#then again he's got some... feather? thing? going on?

[moonchildstyles]

the butterfly

the swan part three: y/n has a fever and harry just wants her to know him

wordcount: 9.4k+

cw: mentions of drug abuse towards the end!

—————

     Let me know if you need anything. Have fun tonight.

(Y/N) was incapable of wiping the smile off of her face as she read the message on her phone. All she could do was pretend to scratch at her nose in hopes of covering the curl from any watching eyes. 

She'd barely been listening to the girls around her as they prattled off around the table between bites of dinner. To celebrate hitting the midway point of Swan Lake's run, she and the swans had decided to spend a night off getting dinner together. It was definitely a much quieter outing compared to the nights at the bars the company had indulged in leading up to opening night. 

Nonetheless, even with the much more tame and linear conversation, she had a tough time following when she was distracted by her phone. The first text hadn't come in until their entrees were delivered, but (Y/N) hadn't been able to pay attention since. 

It wasn't even anything important. She had told him earlier in the week that she and some of the girls were going out to dinner, and he wanted to see if her car had given her any trouble. And that was it. 

But, he had thought about her.

It wasn't much in the grand scheme of it all, but there was something about the fact that in the middle of his own evening he had thought to reach out and ensure she was doing okay. She didn't doubt that he had his own work to do still, doing paperwork or visiting one of his galleries. But she had still crossed his mind. 

"(Y/N)? Right?" 

Blinking up from her phone, (Y/N) locked the device before looking up at the women around her. Siobhan was looking at her with raised brows. 

"Hm? Sorry, I got distracted," she muttered, taking a sip of her lemonade to reverse her dry mouth. 

Siobhan repeated herself—a question about one of the reviews that had come in the week before about the show—while Sasha eyed (Y/N) with a raised brow. Her gaze tripped down to the locked phone lying face down on the table before back up to her face. 

(Y/N) pretended she didn't catch the look. 

"Oh, yeah," she muttered, "I saw that one. I couldn't believe they added in those videos; it's like they didn't even go to the show." 

The girls around her erupted into another string of chatter then, though Sasha made a point to keep (Y/N) too occupied to reach for her phone. Even when another message came in with the vibration making her itch to grab the device. 

By the time dinner was over and the checks were paid, goodbye hugs were shared between the dancers on the sidewalk. It was when (Y/N) was in her car alone that she checked her phone finally. 

The message lighting the thread with Harry was one with a photo of a swan on a park pond, elegant neck curved with the beak facing the gentle water. The setting sun left an orange glow glimpsing over the lake, the tips of the swan's feathers dipped in a gilded gold. 

The teasing text attached at the bottom was: 

     I thought your next show was on Friday?

When her car started without a problem, there was a selfish part of her, one that sat in the back of her mind tucked away, that kind of hoped she would hear the sputtering and grinding. 

At least that way, she would have an excuse to see Harry again. 

—————

Sitting in her car, the radio cut to silence, (Y/N) stared forward at the theater. The block letters pasted to the back door were blurry, barely readable despite already knowing they spelled out STAGE DOOR. It was scary to admit it, but she barely remembered the drive to the venue. 

Her head was pounding, filled with a pressure that even the medication she took this morning couldn't relieve. Her face felt swollen despite what her reflection in the mirror told her. The only thing visibly off about her was her coloring, complete with red eyes and pale lips. Otherwise, every bit of pain she was feeling was centralized inside. 

The ache in her joints and folding muscles went well beyond that of constant dancing and working. Even rolling over in bed that morning hurt like she had gone hiking in her sleep. It was even beginning to hurt to breathe, her chest aching every time she breathed in just a little too deep. All with her sinuses stuffed up and her ears plugged. 

But, there was a show tonight. 

The production staff was waiting for her. Kingston was waiting for her. Costuming was waiting for her. 

The audience had paid good money to see the show as posted, including the dancers marked on the playbill. 

She couldn't be sick. Especially not when she had felt just fine the night before aside from a few sneezes here and there. She didn't have time for a sinus infection or the migraine fueling pressure inside her skull. There was too much she needed to take care of, too many people depending on her to show up and give the show that was paid for and planned on. 

(Y/N) took a deep breath and immediately regretted it before forcing herself out of her car without a second thought. She stalled where she stood on the pavement, hearing her blood rush through her ears as she attempted to collect herself. 

Once the world came back into focus—or at least as focused as she could manage with the migraine hitting behind her eyes—she started towards the theater, barely remembering to lock her car behind her. 

Stepping over the threshold into the backstage area, (Y/N) felt the air swirl around her as familiar faces hustled past. She attempted to smile at those who greeted her, even when she couldn't clearly differentiate who exactly was speaking to her. The trek to her dressing room was longer than she could ever remember it being before. 

She flinched when she sealed herself in the quiet room, offended by the bright lighting compared to the low levels illuminating the backstage. Through squinted eyes, she rushed to turn on the lights of her vanity before flicking off the overhead bulb. The room was bathed in a much more bearable glow, the noise of the props and stage being set up left on the other side of the door. 

She could do this, she thought as she looked at her reflection. Maybe she just needed a little extra powder to conceal the circles around her eyes and the clammy state of her skin. Despite the norm, she wouldn't be able to tie her hair back as tightly as usual. And most likely the bodice of her costume wouldn't be laced as tight as the other shows either. 

No one would notice, though. Right?

Slumping over her vanity, she rested her head on her folded arms. The cave created by her arms granted her a darkness that helped dull her headache. 

Sitting tucked away with her sweatshirt on, eyes fluttered to a close, she didn't even mind the odd position of sitting at the mirror as she felt herself grow more and more tired. Five minutes wouldn't hurt. It might even make her feel better! 

Five minutes, she repeated. Five minutes then she'd pop up and get ready and join the others. Not even a nap, she thought. She would just be resting her eyes. 

It took all of five seconds for the dark of her self-made cave turned into the blur of her dreams. 

—————

"(Y/N)? Are you asleep?" 

Jolting awake, (Y/N)'s head pounded as she made sense of her surroundings. 

She was in her dressing room (decidedly not her old high school, where she couldn't remember her class schedule or locker combo, and somehow no pants on). The lights were off, only the bulbs of her vanity burning in front of her. She was still in her comfortable clothes, hair a mess, and joints stiff from falling asleep sitting up. 

Ms. Ariel was standing over her, a look of confusion complete with a furrowed brow at the stern line of her mouth molded her features. "What are you doing?" 

"I—" (Y/N) attempted to croak out only to be cut off by a series of coughs, "Um, I think I fell asleep." 

At the sound of her raspy voice, Ms. Ariel's expression smoothed into one of concern. "Oh no. Are you sick, sweetie?" 

(Y/N) opened her mouth to say something though no sound came out but a soft wheeze. So much for whatever excuse she was going to blurt out. 

Clearing out her throat, she shook her head. "I'll be fine. I just don't think I can have my hair back as tight this time." 

Ms. Ariel was already shaking her head, reaching for (Y/N)'s discarded tote before she even finished speaking. "No. You've got to go home, (Y/N). You can't dance like this." 

"But, I'm already here," she whined, the sound of her own voice piercing her brain, "I don't need to go home. I'll be fine, I just need to warm up." 

Ms. Ariel ignored her words, instead pulling out her phone. "You drove yourself tonight, right? I'll get you an Uber, you can't drive like this." 

When (Y/N) opened her mouth to protest the idea, she was quickly shut down with only a scolding glare from her choreographer. Instead she nodded, rattling off her address when asked. 

Though there was a river of guilt sluicing through her system imagining the audience reading a playbill with her name, the costume department readying her outfits, the rest of the dancers depending on her to lead them through the narrative—there was a boat of relief floating through at the idea of sleeping in the dark of her room once more. 

"I'm sorry," (Y/N) muttered as Ms. Ariel started guiding her out back to the car park. 

"Why?" she blanched, "There's no reason to be sorry. It happens to everyone—the show will go on." 

(Y/N) let out a round of coughs before she was able to answer. (And she had thought that a nap would help her feel better). "I can't do my job tonight." 

"You have an understudy for a reason. Let her do her job tonight," Ms. Ariel pointed out. 

It would probably be nice for one of the swans to break from the ensemble for her own shining night. That didn't seem so bad when she thought about it like that. 

Waving goodbye to the crew and promising to see them again soon, (Y/N) followed Ms. Ariel into the parking lot. The chilled air swirled around them, cooling the warmth that was blooming under her skin. An SUV was waiting for her, the model matching the description on the app.

 "Thank you," (Y/N) smiled, weakly taking her tote bag from her teacher.

A maternal expression softened all of Ms. Ariel's features. "Feel better, okay? If you need anything, please reach out. Don't worry about the show, we'll be okay." 

(Y/N) cringed around the lump in her throat as she swallowed around the emotion building around her already scratchy voice. She was always emotional when she was sick.

"I will. Thank you." 

Ms. Ariel helped (Y/N) with her final act of the night as she climbed into the Uber. She waited out on the pavement until they were pulling away and (Y/N) was set to recover for the rest of the night. 

More than thankful for the quiet driver tonight, (Y/N) leaned her head on the window. The cool glass felt fantastic against her skin. It took a real effort to keep her eyes from fluttering closed. She couldn't fall asleep in the back of a random car—not when she had already fallen asleep in a similar position with her back aching enough as is. 

Instead, she pulled out her phone despite cringing back at the glow of the screen. 

There were a few notifications decorating the pixels, though there was only one that stood out to her in the haze. 

   Harry Styles 

     If you have time, I'd like to drop off some more flowers after the show tonight. I'm excited to see you again. 

     Good luck.

She could only flutter her eyes to a close, her phone timing out with the thread still on screen. 

—————

(Y/N) awoke with a start, sweat dripping down the back of her neck with her hair plastered to her face. She felt disoriented as she attempted to find her place in the dark. 

Around her, her bedsheets were in a rumpled mess. Stray corners were wrapped around her legs while others were completely dropped off of the bed all together. Her bedroom was dark, the only light seeping in from a still open window and the streetlamps dotting the area outside. 

Her head felt heavy as she swiveled to look around her room. Her things were scattered about, showing her trek from the front door down to where she evidently collapsed in bed. Her duffle, shoes, sweatshirt and pants were left in puddles leading to her bedroom—a trail she didn't really remember making in the haze of it all. 

Flopping back onto her bed, she couldn't remember why she woke up in the first place. It was easier to just close her eyes, especially when the throbbing of her head came back with a vengeance. A sudden shiver ran down her spine despite the sweat covering her skin, pushing her to reach for the nearly discarded bedspread falling off of her mattress.

She was a breath away from falling back to her vivid dreamland just as her phone began vibrating somewhere underneath the covers. The sound jerked her back awake.

That was it, she remembered. That's why she woke up. Someone was calling her. 

With lethargic limbs, she blindly searched around herself for the device. Truly, she was surprised it still had any charge. She hadn't plugged it in and as far as she could remember, the battery wasn't very high to begin with when she left the house. 

By the time she dug her phone from the trenches of her bedding, the call had already rung out. On her screen, she saw the number of missed calls noted on her home screen. 

All from Harry.

There were scattered text messages thrown in—including one from Kingston and a couple from the Swans group chat. Most were from Harry. 

He was concerned, that much she could gather through her muddled head and bleary eyes. He hadn't been able to track down Ms. Ariel or anyone else before the show had started. All he'd seen was the understudy without any explanation.

Before she could open the text thread and respond to him, another call came through. She didn't even think before she swiped to answer the call. 

"H—" She was cut off by her own crackled voice and a round of coughing following. "Hello?" 

"(Y/N), are you okay?" he asked through the receiver, that concerned edge from his texts coming through his voice. "I didn't think Irina was supposed to come on tonight." 

Falling back against the pillows, she took in a ragged, deep breath despite the searing in her lungs. "I'm fine, I think. I'm just sick," she croaked out, "I meant to text you back earlier. Sorry." 

Hearing her own voice was bad enough with the ragged edges, how thick her words came out through her throat, and how out of breath she felt already, she couldn't imagine just how bad she sounded to Harry. If she stayed awake long enough after this phone call, she needed to take some medicine and drink some water. Anything to help clear her nose enough for her to be able to sleep with her mouth closed. 

"How are you feeling?" Harry asked, bringing her back to the surface for a little bit longer.

"I think I have a sinus infection," she explained, rolling over in her sheets with her cheek smushed into her pillow. It wouldn't be too bad to sleep for a little while longer, she thought. She'd wake up again later and just take the medicine then.

"Oh, (Y/N)," he crooned over the line, enough to lull her that much closer to sleep. "Do y'need anything?" 

"I'm fine, I think," she repeated, a slight slur to her words as she sunk deeper into her mattress. "Thank you, though." 

Yeah, she could sleep some more. Especially when her bedroom was so cold and her bed was so warm.

"Are you sure? You don't sound so good, love," Harry pressed, bringing her back to attention just enough to stay awake for a few more moments. "I can bring y'some medicine or something for your throat?" 

Eyes already closed, (Y/N) absently nodded her head. "Okay." 

Harry paused long enough for her to see the beginnings of a dream—one where she was suddenly at the theater again but no one had her costume for some reason. 

"Okay?" he sounded. 

"Yeah. Sounds good." 

There was more to conversation, she knew that, but the words were lost as she fell asleep. If there were goodbyes shared, they were only incorporated into her dream. 

—————

"That's so funny, Kingston," (Y/N) laughed, barely covering her body from the prying eyes of the company. No one had noticed she forgot her costume—yet. She needed to get to her dressing room ASAP, but Kingston needed to stop talking to her first. 

"It was crazy how Stephanie just did that, I was so surprised," Kingston said, getting comfortable as he shifted his weight foot to foot in front of (Y/N). 

They only had so much time before the show, she needed to get dressed right now! 

(Y/N) woke with a gasp as her phone vibrated under her head. Despite how deep her dream felt, it only took the single call for her to be pulled back to the surface of consciousness. 

Blinking awake, she reached for her phone. A call from Harry lit up the screen. She vaguely remembered talking to him before, but she couldn't determine if the call was a part of her dream or something that actually happened. 

"Hello?" she whispered, her throat too swollen for anything louder. 

"Hey, were y'sleeping?" he murmured. All she could do was hum an acknowledgment, the sound coming out more crackly than she meant. "Well, 'm here with medicine and some food for you if you'll let me in." 

She sat up, her blood rushing through her ears at his words. So, that hadn't been a dream when he had offered to come by with things for her. 

Interesting. 

Now wasn't necessarily the opportunity she would have chosen when it came to inviting him over to her place, but it was the one that she was being presented with. She would have to roll with it as long as she was able to think through the muck cobwebbing her thoughts and lethargy glueing her muscles.

"Okay, yeah. I'll be right there."

Hanging up the call, she forced herself out of bed. Her skin felt clammy, the neckline of her t-shirt damp against the back of her neck. Her hair had to be forcibly removed out of her face with the way stray hairs were pasted to her temples. She felt sticky and gross, but the idea of possibly trying to shower off the feeling made her feel even more exhausted than she already was. 

She moved through her apartment on hesitant feet, the cool hardwood under her soles sent a shiver up her spine. She barely remembered to flick on the lights when she made it to the door. Her clammy hands fumbled with the lock before pulling open the door. 

On the other side was Harry, still in his signature suit though he was now missing his jacket and the remaining pieces were mussed and wrinkled. His hair was a mess, pushed away from his face with curls gone astray. In his arms were a paper bag, full and crinkling in his grip. His eyes were flooded with concern as they took her in, the straight rod of his shoulders released at the sight, sloping in relief. 

"Hi," he breathed, "How are you feeling?" 

(Y/N), moving out of the doorway to let him in, nodded her head, swallowing around her thick throat. "I'm okay. I kind of forgot you were coming over," she laughed, "I thought it was a dream. So, sorry everything is a mess and I left you out there." 

"'S alright," he said, eyes not straying from her to notice the aforementioned mess. "I brought some medicine—I wasn't sure what would help, so I got almost everything. And some soup. And socks." 

She let out as much of a laugh as she could at his hesitant list. Much more than she thought he would go out of his way for. 

"Thank you," she smiled, fumbling with the door once more before the lock clicked in place. She made an effort to keep from slumping into the wood, already aching for her bed now that she had crossed the whole apartment and stood up for longer than two seconds. She had almost forgotten how horrific being sick was.

"Are y'hungry now?" he asked, edging towards her open kitchen.

(Y/N) didn't answer as she drifted towards the living room on heavy feet, heading towards the couch where the knotted blankets from this morning's sulking still waited for her. She meant to give him some kind of response, but by the time she had huddled under the quilts, her eyes fell closed and there was nothing else on her mind but getting some more sleep. 

"(Y/N)?" 

A groan of acknowledgment left her though she made no move to get up from her spot. 

There was no response from Harry for a moment, only the crinkling of the paper bag. The silence was perfect for her to drift off. Just a couple of minutes, she compromised. Before Harry would even notice. 

"Are y'running a fever, love?" 

Swimming back to the surface, she squinted her eyes open just to see Harry crouching right before her. His brows were in a furrow, the dim light from the streetlamps outside spilled into her apartment behind him, haloing around his form. The curls of his hair were in disarray around his face, a shadow of stubble covering his jaw. 

"Huh?" she sounded, mouth falling open as she took in the shadowed sight of him. Even in the dim light, the green of his eyes still shone like a beacon to her. 

Instead of repeating himself, his lips thinned as his eyes scanned over her. He lifted a hand hesitantly, looking at her before asking, "May I?" 

She weakly nodded. The back of his hand was then laid across her forehead. His touch was a balm against her, so warm against the cold sweat that coated her skin. She couldn't help the way her eyes fluttered to a close.

There was a part of her that wanted to whine then he took his hand off of her forehead, a hum of disapproval coming from him. She didn't have it in her to open her eyes, leaving her unsure if he was still there with her or if he had disappeared to do whatever else was on his agenda. The next time she heard him was when the gravel of his voice broke the silence. 

"Here," he said, cueing her to crack her eyes open to see his offered hand with a dip of blue pills in his palm. In the other was her water bottle she must have left somewhere out here when she stumbled home. "Something to help your fever. Y'haven't eaten, have you?" 

(Y/N) shook her head as she took the pills from his hand and the offered water. Tossing the medication in her mouth, she didn't think before she was reaching for his hand to hold her steady as she sat up. The bundle of blankets shifted around her as her fingers curled around Harry's palm, anchoring her as she gaped down enough water to soothe her sore, dry throat. 

"Better?" he asked, his voice decidedly smoother as his hand pulsed around hers.

She quietly nodded, settling back into her nest as she blinked at him. "You brought food?" 

"I did, yeah. Y'like chicken, right?" he smiled, the curl of his lips lifting her almost as much as the feel of his thumb caressing her hand. 

"I think," she sighed, succumbing to the warmth of her blanket fort and the relief of the water on her throat. Though she kept her hand in his.

Using his grip on her hand, Harry tugged her back up, keeping her awake and away from the soft folds of the blankets and the crooked throw pillows she was attempting to huddle into. "Gotta stay awake a little while longer, yeah? Just long enough to eat and drink some more, then we can sleep again." 

A pout settled on her lips at his orders. "No." 

"No?" he repeated with a laugh, his features brightening as he looked at her, "I promise it'll be worth it. It'll also help to see if the medicine works for you, right?" 

She truly didn't care if he was making sense and had good points. She wanted to sleep and he was taking that luxury from her. 

He canted his head as he watched the wheels turning in her head. "(Y/N). Please?" 

It was hard to deny a voice like that, lilting around her name in his accent. Looking at her with the lilypad green of his eyes. His hand in hers, so soft and comforting. 

She gave in as she settled herself upright against the cushions of her couch. Only a single blanket remained around her shoulders while the rest pooled in her lap, coiling around her like rose petals. 

"Thank you," Harry smiled, squeezing her hand one last time before standing to his full height over her. "Try to stay awake and keep drinking your water. I should be able to make everything really quickly, okay?" 

"Okay," she nodded her head, gaze following him as he started towards the kitchen. 

Without the television on and her phone discarded in her room, (Y/N)'s entertainment became the cooking show that Harry was putting on for her. Unfamiliar with her kitchen and the quirks of her appliances, she became an uncredited producer as she answered the questions that streamed from him over and over. 

Her apartment began to fill with the smell of bright lemon and smoky spices, tiny pasta simmering away in whatever broth Harry was cooking up. Every breath in helped open her nose, something she was grateful she was awake for. Even if her blinks went on a couple seconds longer than she was sure they were supposed to. 

It was quite the sight to see Harry stumbling around her kitchen, the sleeves of his shirt pushed up to his elbows. Now she was able to see the sketchbook of tattoos that decorated his skin, the cross on his hand now having a family of other drawings. Through her bleary gaze she had a hard time catching each piece of ink, but she really did like what she could see of the mermaid on his forearm. A perpetual furrow had clipped his brow, his lips being rolled between his teeth before being puffed into a pout in an amusing cycle. The sight was officially her favorite show.

By the time he finished, (Y/N) had moved into dozing territory, something he shook her from with a gentle call of her name and the depressing of the cushion next to her as he took a seat. 

"Awake?" 

"Yeah, yeah," she mumbled, nodding her head despite the clear dredge of sleep on her face. 

"Right." He looked at her over the steaming bowl of promised soup, an amused dance in his eyes. He carefully handed it to her, warning her of the temperature as she set it in her blanketed lap. "'S chicken and pastina with lots of lemon and a little bit of spice. 'M hoping it'll help clear up your sinuses," he explained, eyeing the way she stirred the combination. 

"Are you having any?" she asked, looking at his empty hands despite all of the work he put into this. 

"Maybe later," he compromised, his expression settling into something serious as she scooped her first bite. "I want to make sure you're feeling alright and get what y'need first." 

A quiet smile molded her features. "Okay," she murmured, looking down at her dinner with new affection. 

Thankful for the clearing of her nose, (Y/N) was actually able to taste the soup when she brought the spoon to her mouth. Just as promised the warm broth was spiced with crushed pepper flakes and something smoky sprinkled over the shreds of chicken. Citrus spikes of lemon were bright over her taste buds, opening her nose even if it seared just a bit going down her throat. The pastina was tender and soft, the little star shapes floating around the enriched broth. The closest she was going to get to the faux-snow she should be twirling through on stage at the moment. 

"This is really, really good, Harry," she smiled, taking down another spoonful through her swollen throat, "Are you sure you're not going to have any?" 

His features melted into something warm and round then, a small smile curving his lips. The ghost of a dimple touched his cheek. "'M alright. 'M happy you like it." 

"Thank you," she hummed, leaning into him without thinking. Her foggy mind didn't have any qualms about her resting her head on his shoulder, cheek squished against the broad line as her eyes fluttered to a close. 

This had been all she wanted since she woke up that morning: a soft pad of blankets, something warm in her hands, and someone there with her. She hadn't realized she wanted that someone to be Harry.

He stayed as her steady pillar while she finished her soup. He was as attentive as ever, refilling her water, adding another blanket to her shoulders when she shivered and telling the same quilt off when she began to sweat under the layers. He kept her awake even as the cold medicine began to kick in leaving her drowsy and mumbly the longer she was forced awake. It had been years, when she still lived with her family, that someone had taken such good care of her without a single complaint. Not even when she fell asleep for a few moments on his shoulder, long enough for a bit of drool to pool on his shirt. 

(Come morning, she hoped the cold medicine would wipe that memory and leave it in a dreamy haze. That way she could at least deny it all to herself as nothing more than an embarrassing dream). 

"Done?" he asked when she dropped her spoon into the empty bowl, only a few stray pastina stars remaining. 

"Yeah," she sighed, sinking into the nest of blankets for the time being. At least for the moment she was terribly cold, though she figured that might change soon. 

Harry took her bowl from her lap, his fingertips brushing her own for a breath. "Let me clean up and I'll get y'some more water, yeah?" 

She sunk into the cushions now that she didn't need to sit upright for food. Harry didn't stop her as she laid out on the sofa, head falling onto a lumpy throw pillow with her blanket nest in disarray around her. She only nodded her head to his proposition before her eyes fluttered to a close. 

The cold medicine did its job as it eased her into a lazy state of mind. If she didn't know any better, she would think she was coming into another fever with the tangled trains of thought and  lethargic bones. 

But that somehow made it easier for her to reach out to Harry when he passed to get her water bottle. She didn't think before she reached for his wrist, right over the anchor inked into his skin with her manicured nails gleaming against his tan. 

"Wait."

From where she was laid out under her pile of blankets, peering up at him through a bleary, sleep-squinted gaze, she saw the way he naturally reverted back to the furrowed brow and thinned lips. 

"What's wrong?" 

She smiled at his line of questioning. Of course he would be ready to remedy anything for her that quickly. 

"You're so nice to me, Harry." She squeezed her hand around his wrist. 

A small smile cracked the concern coating his features. "Thank you," he breathed, staying right where he was as long as she had her hand on his wrist.

"Come here," she mumbled, tugging on his arm until he was crouching before her just as he'd done earlier. 

His eyes met her's, the clear green bright against his dark lashes. He canted his head. "What's wrong, (Y/N)?" 

She shook her head against the pillow. "Nothing. Just stay here for a little." 

It was clear he wasn't going to fight her, even with his insistence that she needed to keep drinking water and all of the medicine he no doubt had laid out on her kitchen counter. He instead melted into softer lines, his shoulders sloping as he lowered himself to sit with his legs crossed underneath him. (Y/N) shifted her hold on his wrist to slide over the strength of his hands until their fingers were tangled together. 

"I was going to try to go on tonight," she sighed, savoring the feel of his hand in hers, "Sorry I made you miss the show." 

Harry dropped his gaze to their joined hands, watching as her fingers caressed over the lines of his skin. "I—um—I was worried when they skipped the prologue and started without you." 

"I'm sure Irina is doing amazing," (Y/N) lazily smiled, wishing he'd look up at her again so she could see his eyes. 

He nodded absently, still looking at where her thumb was drawing along the side of his hand. "Sure," he drawled, "But..." He paused for a moment, rolling his lips between his teeth. "But, I go to see you. You're... wonderful."

It could be the cold medication or the side effects of her high fever, but she swore there was more threaded within his words. That he truly believed her to be full of wonder—something to be awed at. A swan on a lake at sunset with gilded feathers. A clear night sky, every star winking into existence. A snowy day with large flakes gliding on the wind, the ground powdery and sparkling. 

Her chest warmed just so even with goosebumps rising on her skin. In a different state she may not have felt it all so deeply, but she would soak in it while she could. 

"See," she sighed, pulsing her hand in his, "This is why I don't believe all that stuff." 

His brows pinched together once more, finally granting her wish of meeting her gaze. "What do you mean?" 

She snuggled deeper under her blankets though she ensured she never lost his hand. Her confession caught up with her a bit, or at least the reason why she'd never brought it up before. "I... Nevermind. I don't want to hurt your feelings." 

Her words didn't appear to ease him at all. "No, 's okay," he insisted, "What were y'thinking?" 

The drowsy side effect of her cold medicine began closing in around her now that she was warm and full. It made everything easier as her eyes fell closed, her lips decidedly looser. 

"Some of the girls told me what happened a couple of years ago. Everything with your... ex," she started, unconsciously frowning at the memory, "That it was a weird time for everyone. When she left, I guess some people thought you had something to do with it, and that everything with you guys got really complicated." She sighed then, cracking her eyes open with a smile on her face. "I didn't really believe it all, though. I don't see you like that." 

She expected him to give her a matching smile. To look at her with the same softened look she hoped she was giving him. Instead, she saw the lines of his face still taut and clean. His hand in hers stayed soft and pliable, disjointed from the set of his jaw. 

"Oh. 'M sorry that they shared that with you," he said, voice low and quiet as he peeked at her through his lashes, "How... How long have you known?" 

It took her a moment to cast back her muddled mind far enough to pinpoint the day. "When we found out about the casting. Me and some of the swans went to dinner that night." 

"Oh." His brows were tightly knit, eyes downturned once more. He didn't seem particularly eased by her information. 

A silence sat between them, layering over her blankets and the warmth of his hand in her palm. It was easy to sway deeper into the drowsy feeling dripping through her veins. Hopefully when she woke up she'd feel better. 

Maybe there would still be some soup for her to have. And those socks Harry brought her. 

A small pulse was given to her hand. "Do y'want me to stay?" he murmured. 

(Y/N) didn't even think before she nodded. Only a breath later, hand still in his, she was asleep. 

—————

Sunlight beaming through the open curtains was what woke (Y/N) the next morning. Though her nose was still stuffed and her throat more swollen than what was comfortable, she could say she felt a bit better. The pounding behind her eyes had vacated—thank goodness. It was much easier to accept the morning when she didn't cringe away from the light, even if her bones still felt stiff and muscles heavy. 

Sitting up, she found herself in bed. Many of her memories of the previous night were foggy and disjointed, seen through the lens of both cold medicine and her high fever. The blankets she vaguely remembered huddling into on the sofa were now nested around her on her bed, the duvet and other bedding forgotten in the process. She didn't even remember making it to her bedroom. Her hair was a mess but pulled away from her face into a sloppy bun, her clothes sticking to her from the layer of sweat on her body, the proof of a broken fever. On her bedside table was her trusty water bottle, full and chilled, right next to a duo of blue pills waiting for her. 

A tired smile bloomed on her features. Harry. 

Though muddy, she remembered the way he came to her aid so quickly. She didn't even have to ask him—call him herself—before he was there with food and water and every medicine he could get his hands on for her. Just to sit at her side and hold her hand as she surely made next to no sense with whatever it was she talked his ear off about. 

Was he still here? 

She listened to the silence around her. Only the squeaking of her mattress springs as she shifted and stretched broke the quiet barrier.

Taking a moment to down the medication and over half of the water before she crept out of her bedroom, (Y/N) wasn't sure what she wanted to see when she peered into her living room. Harry had already done so much for her, it felt selfish to hope that he had slept over just to see her in the morning. But, it was hard to say that she didn't want that. 

She didn't have to go far before she stopped on the edge of her furry pink rug. There, right on her sofa, was Harry. He was more than rumpled, clad in clothes he'd been in the night before. His shoes were discarded in a messy pile on her rug. Only one remaining quilt was bundled at the end of the sofa with that lumpy throw pillow showing an indent of where he laid his head. Though now he was sat up, knees spread wide with his elbows propped on his knees as he knuckled at his eyes. 

It was a bit silly the way she felt a giddy flutter in the pit of her stomach. Seeing him felt a lot more real than those murky memories.

"Good morning," she chirped. 

Harry startled at the sound of her voice, almost jumping out of his skin as he whipped his head up to look at her. 

Blinking the rest of the sleep out of his eyes, he looked at her dazedly. "Morning," he graveled, clearing his throat before continuing, "How are y'feeling?" 

"A lot better, thank you," she smiled, "How are you feeling? In my experience, that couch isn't very comfortable." 

A short laugh fell from his lips as he stood to the full of his height, stretching with his hands running streaks through his hair. "At least 's cute," he offered, a small smile on his tired face. 

Before she could answer, a round of coughing took over, her eyes watering at the sting in her throat. Before she could recover, Harry was already heading towards her kitchen once more—the counters of which are completely spotless. A stark contrast to what was going on the day before as far as she could remember. Taking in the rest of her living room, that seemed to be the consensus. The entire place was cleaned up as much as it could be by someone who didn't live there. 

"Y'saw the water I left out, right?" he asked, light reaching his eyes as he slipped back into his nursing role. 

"I did, yeah. Thank you—again," she said, tracking him as he immediately went towards the leftover soup he'd seemingly packed away after she fell asleep. 

"Are y'hungry?" he asked, already reaching for the pot he'd cleaned and readied after last night. "There's some leftovers I can heat up for you." 

A grin poked at her lips. "Soup for breakfast?" 

He seemed a bit sheepish as he looked down at his breakfast plans. "Sorry, 's all I brought for you. I feel too bad to go through your cabinets more than I have already. I could put an egg on it?" 

Even though it hurt, she couldn't help the loud laugh that escaped her. A cute idea, she thought. A fried egg just floating on top of her soup. 

"I think I can manage with just the soup. As long as you have some with me this time." 

A short smile curled his lips as he went about turning the heat of the stove and stirring through the broth. (Y/N) excused herself to the bathroom then, only to return later to see Harry ladling out the servings of their new breakfast soup. The same smoky citrus scent permeated through her apartment, already helping her sniffly nose. 

This time, Harry brought his own bowl to share with her, taking what seemed to now be their spots on the sofa. 

"Sure y'don't want an egg?" he teased as she stirred her pastina. 

"Let me think about it," she countered, smiling down at the floating stars. "Really, thank you for last night. I haven't been sick like this in a while, I forgot what it was like to not be able to take care of myself." 

Swallowing down his spoonful, Harry gave her a small smile. "Of course. 'S no problem at all. 'M happy you're feeling a little better." 

"You didn't have to come out here and stay and all of that, though," she pressed, attempting to come off more casual than she felt as she scooped out another bite, "It means a lot, Harry. I think you probably cut at least two days off of my suffering just by being here." 

He nodded down at his soup, a sheepish blush touching the tops of his cheeks and the tips of his ears. "You're welcome, (Y/N)." 

Her apartment was filled with the sounds of clicking silverware and drops of broth splashing back into the bowl. It wasn't until she started eating that she realized just how hungry breaking a fever had made her. With each spoonful her limbs warmed, and she could breathe just that much easier. She had been right: the leftovers were even better than the night before. 

She had made it halfway through her helping before she caught Harry almost done with his own. 

"Pretty good, huh?" she said, bumping his shoulder as a streak of broth dripped down his chin. 

"Yeah," he nodded, wiping at his chin though he looked particularly impressed with himself nonetheless. "I might be onto something with this." 

"Did you even have any last night?" 

"No," he said, taking another bite, "I was too busy taking care of a delirious ballerina." 

Another bright laugh came from her; the sound only hoarse this time without the round of coughs. "I was pretty out of it last night, huh?" 

"I could barely understand you half of the time," he shared, amusement laced through his words.

"I'm scared to know," she started, scraping down the last of the pastina, "but what did I say?" 

Dimples were deep in his cheeks as he looked at her, raspberry lips stretched into a grin. How pretty he was, even first thing in the morning. Even after he'd taken care of her the way he did for hours on end. 

"After I thought y'fell asleep, y'woke up really suddenly and asked me if I knew where your costumes were. It was very hard to tell you that I didn't have them." He set his empty bowl on the low coffee table (next to a vase of familiar dried flowers), giving her the full of his attention, canting his head as he matched her gaze. "When I first got here, you told me you didn't realize that our phone call was real; you thought it was all a dream. Right before y'fell asleep the first time, you"—there was a momentary stall in his voice, lasting not even a second as he suddenly rerouted—"barely made any sense. If I didn't know any better, I'd think y'were drunk." 

Her cheeks warmed already at the moments he listed off, but she had to know what he was planning on saying before switching gears. "No, what were you going to say?" she questioned, canting her head with her own soup bowl next to his before her. "Was it really that weird?" 

His smile fell just enough for the dimples to become nothing more than small dents. "I don't..." he shook his head, "I know y'don't feel better yet, I don't want to start—It was nothing." 

The amusement that had lit up his features when he listed off her offenses had vanished, leaving him with those same tight edges that he'd looked at her with last night. He rolled his lips between his teeth, keeping his mouth closed. 

There was only one thing she could imagine that could only come out when she wasn't in her right mind. Something that might suck the air out of Harry's levity. Her apartment suddenly didn't feel so sunny and warm any more. 

"Harry?" 

He didn't hesitate before he met her eyes. 

"You can tell me," she pressed, "Especially if I hurt you." 

A beat of silence passed. 

Harry dropped his gaze from hers before he spoke, "Y'said y'heard some things about me. From a few years ago." 

She cringed at the admission, cheeks warming. That was what she had been dreading, though expecting nonetheless. 

"The rumors?" she whispered, already knowing the answer. 

A humorless smile curled his lips. "Yeah." 

Her features tightened at the single word. "Did I say anything after? Or did I just fall asleep and make you deal with it." 

He let out a puff of laughter then, though she didn't feel very funny. "Y'said y'didn't believe any of it." 

The set of her shoulders released then, her lungs able to expand just enough for an actual calming breath. She may have spilled the beans, but at least she attempted damage control. 

"I don't. I never really did." 

Only one corner of his mouth upturned at her affirmation. Though that only lasted for a beat before it vanished. 

"Can I tell y'something?" 

She gave a wordless nod. 

"My ex—Elle, she struggled a lot. She was the one that introduced me to ballet and the company and everything. It was something we got to bond over, and—um—I liked coming to see her and watch everything that went into the show. It was really special for a while." He didn't speak higher than a murmur, his words careful. "Things were really good for a while after we moved in together. But—uh—then she... Sorry it jus' feels weird sharing this when 's her story."

"It's okay," (Y/N) urged, realizing he was going to share with her the truth everyone had been swirling rumors about for years. "You don't have to if you don't want to. You know how I feel already." 

"I know," he said, a slight smile being offered to her though the curl didn't last long at all. "I jus' want you to know. Everyone is allowed to choose what they want to believe about me or what happened between us, but I want you to know that it was never like that." 

Cautiously, (Y/N) closed the gap between their spots on the sofa, thighs touching over the lump of quilt thrown over their laps. "Only tell me whatever you want. You don't owe me anything." 

When he didn't speak up right away, (Y/N) figured that was the end of the story she would get. And she would be okay with that, if this was the end of it. For everything Harry's done—nursing her through the night, doing so much for the company, his patronage over the years—he didn't owe anyone any kind of explanation. She didn't doubt that he wasn't like the rumors. 

After a few minutes, he spoke up again, "Towards the end, I got frustrated with her a lot, but I would never—could never—put my hands on her. Or... intimidate her, scare her. No matter how upset I got, I never wanted her to be hurt, or be the one hurting her, just anything.

"I knew when we started dating that she had issues with... drugs before we met. She'd been clean for a couple of years before we met and for years before we got engaged. But, I don't know if she was depressed or if she'd been dancing for too long and it was starting to catch up with her or if it was just whoever she started hanging out with, I don't know, but she changed. It got really out of hand really quickly. At the worst of it, I don't think she was even eating or sleeping. I don't know how she even showed up to rehearsal. Soon enough I only saw her when she was on stage or if she actually slept at home. Other times, I had to track her down if I wanted to know if she was alive." 

(Y/N)'s bottom lip was being chewed to a pulp the longer Harry spoke. His words were beginning to fall out like a stream of consciousness, rambling from his head without a filter instead of the careful word choices he started with. A story the first time it's been told aloud. This was far from the story the girls had shared with her. Supposedly everyone was able to pick up on how tense Harry was, but not drug abuse by someone who was their friend? It turned her stomach. 

"The—um—The last time I saw her, we got into a fight," Harry started again, shaking his head at the memory, "She brought people to our place, and everything was trashed by the time I came home. There was coke, and.. other things, all over my bathroom and things were missing. My house didn't feel like mine anymore when I saw it. I got so upset. I loved her so much, but the person I loved never would have brought someone into my home that could possibly hurt me or take things from me. I felt violated"—he let out a humorless laugh at the admission, shaking his head as if he couldn't believe his own experience—"I realized that night that I didn't know who she was anymore. She needed help but I knew she wasn't going to. I just couldn't take it anymore." 

Harry's voice grew watery then, thin and high. He took a moment to collect himself, the air in her apartment heavy as if all of the city were listening into this story. All she could do was hope he could feel the warmth of her body at his side, the weight of her presence that affirmed he wasn't alone. Today was a different day than what he'd gone through before. 

He cleared his throat before continuing, even though that rasp remained when he continued, "I called her mum that night. She made the trip down, picked her up, and that was the last time I saw Elle." His hands were a knotted mess in his lap, fingers wringing and wrapping around each other over and over. "That last I heard was from her mom, maybe, a year ago. Elle had gone to rehab a couple of times but was finally doing really well. She doesn't dance anymore but she's really happy now with her family out of the city. It was nice to hear."

Finally lifting his head from where it fell to stare at his hands, Harry looked at her with tight features. He tried his best to give a smile, but it turned out stoney at best. Completely stiff and hollow. 

"That's it," he concluded, his shoulders slumping as he looked towards his feet, "'M sure it's different than what you've heard, but I hope 's a better story." 

His voice was deceptively light, lilting without the weight of what was hanging between them. The headache (Y/N) thought she had left behind the previous day was making a steep return, centered right behind her eyes. 

She moved cautiously to lay her head on his shoulder with her eyes shuttering closed. The light traces of his signature cologne permeated the air around them, taking her back to the theater. While she had so many memories centered around the boards of the stage, leaping and twirling to the most magical of stories, Harry's were always edged with something else. How he could be so involved with the company even after everything, she couldn't believe it.

"I'm so sorry, Harry." 

Shifting at her side, he drew her in that much more to his warmth. He opened his side up for her to envelope herself into him with his arm pressed against her back, palm flat against the sofa cushion behind her. She could feel the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed.

"'S alright, (Y/N). It happened a long time ago." His voice was low and rumbling, that lilt from before gone. There was no reason to feign levity now. 

"No," she protested, a pinch forming between her brows, "It's not fair. The kind of stories people are telling after you went through something bad enough already. You're being blamed for everything, and it's not fair. I'm sorry."

Harry paused, moving hesitantly until his cheek was pressed to the top of her head and his arm shifted until he had it looped around her waist. "I—um—I know she made her own choices and she wasn't ever going to get better until she wanted to. It was hard for a while at the beginning, feeling like I should have done more for her. So, when I started hearing some of the rumors and stories people were telling, I... I didn't have it in me to deny any of it. No one seems to know what was actually going on with her either, and I didn't want to be the one to put her business out there for people she didn't want to know.

"It's easier not to correct anyone, even if I know 's not the truth." 

There was a lightness to the way he spoke now. Not so much as light-heartedness or any kind of amusement reaching him, but there was something missing from him. Something heavy that no longer tugged him down like an anchor. 

Everything seemed that much easier for him. 

"I'm sorry you felt like you couldn't defend yourself, Harry," she murmured, pulling her head away from the bed of his shoulder only to take him into her own arms. Arms looped around his middle, Harry stiffened for a split second at her touch. She could feel his eyes on her for a lingering moment before relenting to the give of her touch. He let her tuck herself into his chest, the crook of his neck now occupied with her face. His own arms were a tight cage around her, hands splayed against the planes of her back, the hold just tight enough for his fingertips to leave small dents in her flesh. 

"You're a good person, Harry," she murmured. 

A heavy silence settled around them, punctuated only by the feel of his lips pressing into her hair.

"Thank you," he whispered, voice thin and rocky, "Y'don't know what 's been like to be able to enjoy ballet again." His throat bobbed as he swallowed. "To enjoy everything again. With you." 

(Y/N) squeezed him tighter.

—————

the butterfly is a classic character in the ballet, le papillon

ty sm for reading! so sorry for any mistakes but id love to hear how you think the next and final part w go now that we know h!

[moonpie016]

☆----------------------------------------------------☆

Word count: 2,595

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Created May 18th

Finished June 6th

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I’ve had this unfinished for a month. I made it on emotions at first, then was like “I wanna write about these three.”

I even made artwork! But had to avoid showing it without any context because I wanted to use it for this specific thing.

Soooo now you can look at it. :]

Whole hurts his fingers in this, so that’s a heads up incase.

(Will be on ao3 later.)

Been thinking on that previously mentioned thdph lore thing I wanna do. For the future possibly.

Anyways, enjoy. :]

☆----------------------------------------------------☆

“(I see you.)”

The Moon whispered into the night, he'd been up for hours facing towards the sky, all the stars twinkling quietly. He knew they were there. They were watching. Waiting perhaps.

“(Every time I don't want to, I still end up seeing you. I've tried to exist peacefully for our sake. I thought not thinking about anything and keeping myself busy was the way to go.)”

The Moon leaned against the gate surrounding the deck, white paint messily touches the ends of his hoodie strings, even when dry, he could still feel the indent of wet splotches. The feel of a cold breeze passing through. Wherever it came from. He wanted it to last as he continued staring at the sky.

“(But… that didn't really help. It did. It has. I feel …. I'm not sure. ….. I'm not sure what I feel sometimes. .. It's supposed to be my thing. No one else would understand that.

Wouldn't say I feel better. But I can't say I'm not…better. It's weird.

I know there's still some things I need to work on breaking. And just..exist. I thought not seeing you would've helped us. …Ha. Not sure who I'm talkin’ to. I know He's listening.

He needs this.

It's alright.

It's alright to relax.

It's ok to feel.

…Because if not, well, then we'll just become Sol .. heh. ....)”

They could feel a subtle streak, not a tear, but what would've been one, of all the moments he wished someone was listening. He wanted one of them to interrupt his words and grace them with comfort.

They knew it wouldn't come. Obviously no one was listening at all. But the thought of anyone hearing his string of words led him to continue.

“(I shouldn't bother with thinking on things, shouldn't bother thinking on anything, really.. But no one can blame me but myself for that. I have all these thoughts and things I want to let out, to say, to understand. But, I really can't do that. Mind wouldn't give me the chance to, and Soul’d …just ignore it and try something else.

I know you want that too, I can feel it.)”

The wind blew across the house once again, more forceful than before, leading Heart to return inside. Walking upstairs and into their room, the lights dim with only a small night light illuminating everything.

Crawling onto their bed, their head spiraled with ideas for their vessel. He needed something. The harmony they had was not an issue. But everything still felt….bad. Unresolved.

Something called to Heart as he looked towards his doorway. He got up and listened…

It wasn't the other two.

He followed the sound around down the hallway, soon meeting the host's door. He could only imagine what would happen next entering here.

Well. He didn't have too..

Slowly, he creaked the door open, carefully inching the floor across past Soul's bed, hearing them snore.

But that wasn't the main focus here. The Moon heard small clucks as he felt feathers brush against his legs. Darrell looked at Heart with confusion, while Heart himself shushed the bird. He continued inching forward until he felt a long trim of fabric, feeling it more to understand what in the world it was.

“(..what is this��?)” He whispered. He felt around more..

He then remembered something from before, before Concord.. Soul would rarely let the other two inside their room, which was weird in itself, but one time, Heart got a glimpse inside roaming around. It was at the end of the room, a large yellow tapestry covered the wall, having some star design embroidered on it. When asked about it, Soul simply brushed it off (like always) and quickly talked about something else.

–

Heart left the host's room and went to Mind's, he needed to know what this was. It was itching his brain. Sneaking inside was the easy part, no random stuff to make any noise, Logic was pristine.

…

The Sun was comfortable in its bed, dreams didn't seem to come by for it, but when they did, he didn't dare miss them. It was a special event. He was sitting by the sand outside near the beach, the sun itself hitting evening, turning everything into a warm orange hue. Simply wonderful.

…All of a sudden, the sun was gone, the clouds moving in and flooding the scene with rain. The next way to go. It was normal. The rain poured down endlessly, but wasn't an issue for him.

Until he actually felt it. Weird. His namesake must be playing a trick.

He felt it again. And again…

As its eye opened, he saw …..oh goodness it's them.

“(Hey. Uhh what's that thing in Soul's room?)”

It was face to face with the creature’s blindfold, hearing the question made the Mind squirm.

“[1. Get off me,]”

Mind pushed Heart away from her, getting up and turning on the lamp just beside its bed, letting warm rays light everything up.

“[2. What thing are you talking about…? It's…3am.]”

“(The thing! The yellow tapestry, that thing! What's it for?)”

The Sun slowly blinked, sighing with annoyance at the Heart’s question. But honestly, it wondered as well. It also saw the piece every time he would pass through. The two thought for a moment, Sun tapping his forehead and the Moon rubbing their knees.

“[Hm. You know how Atlas sometimes stays in his room all day?]”

“(Yeah..? But he does that all the time.

…Actually, when that happens, it's…usually cus of…him.)”

“[...This isn't that hard to piece together. It's obviously for Whole. But why of all things does that concern you? …And why didn't you wait till morning…]”

The mumbles of the Sun weren't important. Heart slid onto the floor, hands and feet both to the ground. Thinking about it, he latched his tail on Mind's leg, coiling around it, despite the confusion and protest against whatever he was doing. The Heart immediately crawled out the doorway and near Soul's room. With Mind trying not to get hit.

Once there, Sun hissed, pushing away from the emotional side and dusting off his pajamas. Staring at the creature still on the floor.

“[Why on EARTH would you do that?!! You could've just walked!!]”

“(Shush! It's practical. And we're here soo, stop whining.)”

He couldn't believe what he was hearing. They're the one who's whining, not him! The Sun huffed. Meanwhile Heart was already sneaking in.

Great.

Playful clucks were heard, Darrell popped out from the bed and greeted the two. But there wasn't time for that. The room felt claustrophobic, everything was everywhere, cans and clothes littering the floor. Keyboard filled with sheet music and notes of who knows what. It made Mind want to leave. It could. It didn't have to stay here. Let Heart get in trouble. And he'll be scott free.

They were both in front of it, the thing that called them here in the first place.

“(....how does it work…?)”

The Heart whispered.

“[It's usually some “magic” type stuff he does. …Hold on.]”

The Moon tilted his head, what was it up too?

Mind scoured the keyboard. Nope.

The desk. Of course!

Underneath a load of junk, Mind pulled out their mask. It was white with red lipstick and markings on the cheeks. Big hollowed eyes that slightly slanted at the edges, giving it lashes in a sense. Being chipped at the top. But what was really unnerving, it has a big toothy smile across its face.

Strange.

It returned to Heart with the mask, soon enough the tapestry glowed bright, strings of light latching around the mask. And in turn, around the Sun and Moon.

–

“(.....Mmm.. Huh..?)”

Their head felt foggy, their surroundings felt…. different. He could hear Sun’s multiple questions as it too awoke. But…they weren't sleeping…?

“[...I don't think we've been here before. It's… dark. You must like it, perfect place for you.]”

Moon waved Mind away, beginning to walk ahead of it. They once again felt a call, but now it was clear. Mind scrunched his face as he followed the Moon in all this.

The call became louder, louder, and louder. Buzzing inside the emotional side’s head continuing forward. The dark night sky bloomed a new light.

They could hear the jingling of beads being shuffled around, a somber strum on a guitar, hums so quiet you wouldn't notice…but recognize.

He strummed a few more times before looking at the two with his cold eyes.

They both approached quietly, Mind on foot, while Heart on all fours. For why, no one knew. They took their tail and poked their vessel, feeling a sense of contentment in the air.

“(Hi… ..)”

Immediately, Heart's face tightened, overflowing with emotions all over. The sinking pit lumping inside him the more he grew close to Him. This couldn't be a normal meeting. Ha. Nope. It never will be.

They just wanted to say hi.

–

Harmonia's eyes pricked with tears, but his expression never changed.

Mind just glanced at the two. Seems everyone here wasn't at all competent. It faced away from them with its tail between its legs.

Deep inside, he could feel the discontent, the disdain cracking through the seams. The Heart stepped closer to the man, getting closer than they could, it felt weird to even think this could happen. They thought only Soul had this chance, but it seems like they were important. For whatever it was. He reached out and poked their vessel.

He stopped hearing the guitar strum, the only thing filling the silence that neither one was too fond of. It was welcoming, sure. But…odd.

Then he felt a hand holding his own.

But nothing was said. Just…nothing.

Mind eyed the two down. It didn't understand. It just wanted everything to seem normal, one day was all it wanted. It approached calmly just beside the Moon.

His face filled with annoyance.

“[... I didn't think it would actually work. But that would only mean.. What do you want?]”

“(Don't you think having a calm approach would work on him? Being abrasive isn't going to work.)”

Mind's face turned from indifference to pure irritation. Was he being serious?

“[Seems you actually thought of something useful for once! Maybe try using that yourself. He doesn't need these soft words…]”

Heart sighed, they weren't going to do this, not here, not now. Especially with him here. He doesn't need this.

He ignored the Sun's ideas and focused on the task placed in front of him. Didn't know where to start with this. But Heart assured himself, tapping the vessel’s hand intertwined.

“(This is…strange. I knew I heard something…and I guess it was you, wasn't it?)”

Whole nodded. Still silent as ever. It was weird just them being here, but to hear nothing…no input.

Heart could hear slight strums on the guitar's strings. Must be fiddling.

Most things on Whole are scarce. They remembered the low haze of his eyes, his hair springing in ways all over the place.

His contempt.

Apathy…

The Mind saw Heart’s hands shaking, how hard is it to just talk?

“[You're doing it again. Breathe. Both of you.]”

It's voice full of command but without that cold attitude it had prior. Heart let go of the vessel, rubbing the sides of his arms slowly. The weight soothed their nerves.

“(Sorry. It's just…weird…!

….

Uh. Whole…? Should I even call you that….. What's..up?)”

“[He's not spoken a word since we've been here. What makes you think he'll answer?]”

“(I have to try, don't I?)”

The Sun and Moon’s reasons were all over the place. One wanted directions on how to work this out. The other, saw no importance in handling it calmly.

It just wanted to be back home.

The vessel's eyes darted between the halves, rolling and rolling over as their words became fog. And then, noise. His breathing closed within his lungs, fingers returning to his guitar in a matter of seconds.

It was a playful tune at first…

he then thrashed his fingers against the strings quickly. Subtle burns of pain filling up. He continued until the Sun and Moon faced him, both worried. But it wasn't like they cared. He didn't.

It never ended.

It wouldn't stop.

The noises grew louder and louder…

A touch of cold and smooth, and rough with edge lured his fingers away from the instrument.

Staring at him with the same worries as before.

“[Apologies.

We promised we would fix this. …and I suppose Heart's methods are…. alright. But, please stop. You're only hurting yourself more by doing that.]”

Mind sat down next to the Moon, reaching her mechanical hand towards Whole.

If this were anyone else she would've kept to herself. But, this was a special occasion.

He didn't take its hand. So, Mind carefully held the neck and base of the guitar, tugging it towards itself. At first…Whole wouldn't budge, he needed it, and it needed him. It was the only thing that made sense.

It continued to stare at him while gripping the guitar more. Before it laid in her hands against her gown.

He looked.. upset? Mad? It couldn't tell.

“[Now that that's out of the way. Can you explain why you wanted us here? What's the situation and is there anything we can do to improve? It would help us a lot.]”

“(This is the most considerate thing I've ever heard you say.. it's scary.)”

“[Well, what am I supposed to say? That's what you say all the time.]”

Heart shrugged.

…

Would answering solve anything? It never does. It only creates an open door, and anything that enters never leaves. …Only if someone opens the door if they truly care.

How would they care. What even are they at this point. Just…things.

They want an answer. They're looking for one.

If I had any, it wouldn't be helped.

…

“(You doubt yourself too much, man.)”

Whole’s head lifted from his slump. How…

“(Did you forget? …heh. What do you think I'm made for? Look, yeah seeking help is….so hard. So hard! It baffles me. It hurts, it's annoying, but….it works. We don't know what's really wrong… You and me. We know nothing.)”

“[True. You really don't know anything.

Mr. Crocodile here is proof. If anyone wants to help you…it's us. Despite this …. juggling of many things, chaos, aggression. We still care.]”

Heart's brows scrunched up, confusion laid on their face.

“(Crocodile….?)”

The Mind shoved his hand on Heart’s head, pulling a smile that felt forced. [Also feeling uncomfortable from contact].

“[REGARDLESS. You're ok. …Well not really. But you're mostly doing alright.]”

After rubbing its hand against its gown, the two gathered next to their vessel. Artemis on his left, Apollo on his right, both cushioning again Whole like a sandwich. It felt unreal. Maybe it was.

Guess stewing in here for…endless amounts of times weren't working.

The white that filled this space turned into a cool blue.

Heart looked into the void, feeling content, there was no hole in his chest. No darkness suffocating his core. His head still filled with all the regrets, shame, and painful memories that haunted each of them.

But they weren't there. They were here.

With Mind, with Harmonia. What chances would that bring?

—

The two were on the floor of Soul's room, somehow…it was still asleep. They looked at each other in shock, scurrying away as fast as they could and into Heart's room.

Both laying on the floor with thought.

“[.... We're never telling Soul about this.]”

“(Mhm.)”

— — —

[crehador]

blue bouquet incoming

[urmum-lovesme]

toxic!dad!rafe acting guilty and sweet around reader while she takes care of his kids because he acted her soo bad yesterday:( maybe hit her, maybe telling her reallyy bad things and she got hurt

This is so good wtf I love this idea it's lowkey fucked me up tho 😔

The morning was quiet, save for the soft tune of a lullaby Y/N absentmindedly hummed under her breath. She sat on the floor of the living room, legs folded beneath her, while her daughter sat in front of her, small and fidgety as Y/N carefully braided her soft curls. The little girl giggled every time her mothers fingers tickled the back of her neck, her chubby hands clutching her stuffed bunny tightly.

“Almost done, baby”

She murmured, gently smoothing her daughter’s hair before looping the final section of the braid. Her reflection in the door leading out to the garden, it caught her off guard. The faintest streak of red where Rafe’s signet ring had nicked her skin. The light swelling of her cheek, just enough to make her wince when she thought too hard about what had happened. Her breath hitched, and she squeezed her eyes shut, pushing the memory away but the calm didnt last for long.

She felt him before she saw him.

Rafe’s presence lingered in the doorway, heavy and suffocating. She knew he was watching- had probably been watching for a while now. Still, she didn’t acknowledge him, she just kept braiding. Rafe cleared his throat.

“I, uh- made you that tea y'like...”

Y/N didn’t respond. He shifted on his feet as he looked down to the little girl sitting. He muttered, nodding toward their daughter’s hair.

“Looks nice”

Y/N tied off the braid with a small elastic as she whispered, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her daughter’s head before nudging her forward.

“Go show your bunny baby”

The toddler wobbled off, giggling as she held the braid over her shoulder, showing it off to her stuffed animal like it was the best thing in the world. Y/N took a breath, exhaling slowly, then pushed herself off the floor. She barely got a step away before Rafe moved, cutting her off.

“Y/N…”

His voice was softer now. Careful. Like he knew he was treading dangerous ground. She felt his fingers barely graze her arm, his touch feather-light as they trailed down- over the bruise he left on her wrist, over the soreness beneath her skin. But then he stopped.

Right at her cheek.

The pad of his thumb brushed over the small cut, and she flinched causing him to pull away immediately. She turned to him then, finally looking at him. The guilt was evident in his face, but she said nothing.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t.”

Her voice cracked, but she didn’t waver. His jaw clenched slightly, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. Not in anger- just restraint.

“I just... fuck Y/N, I don’t wanna fight—”

“You didn’t seem to mind last night.”

A hollow laugh escaped her lips, quiet and humorless. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, letting out a sigh as his head nodded a little.

“I know.”

She shook her head, turning away from him, her eyes landing on their daughter who now sat near her play pen, enamoured with some pink blocks wheezie had bought her.

“What were you even so angry about, Rafe? What was so fucking bad that you had to hit me?”

He paused at her words, yet her voice wasn’t yelling. It wasn’t even angry anymore. That made it worse.

“I—” He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face.

“I don’t know.”

He did know.

It had started over something stupid. He had been out late- again. She had called him- again, multiple times, like she did every night. And when he finally came home, she had been pissed—rightfully so. Their argument had escalated soon after that;

"You can’t just disappear all night, Rafe."

Her voice was irritated but careful- not because she wasn’t angry, but because she knew better than to raise it in the house when everyone was asleep. Knew that if anyone overheard, it would just give him another reason to twist things around, to make her seem like the problem starter.

"I was handling business."

Rafe’s voice was humerously calm, but it wasn’t apologetic. It was clipped, defensive, like he was already prepared for a fight. Like he had expected this reaction from her. Y/N scoffed, folding her arms across her chest.

"Oh, right. ‘Business.’ That’s what we’re calling it now?"

That got his attention. His eyes narrowed, a flicker of something dark crossing his face as he took a slow step closer. He muttered out, voice sharp and dangerously low.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"You know exactly what it means, jesus Rafe. You're a dad now—you can't do this shit anymore."

She let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. Her arms tightened around herself, her voice cracking just slightly before she forced it steady again.

"You can’t be out all night doing God knows what and then just waltz back in like nothing happened."

"I just told you, I was handling shit."

He exhaled harshly through his nose, running a hand over his face. She shook her head as she looked at him, her hands were shaking from the fact she was arguing with him in the first place but she couldn't stop herself anymore.

"Handling what?"

She shot back, her voice strained but still hushed. She was tired- exhausted even. She'd been looking after their baby girl all by herself, days and nights, and she'd had enough. She was miserable and that's not what she wanted to be

"Whatever bullshit mess you got yourself into again? Do you even think about her? Do you care you've left me by my—"

"Of course I care." His jaw tensed, his entire body wound tight like a spring.

"Don’t fucking act like I don’t care."

He snapped at her and she took a step back, shaking her head, the lump in her throat growing.

"Well you don’t act like it."

She let the words hang between them for a second, watching his expression shift, his lips parting slightly before pressing into a thin line. She was so sick of his shit, she just wanted to scream at him, but she didn't- she couldnt. Yet before she could stop herself the words fell from her mouth,

"You're just like him, you know that?"

His entire body went rigid as the sentense passed her lips, and he instantly tured around to face her.

"What?"

Her throat felt tight, but she didn’t back down. "You're just like your dad." she whispered.

"Someone who pretends to care about his family but in reality—"

The slap came fast.

A sharp, stinging pain shot through her cheek, her head whipping to the side as she gasped. His signet ring sliced against her skin, the warmth of blood rising in its place almost instantly.

Silence

She barely registered the sound of her breath hitching, or the way her vision blurred for a second before sharpening on the floor. Everything felt muted, heavy. Her cheek burned and her ears rang, the sound reverberating. Rafe was just standing there, breathing hard. His chest rose and fell quickly, his fingers twitching slightly at his sides at the burn in his palm. His eyes weren’t on hers. No, they were fixated on the mark he had just left, on the crimson dot blooming just below her cheekbone. And then, his voice—low but edged with something unsettling.

"Don't ever fucking say that to me."

Her eyes were now unreadable, dark with exhaustion and something heavier. He hadn’t seen her cry last night. Not in front of him. Not after she had staggered back from the slap, a thin line of red appearing beneath her cheekbone where his ring had nicked her skin. She had just gone quiet and that had fucked with him more than anything.

“I just wanna make it up to you.”

Rafe said now, voice barely above a whisper. Y/N blinked, eyes burning as she mumbled out in return.

“I don't know...”

She stood there, breathing him in- his presence, his guilt, his need to smooth things over like last night never happened. Her cheek still stung faintly, the cut from his ring a sharp reminder of how far he’d taken it. And yet, Rafe was standing there, looking at her like he was the one hurting. Like he was suffering under the weight of his own actions. Her lips parted, words barely forming before she was cut off-

“Dada!”

Their daughter’s voice broke through the thick tension, her small feet pattering against the hardwood as she toddled toward them. She latched onto Rafe’s trousers with both hands, tugging insistently.

“Up!”

She demanded, eyes big and expectant. Y/N’s stomach twisted the moment Rafe bent down without hesitation, scooping their little girl into his arms with ease. His large hand supporying her small frame, letting her rest against him.

“Forgive me, please”

He murmured again, but this time, his voice was softer, edged with something sweeter. Y/N swallowed, throat tightening.

She knew what he was doing.

He knew she wouldn’t start a fight with him while their daughter was in his arms. He knew she wouldn’t reject him, not with their little girl looking between them, not with her small hands resting against his chest, oblivious to the storm simmering beneath the surface of her parents relationship. Rafe studied her carefully, watching the way her expression shifted- conflicted, torn. His grip on their daughter tightened ever so slightly, a silent reminder of what was between them, what they shared.

“C’mon, baby,” he whispered.

“Let me fix this.”

Y/N let out a shaky breath, her gaze flickering to their daughter. She was sucking her thumb now, head resting lazily on Rafe’s shoulder, so blissfully unaware. She clenched her jaw, blinking rapidly at the water pooling on her waterline, lips pressing together into a thin line. And then- their daughter, still nestled in Rafe’s arms- turned her head slightly, her little eyes locking onto Y/N’s. The small hand that had been contently resting against Rafe’s chest now reached out towards her, fingers wiggling with in a grabbing motion.

An unspoken demand for her to come closer.

Y/N’s chest tightened. The sight of their daughter’s small, innocent gesture, that soft yearning for her mother, cracked through her resolve. She had no words, just the flutter in her chest with caused her breath to hitch.

“Okay”

Y/N whispered, so quietly it could’ve been mistaken for a breath. Rafe’s eyes softened, a glint of triumph flashing briefly before he stepped forward, a slow, deliberate smile tugging at his lips. Before Y/N could fully process the shift, Rafe closed the space between them, pulling her closer and capturing her lips in a kiss.

It was slow.

Sweet.

The kind that carried an underlying ache, as though they both knew that they were only putting a temporary bandage over something far more complicated. But in that moment, Y/N didn’t pull away, she couldn't bring herself to. Instead she let him kiss her and let herself fall back into the illusion of peace.

this lowkey made me want to sob. . . ?

[fayerie]

Sitting on Gojo Satoru’s lap while he played video games with his friends was your idea — now you’re fighting to stay quiet while he plays with your pussy like it’s a part of the game.

mdni , f!reader

You should’ve known better than to sit on Gojo’s lap while he was playing video games.

He warned you.

Well — he teased you about it. Let his hand settle on your thigh with that lazy, lopsided smile and said, “You sure you wanna be here baby? I’m not gonna stop just ’cause you’re aching for some attention.”

"I'm not feeling needy." You glared at him while saying that.

But you climbed into his lap anyway, arms around his neck, nose tucked under his jaw. He smelled warm and familiar — faint traces of his afternoon cologne still lingering on his skin, all sandalwood and soft musk — and you just hummed, wiggling into his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Now here you are: flushed and writhing on his thigh while Gojo chats casually with his friends through his headset, his fingers buried up to the knuckle inside you like he’s toying with his favorite stress ball.

“Mhm, nah, I see ‘em — pushing left,” he murmurs into the mic, voice smooth as silk. His tone is calm. His fingers are anything but — curling slow and deep inside you, warm and maddeningly deliberate.

You’re soaked. Have been since you first climbed into his lap — panties clinging to your skin, now shoved to the side and forgotten, as he lazily works two fingers inside your dripping heat while his other hand stays glued to the mouse.

And you’re struggling.

Thighs twitching. Chest fluttering. Trying so hard not to squirm or gasp while he treats your cunt like just another distraction.

He leans in close, brushing his lips over your temple. “So quiet now, sweetheart,” he whispers, low and indulgent. “Didn’t think you had it in you. You were moanin’ like a little thing earlier, beggin’ for me to touch you… but not needy, right?”

You bury your face into his hoodie, cheeks burning.

“Mm,” he coos, slow and sultry. “Where’d that bratty little voice go, huh? Thought you were gonna claw your way into my lap just to be ignored?”

You whimper — soft and humiliated. But you still rock your hips into his hand, helpless for the curl of his fingers.

He chuckles, deep and velvety, clearly pleased. “There she is.”

Through the headset, his friends are still laughing — loud and oblivious. Gojo doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pause. Fingers still nestled inside your wet heat, he tilts his head toward the mic.

“Yeah, I’m good, just lagged for a sec,” he says lazily, before leaning back into you, lips grazing your ear again. “Don’t worry, they don’t suspect a damn thing.”

You clench around his fingers, trembling. He feels it. Of course he does.

“I got you,” he murmurs, low and coaxing. “You want attention, baby? I’ll give you all of it. Just gotta keep those pretty noises down for me, yeah?”

His fingers move again — slow, steady drags that glide over that perfect spot inside you until your hips stutter and your head tips back onto his shoulder. You bite your lip, desperate not to whine.

He loves how sensitive you are — how even the smallest twist of his fingers sends you fluttering around him. It’s addictive. Your body’s like a secret only he knows how to unlock.

“That’s it,” he purrs, brushing his mouth over your ear. “Such a good girl for me.”

You’re gushing around him, sticky and hot, but he stays gentle — not cruel. Just persistent. Just slow, teasing, relentless.

The wet sounds are obscene — slick and embarrassing. And every time he presses just a little deeper, the heel of his palm bumps your clit with feather light pressure that makes your back twitch.

He hasn’t touched it directly once. Just skirted around it — enough to keep you squirming.

“Sensitive little thing,” he breathes, lips curling. “Bet you’re already close for me, huh?”

“Oi, Satoru,” someone calls through the mic, “you lagging again or what? You’re barely moving.”

Gojo laughs — that cocky, lazy sound like he’s barely trying. “Relax, man. I’m just playin’ one-handed.”

“Oh my god, are you eating again?”

Another snort. “You’re always fucking around.”

He smirks, flicking your clit with a teasing brush of his thumb that makes your thighs jerk.

“I am fucking around,” he mutters, low under his breath — just for you — and you slap his chest weakly in protest.

He laughs again, softer, and kisses your temple. “Just multitasking,” he says sweetly into the mic. “Takin’ care of something real important. I'm still gonna carry you.”

“Sure you are.”

You nod frantically against his neck.

“Mmhmm,” he hums, giving your clit the lightest nudge with his palm. “You’re flutterin’ so sweet around my fingers. You always get this soft for me, baby?”

You whimper. You’re trembling. Clenching so hard it aches.

But he doesn’t tease. Doesn’t scold. He just wraps his arm tighter around your waist, pulling you in, and nuzzles your temple with a softness that makes you melt all over again.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers, slow and reverent. “C’mon, baby. Let go for me. Lemme feel you fall apart.”

And you do.

With a strangled, broken little sound, you cum hard — clenching and gushing around his fingers, hips stuttering as he strokes you through it. He kisses your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, whispering praise into your skin as you tremble in his arms.

He smiles.

“Goddamn,” he breathes, quiet and in awe. “Look at you. So fuckin’ beautiful like this.”

You’re still twitching, soft and boneless. And he moves so gently — easing his fingers out, glistening with your slick, admiring the mess you’ve made of him.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, turning you in his lap to face him.

He hums, content, then licks your cum off his fingers like it’s nothing.

His friends are still talking. Still clueless.

And Gojo’s already pulling a blanket over you both, tucking you into his chest like you’re just cuddling for warmth.

“You good, sweetheart?” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your head.

You nod, breathless.

He smiles, rubbing circles into your thigh. “Knew you just needed attention.”

Then he unpauses, grabs the mouse, and slides back into the game like he didn’t just make you fall apart.

He kisses your forehead, shifts the mic, and grins.

“All right, back in.” he says cheerfully, as if nothing happened. “Had a…situation to handle.”

Then he throws you a handsome wink that makes your stomach knot all over again.

[kiyawritesforf1]

WEIRD VIBES ONLY

Pairing : Lando Norris x Reader

Words : 2.5k

The 4+1 times people overheard Lando and his Girlfriend’s weird conversations.

1. The Pit Crew Misadventure

Lando Norris was fresh off a practice lap, helmet still tucked under his arm, when Y/N bounded into the McLaren garage like a caffeinated squirrel. She’d swiped a wrench from a toolbox—because of course she had—and was twirling it like a baton. “So, if we’re doing it in the cockpit,” she said, voice low but not low enough, “I say we go full throttle. Maximum chaos, no holding back. I want sparks flying.”

Lando grinned, wiping sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “Yeah, but I’d need to adjust the seat first. Can’t have you slipping around when I hit the apex. Precision’s key.”

Dave, a lanky mechanic with a permanent oil smudge on his cheek, was lugging a tire past them when his ears caught the exchange. Cockpit? Full throttle? Slipping around? Sparks? His brain short-circuited. He pictured Lando and Y/N sneaking into the car after hours, doing unspeakable things on the carbon-fiber seat, probably breaking half a dozen FIA regulations in the process. The tire slipped from his grip, bouncing once before rolling into a stack of toolboxes with a clang.

“You alright, mate?” Lando called, eyebrows raised.

Dave didn’t answer. He bolted for the break room, where he found his buddy Pete sipping a lukewarm coffee. “Mate,” Dave hissed, “Lando’s about to defile the car in ways I can’t unsee. Send help. Or a priest.”

Pete choked on his coffee. “What, like, in the car?”

“Full throttle,” Dave whispered, eyes wide. “Sparks and everything.”

Meanwhile, back in the garage, Y/N tossed the wrench onto a workbench. “So, confetti cannons in the sim rig—yes or no?”

“Yes,” Lando said, “but we’re blaming Oscar if it jams.” They high-fived, oblivious to the existential crisis they’d just triggered.

2. The Supermarket Scandal

It was a rare off-day, and Lando and Y/N were prowling the aisles of a Tesco near Silverstone. Y/N, in a hoodie that swallowed her frame, held up a box of Frosted Flakes like it was a sacred artifact. “Okay, but if we’re doing it with the tiger,” she said, “we’ve got to time it perfectly—right when the sugar hits. That’s the sweet spot.”

Lando, pushing a cart with one wobbly wheel, nodded with the seriousness of a race strategist. “Timing’s everything. Too soon, and it’s just messy. Too late, and we’re sticky for hours. I’m not dealing with that again.”

A middle-aged woman in a sensible cardigan—let’s call her Janet—was browsing the oatmeal section nearby. She froze, her hand hovering over a box of Quaker Oats, as her imagination ran wild. Doing it with the tiger? Sugar hits? Sticky for hours? She envisioned some depraved, cereal-mascot-fueled roleplay, complete with Lando in a Tony the Tiger costume and Y/N wielding a can of whipped cream. Her basket trembled in her grip as she backed away, abandoning her oats to escape the depravity.

Later that night, Janet regaled her book club with the tale. “I don’t know what’s wrong with kids these days,” she said, clutching her tea. “That racer boy and his girlfriend are freaky. I’ll never look at Frosted Flakes the same way.”

In reality, Y/N was already rigging their Roomba with a cereal bowl while Lando filmed, cackling as the vacuum skidded across their flat, flinging flakes everywhere. “This is gold,” he said, dodging a stray piece. “TikTok’s gonna lose it.”

“Next time,” Y/N replied, “we add milk.”

3. The Hotel Lobby Horror

The night before the Monaco Grand Prix, Lando and Y/N were sprawled across a plush couch in the hotel lobby, surrounded by marble floors and overpriced chandeliers. Y/N kicked her sneakers off and propped her feet on Lando’s lap. “If we’re using the feathers,” she said, “I want them everywhere—total coverage, no gaps. It’s gotta be epic.”

Lando smirked, poking her foot. “Fine, but I’m not cleaning up after. Last time, I was picking them out of weird places for days. My socks were shedding for a week.”

Behind the reception desk, a concierge named Philippe—crisp suit, impeccable mustache—nearly dropped his tray of complimentary sparkling waters. Feathers? Total coverage? Weird places? His mind conjured a scene straight out of a risqué rom-com: Lando and Y/N tangled in a pile of plucked pillows, feathers drifting through the air like some avant-garde sex ritual. He coughed, adjusted his tie, and spent the rest of his shift warning coworkers to steer clear of Room 312. “They’re… creative,” he muttered. “Very creative.”

Upstairs, Y/N was sketching a feathered dinosaur costume on a napkin while Lando scrolled through gaming forums. “Think we can get it done before the next stream?” she asked.

“Only if we bribe Carlos with pizza,” Lando said. “He’s got the hot glue gun skills.”

4. The Paddock Panic

The paddock at Spa was buzzing with pre-race energy when Y/N sidled up to Lando near the McLaren hospitality tent. She lowered her voice, but the wind carried it just far enough. “I’m telling you, the harness is key. Strap me in tight, and I’m good for at least twenty minutes.”

Lando chuckled, tossing an energy drink can between his hands. “Twenty? Bold. I’d say fifteen tops before you’re begging to get out. You’re not built for that kind of endurance.”

A journalist from Racing Weekly, lurking behind a potted plant with her notebook out, perked up like a bloodhound. Harness? Strap her in? Endurance? She scribbled furiously, her pen practically smoking. This was it—the scoop of the season. She could already see the headline: “Exclusive: Norris and GF’s BDSM Secrets Revealed!” She pitched it to her editor that night, claiming she’d uncovered the spicy underbelly of F1’s golden boy.

Back at the tent, Y/N adjusted the straps on a go-kart harness, grinning at Lando. “Twenty minutes around the track, and I’ll smoke you,” she said. “Loser buys dinner.”

“You’re on,” Lando replied, “but when you tap out at fifteen, I want extra garlic bread.”

+1. The Truth Comes Out

It all came to a head at a McLaren team dinner after the Italian Grand Prix. The restaurant was cozy, all dim lights and clinking wine glasses, with the team sprawled across a long table. Dave the mechanic was there, still haunted by the cockpit fiasco. Janet, who turned out to be Oscar Piastri’s aunt, had tagged along with a friend. Philippe the concierge, off-duty and visiting a cousin in Monza, sat at the bar. The Racing Weekly journalist hovered near the dessert cart, hoping for more dirt.

Lando and Y/N were at the end of the table, heads bent together as usual. Y/N tapped her fork against her plate. “Lando, if we’re doing the whipped cream thing tonight, we need to prep the tarp. I’m not scrubbing the ceiling again.”

Lando nodded, chewing a breadstick. “Yeah, last time it got everywhere—total disaster. Took me an hour to unstick my shoes.”

The eavesdroppers leaned in, senses tingling. Dave whispered to Pete, “Whipped cream in the cockpit?” Janet clutched her pearls, imagining a dairy-drenched tiger romp. Philippe pictured feathers and cream, while the journalist scribbled, “Kinky Dessert Fetish Confirmed.”

Then Y/N pulled out her phone and shoved it in Lando’s face. “Look, here’s the vid from last time,” she said, loud enough for the table to hear. The screen showed their kitchen, a tarp on the floor, and a towering, wobbly whipped-cream sculpture that collapsed mid-build, splattering them both. Lando’s shriek of “MY HAIR!” echoed through the restaurant as Y/N doubled over laughing on the video.

The table erupted. Oscar snorted into his pasta. “You two are idiots,” he said. Zak Brown shook his head, grinning. “I don’t even want to know.”

Dave dropped his fork. Janet blinked, her scandal evaporating. Philippe coughed into his wine, and the journalist snapped her notebook shut, muttering, “Well, that’s not printable.”

Y/N caught the stares and smirked. “What? It was for a charity bake-off livestream. We raised, like, two grand.”

Lando leaned back, arms behind his head. “Next time, we’re building a spaghetti catapult. Way less sticky.”

The eavesdroppers slunk away, red-faced, as Lando and Y/N clinked glasses, already plotting their next absurd adventure. Their dynamic was weird—borderline unhinged—but it was theirs. Cute, chaotic, and definitely not what anyone thought. Best to just leave them to it.

Please like and repost

[bunni-v1]

wellll since you are taking requests! Can I request Sylus, Caleb, and Zayne with a fem reader who's playful and loves to tease them in public but when their having sex, she's all shy and that?? <33 (I haven't requested something in such a long time, I forgot how this works 😭😭)

Don't Hide~

Pt. 2

🍓Baby, you fucking know you can. My little MC is exactly like this, so thank you soooo much for allowing me to write her vicariously through this ask. I have sooo much fun with brat taming, you have no idea, I should write it wayyyyy more. Anyway, I really tried not to let my favoritism for Caleb show here, but he still has more than the other two. Sue me, I love my man.

TW: Intense eye contact in Caleb's; Brat taming; cat ears mentioned but not relevant in Sylus' part; Sylus is crazy big; teasing; softcore otherwise; editing/grammar errors (i am one college student)

Info: Sylus, Zayne, Caleb x Reader (Separate); NSFW

Word Count(s): Zayne (1.2k); Sylus (1.2k); Caleb (1.5k)

MDNI

ZAYNE

You loved to just push, didn't you? It was an annoyingly charming part of you, one that Zayne just adored in most situations. Playful poking and prodding was part of your daily routine, something he expected and honestly needed from you. If you weren't causing some kind of problem for him, you weren't doing well. He would rather you annoy him than see you sad and quiet.

Still, you really could get under his skin when you tried. Bonuses of knowing each other so well, he guessed. Even framing it like a positive was hard when you were trying your very best to get him to react.

Having your arms wrapped around him was a more than welcome experience in most cases. He loved it when you were so openly affectionate in public; it made him feel better about how badly he wanted to hold you, too. What he was not a fan of was the way your sneaky little hands seemed to be creeping lower and lower down his back. It was cute, at first. Easily mistaken as a comforting gesture when your fingers drew themselves back up after dipping just a little lower.

Yet, they didn't stop dipping a little lower. Each stroke got longer, went further down his back, until your fingers were dancing along the hem of his pants. If that weren't bad enough, you were doing it in front of a colleague of yours. Tara, you'd excitedly introduced. Chirping along happily together like two birds of a feather, like you weren't pushing your luck with each passing second. You knew that, though, didn't you?

He shoots you the subtlest look when your hand hovers over his behind, a warning. One, you do not heed, clamping your hand down and pinching his cheek with a Cheshire grin. And he squeaks, despite expecting it, the feeling still takes him off guard. Your grin only widens, especially when Tara blinks in surprise.

"Are you okay, Mr. Li?" She asks, befuddled at how such a stoic man could make such a noise.

He clears his throat, glancing at you, less subtly, "Fine. We should be going, though."

"Aww," you and Tara pout at the same time, though yours is far less genuine than hers.

"Well, it was nice to see you. Have fun with the rest of your day!" She waves, skipping away, oblivious to the tension between you.

Zayne lets out a deep and heavy breath, annoyance leaving him all at once. His eyes zero in on your smirking face, expression even despite the intent clouding his green eyes. He tugs your hand away, wrapping it around his waist in a firm grip so you don't do the same thing again.

"You can't behave for a second, can you?" He sighs.

Another self-satisfied smirk, "It's not my fault you have such a cute butt! It's just begging me to grab it."

He hums, pulling you along with him without another word. He can feel the excitement rolling off you in waves, practically leaping and bounding at his side to get home. How obnoxiously adorable. Your ability to manipulate him into giving you what you want was admirable; he'll give you that. Besides, it's not as though he'd be the one feeling embarrassed by the end of the night, so he'd let you have your little victories.

--

He'd had you on your knees before the front door could even fully close. Shaky hands struggling with his belt, fumbling futilely a few times before finally wriggling it out enough to unzip his pants and slide his member out. It bobs uselessly in front of your mouth, begging for some semblance of friction. Naturally, as if magnetically attracted, you lean forward to take him into your mouth.

A firm hand stops you before you can, making your face scrunch up in confusion, fluttering up to his. The intensity in his eyes is enough to burn you up from the inside, heated and full of intent. You look away quickly, trying to ignore the heat searing beneath your skin. He doesn't allow you to run, gripping your chin and bringing your eyes back to him.

"Use your hands," He commands, "and look at me. Understood."

You nod, letting out a shaky breath. Not good enough.

"Words."

You swallow, "Yes, Zayne."

The grip on your chin softens, stroking the skin there as if apologizing for the roughness, "Good."

Your shaky hands come up, spitting on them for lubricant, then carefully wrap around his cock. Gentle, easy, practiced. You know what he likes, slow and easy. You watch the way your hands glide along his shaft, smiling when the sticky pre-cum coats your fingers. So pretty.

He clears his throat, and you correct your mistake like you've been Pavloved. Looking up at his flushed face, chest heaving, and body, eyes watching your every move. Nervousness tends to build up in your chest when he looks at you like that. No walls or hidden meaning, just sheer desire. You want to hide away from it, but you know he won't let you. All you can do is swallow the ever-growing lump in your throat and let your face burn hotter and hotter.

You watch his Adam's apple bob in his throat, rubbing your thighs together to alleviate some of the need between your legs. It's useless, as expected, and only serves to make you feel more pathetic. You don't stop, though, obediently tugging his member at an even pace. His breath grows more shaky with each stroke, mouth slightly ajar and puffing the hot air out unevenly. Much prettier.

His fingers trace along your chin, down the sensitive column of your neck, and back up again. Mirroring your movements from earlier, giving you a taste of your own medicine. It makes you shy away a little, flinching back when they dip between your collarbones. He spreads them out as he comes back up, pausing in the center of your throat and giving the smallest press, prompting you to swallow against them. He shudders when you do, having to use the door to keep himself upright.

He was close, so close. It made you want to speed up, but you don't. Not unless he tells you to.

"Are you sorry?" He suddenly asks, low and gravely, like it was hard to get out in the first place.

You bite your lip, shrinking into yourself as you mumble, "'m sorry..."

"Clearly," he commands, "or else I'll make you stop right now."

You jolt, shaking your head adamantly, "I-I'm sorry. I am! I promise, please?"

He scoffs a laugh, "Brat... open your mouth, now."

You comply, sticking your tongue out, and within a few moments, he's spurting out onto it. You lap up his release obediently, never breaking eye contact, no matter how much it drives you insane. The hand on your chin comes up to pet your hair, a silent praise for your good work.

"Did you learn your lesson?" He asks lowly, scratching your scalp gently.

You nod, proud to please. It's cute. Really cute. But he's not quite satisfied. With a low hum, he helps you off your knees, nudging you through the house on a straight path to the bedroom.

"Why don't we test that theory, then?" He whispers, a promise that you were in for a long night of behavioral correction.

SYLUS

Sylus was a tease at heart, always pushing your buttons and getting on your nerves with little to no effort at all. He'd admitted to you on more than one occasion that he found your feisty reactions positively adorable. You were his little kitten, after all, what kind of man would he be if he didn't get you swatting your claws at him?

However, teasing him was a difficult endeavor. One that you'd become an expert in. See, you couldn't just whisper sweet nothings into his ear or draw your hands along him sensually. He didn't react to that; he found it more funny than alluring. Calling you needy, which you weren't. No, if you wanted to get something out of him you had to be smarter than just sheer sex appeal.

You had to be cute.

Not so cute that you came off as childish and stupid, he would catch on to things too fast and ruin your fun. Just cute enough that it would get his heart racing, make him pause, and take a second to admire you. When he did that, you knew you got what you wanted.

Which is why you were walking hand in hand with him now, swinging your arm just slightly between your bodies. You were in some expensive shopping district, looking around for something to wear for a mission you were assigned to. He'd insisted on buying you a dress when you'd mentioned it offhand. Who were you to deny him the privilege of seeing you spin around in glittering dresses like a teenager picking out a prom dress?

You'd gotten a bit... off track, though. Purposefully, of course, not that he needed to know that. Excitedly bounding from shop window to shop window, gazing in at the silly souvenirs and cute little stuffed animals like a kid on Christmas. Sylus allowed you to tug him around, a soft smile on his face as you rambled about how cute that little teddy bear is, then in the same breath refused to let him buy it for you.

You stopped short when you came across a little standee outside of a costume shop, laughing at its contents. Cat ears of various types hung on the little turnstile, the perfect killer. You bounded up to it, scanning across the different types before plucking two off the rack. You turn back to Sylus then, a giddy smile as you show him your little treasure, lifting it up with pride.

He leans down without another word, letting you set the white pair on his head. His eyes softening when you clap your hands. You know you've got him right where you want him. You just needed the finishing blow. You set the second pair on your head, pointing your chin to the sky like a proud lion.

He smirks at the sight, petting your head like he would a regular cat, "Aren't you cute?"

You bite your lip, going in for the throat, "Now I really am your kitten, huh?"

He pauses, visibly processing your words and realizing just what you were up to. A scoff tumbles out of his mouth, eyes rolling from the sheer idiocy. He'd fallen for your cutesy little antics, again, just like he always did. Steady fingers grip your chin, forcing you to keep your eyes settled on him.

"I wasn't aware she was so prone to misbehavior. Tell me, are you looking for punishment, kitten?" He purrs lowly.

Mission successful, "I'dunno what you mean, Sy..."

--

Riding Sylus always felt impossible thanks to his incredible size. You always managed to fit it, but it was more than just a little fight. This is what you asked for, though. Your little cry for attention earlier rewarded with a brand new pair of cat ears, and Sylus’ lazy smirk as you struggled to adjust to him.

Your hands weakly kneaded at his chest, trying to ground yourself from the intensity of the stretch. He merely watched you, red eyes drawing across your figure slow and steady, pleased to have you on display for him. His calloused hands rested at your waist, thumbing over the skin there in approval as you settled down.

It was impossible to hide from him like this, making the burning sensation across your body all the more apparent. You just couldn’t help but be embarrassed at the way he seemed to drink you in, savoring you with every sense at his disposal. You were sure he had a secret sixth one made just to relish in your humiliation. Yet, he does not say a word to shame you or make you feel less than. Just watches and appreciates you as you are.

Somehow, that was worse than degradation, melting your mind to a mushy pile of nervousness.

Still, you’d practically begged for this, and as always Sylus had given it to you as you wished. You wouldn’t want to disappoint both of you, so you took a deep breath and began rolling your hips. Slow little circles at first. Unsure, but gradually building as you grew more comfortable in your place on top of him.

Each movement set your nerves alight, sending shocks of pleasure across each inch of your skin. The heat building in your core, spanning across every nook and cranny of your body, wrapping you in a blanket of warm pleasure. Sylus seems to track it with his eyes, drawing up from the sensual roll of your hips, to the way your muscles tense, across your bouncing tits, and landing on your scrunched up little face.

You could practically hear him purring — no, he was purring. A low grumble shaking his chest, traveling through your trembling fingertips and sending the signals directly to the heat between your legs. To be admired so much was just too much for you to handle right now.

You lean over him, tucking your face into his shoulder. It’s a weak attempt to hide at best, not that you’d be able to hide no matter what you did, but you make it all too easy for him to pull you up with a gentleness that seemed too loving for the moment. All too Sylus as he eased your pouting visage back into his line of sight.

“Running away already?” He coos, fingers massaging your neck as if placating you.

You’re far too embarrassed to argue with him, so you just nod, “It’s too much.”

He hums, mocking thought as he takes in your weak excuses. You’re far too cute for him to know what to do with, but he would figure it out, “Do you need my help, kitten?”

In the second of clarity you have, you debate telling him no. Yet, he twitches inside of you when you open your eyes to take in his all consuming stare, and the thought evaporates from your mind. You do need his help, very badly. You’ll probably burn alive between the scorching pleasure and his fiery gaze without him there to placate the flames.

You give him a weak little teary eyed nod, and he eases your face back into his shoulder. He was always so accommodating with you, so gentle and loving that it made your stomach tie into knots. Only forgetting the feeling when he helped to work you along his length, humming sweet words of praise into your ears, letting you hide away from him all you wanted. That’s what you wanted after all, right?

CALEB

Teasing Caleb was an art form that only you had mastered. You would think that after knowing someone for so long, it would be easy to rile them up. Yet, Caleb was the most controlled man you had ever met when it came to handling your light-hearted jabs. Part of it was thanks to how well he knew you, but the other part was simply because he was good at ignoring his own feelings. He could push and push and push them down to the depths of his mind until they were practically non-existent, and your teasing was no different.

The most you'd get for your efforts was a smirk, maybe a ruffle of your hair as he scolds you, and if you were really annoying, he would chase you around the house and tickle you for your crimes. Rarely was it anything more intense than that.

Rarely. Not never.

There was one way to get Caleb hot and bothered enough to do something, and that was your favorite game of all time: Look, don't touch. It was fun to see just how far you could get, doing all his favorite things with an air of innocence, just to see how long it would take to get him to crack.

Your personal favorite method of torture was to find a shirt of his - dirty, preferably - slide it on and walk around the house with nothing but it and a lacy pair of red panties. (His favorite, judging from how often they go missing from the laundry.) It's a long game you have to play, because winning against Caleb's disciplined ability to pretend was always a long game. Luckily, you were just about the one weakness in his mental fortitude.

You start in the morning before he leaves for work, or else it won't work. If he's at home all day, he'll just take care of it without thought. You walk out of the room, and his eyes catch on your legs. They rake over the exposed skin like trying to burn it into his memory, as if he hadn't done that a million times before. Then, like clockwork, he realizes what he's doing and tries to look anywhere but you as you waltz around. Knowing he has a responsibility that he can't skimp on, even for you, keeps him stiff and robotic as you kiss him goodbye.

Then, step two kicks in: text him frequently. Keeping yourself at the forefront of his mind (which you always are, mind you) and letting him know you're thinking of him makes him squirm in a way that's unbefitting of a soldier. He can't stop himself from thinking about your legs, the way his shirt rested against your body, and what was beneath it. Waiting, begging him to get a peek as you stretched your arms over your head. His eye twitches when you send him yet another suspiciously worded text - never incriminating, but always implicative.

Then, when his shift is nearly over, when you spent your whole day playing coy, you reach the final phase of your plan. You send pictures. Nothing explicit. That would ruin the fun of it all. Just cute, mundane tasks. A downward angle of you cooking dinner, reading a book on his bed, or maybe just a picture of a movie you're watching with your bare legs in view. All visual reminders of what he left at home, all reminders of why he needs to get back now.

--

Normally, Caleb prefers you to tell him what you like in bed. He's soft, attentive, a little sloppy, but entirely obsessed with your pleasure. It's not as though he's neglecting that part of himself, quite the opposite, actually. You were the one who had made it abundantly clear that you wanted- needed him to put you in your place. He knows your little games, he knows you like no other person on the planet - in the galaxy, hell, the entire universe.

So, of course, he knew you wanted him to fold you in half and show you what happens to misbehaving, teasing little pipsqueaks like yourself for all your efforts. Who was he to deny you of what you'd been begging for all day? Wouldn't that make him a bad Caleb? It almost means that the way he makes you look at him, knowing full well that the eye contact sends you into a flurry of embarrassment. He's just so... intense, in every sense of the word, especially when he's having sex with you.

One leg bent up to your head, the other wrapped around his waist, and two strong arms boxing your head had you surrounded. Chest to chest, buried to the hilt, there was no escaping the little prison of pleasure Caleb had built for you. Your reward equaled your punishment, and you wished you could complain, but you knew your voice would catch in your throat and Caleb would tease you for it. You had no choice but to sit there and look up at him, hoping he'd be a little nicer than you were to him today.

His eyes are hot as they trace along the planes of your face, eating up the sight like his last meal on earth. The subtle shift in his expression as you squeeze around him, feeling the intensity of his gaze far more deeply than you'd ever admit out loud. His eyebrows twitch up in surprise, before a lazy smirk crawls over his face, leaning down to kiss along the apple of your cheek to the shell of your ear.

"Y'know," He starts in a low drawl, sending your head spinning, "If you want me to take care of you, you can just ask."

You shake your head, though there isn't a real purpose for it. You're just a little too flustered to think right when he's got you like this. His dominance really is something all-consuming, and it reminds you why you don't tease him like this often. You would be a dead man if you had to put up with his relentlessness every time you had sex.

"No?" He asks, as if he's confused, but the condescension in his voice gives him away.

He adjusts himself slightly, rubbing against your walls just enough to get you to tremble a little. Then, all at once, he pulls himself out to the tip and pushes his way back inside in a fluid motion, "You don't want me to do that? Then tell me what you need, won't you?"

You whimper, tossing your arms on your face like that might help you here. Nearly forgetting how easily he overpowers you in your hazy headspace until he seamlessly pulls your hands over your head, interlacing your fingers as if they belonged together.

"No, no, no. None of that, you gotta look at me, 'kay?" He hums so sickeningly sweet it makes you want to swing at him.

A whine tears through your throat, tossing your head to the side to bury into his arm. Defiant and bratty to the end, as always. He huffs out a laugh that's all too affectionate for how annoying he was being, then chases your face with his own. You feel the warm press of his sweat-slicked forehead against yours, heated breath fanning over your face. You don't budge, not even when he nudges your nose with his own as encouragement.

He's reaching the end of his limited patience; you can feel it in the way his fingers tremble around your wrists. He could hold back all day when you weren't physically near him, but he was inside you for god's sake. Any man - well trained soldier or not - would collapse under the extreme pressure of a nice warm pussy. Your nice warm pussy was simply one of the greatest weaknesses he had, second only to your oh so pretty eyes he was being deprived of right now.

"Pips," He whines, voice uncharacteristically squeaky, "Lemme see your pretty eyes, yeah?"

You curl your hands into tight fists, trying and failing to fight him off one last time. A little voice in your mind reminds you of how mean you were to him today. Listen to his voice, he needs you just as bad as you need him. It's okay to give in, Caleb will take care of everything, it whispers so sweetly. You can't refuse its logic, not when it seems so totally right as he twitches inside you again.

You slowly peel your eyes open, nearly jumping at the way he's staring so intently at you. Brows worried, lip caught between his teeth, and pretty purple eyes darting across your face. You expect some kind of comment from him, some words of praise or thanks, but all you get is his hips pulling back and slamming back into you. It gets your toes curling instantaneously, a moan ripping from your vocal cords in surprise.

You shouldn't be, though. This is what you wanted. Caleb was just giving it to you. He would always give it to you.

[tender-rosiey]

“GOOD! NOW PUNCH HIS FACE!”

— when your baby and gojo, geto, nanami, toji, and sukuna get protective over you (f!reader)

a/n: I am alive!! as an apology here is a multi-character post 🙏 btw in toji's part, you're megumi's mom

GOJO SATORU:

two peas in a pod, twins, copies: these are all things people have called your husband and son.

honestly, they’re not wrong. your son has his father’s looks—satoru swears he has your nose and ears but anyway—and he carries the same protectiveness and love he holds for you, if not amplified.

you can’t count on one hand the amount of times the house has been turned upside down because of their fights for a cuddle session with you.

of course, you have always tried suggesting them simply sharing you, but these problem children would rather eat raw zucchini than ever share the cuddle time.

so while your son is barely six, you can still count on him to team up with satoru against anyone who wrongs you in anyway like what’s happening right now for example.

you’re out with your lovely family to buy some groceries, and since they both were whining about getting some sweets, you allowed them to go and snatch a couple from the next aisle.

on the other hand, you stayed to look for another type of detergent to clean the floor—especially since satoru got this new type of paint for s/n and it’s quite an endeavor to remove it with a regular detergent.

however, being in the cleaning supplies section never guaranteed the lack of filthy men who can’t take no for an answer. this one man approaches you, smug grin on his face as he leans on the wall, “what’s a pretty lady like you doing alone?”

“buying groceries like a normal person; now please leave me alone.”

he quickly frowns, “don’t be so stingy doll,” his hand extends towards your arm, “I can show you a good time; I promise—“

the man is swiftly smacked with an egg on his face, and he is left with the egg dripping down his face, “what’s your wrong with your kid, man?!” he yells at the person behind you.

he then grumbles, “ruined a potential good night.”

“my kid was absolutely right in what he did,” you hear satoru’s voice. you then feel a hand on your shoulder, and you’re pulled into a chest you’re all too familiar with, “’toru—“

your husband shoots a small smile your way, pressing a quick kiss to your lips, before looking at his son, “that last throw was very good, s/n! throw another one but just below his stomach."

a cheshire cat-like grin is plastered on your husband’s face as s/n prepares to launch another egg at the man.

there is a very evident scowl on your son’s face as he yells, “don’t you ever bother mama again, you stinky bum crumb!”

the man gasps and tries to make a run for it, but your son wouldn’t be the son of gojo satoru if he doesn’t manage to land the hit exactly where he wants.

the man quickly crumbles to the ground screaming and alerting literally everyone in the store.

so satoru picks both you and s/n and makes a run for it.

you hold tightly onto him, “wait, ‘toru, the groceries!”

“we can always order! saving my princess and son is more important!”

your son grumbles, “but I want to hit the rude man!”

“me too, champ, but—“ satoru sweat-drops and glances behind him, “I doubt the angry security guards would like that!”

GETO SUGURU:

your twin girls are one of the sassiest to exist.

in a way, they take after their father who is also pretty sassy but very low-key.

the sass of all three combined is terrible to be the victim of. luckily for you, they don’t dare direct their triple ray towards you, especially—in any argument—at least one will try to win you over.

if it’s suguru trying to stay on your good side, then he is hugging you from behind, pressing feather-like kisses on your shoulder and whispering about how sweet you are. if it’s the girls, then they cling to your legs and keep yelling about how much they love you.

so it is safe to say that you have a small squad to protect you from any potential “danger”.

“oh my, dear shouldn’t you focus on refining yourself a bit more?” you hear a woman say beside you.

you turn towards her, offended, “excuse me?”

“I mean,” her eyes scan you, disapprovingly, “you look average at best, and with that you won’t be able to find yourself a husband, let alone have children.”

you’re still processing her audacity as she continues, “but then again, it’s probably for the better that you don’t have children; you can barely take care of yourself.”

“can I help you?” your husband says as he approaches the woman.

she smiles condescendingly before chuckling, “I was simply telling this lady to take care of herself more; she hardly looks presentable.”

geto’s smiles tenses up as he is about to give the woman a calm peace of his mind, but his daughters beat him to it.

your older twin stands in front of the woman, scanning her with pure disgust in her eyes.

she grimaces and voices out her thoughts, “you are like a crunchy lizard.”

the woman gasps, “how dare you—!”

you cut off the woman, curious about your daughter’s conclusion, “why a crunchy lizard, sweetheart?”

your daughter looks at you with a small frown, shaking her head, “a crunchy lizard is an ugly sad lizard.”

a snort escapes your husband, and you’re barely able to contain your smile.

your other daughter follows up, looking at her twin sister, “the lady looks like that one green thingy we saw yesterday,” she taps her little foot, trying to remember and beams at the woman, “shrek! you look like shrek!”

then they both glare at her, frowning, “you’re a monkey!”

your husband doesn’t let it go as he deals the final—subtle—blow, “come on now girls; we shouldn’t bully the lady with the mcdonald’s like hairline anymore.”

it seems like the woman can’t take it anymore as she starts sobbing and running to the hills.

a moment of silence is shared across the four of you, before you carry both of your girls in your arms and start tickling them, “I don’t know whether to be proud of you or scold you, little evil girls!”

they squeal, trying to escape your hold and calling for their father.

geto chuckles and wraps his arms around the three of you, “let them have it for tonight, y/n,” he ruffles their hair, “they were brave and defended their mom, after all.”

“yeah, papa is right!”

“yes mama, please!”

you pout then smirk at geto, “well I don’t mind, and since papa is also very proud of you girls, he will buy any toy that you guys want today!”

the color drains from your husband’s face, and he watches motionlessly as his girls latch onto him, screaming about the toys they want.

you giggle at his expression and blow him a kiss. he reluctantly blows you one back, while the girls excitedly pull him towards the toy store.

NANAMI KENTO:

you and your husband were blessed with the sweetest girl as your daughter, and she was just recently joined by another sweet girl.

you can never forget the happiness on your daughter’s face when she saw her baby sister.

it also seems that no matter how many times you give birth, your husband can’t help but get emotional when he holds your baby. his hands are forever delicate as he cradles her to his chest.

you remember what he said during the birth of your first daughter.

“I feel like a piece of heaven has been plucked and placed in my arms.”

the way he always goes soft for the three of you is honestly adorable.

today, you were going on an outing with your—now 6 months old—baby and your older daughter who is almost six.

your husband never brags about his muscular form, but he never misses a chance to carry the baby or the baby supplies.

you have offered to at least carry the bag, but he always refuses, stating that ‘you already carried the baby for nine entire months in your belly; this is the least I can do.’

so yeah, sometimes you wish to smooch your husband till forever, but that’s not the point.

you’re walking hand in hand with your daughter as she sings her favorite song. you hear someone click their tongue, so you look to the side and lock eyes with an old lady. she takes the opportunity and approaches you.

“you should be ashamed of yourself!” she yells pointing at you, “your husband shouldn’t be carrying the baby supplies nor the baby itself for the matter,” she scowls, “that’s your job!”

“with all due respect ma’am, but that isn’t her job, and taking care of the baby should be something we are both responsible for.”

“yeah!” your daughter huffs, “and don’t take out your sad life on my mama!”

your eyes widen as you stare at your daughter.

on the other side, your husband is just as speechless. your daughter pays no one any mind as she continues, “mama works hard every day! you wouldn’t know that! you immature nugget!”

nanami frowns lightly, “d/n, that’s not nice—“

and for the cherry on top, your baby daughter throws the bottle cap she was playing with at the old lady, and frowns at her.

she starts babbling some nonsense that you're pretty sure are curse words in baby language.

having had enough, the old lady huffs, “the utter disrespect,” and starts walking away.

the rest of the spectators’ eyes follow her till she is out of sight. finally then, people start minding their own business, and you and your little family are left to the aftermath.

you giggle, “that was funny.”

“really?!” your daughter beams.

nanami cuts her off, “no,” he then looks at you with a small frown, a sigh escaping his lips, “y/n don’t encourage them—“

your baby daughter screams happily when she sees her sister smile. she starts kicking her feet with the biggest smile on her own face.

your older daughter starts laughing with her and tries to make her little sister laugh more—she was successful.

meanwhile, you chuckle, leaning on your husband’s shoulder, “admit it, kento; it was kind of funny.”

his resolve softens at the sound of laughter from all three of his girls, “okay, maybe a little, but—“

“yay!!”

ladies: 1

kento: 0

FUSHIGURO TOJI:

your husband and son are so alike, save for the part that your husband is a bit more shameless, and your son is more on the shy side.

however, they both have the same bluntness and the tendency to give anyone who they don’t like attitude.

for example, today, you were walking in the park with the both of them to unwind a bit.

not to mention that megumi wanted to walk his dogs which was a plus, since you would be able to watch your dear son play around with them.

it was all going great until you saw an old ‘friend’ who came running at the sight of you. he was someone who has always been way too touchy and in your personal bubble.

you have tried talking to him about it, but you’re confident that he does it to somehow force you into reciprocating the intimacy.

even if you’re a married woman with a freaking kid.

he giddily clasps your hand, “y/n, ‘been a long time!”

“h-hey,” you smile awkwardly.

he laughs, “I was passing by when I saw your figure, and I couldn’t help but come and say hi.”

you nod, “that’s great, but I am busy, so maybe later?—“

“you’ve gotten even prettier!” he exclaims, “I wish you would finally take me out on a—“

“can’t you see that she is uncomfortable?” your son retorts, “also, you should step back; you shouldn’t touch someone like this without asking them.”

megumi squeezes himself between the both you and glares at the man.

the guy was about to reply to your son, but toji pushes him back with ease, pulling you beside him and hand resting on your waist almost by instinct, “kid is right,” he tilts his head a bit, “ever been taught manners or do I have to do the teaching for you?”

the guy is taken back; offended, he snaps “you can’t speak to me like that!”

“and you can’t hold my mom’s hands like that, but here we are,” your son cleverly sasses him.

on the other hand, your—shameless—husband pulls you into one scandalous kiss and smirks at the guy when he pulls back, “and you can’t hit on a married woman, by the way.”

you hear your son gag in disgust at his dad’s actions, but you’re too busy burying your face in your husband’s chest, hoping that the guy disappears before toji makes even more of a bigger scene.

you also hope that the ground would swallow you, but that’s the alternative option.

the guy clutches his fist, before walking away, spewing insults at the sky—since he is too scared to cuss out your buff husband. once the man is out of sight, toji ruffles megumi’s hair, chuckling, “good job, kid.”

your shy bean’s cheeks redden slightly as he looks away, “…thanks.”

you’re still thinking about what just happened when you slap your husband’s chest, “toji, literally why?” you grumble, patting megumi who started holding onto your leg the moment you hugged toji.

“why not,” your husband shrugs with a small smile, taking pride in your flustered form.

“dad, I want ice cream.”

“no, you just want me to let go your mom, so you can hog her for yourself,” toji grumbles, staring down at megumi.

unfaltering, megumi looks up at him ,“dad, I want ice cream.”

“god damn it, listen here you—“

“divine dogs.”

RYOMEN SUKUNA:

there is no denying that both your son and your husband care for you very much, and they both—very aggressively—compete for your attention.

I am talking he literally throws the kid across the room kind of aggressive, and your son, in turn, throws whatever he has at him.

it’s eventful, but you would be lying if you said that it wasn’t one of the reasons why you will get grey hair earlier than everyone else.

so their very aggressive nature is also shown in their protectiveness over you.

a person doesn’t need to insult or even dare flirt with you for your devil duo to make their life a living hell; your husband and son don’t tolerate someone speaking to you if it causes you to ignore both of them.

for example, this one new servant was clueless to where the broom is, and unluckily for him, he saw you sitting with your husband and son in the gardens. he humbly approached you, “excuse me, m’lady.”

you turn to look at him with a smile, “yes?”

he clears throat, a bit flustered by the attention, “I—I wanted to ask where the—“

“up your ass, you disgusting fiend,” your son sneers followed by his father’s ever-permanent scowl.

“who gave you the permission to come and speak to her so casually?” sukuna presses, and the servant quickly falls to his knees.

“m-my apologies, my lord! I did not mean to disturb you!”

sukuna crosses his arms, “well, you did, and you also disturbed your queen and prince,” his eyes narrow at the servant, “what do you have to say for yourself?”

meanwhile, you’re watching all of that, mouth agape and trying to articulate anything to save the poor guy. you finally find your voice, “sukuna, it’s okay; he didn’t mean—“

your son hugs you tightly and glares at the servant, “to think he would so brazenly speak to you like you’re old friends is terrible, mother.”

you can almost see your son’s cursed energy flaring, and you can spot the small smirk on your husband’s face as he watches his son.

before it escalates any further and you find yet another dead corpse in your palace, you pick up your son, kissing his cheek which makes him flustered and causing him to bury his face in your neck.

you look at the servant, “you’re dismissed, and you can ask the head maid about anything you need, okay?”

“y-yes, m’lady!” he, however, stays glued to the ground, “may I have the permission to lift my head?”

sukuna grunts, “sure.”

“thank you, m’lord,” the servant says, before scurrying towards the gate, having secured his freedom after his little mistake.

or at least, that’s what he thought.

your husband slices his legs off with a flick of a finger, and your son, who has inherited his father’s technique, slices the head off.

and so the body falls to the ground, and the other servants hurriedly start cleaning up the mess.

you frown at your husband, “sukuna! he apologized!”

he rolls his eyes, and pulls you by the waist, “do I look like I care? he shouldn’t have interrupted our time together.”

“aww, you’re jealous!”

“no, I am not—“

“hands off, old man!”

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copyright © tender-rosiey

do not copy or plagiarize or you will be reported

[erwinsvow]

PLEASEEEE can u show the time where reader caught rafe punching the squishmallows that really sent me

"don't laugh, okay?" you say it softly, right outside the door to your bedroom.

"why would i laugh?" rafe’s asking seriously, but you're already a tiny bit embarrassed of what lies on the other side of the door and you're unsure how rafe will react.

"it's, like, a third of the size of your room-"

"shut up and open the door."

you sigh, turning the handle and pushing to let yourself in first. rafe follows, staring around the tiny room observantly. his eyes flicker from corner to corner, taking it in. you stand to the side patiently, playing with your hands, in particular the ring rafe had just gotten you, fiddling and twisting it repeatedly.

he walks around for a second, stopping at your bookshelf to take a look at the titles on the shelves and then moving on, staring at the photos on the wall and then sniffing a stray candle on the nightstand. he finally stops at your dresser, glancing over the lotions and perfumes littered on top to stare at the framed picture of the two of you perched right in the center, odds and ends he's gotten you in the last month scattered around.

"so?" you question quietly, eyes big.

"which drawer's got your panties?"

"rafe! shut up."

"it's a cute room. why'd you get so worried?"

"i don't know. habit." you settle on the bed, bringing your biggest squishmallow onto your lap, holding it in your arms comfortingly. rafe's still looking around.

"always had one favorite color, huh?"

"yes," you admit, squeezing the stuffed animal harder. rafe finally comes to join you on the bed, gesturing to the squishmallow as soon as he does.

"what the hell is that?"

"this is ricky. he's a clownfish. he has a career, i just can't remember-"

"huh?"

"they all have jobs and hobbies, rafe. the squishmallows. i think he's an underwater singer or something."

"you sleep with that huge thing on the bed?"

"every night. when i'm here, at least. i should get one for tannyhill!"

"don't know about all that." he takes it into his hands, moving it around, observing it from all sides. "every single night?"

"yeah. why?"

"nothin'."

the conversation changes to the books on your nightstand, and you forget all about the squishmallow resting on your bed until you step out to get a cup of lemonade for rafe.

walking back in, you wonder if you put enough sugar in, when you open the door to see rafe smacking your squishmallow with his right hook, right to his little face.

"what are you doing?!" it spills out before you can stop it, the lemonade almost falling out of your hand.

"look at the dent. how does it go back to how it was?" he questions, while you look over at him, horrified. "what's inside it? feathers, or some shit?" he looks over to get an answer, when he looks at your distraught face.

"what?"

even when he sleeps over, he's never allowed to touch your squishmallow again.

[clockwayswrites]

Birds can sulk too Part 37

masterpost no editing or concrit plese. I am sick. go ow. I know there are mistakes. birb is my who gives a fuck post it series

Bruce spun his chair around to watch Jason and Roy basically limp off Jason’s motorcycle. “Rough mission?”

“Wasn't supposed to be, but sure as fuck was!” Roy said with an amusing level of cheerfulness for how exhausted he obviously was.

“Well, I can offer to make you both roast beef sandwiches from dinner’s leftovers,” Bruce offered as he stood. “There’s even some potato chips in the house right now if you can believe it.”

“Sacrilege,” Jason muttered through a yawn. “Add some apple slices to the plate and you got a deal, old man.”

Bruce let himself smile. “Go clean up and patch up. I’ll have things ready in the kitchen by the time you’re done.”

“Shower! That sounds like a really, really nice idea,” Roy said and started right that way. “Hot water, my beloved, come to me!”

“What am I, chopped liver?” Jason asked as he followed.

Bruce shook his head with an amused little chuckle as he spun back around to let Oracle know that he would be off comms. Luckily it was a slow night, so there’d be no issue with him stepping away even with a more limited set of Bats out on the streets.

He rolled his wrists as he took the elevator up, working out the ache in them. He’d not been kind to his body over the years, and his body liked to let him know it. Simple range of motion exercise while in a car, or elevator, or line helped soothe more than they should. He was grateful for every bit of relief.

As he entered the kitchen, he flicked on Alfred’s radio down on low. The soft jazz filled the room, and Bruce hummed along as he pulled out the ingredients. British mustard for Jason, but yellow for Roy. A bit more mayo for Roy and pickles on Jason’s. Neither would want lettuce, not for this type of sandwich.

Bruce was munching on a slice of apple when the boys came into the kitchen, hair still dripping and dressed in sweats. He poured Jason a glass of milk and set it by his plate.

“Thanks,” Jason said and took a long drink.

“And thanks for looking after Lian,” Roy said around a mouthful of bread and roast beef.

“Always,” Bruce said. “You know that I love having her here.”

“Still, thanks. She is a toddler and I know she’s a lot,” Roy said. “No problems?”

“We had a very exciting afternoon in the garden looking insects. And yes, I made sure she wore a hat and sunscreen. She had a little fuss after we came in, but I think she was just a bit overly tired,” ,” Bruce said. He gave a moment of debate before adding, “I actually would say Danny had the worst day in the house.”

Roy set his sandwich down and sat up, safe apologetic. “Oh, shit, is he not a kid person? Did Lian pull out his feathers or something?”

Jason was frowning, brow all furrowed.

Bruce shoo his head. “By all signs he loves kids. No, he felt that he had to stay away from Lian, out of respect of Jason’s wishes.”

Roy turned slowly to look at Jason, his disapproval clear in the slant of his mouth. “Jason?”

“I didn’t—that wasn’t—” Jason made a noise of frustration. He ran is hand roughly through his hair. “I just didn’t want him alone with Lian.”

“Jason.” Roy said again.

“He’s a stranger! And a dangerous stranger at that! I don’t see what’s so wrong about wanting some supervision,” Jason said.

“You trust him around your siblings,” Roy pointed out.

“My siblings know kung-fu,” Jason argued back.

“Right. And why is Danny dangerous?”

“Because he turned into a giant otherworldly bird,” Jason practically hissed.

Roy crossed his arms. “So, you’re saying he’s dangerous because he’s a meta.”

It was like the words brought Jason to a halt so quickly that he had to rear back. “What?”

“Because of what he can shape shift into, he’s dangerous. That’s what you’re saying,” Roy said. “Wow. I didn’t think I was dating a bigot.”

“I’m not—come on, you know I’m not!” Jason almost shouted before he remembered himself and lowered his volume. “It’s about the fact that he could take on Ivy’s plants in that form! And he took on a whole group of the Mad Hatter’s goons with just his wings out. He’s obviously both skilled and strong—at least when he’s got bird bits. And he’s a genius! Smart, skilled, and strong is a dangerous combination.”

“I think Roy’s very good point,” Bruce said softly, “is that the way you were saying it, that’s not how it sounded. None of us think you have any issues with meta, of course not, but just like Danny is still an unknown to you, you are to him. He doesn’t know that. I think that what Danny heard is that because he’s a meta, you were afraid of him being near Lian.”

The fight left Jason in a rush. “…oh. I…”

“The wings—these changes he’s going through—it scares Danny,” Bruce explained. “And because he’s scared of himself right now, of course he’s going to think you’re scared of him for the same reasons, not because of the fact that he can fight.”

Jason rubbed at his face. “Shit. I really fucked up, didn’t I?”

“Well, we’re good at that,” Roy said before he leaned over and kissed Jason’s cheek. “But I really do know you’re not a bigot. I wouldn’t actually think that for a second, but I knew it would get your head out of your ass if I called you one.”

“Thanks, I needed the help I guess,” Jason said with a sigh. He glanced over at Bruce. “Do you think Danny will give me the chance to apologize?”

“I think that Danny is the type of person to be far too forgiving,” Bruce said honestly. “And in this case, I think that if you explain things, he’ll even understand.”

[cherrygirlfriend]

⟡ ₊ . ༄.° postcards under the bed

pairing: dean winchester x reader synopsis: how dean became a part of reader's little family. tags/warnings: fluff, fwb, reader has custody of her 5yo niece wc: 1k a/n; your girl was craving fluff!!!

dean winchester masterlist ♡

when you and dean first started going out, you knew that he was always traveling and never really stayed in one spot for too long, which was more than fine with you; you were too busy working and taking care of your niece for a proper relationship, anyway.

so, whenever the man came back to kansas and you managed to get a babysitter, the two of you would get tangled up in your bedsheets for a night. until things started changing.

what started as dean calling you up when he was back in town slowly turned into him texting you when he was gone, asking you how you were doing and telling you he couldn't wait to see you, coming over as soon as he was back in kansas.

what started as dean coming straight to your place and almost immediately taking you to bed slowly turned into pots and pans clanging in the kitchen as he cooked you dinner while you simply watched him with a glass of wine on your hand, the man telling you all about whatever monster him and his brother had been hunting while he made you his so-called specialty.

what started as dean leaving before you had even woken up slowly turned into waking up to his snores, spending lazy mornings tangled in each other's arms while the two of you talked about everything and nothing in hushed voices, exchanging small, nearly feather-light kisses.

he started bringing you postcards from all the places they'd travel to, the back of them filled with chicken scratches about what they were hunting, and although he always gave them to you in person, he made sure to write your name on the lines meant for your address with what was dean's attempt at cursive, the shoe box under your bed soon filled with postcards from different places.

neither of you called it what it was; when sam queried dean about where he'd disappear off to the moment they got back from their cases he'd mumble something about 'going to see someone', and when your friends wondered who was the guy picking you up from your girls' night in the black impala you'd just shrug and grin before making your way outside, straight into the arms of the man leaning against the car.

"i'm gonna have to cancel tonight." you said into your phone, using your shoulder to hold it up to your ear as you used your hands to decorate a bunch of cupcakes.

"what? aw, come on." dean's voice rang out, "i got popcorn and sour patch kids, and you finally agreed to watch terminator with me. are you bailing on me because of that? because if you really want to, we can watch one of your chick-flicks. again."

you let out a small laugh and rolled your eyes, a small smile now lingering on your lips, "it's not that. my sitter has a fever and had to cancel. so instead of our planned explicit date night i'm gonna be playing board games with aurora."

"ah, damn." dean sighed on the other line, "i really wanted to see you, sammy and i are probably gonna be back on the road tomorrow, we found some vamps up in duluth."

"i'm sorry." you say with your lips turned down in a slight frown, "let's take a raincheck, 'kay? i should go get rory, i finished decorating our cupcakes."

"oh? what cupcakes did you make?"

"red velvet. they're her favorite."

dean let out a small chuckle before humming, "hey, i was thinking... if it's not a girls-only night... maybe i could join you."

"really?" you raised your brows, "you wanna spend the evening playing monopoly with me and my niece rather than, i don't know, go to some bar and spend the evening with some hot chick?"

"i mean, you do have cupcakes. and board games are no fun with just two people."

you hummed, your lips pursed as you thought about his suggestion for a moment, before swallowing, "yeah. you can join."

after that evening, it seemed like things changed all over again.

dean no longer texted to ask you how you were, or to tell you how much he wanted to see you. he no longer cooked for you while you got to relax. you no longer woke up next to him. you didn't receive postcards addressed to you.

instead, he'd call you, checking in on you and aurora, saying how much he couldn't wait to see both of you again. he cooked for you while you were busy coloring with your niece. by the time you woke up, led zeppelin was blasting in the kitchen and the entire house smelled of pancakes, and when you got up, you'd see aurora dancing clumsily while dean was making pancakes. and the postcards were no longer addressed to you, but to you and aurora, and instead of ending up hidden under your bed, they were displayed on the fridge, until you no longer had enough magnets.

you were laid on dean's chest, your fingers drawing slight patterns on his skin, until his own hand came to stop you, bringing your hand to his warm lips, pressing a kiss on it.

"what are you thinking about?" he asked against your skin, and you looked up at him, wondering if you should tell dean what you were really thinking about or just brush him off. but the look in his eyes was reassuring, almost pleading you to tell him what was on your mind.

you took a deep breath before locking eyes with him, chewing on your lower lip, slightly anxious about what he was going to think.

"i don't think i can live without you."

dean's eyes widened slightly in surprise, before he let out a soft chuckle, the feeling of his breath on your hand causing shivers to run down your spine. he let go of your hand and moved his hand to your cheek, and you almost automatically brought your face closer to his.

"that's good, sweetheart, because i don't think i can live without you, either."

[spideyxxxxx]

Peter Parker Headcannons

a/n! sooo here are some of my headcannons about dating mcu peter parker including his being spiderman, which isn’t a secret anymore since you two are already dating, let me know if you have others because i love sharing ideas!!

pairing! Peter Parker x implied femreader

Your playful throws? Pillows, socks, popcorn? They don’t trigger his tingle at all.

One day he catches a literal falling brick from a rooftop—but lets a foam ball hit him in the face because you threw it.

Realizes it’s because his brain doesn’t flag you as a threat. Even subconsciously.

Spirals for 15 minutes about how that could get him killed. Then softens.

“I think—I think I trust her more than like, my own instincts. Which is… terrifying and kind of adorable?”

“I think my Peter-tingle just… knows you’re safe. Like—safe safe. Like, I would never need to be warned about you. Even if you were swinging a baseball bat. Even if you were holding a bazooka.”

(he pauses, then adds earnestly)

“Please don’t ever hold a bazooka though. Like for real.”

You lean over him and gently bonk him again with the pillow.

This time, he still doesn’t dodge.

Sneaks out as Spider-Man after patrol just to land on your fire escape and peek into your window to check if you’re asleep safe.If your light’s on, he stays, perched upside-down like a weirdo.

Taps the window once like a ghost.

Sometimes you’re awake and let him in.

Other times, he smiles and swings away with a little “okay, she’s good” breath of relief.

“I know it’s probably excessive but like, what if a raccoon got in? Or a microwave exploded? These things happen.”

Mid-patrol, sitting with his knees pulled up to his chest, suit mask half-off, swinging his legs off a rooftop ledge.

Calls you just to talk.Not even about anything serious.

Just, “Hey, I saw a guy walking a ferret on a leash and thought of you. Also, hi. Also, I miss you. Okay bye—unless you wanna stay on the line while I beat up some muggers?”

Brings you snacks from bodegas like:

“I saw these weird cookies and thought you’d like them.”

“This soda is purple. That’s romantic, right?”

Also returns with random little trinkets he finds on rooftops. Like a pigeon feather or a single button shaped like a heart.

He gets weirdly shy giving them to you. Like it’s a marriage proposal.

“It’s dumb but it kinda reminded me of you—WAIT I MEAN IN A GOOD WAY.”

If you touch his face when he’s tired? Instant puddle.

He’ll literally tilt into your palm like a sleepy kitten.

Gets overwhelmed and short-circuits when you wear his hoodie or say anything nice.

“You like my—? I mean yeah obviously it’s warm I didn’t mean for you to keep it unless you want to which is totally fine oh my god I’ll shut up now.”

After missions that go wrong—explosions, injuries, Tony yelling—he doesn’t go home.

He comes to you.

Literally swings across the city bleeding just to see your face.

“Hi. I know it’s 1:37am. I needed to remember what breathing feels like.”

Doesn’t let you walk too close to the curb.

Walks behind you on stairs in case you trip.

Lowkey memorizes the scent of your shampoo so if anyone ever impersonated you (he’s seen too many shapeshifters), he’d know.

If you’re cold? Hoodie. Immediately. No discussion.

[stargrillzz]

Collide

summary: He wasn't the flirtatious type, or the jealous type, or in any way thought he would want to get involved with anyone more than necessary, but of course you came along and had to turn things around for him.

note: Im on my meds again so I have plentyb of time to write. ALSO this is just pure hot talking and filthy, theres brealy a plot, just bucky having the hots. xoxo

Wings in the Sky

The comms in the Quinjet buzzed with Tony’s voice, sharp and laced with sarcasm.

“So, fun little update, team — we've got a shirtless, winged fairy-girl from hell flying over Brooklyn, throwing green lightning at terrified civilians like it’s Mardi Gras.”

Steve looked up from the tactical display, brow furrowed.

“She’s attacking people?”

“Technically? No. Just terrifying them,” Tony replied. “But I don’t like people with glowing hands and no pants, okay? Sue me.”

Bucky sat in the corner, arms crossed, metal fingers flexing and releasing like the ticking of a clock. He hadn’t said much since boarding. He rarely did unless it was to Steve.

But as the Quinjet descended through low-hanging storm clouds, he looked out the side window — and saw you.

You floated above the rooftop like some myth ripped from forgotten pages: barefoot, wings stretched wide, their span massive, leathery and powerful like something between angel and dragon. Feathers shifted down your spine, catching the wind. The ends of your fingers glowed with a radiant green light that pulsed in rhythm with your breathing, matching the eerie glow in your eyes.

Below you, six teenagers laughed and screamed — not in fear, but joy — because you had them hovering, spinning in midair as if gravity had taken the day off. One girl did cartwheels ten feet above the rooftop, her eyes wide in wonder.

You were smiling — that was the first thing Steve noticed as he stepped onto the roof. A real smile. Until Tony opened his mouth.

“Alright, Tinker Bell,” he called, blaster raised but not firing. “Why don’t you let the kiddies down and we talk about you possibly joining the no-fly list?”

You turned slowly toward him, the green glow of your magic flaring like a heartbeat. Your smile dropped.

Without a word, you flicked your hand, and a blast of green energy surged from your palm, faster than any of them expected. It slammed into Tony’s chest with a sonic thud, launching him back against the rooftop wall. His armor cracked the brick as he groaned through the speaker.

“Okay, ow. Definitely not a talker.”

Steve stepped forward, hands raised in a defensive gesture.

“Wait—hey! We don’t want to hurt you.”

But by then, Bucky had already moved. Silent, fast, precise — he sprinted across the rooftop, aiming to flank you from behind. His metal arm gleamed under the dark clouds as he lunged — but you twisted midair, wings folding in, and kicked him hard across the face. He tumbled back with a grunt, boots skidding across broken gravel.

“Don’t touch me” you snarled, your voice layered, as though something ancient was speaking just beneath your human tone.

You hovered just inches above the ground now, breath shaking, hands trembling with built-up power. Your skirt fluttered with the wind, and your chest rose and fell in uneven waves. There was blood on your side — a long, burned mark trailing across your ribs.

Steve paused, noticing it.

“You’re hurt.”

You blinked, breath catching. The green in your eyes flickered.

“They did it,” you hissed, eyes darting to the teenagers now huddling behind a crate. “I didn’t do anything. I was flying, lost, and they threw iron chains at me. It burned.”

Steve took a slow step closer, lowering his shield.

“We’re not here to hurt you. But you attacked someone—” he glanced briefly toward Tony, who was still groaning in the corner “—so we have to know what’s going on.”

You looked down at your hands. They were shaking now. The magic dimmed.

“I don’t know,” you whispered, almost childlike. “I woke up in a cage. Strapped down. I didn’t remember anything — not even my name. Just… flying.”

Your voice cracked on that last word, and suddenly the weight behind your posture changed. You weren’t a threat anymore. You were wounded, confused, and powerful enough to be dangerous.

Bucky stood slowly from where he’d fallen. He didn’t approach, but he watched you carefully, jaw tight. His voice was low, barely audible.

“You don’t remember who you are?”

You shook your head.

“No. I just know I’m not from here. Or... maybe I was. Once. I don’t know why iron burns me. Or why I can fly. Or why I cant remember anything.”

Something about that last sentence hit Steve hard. He glanced at Bucky — who was still watching you like someone trying to read a dream that wouldn’t hold still — maybe another HYDRA experiment.

“Come with us,” Steve said gently. “We have a place where you can rest. We can help figure out who you are. What happened to you.”

“I don’t trust you,” you replied instantly, even as your voice trembled.

“I wouldn’t either,” Bucky muttered under his breath, but you heard it — and your glowing eyes flicked to him for the first time.

He met your gaze — cold, tired, but not angry. Just... distant. Like someone who understood what it meant to be hunted and lost.

After a long pause, you nodded.

“Okay. But if you put me in a cage again—”

“We won’t,” Steve said, before you could finish.

“I’ll burn the whole damn tower down.”

“Fair,” Tony groaned. “Love her already.”

Your wings folded slowly against your back as your feet touched the rooftop. You stumbled a little, still weak, and instinctively reached for something — anything — to steady yourself.

And Bucky, silent and brooding, was the one who stepped forward.

You caught his metal arm.

For a second, neither of you moved.

And that was how it began.

jelousl- what? no. definitely not jelously

The mat smelled like sweat and rubber. Sunlight spilled in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting harsh lines across the Avengers’ training room. The rhythmic thud of gloves hitting a punching bag echoed from the corner — Bucky, shirtless, fists moving with mechanical precision, though if you looked closely, his punches weren’t landing quite as hard as they usually did.

Because his eyes kept flicking sideways.

You were in the center of the mat, barefoot, wearing tight black workout shorts and a sports bra, arms lazily raised as Steve circled you. You were grinning — that grin that made everyone nervous or intrigued — and Steve looked half-exasperated, half-amused.

“I thought this was a sparring session, not a flirtation marathon,” he chuckled, dodging your lazy jab.

“Don’t act like you’re not enjoying the view, Cap,” you purred, twisting into a sharp kick that he blocked at the last second, catching your leg and holding it there, high in the air.

You tilted your head, eyes gleaming.

“Want me to stay like this a little longer? It’s kind of hot.”

Steve’s laugh was loud and easy. “You’re impossible.”

“Admit it. You love me"

From the corner, Bucky’s jaw ticked. His metal hand curled into a fist

“She doesn’t take anything seriously,” he muttered under his breath, punching the bag once — a quick, sharp jab.

“Again,” Steve said, gently dropping your leg and stepping back. “You’re improving. Your center of balance is better.”

“That’s because I was imagining straddling you.”

He coughed. “Well. That explains your footwork.”

From the edge of the room, Bucky’s eyes narrowed. You caught the look — because you always caught his looks — and winked at him mid-fight, then whispered something to Steve that made him laugh again.

You weren’t sure why it felt good to get under Bucky’s skin. Maybe it was because he acted like you weren’t even worth his breath — like you were noise, static, an irritation. But that reaction in his eyes? The way he always looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching? That was attention.

And you knew how to work with attention.

-

The kitchen was dim, most of the team scattered off to showers or personal downtime. You were barefoot again, still in your training gear, chugging a bottle of water at the sink when you heard a low grunt.

You turned.

Bucky was leaning against the far counter, towel around his neck, hair damp, a fresh bruise blooming on his cheekbone. His metal arm caught the overhead light as he grabbed an apple from the bowl and took a bite like it offended him.

You walked over, casual, leaning your hip against the counter beside him.

“You always this friendly, or is today special?”

He didn’t answer.

“How’s the punching bag?” you tried again, eyeing the bruises across his knuckles. “Did it talk back this time?”

Still no answer. You let the silence linger.

“Hey.” Your voice softened. “How are you, really?”

That made him pause. He stared at the apple, then let out a breath — not quite a sigh.

“Tired,” he muttered finally.

You nodded. “Yeah. Me too.”

Another long pause. You leaned your elbows on the counter now, closer, voice lower.

“You still have the nightmares?”

His eyes flicked to yours. Suspicious. Guarded. Then something softened, just a little.

“Yeah,” he said, almost inaudibly. “Some nights it’s like I’m still there. Tied down. Strapped in. Can’t scream. Can’t move.”

You didn’t smile. You didn’t joke. You looked at him, and for once, your voice held none of that edge you usually wore like armor.

“I get that,” you whispered. “I don’t have memories of what was done to me. But I have dreams. Screaming. Fire. Cold. Chains. Pain. Waking up with blood in my mouth and I don’t know if it’s mine or not.”

His breath caught. His grip tightened around the apple, veins straining in his human hand.

“I don’t know who I am, Bucky,” you said, quietly. “You hate me for being flippant. For teasing. For acting like everything’s a joke. But that’s all I have. I either laugh, or I fall apart. And I can’t fall apart. Because if I do... what’s left?”

He looked at you then — really looked. His usual cold stare was gone. Replaced by something softer, sadder. Familiar.

“You’re not alone,” he said finally. “If you ever feel like you’re gonna break... I’ll be there.”

You blinked, taken off-guard by the sudden sincerity.

“Wow,” you breathed, a teasing smile tugging at your lips. “Is that an offer, Barnes? Because I’ve been waiting for you to throw me against a wall, but I didn’t expect it to come with emotional support.”

He groaned softly, turning his face away.

“And there she is again,” he muttered.

You leaned closer, lips brushing near his ear.

“You like it.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You’re jealous,” you said, voice lilting, playful again. “Every time I flirt with Steve, you get that little twitch in your jaw like you’re about to break something.”

He looked at you, unreadable for a long moment.

“You think too much of yourself,” he muttered.

“Maybe,” you grinned, stepping back with a shrug. “But I don’t think I’m wrong.”

He didn’t respond. But the way his eyes lingered on your mouth before you turned away told you everything.

And you felt it in your chest — a shift. A tiny thread pulled tight between you and the Winter Soldier.

For the first time... he wasn’t pushing you away.

Heat Between the Lines

Movie night at the Tower was supposed to be relaxing. A rare moment of peace. Blankets. Popcorn. Dumb commentary.

But for Bucky Barnes, it felt like hell.

You were curled on the oversized couch, nestled between Steve and Bucky — technically — but you leaned entirely toward Steve, your thigh pressed to his, your body angled in a way that clearly favored one side.

And Bucky saw everything.

Your bare leg had somehow found its way into Steve’s lap, foot playfully nudging his thigh, and Steve... well, Steve didn’t seem to mind. His hand rested just above your knee, fingers splayed comfortably as he whispered something that made you laugh — that low, wicked, sultry kind of laugh that always did something to Bucky’s chest he didn’t like.

The light from the TV flickered over your face — all sharp cheekbones, smug lips, and bright, glinting eyes. You were wearing that damned oversized hoodie again, sleeves pushed up to your elbows, the hem barely covering the shorts underneath. Casual. Effortless. Dangerous.

Bucky sat stiff beside you, body angled slightly away like you had a contagious disease — or like if he got one inch closer, he might actually say something he couldn’t take back.

Your leg shifted slightly, brushing his jeans.

He didn’t move.

But his jaw? Locked.

Sam, on the floor with a pillow under his chest, snorted at something on screen. Tony made some quip about the movie’s plot holes. Natasha leaned back with her wine and gave you a look, clearly clocking the hand still resting on your thigh.

But Steve?

Steve turned his head toward you, grinning. His voice dropped just enough for Bucky to hear it.

“Y’know,” Steve murmured, face inching closer to yours, “if you keep touching me like that, I’m gonna start thinking this movie wasn’t the reason you sat here.”

You laughed. Low. A little breathy. Like he’d hit the exact mark he was aiming for.

“Captain,” you whispered back, lifting your chin just a bit, your lips barely an inch from his. “You have no idea what I came for.”

The room howled.

Sam: “Someone get a fire extinguisher.” Natasha: “Please get a room.” Tony: “Wait, no — do it here, I need material for blackmail.”

Steve just chuckled, clearly playing into the joke. He leaned even closer, his nose nearly brushing yours. You didn’t pull away.

Bucky stood up.

Hard.

The couch shifted under the force. Everyone went silent for half a second.

He didn’t look at you. Didn’t look at Steve. Just muttered something under his breath and stormed out, footsteps echoing down the hall like gunshots.

The door shut behind him.

“What the hell?” Sam blinked.

“Touchy,” Tony muttered.

You sat there, leg still draped over Steve’s lap, but your smile faltered.

Because for the first time that night, it wasn’t Steve’s hand or words that had your skin hot.

It was the heat in Bucky’s silence, the frustration vibrating off him like a second heartbeat.

And suddenly… teasing Steve didn’t feel as satisfying as it usually did.

Because the one who mattered wasn’t laughing.

--

The hallway was empty and dim, your bare feet silent against the cool metal floor as you walked past midnight shadows. The echoes of laughter from movie night still rang faintly in your ears, but all you could focus on was the echo of Bucky’s footsteps, heavy and sharp as he’d left.

You found him near the observation deck, facing the city skyline. Towering windows framed him in moonlight, silver bleeding into the sharp lines of his shoulders and metal arm. His back was to you, but his body was rigid — tense like a live wire. Waiting to snap.

You crossed the room slowly, cautiously, until there were only a few feet between you.

“You stormed out like you were about to kill someone,” you said, voice soft but steady.

He didn’t turn.

“That someone is Steve?”

Still nothing. You sighed.

“If you’re that worried about him, me hurting him, don’t be. We flirt as a joke. He knows that. I know that. He doesn’t care. So if that’s what this is—”

“It’s not,” Bucky said suddenly, voice low and sharp.

The words cut through the quiet like a knife.

You blinked, thrown for a second.

“Then what is it, Bucky?” you asked. “Because if I’ve done something to piss you off—”

He turned.

His expression wasn’t angry. It wasn’t even cold.

It was... unreadable. Something stormy behind those glacier eyes, but buried deep.

“You didn’t piss me off,” he said. “You just—”

He stopped. Shook his head. Backed away.

And before you could stop him, he was gone again. No explanation. No resolution.

Just the door whispering closed behind him.

Plot twist

Something was off.

For three days, Bucky hadn’t glared at you once. No brooding glances, no bitter muttering, no narrow-eyed judgment when you teased Steve.

Instead?

He flirted.

Blatantly.

When you walked into the training room on Monday morning, he was already there — sweaty, shirtless, arms folded behind his head, waiting.

“You’re late,” he said, smirking. “I was starting to think you didn’t wanna see me.”

You raised a brow. “Did you hit your head again, soldier?”

“Only on the thought of you.” A wink.

A literal wink.

You’d gaped.

By Wednesday, it had gotten worse.

He sat next to you at breakfast. Close. Way too close. Your thigh was nearly in his lap and he made no move to scoot away.

“You always smell this good in the morning?” he muttered near your ear, voice rough and low.

You’d choked on your coffee.

By Thursday night, you'd had enough.

You cornered him in the hallway outside the gym, hands on your hips, heart pounding with confusion and something hotter you didn’t want to name.

“What the hell is going on with you?” you asked.

He leaned against the wall, arms crossed. Smug. Calm. Eyes dancing with amusement.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re being... weird,” you said. “You’re being nice. Flirty. You’re acting like you don’t hate me.”

“Maybe I never hated you,” he said simply. “Maybe I just didn’t know how to deal with someone who pushed every button I had.”

“So what, now you’re pushing back?”

“No,” he said, stepping forward until you had to tilt your head to meet his eyes. His breath was warm. His mouth too close. “I’m showing you how it’s done.”

Your mouth parted slightly. You meant to say something — some smartass line, some witty comeback — but nothing came out.

His gaze flicked to your lips, then back to your eyes.

“You like playing games, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Let’s see how you do when I start playing too.”

And then?

He walked away.

Cool. Collected.

Leaving you breathless. And burning.

Cold war...or maybe...hot war?

The team was scattered in the common room, lazily regrouping after a debrief. It hadn’t been a full mission — just recon — but you'd returned exhausted and still dressed in your skin-tight combat gear. The kind that clung in all the right places, slick with sweat and danger.

Steve stood behind you, his large hands on your shoulders, absentmindedly rubbing the tension from your neck while you half-sat on the counter.

You smirked, head tilted back toward him.

“Careful, Captain. Touch me like that and I’ll start thinking this post-mission massage means something.”

He chuckled, slow and warm. “You say that like it doesn’t.”

That earned a few chuckles from the room.

But across the space, Bucky’s eyes locked on you. His stare was a silent storm. Burning. And when Steve’s fingers dug a little deeper into your traps, and your eyes fluttered closed with a soft sigh?

Bucky stood up.

He didn’t say anything. Just walked over — slow, deliberate — and stopped right in front of you, between your legs. You opened your eyes and blinked at him.

“Problem, Barnes?”

He leaned forward, one hand bracing beside your thigh, the other resting lightly on your bare knee — and sliding up. Slowly.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, voice low and dark. “You’re touching the wrong super soldier.”

You felt your breath catch. The room went completely still.

--

You were strapping knives to your thigh holsters, leaning over the prep table when you heard someone behind you.

You didn’t need to turn around. You could feel him.

“Careful,” Bucky’s voice drawled from behind you, low and slow. “You bend over like that and I’m gonna start thinking this mission’s a date.”

You smirked, not even looking back.

“Then I guess you’ll have to buy me dinner after.”

“Or breakfast. Depends how late we’re up.”

You turned then, raising a brow. “You’re not even trying to be subtle anymore.”

He stepped into your space, hands brushing the sides of your hips as if to adjust the holsters — but you both knew he was just touching you. His voice dropped, warm against your cheek.

“You want subtle?” he murmured. “Or do you want me to pull you into the weapons locker and make you beg?”

Your heart thudded — not from nerves. From how badly you wanted to call his bluff.

“Do it,” you whispered, eyes locked on his mouth.

He held your gaze for a heartbeat longer — then smirked, stepping back.

“Later. Gotta keep our cover, right?”

And just like that, he was gone again. Like a damn storm cloud that refused to rain.

--

You were mid-laugh, sitting way too close to Steve on the couch — knees touching, your hand lingering on his bicep as you talked about some embarrassing thing Sam had done on a mission.

Steve, being Steve, was smiling like a golden retriever — completely unbothered by how close you were. Or maybe he knew you were just being you.

Then the room went cold.

Bucky dropped down onto the couch on your other side. He didn’t even look at Steve — just pressed into you so closely his thigh pushed against yours, shoulder to shoulder, arm to arm.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, voice like velvet. “Miss me?”

You tilted your head. “You jealous again?”

“Nah. Just don’t want you wasting your time with the wrong soldier.”

Steve shot him a look, clearly irritated.

“She’s not wasting anything, Buck.”

“No,” Bucky said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “But I will be if I have to keep hearing you flirt like a Hallmark card.”

Your hand reached out and slapped Bucky lightly in the chest.

“Be nice.”

“Not when it comes to you,” he said, turning to you fully. His metal fingers trailed across your knee. “I don’t like to share.”

And he didn’t move. Didn’t pull back. He stayed right there, crowding your space, daring you to react.

Steve stood up.

“I’ll leave you two to it,” he muttered, walking off.

You turned to Bucky, incredulous.

“Seriously?”

“What?” he said innocently. “He had enough of the show.”

“You’re such an asshole.”

“Only when I’m right.”

--

You and Steve were on the mats, locked in fast-paced sparring. You ducked under his arm, swept his leg, and earned a low grunt of surprise as he stumbled back.

“Getting cocky?” he teased, adjusting his footing.

“Always,” you shot back, smirking. “But I’ve earned it.”

He lunged — you twisted. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you into a controlled hold. Your back hit his chest, and you let out a breathless laugh.

“Okay, okay, showoff,” you gasped. “You win this round.”

“Damn right I do,” Steve said, chuckling, still holding you a second longer than necessary.

Then — the training room door slammed open.

“Seriously?” Bucky’s voice cut through the air like a whip.

Steve let go of you immediately. You turned to see Bucky stalking into the room, eyes hard, jaw tight.

“Got a problem?” Steve asked calmly.

“Just looks like training’s gotten real hands-on.”

You rolled your eyes and stepped back. “Bucky—”

“What?” he snapped. “You can flirt with him in front of the whole damn tower, but the second I say something—”

“She’s not doing anything wrong,” Steve interrupted, voice firm now. “You are.”

Bucky turned, surprised. “Excuse me?”

Steve took a step forward, his arms crossed.

“Don’t act like she’s a problem just because you can’t keep your shit together.”

“I’m just saying—”

“No. You’re sulking. Watching her like a hawk, cutting in every time she talks to me, and acting like you’ve got some claim on her when you haven’t even told her how you feel.”

You blinked — surprised at how clearly Steve had just said it. No anger in his voice. Just tired honesty.

He turned to you then, expression softening.

“You’re great,” he said quietly. “This isn’t about you. You’re not doing anything wrong.”

Then back to Bucky — harder now.

“But you? You don’t get to take it out on her just because you’re too damn scared to be honest.”

The silence after that was brutal.

--

You found him in the gym, hitting the punching bag with so much precision it was almost arrogant.

“You’re gonna break that,” you muttered.

He didn’t turn.

“That why you came down here?” he said. “To watch me hit something hard?”

You exhaled, walking in slowly, letting your fingers trail along the rack of weapons.

“You’ve been acting insane lately.”

“You like it.”

“That’s not the point.”

“It is.”

You stepped up to him now, close. The scent of sweat and leather was thick on him, and the glow of his skin from training made your fingers twitch.

“You overstep every time I’m near Steve.”

“And?”

“Why?”

He stepped forward, almost chest to chest now, metal hand grazing your hip.

“Because I don’t like sharing.”

Your eyes narrowed. “You don’t have me.”

His voice dropped into something dark and devastating.

“Yet.”

You swallowed, throat tight.

He leaned in, his lips just brushing the shell of your ear.

“But you started this, baby. All those filthy things you said. All that teasing. The touching. You don’t get to be surprised now that I’m playing dirty back.”

You turned your face to him, lips barely apart.

“What if I want you to?”

He paused — just long enough for the silence to throb between your bodies.

Then he whispered, low and dangerous:

“Then stop running your mouth… and show me.”

You stared at him — his lips hovering near yours, breath hot against your skin, chest rising and falling like he was holding back a storm.

One more second passed. Then another. Then you moved.

Your hand slid up his chest, fingers curling around the collar of his black tank top. He didn’t resist — didn’t move — just watched you with those storm-grey eyes, waiting.

You tilted your head slightly.

And then — you kissed him.

Soft. Intentional. Not a war. Not a power play. Just your mouth, gently pressing to his. Choosing him.

He made a sound deep in his chest — surprised, almost pained — like the moment had knocked the breath out of him.

Then his hand rose to your waist, the flesh one, pulling you closer. The metal hand stayed loose at his side, like he didn’t trust himself to use it.

The kiss deepened, slow and trembling — his lips parting, yours following — your fingers threading lightly through the hair at the back of his neck.

He kissed you like he’d been holding it in for months. Like he’d mapped out a thousand versions of this moment and couldn’t believe it was real.

“You have no idea,” he breathed between kisses, voice shaking slightly, “what you’re doing to me.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were hooded, lips parted, and for once — silent.

“I know exactly what I’m doing,” you whispered. “I just wanted to see if you'd finally do something about it.”

Bucky’s fingers flexed against your waist. His forehead rested against yours, breath shallow, chest heaving.

“You’re dangerous,” he said softly.

“You like dangerous.”

His lips twitched into the faintest, crooked smile. Then he kissed you again — once, slow and firm — and pulled back.

But this time, when he stepped away, it wasn’t retreat. It was promise.

“This doesn’t stop here,” he murmured, eyes lingering on your lips.

“Good,” you said. “I didn’t want it to.”

[nightingale-prompts]

Comforting Your Batboy

First | Previous | Next

Danny slept next to Dick for a few days after what happened. He no longer felt secure about his place here. No matter where you go you take yourself with you and Danny is the problem here yet again.

Danny didn't understand affection, at least not the kind that a parent gave. The moment Danny told Dick that his parents were scientists Richard understood. Gotham had seen dozens of scientists who pushed the boundaries of morality and there was no shortage of children used to fulfill their ambitions.

Danny still missed his parents. Regardless of how things ended, he had lived his entire life with a family unit that on paper meant life was stable. He had somewhere to go and people who at least acknowledged him as family. Parents that took care of him at least out of obligation.

This story sounded familiar. Like Jason who never stopped loving his mom despite everything or Tim who accepted his neglect as what it was. They didn't know what it was like to have parents that loved them like they should. Dick was lucky to have the parent he had.

Danny remembered quiet dinners as his parents rushed to finish the food that Jazz made or them going on long tirades about their research. For 12 years they devotedly worked on that portal. Every chance they got they'd run off to the basement. Because it was their life's work, the only thing that mattered.

When it was unveiled, Jazz only scoffed. She hated the portal. Dad looked to Danny for praise and Danny didn't know what to say.

"Isn't it just the greatest thing you've ever seen?" Dad put his hand around Danny's shoulder.

"Well...its definitely a thing." Danny laughed awkwardly.

Danny had hoped that when the portal finished it would mean he'd spend time with his parents. Maybe they'd give him more than a passing glance when he brought them his report card. He could share with them his dreams and plans to be an astronaut. Show them the stars and all his research. To prove to them that he was a scientist too.

But that didn't happen. None of that would ever happen.

Jazz warned him not to hope for too much.

"People don't change Danny." She said simply.

Danny still tried. He still hoped. That hope made him try.

That hope killed him.

Danny never told Dick the specifics, about the accident. Dick never pried, but he knew something wasn't right.

Danny would cry in his sleep some nights. Dreams of a life that was far away now. Dick couldn't do much, all he could do was hold Danny's hand and wait for the nightmare to pass in hopes that Danny would forget his dream when he opened his eyes.

Danny's body was scarred. Something he used his powers to cover but they were still there and appeared when the stress got too much. Dick only saw a small part of them.

Dick got a full view once of Danny's back once when Dick left him a change of clothes. Lichtenberg scars like feathered ferns ripped through Danny's left arm and back. Danny hated it when people saw his scars and the marks disappeared the moment he realized he was being watched.

Dick didn't mention it. Not even the faint green glow the marks gave off.

"Why does Batman hate me?" Danny asked peeking out from under his blanket. He was still shrunk down

Dick bundled the toddler up in the blanket.

"He doesn't hate you. He just...he doesn't like things he doesn't understand." Dick tried to not make that sound awful.

"He doesn't understand me." Danny sighed.

"And he doesn't have to. He won't do anything to you. Not with me around. I promise. I know you've been hurt before and you must have felt alone but you got me." Dick ruffled his little fuzzball's hair.

(Ignore small errors. Have bat picture.)

[revasserium]

Pining Zoro and blind-to-it Reader?

un-certainly

opla!zoro; 3,422 words; fluff fluff fluff so much fluff, straw hat!reader, fem!reader, (seeminlgy) clueless!reader, lots of pining, banter, teasing, smitten!zoro, the whole nine yards

summary: in which everyone knows zoro's got it bad for you, except for you, of course.

one.

“so… i should just… talk to her.” zoro says uncomprehendingly, blinking at an exasperated nami, who has to take a long, steadying breath to keep from shoving him overboard. the waves beneath them are calm, the day above them, a gorgeous, endless stretch of blue so brilliant it almost pains the eyes to stare.

nami resists the urge to pinch her nose bridge as a dull ringing starts to echo in her ears.

“yes. sweet god — just go up to her and say ‘hey, i think i might like you’ and i guarantee you, things will go from there.”

zoro shifts his tightly knitted arms, squinting at her as if she might be lying or purposefully luring him into a trap, “go? so there’s a chance it could go badly.”

this time, nami really does drop her face into her hands, groaning loudly.

“well there’s always a chance it could go badly —”

“sounds like a bad idea to me.” zoro looks away, eyes still narrowed as the light sea breeze ruffles his hair, a colony of news coo squawking loudly overhead, one of them dropping down to careen towards the going merry, landing on the thick white railings next to them, ruffling it’s feathers as nami pushes off to dig in her pocket for some berry.

“oh! newspapers here!” your voice makes both zoro and nami jump, and a second later you’re bounding up the stairs to the forecastle deck and stuffing some berry into the news coo’s bag. your arm brushes by zoro’s as you lean over to offer the news coo a piece of dried shrimp, which it considers for a second before leaning forward and gobbling up.

nami gives zoro a soft shove from his other side, leveling him with a meaningful look before turning and making a show of going to check on her tangerine grove.

zoro doesn’t have time to glare before the news coo takes off with a pat-pat-pat of wings, leaving you and him very much alone on the sunny fore-deck. he purses his lips, casting about for something to say even as you hum happily to yourself, your arm still painfully close to his as you unroll the newspaper and flip though, blissfully unaware of the inner turmoil of the man standing next to you.

“uh — anything interesting?” zoro asks, desperate for something, anything to fill the silence.

you shrug, “nope… just the usual — uptick in piracy along the coast, tightening of marine patrols…” you turn and cast him a grin that makes his stomach twist inside him like a contortionist from buggy’s freakshow.

zoro clears his throat, thumbing absently at the hilt of his swords before taking a deep breath.

“hey — uh…”

“hm?” you turn towards him, with your wide attentive eyes and your stomach-curling smile.

zoro blinks, his gaze flickering from your soft button nose to the way the wind twines its fingers in the loose strands of your hair. two twin pearls glitter from the lobes of your ears and he feels the tension melt from him as he sucks in another breath.

just say it, nami had said, just tell her.

really, how hard could it be?

“i uh — there’s something i wanna talk —”

“wait, hold still,” you say, your eyes going wide as you lean forward suddenly and zoro’s visions tunnels in around him — you’re close, closer, too close/too close/too close!

your fingers card through his hair and he has to bite back the shiver that rockets down his spine as you pull your hand back with a black-tipped feather.

“the news coo left you a present,” you say, laughing as you offer him the feather.

zoro considers it for a second before taking it from you.

“it could’ve left worse,” he says, recalling the few times that he’d gotten bird shit in his hair.

you giggle; the sound makes him want to scream but instead, he settles for clearing his throat again.

“now, you make a wish,” you say, nodding towards the feather in his hand.

“never heard of that before,” he frowns slightly, “thought you could only wish on dandelion seeds and…” he waves at the endless stretch of sky above you, “shooting stars and stuff.”

your smile is so wide that zoro thinks his cheeks might start to hurt for you.

“haven’t you heard that rules are meant to be broken?” you ask, offering him the feather again. he looks at you, then at the feather, and the back at you.

“okay — i wish —”

you squawk flapping your hand, “no! you can’t tell me what the wish is! otherwise, it won’t come true!”

zoro smirks, cocking an eyebrow, “i thought rules were meant to be broken?”

you blush the most darling shade of red and he decides to take it easy on you (and, honestly, himself). so, he plucks the feather from your hand and closes his eyes, making a soft, silent wish. a wish that, in truth, he’d been making since the moment he met you.

when he opens his eyes, it’s to find you staring.

“kay. now what?” he asks, rolling the feather between his thumb and forefinger.

“now…” you gently tug the feather from him before opening your palm and letting the wind whisk it away, “you let the sea take your wish. and if you’re worthy, it’ll grant the wish for you!”

zoro lets out a breathy laugh, “if i’m worthy? and how’s it supposed to know that?”

you lean in, and if it were anyone else, he might’ve been annoyed, but with you, somehow, he finds himself charmed.

your voice is conspiratorial as you whisper, “because… the ocean knows all the secrets the sky can’t keep.”

two.

at dinner, with you by his side, usopp detailing some imaginary adventure, nami laughing, sanji blowing smoke rings towards the middle of the fire-lit deck. your cheeks are pink from the wine everyone is passing around and for a second, you bump into him and turn — he turns towards you too —

your eyes catch like unsuspecting fish to a bobbing hook and zoro feels his stomach tug as you grin up at him, the night sky caught in the flutter of your lashes.

he can’t help the way his gaze flicks down to your lips, and then back up again.

“feel like sharing?” you ask, nodding towards his half-finished bottle.

wordlessly, he hands the bottle to you and watches as you bring the mouth to your lips and take a long drink. he tracks the soft bobbing of your moon-lit throat and feels his own mouth go dry at the sight.

across the fire, sanji watches with a growing smile and nami rolls her eyes.

“oi, moss-head — mind if i take a swig too?” sanji asks as you hand back the bottle, dragging the back of your hand across your lips, and zoro turns to pin sanji with a glare.

“get your own,” he says, before polishing off the rest with a few hard sips and tossing the bottle into a rapidly growing pile.

zoro licks his lips and tries not to think about the way your lips had fit around the bottle just right; he tries not to wonder if you’d taste like wine. or, if he’d even have the mind to think that far if you were to let him kiss you.

three.

“… and then, you pull it through… like this?” you slowly bring your arm through a swiping movement, your hands clutched around the hilt of a wooden training sword. zoro sighs, shaking his head.

“uh — not quite — here,” he pushes off from the barrel he’s sitting on to circle around behind you, wrapping one hand around both of yours, the other palm curling around your middle to press against your stomach, “you’re breaking in your waist again — keep your core tight and —” he helps you swing the sword through in a swift arc.

“oh.”

it takes him a second to realize how close you are, how he can feel your entire back pressed against his entire front, how perfectly you fit into his arms, how easy it’d be to hold you to him and never let go.

“so just… practice that a few hundred times,” he says, stumbling back as his cheeks go hot and he feels the inexplicable urge to toss himself into the calm, saltine waves below, if only to cool down just a bit.

“will you practice with me?” you ask, your smile wider than the sky is wide — zoro is sure.

he blinks at you for a second before making a show of sighing and rolling his eyes.

“ah… i guess i could use a bit of practice too.”

he pulls out the wadou ichimonji and takes his stance next to you.

“ready?” he asks.

you nod, glancing over and adjusting your posture.

“okay, how many are we doing?”

zoro casts around for a number, “a thousand.”

“zoro!”

“five… hundred?”

you cast him a look that makes his stomach flip inside him.

“how about we start with a hundred, and then i’ll see how i feel from there?”

zoro clicks his tongue, smirking, “i could do a hundred in my sleep.”

you make a show of rolling your eyes, “fine then — go take a nap!”

zoro huffs as he clears his throat, “right then — let’s start — one, two —”

you squeak as you hurry to catch up, jumping as he reaches out a hand to correct your posture.

up on the foredeck, luffy watches with usopp by his side.

“hey! i wonder if zoro would teach me sword tricks if i asked!”

usopp sighs, clapping luffy on the back even as he shakes his head.

“uh — not that i think he wouldn’t but … maybe you should just… let them do their thing, yeah?”

four.

“i think you really should tell her,” luffy says, slapping zoro on the shoulder, a bit harder than he’d intended. zoro winces, pressing a palm to his chest — still sore from their recent raid.

“i don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

luffy laughs, leaning forward against the railing, “nami said you’d say that.”

zoro fights the urge to scowl as he sighs, his eyes narrowed at the damnably calm horizon. at least if the weather weren’t so nice, he could make up an excuse to leave but —

“really, what’s the worse that could happen?” luffy asks.

zoro grunts, shooting luffy a sidelong look, “oh i don’t know, she doesn’t feel the same and shit gets awkward and —” he waves a hand at the going merry, “the crew falls apart.”

thankfully, luffy doesn’t pause to call him out on for once not denying it.

instead, he lets out a contemplative hum, “hm… yeah, that could happen. but… i don’t think it will.”

inside his chest, zoro’s heart clunks, strange and uncoordinated.

“why? she say something to you?” he can’t keep the curiosity from his voice, the stomach-squeezing anticipation he’d only ever associated with the heat of battle and a really good fight. but now, he feels it whenever you get too close, and he wonders if he can go insane like this — if one day his heart might just give out.

“nope!” luffy’s voice is too bright, too cheerful, and zoro feels himself rolling his eyes before he can stop himself, “i’ve just got a feeling!”

“a feeling.”

“yeah! and — have a little faith! the straw hat crew isn’t that fragile.”

with that, and another hearty clap to the shoulder that leaves zoro hissing in pain, luffy clomps off towards the kitchens, where sanji is already doing dinner prep. zoro lets out another sigh as he straightens, carefully stretching his arms to test the range of motion.

above him, a flock of migratory geese fly southward in a soft, arrowhead formation. zoro holds up a hand to shield his eyes from the sun as he watches them pass overhead.

a single feather flutters down towards him and he finds himself reaching out to catch in the palm of his hand.

a wish, huh, he thinks, twirling the feather between two fingers before casting around to make sure no one else can see him. satisfied that everyone else is either too far away or below decks, zoro closes his eyes and makes a wish —

alright roronoa, please. don’t fuck this up.

five.

“ahem.” zoro clears his throat after dinner, making a point to down a couple more drinks than usual. he’s never been one to believe in liquid courage, but… it couldn’t hurt, right?

“can we, uh, talk?”

you smile a smile that threatens to crack his chest wide open, nodding.

“sure! what’s up?”

across the room, sanji visibly stills but nami catches his eye and shakes her head ever so slightly.

“c’mon… not in here,” zoro says, jerking his head towards the hallway that leads to the decks above.

“what’s got you so secretive all of a sudden?” you ask as he leads you all the way up to the crows nest, reaching down to help tug you up, letting his hand linger in yours as you grin up at him.

“i’m allowed to have secrets,” he says, turning to stare out at the darkened sea, the summer moon hanging low and full-bellied over the glittering waters, the stars winking like so many all-seeing eyes.

“we all are, but… i thought we’d gotten all your big ones after that one night the whiskey bar —”

zoro coughs, “alright, alright — don’t need to bring that up again.”

you laugh, leaning forward to pillow your cheek against your crossed arms, propped up along the edge of the crows nest.

“so? what’s this new secret, then?”

zoro swallows, “uh — wouldn’t exactly call it new.”

“alright then, an old secret.”

“not super old, either —”

you turn to look at him, half-exasperated, half-amused, but when you catch sight of his expression, you still, pressing your lips.

“zoro? is… everything okay?”

he ticks his tongue against his teeth and lets out a long breath, as if bracing himself for something before he says —

“yeah. i think —” he clears his throat again, trying to recall what nami had said about just saying it and he tries again.

“i think i might like you.”

the coil in his chest feels tight enough to snap, but you’re quiet as he turns to steal a glance at you.

“oh,” you say, you expression curiously contemplative as you look out over the darkened seascape.

zoro has to physically stop himself from shaking you by the shoulders — say something, goddamnit! say anything!

“so…” he says, knitting his arms across his chest instead.

you turn towards him, your eyes bright as twin stars.

“you think you might like me, right?” you ask, and for a second, zoro can only blink down at you, completely thrown by your lack of reaction. of all the things he’d imagined you doing — everything from getting angry to apologizing to throwing yourself at him with an impassioned speech about how you’d felt the same since the beginning — this was not one of them.

“uh… yeah, pretty sure that’s what i said.”

you cock your head, a quick, bird-like gesture that makes zoro’s heart skitter inside his chest, threatening to leap from his mouth as you continue to stare up at him, completely unabashed.

“ah… so what do you think we should do then?”

zoro stares, “… do?”

“yeah, because if you’re not sure if you like me… we should do something to make sure, right?”

and it’s then that he sees the soft, playful uptick of your lips, the glittering darkness behind your eyes. the tension in his chest seems to loosen even as he lets out a breath, chuckling before quirking an eyebrow and taking a step towards you, caging you in against the crows nest’s edge.

“mm. you’re right — i can think of a few things we could try, though.”

“yeah?” you voice is little more than an exhale on the wind, but it’s the last thing zoro tastes before he finds his lips on yours.

as far as kisses go, zoro would later think back, it was a pretty damn good one.

it started as a slow kind of kiss, a soft, unfurling of breath on breath, and then lips on lips. the ghost-friction of promises made and kept and unbroken, the first spark to a fire that had been threatening to consume him since the moment he’d heard you laugh.

and then — just like that, he’s kissing you. and you’re kissing him back, the gravity and inevitability of it making his head spin even as he presses in closer. it is sweet and warm and trembling — soft and hard and deepening. he runs his tongue along the seam of your mouth and savors the way you gasp open for him.

just him.

he swallows it like he wants to swallow you, reaching up to sink his fingers into the silk and gossamer of your hair, pulling you so close he can feel your heartbeat thrumming against his chest, your nails as they curl into the linen of his shirt.

it takes everything inside him to pull back, and everything else left not to dive right back in again. you’re both panting, a little breathless, and zoro — a lot relieved.

“so…” you say, your tongue flickering out to lave across your bottom lip.

zoro doesn’t try to stop his eyes as he tracks the spine-tingling motion.

“so?”

you grin, biting back the shiver that chases through you at the deep, base rumble of his voice, echoing from his body to yours.

“what’s the verdict? have you decided if you like me yet?” you ask, batting your lashes even as he watches your own eyes drop down to his lips. a dark, warm, purring satisfaction curls inside his chest at the way your pupils dilate, black as the night, bright as all her favorite stars.

“hm,” zoro hums, leaning down to skim a knuckle along your jaw, slowly guiding your face towards his again, “dunno… jury’s still out… might have to try it a few more times. y’know… just to be sure.”

“mm…” you sigh as he leans down to graze his teeth along your pulse point, fingers tightening around your waist as he feels you tremble in his arms, “y-yeah… wouldn’t want you to be —” you hiccup as he sinks a soft bite into the juncture of your neck and shoulder, “uncertain.”

“no…” and his voice is all groan and gravel as he lets himself breathe you in, “we certainly wouldn’t want that.”

bonus.

far below, beneath the decks of the going merry, sanji takes a long pull from a post-dinner cigarette, his lips twisting into a concerned sort of frown.

“it’s been a while since they’ve been up there. think we should go check on them?”

luffy shugs, still happily picking at the remains of the turkey carcass sitting in the middle of an oblong plate.

“they should be okay — i mean, they say that no news is good news, right?”

“uh, not sure that applies to this kinda thing,” usopp says as he makes to peak out of the nearest window.

nami swirls her drink, “i think they’re fine. and we’d hear if zoro threw himself off the crows nest, right?”

across the table, sanji blinks and luffy pauses in his munching.

“whoa, you think he’d really do that if she rejects him?” usopp asks, his face going a little pale.

nami rolls here eyes, “no.” and then a moment later, “but really, we’d hear him if he jumped, right?”

luffy licks his lips, shrugging, “dunno, probably though. he’s pretty heavy so he’ll make a pretty big splash.”

sanji taps a bit of ash into his empty bowl and lets out a long suffering breath.

“yeah, y’know really, no news is good news.”

[insomniac-dot-ink]

The Angel Wire

No one knows what to do with the angel tangled in the power lines. The poor thing’s body was wrapped around and around the sparking wires. A twisted-up ball of heavenly light. The face was obscured by a bent halo—a golden glow that sometimes oscillates like bad television signal. The wings float loosely in the air, all twelve feet of silken feathers, ragged and torn at the ends.

A storm had felled the trees and the poles and anything taller than a chicken coup in one swoop. Anyone who dared cross the puddles and debris had to risk being electrocuted by the live wires or blinded by the angel’s weakly pulsing light. Cooing sounds emerged from the angel, sad little calls for distant ears.

The creature would periodically make a break for it too—wings going taut and rising in a flurry of trumpets and frantic flapping. The electrical wires held fast, twisting against the angel’s soft flesh and pushing back. It fell, it always fell, back into the nest of wires and would make those weak cooing noises. I was an ornithologist before all this town, town, town and couldn’t help but think, pigeon.

The chaplain went first. He got down to pray under the angel’s bent body, close as he dared and in the mud. Everyone knew he wasn’t but a few weeks off the drink and his hands still shook when he lifted up the cross. The nun, she was retired but we still called her that, caught the 921 bus to the next town that same day.

Some said she was going to the next town over to get a proper priest. Others said she had crossed herself and high-tailed it out of there. What bad luck it was going to be to have a dead angel in our town electrical wires.

All this debris and only the birds can get close enough to it, flapping around the angel's head and perching on its mighty back. They call to each other.

Davie, who I had once loved, offered to fetch his shotgun and put it out of its misery. The youngest one there, a girl named Clara, cried so hard she had to be walked back and forth down the lane three times. We opted to put “shooting a messenger of above” on the back burner. We gathered up wire cutters, holy books, rubber boots, and a good tree-cutting ax from the mess of our homes and piled them up. We'd wait a day or so at least, watching the angel and all silently hoping it would make it out on its own. 

I wasn’t a praying woman anymore. My house was a testament to a lot of broken things before it was ever leveled by the storm. But I didn’t have any little ones to walk up and down the lane and my car had survived just fine and I owned the best pair of binoculars out of anyone. So, I kept vigil–it was the least I could do. 

I sat and watched and sometimes cooed back when the angel let out long melancholy ooo's. The relief trucks were late if they were even coming and I drank in small sips from my third water jug. The chaplain came at sundown and he passed me a better drink from his flask. I wasn’t a praying woman anymore so I took a long sip and passed it back.

“Think it’ll make it out?” I asked, nodding at the angel, and the chaplain took a longer drink. I gave him a small smile and elbowed the man. “Glad you stayed, at least.”

He nodded again and began to pray, never taking his eyes off the wires up above.

The girl came when the day tucked behind the trees into full dark. She was a darting, quiet thing and I nearly missed her rustling through the grass.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” I told her tiny form at the edge of the puddles. She drew her knees up under a big sweater.

“I have to make sure he doesn’t try anything . . .” she said and I knew she was talking about Davie, who I could no longer love.

 “Does your mama know you’re out here?”

She mumbles from inside her oversized hoodie, “I can’t let ‘em do it.”

I sighed. “He won’t, not with me here,” I said and waved her over. I made the little girl climb into my lap to stop her shivering and the chaplain gave us all a blanket to huddle under. The angel flapped those dirty wings and cooed.

“Can I see?”

I let the little girl use my binoculars to make out that bent halo and loose curls. She got fingerprints all over the lens and I tried to ignore it.

“I want to be a meteorologist one day,” Clara said, unprompted. “So I can warn people about stuff like this.”

I snorted. “And I want to be a poet.”

“Hush,” Markus says to me and then to the little girl, “I’m sure you’ll make a great weather lady one day, Clara.” The chaplain gave a punished smile and it made me want to make fun of him just enough to stop it. Clara frowned.

“Did you always want to be a chaplain?” she asked in return, a bit meanly, and the chaplain didn't answer.

I cleared my throat. “Do you think that’s what it was trying to do? Trying to warn us?” “Or maybe it was just unlucky,” Markus says, rubbing a hand down his long face.

I snorted. “A bad day at work.”

“Does god allow for bad luck?” asked the little girl and the question hung limp and loose like those wings.

“Why don’t we ask it?” I say, and we laugh, weakly. We call out to the angel–questions and praise and hopes for tomorrow that we’ll get it out. Or maybe we'd have to get the shotgun tomorrow. The glow of the creature is so weak. Near midnight, the girl suggests we go looking for its trumpet. If it had been there to warn us, it might have carried a horn, and if it had a horn, we might be able to summon help from its friends.

We search, feebly, avoiding the sparking wires and the upturned wood and metal. We go around in the mud on our hands and knees until we match the trapped creature. Though, we never do figure out what to do with the angel tangled in the power line. The night was long and bitter and we didn’t have anywhere else to be, the drunken chaplain and family-less woman of the birds and that little girl.

Before dawn, I am asleep, we are all asleep, dead to the world like the day will never come. And in the morning, the wires are loose on the ground and quiet. The angel is gone and a relief trucks have come. A part of me hopes the creature made it out. The birds after all peck at the wires on the ground. A part of me is relieved to see that Davie is here and he has all his supplies in the back. The trucks arrived and the power company remembered us enough to cut off the power.

I have nowhere to be, and walk the little girl home. Gloria is happy to see her and offers me a place to stay the night. I tell her my car is just fine. Still, she says, just a night.

The window in the guest room faces the electrical wires. They’ll rebuild them one day because you can’t waste the material all the way out here. Clara will go off to college one day. The chaplain will leave the drink for good, he will, and the church in the same breath. I will write a poem one day and it won’t be any good.

The poem will be about the electrical wires outside my windows. How I don’t know if the angel made it out, but the birds still perch there. They preen and sing and fluff. I count them one by one in the pre-dawn light. Some are flesh and blood. They clean the feathers of the ones that aren’t. Pearly blue jays sing, barely visible, and letting out forgotten songs from yesteryear, and there are fewer ones in the proper light. The angel wire they call it. Year after year, the birds return with their bodies or without them, to sit one by one in a line. Pearly outlines preen their living grandchildren and sing to lost mates and fluff invisible wings, and I close my eyes and listen to the ghosts.

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