Kenma just eats at his pace, checking his phone every once in a while. You let him be; after all, he came here to escape the noise too.

When you finish your meal, you sigh and close your eyes, leaning against the wall behind you.

“Are you okay?”

“Dunno.” You shrug. “Tired, I guess.”

“That’s…understandable. Thank you for the dinner, and um, everything else today.”

In the corner of your eye, you notice that Kenma ate everything in the bento. Usually, he leaves some leftovers behind. 

“You’re welcome.”

He hesitates for a few moments after that. “Are you…mad?”

“Mad?”

“Uh, at the team. And, well, maybe me too?”

You raise your eyebrows at the second inquiry. “I don’t have any reason to be mad at you. But, uh, did the others say anything?” 

“They said you walked out suddenly,” Kenma responds softly. “When I got there, they were figuring out who was to blame. It was too overwhelming, so I left. And, you also seemed to be on edge since this morning, so I was just…wondering.”

You purse your lips. “Mm, do you ever just wake up and know it’s gonna be a horrendous day?” 

He nods.

“Yeah. It was horrendous for me. Stuff went wrong during morning preparations, plus everything and everyone just felt too loud. Then, dinner made me feel like exploding because there was too much going on. So, I left. I can say some pretty mean things when I’m really angry, which I’m not proud of.” 

You pause and sigh, staring at the small stars in the night sky. “I don’t resent the team or anything, I’m just upset and frustrated. It felt like the universe was plotting against me today.”

“Oh. Well, I hope things get better for you.”

“Thank you.” You give him a small grin. “And, thanks for listening to me.”

“Uh, of course…” Kenma looks away for a moment. “Do you want to be alone for now? Or…”

At first, being left alone sounded like heaven, but you find yourself wanting to be in Kenma’s company for the next half hour or so. 

Even though the setter hasn’t given his personal opinion on the situation, you have a gut feeling that he knows exactly what you mean and how you feel. If anything, he’s more likely to be found sitting in a dark corner of who-knows-where compared to you.

And so, you make the better choice.

“You can stay. I don’t mind.”

“Oh. Alright.” Despite his attempts to act nonchalant, it’s easy to detect his surprise at your decision.  

The two of you stare ahead at the various buildings and roads, unsure of where to take the conversation now. But, the silence is-

“Can I tell you something?” 

What?

“Ah- uh, sure.” 

“I wanted to um…” He stops for a moment. “Uh…” 

Suddenly, you’re curious about what Kenma has to say. When it comes to his initiative, it’s either he has something to say, or he’d rather not open his mouth at all. For him to hesitate like this is rather unusual. 

“What is it?” You ask in a kinder tone, hoping that it encourages him to continue. 

“I, uh, wanted to thank you.”

“Oh. Thank me for…?”

“Everything. You’ve been working very hard to help the team the whole year…and perhaps we haven’t that grateful to you. It’s hard to imagine how things would happen without you, so, thank you for sticking by us…for accepting us as we are, even if it drives you mad sometimes.”

You’re rendered speechless for a moment. “That’s…”

And it’s incredible, how quickly the flames in your chest die down—not completely, but you’re no longer angry. It’s nice to feel appreciated, even if it’s just from one person. 

“That’s sweet. Thank you, Kenma.”

For the first time that day, you grin, and it is by no means forced. In fact, you don’t even realize it, until the stretch of your cheeks feels almost unnatural.

“You’re welcome.”

As soon as you appear in the doorway, the Nekoma members fill the silence of the dining room with their sincere apologies.

Lev and Inuoka, ever energetic, immediately rise from their seats and kneel on the floor in front of you. “Senpai! We’re sorry, we’re sorry!”

Shibayama appears embarrassed to copy his fellow first-years, but he still follows suit, apologizing at a softer volume. Tora, on the other hand, is already yelling and tripping over his feet as he moves to kneel. 

Goodness. This is…

“Everyone,” you start. “You guys don’t have to-”

But your attempt to speak is futile, as the overlapping voices drown yours out.

When you lock eyes with the third-years and Fukunaga, they bow to you—in unison, which sort of freaks you out. 

You’re speechless at this point, including your coaches, who just watch from the end of the table in amusement. 

“Please don’t hate us! We’re sorry! We’re so thankful for you!” Tora looks up at you, clasping his hands together.

“Guys. Guys, wait. Settle down.” You wave your hands, which thankfully gets their attention. “I don’t hate you guys.”

“Really? You looked so mad.” Inuoka pouts.

“I mean, I was mad.” You look away, feeling your heart twist a little. “But, it was just a really bad day.”

“Are you sure it was just that?” Kuroo inquires, and his tone sounds like he’s trying to get you to admit something, but, you weren’t really sure what to say.

Thankfully, the libero saves you from the struggle. Literally.

“Kenma gave us a good scolding,” Yaku chuckles, scratching the back of his neck. 

“He- what?” You gasp, nearly forgetting about who was standing behind you. “Good scolding?” When you turn to Kenma for an explanation, he immediately looks away.

“Kenma-san said that we were being too demanding. That we weren’t paying attention to you.” Lev explains sheepishly. 

“And that we weren’t saying thank you for all the hard work you’ve been doing. Especially today.” Shibayama adds. 

It all makes more sense now, why Kenma approached you at the balcony, brought you dinner, asked about how you felt, and expressed his thoughts.

For a second, you actually forgot you were angry in the first place. Instead of an intense heat, warmth blooms in your chest.

“I see.” You can’t fight the smile on your face. “Your apologies are accepted and appreciated. Thank you, everyone.”

“We’ll do our best to be better, Senpai! You can yell at us if you want!”

Your eyes widen. “Oh, um…yell?” 

Kai laughs softly before he clarifies. “What he means to say is, if you have a concern, don’t hesitate to be upfront with us.”

“Of course.” You giggle. “Will do.”

As everyone returns to their seats to finish their dinner, you hear a near-silent sound of amusement from Coach Nekomata. You glance at him, and he nods at you with his trademark catlike smile. 

“You know, I just thought about something,” Kuroo says, pausing to put his stack of plates down. 

“Oh, what is it?” 

“Something cool about the chant. Okay, so, we are the blood…”

“Not this again.” Kenma sighs quietly next to you as he continues wiping the table.

“...keep the oxygen flowing so the brain can work to its full potential.”

“What about it?” Kai tilts his head.

“That’s the team chant, but I think something’s missing.”

“Missing?” Everyone suddenly stops to listen to their captain, intrigued.

“The blood is us, and the brain is our beloved Kenma-”

“Kuroo, please.”

“But another important part we need is the heart. It keeps the blood pumping and circulating throughout the body.”

“The heart?” someone echoes. “But who is…”

The question trails off once Fukunaga points at you.

Oh.

“Exactly!” Kuroo exclaims. “They are the reason we can all function and do our jobs well. Does our brain agree?”

“Wh-” Kenma splutters at the sudden callout. He narrows his eyes at his childhood friend, but when he looks at you, his gaze softens. “Yeah. I agree,” he mutters, and you swear you see the smallest hint of a smile on his lips.

The first- and second-years are busy ooh-ing and aah-ing over Kuroo’s revelation, and at this point, all the attention you were getting was starting to fluster you.

“Oh, you guys,” you sigh, covering your face with a hand. “Thank you.”

Kuroo beams at you. “Heh.”

“Yeesh. Don’t tell me you’re gonna keep me up rewriting chant lines.” Yaku groans as he clears the leftover trash on the table. 

“Ha?! Excuse me, you have no respect for chant-writing!” Kuroo turns his attention to the shorter male, as everyone returns to their cleanup tasks. “Our chant is a work of art!”

Fukunaga snickers to himself before adding, “And being Nekoma’s manager is a work of heart.”

masterlist

[wayfaringtenno]

Imagine

Main Hex + Others (I neglected the new hex members, I need to fix that)! Imagine a void disturbance enveloping Höllvania. Now both Drifter AND Operator exist in the mall at the same time. Aoi thinks they're just a kid and instantly tries to cheer them up and distract them from the "odd storm outside", just to be gently corrected by Drifter. "Aoi.. this is the me that got saved. This is the kid me... yet they're just as old as me." Amir of course, gets HYPED at meeting the Operator. Railjacks, Orbiters, Amps, ORDIS! He has so many questions for the Operator... including if he can meet Ordis himself. Eleanor has to help quiet his mind before he gets overexcited. Quincey takes one look at the Operator's outfit and decides right there and then, they need a new one. Their look doesn't seem practical for Höllvania, so if they're gonna be here for a bit, they need a new look. Lettie, being the medic she is, instantly wants to look over the Operator's overall health. With what the Drifter has been through, she can't imagine it was any easier for the Operator. ...and she was right. "HOW LONG did you say you were kept in stasis?! " Drifter had to find a way to save their other self. Now if the Operator had any Scomatic Markings, Lettie would be very gentle of checking them. Eleannor... she couldn't help but peer into their mind. What she saw, made her protective of the Operator. This "Alad V" person the Operator knows has made it to the top 5 of her shit list. Arthur is very impressed by the Operators knowledge of things... and then he realizes they were basically a near immortal child solider in a war they can't even remember. Hearing more about the Orokin from the Operator just makes him want to protect his team, including the Drifter and now the Operator as well, a lot more. Now the Hex saw the Operator did not come here alone... this Warframe named "Umbra" followed them and seem to be alive and very VERY protective of the Operator. Umbra watched the Hex's every move, but a few encouraging nods from the Drifter made him ease up. Umbra sees something in Arthur... something he once saw in himself. A silent understanding forms between the two. Now then... Velimir just sees the Operator and instantly goes into Dad mode, making sure the kid is alright. He looks between the Drifter and Operator, and asks if the Operator is the Drifter's younger sibling... only to be confused and worried when Drifter says "No, they were the me that was saved. I am the one who was not. We are the same person, just from different times. At some point, he was just telling the Operator stories of his adventures, just to see them asleep on his shoulder... he looks at if we was about to cry from joy, he misses when Neci did this and now he just decides to adopt the Operator as his other kid, Neci has a sibling now, wait how does he tell Minerva this oh dear Sol and sweet Lua what is he to do? Minerva hears all of this, and decides to treat the Operator with the respect they are due, but still can't help but to be more gentle about it. After all, if Drifter would want to help Neci... the Operator may help to. After all, the Operator has a strong connection to the Void too. The more allies, the better. She is very impressed on how the Operator can handle weapons. She of course sees Before Flare and even blink, Lizzie purrs with delight at seeing the operator! "Ahh! Both demons here! Both sugars so sweetly together!" Needless to say Flare is already welcoming of the Operator. They invite the operator to help with some music, wanting to hear what kind of song the Operator holds in their heart. Whoever this "Narmer" is... Flare bets that they won't last much longer if the Operator keeps that fire in their heart. Now for Kaya, having someone else look close to her age is already a breath of fresh air. Honestly... the Operator is kind of glad seeing someone close to looking their age too. Kaya manages to get the Operator to act a bit like a kid again with the pranks the two pull together.. sometimes they get Amir to help too.