#to be clear these are their love languages of giving

[scarletmika]

Sunflower : ̗̀➛ Robert "Bob" Floyd x Reader

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x Mitchell!Reader

Summary: Bob Floyd was head over heels for you from the moment you met. You were the best thing that had ever happened to him. But Hangman knew just how to get under people's skin, too well sometimes, and sometimes frustration hits a boiling point when the people you don't want to hurt are standing in the way.

Warnings: fluff, some angst, established relationship, language, Hangman acting like an ass, female reader

Word Count: 3,771 words

Requests are open! : ̗̀➛ Find my masterlist here

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧

Pete “Maverick” Mitchell always had one rule for his daughter: no dating any Military men, or ladies, until he was dead. You’d always found the rule dumb, but your dad was firm on it. He knew what those men were like, he used to be one of them himself, part of the reason he ended up with a daughter of his own. Though he’d spend your entire life reminding you that you were the greatest gift the world had ever given him, and that’s why he was so protective with his different rules as you grew up.

You adhered to them for a long time…until Bob Floyd came along.

Maverick had just been called back to Top Gun for the first time in years, and while he was excited and terrified to come back, he was excited at the prospect of seeing you. You’d chosen to attend the University of California at San Diego, and loved the city so much you’d settled in it after graduation and never left. Living in a city, surrounded by Military men at every corner, and through the years you’d obeyed your father’s rule and steered clear of them all.

You could remember the first time you met Bob as if it had been yesterday. A text from Bradley Bradshaw, a man you’d grown up to see as practically your blood brother, telling you to meet him down at the Hard Deck. That was news to you, that he was even back in the States in the first place, but you also knew it meant he was most likely here on a mission.

“There’s my favorite girl!” Bradley had whooped out the second he’d finished his song on the piano, the rest of the bar going back to their own conversations as the jukebox was plugged back in. He’d practically jumped off the piano bench, rushing forward to bring you into a hug, lifting you up with a spin as you laughed, hitting his shoulder lightly. “Would you believe me if I told you you’re my favorite part of coming back to the States?”

“Absolutely not one bit, Brad-”

“Hate to interrupt…but who’s she, Rooster?”

You pulled back from your brother, shooting a friendly smile toward what you could tell by their uniforms were other Navy fighter pilots gathered around the piano, watching you both curiously. Bradley threw an arm over your shoulders, giving it a squeeze.

“This right here is my infamous Sunflower-”

“You eat ONE of those as a child and get a stupid nickname-”

“I’ve told you guys about her before, practically my little sister,” he pointed off at the rest of his friends, listing them off. “That’s Mickey, otherwise known as Fanboy and Reuben, also known as Payback. That right there is Phoenix, but when I talk about her with you I just call her Natasha. We’ve got Jake, more well-known as Bag- sorry, I mean Hangman. And that’s Bob.”

You raised an eyebrow, gaze fixed on Bob questioningly as you realized Bradley wasn’t continuing his introductions.

“Just Bob?”

The man in question seemed to get flustered a bit, trying to speak and not seemingly able to find the words as his cheeks flushed.

“Uh, well, you know-”

“We just use Bob as his callsign too,” it was Hangman that spoke up, clapping a hand on Bob’s shoulder that seemed like it was in mock support. “Baby-On-Board seemed pretty spot-on to call him.”

Your face dropped, already understanding why your best friend seemed to bristle at the entire existence of Jake Seresin. You crossed your arms, shooting the man a pointed look.

“At least babies are cute. They also probably don’t leave their wingmen out to dry, if your own callsign is anything to go off of,”

The howling laughter of the entire group brought a smile to your face, including the look on Hangman’s face that clearly showed he’d been knocked down a peg by your words alone. You took the lapse in conversation to lock eyes with Bob again, sending him a smile and a sly wink.

He wouldn’t admit it, but Bob was head over heels for you from then on.

The team didn’t think they’d be seeing you around that often after that night, until they learned you were Maverick’s daughter. You might not have been on base with them all day, every day, but every second they weren’t on base you were with them all, ingrained with them like one of the family.

Nights at the Hard Deck, beach days learning to work together as a team in preparation for a mission, or the few days some of them managed to get off early enough to swing by and say hello to you at work. You spent all of your time with them, and those Navy fighter pilots had quickly become your best friends.

Many of them, mainly Fanboy and Hangman, had tried to get your number multiple times, to no avail. They were either stopped by Rooster’s protective gaze on you, your own father’s murderous look he’d shoot them, or a simple and polite no from you every single time. Natasha was the only one who got your number.

Bob didn’t think he stood a chance either, having overheard Rooster talking about how your father had a rule for you about dating Military men as it was, so he never tried. That’s why it surprised him so much when you’d walked up behind him at the Hard Deck one night, plucking his phone straight from his hands when no one was looking and typing in your phone number without another word.

Phoenix was the one who noticed more than others, given that Bob was her WSO. How every single time they weren’t up in the air training for the uranium mission, or being lectured back on the ground, he was buried in his phone with a smile and a blush on his cheeks. Or the way he disappeared from the base the second he was allowed to, or how you both seemed to always be around one another now wherever you all were hanging out at.

The bird strike was the first time you’d accepted that maybe you were on the verge of breaking your father’s single rule he had for you your entire life.

Maverick knew how close you’d become with the entire team, and called you the second he could to inform you of the accident. You were already in your car and on your way to the base before your father had told you he’d gotten special permission from Cyclone to let you on base.

You’d practically flew into Natasha’s arms the second you caught sight of her in the medical wing, asking her a thousand times if she was okay and checking her over. Once you’d backed out of her arms and set your sights on Bob, you could feel the overwhelming urge to cry overtake you. You’d stepped into his arms in an instant, burying your head in his neck as you began to cry, and Bob didn’t stop holding you until the tears subsided.

It was right before the Uranium mission where your relationship with Bob changed in an instant.

You were already worried sick, knowing your father was now leading the mission. You’d gotten a text directly after from Rooster informing you that you dad would be leading the mission, followed by one from your father himself to announce it. A bunch of texts streamed in, but you couldn’t bother to answer them as the nauseous feeling inside of you only grew. That pit in your stomach grew bigger as you realized that your father and Bradley’s lives weren’t the only ones you were overly concerned about, but Bob’s too.

You’d sequestered yourself for the rest of the day, ignoring texts from everyone as you realized that what you felt for Bob went entirely past platonic feelings. It was the next day when you’d opened your front door after the doorbell rang to Bob standing there in his Navy dress whites. You didn’t say a word to him, and he didn’t say a word to you either, the pair of you simply colliding in the middle in a kiss that had the rules you’d followed all your life long forgotten.

“Maverick is going to kill me for this,” he’d practically moaned out through kisses as you gripped onto the back of his neck, pulling him back in every time he pulled away for even a second.

“Good, means he’ll keep you alive during the mission to kill you after,” Bob had finally gotten you to stop chasing after his lips, pulling back to see the tears slowly streaming down your face as he gently wiped them away. “Just come back to me…all of you.”

“I promise, Sunflower,”

This wasn’t the first time your father had been on deployment. You’d had plenty of friends over the years in the military, too. This was far from the first time you’d ever dealt with people you care about throwing themselves into the line of fire and risking their lives. But this time, it held a new weight to it.

You were at the forefront of Bob’s mind the entire mission. The moment Maverick called his name alongside Phoenix’s own, his first thought was of you. Of the prettiest girl he’d ever laid eyes on, the girl who had carved out a space in his heart in such a short amount of time, who’d he’d never thought he’d have a chance with, waiting at home for him. For him, her father, and her best friends. He thought of his own family, his parents and his siblings too, but you’d crept right up in there with them at the forefront of his mind.

It was you he thought about as he frantically called out signals for Phoenix when they’d rounded coffin corner. It was the dread he felt of having to tell you that your father and the man you considered your brother were both most likely dead the second the remaining Daggar squad had landed back on the ship. Then, it was like a weight lifted off his shoulders the second they landed back in safety with the rest of the team in that beat of F-14, knowing he could keep his promise to you.

The second the team was back in the states and touching ground on land, you’d been waiting with tears in your eyes for all of them. Maverick’s arms were the first you flew into, your father holding you as tightly as humanly possible, before he let Bradley join in on the group hug too.

“Is the cry fest over here done?” Hangman had called out, the rest of the team joining you all as they smiled at the sight of you wrapped in a bear hug of two of your favorite men. Hangman held out his arms, wiggling his fingertips. “Can’t the rest of the team get hugs here, Sunflower?”

You had pushed your way out of the hug and in Hangman’s direction, but his smirk fell when you’d simply brushed past him and threw yourself into Bob’s arms, tugging his lips back to yours, craving the feeling you’d already become addicted to. Bob could feel his cheeks instantly flush with the heat of the public display of affection, of knowing who was watching, but it was worth it for that moment with you.

Jake, Reuben, Mickey, and Bradley’s jaws all collectively dropped as they watched the interaction before them, while Natasha only held a small smirk on her lips, knowing her suspicions were confirmed. The group had all turned back to Maverick, collectively fearing for Bob’s own safety. They may have been more shocked to see a genuine smile of pure affection and love on the fighter pilot's lips.

That night, surrounded by everyone you’d come to love so dearly in the Hard Deck over well-earned beers, Maverick had quickly bestowed his blessing on the pair of you.

“If she’s going to ignore my lifelong rule and date a Military man…I’m glad it’s you, Floyd,” Maverick had clapped a hand down on his student’s shoulder, giving him a pointed look. “Break her heart, though, and the push-ups are going from 200 to 300. Daily.”

Those moments all seemed like ages ago to you, when in reality they’d only been 10 months ago. They’d led to this moment now, as you stepped into the Hard Deck on a busy Wednesday night later than usual because of work, trying to spot your group of pilots in the distance. Thankfully for you, they’d all been assigned to stay at Top Gun for an extended period of time, still learning more and more from Maverick as Cyclone had determined there was much more his top students could learn. For you, that meant having your best friends around every single day.

“Sunflower! How nice of you to join us!” Natasha had called out with a laugh, handing you one of the beers she’d grabbed for you already. You happily took it, clinking the top of your bottle with her own.

“Phoenix, you’re a lifesaver for this,” you’d thanked her, tipping your head back to gulp the alcoholic beverage. “Work was insane today, for no good reason, too!”

“Your father had us doing 200 push-ups every time we failed the flight simulations today,” Fanboy cut in, walking past quickly as he rounded the pool table in front of you both. “Trust me, most of us would kill for your office job right about now. Bet it’s got air-conditioning.”

“Hey, you guys want to handle company-wide presentations, be my guest. I don’t mind passing that off,” you watched Payback and Fanboy’s pool match for a moment, turning back to Phoenix at your side. “Is my boy hiding around here somewhere? He didn’t answer my text earlier when I said I was on my way.”

“Oh, you mean dark and stormy?” you lifted an eyebrow at her words as Natasha let out a soft laugh. “Hangman was being extra…Hangman today, if you will. Really was digging in on him all day, could hear him grumbling from the backseat of the jet after every comment.”

“Let me guess, Jake is still on his ass even now, after hours?”

“Last I saw, he had him crowded in a booth with Bradley across the room,”

You clinked your bottle with hers one more time before turning on your heel.

“Guess that my queue to go save him!”

Bob Floyd was having the worst day of his life, and it was thanks to Hangman. Don’t get it twisted, he really did love Jake, he was one of his brothers after everything that had gone down on the Uranium mission. This job can bind you wth people for life, and it has for them. Today, though, Hangman was just being so…classic Hangman.

“No, seriously, I think if you’d just given me a little more time I could have had Sunflower wrapped around my finger instead,” Jake commented with a laugh, taking another sip of his beer as he shot a smirk across the table at Bob, seeing his friend’s grip on his own beer bottle tighten. “Oh come on, Baby-On-Board, lighten up! It’s just jokes! Though we’ve got to admit, her and I would be one gorgeous couple.”

“Yeah, so funny,” Bob mumbled to himself as Bradley gripped onto Hangman’s shoulder, shoving him out of the booth and promising Bob he’d go distract him for a bit up at the bar. The second they were gone, Bob was rubbing at his eyes under his glasses, frustration rolling off of him in waves.

He could deal with the Baby-On-Board comments all day long, the snide comments throw his way as he worked his way through Maverick’s 200 push-ups. Hell, he could deal with the four-eyes jokes too. Did they get on his nerves? Absolutely. Was he at his breaking point today? Also yes. What sent him over the edge every time, without fail, was jokes about you.

It didn’t matter that you’d been together almost a year, that you’d been the first one to utter ‘I love you’ to him at three in the morning as you’d laid together in his bed, his insecurities never really went away, they were just satiated for periods. It was when Jake chose to remind him that you were, in fact, way out of his league that they came crawling back to the surface.

“Now, what’s my handsome pilot doing over here all alone?”

It was your voice in his ear suddenly, hands winding around his shoulders and fingers digging into his muscles as you leaned over the back of the booth, hugging him to you. Normally, Bob would be like putty in your hands, falling back into your touch and your words as every ounce of stress left him simply because he was in your presence. Today, though, his shoulders stayed tense as Hangman’s constant jeers and jabs from the last few hours floated around his head.

“Regretting leaving my house,”

You raised an eyebrow, feeling the way Bob’s shoulders tensed up instead of relaxing into you, and slid your way around the bench so that you were sitting beside him. You craned your neck to try and get a look at his face, but Bob refused to look at you, the stress of the entire day on the verge of breaking over the surface.

“Come on, baby, what’s wrong-”

“Why don’t you ask Hangman?”

The question caught you absolutely off guard as you pulled away from your boyfriend slightly in confusion.

“Jake? The hell does he have to do with this?” when Bob didn’t answer you, you only continued. “Phoenix said he was giving you shit today, is that what this is about?”

“He thinks if you didn’t end up with me, you’d be with him. You’d be some perfect, gorgeous couple,”

“And what, you believe him?”

“I don’t hear you denying it,”

That was the moment that Bob decided to finally look at you, and he felt every ounce of frustration leave his body as he was racked with guilt and regret immediately.

“Wow. Okay, Bob,”

“No wait, baby-” he tried to place his hand on yours, but you’d already ducked out of the booth and stood beside it.

“No, you’ve made your point,” you refused to look at him now, and Bob close his eyes for a moment, knowing he’d fucked up. “I get it, Hangman can be a dick, but I chose you, Bob. If I wanted him, I’d have picked him, but I’ve only ever wanted you, and I chose you. I don’t care how much of a dick he was today, insinuating that isn’t cool.”

Bob knew you well enough to know that with the way you went storming out of the Hard Deck, chasing after you right now wouldn’t be the greatest idea in the world. It was at that moment that Jake and Bradley came back to the table, Jake whittling at the sight of you storming away.

“Ooooo, trouble in paradise?”

“For once, Hangman, please shut the fuck up,”

If you thought yesterday was a long day at work, nothing compared to the day after your disastrous Hard Deck night. You hadn’t texted Bob a single time, nor him you, even though you wanted to.

You let out another sigh to yourself as you stood at the copy machine in the office, rubbing at your under eyes. In hindsight, you felt that you had overreacted to the conversation last night, and you weren’t sure how to apologize to Bob for it. He’d had a long day, and so had you, and it simply had all culminated in that moment that anything could’ve set someone off.

“Hey,” you turned your head to see one of your coworkers, Jessica, standing at the doorway of the printer room you were in. She nodded her head in the direction of your office. “Someone is waiting in your office for you, by the way. Navy boy by the looks of it.”

You’d left the project on the printer in front of you, immediately walking back down the hallways in the direction of your office. You knew immediately who it was waiting for you, and it brought a small smile to your face as you turned through the door of the office.

Bob was standing directly by your desk with a small, almost timid smile, a bouquet of flowers in his hands as he took a step toward you, you taking one toward him as well.

“Hi,”

“Hi,” you answered, stepping up to him, just a foot away. You took a glance down, seeing him still decked out in his flight suit, straight from the base. “Aren’t you supposed to be on an F-18 right now?”

“Maverick was nice enough to give me the rest of the day off,” he commented, albeit sheepishly as he looked to the side for a moment. “After…the 300 or so push-ups he made me do.”

“Might be my fault there, he called me this morning once he got to base wanting to know about the ‘Hard Deck’ gossip that Rooster was talking about. Sorry,”

“You don’t have to apologize, I should be the one apologizing,”

You took the moment to glance down at the flowers in his hands, a smile growing. White tulips, a common symbol for apologies. Red roses, of course, representing love.

A single sunflower. The symbol of adoration and loyalty. You took the bouquet from him, inhaling the scent with a grin on your lips that he mirrored.

“They’re beautiful,”

“So are you,” Bob took the bouquet from you, placing it on top of the desk behind you both before taking your face in his hands. “I love you. You are, quite literally, the best thing that had ever happened to me, Sunflower. I shouldn’t have let him get in my head, and I shouldn’t have said what I did last night-”

“I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did,” you cut in, hands placed over the top of his own as you gazed up at him. “We were both frustrated, that’s all. You just have to remember that I chose you, because I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he’d simply responded. “I’ll always love you.”

Just like that day he’d shown up on your doorstep in those dress whites, words weren’t needed between you both to simply collide together in a passionate kiss, pouring every ounce of love’d felt for this man since the moment you’d met him into it.

[harrywavycurly]

Lonely: Competition

Masterlist: Here

CW: Minor language, clingy harry, smut (oral f reviving, fingering) and mentions of drinking.

A/N: I have missed these two so I hope y’all enjoy this check in with them as we get closer to their actual wedding day!✨

Tag List: @blckburd @fangirl509east @ell0ra-br3kk3r @youngpastafanmug @mattieshattuck1 @outofthisworl-d @umadirectioner @styleswithaseaview @sunflower-tia @tulips4harry @gmikaelson @howling-wolf97 @namoreno @mema10

Word Count: 3K

Summary: Being at a friend’s wedding shows Harry’s competitive and clingy side✨

“This whole thing is outdoors?” You roll your eyes as Harry’s hand finds yours as the two of you walk down a path that’s lined with flowers that leads to the ceremony space your friend Janice will be marrying Tony, her long time on again off again boyfriend who proposed less than a year ago.

“It’s a wedding Harry not a thing.” You correct him making him let out a huff as he slides his sunglasses down to cover his eyes from the afternoon sun. “And yes it’s all outside because she wanted a garden theme and you can’t have a garden theme inside that would look-”

“Tacky.” He finishes for you as his eyes scan the space, not at all impressed with the flower choices or the color scheme. “Did she pick a garden theme because she wanted it outdoors or-”

“She liked the idea of an outdoor wedding. Yes.”

“Okay well that’s the thing.” His hand gives yours a squeeze as the two of you stop at the end of the path to grab a fan that has the couple’s initials and wedding date on it. “Everyone likes the idea of an outdoor wedding but in reality everyone actually hates outdoor weddings.” He explains as you lead him to an empty row of chairs towards the back deciding the two seats at the end near the aisle will do just fine for the two of you.

“That’s not true you love an outdoor wedding remember that one in Italy?”

“That was in the fall and it was indoors with the option of going outside if you wanted during the reception.”

“Okay well this one is in-”

“The middle of the summer and you can only go inside if you’re about to faint or need to use the bathroom.”

“What’s your point Harry?” You ask as you begin to fan yourself with the wedding day souvenir, Harry turns to look at you as he places a hand on the top of your thigh that’s poking out of the slit in your flowy maxi dress. When he leans in so his lips are right next to your ear he can smell the sweetness of your perfume and it makes his mind fuzzy for a moment before he softly tries to clear his throat and remember what the two of you are currently discussing.

“We are going to be miserable by the time the reception starts.” He whispers making you let out a gasp and swat his chest with your fan.

“Harry Styles you love weddings so I know for a fact you’ll have a decent time once we get a few glasses of wine into your system.”

“Ours is going to be so much better.” He states before placing a kiss to the spot below your ear as you roll your eyes place a hand over his that’s on your thigh.

“It’s not a competition. It’s a wedding.” You remind him as you go back to fanning yourself as you look around and smile at a few familiar faces as they take their seats.

“I know.” He says as he flips the hand on your thigh so his palm is against yours, sliding his fingers in between yours. “But still ours is going to be better.” You just let out a laugh and shake your head as he lifts your joined hands up to his lips so he can place a few kisses to your knuckles.

“And why is that?”

“Well for starters it’s not going to have people sweating their asses off before the ceremony even starts.” He ignores the glare you’re giving him as he places one last kiss to the top of your hand. “But most importantly you’ll be the bride so that’s an automatic win because there’s no way Janice is going to out do you my love.”

“You’re horrible.” You say with a laugh as you turn to look over your shoulder as a violinist begins to play. “Now behave yourself it’s about to start.” You warn making Harry chuckle as he places your joined hands back on the top of your thigh.

“Yes ma’am.” He teases earning him another swat to the chest with your fan.

An hour into the reception and Harry, who is already two glasses of wine deep places a hand on the back of your chair so in one not so gentle tug you’re being pulled closer to him so your thighs are touching making you let out a small squeak of surprise. You know when he drinks wine it makes him slightly more clingy than normal and you don’t really mind it, so you just place a hand on his thigh and give it a loving pat making him smile as he brings his glass up to his lips.

“You were too far away from me.”

“Harry there was less than a foot between us.”

“Exactly. Way too much space between us.” He says with a pout as he turns his head so he can lean over and place a kiss to the top of your head. “Didn’t like it.” He mumbles into your hair making you laugh and playfully roll your eyes.

“You’re so dramatic.” You tease as you look over at him just to find him already staring at you. “But luckily it’s one of the things I love about you.” He grins as you give his thigh a squeeze.

“I’m not the only dramatic one in this relationship you know.” You quirk a brow at him making him get a playful smirk on his face as he places his arm over the back of your chair, his hand running up and down your arm. “Remember that time during Live on Tour and you missed me so much you broke into my rehearsal at radio city?”

“I did not break into your rehearsal I just showed up i unannounced because I wanted to surprise you.”

“So Preston didn’t chase you down a hallway backstage?”

“No he didn’t chase me down a hallway. I was on the list and honestly even if I wasn’t he would’ve let me in because Preston loves me.”

“I know.” He says with a laugh as you reach over for your glass of water. “Him and I have that in common.” He adds with a smile as you take a sip.

“I’ll be right back.” Harry’s face contorts into one of pure sadness as you place your water glass down on the table and begin to slide out of your seat.

“Where are you going? You can’t leave me with these people.”

“They’re your friends-”

“No love they are your friends I don’t-who the hell is that man two seats down from Henry?”

“That’s Andrew he’s Janice’s cousin.”

“Baby please don’t leave me I’ll miss you too much.” He whines making you have to hold back a laugh.

“I’m just going to the bathroom Harry I’ll be back before you even get the chance to miss me okay?” You say in an attempt to reassure him as you stand behind his chair and place your hands on his shoulders as he looks up at you.

“Doubt it. I’ll miss you the moment you walk away.”

“You’ll be okay.”

“I don’t think I will be.” You giggle as he lets out a sad sigh.

“The quicker I leave the quicker I’ll be back.”

“Fine but can I have a kiss first?” You smile and leans down to place a quick kiss to his lips, giggling at how his facial hair tickles your chin as you pull away. “Hurry back.” He tells you before you turn around so you can head inside where the bathrooms and a small standing area that allows people to cool off from the hot summer heat are located.

You’re standing in the small area just outside the restrooms with your fan in your hand and a small polite smile on your face as you take a minute and cool down a bit. There’s only a handful of other guests around you, enjoying some small talk amongst themselves before they go and endure the heat for the remainder of the reception that still has at least another hour and a half till it transitions into waving off the happy couple into their car to venture off to their honeymoon. You’re about to walk back out into the sun and join Harry at the table when you feel a hand grab yours that’s not holding your fan and drag you down the small hallway towards the bathrooms.

“Harry? What-” you don’t get the rest of your question out before he’s pulling you into the nearest bathroom and locking the door behind him.

“Missed you.” Is all he says before his hands are on your face and his lips are crashing into yours in a kiss. You stand there stunned for a moment, but when you feel him start to walk you backward until you’re pressed against the countertop the sink is on you quickly snap out of it and place your hand on his chest giving it a gentle push. He gives in and allows a small amount of space between the two of you as he fits himself between your legs.

“Harry.” Your voice is a soft whisper as he pulls his lips away from yours just to attach them to the side of your neck as his hands grab your hips giving them a squeeze. “What’s going on with you today?” You ask as you let the fan drop from your hands so you can get a firm hold of his arms as he begins to nip at the sensitive skin below your ear.

“Tired of shitty weddings.” He mumbles against your skin as you tilt your head to allow him better access to your neck. “With shitty food and shitty wine. Want it to be our wedding day.” You feel his lips curve downward into a frown as he continues his way down your neck, lightly nipping and kissing as he goes.

“We get married in three weeks.” You remind him as one of your hands finds its way to the back of his head, sliding into his hair making a small whine bubble up from the back of his throat when you give it a tug.

“S’not soon enough.” He argues as he pulls away from your neck so he can look at you, when you meet his gaze you see a familiar mixture of not only love but also an intense hunger swirling around the green of his eyes. “You look beautiful.” You smile as his eyes travel down your neck to the silver H pendant that hits just above where the neckline of your dress starts.

“Thank you.” He smiles as his eyes continue roaming down your frame, tucking his bottom lip in between his teeth when he gets to the flesh of your thigh he can see due to the slit in your dress. You feel your heart race as his hand slides from your hip down to your thigh, his hand is warm on your skin and before you can ask what he’s doing his mouth is once again on yours capturing you in a deep kiss.

“You’re driving me crazy.” He murmurs roughly when he pulls away, pressing you firmly against the countertop before his lips find their way to your jaw kissing down it as his hand travels up your thigh, a moan slips past his lips when he feels you give his hair a soft tug

“Need you.” He says between kisses to your jaw. “Need to feel you baby please.” He begs as you close your eyes and get lost in the feeling of his lips on your skin and the warmth of his body being pressed against yours.

“Is this okay?” He asks as his hand slides to the edge of your panties groaning softly when he feels a warm wet spot against his fingertips.

“Yes.” You breathe out shakily as you place a hand behind you on the counter to help steady yourself while Harry’s lips curl into a smirk against the smooth skin of your neck.

“How about this?” He asks softly as his thumb begins rubbing your clit in gentle circles over your panties. “Is this okay or-”

“Harry please.” He pulls away from your neck as he increases the pressure his thumb is putting on your sensitive bundle making you let out a soft moan.

“Please what?” You open your eyes as he leans in and nudges the tip of his nose against yours. “Tell me what you need baby.”

“More.” Harry doesn’t waste any time moving your soaked panties to the side, letting out a throaty moan as he slips two fingers smoothly into your slick warmth. You let out a gasp at the feeling of his thumb resuming its slow antagonizing circles on your clit, your hips grind down against his hand matching the rhythmic thrusts of his fingers.

“Always feel so good.” He moans as he expertly teases you, thumb circling your sensitive bundle of nerves in a way that has your eyes snapping shut and a shiver running up your spine.

His lips press against yours as your hand in his hair tightens, he deepens the kiss as he curves his fingers inside of you finding the spot that will have you coming undone in a mater of minutes if he keeps nudging it with the tip of his index finger over and over again. You pull away from the kiss with a moan as your hips jerk at the added pressure his thumb gives your clit.

“Can I taste you? Please?” His voice is lower and full of need as he drops his head so his lips are barely touching your ear, his breath warm against your neck.

“Yes.” Your voice is shaky and desperate as you open your eyes and nod your head, a soft whine leaves you when he removes his fingers from inside you. He pulls away from you so he can drop to his knees, his eyes dark with passion as he looks up at you while bringing his soaked fingers to his lips so he can get a quick taste.

“So fucking good.” He mumbles, he uses both hands to lift your dress over your hips, sliding your panties down to your ankles, he licks his lips as he leans in and places a kiss to the inside of your thigh before his eyes hungrily take in the site of your glistening center.

Your knees nearly give out when he gives you no warning before he’s diving in, your hand in his hair giving you something to grab hold of as he uses the flat of his tongue to lick you before he slips it inside your wetness. His hands firmly grip your hips as you start to grind down on his tongue, his lips enclosing around your clit giving it the attention it desperately needs.

“Oh god.” You pant as your legs get wobbly, making him moan against you when he feels your grip in his hair tighten.

“Let go for me baby.” He begs as he slides his fingers back inside you. You grip the edge of the countertop as his fingers start to match the rhythmic movements of his tongue.

“Right-right there oh fuck.” Your head leans back as you let out a loud moan, Harry groans against you as his tongue gives your clit a few flicks making him feel your body begin to tighten around his fingers.

His eyes snap up to your face so he can watch you come undone with a few gasps and soft chants of his name falling from your mouth as you ride out your wave of pleasure. He eases you through it with gentle licks as he slides his fingers from your wetness, your fingers release their grip in his hair as you try to gently push his face away as he tries to not let a single drop of you go to waste. He places kisses to your knee and your thigh as he brings your panties back up before rising to his feet. Harry presses a soft kiss to your trembling lips, his voice gentle and filled with nothing but love.

“I love you.” He whispers against your lips making you smile as he leans his forehead against yours.

“I love you too Harry.” You respond still trying to catch your breath. You feel his hands on your hips messing with the skirt of your dress. “This is why we don’t do things like this at weddings.” You tease as he backs up giving you some space to fix your dress he unintentionally made a bit of a wrinkled mess of.

“Oh so we can only do things like this at regular parties then?” He jokes as he runs his hands through his hair while looking over your shoulder and into the mirror behind you. “What about bars? Can we do this sort of thing there?”

“You’re ridiculous.” You say with a shake of your head as you finish messing with your dress deciding it’s as good as it’s going to get.

“By the way I will be doing things like this-” He gives you a playful smirk as he licks his lips while motioning between the two of you. “And probably a whole lot more at our wedding.” He finishes making you roll your eyes but he doesn’t miss the smile that makes its way onto your face as you reach your hands out and place them on his chest.

“I’d honestly be shocked if you didn’t try to have your way with me at least once during our wedding.” Harry lets out a chuckle as he places his hands on top of yours.

“Three more weeks.” He says with a soft sigh as his thumbs run over your knuckles.

“Three more weeks and then you’re stuck with me forever and ever.”

“Can’t wait.” He grins as he leans down to place a sweet kiss to your lips.

[ririright]

husband!hayhayyy during an argument???

The Build-Up

Hayden rarely raises his voice, but when he’s upset, his tone becomes quiet, his words more measured. He crosses his arms, his brows drawn together.

But for serious arguments, he avoids eye contact at first, his voice dropping to a low, tense murmur. “I don’t want to fight with you.”

He’ll run his fingers through his hair when he’s frustrated, pacing the room, his natural calm cracking just slightly.

He Can’t Stand the Silent Treatment

If you give him the silent treatment, it eats at him. He’ll hover nearby, trying to catch your gaze, clearing his throat to get your attention.

He’ll try to be subtle at first, asking if you want a snack or need anything. If you’re still quiet, he gets a little desperate.

“Please say something. Anything. You can even yell at me. I’ll take it.”

Apologizing First

If he knows he’s wrong, he’ll apologize without hesitation, his voice soft and his gaze sincere. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I never wanted to hurt you.”

He has this habit of reaching out for your hand when he apologizes, his thumb brushing your knuckles as if he’s afraid you’ll pull away.

Even if he thinks he’s right, he still wants to make peace. He’s more about finding a solution than being “the winner.”

The Overthinking Spiral

After an argument, if you walk away, Hayden’s mind races. He’ll sit quietly, staring at the floor, replaying the fight over and over.

“Was I too harsh? Did I say something wrong? Is she okay?”

If you take too long to come back, he’s knocking gently on the door. “Sweetheart… please talk to me.”

Physical Comfort

He’s naturally touchy, so if you’re upset but willing, he’ll reach for you, brushing his thumb over your cheek or gently tucking your hair behind your ear.

If you’re crying, he’s immediately soft, his arms wrapping around you. “I’m here. I’m so sorry.”

He’ll press his forehead against yours, his voice a quiet whisper. “I love you. I don’t want this to hurt us.”

Apology Language

He’s big on heartfelt apologies—no generic “I’m sorry.” He’ll actually explain his side and admit where he was wrong.

“I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I was stressed, but that’s not your fault. Please forgive me.”

He often uses humor to lighten the mood once things start to calm down. “So, are we okay? Or do I have to grovel?”

Apology Treats

If he’s really messed up, you’ll find little treats around the house. Your favorite snacks mysteriously appear on the kitchen counter.

He once tried to bake you cookies as a peace offering. They were… edible. Barely.

He also has a habit of leaving little apology notes—sticky notes on the mirror with “I love you” and a sad, doodled face.

Hugging It Out

When the argument is resolved, he insists on hugging you for a long time. It’s like he’s making sure you’re okay, his arms tight around you.

Sometimes, he’ll nuzzle into your neck and whisper, “Let’s never fight again.”

You both know that’s impossible, but it always makes you smile.

Immediate Affection Overload

After an argument, he becomes extra clingy for the rest of the day, always reaching for your hand, kissing your cheek, or pulling you into his lap on the couch.

If you go to bed still a little upset, he’ll spoon you, his chin resting on your shoulder, whispering “I love you” until you both fall asleep.

Never Letting It Fester

Hayden refuses to go to bed angry. Even if you’re both tired, he’ll sit up with you, talking it out until everything’s okay.

If you end up falling asleep still upset, he’s the first to wake up, making you breakfast and apologizing again.

He never wants you to feel unloved, even for a second.

Those Unspoken Apologies

Sometimes, he doesn’t know how to say it in the moment, so he’ll show his remorse through actions—bringing you your favorite coffee, drawing you a warm bath, or letting you pick the movie.

If you’re the one who was wrong, he doesn’t hold a grudge. The second you apologize, he’s kissing your forehead and whispering, “We’re okay. I promise.”

[yoiisa]

NO BC BACHIRA WOULD BE SO CUTE WITH A CHUBBY READER!!!!!!

Like there's a panel of him offering his caramel latte or drink to Isagi and just...

He would offer from his food to his S/O and enjoy their face lit up as the flavours reach their taste buds.

The complete look of adoration he would give them!!!!!

I KNOW I KNOW!! ٩(^ᗜ^ )و ´-

➜ i honestly think that bachira meguru would be one of the best bfs in all of blue lock. he'd be super loyal and funny and caring ➜ and one of the ways he'd take care of you would be through feeding you ➜ he loves all of you after all and the more you eat the more there is to love, so catch this man constantly telling you to try his food as well ➜ even if you don't even ask for it, he's shoving his ice cream or parfaits or fries in your face, insisting that you have a bite

"Is it good?" he asks. "Isagi mentioned this place to me while we were still in Blue Lock, but I've never been here before." You smile as you like your ice cream. "Mhm! Their coffee flavor is really good. It's not too bitter or anything!" Bachira looks over at you, and he freezes for a second, taking in the way your cheeks pudge and turn pink when you smile. You're an actual angel. There's no way someone this pretty is real and dating him, no way. And yet, he's holding your hand and he just bought you that ice cream. He wants to go back and buy you the whole store. He looks down at his own cone, his chocolate ice cream slightly dented from the licks he's already taken. He turns slightly and holds the sweet treat out to you. "Here, have some." "What?" you laugh and shake your head. "No, Meguru, I can't do that. You've barely eaten anything at all. Besides I have this, I'm good." "I want you to try mine," he pouts. "I wanna know if you like it." If you like me every part of me, he thinks, even my ice cream order. You sigh and take a small lick. The fudgy flavor explodes in your mouth and you moan in delight. "This one's good too! Oh my god, where did Isagi find this place?" Bachira smiles and kisses your cheek. "I don't know, but I'm glad he did." He loves seeing you smile.

➜ he also loves seeing you get all dolled up ➜ bachira will sit like a patient puppy as you do your makeup and get dressed and when you're done, he will give you no less than a million compliments ➜ you know that one clip from fruits basket where tohru just orbits around Kyo after the time skip? yeah, that's him ➜ he's very careful to not touch your or kiss you in such a way that will ruin your look, but he's all for you kissing him! ➜ make sure you leave a cute little lip stain on his cheek before you go! ➜ also, wear something that shows off your bod a little. he loves seeing the way cotton/satin/silk/velvet/whatever else clothes are made out of hug your curves

Bachira leaves the top button on his shirt open, allowing his collar and neck some breathing room. He hates wearing shirts with necks that are too tight, he feels like it's choking him a lot of the time. When he's done he grabs a tux jacket and shrugs it onto himself, before making his way to the bathroom to check on you. "Baby~" he coos, "you almost rea-" His voice dies in his throat as he catches sight of you. Your makeup is all done, sweet red lips, sparkly eyeshadow, long lashes, blush that compliments your complexion perfectly- Wait, is his heart still beating? No, it's definitely not, especially when his eyes drag down the rest of your body. Golden satin hugs your body, accentuating your hips and breasts and curves and just so . . . WOMAN. He almost falls to his knees right then and there. You have about a third of your hair left to straighten when he comes in. You smile and say, "Hi. Almost done. How do I look so far." There are no words that are poetic enough in any language to express how drop dead gorgeous you are so Bachira just clears his throat and says, "Wow." You giggle and turn back to the mirror. "Gimme fifteen more minutes, Meguru." He nods and walks towards you, as if he's floating on thin air. He comes up behind you and hugs you, his hands rest gently on your hips. "Take all the time you need. I wanna make sure you're the prettiest girl at the party."

A/N: y'all ever just see a woman and think about how lucky you are that XX chromosomes paired up during meiosis (or however it works, bio isn't my strong suit at all).

[amethystarachnid]

I know your requests are closed, but daaaamn, I need another part of "Forced Marriage" 😭😭😭😭😭 a late honeymoon, oh, to Italy, I love Italy 😭 and more of Tony being the cutest, sweetest and the most loving and devoted husband EVER!!!! 🤧 also, KIDS 🥹 what about twins? One of each? Let the girl dream 😭 but Tony taking care of a pregnant wife and dad!Tony is the best thing ever, especially yours 🩷🩷

Again, I know your requests are closed, I 100% respect that, don't mind me 🫠

FORCED MARRIAGE - part 2

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

ᯓ★ Pairing: Anthony “Tony” E. Stark x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre romance, fluff and spicy

ᯓ★ Word count: 8.3k

ᯓ★ Summary:what the asks said lol

ᯓ★ TW(s): nothing I think, just a little spicy scene

ᯓ★ Part 1

ᯓ★ Love is in the air - Valentine's Day special game

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

Italy is your idea, but Tony’s the one who makes it perfect.

He books everything before you can blink—private jet, villa in Tuscany, romantic dinners lined up for a week straight. “If we’re finally doing this,” he says, tossing you a smirk as he flips his phone shut, “we’re doing it the right way. No boardrooms, no cameras, no press. Just you and me.”

You glance at him over the top of your coffee mug. “So, no suitcases filled with arc reactors and gadgets?”

He lifts a brow. “I only packed one suit of armor, thank you very much.”

He’s joking—mostly—but the truth is, Tony’s been different. Since the gala, since that bathroom, since everything... he’s been present. He makes time. He listens. He loves you, openly and without shame, and you can feel it in everything he does. He doesn’t need to say it every day, though he does, in little ways:

In the way he brushes hair behind your ear without thinking.

In the way he sets an extra pillow where your knee gets sore sometimes.

In the way he kisses your shoulder in the morning and whispers, “Still here.”

The flight to Italy is quiet and calm. For once, neither of you needs to pretend. You fall asleep with your head on his shoulder, and when you wake up, he’s still holding your hand.

The villa he’s chosen is perched on a hillside, surrounded by vineyards and olive groves. The air smells like rosemary and warm stone and blooming flowers. The sky is impossibly blue.

You walk through the stone archway into the sun-drenched villa, and Tony whistles, impressed—even though he’s the one who bought the place for the week.

“Okay,” he says, dropping your bags inside the doorway. “I have a checklist.”

You give him a look. “A checklist? You?”

“Oh, don’t act surprised. I can be organized. Sometimes.” He clears his throat. “Item one: kiss wife in Tuscany.”

You arch a brow. “That’s oddly specific.”

“I’m a man of taste.” He walks over, grabs your waist, and kisses you slow and deep until your knees nearly give out. When he finally pulls back, he’s smiling like an idiot. “Check.”

You laugh against his mouth. “What’s item two?”

“Make pasta. Badly. Burn things. Throw flour at each other. Rom-com level disaster.”

And he’s not wrong.

Later that afternoon, after a lazy nap wrapped in crisp linen sheets and a warm breeze drifting through the open balcony, Tony insists on making fresh pasta from scratch, despite the fact that neither of you really knows what you’re doing.

It starts with enthusiasm and ends in chaos. Flour coats the kitchen, your hair, Tony’s face. A cracked egg drips off the counter. You accidentally launch a handful of dough across the room, and Tony dramatically declares war by smearing tomato sauce on your cheek.

You shriek, lunging at him, but he catches you around the waist and lifts you up onto the counter, kissing you like it’s the only thing that matters in the world.

And maybe it is.

Dinner is a slightly undercooked mess. You both eat every bite anyway.

Afterward, barefoot and tipsy on a bottle of red wine Tony opened with too much force, you sit outside under a canopy of fairy lights, the stars just beginning to show.

Tony has his arm around your shoulders. You’re wearing one of his loose t-shirts, and he’s in soft linen pants and nothing else. The warm wind rustles through the cypress trees, and there’s music playing from a small speaker nearby—some classic Italian tune Tony insisted was necessary for the vibe.

You lean your head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart.

“I like this version of us,” you murmur.

Tony presses a kiss to your hair. “Me too.”

“Why’d it take us so long to get here?”

He exhales slowly, like he’s been thinking about that a lot too. “Because I was a coward,” he admits. “And I didn’t deserve you. But I’m not letting you go now.”

You lift your eyes to his, studying the way the firelight flickers in them. “I’m not planning to leave.”

His smile is soft, nothing like the smirks he used to give you. “Good.”

The first day of your honeymoon ends with you curled up in his lap, the air filled with the scent of wine and rosemary, your laughter echoing in the hills.

And for once, there’s no bitterness. No tension. No fear.

Just love. And peace. And Tony Stark, holding you like he never wants to let you go.

---

The next morning starts off peaceful—until it doesn’t.

You wake before Tony, sunlight streaming in through the sheer curtains, birds chirping somewhere outside. You stretch, a sleepy smile playing on your lips as you take in the soft warmth of the sheets, the way Tony’s hand is still resting on your hip even in his sleep.

But then your stomach lurches.

Suddenly. Violently.

You barely make it to the bathroom before you're on your knees, heaving into the toilet.

Tony stumbles in moments later, his hair a disaster, shirtless and wide-eyed. “Sweetheart?”

You wave him off weakly, spitting out the last of the bile. “M’fine.”

“You’re not fine,” he says, kneeling beside you like he’s ready to call in a full emergency medical team. “Are you sick? Food poisoning? Was it the undercooked pasta? I knew we shouldn’t have eaten that. I swear if this is salmonella, I’m buying the entire food safety board of Italy.”

You groan and slump against the cool tile, resting your head against the wall. “Tony, calm down. It’s probably nothing.”

“Nothing?” His voice goes up an octave. “You were throwing up! That’s literally something. That's a huge, very alarming something!”

“I’m okay,” you mumble. “Just… nauseous.”

Tony’s already pulling his phone out, muttering to himself. “We need a doctor. Maybe two doctors. No, we’ll fly one in from Switzerland. Private jet. I’ll—”

“Tony!” you cut him off, grabbing his wrist. “Let’s just go to a pharmacy first, okay? It might just be… something simple.”

He pauses, looking at you with deep concern. “Fine. But if they don’t have what you need, I will buy the village. Just saying.”

—

The pharmacy is small and rustic, nestled between two cafes in the heart of the nearby town. It smells like lavender and lemons, with shelves stacked high with herbal remedies and charmingly mismatched bottles.

Tony sticks out like a sore thumb in his expensive sunglasses and hoodie, hovering behind you like a nervous bodyguard.

An elderly Italian woman emerges from the back, dressed in a floral blouse and bold red lipstick. Her silver hair is piled high, and she eyes you both with a mischievous glint.

“Americani?” she guesses immediately, grinning. “Luna di miele?”

“Honeymoon,” Tony murmurs, leaning toward you. “She knows we’re newlyweds.”

The woman winks. “Amore è nel’aria.” Love is in the air. She shuffles closer. “Come posso aiutarti, cara?”

You point to your stomach, trying to mime nausea. “I woke up feeling sick—stomach… blegh.”

The woman squints, then gives you a long, appraising look. She glances at Tony. Then back at you.

And with a delighted little “Ah-ha!”, she reaches behind the counter… and slaps a box onto the counter with a proud flourish.

Tony leans in to read the label.

Then blinks.

Then blinks again.

“A pregnancy test?” he says, voice cracking slightly.

The woman beams. “Sì! Congratulazioni!”

You stare at the box. Then at her. Then at Tony.

“Wait,” you whisper. “She thinks I’m pregnant?”

Tony looks at you, visibly pale. “Are you…?”

“I don’t know!” you hiss.

The woman pushes the box closer to you, her voice cheery and loud. “Due linee rosa! Pink lines, baby!”

You awkwardly thank her, pay for the test, and practically drag Tony out of the pharmacy, the woman shouting behind you, “Felicità! Fate una femmina, è meglio!” Make a girl—it’s better!

Tony’s quiet the entire way back to the villa.

You are too.

The test sits on the bathroom counter like a bomb.

You stare at it. He stares at you.

And finally, with shaking hands, you take the test and close the door.

Minutes pass.

Tony paces outside, muttering under his breath. “Okay. Okay, if it’s positive, we’ll handle it. We’ve got this. I mean—what even is a crib, really? Just a fancy baby cage, right?”

You open the door.

You’re holding the test.

Two pink lines.

You don’t say anything. You don’t have to.

Tony sees it.

His face goes blank. Then slowly, slowly, the emotion starts to flood in—shock, disbelief, and something so soft it nearly makes your knees give out.

He swallows hard. “We’re… gonna have a baby?”

You nod, lip trembling. “Yeah.”

Tony doesn’t move at first.

Then, suddenly, he’s got you in his arms, lifting you off the floor and spinning you around in the hallway.

“Holy hell,” he breathes, kissing your forehead, your cheeks, your mouth. “We’re having a baby.”

You laugh, half-crying, clutching the front of his shirt. “I guess we really are on our honeymoon now.”

“Guess we are.”

He sets you down gently, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I love you,” he whispers. “And I already love this little person we made. And I swear, I’m gonna do this right. No matter what.”

You nod, wiping tears off your cheeks. “I know.”

And when he kisses you again, slow and full of awe, the world seems to stand still—just the two of you, your hearts beating in sync, in a tiny villa in Italy, already beginning the next chapter of your life.

---

The rest of the honeymoon is nothing like you expected—because now, everything is different.

Tony doesn’t let you lift a finger. Not even a coffee cup.

You try to protest—at first. “Tony, I’m pregnant, not fragile.”

But he just lifts a brow, gently takes the mug from your hand, and says, “You’re carrying my child. Which means you’re now a VIP-class spaceship. No turbulence. No sudden movements. Maximum comfort only.”

He’s serious, too.

He adds extra pillows to the bed, orders decaf espresso—grudgingly—for you every morning, and Googles every possible fruit, cheese, and spice to make sure you’re not eating anything “even remotely suspicious.” He downloads four pregnancy tracking apps and cross-references them.

Tony Stark is in full dad mode.

One evening, when you go to watch the sunset with him and try to sit on the stone ledge around the patio, he nearly has a heart attack.

“Nope,” he says, scooping you up like you're made of glass. “You’re not breaking any part of your body before this kid is born.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s like a two-foot drop, Tony.”

“I’ve seen ankles snap for less. Google ‘cobblestone hazards in Tuscany.’ I dare you.”

He makes everything dramatic, but it’s not just nerves—it’s adoration.

He touches your belly like it’s already precious. Talks to it when he thinks you’re asleep. Whispers things like, “You’re gonna love your mom,” or “We’ll start with science toys and then move to building suits,” or, “If you’re a girl, don’t even look at boys until you’re thirty.”

You hear it all.

And your heart falls for him a little more every day.

—

Three days after the pregnancy test, you decide to return to the pharmacy. You owe her—Nonna Rosa, as you find out—for the moment that changed everything.

Tony insists on carrying a bouquet of bright flowers and a bottle of fancy wine.

“I don’t care if she’s probably against drinking because she’s old-school and religious,” he says, adjusting his sunglasses. “She deserves something expensive.”

When you walk into the little shop again, she spots you instantly.

“Ahhhh! La bambina!” she cries, throwing up her hands.

Tony laughs. “Told you. Psychic.”

She rushes over, pulls you into a firm hug, then plants both hands on your cheeks and stares. “Si vede negli occhi! I can see it in your eyes.”

“You really knew,” you say in disbelief. “I hadn’t even missed a period yet.”

She shrugs like it’s nothing. “È l’istinto. It’s instinct. And the glow. And the way he looked at you.”

Tony smirks. “What glow? I was a nervous wreck.”

“You were in love,” she corrects him.

He goes quiet, squeezing your hand.

Nonna Rosa spends the next half hour giving you tea samples for nausea, a handmade charm bracelet for “protection of la madre e il bambino,” and instructions on what herbs to steep at different stages of pregnancy. You leave the shop with two bags of supplies, your stomach sore from laughing, your heart warm.

Before you go, she hugs you both again, then whispers in your ear, “He will be a good papa. You are already a good mama.”

You blink back tears. “Thank you.”

—

Back at the villa, Tony’s affection only deepens.

When you get emotional watching a commercial about olive oil, he doesn’t laugh—he just pulls you into his arms, rubbing your back until the tears pass.

When you mention feeling bloated, he books a private massage therapist who specializes in prenatal care and says, “I’ll tip her enough to pay her rent for a year.”

When you start craving fresh mozzarella and figs at midnight, he drives an hour to the next town to find it.

You fall asleep with his hand resting on your belly every night.

You wake up to forehead kisses and whispered I-love-yous every morning.

And somewhere in between all of that, it finally clicks: This isn’t just a changed man.

This is a man who wants to build something with you.

A life. A family. A future.

—

On the last night of the honeymoon, you stand on the balcony with him, watching the Tuscan sky fade into stars. He wraps his arms around you from behind, hands resting just under your growing waistline.

“You know,” he murmurs against your ear, “I used to think love was a weakness.”

You tilt your head slightly. “And now?”

He presses a kiss to your temple. “Now I know it’s the only thing worth fighting for.”

You cover his hands with yours. “You’re going to be a great dad, Tony.”

He swallows hard, voice a little rough when he answers. “Only because you’re going to be the heart of this family.”

---

Coming back home feels different this time—like you’re stepping into a new chapter. One that hums quietly with anticipation and change.

Tony doesn’t let you carry a single bag off the plane, despite the fact that you’re still barely showing. “You’re carrying everything that matters,” he says, snapping his fingers at Happy, who takes your suitcase with a nod. “She gets airport princess treatment now.”

The Stark penthouse has been dusted, prepped, and stocked—Tony made sure of it before you even landed. There’s already a room cleared out across from your bedroom, not quite a nursery yet, but he looks at it with this strange sort of awe every time he walks by.

The next morning, he’s up at 6 a.m., pacing, already dressed and muttering to himself as he taps anxiously at his StarkPad.

You’re still brushing your teeth when he pokes his head into the bathroom. “Are you ready? We should leave in ten. Maybe fifteen, if we account for traffic. I already paid off three guys to clear the garage so Happy can pull the car around faster. Also—I downloaded the entire obstetrics textbook from Harvard Medical School and cross-checked it with six blogs. I’m ready for this.”

You spit into the sink and blink at him. “Tony. We’re just getting an ultrasound.”

“Exactly!” he says, eyes wide like you’ve just missed the apocalypse. “An ultrasound. Our baby. Who, by the way, has not responded to any of my nightly pep talks. I think they’re already ignoring me.”

You stifle a laugh and wipe your mouth. “It’s the size of a lime, Tony. It doesn’t know you’re talking to it.”

He scoffs. “Rude. I’m extremely charming.”

You roll your eyes and walk out to grab your coat, and he immediately follows, already fretting. “Do you want snacks? Water? What if you get cold in the waiting room? Should I bring a backup sweater for you? And backup for the backup?”

“Tony.”

“Yeah?”

“I love you. But if you don’t stop panicking, I’m going to need medical attention.”

He stops in his tracks. Blinks. Then smiles sheepishly. “Right. Sorry. I’m chill. Totally chill.” He takes a deep breath. “Super chill.”

—

He’s not chill.

Not at the clinic. Not even a little bit.

The poor nurse tries to ask you your name, and Tony blurts it out before you can. “Y/N Stark. She’s my wife. We're having a baby. We're very in love. Also, she's been nauseous, but not today, which I think is progress.”

The nurse gives you a knowing look. You just squeeze Tony’s hand and smile. “We’re here for the first ultrasound.”

They lead you into a cozy, softly lit room with pale blue walls and framed photos of smiling families. Tony paces while you settle onto the exam table, fidgeting as the tech preps the machine.

When the image appears on the screen, the room goes quiet.

There, nestled in the grainy black-and-white blur, is a tiny flicker.

A heartbeat.

Tony’s breath catches audibly. He reaches for your hand, slowly, as if afraid the image might vanish if he moves too fast.

“That’s… them?” he asks softly.

The tech nods, smiling. “That’s your baby.”

Tony doesn’t speak for a full minute. He just stares.

Then, very quietly, he whispers, “Hi, little one.”

You watch him fall in love in real time.

And you know—it’s not just the baby. It’s everything.

You. This life. What you’ve built together.

—

The decision to go public happens faster than you expect.

Tony insists on it.

“No secrets,” he says, pacing in front of the kitchen counter one evening. “I want the world to know. I want them to know. This kid is already the best thing I’ve ever done, and I haven’t even taught them quantum physics yet.”

You raise a brow from the couch. “Tony. I’m barely out of the first trimester.”

He walks over and kneels in front of you, hands on your knees, eyes uncharacteristically serious. “Let me tell them. Let me tell the world how proud I am of you. Of us.”

How can you say no to that?

The announcement goes live two days later: a candid photo of you and Tony on the villa balcony in Italy, your hand resting on your still-flat belly, his arms wrapped around you, both of you laughing like the world doesn’t matter.

The caption reads:

“Coming soon: Baby Stark. And yes, I’ll be building them their first lab by age two. Sorry not sorry.”

The internet breaks.

The press explodes.

Everyone—Avengers, friends, even business rivals—starts reaching out with congratulations.

Even Fury sends a one-word text: Finally.

But none of it compares to the way Tony wraps his arms around you that night, resting his chin on your shoulder as you both scroll through the comments and messages.

“Do you think the baby knows?” you ask softly.

Tony kisses your cheek. “They will. They’ll know they’re loved. Every second. Every minute. Every breath.”

---

Designing the nursery becomes Tony’s newest obsession—something he throws himself into with the same intensity he once reserved for building Iron Man suits and revolutionizing energy.

“We’re not doing boring pastel zoo animals,” he declares one morning, pushing open a tablet full of sleek digital mockups. “This kid’s getting a lab-themed nursery. Chrome mobiles, circuit-board wallpaper, floating shelves for STEM-themed books… I already made a list.”

You arch an eyebrow from where you’re sitting on the couch with swollen ankles and a glass of juice. “They’re going to be born, not code an AI straight out of the womb.”

Tony smirks, sitting beside you and gently lifting your feet into his lap to massage them. “Hey, never underestimate Stark genetics.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help smiling. “Fine. But I want warm tones. Something cozy, not just… titanium chic.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Cozy, but genius. I can work with that.”

And he does. Every evening, you both find yourselves in what was once the empty guest room, standing in the center and imagining your future together.

Color palettes are tested. Tony builds a crib from scratch—out of wood, not metal, because you insisted. He even softens enough to let you choose plush animals for the shelves, despite his comments like, “That bunny’s IQ looks suspiciously low.”

You spend hours hand-painting little constellations across one wall, while he hooks up a night light system that projects stars onto the ceiling.

He reads to your belly at night.

And with every laugh, every tiny kick, every moment you catch him staring at you like you hung the moon—you feel safer. Stronger.

But as weeks stretch into months, something begins to feel… different.

It starts small. You notice that your belly seems to be expanding faster than you expected. You chalk it up to genetics, maybe even water retention, but at your next prenatal yoga class, a woman due at the same time gives you a sideways glance.

“How far along are you again?” she asks, trying to sound casual.

“Twenty-four weeks,” you answer, wiping your forehead.

Her brows lift. “Wow. You’re carrying… a lot.”

You try to brush it off. But later, while Tony’s measuring a bookshelf he’s installing in the nursery, you find yourself tugging down your maternity shirt, eyes lingering on the mirror.

Your belly looks… big.

Bigger than the books say it should be.

That night, lying beside Tony with your hand resting over your belly, you whisper, “Do you think it looks… too big?”

He immediately looks over, concerned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean compared to other women this far along. I saw someone today—same week. She looked half my size.”

Tony sits up a little, his expression sobering. “Are you uncomfortable? Is something hurting?”

“No,” you admit. “Just… wondering.”

He rubs your arm gently. “Well, there’s a million variables. Body type, position of the baby, fluid levels. Maybe our kid just takes after me—big head, big brain, huge personality.”

You smile, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes.

“Let’s call the doctor tomorrow,” he says softly. “Just to check.”

You nod, heart beating a little faster.

And that night, even as he wraps his arms around you and rubs soothing circles against your side, you can’t help feeling something stirring inside you—more than just kicks and flutters.

A question.

A feeling.

Like your body’s holding more than it’s letting on.

---

The next morning, Tony insists on clearing his entire schedule—even cancelling a meeting with the UN tech board—so he can come with you to the OB-GYN.

He doesn’t pace this time. He just holds your hand the entire ride over, thumb tracing slow circles over your knuckles, lips pressed tight in a line he only wears when something's tugging at his heart.

You’re nervous, but not scared. Not really. You just… need to know.

The waiting room is quiet. The exam room colder than usual. And when the gel hits your belly and the ultrasound machine hums to life, your breath catches in your throat.

The doctor’s eyes narrow slightly at the screen, her lips parting. But she doesn’t look alarmed. Just surprised.

Tony notices immediately.

“Okay,” he says, his voice already loaded with anxiety, “that’s not your standard everything’s fine face. What’s going on?”

The doctor smiles, calm and steady.

“Well,” she says, turning the screen toward you both, “you were right about the belly size. Because you're not carrying one baby, Mrs. Stark. You're carrying two.”

You blink. Your brain stutters.

Tony's mouth falls open. “Twins?”

The doctor nods. “Fraternal. Two separate amniotic sacs. One girl…” She moves the probe slightly, points to one side of the screen. “And one boy.” She points to the other.

You stare, heart suddenly thudding so loudly you swear it echoes in the room.

Tony’s breath leaves him in one long exhale. “You’re kidding.”

“Not even a little,” the doctor chuckles. “Congratulations.”

He doesn’t speak right away. He just looks at the screen, wide-eyed, hands slowly releasing yours only so he can press his fingers to the monitor, as if touching it would make it more real.

Then he whispers, so soft it almost breaks you: “A daughter and a son.”

You’re too stunned to say anything for a few seconds.

Then your eyes fill with tears. Not panic. Not fear.

Overwhelmed joy.

Tony turns to you like he’s seeing you all over again.

“You’re incredible,” he says, voice shaking. “You’re actually growing two little humans in there. We made two.” He laughs—a little wild, a little breathless—and swipes his hands down his face. “I need to sit down.”

The doctor smiles. “I’ll give you a few minutes. We’ll go over all the details shortly. Everything looks perfect so far.”

The door clicks closed behind her.

Tony still hasn’t moved. He sits down beside you slowly, as if his knees have given out, and then pulls your hand into his lap. His eyes are shining now, and when he looks at you, it’s like you’re the only thing holding him to the earth.

“Twins,” you say, still not believing it. “I knew I was getting bigger faster but I thought maybe it was just… I don’t know. Pizza.”

He laughs, head falling forward to rest against your shoulder. “We’re gonna need a bigger house.”

You run your fingers through his hair, still blinking away tears. “We already have a whole building.”

“Okay, then we need a wing.”

He lifts his head again, and you both look at the screen once more. Two tiny flickers. Two little lives.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You nod. “Yeah. Are you?”

Tony doesn’t answer with words. He leans forward and kisses you—slowly, reverently, like you’re made of starlight and safety and everything good he’s ever wanted but never believed he deserved.

“I didn’t think I could love you more,” he says against your lips. “But I do.”

And just like that, the weight of the world becomes something warm. Something shared. Something beautiful.

Later, in the car, he announces: “We’re going public. Today. No waiting.”

“Tony…”

“Nope,” he cuts in. “The people deserve to know. And by people, I mean everyone I’ve ever met, looked at, or cyberstalked.”

The new post goes up before the elevator even opens at the penthouse:

“Plot twist: there are TWO Starklings incoming. Yes, I’m panicking. No, I won’t be sleeping for the next 18 years.”

It takes 10 minutes for #StarkTwins to trend worldwide.

And somehow, despite the chaos, despite the double-shock, despite the massive life shift ahead…

You feel calm.

Because he’s right here.

And for the first time, so are they.

---

Shopping for one baby had already been a bit overwhelming. Shopping for two?

That’s a whole new kind of madness—and Tony, of course, leans into it with full-throttle Stark intensity.

“Two of everything,” he declares the morning after the appointment, standing at the foot of your bed with a stylus in one hand and a digital checklist hovering in midair. “Cribs, monitors, sound machines, swaddles—God help me, even diapers. Y/N, do you know how many diapers twins go through?”

You blink blearily up at him, still nestled under the covers. “Please don’t start our day with horror stories.”

“I’ve done the math,” he says gravely, eyes scanning the list like it’s a mission report. “We’ll need at least 9,000 in the first year. That’s not a joke.”

You groan into your pillow. “Don’t say things like that before coffee.”

“Already brewing,” he says, flashing a charming grin. “Also, I hired a twin consultant.”

You sit up, eyes wide. “That’s a thing?”

“It is now,” Tony says, smug as ever. “She’s flying in from Copenhagen. Best in the field. She’s helping with layout optimization and efficiency training. No chaos. Only balance.”

You can't help but laugh. “You act like we’re launching a small army.”

“Babies are a small army,” he replies. “Except they cry, poop, and will destroy your sleep schedule for the foreseeable future.”

—

You visit every boutique in the city—and a few in Paris and Milan via video call. Tony buys out entire sections of one shop in SoHo and has a luxury baby furniture company build two matching custom cribs, one with silver inlay and the other with a star-and-moon motif to match the constellation wall you painted.

The nursery becomes a shared haven—one room for both babies. You and Tony stand in the center of it often now, surrounded by soft creams, deep navy, gold accents, and the twinkling of projected stars overhead.

“Think they’ll like sharing?” you ask one night, brushing your fingers along the edge of one of the cribs.

Tony comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, now fully rounded and glowing with life.

“They’ll be born into the same chaos,” he murmurs, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Might as well share a room and plot world domination together.”

You laugh, leaning into him. “They’ll be a team.”

He presses a kiss to your temple. “Like us.”

—

The names come slowly—weeks of gentle debates, late-night whispers, and quiet moments with your hands joined over your belly.

You go through everything from classic to avant-garde. Tony suggests “Nova” at one point; you counter with “Juliet.” He proposes “JARVIS Jr.” and you tell him he’s banned from naming privileges for 48 hours.

But one evening, long after the sun’s gone down and you’re curled together in bed, you whisper something that changes everything.

“Lyra,” you say softly, fingers resting just left of your navel. “Like the constellation.”

Tony’s silent for a moment. Then he nods slowly, thoughtfully. “Lyra Stark.”

You glance at him. “Too much?”

He shakes his head. “No. It’s beautiful. Poetic. Strong.”

You both look at your belly. She kicks gently, as if in approval.

“And for him?” you ask.

Tony turns his head to look at you. “Kyle.”

“Kyle?”

“Yeah.” He brushes a lock of hair away from your forehead. “Simple. Strong. Doesn’t sound like he’ll invent a killer AI. I like it.”

You smile. “Lyra and Kyle.”

He leans in to kiss you, slow and soft. “Perfect.”

From that moment on, they’re no longer just “the twins.” They’re Lyra and Kyle.

—

As the months pass, their room transforms into a blend of art and innovation—one side with celestial details, soft blues and silvers for Lyra, and the other in calm earth tones, burnt oranges and forest greens for Kyle.

The cribs stand side-by-side beneath a floating mobile of glowing planets and stars Tony designed himself.

Two nameplates hang above the cribs now—crafted from brushed gold and reclaimed oak.

You catch Tony staring at them often. Not with fear. Not with panic.

But with awe.

“They’re really coming,” he says one night, hands cradling your belly, now round and firm beneath your shirt. “I still can’t believe it.”

“They’re lucky,” you whisper, brushing his hair back. “They’ll have you.”

He looks at you, eyes tender. “No. They’ll have us. And they’ll know they were wanted. Every heartbeat. Every breath.”

And that night, curled against him, you feel them kick together for the first time—one, then the other. Strong. Sure.

A team already.

----

The gala is one of those high-profile events that Tony would normally glide through with ease—press, flashing cameras, board members with tight handshakes and tighter smiles. And normally, you’d stand by his side with calm grace, fingers looped through his arm, chin held high.

But tonight feels different.

You’re in your final weeks now. Your belly is undeniably big—so big you had to be sewn into your custom gown while standing because sitting was temporarily off the table. The dark green silk flows beautifully around your curves, but it doesn’t hide anything. Lyra and Kyle are front and center, snug inside you, and moving constantly like they know they’re being paraded through the public eye.

You adjust the shawl around your shoulders for what feels like the fifth time as Tony finishes shaking hands with a Stark Industries partner near the entrance. You shift your weight carefully, not wanting to put too much pressure on your back or feet, which have been swelling lately.

You feel eyes on you—discreet glances from women in body-hugging gowns and men in tailored suits, some with raised brows, others with polite smiles that barely mask surprise.

You try to ignore it.

But you still feel awkward. Huge. And far too visible.

Tony notices the moment your smile dims.

He excuses himself mid-conversation and makes a beeline straight to you, hands immediately landing on your waist and back, steadying you, grounding you.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, scanning your face. “Too much?”

You give him a half-smile, trying to sound lighter than you feel. “Just a little… self-conscious.”

His expression softens instantly, like someone flipped a switch inside his chest.

“Hey,” he murmurs, tipping your chin up with two fingers. “You are glowing. I mean it. You look like a goddamn goddess.”

You snort softly. “A swollen goddess.”

“An unstoppable goddess,” he corrects, kissing your forehead. “Who’s literally growing two new Starks inside her body and still managing to look like the cover of Vogue.”

You roll your eyes, but it helps. His hands don't leave your body for the rest of the night. Every step, every moment, he’s there—offering your hand to lean on, reminding you to sit every twenty minutes, checking that the event staff remembered your water and low-sodium snacks. He even shoos off the press photographers after ten minutes so you don’t have to stand for long.

“You're carrying my entire legacy,” he murmurs once when he helps you into a velvet-lined seat. “The least I can do is keep you off your feet.”

He doesn’t let go of your hand for the rest of the night.

—

Three days later, everything changes.

It starts at dawn. The sky is still painted soft blue and orange when you wake to a strange, warm pressure low in your belly. Not a kick. Not a cramp.

Something else.

You try to stand, and that's when it hits you—sharp and low, then easing into a dull, pulsing wave. You gasp, holding your stomach. Your water breaks seconds later.

Tony is at your side before you can even call for him. He stumbles out of bed in a flurry of blankets and panic.

“What? What? Was that a real gasp? Did something—?”

“My water broke,” you say breathlessly. “It’s happening.”

He stares at you, frozen.

Then: “Holy sh—okay. Okay, yeah. You’re fine. We’re fine. We practiced for this.” He’s already grabbing the go-bag, the phone, barking orders to FRIDAY to call the doctor and alert the hospital.

By the time you’re in the car, gripping his hand and trying to breathe through another contraction, Tony’s all business—but his other hand never stops stroking your back.

“You’re doing amazing,” he says, over and over. “You’ve got this. We’ve got this.”

Labor is long. Hours stretch by, filled with pain and sweat and exhaustion. But he never leaves your side.

Not when you scream through the harder contractions.

Not when you cry from the pressure and the fear.

Not when you beg for it to be over.

And when your body finally gives in and the room is filled with the high, wailing cries of not one—but two—new lives, Tony’s the first to cry.

A nurse lays your daughter on your chest—tiny, pink, with a shock of dark hair and fists curled tight. You��barely have time to kiss her head before they bring your son, his cry a little softer but just as strong, his fingers already clutching at your gown.

Tony’s beside you, eyes full of awe and wet with tears. His hands shake as he touches them for the first time.

“They’re here,” he whispers. “Lyra and Kyle. They’re real.”

You manage a tired laugh, voice cracked. “They’re perfect.”

He kisses you hard and long and trembling.

----

Bringing Lyra and Kyle home is like stepping into a dream you didn’t know your heart had written.

But it’s not quiet.

And it’s definitely not restful.

The moment the elevator opens into the penthouse, the real chaos begins.

Lyra starts crying first—sharp and commanding, as if announcing her reign as the older sibling (by two minutes). Kyle follows almost immediately, softer but no less insistent. The sound echoes off the marble floors and sleek walls as if bouncing from every corner of the building.

Tony, still in a soft gray hoodie and cradling the car seat with Kyle, looks at you with eyes wide and shell-shocked. “Did anyone install a mute button? No? Cool. I’ll look into that.”

You’re too exhausted to laugh, but your hand reaches for his anyway, grounding yourself.

The nursery—your carefully designed sanctuary—suddenly feels smaller and louder and much less serene. You gently lay Lyra into her crib, her tiny arms flailing in protest, and immediately Kyle decides he does not want to be separated. His cries ramp up to what Tony calls “critical red alert levels.”

“Okay, okay, he needs backup,” Tony murmurs, scooping him up again with a gentleness that nearly breaks your heart. “Come on, little guy. It’s not that bad. You’re not even paying rent.”

The next 72 hours pass in a blur of feedings, burp cloths, diaper changes, and the faint sound of your sanity unraveling thread by thread.

You barely sleep—maybe an hour at a time. Your body aches. Your hormones are crashing like tidal waves. You cry for no reason sometimes, holding Lyra against your chest in the dark while Tony rubs your back and doesn’t ask questions.

But through it all, he’s there.

Tony Stark, billionaire genius playboy-turned-husband and father, rises to every occasion like he’s been preparing his whole life for this. He’s in the nursery before you even wake to the monitor’s buzz. He handles diaper duty without complaint—even when Kyle somehow manages to get him twice in one change.

He rocks Lyra for hours when she won’t settle, singing her old ‘80s rock ballads off-key, whispering jokes she’ll never remember.

He lets you nap uninterrupted by lying to the entire world that you’re “in a meeting” when reporters start requesting statements and the board tries to reschedule him for “important discussions.”

“The most important discussion I’m having today,” he says firmly into the phone, “is with two humans who weigh less than a cantaloupe and poop like it’s a competitive sport. So unless the building is on fire—no, you know what? Even if it’s on fire, deal with it without me.”

And then he silences his phone and lays beside you while the twins nap, his arm draped protectively across your waist, both of you catching a precious thirty minutes of sleep.

When you wake from one of those naps to the scent of warm food, you shuffle groggily into the kitchen to find him with Lyra strapped to his chest in a baby wrap and a pan of eggs cooking in front of him.

“Morning, sunshine,” he says with a grin. “Lyra says she likes her eggs over easy. She also says I’m her favorite. Sorry, I don’t make the rules.”

You smile so hard you almost cry again.

Later that night, when both babies are miraculously sleeping in their cribs at the same time—tiny arms thrown up in near-identical poses—you lean against the nursery doorway, arms crossed gently over your chest, and watch Tony fuss quietly over the room.

He’s rearranging things that don’t need rearranging. Checking the monitor angle. Adjusting the blanket placement in the cribs.

You walk over and wrap your arms around his waist from behind.

He leans back into your touch immediately. “Can’t believe they’re real.”

“I can’t believe we made them.”

He turns in your arms, eyes soft. “You did most of the work, let’s be honest. I just—”

“You’ve been amazing,” you interrupt gently. “Really.”

He smiles—crooked, a little tired, a little emotional. “I don’t want you to do any of this alone. Ever.”

You pull him down into a kiss. It’s quiet. It tastes like sleep deprivation and love.

---

Life with twins becomes a mosaic of moments—some loud and chaotic, others quiet and golden.

Lyra and Kyle grow faster than you ever thought possible. One moment they’re impossibly small, sleeping curled against your chest, and the next they’re crawling in opposite directions at alarming speeds while Tony frantically tries to babyproof a Stark-level security system from the babies themselves.

“They’re teaming up,” he says one evening, watching as Kyle opens the bottom drawer in the kitchen and hands a spoon to Lyra. “They’re forming a hive mind. You see this, right?”

You’re laughing, even as you pluck the spoon from Lyra’s grip and gently redirect her back toward her soft play area. “They're not a hive. They're siblings.”

“They’re mutinous,” he mutters, but his grin betrays his pride. “Tiny, adorable rebels.”

—

Their first steps come unexpectedly, of course.

You and Tony are both in the nursery one late afternoon, folding laundry together on the floor while the twins babble nonsense to their stuffed animals. Kyle is focused on his favorite one—a green plush dinosaur with a snagged eye—while Lyra, ever observant, is watching you.

You catch her gaze just as she starts to push herself upright.

Tony notices first. “Oh,” he whispers. “Oh-oh-oh.”

She wobbles—one foot, then the other, barely stable—and then she walks.

Three full steps.

Straight into your arms.

You burst into tears, laughing and holding her tight. “You did it, baby!”

Kyle, not to be outdone, immediately lets go of his toy and tries the same thing. He takes two steps, then falls dramatically onto his padded backside, completely unbothered.

Tony claps like he’s just witnessed a world record. “You guys! You guys! You’re walking now? We need helmets. We need security.”

From that day forward, it’s chaos all over again. Mobility changes everything. They explore every room. Open every drawer. Kyle develops a fascination with Tony’s gadgets, and Lyra becomes obsessed with books—she likes to flip through them, point at the pages, and babble nonsense words that sound oddly like commands.

“Mini CEO,” Tony says proudly, watching her point at the same picture of a rocket over and over again.

—

Their words start coming around the same time.

But they’re not exactly dictionary-ready.

Lyra says “muh-muh” when she wants milk and “dah-dee” when she sees Tony walk into the room. Kyle invents his own phrases—“boo-moo” for blanket, “wah-wah” for water, and something that sounds like “da-blurf” that could mean literally anything depending on the tone.

To outsiders, it’s pure chaos.

To you and Tony, it’s a fluent second language.

You translate with ease at the park, at brunches, at family gatherings.

“She wants her bunny,” you say when Lyra looks up at you with big eyes and says “bun-yah-nah.”

“He dropped his truck in the fountain,” Tony explains, deadpan, when Kyle starts shouting “wuh-bloop!” repeatedly and pointing furiously at the edge of the garden.

It becomes a running joke among your friends and staff that only the two of you can understand them.

“You’re like their personal interpreters,” Rhodey says one afternoon, watching the twins toddle around the tower’s rec room.

“More like their unpaid assistants,” Tony mutters, grinning as he catches Kyle mid-wobble and swings him onto his hip. “Bilingual in toddler and fluent in chaos.”

—

By the time Lyra and Kyle are two, your lives are unrecognizable from the ones you had before them. Your house is a blend of elegance and mess—designer furniture paired with foam corner guards, baby gates guarding arc reactors, and a fridge covered in crayon masterpieces you can’t bring yourself to take down.

You and Tony barely sleep some nights, but when you do, it’s together—your bodies curled protectively around each other in a house that now echoes with tiny feet and sweeter-than-anything laughter.

The twins babble to each other constantly—words and sounds you don’t always catch, but that clearly mean something to them. A private language. A world of their own.

Sometimes you watch them from the doorway as they sit together with books or blocks or their favorite stuffed toys, heads close, trading secrets.

“Do you think they know?” you ask Tony one night, as Lyra pats Kyle’s head before handing him her bunny.

“Know what?”

“That they changed everything.”

Tony wraps an arm around your shoulder, pulling you close as the sunlight glows through the window and warms the nursery floor.

“They are everything,” he says softly.

---

Mornings in the Stark household now begin with chaos.

Not a metaphorical kind. No—this is toddler-level bedlam.

The twins wake up at exactly 6:14 AM every single day like little precision alarm clocks forged in the fires of mischief. Today is no different.

You're jolted awake by the sudden crackle of the baby monitor, followed by a loud—and completely unintelligible—battle cry.

"MAH-DEE BEEPBOOP!" Kyle shouts, his voice shrill and dramatic.

"NOOO KAH-LOOO! DABBA ME!" Lyra wails immediately after, and the sound of what might be a plush bunny hitting the crib bars echoes through the monitor.

You groan softly into your pillow. “They’re fighting over Beepboop again.”

Tony, face smushed into the pillow, mumbles, “I’ll give you two million dollars if you go get them.”

“Make it three and coffee.”

He sighs, rolls out of bed, and limps toward the nursery in pajama pants and a shirt that says “World’s Okayest Dad.”

You follow moments later to find him kneeling between two cribs, holding up the infamous Beepboop—a lumpy stuffed robot with one missing arm.

Kyle points with all the moral authority of a tiny Supreme Court judge. “BEEPBOOP me, Dadda. Me say dib-dib-dib! Lyyyyra cheat!”

Lyra scowls, pigtails wild. “NO! Bepbop NO dib-dib! Me hug Beepboop ALL night! Me! Me! Me! MAAAAAA!”

Tony’s trying not to laugh. “Okay, okay. Court is in session. Both plaintiffs, present your evidence.”

You squat down beside him and gently take Beepboop. “What if Beepboop gets two turns today? Lyra can have him during story time, and Kyle during nap time?”

They both squint at you like suspicious diplomats.

Kyle crosses his arms. “Hmph. Nap boring. Bepbop NO nap.”

Lyra’s lip quivers. “But me hug him! Hug like—like foreber!”

You hold Beepboop up and look between them. “Teamwork or timeout?”

A long beat.

Then—both toddlers sigh in unison, as if burdened by the unbearable injustice of compromise.

“Fiiiine,” Kyle mutters.

“Me HUG first,” Lyra insists one last time.

—

Breakfast is…something.

Tony makes pancakes, but Kyle insists on helping, which really means slapping the counter with flour-covered hands and taste-testing raw batter with his fingers.

“NOOOO EGGY!” he yells dramatically as Tony cracks one into the bowl.

Tony raises a brow. “What do you mean ‘no eggy’? It’s a pancake. Pancakes need eggs.”

“No eggy, no eggy, NOOOO!” Kyle insists, absolutely scandalized.

Meanwhile, Lyra has decided her only utensil today is a measuring cup, which she is currently using to ladle syrup from the bottle directly onto her pancake. The pancake is now more syrup than food.

You sit with your mug of tea and watch, amazed that these tiny humans are somehow so much like you and Tony and yet such chaotic goblins.

“Banana?” Lyra asks, holding up a pancake completely drowning in syrup.

“You want banana on that?” you ask.

She nods like it’s obvious. “Banana IN pancake. Like brrrrr-BAM. ‘Splode banana.”

Tony stares. “Okay… That’s actually a genius idea. Banana explosion pancakes. Trademark pending.”

—

Midday is supposed to be calm.

Supposed to be.

But then there’s the puzzle incident.

Lyra wants to complete a big animal puzzle. Kyle wants to climb on it like Godzilla.

Lyra screeches, “NO SMOOSH ELEFAMP!” as Kyle lays across the puzzle dramatically.

You’re folding laundry when she marches into the living room with two chunky toddler fists clenched and fire in her eyes. “MOM-MEEE. Bubba make puzzle DEAD. Him SMASH elefamp.”

Kyle shouts from the floor behind her, “HIM NAP with effa-famp! Nap! It cuddly!”

Tony watches the scene like a referee between tiny wrestlers.

“I have no idea what’s happening,” he mutters. “They both sound right.”

You lean over and whisper, “He’s cuddling the elephant piece. She thinks he’s committing puzzle war crimes.”

Tony nods solemnly. “That tracks.”

—

Nap time is sacred.

Except no one wants to sleep today.

Tony’s strategy involves lying between their little toddler beds and making spaceship noises. “The sleep ship is docking. Commander Kyle, permission to close eyes.”

Kyle blinks at him and deadpans, “Me NO commander. Me banana.”

Lyra giggles. “Commander Nana!”

Tony puts a hand over his heart. “You’re right. Commander Banana, lead the sleepy fleet.”

You stifle laughter from the doorway as he drones on: “Fueling dreams… activating nap boosters…”

By some miracle, both fall asleep fifteen minutes later. You and Tony high-five silently and collapse onto the couch.

“Remember when we thought we were tired before we had kids?” you whisper.

Tony nods, eyes already closing. “Fools. Arrogant, well-rested fools.”

—

Bath time is wet, splashy, and full of giggles.

Kyle babbles a long, incomprehensible monologue involving “tub-fish” and “soap army,” while Lyra insists the shampoo bottle is “Prince Bubble” and must not be harmed.

By the time they're in pajamas and tucked in, you and Tony are damp, exhausted, and laughing under your breath.

“Me lub you, Dadda,” Kyle whispers as his eyes flutter closed.

“Me lub you, Momma,” Lyra echoes.

You and Tony freeze.

Those are the clearest words they’ve spoken all day.

Your throat catches. Tony blinks rapidly, lips curving.

“I love you both more than the whole world,” you whisper, smoothing back Lyra’s hair.

Tony leans in and kisses their foreheads gently. “Even more than my vintage car collection. And that’s saying something.”

[bossuary]

There's no universe where I accept that Lucanis knows anything about seduction. Sorry.

He recognizes flirting. That's it.

No innuendos, no natural smiles, no mirroring of gestures. He simply doesn't have the range, darling. And how could he? When would he have spent un-structured, non-training time with his peer group in a social setting? What peers? What friends?

To develop comfort and ease with this sort of thing it can't be a single interaction, it has to be repeated, sustained. It has to be iterated upon. There's just...no fucking way Caterina (or anyone in her employ) let Lucanis wander around making friends outside the Crows, or pursuing any of the dumb shit that people naturally pursue to fulfill themselves and be a part of society.

The fledglings probably steal time away to rebel, to goof off and get in trouble. But not Lucanis. Not the First Talon's demon of a grandson. All the knowledge he has, his skills of observation, his contacts...that's work shit. He never went to school with someone who became an accountant or a bricklayer. Never traded silly stories about pets or vacations. His socialization was limited to whatever served the role Caterina assigned to him.

The only reason Lucanis developed 'cooking' as a hobby is because he has to eat anyway, and so does everyone else. You can't get beaten for learning how to feed yourself. His only other hobby is knives. Because he doesn't understand hobbies. He didn't 'train to be an assassin,' he was forced to be THE ASSASSIN. Like, the platonic ideal of an assassin. The wiki entry.

He makes it clear that his life did not allow for personal pursuits. He says it in a lot of ways, sometimes literally but often just in how he reacts to Rook and the others. There wasn't purpose in becoming interested in things just for the fun of it, for self-actualization. Without that, he lost out on the development of interpersonal skills most of us would take for granted.

A non-comprehensive list of things most people learned to do while Lucanis was sweating and starving and not crying out at the impact of Caterina's cane:

how to work with a diverse group of people

how to resolve conflict

how to process failure

how to identify needs and boundaries...and express them

how to engage in social conversation

how to daydream

how to play

how to love

Stuff you would pick up without even realizing it, from your friends and schoolmates, your co-workers...your parents. I don't want to make it seem like I think Lucanis' life was wall-to-wall shit. He is wealthy in a way that is beyond the reach of every companion (save Dorian) we've ever had, across all four DA games. He has a support system. His kindness, humor, and ability to make a place for himself at the Lighthouse post-Ossuary mark him as a man of unimaginable resiliency. So, he must have carved out some goodness in his life.

My point is that the good moments were the exception, and in my view, they wouldn't have given him a foundation on which to build any kind of meaningful experience in terms of desire, seduction, romance, and sex.

He reads a lot! That's helpful. And I credit Lucanis' training for likely giving him a sharp insight on body language and facial expressions. But knowing HOW to read doesn't mean you've understood WHAT you read. Romance novels aren't primers for physical relationships any more than sci-fi books are manuals for technology you just haven't encountered yet.

He's 36 and he's never been on vacation, gone ice-skating, raised a pet companion, or had a relationship. He doesn't know how to send flowers, dress provocatively, or plan a romantic weekend in the countryside. He KNOWS that he doesn't know how. The Lighthouse is full of people who have done these things, and more. Rook included.

HERE, in the pantry, Lucanis moves forward without a single piece of lived experience to guide him. The man who plans his every move six weeks advance, and has a knife for every occasion is absolutely flying blind. What he knows is that he wants Rook (a thing as deep as it is new) and Rook has been so clear about wanting him that even if this goes Wrong, Rook will make it okay, somehow. And I just can't reckon that any version of him as secretly suave and confident is preferable or more alluring than this one: the weird little guy who, deSpite all of the above factors, still fucking Goes For It.

That guy can get it.

[novlr]

How can I make my editing process quicker and less stressful? I feel like I’m spending way too much time on it and not really getting anywhere, so I’d love some tips on how to keep it simple and actually productive.

I think that most writers have a love/hate relationship with editing. It feels so good to see your manuscript go from a rough draft to something really polished, but at the same time, the editing process itself is painstaking and laborious.

The editing phase can feel like wandering through a maze without a map. Every writer has been there, staring at their manuscript, overwhelmed by the sheer amount of work ahead. But editing doesn’t have to be a source of stress. With the right approach, you can make your editing process both efficient and effective.

Break it down

While some writers thrive taking a do-it-all-at-once approach, this isn’t one that works for everyone. If you feel overwhelmed, you can try to divide your editing into distinct passes, each focusing on a specific aspect:

Story Structure – Focus on plot, pacing, and narrative flow.

Character Development – Examine character arcs and relationships.

Scene Level – Look at individual scene construction and transitions.

Language – Analyse word choice, clarity, and style.

Technical – Look at grammar, punctuation, and formatting.

By tackling one element at a time, you’ll catch more issues and avoid feeling overwhelmed. And you also don’t need to do them back-to-back.

When I do my first editing pass, I look at only story structure and character development. After draft 2, I look at a scene level analysis, with some attention paid to language. If I need to, I’ll repeat this for as many revisions as I need, leaving a deep-dive on language and the more technical proofreading aspects until my final draft.

Create a system

No two writers write alike. Your process will be as unique to you as the writing you produce, so never take someone else’s routine as gospel or as the only “right” way to approach it.

What you will need to do is experiment. Try different things. See what works for you, and what doesn’t. Things you can try might be:

Set clear goals

Before each editing session, define what you want to accomplish. For example:

“Review chapters 1-3 for pacing issues.”

“Check all dialogue in Act 2.”

“Analyse character motivations in transition scenes.”

Having specific targets can help give you focus and give a sense of progress, as it’s a task that you can tick off.

Track your progress

Monitoring your progress lets you actively see what you’re accomplishing. It can be a huge motivator when you can see your manuscript start to take shape.

Keep a spreadsheet of completed editing tasks.

Use a notebook to log issues that need addressing.

Create checklists for common problems you want to catch.

Track time spent on different editing tasks to identify where you might be getting stuck.

Organise visually

If you’re a visual learner, then being able to see your editing process taking shape can be a game changer. You could try to:

Highlight plot threads in different colours.

Mark scene transitions with clear breaks.

Flag areas that need deeper revision.

Use comments or sticky notes for bigger structural issues.

Create a colour code for different types of edits (dialogue, description, pacing, etc.).

Incorporate these colours into your tracking if you decide to use it.

Set a sustainable schedule

Editing can be just as time-consuming as writing (in some cases, it might be even more time consuming), so it’s important to make sure you don’t overwhelm yourself. Don’t expect your editing to be done in a week. To keep a routine that’s realistic and sustainable, you can try to:

Block out specific times for editing.

Set deadlines for completing different passes.

Build in buffer time for unexpected issues.

Schedule regular breaks to give yourself a fresh perspective.

Plan rewards for hitting milestones.

For me, the rewards are the biggest part of the process. I need that little serotonin bump when I finish something and give myself a treat. That can be anything from taking a break, to buying myself something. You can even involve a housemate or family member in the reward!

Keep reference materials handy

If you’re the kind of person who likes to remind yourself of the task at hand, then it can be uesful to keep reference materials or a style guide handy. This could include:

Your story bible or outline.

Character profiles.

Setting descriptions.

Style guide preferences.

A common error checklist.

Notes from previous drafts to make sure you don’t repeat mistakes.

You don’t need to have all references handy at all times. You can pick and choose what works for you, and what is important for that editing pass.

Know when to step back

Fresh eyes make better edits. If you’re tired or overwhelmed, there is absolutely no shame in stepping away. You’ll be much more productive if you approach editing when you’re not exhausted, because it’s very easy to miss things and get distracted if you’re not in the right headspace.

Make sure you take regular breaks between editing passes to maintain your perspective. And don’t be afraid to take a week or two away from your manuscript can help you return with renewed clarity. Read something else. Watch television. Just make sure you do something other than constantly working on your manuscript.

Get outside input

If you’ve done a few self-editing passes and feel you need to start polishing, you might want to look for outside help. This can take many forms. Some are free, while others will cost nothing more than your time. You’ll need to decide what is best for you. You can:

Share your almost-finished product with beta readers (I recommend you read this guide to get the most out of your beta readers, as they can be such a valuable resource).

Consider hiring a professional editor once you’ve done all you can.

Join a critique group for regular feedback during the drafting and editing process.

Find a writing partner for accountability and reciprocal labour.

Trust your instincts

Try different editing processes to see what works for you. Don’t try to force something that isn’t, and be willing to change tack if you need to. If something feels right, stick with it. If it doesn’t, let it go.

But no matter what editing process you choose to pursue, don’t aim for perfection in your first pass. Instead, focus on steady improvement through multiple editing rounds. With practice, you’ll develop a rhythm that makes editing feel less like a chore and more like a natural part of your writing journey.

[pandora-writes-one-piece]

The Meet-Cute - Kid's Story - 9

Source for pic

Imperfect 9

Word Count: 5836

Tags and Summary can be found here.

Special Warning: English is not my first language, I apologise for any possible spelling or grammar mistakes.

Notes: I'm sorry, everyone, this might not be the chapter you all deserve, but it's the chapter I managed to get out. Life kicked my butt a little bit these last few days. I aimed for this chapter to have a little bit more plot, but it was already getting too big. Still, plenty of setup for exciting things to happen next chapter. I hope you're still with me and enjoying this! Love you all.

Here's a Spotify Playlist I created for this story if you want to check it out!

Masterlist

“I can’t believe it, Kid, you really remade this engine from a bunch of scrapped junkyard parts?” You’re leaning on the tips of your toes, admiring the new farm tractor engine Kid is setting up. 

Well, ‘new’ is an euphemism. Kid was just telling you how buying a new engine was about as expensive as a new tractor, since your dad’s tractor is over fifteen years old. So, he came up with a cheaper solution. 

“Sure did, Sparkles.” Kid tightens another bolt and cranes his neck your way, one eyebrow shooting up in disbelief. “I’m actually offended ye doubt me!”

A giggle escapes your lips as you raise your hands in mock defense. “Don’t be! You just keep surprising me, that’s all…” Your voice softens as you lock eyes with him for what feels like the hundredth time today. 

A loud harumph breaks the spell and Kid gets back to his screws while you turn on your heel to scowl at your father. Shanks decided he had ‘stuff to do’ in the barn while you helped Kid fix the tractor, which was code for: “I don’t want you alone with Kid if I can help it.” And there’s nothing you can do about it. 

“I found parts in three different scrap yards, cleaned ’em up, rebuilt what mattered, ditched the rest… bam! New fuckin’ engine for half the price, more power too. Yer welcome.” Kid wipes the sweat off his forehead and leaves a small streak of grease across it, making you giggle again.

“What?” he growls, looking back at you. 

“Got a little something there, hang on.” Stepping closer, you remove the rag from his back pocket and scrub the grease mark. His hand instinctively grips your waist, and you bite your lower lip, holding back a gasp.

“Ah-ahem!” Shanks clears his throat again, and you exhale sharply, handing the rag back to Kid and stepping away from him while he chuckles and gets back to work. You death-glare the back of your dad’s head, since he doesn’t even deign to give you a side glance, pretending to fuss over the bedding of the horses’ stalls. 

“Cockblock…” Kid whispers beneath his breath, and you turn your loud chortle into a fake cough. 

After that, Kid keeps explaining what he’s doing and asking you to pass him some tools. You said you wanted to learn and to help, and he’s teaching you. 

“So, um…” Kid sighs after a while, hands deep in the bowels of the tractor, eyes fidgeting without looking your way. He’s not whispering, but he’s speaking softly. “I got Victoria registered for a Car Show… It’s in a few days and, um…”

Shanks stops what he’s doing, and Kid gets visibly more flustered, but you wait to hear what he has to say before reacting, even though you can already guess where this is going. He stops and looks at you before continuing. 

“Well, I was thinkin’, since ye helped set her up, maybe ye wanna come with?” You stare at him, lips parted, eyes wide, and silent. He takes your silence for a denial and starts to shake his head, already turning back towards the engine. “Ye ain’t gotta come. I just thought, ye know—”

“Yes! Obviously I want to go!” Kid lets out a huff of breath but quickly turns his expression into an unbothered one. “When are we going?”

He continues tweaking the tractor’s engine, but his movements are lighter. “It’s a weekend thing. Whole day Saturday and Sunday till late afternoon. We’ll have to spend the night—”

A horseshoe clatters against the floor, and one of the horses neighs while Shanks curses loudly, losing his balance and banging his head against the side of the stall. 

“Are you okay, Dad?” You’re already turning around to see if he’s fine, but he’s quick to answer.

“Fine! I’m fine!” His growl seems far from fine, but you leave him alone and turn back to Kid so you can finish the conversation. 

“I’m game!” you agree, ignoring another colorful expletive leaving your father’s lips. “I guess we should work really hard on Victoria until then, right?”

Kid nods, never meeting your gaze, even though there’s a stubborn smile on his lips, he’s trying to contain it. “Aye. Just the finishin’ touches.”

“Get ready, Kid. I’m not the easiest person to deal with in a road trip!” you say, squealing with excitement, and ignoring Kid’s mock pained grunt. You do not miss, however, the way your heart swells at Kid's invitation to tag along on such an important event. 

-*-

“Spit it out, Dad,” you say, your fork clattering obnoxiously against the plate as you set it down. Shanks has had ‘the look’ ever since Kid left. He keeps side-eyeing you like he has something to say but he’s trying his damn hardest not to.

“It’s… It’s nothing,” he mumbles, not lifting his gaze from his half-eaten baked potato. 

With a groan, you push your plate to the side. He’s going to make it difficult. 

“Dad, just say it. We can talk like adults. I don’t want you to keep your opinions and thoughts to yourself.” You know what this is about: Kid, obviously. Shanks hasn’t uttered another word about your burgeoning friendship with the redhead since you two fought the other time, but you can tell that the way you’re close to Kid bothers him.

Much more than he’s willing to admit.

“I know,” he admits with a shrug. Sipping your water slowly, you give him more time while he chews both on his thoughts and his food. “So you’re going to that car show with Kid, then? It’s settled?”

You nod. “Yeah, it sounds fun. I helped Kid with his car, even though I barely did anything, and I want to go. Unless… do you need me that weekend?”

Shanks’ eyes light up, and you know it’s because if he says ‘yes,’ it’s his chance to make you stay without being a smothering father. 

“No,” he sighs defeated. “I don’t need you, Bug.”

You let out a small, relieved huff of breath and get up to fill your glass of water before returning to your seat, giving Shanks time to gather the rest of his thoughts. 

“Be careful.” Well, that’s… vague.

“Sure. I’ll make sure Kid drives slowly.” As if. He’ll want to test Victoria’s limits, and you’re not going to be the one to stop him, especially because you’re also curious. 

“Not that,” Shanks pushes the plate to the side and sighs your name, his hand tousling his hair nervously. “I know I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it as often as it takes: Kid is dangerous.” Shanks lifts one finger to stop you from intervening. “Don’t give that look, I know him.”

“So do I!” you interrupt anyway.

“Sure, you know what he shows you. But when he’s pressured or cornered, he lashes out, and that’s when he sees red, baby, that’s when he’s volatile and you—”

“I’m not afraid of him, and you’re not going to make me fear him, Dad.” Kid already felt cornered and pressured when next to you. He lashed out, sure, but you handled it just fine!

“I’m not trying to make you fear him,” Shanks pleads, slamming his palm on the table. “I just want you to be careful, stay sharp, pay attention!”

“He’s not a ticking time bomb!” you say.

“He’s an angry man!” he counters.

“Sure!” you groan in disbelief. “But being angry is a far cry from being dangerous. Yes, he’s loud, yes, he’s irascible, but that shouldn’t be what defines him when there’s so much more underneath.” You let out another huff. “Besides, he’s not angry at me. Kid’s angry at himself.”

Shanks raises in his chair, his hand supporting his weight on the table so he can look at you. “And that is the problem, babygirl, because when you’re constantly angry at yourself, the ones who suffer are the ones who care the most.” 

Your breath hitches as you lock eyes with Shanks, and his eyes soften. He squeezes your hand gently, a soft smile that doesn’t reach his eyes gracing his lips. “And I know you care. So I’m so scared you’re going to suffer.”

He’s not wrong. Kid is constantly angry at himself, whether he shows it or not; there’s an underlying grudge he can’t seem to shake. 

“I’m a fuckin’ monster.” His words still echo inside your head, still holding your heart ransom to the pain he was feeling. 

Kid’s angry. Kid’s suffering. And Shanks is right. He will make you suffer too, but not in the way your father fears. 

You suffer because he’s in pain. Not because he causes you pain.

-*-

“She’s shining! She looks so good, Kid.” You pace around Victoria, taking in how the bright red, closely resembling her owner’s hair, stands out in the dimly lit garage. Kid’s been working nonstop to get her show-ready, and it’s paid off. “Are we going to ride her to the show?”

Kid takes out two beers from the fridge, but doesn’t put back the one you decline, instead setting it down on the workbench to drink once he’s done with the first. He leans back against the counter and tilts his head at Victoria, making sure everything is perfect. 

“Damn right we are. I’ll get her fuckin’ sparklin’ again once we arrive.” He smirks and takes a long sip of his beer. “She ain’t no helpless virgin to be carried around in a tow. She holds her own.”

With a soft chuckle, you lean on the workbench next to Kid, purposefully brushing your leg against his. His arm stops midway before raising up for another sip of beer, but the silence stretches for a while before you decide to break it. 

“Why haven’t you kissed me again?” It’s a question that’s been lodged in your throat since that day. You helped Kid in a terribly vulnerable moment, and he let you. You thought, once again, that you had made progress, that walls had been torn down and breached. But he hasn’t kissed you or mentioned what happened between you since. 

Kid sets down his beer and exhales a long breath, his hand reaching up to press over the lower half of his face. 

“It ain’t so simple…” Still avoiding your eye contact, Kid pulls up a stool from under the workbench and sits down, as if pressured by a heavy weight and standing up seems unbearable. 

“It isn’t?” you ask in disbelief. 

“Aye…” Kid risks a small glance at you and breaks it the next second. “I told ye before. I don’t know how to do this.” He gestures to the space between you. “I claim girls and I dump ‘em. That’s what I do.”

Right. He has said so before. Where’s he going with this, and why is your heart pounding like it wants to escape your chest? Does it always have to be one step forward and two steps back with Kid?

“What do you mean, Kid? Is that what you’re going to do to me or—”

“No.” Kid wraps his hand around your waist and pulls you to him, dragging you to the middle of his open legs. You eye him with suspicion, never quite knowing what to expect from him. Then his fingers dig into your waist, and he forces eye contact. “That’s exactly what I don’t want to do to ye.”

Oh.

“I’m wired to do that. Kill says it’s a defense mechanism, but what the fuck does he know, he ain’t a shrink,” Kid grumbles. “So I’m—”

He minces his words with grunts and sighs, and you know what he can’t say. He’s scared. About everything. The heat of his body spreads to your palms as you place them over his chest, waiting for him to go on. 

“I can’t take that risk. I can’t take it further. Yet.”

You take another step forward, and you’re nearly flush together. Kid’s hands drop to your hips.

“We don’t have to take it further,” you admit. Then a sly grin curves the corner of your mouth upwards. “But I do like your kisses…”

Kid leans down, his mouth hovering over yours.

“Aye, me too. But the problem is I like ‘em too fuckin’ much.” You let out a small giggle at that, hands climbing to his neck as you twirl strands of his hair. “When I’m kissin’ ya, I don’t want to fuckin’ stop.”

Your lips brush but never quite touch. He leans his head to one side, and then the other, just small feathery brushes that tease you more than if he were actually kissing you. 

“This is torture,” you whisper, anticipation climbing to impossible heights while his fingers dig deeper into your flesh. You press on his neck, pulling him towards you, but he’s not budging. He keeps leaning away from your search for a deeper touch. “God!” you breathe out the expletive in exasperation. 

Kid’s smug chuckle warms your lips, and you nearly let out a whine. “Not my name, sweetheart, but I don’t mind the upgrade.”

You start to chuckle lightheartedly at his smugness, but that’s when he shortens the distance between you and your mouths collide. It starts slow; hands behaving nicely, barely touching or gripping, lips only pressing, tongues still. 

And then you whimper softly, so softly it resembles more a sigh than a moan. Yet, it’s all it takes.

Kid makes a deep, throaty noise and wraps both arms around your back, pulling you flush against him, his fingers climbing possessively to your nape. He grips your hair and tilts your head back to deepen the kiss. 

No longer do tongues stand still; instead, they eagerly explore. Kid pushes more, and teeth collide before he nips your lower lip and sucks it into his mouth. His hand lowers and finds the hem of your shirt, already slipping inside to touch the feverish skin of your back. 

A proper moan leaves your lips, and Kid breaks the kiss abruptly.

He doesn’t push you away, though. With your foreheads pressed together, he removes his hands from your skin as you both regain your breath.

“See what I mean? Can’t fuckin’ stop. Ye do this to me.”

Why do his words stir something so real inside you? It’s like everything he says provokes a visceral reaction in you; be it rage, desire, or this weird feeling you can’t quite explain.

“But you did stop. Does that mean we can try it again?”

“Temptress,” he teases, and you stick out your tongue at him. 

“Fineee,” you let out, trying to wiggle out of his embrace. “I’ll behave.” He eases his grip, and you take a step back, though you’re still between his legs. “Guess you can delete that awesome schedule you prepared for us the other day…”

Ass demolition… being folded like a pretzel… You sigh. 

“Ain’t doing that,” he rasps as his hands find their way back to your waist. 

“What?”

“I’ve postponed it. To a month from now.”

You raise your brow, bringing your index finger to your lips in a pensive expression. “One month? You expect me to keep my hands off you for that long?”

Kid grunts, his hands squeeze, and you don’t miss the way his eyes fixate on your curving lips. “Rules and schedules are meant to be broken, Sparkles. I ain’t the man to follow rules, ye should know that already. Still…”

You smile softly, knowing where he’s going with this. He wants to take things slow, he doesn’t want to mess this up. He’s being different for you. Having a sort of deadline; an objective, makes it real and easier to abide by.

“All right. Let’s behave, then.” You push away from him and point at Victoria. “There’s another lady that needs your attention right now, and I don’t mind sharing with her.”

Kid grins, passing by you and squeezing your ass, eliciting a small yelp from your lips, before heading towards Victoria. 

“Well, yer a better person than me, then, because I wouldn’t share ye with nothin’. Not even a car.”

-*-

“So, are you guys officially dating?” Killer tilts his head to the side, arms crossed over his chest, as Kid exits Victoria and walks over to open the trunk. He drove the car outside of the garage, and he’s waiting for you to arrive before heading off. 

“No.”

“But you said you kissed again,” Killer deadpans.

“Right.”

“And you’re not doing your ‘just for fun’ bit?” Killer keeps pressing. Kid throws a duffel bag and a toolbox inside the trunk and goes back into the garage to get his set of cleaning products to pack it too. 

“No.”

“Well, you’re really talkative today. I’m so happy we shared this insightful conversation, Kid.” 

“Aye, me too.”

If looks could kill, Kid would be dropping dead at any second now. 

He sighs, places the cleaning products inside the trunk before closing it and leaning on it. He looks over at Killer without searching for his eyes. “It’s… we… it’s a situationship, I guess.”

“The fuck is that?” Killer asks, genuinely curious.

“Fuck if I know!” Kid growls. “We ain’t dating, but we ain’t NOT dating. Got it?”

“No.”

“Fuck off! We’re somethin’. That’s it.”

Killer’s about to retort when your car pulls up and you park it in the shade. “Good morning!” you greet them, stepping out of the car and reaching into the backseat for your duffel bag. It’s an overnight stay, you don’t need much stuff. 

“Hey,” Killer waves, going into the garage for a moment. 

Kid walks over to you and grabs the bag so he can store it in the trunk. “Mornin’, Sparkles.” You show him that sweet smile that could start wars, and he fights back the urge to press his lips against yours. 

If you were anyone else, any other girl, he would’ve already done a million things to you. Surprisingly, manhandling and folding you like a pretzel are actually very tame activities for what he usually goes for. And then he would’ve dumped you without looking back or thinking twice about it. 

But you’re not just any other girl. Despite what he said the other day, you are special, and he’s not about to ruin that. Girls have taken one look at him and decided they could fix him. More times than he can count, actually. He just has this unreachable, broken aura about him that gets some girls going. 

You said you didn’t want to fix him. You said you wanted all of his broken pieces. 

And fuck it. He was not expecting that. To be accepted exactly as he is. 

So he needs to be a little bit better; he needs to try and be good, even though he doesn’t know how to do it. He’s willing to try. 

He’s about to turn to Victoria to place your bag in the trunk when you reach up, holding his face with one hand and standing on the tips of your toes just so you can land a kiss on his cheek. 

And he just stands there, like an idiot, holding your bag and staring at you.

That’s when they start to snicker. He can’t see them, but he feels them. They’re always there.

‘Coward.’

‘Undeserving.’

‘Stay miserable for the rest of your life.’

They’re ruthless. But they’re right.

He doesn’t deserve you. He doesn’t deserve happiness.

Why does he even allow himself to think of a possible future with you? Sure, you’re special and different, but he’s not. He’s the same selfish, cowardly motherfucker who can’t do anything right with his life. 

He can’t drag you down with him. He refuses. 

But fuck it all to hell. He’s selfish enough to want to try, even if it hurts both of you.

Killer returns with a paper bag in his hand, and Kid immediately turns to place your bag inside the trunk, dismissing his thoughts instead of letting them cloud the time he’s about to spend with you. 

“What’s that?” you ask Killer, hopping over to his side to try to take a peek.

He gently swats your hand away and hands the bag over to Kid. “It’s breakfast. Sun’s barely up, and it’s gonna take you close to three hours to get there. You need something to eat.” The lilt in his voice tells you he’s smiling, and you thank him. Then he leans down as if he’s sharing a secret and whispers, “Good luck putting up with Kid, by the way.”

You snicker loudly, and Kid grumbles. Whenever you and Killer get together, Kid always ends up being the butt of the joke. And damn it if he doesn’t like that. Not that he would ever admit it to you two. 

“What is it?” You try to pry the bag away from Kid, but he just holds it high above your head, and you don’t even try to reach for it. Instead, you frown at him, hands on your hips.

“Sandwiches,” Killer answers. 

“No eatin’ in the car! We’ll stop soon enough to eat ‘em.” Kid places the bag on the floor of the backseat, away from your reach. “Let’s go, Sparkles.”

“Fine,” you grumble, nose crinkling in an adorable way. “But I get angry when I’m hungry.” Then you turn to Killer and wave. “Thanks, Kill. See you soon.”

Killer waves and tilts his chin up to Kid. “Hear that, Kid? She gets hangry. Make sure to feed your Gremlin soon.”

You snort on the way to the car, and Kid shakes his head at his friend, slapping him on the back. “Thanks for watching the shop, asswipe.”

Killer slaps his back, too. “Drive safely, dickhead.”

“I don’t understand this type of bromance…” you mutter before settling into your seat. 

-*-

When Kid slows down and parks Victoria on the side of the road, under the shade of a tree, you stretch your arms over your head. You’ve only been riding for forty minutes, but you tested his patience for over half an hour, saying the sandwiches smelled delicious, that you were getting pretty hungry, and that you should stop to eat. 

He got tired of listening to you whine and pulled over.

“She’s amazing,” you admit with a light tap on the dash. “You outdid yourself, Kid. Everyone’s gonna love her at the show.”

Kid grumbles, grabs the paper bag, and exits the car. You follow him as you both lean on the hood of Victoria, staring at the road stretching ahead of you; just worn-out asphalt, barely any curves. You’re in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by dirt and trees, birds, and lush greenery. It’s peaceful. 

“What’s wrong?” you try, not knowing if he’s in the mood to answer you or to be a puzzle.

“Nothin’.” Kid lets out a grunt and hands you your sandwich. 

“She’ll do just fine, Kid,” you take a guess. He fussed so much about Victoria being just right for the judges when he was prepping her that you’re pretty sure your educated guess is accurate. 

“Aye, I know. I built her.” The defensiveness in his answer shows that you were right on the money. 

“Maybe that’s why you’re so nervous. Because although they’ll be judging Victoria, you’re the one under scrutiny.”

His head snaps to the side, and he widens his eyes at you, not believing how you can already read him so well. Right on the money, indeed. 

“Whatever,” he grumbles and turns away from you. 

You unfold the foil covering the sandwich while Kid processes your words. You know he won’t talk about his real feelings, but you do know he’s listening to what you have to say to him. “She’s perfect. You did an amazing job. Everyone will love her so much, you’re going to get jealous.”

This pulls a smirk from the corner of his lips as he mimics your actions to get the wrapper off the sandwich. 

“Aye. I can handle her bein’ ogled. As long as nobody gets too fuckin’ touchy.”

You stifle a snort. “Nobody but you can touch your gall, right? Possessive much?”

He finally grins, giving you a side-eye. “Fuck yeah, I am. Ain’t nobody touchin’ what’s mine. Besides, nobody knows her like I do.” His hand drops to the hood of the car in the space between your legs, and he pats it affectionately. Then his fingers brush against the side of your thigh, and he gazes back at you. “I know every curve of her body, every little purr, everything she likes… Nobody can take care of her like I can.”

Your breath hitches as you hold his gaze. Is he still talking about Victoria?

“Good to know,” you murmur, getting back to your sandwich. “Maybe she doesn’t even want anybody else’s touch. Maybe all she craves is yours…”

You feel the heat of his hand leave your thigh even before you see it, but there’s no time to miss it when he places his fingers beneath your chin, tilting your face up so you can stare at him. 

You hold your breath again as Kid swipes his thumb across your lower lip, slowly, deliberately. “Keep sayin’ stuff like that and ye’ll be taken care of better than her.” Parting your lips, you draw a breath, ready to answer him, but he removes his hand and pats the half-unwrapped sandwich on your lap. “Eat, Sparkles. If ye eat that cold ‘cause I was busy flirtin’ with ye, Killer will murder us in our sleep.”

You huff a soft chuckle and nod, unwrapping the food and taking a greedy bite out of it. “Hmm! Damn!” You take another bite, not even bothering to swallow the first, and hum in delight again. “This is so good!” you say between bites, “Stupid good!” 

Kid snorts and takes his own bite. “Aye. Killer’s a damn good chef. Learned in the army. Used to cook us the best food ye could get in the middle of the goddamned desert.”

You nearly stop chewing. Kid never talks about their army days. You just nod, absorbing the information like a greedy little sponge. You don’t press, don’t push for more. You’ll take whatever he gives you. 

But it’s clear he’s not going to share any more for now, and that’s fine. It’s enough. Whatever he gives you, it’s enough.

“Remind me to thank him later, then.”

Kid hums in agreement, and you finish your sandwiches not long after. The silence is more comfortable than awkward at this point. 

You’re wiping your hands on your jeans when Kid throws something at you. You stumble with it, juggling the object in your hands before steadying it. With a confused gaze aimed at Kid, you raise your hand and inspect it. It’s a keychain: a guitar, a miniature Harley, and Victoria’s keys dangle from it. 

He wipes his hands on his pants, opens the passenger seat door, and sits in your place, adjusting it back so he can fit his legs. 

“Well? What are ye waitin’ for? She ain’t gonna drive herself.”

After all that talk about ’nobody touches Victoria but me,’ he just hands you the keys? Is he seriously trusting you to drive her?

“Are you serious, Kid?”

“Sweetheart, ye’ve been messin’ with her guts for weeks. She knows ye, she trusts ye. Get yer fine ass inside and let’s go. Don’t wanna be late to show her off to rich bastards.”

Well, since he’s put it that way! 

You grin, getting comfortable in his seat. Then you adjust the seat and the mirrors and take three deep breaths just before starting her up. 

“Ye ain’t givin’ birth, Sparkles. Just be careful with the clutch and let’s go.”

“Hey, I got it!” you grumble defensively. Kid snorts, opening the window and leaning his elbow. 

“I’ve seen ye drive. I’ve fixed yer car.” Kid stares back at you, an infuriating smirk painting his lips. “Watch the clutch and let’s go.” You mumble something unintelligible, mostly cursed words aimed at him, and he snickers. 

Victoria eases back into the road like she owns it, and for a vintage car, the ride is smooth as velvet. You feel happy. Kid looks happy. And the road trip extends for a few more hours that pass in a beat.

You trade places with Kid along the way again because he can’t act like a passenger princess and spends the entirety of your drive giving you pointers and being a backseat driver: ’careful with that sharp turn; that truck’s gonna hit the brakes, give him space; easy on the clutch; you can’t stand to hear him anymore, so you relinquish your seat.

Eventually, time rolls by as lazily as the road, and you reach your destination. There are still cars parking up, and one of the staff comes up to Kid to tell him where to park and that he needs to have his car ready in an hour before the judges and guests start coming in. 

The car show is being held outdoors, sprawled across a large park. The large trees cast a much-needed shade all around, and their leaves rustle softly with the vernal breeze. Kid parks Victoria in her designated spot, and you step out, stretching your arms and taking a big breath.

It smells like fresh grass, wildflowers, and, unavoidably, gasoline. 

Your eyes roam through the paved lot, taking in the car lineup in awe. There are a lot of classic cars, some well-cherished, others pristine new, like they’re never touched except for exhibits, which is probably the case. 

They’re impressive. 

But none of them is Victoria. You may be biased, but seeing her shine, burning as hot as fire amid boring classics that shine without flair, just cements this fact. She’s a beast of her own, and she’s going to claw her way to the top.

Kid groans as he too looks around. You close your door and stop beside him, placing one hand on his bicep and squeezing. “You got this, Kid. You got the best gal, don’t doubt it!”

Then you turn to open the trunk so you can take out the cleaning gear and get her show-ready. Kid grins, a very cocky grin. “Aye, I fuckin’ do have the best gal.” And when he winks at you, you’re left thinking once more if he’s talking about you or Victoria.

-*-

“I’m so exhausted!” you hide a yawn behind your hand as you walk to the motel conveniently located in front of the park. 

The first day went on in a blur of thrill and novelty. Beyond the first stressful hour when you and Kid worked hard to get Victoria gleaming and shining, everything worked out perfectly. The judges made their initial pass through the show, taking in their first impressions of the displayed cars. Their eyes lingered on Victoria with interest, and you swore Kid was proud when they nodded approvingly. 

Then came the side contests: loudest exhaust, best paint job, craziest modification. Victoria wasn’t registered for any of those competitions, but watching the crowd go wild was pretty fun. Even Kid seemed amused, grinning and smirking far more than his usual scowls. 

You had a quick lunch with some food from the food stalls, washed it down with ghastly locally brewed beer, which made you gag and almost lose your lunch. Kid called you a lightweight and suggested that you should stick with water instead of drinks made for men. He regretted that comment instantly when you started to discuss gender equality with him in a loud, passionate discourse until he was begging you to stop.

When the audience started to pour in after lunch, Kid tensed up because they were, in his words, ‘touchy, meddlesome, uneducated, and annoying.’ Though he might’ve phrased it a little less eloquently and with many more curse words in between. 

When he almost lost it, grumbling at a kid because he was about to touch Victoria with his ice-cream-covered hands, you took over talking to the public, and he only spoke to answer technical questions. You told him he did a very good job at being a grumpy Wikipedia page, if Wikipedia pages were R-rated. 

When the sun set, after your dinner consisted of a repeat of lunch minus the awful beers, the show closed for the night. Some participants decided to hit the town bars and keep the party going, but you were feeling exhausted. Kid said he wouldn’t be caught dead socializing with other people, and you knew he just didn’t want to leave you alone, because you’d never seen him say no to a few drinks. 

Now, Kid opens the door to the motel’s reception, and the obnoxious bell on the door dings to get the receptionist’s attention. Kid drops the two duffel bags on the floor and leans on the counter. 

“Hey, I had a reservation under Eustass Kid. It was a single, but now I gotta get one with two beds.” He told you during the show that he still didn’t know you were coming when he made the reservation for himself. 

The girl behind the counter chews her gum and clicks her mouse without looking at either of you, clearly bored out of her mind to be working the night shift. 

“We’re out of doubles, but we have rooms with king-size beds.”

Kid grunts a curse between his teeth. “Another single, then.”

“Oh, no need!” you chime in, stepping forward and shoving yourself between Kid and the counter. “The one with the king-size bed works just fine.”

The girl starts to click the mouse again, and Kid scowls at you, which only makes you grin. 

“Don’t worry, Kid, I’ll only bite if you want me to.”

The receptionist snaps her head up for the first time since you entered and gives you both a knowing smile. Kid tries to act annoyed at you, but the smirk and glint in his eyes tell you he’s looking forward to this as much as you are. 

“Careful not to swallow yer words, Sparkles.”

You reach for the card that the now-amused receptionist hands you, and Kid grabs the duffels. “Big words for someone who wanted two singles just a minute ago.”

He huffs a laugh and leads you outside with his hand on your lower back, barely touching but scorching you like a live flame. 

“Keep talkin’ and see where that attitude gets ye.”

Under you or over you would be great, thank you very much. These are the words you want to say, but you can’t. Because you’re both taking things slow. Torturously slow. 

“A girl can only hope…” you snicker at him, and he lets out one of those throaty sounds that send a shiver coursing through your spine but doesn’t say anything else. 

You can barely keep it together in shared spaces, as poor Killer can attest. How the heck are you going to last a full night sleeping next to this man?

Fuck.

Tags: @rosidaze @beachaddict48 @armiliadawn @jintaka-hane @sprinkklz @baby5555 @hopelesslover06 @mars-mizuko @sleepykittycx @nerium-lil @eustasscapitankid @ren-ni @jqperi @elysian-asphodel @daydreamer-in-training @iloveyoushanks @thegalaxysedge22 @kyllium @keiva1000 @chibinasuu @my-name-is-heartache @laidenbreecatchall @moldychefboyardeecan @dazzlingstarlight23 @bearg-bia @babyboofangirl @praline357 @tremendoushorsepatrolgoth @traffys-heart @cherileecore @violetmatcha @theloserqueen @mapachito @shamblespirate @ibuch7

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[mandoalorian]

Hello, I loved your Ava piece, and I just wanted to request Ava Starr dating hcs with one of her teammates (gn, preferably).

operation: dating ava starr

gender neutral reader x ava starr/ghost

rating: 16+ — no smut but some spice, while keeping it gender neutral of course. <3 thunderbolts* spoilers.

authors note: i’m sorry this took so long. it’s something i kept leaving and coming back to, and worked on over the span of a few weeks. these headcanons sit somewhere between basic headcanons to mini-drabbles. i hope that’s okay. @ava-starrs-girlfriend is a great author to send any future ava requests too, if you wanted some more stuff to read (since i primarily write for bucky) <3

a stolen rooftop moment ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

Ava loves the quality time; it’s her love language. Working together on the New Avengers team is fun, but it’s rare you get alone time with your girlfriend. Ava makes sure the little time you do get, is special, well thought out and worth remembering.

You sat on a hidden rooftop Ava had phased you through, the city’s glow sprawling below. She’d found the spot during a mission and swore it was your secret. That night, she leaned against you, her high-tech Ghost suit faintly humming, and pointed out a constellation. “Never had time to look up before you,” she murmured, her voice soft. You tucked a blanket around her shoulders, and her rare, shy smile warmed you more than the night air.

diner safe haven ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

Ava finds joy in the little things, and you encourage this, knowing it helps her stay grounded. Sometimes, she can feel overwhelmed, but she has a habit of masking her feelings, which is easy to do when she can just disappear within seconds. However, you bring out the best in her and can always tell when the voices in her head are too loud.

You shared a booth in a 24-hour diner, Ava’s favorite after a New Avengers mission. She’d just returned from a covert job, her eyes tired but soft as you slid her a milkshake. She ranted quietly about Yelena’s chaos, then slipped her hand into yours under the table, her thumb tracing circles. “This,” she said, glancing at you, “makes all the bullshit worth it.” You squeezed her hand, heart full.

stargazing ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

Ava has always been transfixed by space— the moon and the stars and the infinite number of galaxies. On clear nights, she takes you to the rooftop of the New Avengers Tower and teaches you a few things you didn’t know. Not just about the universe, but about her. Your universe.

You lay on a blanket on the roof, Ava’s head on your chest as you stargazed. She’d opened up about her parents’ loss, her voice raw from the weight of her past. You brushed a strand of hair from her face, promising you’d always be there. She nestled closer, whispering, “You’re my home.” The stars above felt brighter, knowing you were her safe place.

quantum keepsake ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

Whilst Ava enjoys sacred quality time, she also has a habit for gift-giving. But she never gives consumables and it’s always something with a history behind it, or something she knows you’d treasure forever.

One morning, you found a small quantum-tech trinket on your nightstand, glowing softly—Ava’s subtle gift from a mission. She’d phased in while you slept, too shy to give it in person. When you thanked her later, her cheeks flushed, and she mumbled, “Thought you’d like it.” You wore it as a necklace, and her eyes softened every time she saw it against your skin.

movie night ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

Bucky, Bob, Alexei, John and Yelena head out for the night, giving you and Ava the perfect excuse for a chill move night in the comfort of your home.

You curled up on the couch for a rare movie night, Ava’s arm around you. She’d been tense, so you paused the film, letting her talk, your fingers laced with hers. She leaned into you, whispering, “You make me feel safe.” You kissed her forehead, holding her until she relaxed, safe in your warmth.

On to more steamy stuff…

post-mission heat ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

After a grueling mission against O.X.E. Group, Ava phased into your apartment, her suit scuffed and hair disheveled. You barely had time to speak before she pinned you against the wall, her lips crashing into yours with a desperate edge. “Missed you,” she whispered, her phasing flickering as she pressed closer, her hands roaming your sides. The heat of her touch lingered long after she pulled back, her smirk promising more.

phased tease ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

One evening, Ava caught you off guard, phasing through your bedroom wall while you changed. Her eyes glinted mischievously as she leaned against the doorframe, suit glowing faintly. “Like what I see,” she teased, stepping closer. You tugged her by the jacket, and she let you pull her onto the bed, her kisses slow and deliberate, each one sparking heat as she phased just enough to keep you chasing her touch.

rooftop tension ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

During a New Avengers press event, Ava phased you away from the chaos to a skyscraper’s roof. Her frustration with the “hero” label boiled over, and she pulled you close, her breath hot against your neck. “You’re the only thing that makes sense,” she growled, kissing you deeply. Her phasing flickered, making your skin tingle as she pressed herself against you, the city below a distant hum.

shower love ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

Ava returned from fighting Doctor Doom, adrenaline still coursing through her. She phased you both into your bathroom, steam rising from the shower. “Need you,” she breathed, tugging you under the water. Her hands slid down your back, her kisses fierce yet tender, the warmth of her stabilized body grounding you both. You melted into her, the world outside forgotten.

taste of sweetness ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

One night, Ava’s dry wit turned playful as she phased through your kitchen, stealing a bite of your dessert. You chased her, only for her to pin you against the counter, her eyes dark with intent. “Caught you,” she murmured, her lips brushing your ear before trailing down your jaw. Her hands gripped your hips, her phasing teasingly unstable, leaving you breathless and craving more.

——࣪ ִֶָ☾.——

i hope you enjoyed! <3

[waliminium]

Everything But Goodbye

Pairing: Harvey Specter x Reader Warnings: angst, mild language, comfort after hurt, emotional suppression, repressed feelings Word Count: 1.3k Summary: When you take a job offer from another firm without telling Harvey, it feels like a betrayal. Harvey acts cold, like it doesn’t matter. But when he shows up at your apartment unannounced the night before your final day, the truth spills out—angry, broken, and full of all the love he tried to suppress.

It started with silence.

Not the cold kind, not at first. Not the kind that cuts or leaves bruises in its wake.

No. The beginning of the end came quietly—late nights where your voice stayed in your throat, half-smiles across Harvey Specter’s office that never quite landed, a hesitation before knocking on his door. You had always knocked before entering, but he used to say “Come in” before you even raised your hand.

Lately, he didn’t say anything at all.

And you didn’t know how to say I’m not sure I belong here anymore without sounding like betrayal.

So instead, you said nothing.

And he didn’t ask.

Pearson Specter had been your second home for years. A battlefield, a family, a place where ambition didn’t come with shame. Harvey had made you feel like you belonged in a world made of sharks, suits, and scotch.

But over the past few months, it had started to feel like the walls were closing in. That same ambition that once made you feel powerful began to feel like a leash. You were good—damn good—but you were still Harvey’s associate. Still in his shadow. Still waiting for a recognition that never came.

You didn’t need him to hold your hand.

You just needed him to notice you were drowning.

When the offer came in—senior partner, another firm, your name on the door—you didn’t jump. You read it five times. Slept on it. Waited.

Waited for him to say something. Anything.

He didn’t.

So you said yes.

And you still didn’t tell him.

He found out from Donna.

You knew that’s how it would go. You hadn’t expected her to lie for you. But it still stung, hearing your name laced in tension as he closed the door to his office a little harder than usual. Donna avoided your eyes the rest of the day.

You didn’t see him after that.

Not until the night before your last day.

It was raining—because of course it was. A downpour in the middle of spring, when the air was warm but the storm was unforgiving. You’d just gotten out of the shower, wrapped in a towel and too exhausted to care about dinner, when the knock came.

You frowned. You weren’t expecting anyone.

When you opened the door, you froze.

Harvey Specter stood in the hallway, soaked through, shirt plastered to his chest and jacket dripping on your welcome mat.

Your heart plummeted.

“Harvey—”

He brushed past you.

No greeting. No smile. Just quiet fury in a perfectly ruined suit.

“What the hell is this?” he asked, holding a crumpled letter—your resignation.

You closed the door slowly, your hands trembling. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“You think I give a damn about where I should be right now?”

He dropped the letter on your counter like it was poison.

“I had to hear from Donna that you were leaving. Donna. Not you. Not a conversation. Not even a goddamn email.”

You swallowed hard. “I was going to tell you.”

“When? Tomorrow, after you cleared your desk? Maybe I’d find a post-it that said ‘Thanks for the memories’?”

“I didn’t think you’d care,” you said, quieter than you meant.

That did it.

He stepped forward, and there was something feral in his eyes.

“You didn’t think I’d care?” he repeated, voice sharp and rough. “You’re the only person I’ve trusted at that firm in the last five years, and you thought I wouldn’t care?”

“You’ve been shutting me out for months, Harvey!”

“And you decided to walk away without even talking to me first!”

“I tried!” you shouted, voice cracking. “I waited for you to notice! I waited for you to see me. But you were too busy pretending I didn’t matter. So I made a choice for myself for once!”

He stared at you, breathing hard. Rainwater clung to his lashes, and it hit you how rare it was to see him this undone.

“You mattered more than anyone,” he said, lower now. “That’s the problem.”

You blinked.

He dragged a hand through his soaked hair, stepping away from you like he couldn’t trust himself if he stayed close.

“You mattered, and I didn’t know what to do with that. I thought—if I kept things simple, if I kept my distance—then maybe I could survive it. Maybe I could keep being your boss and not completely lose my goddamn mind every time you smiled at me like I was something more.”

Your breath caught.

“I thought I could be okay watching you move on, take bigger roles, maybe fall in love with someone better than me. But I didn’t think you’d leave.”

His voice cracked on the last word.

You took a step forward. “Harvey…”

“You broke something,” he said, jaw clenched. “You broke something I didn’t even know I still had in me to break.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Then why didn’t you fight for it?” he snapped, and for a second he looked like a man begging and breaking all at once. “Why didn’t you slam my door open and demand I see you? Why did you walk away like it was easy?”

“Because loving you isn’t easy,” you whispered.

The room went still.

He stared at you like he’d been punched.

You hadn’t meant to say it.

But there it was.

“I love you,” you said, quieter now. “And it hurts.”

His eyes closed, just for a second, like he needed a moment to keep standing.

“I never asked you to love me,” he said hoarsely.

“No. You didn’t,” you agreed, tears slipping down your cheeks. “You just made me believe there was something real between us. And then you made me feel stupid for wanting more.”

He didn’t move.

You took a breath, every inch of you aching. “So I left. Because I couldn’t stay in that office one more day and pretend it didn’t kill me to stand next to you and mean nothing.”

Harvey looked up at you then, and something in him broke.

“You never meant nothing.”

“Then why did you treat me like I did?”

“Because I’m in love with you, and I didn’t know how to handle it!” he roared.

You flinched.

He paced the room, chest heaving, dragging his hands down his face like he was trying to scrub away years of repression.

“I’ve been in love with you for so long, and it scared the hell out of me. Because you’re brilliant and kind and everything I don’t deserve. And I thought if I kept you at arm’s length, I could keep you.”

He turned back to you, and his voice cracked open completely.

“But I didn’t keep you. I lost you. And I did it to myself.”

You were crying now—really crying—and when he took a cautious step forward, you didn’t stop him.

“I love you,” he said again, but this time it was broken. “I love you, and I’m sorry it took losing you to say it.”

You reached for him like you’d been drowning and he was the only thing left.

He folded into you instantly.

His arms wrapped around you tightly, anchoring you, holding you like he was afraid the world might take you from him if he let go.

“I should’ve told you sooner,” he murmured against your hair.

“I should’ve stayed,” you whispered back.

“You were right to leave,” he said, surprising you. “I didn’t give you a reason to stay. But if you give me another chance… I will.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, to search his face for doubt.

There wasn’t any.

Only regret.

Only love.

Only him. Then, quietly—like the silence that had started it all—he cupped your face in his hands, reverent, careful, and kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t angry.

It was everything unsaid, everything broken, everything healed in the space between two heartbeats.

It was a beginning.

And this time, it didn’t start with silence.

[unnamednarrator]

everlark being words of affirmation gf and acts of service bf is veeery eldest daughter and youngest son of them and it makes me 🥺

[upsidedog]

i am so charmed by a lumax wedding because it’s not even something max thought would happen. like she assumed weddings were something the girl makes happen and the guy puts up with. and because she had no desire for one, so there’s no reason it would happen.

among other things weddings are an exorbitant and performative show of love, max loves lucas and she doesn’t care whether or not other people know or believe this. at it’s best marriage to her has been a representation of failed dreams and at it’s worst it’s been a tool to manipulate people who need to get away to stay. maybe they will get married for the tax benefits, she thinks.

this is until max and lucas are older and living together, they’re chilling on the couch and lucas mentions his family has been asking when he’s planning to propose and if that’s something max even wants? max doesn’t care, she doesn’t plan on going anywhere, a certificate won’t change anything and she's not crazy about parties. she doesn’t ask how he feels, he brings it up, that “actually i want a wedding.”

that is saying the least, lucas wants a wedding more than anything. he loves max and he doesn’t need to prove that to anyone, but he’s happy and he wants to share that with others! he wants to work with max to make marriage a positive thing to them, he wants to celebrate their love, everything they’ve been through. also, hell, he’s only human, he wants to show off! he wants to dress really cool and go to a really cool place and show the world know how awesome he and his girlfriend are. HIS WIFE!!!

most of all, lucas wants the moment near the end of the night, where the party’s getting loud and everybody wants his attention, but max asks if he wants to get out of there and he says yes. not out out, just outside the venue. it’s dark and the once booming music is now faint, they sit and catch up, complain about their families, laugh about their friends. max holds lucas’s hand and plays with his wedding ring, she whispers something sweet before asking him to dance. it’s the best part of the night and nobody will know about it but them.

suddenly max decides she wants a wedding.

[ihatebrainstorm]

What are ur thoughts on IDW Prowl?

Just a lil curious :3

ohhohhhhehhehahhehahh...

Alright, first off: I'm horrid at explaining my thoughts cohesively in words, so this is gonna have a lot of me scribbling, yelling, and virtually shaking you back and forth, but just bare with me here as I commit crimes against linguistics...

HE'S SUCH A PRICK. A GENUINE PRICK, SUCH A FRIKIN THORN UP THE ASS I HATE LOVE HIM SO DAMN MUCH. Smug asshole probably was cited in the definition of the word "jerk", he's just sooo,,,, HHHHGRGG- Exactly the type of character where you love him, but you still cheer when karma comes around the corner and serves him 5 star yelped review can of "whoopass to the face" y'know???? Sometimes he deserves it, sometimes he doesn't, but either way you feel god awful when he shows vulnerability or starts feeling regret.. To a point where it almost feels that subconsciously, I'd rather he be a one dimensional villain type character just to avoid him being hurt? If that makes sense?

He's somehow such an asshole, but such an endearing one at the same time?? His dialogue delivery is so comedic in a way where it seems like he's severely lacking self awareness, but because of who he is you can't tell if he's doing that on purpose to get a rise out of someone gaghhh- The king, the master, and seasoned veteran of "Holy Crap You Should Not Have Said That To Their Face"

But he's also so sad?? The way you watch as former close associates lose trust in him as the story progresses, his realization of said fact, the trauma he sustains from having his mind be exposed/controlled multiple times over, watching as even Optimus turns his back on him, that whole Tarantulas fiasco, etc. etc. It really hurts watching his slow, meandering descent into isolation

He makes me want to aggressively throw him on a couch using a trebuchet before layering him in cozy blankets, the number of which would rival the princess and the pea's mattress count- I just,,, desperately want him to catch a break and relax a bit,,,,,

but also it'd be really funny if someone bolted his table into the floor. I'm just saying......

(Hopefully that was cohesive enough? I dunno maybe my memory is a bit warped and my perception of him is all wonky? It's been a hot minute since I've read the earlier IDW comics skdfks- Either way, agree or disagree, these be my thoughts on him.. minus all the cut out aggressive screaming and table pounding)

[himboblackdragon]

On Xunfeng

Was reading about the Eight Trigrams in Chinese mysticism, which I definitely don't grok fully but are an interesting exercise in the powers of 2 and whose existence I only know of because it's written the exact same way as the word for "gossip"... anyway I came across a familiar two characters:

name: 巽 xùn image in nature: 風 fēng (wind) phase: wood attribute: penetrating state: gentle entrance animal: 雞 jī (fowl/chicken) (but also a modern slang for penis is 小雞雞, little chicken)

Conclusion: Xunfeng's name is a dick joke *

[headspace-hotel]

Y'all

Im not on tiktok and never have been, but I downloaded RedNote just to see what is up, and I am witnessing something truly amazing

The Chinese user community is giving the American tiktok refugees an overwhelmingly warm welcome, meanwhile the American users seem to have collectively agreed that not only will they not let the app be taken over with English and they will provide Mandarin subtitles for everything, they are LEARNING MANDARIN. Ive scrolled through so many videos of Americans offering greetings in Mandarin to try to acclimate to the new environment and be respectful, and speakers of both languages are posting lots of tutorials on language basics and internet slang in Mandarin

My God, there is an AMAZING outpouring of curiosity and delight among everyone to learn about each others cultures and daily lives. People are posting videos of landscapes, cities, towns, and natural areas in USA and China, posting recipes and traditional foods, vlogs of everyday life, and reaching out to find people with similar hobbies.

And it's not just young people! There are loads of videos from middle-aged American guys who have come to post about fishing or motorcycles and are now happily chatting with Chinese users sharing the same interests using Google translate

One American guy who was like. in his 60's had a comment on one of his videos that was like "Red Neck?" and he replied "Yes!" and I just about fucking lost it

Also the Chinese users love, and I mean LOVE, Luigi Mangione. He is apparently broadly adored in China. There is SO much fanart and SO many edits.

There are many threads initiating Chinese users to ask questions of American users about the USA, and vice versa, and everyone on both sides is clearing up a lot of misconceptions. Some of the questions I saw a lot from Chinese users were: "Is it true that American parents kick you out of the house as soon as you turn 18" (not often, but sometimes) "Do you all really wear shoes in bed" (NO!!! Apparently a lot of characters in American sitcoms are shown lying in bed with shoes on which I never noticed before!) and "are there really guns everywhere" (yes).

For the most part Chinese content creators seem just overwhelmed by the sudden influx of hundreds of followers that are super enthusiastic about what they're doing. A lot of them have made posts about how initially they thought the uptick in follower count was some kind of error, or that there was some kind of joke or prank, but then they realized the interest and enthusiasm was genuine and now they're welcoming all the newcomers.

I found several posts by Chinese users saying that this felt like a really profound historical moment, where these previously separated worlds are suddenly smashing together and suddenly there is freedom to learn about each other's cultures and connect. One of them said something along the lines of "This is a 21st century Tower of Babel and even though I'm an atheist I hope God lets this tower stand." OUGH MY HEART.

The app itself works a little bit like a video-based version of Pinterest. It's not really my thing so I probably won't be on there long term but it's been amazing to see what's happening.

[princemick]

also mutuals, again u can still send in bears but u cud to that at any time ever actually. u cud always just msg me n go 'heloo can I have?' bc if u dont I will judge ur layout n force a new one on u