#who knows if anything will actually come of it this time

[luvergirl-535]

meet cute, but, like, wayyy worse

part - 2

pairing - paige bueckers x azzi fudd

word count - 8.3k

c/w - smut (iktr), paige is a loser in the streets and a freak in the sheets (lol), horrifically unedited to the point where idek if it’s legible so bear w me 🥀

a/n - writing this made me realize i’ve literally forgotten how to write smut 😔 bc why’d i keep trying to make it funny. i’m actually a little concerned that ive been doing too much unserious stuff i won’t be able to go back to normal writing anymore lmao maybe i’m the problem…

paige has had an absolute shitshow of a night. actually, scratch that—the entire year has been a shitshow. maybe even the past two years. she doesn’t like to dwell on it.

she hates the way her friends look at her these days, with cautious smiles and sympathetic eyes, like all they ever do anymore is feel bad for her. she hates the way they speak to her when she starts drinking, like she’s an unpredictable, wild thing. like they’re afraid of what she’s doing to herself.

honestly, she’s fine. they just don’t get it. the fame, the work, it’s a lot. she’s in shape. her basketball has never been better. she’s bringing girls home every night.

it’s not like she’s addicted to coke or anything. since when is it a crime to need a few beers every now and then?

(it’s every night. and some mornings, too.)

(she finds herself forgetting—birthdays, anniversaries, names—more than ever.)

(she used to fucking hate alcohol.)

(she is a little afraid of herself, too.)

anyway.

the cruise has been fun. a team-bonding experience, meant to build their chemistry off the court, to take their minds off the upcoming season for a little while. a week of relaxation. a week to destress. for paige, it’s been hard. she cannot justify sneaking off to day drink to her teammates, and they’ve been steering clear of alcohol like their lives depend on it. she only gets to drink at night, after the rest of the girls have gotten too drunk to care about what she does. the rest of the time, she’s forced to be painfully sober.

it all goes from ‘difficult’ to ‘burning gates of hell’ when she throws up on the love of her life—who does not know she’s the love of paige’s life—azzi fudd. an angel on earth, the most beautiful girl paige has ever seen. like, better than zendaya. for real.

after that, she wants nothing more than to jump off ship and be lost at sea forever. when kk offers to take azzi back to paige’s room, she swears she could kill her.

and then, almost consecutively: her stupid little crush is exposed, she’s forced to cut a dress off azzi’s body, and then—this.

her first thought, after the phone call, is mental image of her fist pumping, because, duh. and then comes the, oh my god, i get to fuck azzi fudd, followed by a brief moment of panic, followed then by the realization that of course she is not going to fuck azzi tonight. or ever.

she is both relieved and disappointed by this knowledge.

“i’m…” azzi says, staring at her phone as if she could magically make chad call her back again. paige expects something, like maybe an explanation on why the fuck she’s telling her ex-boyfriend they are going to fuck tonight, but instead, azzi just tosses the phone onto the bed as if she’s been burned and says, “i’m going to change.”

paige has half a mind to leap in front of the door and barricade azzi in the room with her until she gets an explanation. she doesn’t, because she can barely act like a normal person around azzi, let alone confront her like that.

azzi disappears into the restroom. paige sits. and waits—not so patiently.

she pulls at a fray in the comforter until it comes loose. taps her foot against the bedframe. thinks about how azzi’s voice changed on the call—quieter, but not exactly embarrassed. maybe satisfied? there was something in it that didn’t sound like regret. that’s the part that’s screwing with her the most.

she gets up from the bed to pace, the back-and-forth a feeble attempt at wrapping her mind around what just happened. when that doesn’t work, she drops to the floor and does some sit-ups, because when she was a kid her dad told her if she let the anxiety build in her body she’d explode and that the only way to get rid of it was to do sit-ups. he’s a bitch for that, but she’s also spent a lifetime with nice abs, so she can’t really be too mad. but not even the magical sit-ups really work, so she does the last thing she can think of:

she pounds on the bathroom door.

“jesus!” azzi’s voice is high-pitched, nervous. “you tryna knock the door down?”

“uh, no,” paige says, a little unsure of what she’s going to say now that she’s here. “you’ve just been in there for awhile so…”

“don’t worry about it.”

oh, she’s worried. though not particularly about azzi. “can you just come out?”

“why?”

at this point, azzi is just playing in her face. because what does she mean, ‘why?’. is it not a normal thing to come out of the bathroom once you’re done?

the most alarming thing about all this is that paige has yet to question her undying crush, even as azzi is turning out to be a possible psycho. actually, even worse—it might be turning paige on?

now she is doubly worried. perhaps she should focus on one thing at a time.

paige’s silence must have stretched long enough to spark concern, because azzi speaks again, a hesitant, “paige?”

paige sighs, a hand on her hip and the other pinching the bridge of her nose, a pose she might have adopted from her coach. “you know you owe me an explanation, azzi.”

another sigh, as equally annoyed as paige’s, from the other side of the door. and then, its opening, and azzi’s standing there in paige’s clothes, looking altogether too soft and sweet for the diabolical things she did ten minutes prior. “i know, i just…i don’t really have one.”

paige’s eyes flick down azzi’s body without permission. the loose uconn t-shirt hangs too long on her—paige knows that shirt, it’s the one she used to let her ex borrow. something about azzi in it makes her stomach twist. not in a bad way. in the worst possible way.

paige steps back, allowing azzi back into the bedroom. “you mean you don’t have an explanation for telling your boyfriend we’d…” paige isn’t usually shy about sex, she’s a grown adult, for god’s sake, but this is azzi fudd and she can’t really find her words in normal conversation, and certainly not this one, “you know…” she trails off awkwardly.

azzi bites her lip, half-sheepish, half-trying to charm her way out of it. and, yeah, maybe it’s working a little.

paige realizes with a little bit of a start that she’s staring at azzi’s lips. she glances up and away quickly, turning around to give herself something to do before motioning to the phone on the bed. “you should…call him back.”

“hell no,” azzi sneers.

“well it’s either that or we fuck,” paige retorts before she can think. she’s glad she’s faced away so azzi can’t see the way blood flushes her cheeks.

azzi’s silent for a moment. almost long enough that paige turns around, but then she speaks. “maybe there’s another option,” she says.

paige senses trouble.

❀❀❀

kk’s jaw is on the floor.

she looks between a guilty-looking azzi and a tomato-red paige before letting out a shocked laugh. “now why would you tell him that?”

kk asking all the most important questions.

“it was the first thing that came to mind!” azzi says, voice high and defensive. paige can’t help but think it’s adorable.

“why, though?” kk asks, a small, suspect grin spreading over her face.

azzi gives her a look, something that clearly says cut it out, and paige doesn’t doubt that kk spilled all the beans about her crush to azzi earlier.

“uh-huh,” kk responds, making a small ‘mcht’ sound.

azzi gives that warning look again. “shut up, kk.”

“that isn’t even the main thing,” paige points out, jumping between their tense interaction. “what we came to tell you is azzi had an idea.” an outlandish, admittedly odd one, but an idea nonetheless.

“an idea,” kk repeats.

azzi nods. she’s hesitant, clearly, but paige has already assured her kk will be on board. she’ll laugh in their faces first, sure, but then she will help them go through with azzi’s little…plan.

“okay,” she says doubtfully. “tell me this lil’ idea.”

azzi glances nervously at paige. “well, i can’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s right,” she explains.

kk nods. “obviously.”

“and i can’t go back to my room tonight.”

“okay…”

“so i’m going to stay here,” she continues, taking a deep breath as in gathering courage for the teasing about to come. “and i’m going to take…suggestive pictures with paige, in paige’s bed. and we’re just hoping you can help.”

before azzi’s finished, kk’s eyebrows have already raised to her hairline. she lets out a half-shocked, half-ifuckingknewit scoff. it’s enough to have paige jumping in to try and make it look better. “her boyfriend’s really an ass, kk, like, she needs to get him back.”

azzi nods. “paige heard him on the phone. she knows.”

“i know,” paige agrees.

kk looks between the two of them, both so earnest and oh-so oblivious, and just laughs. “i believe you. oh, i believe you.”

“so are you going to help us?” azzi asks.

“help with what, exactly? do i need to ref? do i need to make sure it stays pg in there?”

paige immediately blushes, squeaking an awkward “what? no!” before azzi can even react. when she does, it’s a much more nonchalant, normal person answer: “don’t be weird, kk. answer the question.”

kk gives paige a pointed look. “for the record, this is stupud. y’all are stupid. and i don’t condone such behavior.”

“oh, shut up, kk,” paige says.

“but i will help,” kk finishes, getting up from her kitchen stool. “i’ll make sure y’all look as, what’d you say? suggestive, as possible,” she grins.

azzi, bravely, doesn’t so much as redden. “cool. thanks.”

“what friends are for,” kk replies easily. she walks toward them, slinging an arm around both their shoulders and pulling their heads close. “and after tonight, we are definitely friends,” she tells azzi.

“except on the court,” azzi points out.

“unless you come to uconn.”

“you tryna recruit me? to a team that always loses against us?” azzi laughs, pushing away. “you’re funny.”

“trust, we wouldn’t lose with you on our team,” kk says.

paige rolls her eyes. “can we just get this over with?”

“aight, cranky pants. let’s get it.” kk motions toward the bedroom. “go start taking y’all’s clothes off. i’ll get the camera ready.”

“oh, brother,” azzi sighs, at the same time paige mutters, “worst fuckin’ idea,” under her breath.

❀❀❀

azzi looks—fucked out, to be perfectly honest. more specifically, like a scene straight from one of paige’s many azzi-centered wet dreams. not that she has azzi-centered wet dreams or anything. but if she did, like hypothetically, azzi would look exactly like this.

lips plumped with oil. braids pulled back messily. mascara re-applied and then carefully smeared. she studies herself in the mirror as she adds the final touch: a dark bruise above her collarbone, created with deft fingers and dark blush courtesy of kk. paige sits on the toilet seat, watching azzi work. she’s been staring for the past thirty minutes. azzi has yet to notice. kk, on the other hand, has spent the entire time sending her not-so-subtle signals, such as disguising a ‘talktoher’ with a cough, and whispering ‘go offer to do that for her,’ when azzi started applying the hickeys.

paige has not taken this advice. she’s still a little tipsy and azzi looks too enticing and she’s awkward enough that she’d much rather observe than try to interact at the moment.

before azzi finishes applying the final fake hickey, kk is fiddling with angles, mumbling about “golden hour lighting” even though they’re inside and it’s past midnight. paige’s gaze is caught in the mirror—not on herself, but the reflection of azzi in front of her. she imagines reaching over. just touching azzi’s wrist. she doesn’t. she clenches her hands together in her lap instead.

“you know,” azzi says idly, still dabbing at her collarbone, “you’re not nervous enough.”

paige blinks. “about what?”

“pretending to fuck me. in pictures. that we’re going to send to a real person.” azzi’s voice is light, teasing, but there’s something layered beneath it.

“what, you want me to panic?”

“a little. would make me feel better.”

paige laughs—quiet and dry. “i’m panicking plenty. just…internally.”

“uh-huh.” azzi licks her thumb before dabbing at her neck, turning her chin this way and that in the mirror. “do i look good?”

“you look bad,” kk says, nodding appreciatively. “as hell.”

azzi smiles a little shyly. “thanks.”

she knows it’s stupid, but a pang of jealously hits paige. she wishes she had kk’s natural instinct to flirt with girls. and it’s true paige has this instinct sometimes, but with a girl she really likes? with azzi fucking fudd? it’s best for everyone if she just keeps quiet and lets kk charm her instead. after this whole thing, she’ll go back to her indulgent bedtime fantasies of she and azzi in domestic situations and wet dreams.

“okay,” azzi says, pulling her phone out of her pocket and snapping a quick selfie in the mirror before turning to the two of them. “we ready?”

“i been practicing my photography skills,” kk says (she got a new camera app last week and has been taking candid, objectively bad photos of the team ever since). “never been readier.”

“don’t think that’s a word,” azzi points out, then looks at paige. “paige?”

“yup,” paige says, slapping her thighs before standing up in an attempt to get rid of the chalant written all over her face right now. “super ready.”

“now why you sound all excited to cozy up in bed with fudd?” kk quips. paige gets warm all over, glancing furtively at azzi to see her reaction—seriously, kk’s going to make azzi think paige is weird or something—but she just gives a little laugh before leading the way into the bedroom. “okay, let’s do this then.”

paige is maybe beginning to reconsider the this in question—their great plan. nothing’s even been done yet, for god’s sakes, with phase one—making azzi look as fucked out as possible—barely being finished. yet still paige is already uncomfortably damp between her legs: hence, the reconsidering. but, lord save her, azzi is already crawling into paige’s bed much too seductively, and it would look downright suspicious of her to pussy out now. no, she’s going to go through with this faux-sex photoshoot like a man, goddamit.

“get in there, twin,” kk says, pulling her phone out from her back pocket.

paige gingerly sits on the edge of the bed while azzi lays back, propped up on her elbows as they watch kk navigate around the device. “you know,” azzi says, “i wasn’t thinking you’d actually take the pictures for us. i thought you’d just, like, tell us what looks good.”

paige is a little surprised to hear this, and at the offended expression on kk’s face, she panics—her friend has a liking for dramatic storm-outs, and paige cannot have her leaving right now. “but this works too,” she jumps in, shooting azzi a warning look. “right?”

azzi places her palms upright, surrendering. “i mean, yeah, i guess. i was just sayin’.”

“well i ain’t here to be a third opinion or nothing,” kk says haughtily.

“you’re not,” paige says quickly. “you’re our creative director.”

“yeah,” azzi adds, already settling deeper into the pillows like this is just another thursday night. “we trust your vision.”

kk narrows her eyes at them like she’s sniffing out sarcasm, but apparently decides she accepts it. “creative director,” she repeats, pleased. “i like that. okay. azzi, scoot a little more to the left. paige, behind her. lean in like you just got done doing something y’all shouldn’t have been doing.”

“we haven’t even started yet,” paige mutters.

“don’t kill the vibe,” kk says. she gestures wildly. “go on. get close. more. closer.”

paige shifts behind azzi on the bed, legs folding automatically. azzi leans back slightly to rest against her, and the contact sends a shock through her skin like she’s short-circuiting. this is fine. totally fine. normal behavior for two near-strangers in a definitely-not-suggestive photoshoot.

“hand on her waist,” kk calls, adjusting her phone. “and azzi, tilt your head back, like you’re worn out.”

paige’s hand finds azzi’s hip, fingers splaying across the soft cotton of her borrowed t-shirt. azzi does as told, and for a second paige’s vision blurs. the curve of her neck, the flushed heat of her skin from alcohol or earlier makeup efforts—it’s all a little too real.

“jesus,” kk mutters, half to herself. “this looks…kind of hot, not gonna lie.”

paige groans. “can we not—comment on that?”

“okay, okay,” kk says, still snapping. “let’s switch it up. azzi, crawl into her lap. yeah, like that. lean back a little, like you’re laughing at something she said. paige, smile. not like you’re being tortured.”

“so, you are taking the pictures for us, then?”

“i’m close enough he won’t be able to tell it was taken by someone else,” kk huffs. “now, go. c’mon.”

“i’m not a model,” paige mutters, but she does her best to grin.

azzi wiggles into place, her thigh slotting between paige’s legs. “sorry,” she whispers.

“don’t apologize,” paige says automatically, which is a mistake, because then azzi looks at her, and they’re way too close for that.

“aaaand pause,” kk says, not looking up from the phone. “i think i need y’all to look a little messier. paige, mess up your hair. azzi, can you tug the shirt off your shoulder a little? you look too put together.”

paige drags a hand through her hair, trying not to stare as azzi obliges, the shirt slipping just enough to expose the faux-hickey she’d applied earlier. kk catches it in the next snap and lets out a sharp whistle.

“he’s gonna cry when he sees these,” she says gleefully.

azzi’s lips twitch. “that’s the goal.”

more posing. more directions. at some point paige gets bolder, draping an arm around azzi’s stomach. azzi leans back into her without hesitation, as if it’s natural, like they do this every day.

kk crouches to get a shot from below and then pauses, frowning at her screen. “hold up,” she says. “jana’s calling. gimme a sec.”

she stands and walks out, phone already at her ear, voice lowering as she steps into the other room.

the silence she leaves behind is heavy.

paige shifts slightly. azzi doesn’t move off her lap.

“so…” paige starts, voice low. “this is probably the weirdest way i’ve ever spent a night.”

azzi chuckles softly. “same. but kind of… weirdly fun?”

“yeah,” paige admits. “yeah, it kinda is.”

they lapse into another pause. paige thinks she should move, but azzi hasn’t, and she’s scared that if she does, she’ll mess up whatever weird little truce they’re holding onto.

“hey,” azzi says suddenly, voice softer now. “can i ask you something?”

“sure.”

“do you hang out with your team very often?” she asks. “because, i mean, i see y’all on tv and at social events and stuff but—i dunno. you’re never in any of their tiktoks or anything.” azzi winces. “not that i’ve been paying attention.”

paige stiffens slightly. “uh. i dunno. just—trying to focus. this year’s important.”

“yeah,” azzi says quietly. “it is.”

azzi looks down, to gather her thoughts, maybe, and seems to realize that she’s still on top of paige because her breath hitches and then she moves, rolling off so she’s sitting beside her. “sorry,” she murmurs.

“you’re good.”

the quiet stretches again, heavier this time.

“truth?” paige says suddenly.

azzi turns toward her a little more, her thigh still between paige’s, their knees brushing. “truth.”

“i’ve been drinking too much,” paige blurts. “i’m not like an alcoholic or anything,” she’s quick to defend, because alcoholism is for deadbeat dads and stuff, right? not for celebrity college athletes. “it just, lately, it got kind of bad, and people started noticing, and it’s hard to be around them now. they all look at me like they think i’m gonna…i dunno. fall apart or something.”

azzi’s eyes soften. “i’m sorry.”

“it’s okay. i mean—it’s not,” paige shrugs. “but it’s…i had this breakup a few months ago. really bad. i thought it was going to be forever, you know? and when it wasn’t, i guess, and it was kinda my fault, and i—the team took me to parties, to get my mind off it. i learned pretty quick that drinking helped me forget. and now, i mean, i’m mostly over it, i guess, but it helps with other things, too. like when i’m stressed about an exam, or worried for a game, or something. it helps.”

she stares off into space, then catches herself, glancing over at azzi, who’s staring her with an imperceptible look on her face. “damn, my bad. didn’t mean to overshare with a stranger like that.”

“you’re not a stranger,” azzi says, her voice quiet. “not to me.”

paige blinks. “i didn’t think you knew anything about me.”

“i do,” azzi says. “we’re not close, but…i’ve kept up with you, since usa. i’m a people-watcher. very perceptive.” she elbows paige, raising a smug, teasing eyebrow. “and i think i’ve got you all figured out.”

paige exhales, glad for the mood lightener. “oh yeah? and who am i?”

“you’re…a twenty-two year old college student,” azzi starts.

paige laughs. “wow, super perceptive. how’d you figure that one out?”

“shut up, smart-ass, i’m not finished,” azzi snips, and paige is almost surprised at the sass, at the teasing that she herself loves so much. “lemme continue. i think you’re someone who likes to think you’ve got your life together. you walk around like you’re so sure of everything, like your whole future is planned out, and you know it’s all gonna end well for you. so you act like you don’t worry, like you don’t…care.”

paige raises an eyebrow. “but…?”

“but,” azzi says, “you’re a twenty-two year old college student. of course you don’t have your life figured out. you get stressed out trying to decide what you’re gonna eat for your next meal. your shoulders are constantly tense. you’re always wringing your hands before games, did you know that? during time-outs, too.”

paige looks over, startled, to find azzi looking just as surprised. “you watch me play?”

azzi fumbles for something. “i’m a basketball player. you didn’t expect me to watch basketball?”

“i didn’t expect you to watch me,” paige says.

azzi opens her mouth. closes it. looks away, at the wall ahead. “i guess i didn’t realize i was doing it.”

paige doesn’t know what to say to that. she feels seen and it’s terrifying.

“truth?” azzi says after a moment.

“truth.”

“chad’s been cheating on me,” she says. “i haven’t caught him, but i know. it’s been obvious for weeks.”

paige looks at her, waiting.

“and he’s mean,” azzi continues. “not, like…evil. just sharp. cold. the kind of mean that makes you feel stupid for crying or asking to be treated better. tonight was just—my last straw, i think. i didn’t want to go back to that room and feel like shit again. so i came here.”

“you didn’t have to come with us,” paige says. “i would’ve just, like, venmoed you for the shoes.”

azzi meets her eyes. “i think…i think i wanted to come here.”

paige’s breath catches.

before she can figure out what that means—what to say—kk’s voice cuts in from the hall. “yo! i gotta bounce for a sec, emergency meeting. jana’s constipated for real, imma bring over some laxatives. i’ll be back in like twenty.”

they hear the cabin door open and then click shut.

“you think we should keep going?” azzi asks after a beat.

paige nods, voice suddenly thick. “yeah. okay.”

wordlessly, they rearrange, moving closer. azzi sits with her knees up now, leaning into paige’s shoulder, one hand splayed across her thigh.

they take a few selfies this time. azzi guides her hand behind the camera, adjusting the angle to catch just enough skin, just enough closeness. their shoulders press. their cheeks touch. at some point, paige’s hand finds azzi’s knee, and azzi doesn’t move it.

by the time kk returns, azzi is in paige’s lap again, one hand hooked around the back of her neck.

kk pauses in the doorway. “well damn.”

“we figured we’d keep going,” paige says, eyes wide.

“uh-huh,” kk says knowingly. “y’all definitely got the shots now.”

she walks around, checking a few pictures. “these are good. like…y’all could win a grammy for best fake situationship or something.”

paige laughs, a little too loudly. “we just wanted to sell it.”

“mission accomplished.” kk pockets her phone. “i’ll edit mine and get them to you, azzi.”

“thanks,” azzi says. “seriously. for everything.”

kk just grins. “get some sleep, y’all. and don’t do anything i wouldn’t do.”

when she’s gone, paige and azzi look at each other.

“that was—” paige starts.

“insane,” azzi finishes.

they laugh, even though nothing’s really funny.

❀❀❀

the clock on the stove reads 4:36 a.m. the suite is dark and quiet except for the low hum of the fridge. paige is sitting at the counter, a half-empty glass of water in her hand, the condensation dripping slowly down to form a ring beneath it.

she can’t sleep. her skin’s still buzzing, brain too full. not from alcohol—for once—but from azzi. from the way her voice had gone soft. from the weight of her in paige’s lap. from the echo of that not-quite-confession: i think i wanted to come here.

the room creaks. faint footsteps pad across the floor.

paige looks up.

azzi appears in the doorway, her braids wrapped in kk’s spare bonnet, bundled in one of paige’s old huskies sweatshirts that’s big enough to swallow her whole. she looks warm. sleepy. somehow both tentative and certain.

“couldn’t sleep,” azzi says, voice scratchy.

paige offers a quiet smile. “same.”

azzi shuffles forward, hugging her arms around herself. “can i hang with you?”

“uh-huh.”

azzi climbs onto the stool next to her. their knees knock under the counter and neither moves to pull away. azzi steals a sip from paige’s water without asking, and something about that—something about the easy familiarity of it—sends a warm, unsteady ache through paige’s chest.

they sit in silence for a while. the kind of silence that settles between people who are too tired to lie but too uncertain to speak first.

finally, azzi says, “i didn’t think today would end like this.”

paige snorts quietly. “me either.”

“i thought i’d be crying to some emo playlist and wondering why i ever trusted him.”

“and i thought i’d be drinking alone in my room, again,” paige admits. “so…silver linings, i guess?”

azzi turns slightly to look at her, and the light from the fridge reflects in her eyes, soft and shimmering. “i meant what i said earlier. about wanting to come here.”

paige looks at her. “yeah?”

azzi nods, then smiles softly to herself. “it’s been a lot of fun, despite…everything.” she gestures at their surroundings. “i don’t think i’ve laughed like that in months, to be honest.”

“i don’t think i’ve felt…wanted like that in months,” paige says, quieter now, fully aware that what she’s saying is pathetic and induced by the last dregs of alcohol in her system. “even if it was fake.”

azzi’s voice is even softer. “it didn’t feel fake.”

that—that does it.

paige’s breath catches, heart thudding loud in her chest. she glances at azzi, who’s already looking at her, mouth parted, gaze open in a way that makes something deep inside paige tremble.

“can i—?” paige starts, voice hoarse.

“yes,” azzi breathes.

paige leans in slowly, giving azzi every chance to pull away. but she doesn’t. she leans in too, and when their lips meet, it’s soft. hesitant. careful, like they’re both afraid of shattering something delicate.

azzi’s hand finds paige’s hoodie, clutching at the fabric. paige cups her cheek, thumb brushing just under her eye. the kiss deepens in quiet pulses, not rushed, but heavy with the weight of something new.

when they finally break apart, foreheads pressed together, paige whispers, “sorry. i didn’t—i wasn’t trying to make this weird.”

“it’s not weird,” azzi says, eyes still closed. “it’s…good. i think it’s really good.”

they sit like that for a long beat, breathing the same air.

then azzi whispers, “can i stay with you? i just…don’t want to be alone tonight.”

paige nods immediately. “yeah. of course.”

azzi takes her hand. her fingers are cold, but her grip is sure.

they walk quietly through the dark apartment. it’s a short walk, but it feels like it takes years. the lights are all off, but paige’s room glows faintly with the soft blue light of the tv she’d left on, a 2000s sitcom playing on mute.

paige opens the door and lets azzi step inside first. she watches her for a second, silhouetted against the light—still in the oversized hoodie, bare legs, face bare and soft. she’s never looked more unreal.

paige swallows hard, her pulse thudding in her ears.

azzi turns to face her. “you coming?”

paige steps in and closes the door behind her. something buzzes under her skin, in both a turned-on way and a bug-crawly way.

it’s dawning on her, now, with azzi standing there giving her bedroom eyes in her bedroom—she just kissed azzi fudd. she threw up on her then proceeded to be incredibly awkward for the entire tonight before trauma-dumping and has now pulled her.

azzi fudd. the fucking—love of her life. the celebrity crush of her goddamn dreams. is standing before her like some kind of bisexual goddess waiting to receive the best head of her life. and oh, will paige make sure it actually is the best head of her life. much better than chad’s, that’s for certain. if he even gave her head. he seems the type of guy to say it’s ’too gross’.

“paige?”

oh god. she’s been staring.

“hey,” azzi frowns, stepping towards her. “you okay? i can leave, or…”

“no,” paige says vehemently, also stepping forward, closing the gap between them. she wants to reach out, to pull azzi in, but she’s not sure if that’s what azzi really wants. maybe she just wants to sleep? not that paige isn’t down for snuggling, but she’s already hyped herself up for that whole head thing, and she’s not super willing to back down now. “i just…”

azzi looks at her, eyes searching her face before she looks down. her lips quirk up, and when she looks back at paige, she’s clearly amused. “i clocked you so hard earlier.”

“i…what?” paige asks.

azzi points. “your hands.”

paige looks down, and sure enough—she’s wringing her hands. like a nervous little wimp. she scoffs, pulling them apart and wiping them on her sweats before making a split-second decision, pulling azzi in by the waist. “you didn’t clock shit.”

“no?” azzi asks, smile growing a little. her hands are soft as they roam up paige’s arms before circling around the back of her neck. “so you’re not super nervous right now?”

“i’m not nervous,” paige is quick to correct. “just wondering what you want.”

azzi’s eyebrows rise, just a little. “oh?”

paige hadn’t really meant to say it, but what the hell. “uh-huh. you wanna tell me?”

“hm.” azzi looks up at her like she’s deliberating something, then smiles, coy and dimply, before stepping back slowly, taking paige with her. “i think…” she whispers, walking them back as if the room were her’s, until her thighs hit the edge of the bed. “i think i want you to give me some real pictures.”

paige quirks an eyebrow, sitting azzi down before kneeling in front of her, playing into the game. “for chad?” she wrinkles her nose as she says it. even his name is a turn-off. paige has no clue how azzi managed to have sex with that man. she imagines azzi saying something like, “oh, chad, yes!” and it turns her teasing smirk into something more like a barely-contained laugh.

azzi’s expression breaks, and it looks a little like she’s fighting a smile of her own. “ew, don’t say his name.”

unable to help it, paige chuckles, leaning her forehead against azzi’s thigh. “what do we call him, then?”

“nothing,” azzi says firmly, lifting paige’s chin and bending down so their nose-to-nose, biting her lip slightly as she studies her face. “i want you to give me those pictures,” she mutters, “let me prove him wrong. and then i want you to make me forget him.”

oh, paige can definitely do that.

without another word, paige surges forward and kisses her. it’s surer this time, steadier, now with the knowledge of what’s to come, not just tonight but tomorrow, and maybe—if paige lets herself dream—maybe even longer than that. based off the way azzi presses her tongue against the seam of her lips, paige thinks she might feel it, too.

paige opens up for her, pliant and willing, ready to do whatever azzi asks of her. azzi’s tongue is warm, wet, slippery against paige’s own and she groans at the feel of it, at the minty freshness of her own toothpaste that azzi had used.

“paige,” azzi breathes against her lips. paige hums, leaning forward again to close the small amount of distance. but azzi pulls back, just slightly, and when paige blinks her eyes open azzi’s looking at her urgently, pulling her up by the shoulders. “paige,” she repeats.

paige swears, she usually has so much more finesse in the bedroom. she once made a girl come in under sixty seconds. she convinced her ex to call her daddy, for god’s sakes. but this—this is azzi. and thus, she just stares blankly at her, mind trying desperately to figure out what azzi’s saying while her cunt pulses desperately in her boxers. “…huh?” she says after a moment.

azzi sighs, but there’s something in her eyes, and when paige looks hard enough she thinks maybe it’s fondness? but she doesn’t have time to discern that properly because then azzi is hooking her arms under paige’s armpits and all but hoisting her up into her lap, and that’s just…really fucking hot. paige doesn’t think she’s ever been hoisted before.

hands finding their ways to azzi’s shoulders, paige exhales, blinking rapidly in a desperate attempt to regain some of her rizz. “you’re really strong,” she says instead.

azzi presses her lips to the hinge of paige’s jaw, mumbling against her skin, “good observation.” her arms are steady around paige’s waist, holding her close, allowing for the best access, and paige shifts, hips moving subtly against azzi’s thighs.

azzi’s lips trail higher until she’s nipping at paige’s earlobe, and paige can so clearly hear the little noises coming from her now; soft pants and exhales like she’s trying hard to contain herself. and that just—that does it.

wordlessly, paige presses against azzi’s shoulders, urging her to lay down. azzi looks at her quizzically but goes willingly, getting comfortable against the pillows as paige crawls on top of her. she leans down for another kiss but azzi presses a hand to her chest, stopping her.

“want this off, first,” she says, tugging at the hem of paige’s shirt. “wanna feel you.”

paige is quick to oblige, reaching behind her head to pull the neckline, azzi helping her until the shirt’s off, discarded somewhere to the side. azzi’s eyes roam shamelessly, but not as shamelessly as her hands, which trail over her abs, her ribs, the taut muscles in her back.

“you’re—” she swallows hard, “you’re pretty strong too.”

paige mentally fist-pumps. “good observation, baby.”

shivering against the cool air of the room, paige presses one last kiss to azzi’s lips, lingering there and thinking she could stay like that forever before remembering her job. photos. head. make azzi forget chad.

she shifts down, dipping her head into azzi’s neck to kiss the warm skin there. she smells good, like hair products and perfume. her hands wander of their own accord, lifting azzi’s shirt just enough to reveal a small sliver of skin, a glinting belly piercing. god, she doesn’t think she’ll get enough of this girl.

“want this off you, too,” paige instructs quietly, searching azzi’s eyes for any hesitation, but there’s only heat as she pulls her shirt off in one swift motion. it take’s paige’s brain a few seconds to catch up with what her eyes are seeing—azzi, topless, skin dark against the white bedding, nipples pebbled from the temperature change.

paige makes a strangled noise at the back of her throat, completely aware she’s staring but unable to do anything about it, because she’s surely not going to look away. not when azzi is staring up at her like—like that, with hooded eyes and a small, teasing smile. she knows exactly what she’s doing, exactly what it’d do to paige by letting her find out for herself she isn’t wearing a bra, and it’s going to drive her fucking insane.

“paige,” azzi says.

paige’s eyes snap up from azzi’s chest, somewhat guiltily. “yeah?”

“you have me really fucking worked up right now,” azzi says bluntly. “and as much as i love watching you stare at me, i need you to actually come here and do something about it.”

that gets paige moving.

it’s instinctual, the way she dips her head down, nuzzles into the valley between azzi’s breasts. the way her tongue darts out to taste her skin, the way her palms cup the underside of azzi’s tits and push them up before she takes the stiff peak of one into her mouth.

azzi sighs, this small, satisfied sound which only serves to encourage paige further. she relaxes a little, allowing herself to get out of her own head because she knows this. she’s good at it. she knows without a doubt she can make azzi feel good and if she dies tomorrow, then she’ll die happy knowing she at least got to have this first. got to flick her tongue over azzi’s nipple and revel in the soft moan it elicits from her.

the sound sends a jolt of heat through paige’s stomach, straight to the apex of her thighs. she’s acutely aware of the way she and azzi’s legs are slotted together, the sinewy muscle of azzi’s bare thigh between her own, hovering just beneath her. paige has to make a conscious effort not to bear down onto her, not to search for any of the friction she so desperately needs.

paige pulls off azzi’s tit with a slight pop, admiring the way it looks now, glistening with her saliva. she had planned on making her way down the length of azzi’s body, but now she’s stuck here, watching intently as she rolls azzi’s nipples between her fingertips, loving the way azzi arches up into her. she glances up to catch her expression, and what she finds—mouth slightly ajar, eyes fluttered shut—has her leaning back up to capture her lips in another searing kiss. azzi groans, surprised at the contact, and when paige licks confidently into her mouth, she groans again, this time sounding a little strangled.

paige chuckles against her lips, trailing away to nose against her cheekbone. “what, you need sum’?”

azzi huffs, arms around paige’s neck pulling her insistently closer. “you’re teasing me.”

“well, i’on know what you want,” paige says, pressing soft kisses against azzi’s jaw.

azzi’s nails scratch a little punishingly into paige’s back. “i told you what i want.”

paige shudders at the pain, the starkness of it, the shivers it sends down her back. “yeah,” paige agrees, leaning up on her elbows to look into azzi’s eyes, “but you ain’t told me how you want it.”

azzi’s eyebrows furrow, a slight pout forming on her lips, and the expression is so cute compared to the compromising situation they’re in that paige almost gives in then and there. but she’s a spent the entire night making an absolute fool of herself in front of azzi, and this feels like her only opportunity to show her just what she can do, what she can be, when she wants to.

and, shit, does she want to.

“gotta use your words, mami,” paige tells her, looking down at her with something like sympathy even as her tone is commanding, and it has the desired effect: azzi’s breath hitches, cheeks flushing, eyes squeezing shut like she’s collecting herself before she meets paige’s again.

“want your mouth, paige,” she whispers, almost like she’s embarrassed to be saying it out loud. “your tongue.”

somewhere in her aroused haze, paige registers that this must mean they’re soulmates or something, that they both want the same thing. she tucks that little thought away for later (she knows kk will agree when she tells her about it) and then nods, pressing a kiss to azzi’s forehead, just below her bonnet. “good girl,” she murmurs, testing the waters, and based off the way azzi exhales this shaky little whimper, she figures she’s probably into it. also good to know.

paige takes azzi’s forearms in her hands and withdraws them from around her neck, sitting back on her knees in between azzi’s legs. she hooks her fingers around her own basketball shorts, which sit tantalizingly on azzi’s hips—she doesn’t think she’s ever described basketball shorts as tantalizing before—and raises her eyebrows at azzi. azzi nods, lifting her hips off the bed, just enough that paige is able to easily pull them over the swell of her ass. azzi lifts her feet up, allowing paige to pull the fabric completely off and toss them away before she presses a kiss to each of her ankles. azzi watches her closely, hands fondling her own breasts in a way that makes paige want to put her mouth back on them, but then she’s glancing down at the exposed core between azzi’s thighs and there is nothing else that could possibly be more important than that, ever.

she sets azzi’s legs on the bed before shifting, laying herself flat on her stomach with her arms propped up beneath her until she’s hovering over azzi’s pelvis, admiring the smooth skin there and the belly ring that sits a few inches higher. she bends down, nuzzling her nose against the soft, curly hair she finds there, pressing a kiss and then many more along the expanse of skin until she reaches a hipbone. she bites, just roughly enough to make a mark, and azzi hisses above her.

paige’s eyes flick up, double-checking, but azzi looks more than okay—in fact, she looks downright impatient. when their eyes meet, she nods urgently at her. “get on with it.”

paige raises an eyebrow at the attitude but doesn’t comment on it just yet, instead pressing a kiss to the other hipbone before saying, “oh, you want more?”

azzi sighs at the coy tone in paige’s voice. “paige.”

“mm,” paige hums. “you sound frustrated, baby.”

“yeah, well,” azzi shifts uncomfortably, “it’s frustrating when you tease me like this.”

“yeah?” paige asks. she rests her cheek against azzi’s thigh, allowing her fingers to trail up and down the inside of her other one, getting close to where she needs her but never close enough. “you’re used to getting what you want, aren’t you?” she muses.

“fuck you,” azzi says, no real venom there as annoyance mixes with amusement in her eyes.

“i will,” paige promises, kissing her thigh, “princess.”

azzi opens her mouth to speak again. paige cuts her off with a harsh bite to the place she just kissed, turning her almost-sentence into a high-pitched whine instead.

“fuck,” azzi mutters.

paige inspects the bite—that will definitely be a mark tomorrow—and then shushes her gently, brushing her lips over the spot. “if you catch an attitude with me again,” she murmurs, almost sweet, “you’ll find how much worse i can be.”

azzi’s hips lift, surprise etching itself slowly into the lines of her face as she registers the words, but paige doesn’t take the time to look too close. azzi is spread before her, enticing, dripping, caramel brown giving way to soft pink, and she finally lets herself do what she’s dreamed of doing since she was in high school—she buries her fucking face in it.

azzi’s reaction is immediate and more intense than paige expected it would be, her back and hips arching off the bed as she groans, loud. paige doesn’t even care that arousal has just been smeared all over her forehead. she’s far too busy committing the way azzi tastes, sweet and salty, to memory.

the build-up paid off, as it always does, and azzi’s soaked. paige’s tongue laves wet heat from her entrance to her clit, building her up to a slow rhythm. she lingers a little each time at her entrance, where the taste is the strongest, unable to conceal her own choked sounds as azzi grinds against her face. she glances up to where azzi is playing with her nipples, propped up on her elbows to get a better look at what paige is doing, and the knowledge that she’s being watched so intently has her doubling down on her efforts.

when paige’s movements speed up, azzi’s head tips back, rolling against her shoulders. “oh, paige,” she breathes, sensual and dirty, “oh, baby. feels…”

paige presses her own thighs together at the pet name before flicking her tongue back and forth against azzi’s clit, applying pressure until azzi falls back completely, head thumping against the pillows as she whines. distantly, paige thinks kk could almost definitely hear them if she were to listen for it. she finds she doesn’t really care at the moment.

“feels good?” paige asks, pressing a few soft kisses to azzi’s cunt.

“mm-hmm,” azzi hums, eyes closed as she focuses on the feeling. her hands travel south until they’re gripping the back of paige’s head, and then she’s tugging her closer, back into her heat. “keep going, baby. please.”

“since you asked so nice,” paige teases, letting azzi’s hands guide her forward. she opens her mouth a little wider, sucking hard against azzi’s hole as if trying to draw more precum out of her before she kisses sloppily against it. azzi’s legs fall further open at the feeling, but paige quickly misses the feeling of thighs pressed against her head and loops her arm under the brunette’s legs, surrounding herself with soft brown skin.

the new angle brings her impossibly closer to azzi’s center, and paige sticks her tongue out, seeking azzi’s entrance before pressing inside as far as she can.

“oh my fuck,” azzi groans, gripping paige’s head tighter, almost possessive. “keep doing that, right—“ she chokes on her own words as paige begins a slow thrust, “right there.”

paige nods, unsure whether azzi can feel the acknowledgment, but it has her nose bumping up against azzi’s swollen clit and azzi cries out. she moves her tongue, feeling around the spongy inner walls of azzi’s cunt, a new wave of arousal pumping out until it’s dripping down paige’s chin onto the bedsheets below.

the room isn’t quiet, but it sounds like sex, azzi’s breathy moans and the filthy wet sounds of her cunt filling the room. she sounds so good, tastes so good, smells so good—paige is only vaguely aware that she has her own pelvis pressed into the mattress, absentmindedly searching for friction as she gets off on pleasing azzi.

she’s so focused on tonguing her that she doesn’t notice the way azzi’s breathing changes, becomes more rapid, or the way her fingers fist up paige’s hair in a way that’s almost painful. in fact, it’s not until she presses her thumb to azzi’s swollen clit while she tongue-fucks her that azzi manages a broken, “oh my god, i’m fucking—!“ that paige realizes she’s going to come.

azzi’s orgasm hits her in waves, it seems, with her hips pressing into paige’s mouth so intensely she can’t breathe for a solid thirty seconds before she’s abruptly pulling away, thighs shaking with the effort. paige watches in something like amazement as her stomach tenses, her cunt pulsing and clenching around nothing, clit twitching almost imperceptibly. it is—fucking beautiful, actually. a work of goddamn art. an image that belongs in the louvre right next to the mona lisa and the venus de milo.

she’s about to dive back in and get another taste of it when azzi uses her grip on her hair to urge her up. reluctantly, paige lets herself be pulled, kissing a gentle path up azzi’s stomach before coming face-to-face with her, thumbs brushing her cheeks as she comes down. eyes still closed, azzi pulls her closer, bumping their foreheads together.

“so pretty,” paige can’t help but mutter, watching azzi’s lashes flutter against her cheeks, lips plump and shiny and parted. “so good for me, baby. did so good.”

after another few moments, azzi opens her eyes, looking at paige like she hung the stars in the sky or something.

“i think i just fell in love with you,” she croaks, and paige laughs, pressing a kiss to her damp forehead. “heard that one before.”

azzi smacks her lightly, then pulls her head down, pressing a chaste kiss to her lips before urging her to lay on her chest. paige presses her cheek to azzi’s heartbeat, their breathing gradually syncing up as they lay together. azzi’s nails scratch light patterns against paige’s back, nearly lulling her to sleep, before she abruptly stops and says, “oh, shit.”

“what?” paige asks sleepily.

“we forgot to get pictures.”

paige swears her ears perk up, and she thinks she might be just a little insatiable because she doesn’t feel so tired anymore as she lifts her head with a wicked grin. “damn,” she says. “guess we’ll have to go again.”

the next day, kk gives them hell for keeping her up all night, and gives azzi many earfuls about how she ‘told her so.’ paige offers up their room for the rest of the trip, even though they ultimately proved chad wrong with some certain photos, and azzi is all too quick to take her up on it.

and when, a year later, azzi transfers to uconn? let’s just say kk will swear up and down that she’s the reason they never lose another game to ucla.

[stars-inthe-sky]

if there's solid ground below

It's been five years, but I wrote a whole fic this week thanks in no small part to the singular @iphyslitterator!

[Cross-posted to AO3]

“H—hey, Tommy?”

Tommy startles and bangs his head on the hood of his truck, recovering fast enough that none of the oil he was nearly done changing spilled but not so fast that it would have escaped Evan’s notice. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just surprised,” he says, grabbing for a spare rag to wipe his hands on. “Hi.”

“Got a sec?” Evan rocks onto the balls of his feet and back again, hands shoved deep in the pockets of a hoodie that, in southern California in May, it should really be too warm for. But he runs cold, and the layers always have the added bonus of making Tommy want to rip them off in some kind of Pavlovian response.

Had. Last summer, they’d had that effect. This summer was shaping up differently.

Evan tilts his head, a little quizzical, and Tommy realizes he’s been frozen in place for a few beats too long, dazedly dragging the rag between his fingers.

“Sorry, yeah, go ahead.” He glances down at the car, which hasn’t moved, then back at Evan, who’s still rocking but who looks, Tommy’s now realizing, noticeably lighter than he has in a while—certainly since the funeral, but maybe even more so than that night in the bar all those weeks ago. His smile is far too small, but it’s there. “Although if you need another helicopter, I’m gonna have to start charging you at some point.”

“That’s okay, I heard your fees are competitive,” he chirps, and if his grin isn’t yet lethal, it’s shifted to shit-eating. Which, for Tommy, is lethal anyway, and Evan knows it. “But no, I just…just wanted to talk this time. For real, for once.”

Oh. “Okay…?”

“You can keep doing whatever you were doing; I know you like to have something to do with your hands.”

“Uh, thanks.” He stuffs the rag in the back pocket of his jeans and fishes the oil canister out of his car’s innards. This might be easier without eye contact. “What’s up?”

“I’m taking a sabbatical from the LAFD,” Evan says. Tommy freezes again, more of a twitch than a full stop, and makes himself continue the actual task at hand. “Three months. Mostly thanks to an insane amount of unused PTO, because I realized I kinda haven’t taken a vacation that wasn’t just medical leave in like…ever. And I need a break, you know, after everything? Like, I spent a bunch of my twenties driving around, odd jobs and stuff, and the world is—is so much bigger than the firehouse, or this city, and…yeah.  I think I need that space for a bit. Just got it approved today. And then I came here.”

He pauses for breath, and Tommy stares unseeing at some perfectly intact wiring he could reconnect by touch alone if asked. “That’s great they’re letting you do that, Evan. I’m sure it’ll be good for you. How’d the others take it?”

There’s a little sigh. “I haven’t told them yet. Battalion chief said I’d always have a job to come back to, but they couldn’t hold my spot indefinitely. Depends on the new captain and how they want to staff up. Makes sense, obviously, so.” His sniffle is nearly inaudible, but Tommy’s never been able to tune out Evan’s frequency.

He gives up on the car, closing the hood with a quiet click and resuming with the rag, even though his hands aren’t especially dirty. “Never thought you’d voluntarily leave the 118.”

“I know, right?” Evan’s mouth twitches, and it’s not quite a smile now, but there’s something genuine growing back. “I mean, I guess I might not be, but. Things change, and it’s…time, maybe. I’m doing this, in any case. I—I—I just need to clear my head for a while. Go visit Minnesota, never been there, but then…I don’t know, maybe touch the Atlantic Ocean again. Camp out in some national parks. Go see the sky in Montana—it’s so big, Tommy, I’ve never seen anything like it, not since those years, and the last couple of months…it’s like the smog is just in everything right now, you know?”

Tommy nods. He can relate, despite how often he gets to soar above the chokehold of Los Angeles; smoke is smoke, and heat still rises. “I get it. So…this is goodbye, then?” He swallows, bites his lip, stares down at his fingers and the rag still entwined in them.

“No!” Evan leans forward for a breath, arm lifting, but he seems to stop himself, like he’s remembering they don’t know where they stand with each other, if he’s allowed to grab Tommy’s shoulder. “No, no, I’m coming back. LA is still home, my—my stuff’s going into a storage unit next week, my sister and my niece are here, and the new baby—the job—no, yeah, I’m coming back.”

“That’s good,” Tommy muses. “So…”

“So, I wanted to ask—I—I—I’m asking if you’d maybe be up for thinking about coming with me.”

Tommy freezes so suddenly, and so thoroughly, that the rag drops to the ground. “You—you’re going on a three-month road trip to get away from it all, and you want me to come with you?”

“Yeah, I do,” Evan says softly, surely, ducking his head in that bashful way he pretends not to know is so damn effective. “I need a break from everything, and everyone—but you, you’re not everyone. I meant what I said about being together, before. I still mean it.” Tommy feels both arms drop to his sides, heavy and limp like emptied hoses, and the air jerks out of his lungs as his throat closes tight.

Evan plows ahead. “I—if—if you don’t want to, or you can’t swing it with work, or whatever—I get it, that’s why I’m asking and not—not telling you what to do. I don’t—even if you don’t come, I’d wait. And, and text or call, maybe? If you wanted to? Even if it’s just as friends, my life is always better when you’re in it. Kinda hoping that goes both ways here.”

Tommy croaks, “And when you get tired of me before we hit Reno?”

“I won’t,” he says, no hesitation. Tommy’s slack face must do something, because he repeats, “Tommy, I won’t. I won’t. I just want time with you, more time, all the time. I want to try again, so, so bad. And if we fight, we can talk, and not just think the worst, and keep going, be—because I want to eat crappy gas station food with you and not think about the inside of a gym for weeks. I want to drive out somewhere where it feels like we’re the only people on the planet, and fuck in the back of your truck, and then figure out a map that’s older than either of us because there’s no cell service. Maybe rent a chopper in Montana so we can see that sky up close—there’s, there’s so many stars, and you’re the only person I’d want to see them with like that. I want to be locked in a moving vehicle with you all day, except for bathroom stops, and see your face when you realize it’s been 16 hours and we still have more to talk about, and we’ll just keep going, because I’m never gonna get tired of you.”

He pauses and swallows thickly, and Tommy can’t look away. For all that Evan Buckley wears his heart on his sleeve so easily for anyone to see, actually opening it up and offering to hand it over to someone else—that’s still work. “So—that’s what I came to say. That’s what I want. J—just think about it. No rush, I’m not—I’ll wait. If it’s what you want. You…you get to want things, too. So. Yeah.”

Evan nods to himself, rubs the back of his neck, and turns to walk back to his car, parked on the street. Tommy has to move, has to say something, but the soles of his boots are melting, fused to the cement of the driveway, his throat is still closed, and Evan—Evan is walking away.

Tommy wants things, too.

He forces a breath, in and out, on a four-count, licks his lips, and asks, “When do we leave?”

Evan radiates a warmth that scatters out, tangible and visible like a sunrise before he even turns around, beaming. “I was thinking a few weeks after the baby comes, but—but—yeah?”

“Yeah, I, uh, I could chase some stars over the Rockies. With you.” Tommy’s insides unknot, and the life rushes back into his limbs. “And the rest, too. I noticed it’s my truck in this scenario?”

Suddenly Evan is in front of him, closer than they’d managed even that morning after, pressed gently against him from chest to knees, arms winding around his waist. “Much more cargo space. Very practical. And I kinda thought you might be in the same boat, you know, with the unused vacation. Maybe enough seniority to hang onto your spot.”

“Probably, yeah, they generally…” He doesn’t even know how that sentence might have ended, has rarely thought about anything more than a long weekend away, but then Evan’s kissing him, deep and slow and sweet like they might already be the only people on the planet. His warmth flashes over through Tommy, nerve by nerve, until he’s lit up and burning, flammable in places he’d spent months trying to forget this man could expose.

When Evan pulls back, it’s with Tommy’s face between his hands, his relief and hope palpable. Like life might go on, like the world might really be bigger, could even be better, sometimes, than it had been.

“Let’s go,” he whispers, so close and so quiet that Tommy can feel each syllable rumble against his skin, tires steady on a gravel road away from this scene and toward the next.

[clockwayswrites]

The Haunting of Danny Fenton Chapter 3, Part 3

masterposts. no editing pls. be kind. am sick *cough cough*

“Daniel Horatio Fenton!”

“Horatio?” Danny repeated, a small smile on his face and phone head away from his face due to the shouting.

Dick leaned over and pressed the speaker button, which got him a bemused look, but Danny set the phone down on the coffee table.

“Well, I don’t actually know your middle name,” the voice on the phone admitted with a huff. “It was just the first thing that came to mind! I can’t full name you without a full name and I need to full name you because I just came to the hospital to visit you only to find out that you checked yourself out against doctor’s orders!!”

Danny scratched at the side of his face. The medical bracelet was bright on his wrist. “Mina—”

“Danny!”

“Look, Mina. I promise you that I’m safe. I’m actually in the in the safest building in San Fran, I’m pretty sure.” Danny glanced at Dick, and at Dick’s nod continued. “I’m actually at Titan’s Tower.”

The silence was heavy. Then, “Danny Horatio Fenton!”

“Still not my middle name.”

“Why the f are you at Titan’s Tower?!” Min shouted. Another pause, then, “Oh gods, the reading! The Tower! I knew that reading didn’t go right. Your ghost is a superhero? They messed with my reading?!?”

“The Flash, and I’m sure he thought he was helping, Mina,” Danny said.

“Helping?!” Mina screeched. “Maybe if he had let me do the reading properly we could have figured this out before you had a heart attack! Which was also his fault! And your seizures!”

“Mina, none of us could have know my heart would stop like that,” Danny said. “And Flash was very worried about me. I’m sure he’s sorry.”

“I’m sure that he’s blaming himself too,” Dick said.

“And who are you?”

“Nightwing, Miss Mina, and Flash is my best friend. He’d hate that he’s caused any sort of harm to Danny,” Dick said. “I’m sure that he’s blaming himself more than anyone else. But don't worry, the Titans are determined to help both Flash and Danny. In fact, Raven wants to talk to you about that tea and anything else that you might have gotten a sense of.”

“Yes, of course. Anything I can do to help out. Oh, and make sure Danny eats, he's bad at that sometimes,” Mina said.

Danny groaned and dropped his head into his hands. “Mina.”

“And sleep! He's really bad at that one.”

“Mina.”

“Really bad. Okay, pass me to Raven so we can talk shop. Danny, behave or I'm coming for you!”

“Love you too Mina,” Danny grumbled.

Dick waited until Raven had taken the phone and turned it off speaker to talk magic to look over at Danny. “So, when was the last time you ate?”

Danny sighed. “I can't believe I'm being mother henned by Nightwing.”

“Oh. He's the worst mother hen,” Gar said. He hopped up from the couch and transformed into a chicken midair.

They watched him cluck around on the coffee table.

“So, last time you ate?”

“Breakfast at the hospital, what I could manage of it,” Danny said with another sigh.

Dick smacked his hand against his legs before he stood too. “Right! Lunch time then. I'm thinking chicken nuggets.”

Gar squawked loudly.

[rosemelodyshah]

You know that is really good councilling

Like I don't have a degree in counselling or therapy or anything but I am someone who has had fears of all sorts of things and all sorts of really impulsive and intrusive thoughts that I've dealt with my whole life by giving myself words that were a bit more.. erm suited to the sort of person I am/advice I needed pulled from parts of me when things got loud

But this is exactly the sort of thing that I use. It's really good advice. And if someone has been struggling lately you should really internalise this:

This grim future plagues you. It's scares you and you fear it coming. But it has not come yet and rather than fear the potential coming of it and acting on what might happened you should make your present good. It hasn't happened yet and worrying about it happening doesn't actually help if it happens.

It actually makes it that much worse.

The constant I should have been prepared this should hurt I shouldn't have let it get this far hurts a billion times worse than the leaving and it's that thought of you failing yourself that is hard tor recover from.

Don't cry for those who don't deserve you but don't spend your life worrying about not being enough. If someone needs more of you or less of you first of you clearly have some deep searching for whether this the right person for you to be around. Next of all let them tell you.

If they can't handle the beauty that YOU are. Their loss. AND NOT ONE BIT YOUR FAULT

They failed you.

It'd be neat to grow a huge fucking beard, get some sort of basic training of a bunch of different counselling certificates, and then offer services as a wizard advisor. Gonna be doing crafts while giving sessions, like

client: I'm scared that everyone secretly hates me and pretends that they don't, and one day they'll all just finally be sick of me and just all drop me all at once.

me, lounging on the couch wearing an embroidered robe, cross-stitching a huge tapestry depicting a dragon fucking a car: This vision of a future that you have foreseen is grim and it troubles you, as it has time and time again in the past. And yet of what I have seen, not once has it come to pass. How likely do you think it is, that this time should be different?

[gracie-eilish]

dirty girl(s)

warnings: shower smut

an: thank you for all your kind messages and comments🥹 writing smut and basically anything other than fluff is starting to get easier for me to do, so it’s always nice to hear that you like a fic i wrote, makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside☺️ ok enough warm and fuzzy here’s a slutty fic😳

the sun had climbed higher by the time either of you moved again, your bodies sticky with sweat, hair a mess, lips kissed raw. you were both lying in a tangle of limbs and sheets, billie humming lazily into your shoulder, her fingers tracing soft shapes on your stomach.

“okay,” she murmured, voice rough from sleep and something else. “i love you, but we stink.”

you laughed into her hair. “speak for yourself, rockstar.”

“sweetheart, it smells like sex in here,” she smirked. “we’re practically melting into the mattress.”

“i don’t hear you complaining.”

“oh, i’m not. i could stay here all day.” she kissed the corner of your mouth, and then tapped your thigh. “but i do happen to have a very nice shower with excellent water pressure. and maybe a girlfriend who’s filthy but very cute.”

“filthy?!” you playfully nudged her. “i’ll have you know i scrubbed every inch last night before i came over.”

“i’m not talking about that kind of filthy, doll” she whispered in your ear making you flush red.

billie looked at you like she might actually melt this time. then she kissed you, all slow and warm, before nudging you playfully.

“come on, baby. let me spoil you some more.”

she stood and stretched, bare skin glowing in the soft light. you followed her, wrapping the sheet around your body, and trailed her down the hallway into the bathroom. billie turned on the shower, steam already curling into the air, fogging up the mirror as she grabbed a towel, playfully snapping it at your hips.

“hey!” you squeaked, laughing.

she winked. “get in, gorgeous.”

you let the sheet fall to the floor and stepped into the shower with her, the warm water rushing over your skin like a sigh. billie joined you, moaning as the spray hit her back, soaking her hair, tracing down her spine.

“god, this feels so good,” she groaned, tilting her head back. her eyes then flicked to you, and a grin tugged at her lips. “but not as good as you look.”

you blushed instantly, and she stepped closer, hands brushing your hips as water dripped from her lashes.

“don’t get all shy on me now, baby. you were crawling all over me an hour ago.”

you bit your lip. “that was different…”

“mmm, was it?” she purred, leaning in to press a kiss to your shoulder. “you’re still mine in here.”

you didn’t answer with words. you just turned to face her and reached up, fingers threading through her wet hair, pulling her into a kiss that made her groan into your mouth.

her hands slid up your back, over your ribs, as if memorizing you all over again. and even though you were both naked, the moment felt more reverent than sexual—like she was handling you with care, not hunger… for now.

she pulled back slightly, eyes scanning your face.

“you okay, baby?”

you nodded, cupping her cheek. “more than okay.”

she smiled, and you felt it down to your toes. “good. lemme take care of you.”

she grabbed the shampoo and poured a little into her palm, lathering it between her fingers before stepping behind you.

“close your eyes, pretty girl.”

you did, and the next thing you felt was her hands in your hair gently massaging your scalp with slow, tender strokes that made your knees a little weak. you sighed under her touch, water dripping down your chest as she worked the shampoo through every strand.

“god, that feels amazing.”

“mmhmm,” she hummed, kissing your shoulder. “you deserve to be spoiled.”

she rinsed your hair carefully, guiding your head under the stream, then reached for the conditioner and did it all again, even slower this time. her hands were everywhere, on your shoulders, arms, waist, touching you like you were something sacred. when she turned you around again, her eyes were soft.

“now i want a turn,” she whispered, handing you the shampoo.

you smiled and lathered it in your hands, stepping close to work it through her thick hair, giggling as the bubbles slid down her back, mingling with her tattoo.

“you’re so cute when you’re sudsy.”

she snorted. “rude.”

“i mean it!” you said, leaning in to kiss her temple. “you’re ridiculously hot, but like… domestic hot.”

“domestic hot,” she repeated, grinning. “that’s a new one.”

you shrugged. “i’d shower with you every day if I could.”

she stilled, then gave you a look that was soft and serious and totally floored.

“you’re gonna kill me with how sweet you are.”

she kissed you then. it was slow and deep, her hands cradling your face, the water rushing around you. and for a moment, there was nothing but the warmth of the spray and the warmth of her. eventually, she pulled back with a grin.

“i fucking adore you.”

you giggled, already flushed from the heat, the water, and the way her voice hit your chest like a warm hand over your heart.

billie chuckled against your skin, kissing a slow trail down your neck. “you’re dangerous when you’re wet and cheeky.”

“you like it though.”

she laughed under her breath, voice raspy. “i love it.”

she poured a generous amount of body wash into her palm and rubbed her hands together before turning you back around and sliding them over your shoulders, across your collarbones, circling around to your chest with a touch that was firm but reverent.

her fingers moved with care, but she wasn’t shy. she knew where to linger, where to tease. when her hands dipped lower, soaped up and slick, you let out a quiet, breathy laugh.

“billie…”

“mhm?” she asked, like she was the picture of innocence, though her fingers were very much not.

“you’re not playing fair.”

“i’m not playing at all,” she whispered into your ear, lips brushing the shell. “i’m just appreciating what’s mine.”

you turned around in her arms, water dripping from your lashes, and gave her a pointed look.

then she kissed you. it was wet and deep, mouths sliding together like it was instinct, like this was exactly where you were always supposed to be.

she pressed you gently against the tiled wall, not with force, just enough to feel all of her against all of you. her tongue brushed yours slow, purposeful, and her hands slid down your back, pulling you impossibly close.

“i could kiss you like this for hours,” she murmured between kisses. “you’re so warm, baby. so soft. feels like a fucking dream.”

you whimpered against her mouth, the heat of her skin mixing with the steam, her touch everywhere.

“is this part of the shower routine?” you asked, voice half-breath, half-laugh.

billie bit your bottom lip gently. “only for special girls.”

you grinned and tugged lightly on her damp hair, loving the little groan it earned you. “thought you said you wanted to get clean.”

“i lied,” she said, hands exploring the dip of your waist. “i just wanted to see you naked and wet.”

“well, i am definitely naked,” you started chuckling, taking her hand and moving it down to your heat. “but… why don’t you tell me if i’m wet.”

her fingers found your slick folds, wet with more than just shower water.

“babygirl…” she whispered, getting onto her knees.

she pressed warm kisses all over your lower belly, trailing lower and lower. carefully she lifted one of your thighs over her shoulder, making sure you were steady before doing anything. she teased your pussy, kissing everywhere except where you needed her.

“bils,” you whined, threading your fingers in her head hoping she got the message.

with a quick look through her lashes, she licked a long stripe from your weeping hole to your swollen clit, making you cry out, the sound bouncing off the tile walls.

she then proceeded to close her lips around your clit, kissing and sucking the bundle of nerves, leaving you panting, head against the tile wall.

“you steady?” she mumbled against your clit, looking up at you. you shifted until your thigh was snug against her shoulder, and nodded.

without missing a beat on your clit, she snuck her now free hand between your legs and pushed two fingers into you.

“SHIT! billie oh my god!” the pleasure was blinding.

her fingers thrusted into you hard, reaching that gummy spot deep within your walls, making your legs shaky and knees weak. billie wrapped her free arm under and around your thigh, holding you up as best as she could. you fingers threaded deep in her hair as she continued melting you away with pleasure.

“c’mon baby, cum in my mouth. i know your close mama.” her words were slurred and mumbled, she was completely pussy drunk on her knees for you.

she thrusted her fingers a few more times hard, before you finally unraveled on her tongue.

“atta girl,” she praised. “good job mama, doing so good for me.”

once she licked you clean and was sure you’d be able to stand on two feet, she slowly let your leg back down off her shoulder and stood up, her hands grasping your waist.

she kissed you, this one deeper, longer, until the edges of everything blurred a little. she pulled back just enough to look at you, her thumb brushing a drop of water off your cheek.

“god, you’re beautiful,” she whispered. “like… stupid beautiful.”

you leaned your forehead against hers, your heart pounding sweet and loud in your chest. “you’re not too bad yourself.”

“liar,” she said, nipping at your jaw. “i look like a drowned rat. but at least I’m a lucky one.”

her hands slid back up to your ribs, slow and certain, and she ducked her head to kiss gently at the base of your throat. you gasped softly, nails lightly digging into her shoulders, and she smiled against your skin.

“still okay?” she murmured.

you nodded. “more than okay.”

she kissed you again, slower this time. steadier.

“good. ‘cause i’m trying really hard to be good,” she said, nose brushing yours, voice husky. “but you’re makin’ it really fucking hard, sweetheart.”

you gave her your most genuine innocent look. “i’m not doing anything.”

billie laughed, breathless. “that’s the problem. you existing like this is enough.”

eventually, her touches softened, her kisses slowed, and she really did start rinsing you off, though not without the occasional squeeze or flirtatious brush of her fingers. you returned the favor, lathering her up with care, giggling when she moaned dramatically about how good your hands felt, how “spoiled” she was.

by the time she turned off the water, you were both flushed, slick, and a little dazed.

she toweled you off with so much care, her fingers grazing down your calves as she knelt to dry you, murmuring sweet nothings as she worked her way back up.

she walked you back to her bedroom, grabbing you a hoodie and some of her sweats to throw on, making sure you were comfy before she changed herself.

“i might be in trouble,” billie muttered, watching you from under her damp lashes.

“why?”

“because i don’t think i’m gonna let you leave my house today.”

you raised a brow. “oh no, what a tragedy.”

she stepped forward and kissed your cheek. “you’re a menace.”

you kissed her back, lips brushing her jaw. “you’re obsessed.”

she smiled, wrapping her arms around your waist and pulling you in.

“you have no idea.”

[thewitchblue]

"Jason, lovely?"

You called out. You had been looking for him for half an hour in the manor. He was a recent edition to the family, and he has been hidden himself away like a frightened animal. You were beginning to think he doesn't like you. He only showed up for patrol as Robin then hid away again. You didn't even know where he slept because he changed locations every night.

You really were defeated. You wanted to bond with him and show him the love he deserves, but he's nowhere. You wanted to cry, and you almost did, but Alfred pat your shoulder and told you to keep your head up. He would come to you, not the other way around.

You still sat down heavily with a frown. You didn't understand why he's avoiding you. Does he hate you? Does he resent you for taking him in? What did you do for him to hate you? You thought you had been welcoming when Bruce brought him home. Why is Jason so scared of you?

"I don't understand why he's avoiding me, Alfred. What did I do wrong?"

You knew Alfred didn't know either, but you needed to voice your sorrow. You were so saddened and defeated. All you wanted to do was bond with the little one, but he didn't seem to want to. He even cooks his own meals just to avoid the family.

Alfred walked up to you and softly said,

"You did nothing wrong, my dear. Master Jason will come to you in time, just as Master Bruce had to come to me after his parents' death."

You started to cry but waved off Alfred's comforting hand. You got up and walked away with a heavy heart and tear-filled eyes. You just want your baby to love you and accept you.

Little Jason watched from behind the corner, frozen in place. He thought he was doing the right thing by avoiding you both. He's only ever known adults who wanted to be left alone. He thought it was normal to stay out of the way to avoid dangerous situations with adults. He's learned noisy kids get tossed away, but does hiding do equal damage? Where is the median for you? How does he make you three happy? Jason didn't know what to do, but the more tears you shed, the worse he felt. He did this, but how does he fix it?

He hesitated before slowly approaching you. He truly did care about you. You are warm and loving despite knowing very little about him as a person. You took him in and loved him so easily. He didn't know what to do. Does he hug you? Does he talk to you? What won't get him thrown out? He doesn't want to anger you. He awkwardly shifted in place, uncertain and anxious.

You noticed him, but you were equally lost. Would he run away if you hugged him? You wanted to love him the way he deserves to be loved. You asked softly,

"Jason, sweet pea?"

Jason slowly nodded, as if he needed to confirm his identity or confirm he's real. You almost sobbed when you managed to coax him into a hug.

"Jason, my lovely, never hide from me."

You kissed the top of his head. You held him like he was going to disappear into thin air. He was overwhelmed by the love, but it was a good overwhelm. He felt warm and safe for the first time. Is this what a parent is supposed to be like?

You loved Jason so easily and openly. He was such a kind kid. You both grew incredibly close after that day.

The library was a safespace where Jason was free and comfortable to do anything, and you often spent time with him in the library as a result. Every time he needed an honest conversation with you, he asked,

"Can we speak in the library?"

That was that. You always obliged when he asked. Who can say no to tiny Jason? You couldn't resist his beautiful eyes and his hopeful expression.

He asked for the library talks even after his revival. He even shot Bruce in the abdomen for interrupting his library time (he claims by accident, but you knew better). He never apologised to Bruce or even to Alfred, who had to attend to the wound. In fact, he actually used the shooting as a distraction and left the manor. He talked to you after patrol and gave you some homemade cookies he made to make up for it. He didn't say anything, and neither did you, but he knew you weren't mad when you offered him a hug and ruffled his hair affectionately. He may be a giant now, but he's still your baby boy, and even Jason can admit you were babying.

He loves you, and he has shot many people that were in his way to your side. He was indiscriminate who he shot. Family and friends have long learned to avoid the library when Jason is suspected to be home. You say suspected because he can get in and out of the manor without ever being seen.

"Jason, lovely?"

You called out when you thought you noticed his shadow. He's built like your husband, so you can't be sure it's Jason from the glimpse you saw.

"It's me, ma."

He confirmed as he guided you to the library. His rough hand held yours gently as you both walked together. He's always loved holding your hand when he was nervous, and that seemed to persist into adulthood. You smiled warmly at him. You asked,

"To the library, lovely?"

He nodded and lightly squeezed your hand. His gaze never stopped scanning the area, as if his eyes were looking for any threats, aka snooping siblings. He needed to tell you something important or embarrassing and needed only you to hear about it.

When you do arrive at the library, he brings you to your usual spot next to all of the young adult books you bought for him through the years. You smiled and sat down at the familiar armchair while Jason stood awkwardly in front of you. He used to sit on your lap when he was younger and giggle when you showered him with kisses, but now he sits in the closest chair available or sometimes on the ground so you can run your fingers through his hair in a soothing motion.

"I'm seeing someone."

He managed to blurt out before quickly looking away from you. He was flustered and blushing, but he wasn't really ashamed. He was embarrassed. It was such a simple thing to say, but he couldn't help his flushed face.

"When do I get to meet this 'someone,' lovely?"

Jason nervously cracked his knuckles. He wants you to meet two-on-one, not the whole family. Your opinion matters the most out of everybody in the family.

"Does Saturday work?"

You took his hand in yours and lightly squeezed it with a warm smile. You said softly,

"Any time, lovely."

Jason breathed a slow sigh of relief. Hurdle one covered. He looked at your conjoined hands as he asked nervously,

"Can you keep this between us? We want to meet only you."

You smirked. With a mischievous gleam in your eyes, you said,

"It's library time. Nobody hears anything outside."

Jason smirked back at you. Oh, he loves you dearly. You offered him a hug, which he gladly accepted.

You held him like you always did, but the hug felt different now. It felt like a proud mother accepting the baby bird to fly and make a life for himself. Your arms promised love and security no matter what happens.

[mintyys-blog]

Hi Minty!!! I’ve been waiting for your requests to be open! I’m so happy they are!

my request is- what would the main Mark Grayson and his variants react to seeing their reader in a bunny costume? The tuxedo/ playboy ones. Maybe it’s for Halloween, a charity event or just for fun? This is very basic, I apologise 😔

HEADCANON | variants with s/o who dressed up like a playboy bunny

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST | WARNINGS: implied sex

MAIN MARK

Mark had been trying to guess your Halloween costume all week. You’d dodged every question with a sly grin and vague answers, telling him it was “just something cute, nothing crazy.” So when you finally walked out of the bedroom—ears perched, fishnets hugging your legs, and the glossy black bodysuit clinging in exactly the right places—he choked on his drink.

“Whoa—wait. Wait, wait.” He stood up, eyes wide and immediately locked onto you. “That’s your costume?”

You twirled playfully, pretending to fluff your little cotton tail. “You like?”

He just stared for a second too long. And then: “That’s… wow. That’s illegal. That’s gotta be illegal.”

You laughed, cheeks heating up. “It’s just a costume, Mark.”

“Not on you it’s not. Jesus, you look like you stepped off one of those old magazines. Not that I’ve seen them or anything.” His ears went pink.

You sauntered closer, placing a hand on his chest and tilting your head up, grinning. “Are you saying I should’ve been a Playboy bunny full-time?”

He swallowed hard. “Babe, if you were—there would’ve been riots.” Then he leaned in, his voice lower, teasing. “You sure this is for Halloween? Because you do know we’re not gonna make it to the party, right?” You laughed again, tugging him by the collar. “I figured that might happen.”

MOHAWK MARK

Mark wasn’t even looking for anything in particular. He was digging through a stack of old books and papers you’d stuffed into a box labeled “college crap” when a glossy, slightly worn magazine slipped out and hit the floor. He was going to toss it back in—until he saw you on the cover.

Playboy Bunny. Full costume. Full smile. Full thighs in fishnets, bodysuit hugging your curves like it was custom-made. He blinked, then looked again. You, back arched slightly, with a fake champagne glass raised in a toast. “Well, well, well…” Mark murmured, a smirk crawling across his face. “What do we have here?” You heard him from the other room. “What?”

“Nothing,” he called. But his voice was too smug. You knew that tone. When he finally came into the room, he held up the magazine like it was a trophy. “Care to explain, sweetheart?” Your stomach dropped. “Oh god—where did you find that?”

“Oh don’t be shy now,” he said, flipping the cover back toward you. “I mean, if this was hiding in a box, what else are you hiding from me?” You buried your face in your hands, groaning. “It was for a themed charity event! I was like, twenty!”

“Uh-huh. And the fact that you’re smiling and clearly enjoying it—was that for charity too?” he teased, leaning on the wall like he had all the time in the world. You peeked through your fingers. He looked way too entertained by this. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“Nope.” He folded the magazine and tapped it against his palm. “Actually… I’ve got an idea.” You narrowed your eyes. “What.”

“Go put it on.” You gawked. “Mark—!”

“Come on,” he grinned. “You have it. Don’t lie. Girls like you don’t toss stuff like that. You keep it in the back of your closet for rainy days and ego boosts.” You tried to act offended but… he wasn’t wrong.

He raised an eyebrow. “Put it on. For me. Please. I promise not to show the magazine to anyone.” You sighed, then rolled your eyes with a small, embarrassed grin. “Fine. But if it doesn’t fit anymore—”

“Oh, trust me,” he cut in, already looking you up and down. “It’ll fit. Even better than before.” And it did. And he didn’t shut up about it for days.

SINISTER MARK

Mark was sorting through digital records—some surveillance junk that his people hadn’t properly encrypted yet—when he saw the thumbnail. At first, he thought it was some AI-generated crap, maybe a deepfake. But the longer he stared, the more familiar the body looked.

And then he saw the face.

You. In a bunny costume. Posing like sin itself in fishnets, glossy black fabric, the little white puff on your tail and ears crooked from how much you were clearly laughing in the outtakes. It was old, clearly—but unmistakably you.

When you walked in later that night, you noticed something was off immediately. He was seated, legs spread, elbows on his knees, the file still open in front of him. But it wasn’t anger in his expression—it was… amusement. “Hey,” you greeted cautiously, setting your bag down. “You okay?”

“…You ever plan on telling me?” he asked. His voice was quiet. Controlled. That was never a good sign.

You froze. “Tell you what?” He turned the screen toward you. Your heart dropped. “Shit.”

“Mmhmm.” He leaned back, watching your face. “Cute ears.”

You started rambling, “Okay, okay—it was a long time ago, a stupid gig, I needed money—”

“I’m not mad.” You stopped. “…What?”

“I said I’m not mad.” His voice was low. Smooth. “You think I don’t know who I’m with? That I haven’t imagined you in far less?” He smirked now, slow and deliberate. “I just didn’t know there were pictures.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. You weren’t sure if you should be relieved or embarrassed. “so,” he continued, standing up slowly. “do you still have it?”

Your face flushed hot. “I… maybe.” He stepped closer, backing you up toward the wall. “you gonna put it on for me?”

“You really want to see it?” you asked, barely able to look him in the eye. Mark chuckled, hand ghosting your waist. “I want to ruin it.” That night, he didn’t just make you wear it—he made you pose in it, for him. Except this time, he was the only one who can see you, his little bunny.

OMNI MARK

Mark was never one for Earth’s festivities. Halloween, especially, seemed juvenile to him—an entire planet playing dress-up for candy and cheap scares. But this year, you insisted. Said it’d be fun. Said he needed to “loosen up.” He hadn’t expected this kind of costume.

You stepped out of the bedroom slowly, high heels tapping against the hardwood, tugging at the tight tuxedo-style bodysuit that hugged your curves like it was made for you. Fishnet stockings. Satin bunny ears. The iconic collar and cuffs.

He looked up from the book he’d been half-reading, eyes immediately locking onto you. For a moment, he said nothing. Just looked. You shifted nervously under the silence. “Too much?” you asked.

“No,” he said finally, voice low. “Not enough.” You flushed, lips parting in surprise. Mark stood slowly, his massive form suddenly seeming even larger as he approached, eyes devouring every inch of your exposed skin.

“This is what you wore… for Halloween?” he asked. You nodded. “I thought it’d be fun. For you.”

He paused, just inches from you now, and gently tugged at one of the bunny ears. “You enjoy dressing up like this?” You laughed nervously. “I mean… it’s different.” His hand slid along your waist, firm and warm through the fabric. “It’s distracting.”

“In a good way?” Mark leaned down, lips brushing your ear. “In a very good way.”

He didn’t rip the costume. Not immediately. He liked to take his time when he appreciated something. And this? This, he appreciated. And for the rest of the night, he proved that in very deliberate, very focused ways—showing you just how much he valued your “efforts for the holiday.”

PRISONER MARK

Mark had a rough edge to everything he did—even the way he slammed the door shut after coming back from dropping off your kid at daycare. His boots hit the floor heavy, the air still carrying the trace of his gruff, amused voice from teasing the toddler before handing them off.

He wasn’t expecting you like this though.

Leaning against the bedroom doorway in your old playboy bunny costume, one hip cocked, a soft little smirk on your lips like you weren’t setting his entire world on fire.

“I think I still got it,” you said, eyes flicking over him with that old teasing glint. “Right?”

He froze—just for a second. Took you in, from the glossy ears to the way the fishnet hugged your thighs, down to the sharp little heels you wore like you weren’t the mother of his child, like you weren’t dangerous just standing there smiling at him.

Then he smiled. That low, crooked grin that spelled trouble.

“Damn right you do,” he muttered, already tugging off his jacket and tossing it somewhere behind him. “Come here, bunny.”

You didn’t move. Not right away. Just stood there watching him approach like you were the one in control of the situation.

You weren’t. Not for long.

He caught you around the waist, pulling you close, hands not shy about grabbing your ass through the tight fabric.

“I should’ve never let you put this damn thing in storage,” he growled, mouth brushing your neck. “You’re lucky I got any self-control left.” You chuckled breathlessly. “Do you?” He laughed—low, hungry, dark. “No. Not even a little.”

VILTRUMITE MARK

Mark wasn’t easily fazed. A seasoned warrior, a husband, and now a father—he’d seen battlefields soaked in blood, stood against uprisings and rebellions, watched empires fall. Very little surprised him.

But walking into your shared quarters and seeing you in that? A black satin corset, fluffy white tail, thigh-high fishnets, and a headband with soft bunny ears?

He stopped. Blinked once. “…What are you wearing?”

You tilted your head, leaning one hand on your hip. “It’s a playboy bunny costume. Y’know…for Halloween?” You gave him a little twirl, smirking when his eyes followed every curve. “They’re kind of iconic.”

Mark narrowed his eyes slightly, stepping forward. “Is this some kind of Earth thing?” He was calm, composed—curious—but there was something lurking under the surface. Interest, maybe. Or hunger.

You giggled, brushing your fingers under his chin. “It’s supposed to be sexy. Do you not like it?”

“I didn’t say that.” His hands found your waist, rough thumbs brushing the lace edging. “I just don’t understand the point of pretending to be prey when you look like this.” You blinked. “Wait…is that a thing on Viltrum? Do people dress like—”

He silenced you with a slow kiss. Deep. Firm. And when he pulled back, his hands had slid lower. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not complaining. In fact…” His voice dropped a little. “…you should wear this more often.” You raised a brow. “Even when it’s not Halloween?”

He nodded, calm as ever. “Especially when it’s not Halloween.” He didn’t get the reference. But he understood enough to know you were his, and you looked good in anything—especially something designed to tease

[revelboo]

For your fated mate series, I'm really intrigued to see how it would go for Optimus to find his mate on his next outing after witnessing B's try to escape. Maybe his human would have some angst about finding that sense of belonging in someone they'd have to give up their old life for, or maybe they'd be so damned jazzed to finally feel like everything is falling right into place because they've never felt like they belonged anywhere. (Maybe they're already into the idea of fucking an alien robot and they hit on him first, who knows?(wait that kinda happened with your idw OP, now that I think about it...))

At any rate, keep up the great work, stay rested and hydrated, and have a beautiful day.

Poor guy realizes how unhappy Bee’s human is, so he’d be horrified to end up drawn to his own human. Knows he should interfere with Bee, but also really wants it to work out and for his friend to be happy, so he’s turning a blind optic to what’s going on

Don’t Give Up On Me

TFO Optimus x Reader

• Venting as he watches Bee carry his human back to his habsuite while fussing over them, Optimus’s servos flex. Knowing he should say something. Put a stop to this obsession the other bot has, but at the same time, he remembers when he first met Bee. Abandoned and thrown away, isolated from everyone. And he thinks about how lonely that must have been. That he doesn’t want Bee to ever be alone like that again. So he stays silent with his guilt for letting this happen.

• Can feel the optics of the other Autobots that had witnessed everything on him and they turn away when he looks their way. Pretending they didn’t see anything. And it’s too much suddenly. “Going on patrol,” he growls stalking past them. Out of the suddenly claustrophobic Ark and he transforms, falling forward into his new vehicle mode taken from this world. Just needs some space.

• And there it is. No amount of pleading is coaxing your old sedan another mile or so as the engine sputters. You’d been coasting on fumes and prayers for miles, hoping there’d be a gas station around the next bend in the road. Rolling onto the side of the lonely stretch of road to come to a slow stop, your head thumps against the steering wheel. You’re not even really sure where you are, your phone had died miles ago. This was supposed to be a fresh start. A second chance. This isn’t how you envisioned it beginning at all.

• Rolling down the highway, he sees the car on the side of the road. Doesn’t even pay it any attention. Until he draws closer and it hits him unexpectedly. Spark aching as he slams on his brakes. Because he thought Bee had exaggerated the feeling. But it’s got him by the throat, longing and a sense of familiarity. Of home that he needs so bad it hurts. And he sees you startle at the screech of his brakes, sticking your head out the window to stare. You’re his. Knows it. Feels it spark deep, like he already knows you. That he’s always known you.

• Staring at the red and blue semi, you inhale. Good Samaritan or axe murderer, place your bets, you think as you cast about for anything even remotely resembling a weapon and come up with nothing. And the truck’s just sitting there in the middle of the road. Like the driver isn’t sure he actually wants to help, cranking your anxiety higher. Staring as the semi shudders right before the thing comes apart, your mouth falling open as it stands up. And stares down at you with strange blue optics that somehow feel so familiar.

• You’re right there. So small and precious, something he needs more than energon, more than life. Loving you the moment he be meets your eyes. Can you feel it, too? Do you know him? Have you been waiting your whole life for him like he’s waited for you? He smiles down at you, crouching and reaching. Right as you’re throwing open a door and running away from him. There’s no conscious decision, he’s moving to catch you out of reflex. Because he has to. Can’t let you get away now that he’s found you even as he’s horrified by the visceral need to catch you, hold you. Keep you.

I wanted to go to the kickoff party tonight, but whatever I did has me FUBARed pretty good lol. Can’t stop sweating and walking feels like I’m on a trampoline.

[morverenmaybewrites]

Iced Coffee (Jason Todd x Reader)

Summary:

In which Dick Grayson tries to give Jason some relationship advice. And ends up learning a few new things about his little brother.

Pairing:

Jason Todd x Reader

(AO3)

Imagine Dick Grayson wanting to talk to Jason about his new girlfriend. That is, you.

Imagine Dick Grayson, talkative Dick Grayson, whose laughter and words bubbled easily from his throat, like air released from an opened soda can.

Imagine Dick Grayson, who's used to going into any situation utterly confident in his ability to coax a smile and a story out of even the grumpiest civilians.

And now imagine him being utterly on the back foot ever since Jason came back.

The smile that's more reliable to him than his own mask now feels more like a grimace whenever Dick is around his little brother. His jokes and short little stories meant to put people at ease dry up on his tongue, and he's often left with his mouth hanging stupidly open like a fish washed-up on Gotham Bay.

For all of his hard-earned people skills, Dick Grayson simply couldn't find the right words to reach his little brother.

Perhaps it's because his last image of Jason Todd was that of a prepubescent boy, growing so fast that their father barely had enough time to put clothes on his back before he's outgrown them again.

And now, in his place was a hulking giant that Dick had to crane his neck to look in the eye.

Perhaps it's Jason's voice, and the fact that before his kidnapping, he hadn't come into adult voice yet. It was still high-pitched and bright and excited whenever they bent their heads to look over maps of Gotham. This new Jason, on the other hand, had the voice of a man, harsh and gritty, like stone grinding against stone.

One that often made him seem far too old than his actual age.

Or perhaps it's the simple fact that a decade ago, the Joker took away Dick Grayson's little brother.

And the man who came back was now a stranger.

Dick tried, of course.

He tried his best, like anyone would, given his position. After all, how many people were given a second chance to make their family whole again?

It's just that he didn't know how.

While the previous Robin had been talkative and curious and hung onto every word Dick said as if it was gospel, this new Jason was quiet, taciturn.

He spoke with a wince, as if every word hurt him, and Dick had to work hard not to wonder why this was.

He wasn't usually interested in drawing up battle plans, often choosing to do missions alone.

Now imagine Dick Grayson, crammed in what feels like the world's tiniest Jetta during a stakeout, quietly trying not to go insane. He had never done well with silence, even before Jason had been kidnapped. He hated the idea of sitting in it, stewing in his own thoughts until he could feel them scratching along the inside of his skull.

But try as he might, Dick just couldn't draw his little brother into conversation. His answers, when he bothered to give them, were short and irritated. As final as a door slammed shut.

"So, you know much about this guy we're staking out?" Dick tried.

"About as much as you. Wanted for human trafficking." Jason paused, massaged his throat as if speaking two whole sentences hurt him.

Someone's phone pinged. They both looked at theirs.

After a minute, Dick tried again.

"Barbara said he used to work out of Peru. I wonder what made him move to Gotham. Got any ideas?"

Another ping. Jason looked down at his burner phone. Caught Dick's expression out of the corner of his eye and mutely shook his head.

"Well," Dick pretended to stretch, more to have something to do than anything else.

He decided to try a third time.

"Seen the Bloodhounds’ game last night?"

Jason looked at him as if he was speaking in tongues, and Dick decided that it was high time he tried shutting up for a while. He tapped his fingers on the wheel, fidgeted with the radio, trying to decide which station was the least likely to drive him insane over the course of what seemed to be a very long, very boring stakeout.

Dick settled on easy R&B. Leaned back in his seat, or at least pretended to, as he watched Jason fiddle with his phone.

"Barbara got any updates for us?" he asked as Jason read over a text.

There was an awful moment when Jason startled, and the first thing he did was reach for his guns. It must have been instinct, his hands flowing smoothly from one location to the next. And it was only the quiet click of the safety turning off that seemed to bring Jason back to himself.

Dick could practically see his little brother forcing himself to relax: the visible unclenching of his jaw. The conscious decision to let go of his guns.

And Dick tried, very, very hard not to think about how he must have spent the past few years, if his first reaction to being surprised was violence.

If he could somehow revive the Joker just so he could kill him again, Dick would do it. He could have sworn he could hear his own teeth grinding. The air in the car suddenly felt thick, the silence suffocating, as both of them tried not to acknowledge what just happened.

And just as Dick was mentally rehearsing his speech to get coffee and stale donuts from the shop across the street, Jason spoke.

"It wasn't," he said.

Dick blinked. The number of times that Jason initiated conversation was few and far in between.

"Pardon?" Dick said, wondering if he heard it right.

"It wasn't Barbara on the phone," Jason clarified, this time slower, as if he was talking to a particularly dim child.

"Alfred, then," Dick guessed.

"No. And I didn't."

"Didn't what?'

"I didn't watch the Bloodhounds' game last night. I was on patrol and must have missed it."

"Oh."

Dick wasn't even sure if Jason watched baseball anymore. It was just another conversational Hail Mary he threw out there. But at least Jason seemed willing to talk, even if it was in broken fragments. But if Jason was on patrol the night before, and he was on stakeout tonight then he must not have gotten much sleep.

"Want to get some coffee?" Dick said, jerking a thumb at the corner store he was eyeing earlier. "My treat."

While Bludhaven didn't have the abundance of street vendors and overnight kiosks that Gotham City offered, it at least offered similar 24-hour joints that could offer the same overpriced, watered-down coffee that one could get in Gotham City.

And in its own small way, it was like Dick Grayson never left home.

Josiah Johannes Salazar was almost certainly the made-up name of the man they were staking out. A small-time thug, at least by their usual standards, he mostly dealt in human trafficking and came under Barbara's radar after a rash of missing person reports were linked back to him.

A gifted art student from the local college.

A stand-up comedian who often performed to packed bars on rowdy weekends.

A used-car salesman from the Burrows.

Nothing out of the ordinary, really. Just your usual run-of-the-mill scumbaggery. Kidnapping people to be bought and sold on the flesh market. Or so, that was Barbara's current theory. An easy enough case. Sure to be closed by the end of the week. In fact, Tim already had several hopeful leads on the victims' possible locations.

Which was why it was such a mystery that Jason insisted–insisted!–on accompanying Dick on this particular stakeout.

It wasn't like he was unwelcome–Dick would jump at any chance to bond with his little brother again–it was just unexpected. Certainly, when he had rounded the parking spot where he kept the second hand Jetta, he hadn't expected Jason to be there, a duffel bag slung across his shoulder and a scowl on his face.

And as soon as Dick unlocked the car, Jason opened the door and planted himself so firmly in the passenger's seat that for a moment, Dick wondered if they really did have a prior agreement he forgot about. But now in the garish yellow light of the donut shop, one fact was becoming increasingly obvious–his little brother was tired. The lighting made him look positively jaundiced, and the shadows under his eyes were as fat as bruises. His clothes were rumpled, and Dick found himself wondering if he had changed into them immediately after his patrol.

The scar on his face looked more terrible than ever.

There was a sudden tension in Jason's shoulders that made Dick realize he was staring.

He immediately dropped his gaze.

Only to find an even more incredible sight.

"Hey, Jason..."

Jason frowned at him, and glanced around the shop to see if anyone was listening. But apart from the cashier, a pimply teenager flicking through skin magazines, the place was empty.

Jason never did like hearing them use their real names while out on missions. And it was only after careful assessment of the area did he finally speak.

"What?"

His response was short and irritated, a clear sign that he was beginning to weary of conversation. But Dick couldn't help himself.

"Are you drinking iced coffee?"

The cups in their hands were nearly identical, condensation beading on the cheap plastic surface, although Dick was sure that Jason didn't have the same obscene amounts of caramel syrup pumps in his. But back when he lived in the manor, Dick was sure that Jason was strictly a hot coffee kind of guy.

A hot black coffee and cigarette type of guy. The result of spending most of his childhood in East End. Alfred despaired at the state of his diet, and Dick would often hear him lecturing Jason on the dangers of nicotine and caffeine addiction.

Jason glanced down at his drink, seemingly unbothered. "Yes."

He seemed content to leave it at that, despite the fact that this new information had hit Dick with the force of a bombshell.

Jason drank iced coffee now?

What else did he like?

Did he like matcha? Chai? Perhaps those overpriced flattened croissants dipped in chocolate? Did Jason still like soft tacos from food trucks? Or did he prefer burritos now?

For a moment, Dick envisioned inviting Jason to go shop-hopping with him and Barbara, the way they used to back when Jason was Robin. Maybe even invite Tim along, now that Jason was finally speaking to him.

Eat questionable street food until their stomachs roiled with grease. Or even better, haul it all back to the Clocktower and make a movie night out of it.

He could even imagine Alfred, somehow unchanged, hovering at the edges, making sarcastic comments about everyone's cholesterol level.

Maybe he could even convince him to try a fry or two.

Maybe Bruce–

The ping of Jason's phone broke Dick out of his thoughts.

"Not an update," Jason muttered at him, before opening his phone to take a look at it.

There was the barest flicker of emotion on his face before he was deleting the message and pocketing it. But not before Dick caught a glimpse of what was on the screen: a grainy image of the interior of a pizza parlor outfitted like it was from the 70s. A bottle of cheap beer and what looked like someone's Scrabble tiles were front and center.

Dick blinked. "Jason..."

The iced coffee. The constant texts from someone.

How could Dick Grayson, son of the world's greatest detective, had missed it?

"Jason, are you texting your girlfriend?"

It was like an explosion had gone off in Dick's chest, like someone had shaken a can of soda and pulled the tab to watch the glorious release of carbon dioxide and sugar. Finally, after struggling all night to find something that he and Jason could talk about, finally Dick found something that he could relate to his little brother about: women.

"Fuck off, Dick," Jason muttered, but he knew his little brother enough to realize there was no heat in it. "It's none of your business."

"Holy shit, you totally are. And while on a stakeout, too!"

Dick felt giddy.

It was unfamiliar, this ribbing. But it was welcome. It felt like the sort of thing that a big brother should do.

"You know Bruce wouldn't approve," he prodded.

He made his voice sound deep, mimicking their father, "Distractions on the field can be a fatal mistake."

"I don't give a rat's ass about what Bruce approves of," Jason said with a shrug, but he failed to hide the amusement in his voice.

"Besides,” he added. “He flirted with Selina Kyle all the time. In full costume, the hypocrite."

Dick laughed, partly because it was true, partly because he was actually bantering–bantering!–with his little brother again.

Jason's phone pinged again, and this time Dick couldn't resist another jab.

"She's got you over a barrel, huh?" Dick said.

"What?"

"Are you in the doghouse?"

Jason frowned at him, and Dick decided to elaborate. "Whenever I took missions one after the other, Barbara would let me have it. Especially if it made me miss date nights. She used to send me these walls of text..."

Jason shook his head. "She's not angry with me."

"Oh." It was nice of you to be such an understanding girlfriend. "It's good that she understands. How long has it been since you took her on a date anyway?"

Jason looked uneasy, shifting his weight from one foot to the next.

"Two weeks," he muttered.

"Two weeks?" Dick was flabbergasted. "Dude, Barbara would definitely have put me in the doghouse for that."

A night on the couch at the minimum.

"I've been busy," Jason said defensively. "We're nearly closing in on this case."

Right. Dick nearly forgot. Josiah Johannes something.

"Well, maybe you should do something nice for her, at least," Dick insisted

"You know, remind her that you care."

He thought of his father, who used to buy bouquets of flowers for his mother, to give to her after every successful performance. The night of her death, there had been a large bouquet of orchids left in front of her dressing room mirror that went unclaimed.

Dick shook his head, dusting away the mental cobwebs.

"Got any ideas?" he asked.

Jason shook his head mutely.

"Come on, give me something," Dick said. "You must have some idea growing up."

Bruce, he knew, was notoriously tight-lipped, so it was unlikely that Jason got any ideas from him. But maybe, once upon a time, Willis Todd did something nice for his wife.

"The men in East End would tip an extra five dollars to whores they like,” Jason snapped.

Dick felt his heart drop to his stomach. He could feel a flush rising to his cheeks.

"Yeah, don't...don't do that..." he muttered.

They grow quiet for several minutes, sipping their coffee and occasionally throwing glances at the building they were supposed to be staking out. It was Jason who eventually spoke first.

"She's not upset," he said quietly. "I just...feel like I should do something for her."

It struck Dick then, that Jason looked woefully young. It was likely that this was Jason's first real relationship. And he had nothing to go on except what he had seen men do to sex workers in East End.

And Bruce...wasn't exactly a model for healthy relationships.

"How about flowers?" Dick suggested gently. "Those are always a classic.

Do you know what kind of flowers she likes?"

A pause.

"No."

"I used to date a girl," Dick began. "Bit of a gardener. She loved roses. She'd snip the ends and put them in water to make them last longer. She loved white roses best of all, because she'd try all sorts of experiments with dyes."

Jason didn't answer, fiddling with the straw of his drink. And when he next spoke, it was in a painfully unsure voice.

"Is that...something I should know?" he asked quietly. "Her favorite flowers?"

Suddenly, Dick hoped–wished–violently that this wasn't Jason's first relationship. That sometime after the Joker and before the Arkham Knight, he carved some semblance of peace for himself. Maybe met a girl or a guy during those few sunlit months in Santa Prisca. Dated. Fooled around. The kind of things that he should have done growing up. The kind of things that Joker stole from him.

"Not necessarily," Dick said, his voice soft. "But it doesn't hurt to pay attention. Girls like that sort of thing. Well, people, really. If she ever mentions something like that, just make sure to take a note."

The nod Jason gave him was oddly solemn, and Dick realized, with heartbreaking clarity, how much his little brother wanted to make this work with you.

"What about chocolates?" Dick suggested again, not wanting to dwell on darker thoughts. "I'm sure we can find a confectionary here somewhere..."

Jason snorted. "Sure. In Bludhaven, the peak of romance."

He grew quiet again, before saying, in hesitant voice: "She likes old movies. There was that one about an urban legend..."

"There you have it," Dick said, trying not to let the relief show in his voice.

"You can have a movie night or something! Hell, you can even go now. Make a surprise out of it–”

But the contemplative expression on Jason's face–the one that made him look so young–suddenly fell away, and what was left now was pure Red Hood.

"Can't," he said, in a tone that brooked no argument. "We're on a mission."

"For some two-time smuggler? Please, I can solve this case with my eyes closed."

Jason looked at him as if he was insane.

"What?" Dick asked.

"Dick," Jason said slowly, with gravity. "What do you know about Salazar?"

"Hm?" Dick was still mentally going through the catalogue of nearby confectioneries the two of them could go to. "Some human trafficker...don't worry we got Tim tracking down his victims."

"A sculptor who's selling out entire galleries as a student because her work is so lifelike," Jason said, a bite of impatience in his voice. "A comedian who's always performing to packed crowds because everyone says his jokes make their entire week. A used-car salesman who never misses a sale."

Jason paused, waiting for Dick to put the pieces together.

Dick had never thought of the victims that way, and now that Jason was pointing it out, it all did sound rather strange. The realization came to him with slow dawning horror.

"Jason..." he said. "You think he's trafficking metas?"

Jason sighed, and there was something weary in it. Dick remembered that his little brother hadn't seen you in two weeks.

"You think he might target her," he concluded. "That's why you're working so hard on this case."

Jason didn't answer. He didn't have to.

"Does she know?"

"No." Jason's answer was immediate. "It's just...a working theory, anyway. I don't want her scared over a theory."

"It might make her a little more careful if you told her," Dick nudged Jason with his shoulder. "It wouldn't hurt. Plus...well, it's not nice to keep her in the dark, you know?"

Jason looked at him, and for a moment, Dick could see the boy from the manor. The one that used to hang on to his every word as if it was gospel.

He pulled out his phone.

And sent you a quick text.

"Thanks," Jason said quietly. "I'm still...getting used to...all this."

And he gave Dick a small, grateful smile. Just the barest quirk of the corners of his mouth.

But it was there.

Dick smiled back. "You're doing great. Besides, working for two weeks straight on a case to keep your little girlfriend safe? You're a regular romantic. She's going to think you're from one of those old movies she likes."

The smile was gone. The scowl back in place. Jason shoved him, with perhaps more force than he intended to, but Dick rolled with it, laughing.

Maybe getting to know his little brother all over again wouldn’t be as bad as he thought.

[live-love-be-unique]

P. R Nightmare

Series summary: A public relations job typically involves managing an individual or organisation’s reputation and building relationships with the public and media. It generally does not include superheros, terrorist organisations, middle-aged Russian super soldiers who breach media regulations and crushing on a client/ coworker.

This is a Robert (Bob) Reynolds x fem!reader series

Warnings: fem!reader, afab!reader, no specific details about reader appearance are given. Specific warnings will be provided at each chapter.

After battling the New York subway system — which you’re pretty sure had a vendetta against you — you’d made it to your office later than you’d liked. There had been no time to stop and grab a coffee and breakfast from your favourite little cafe near your office, so you’d have to contend with a stale granola bar that you were hoping was still buried in your desk behind some notebooks and a coffee from the communal kitchen.

“You’re late,” your assistant whispered as you walked in.

“I know, I know.”

“There’s someone in your office.”

“What? Who?” You were certain you didn’t have any meetings until at least 11am, you glanced towards your office where you could make out the shape of someone sitting in front of your desk.

“Congressman Barnes, he’s even more handsome since the last time he came by.”

“Aren’t you married, Dorris?” You smirked, she’d been nursing a crush on him since he’d last stopped by your office.

“Barry doesn’t need to know,” Dorris waved her hand dismissively, smirking as she answered her phone.

While it wasn’t uncommon to find someone waiting for you in your office most mornings, most visitors didn’t come bearing a steaming hot cup of coffee, “You join a new team and you’ve given up on the suits? You’ll break Giuseppe’s heart.”

“He’ll live, I’m sure you’ve referred other senators to his tailoring and I’m pretty sure you get a kick back on each suit he makes,” the man chuckled as he watched you walk around your desk and take a seat. “Hi kid.”

“What do you need Barnes?” You lean forward, resting your head on your hands, offering a wry smile, “I doubt you’re here to discuss the finer points of haberdashery?”

“I’m here to offer you a job,” Bucky says, placing your coffee in front of you.

“Last time you offered me a job, you wanted me to help you impeach Valentina de Fontaine,” you eyed Bucky as you took a sip of your coffee. Valentina had been a little too good at covering her tracks for anything solid to actually stick, the hunt for anything incriminating had dragged on for months. “Is this caramel?” you asked, savouring your first mouthful of good coffee.

“Of course,” Bucky sighed, running a hand through his hair. “This time it’s a little less…political. The team needs an assistant, someone to handle the public relations.”

“Really? You were all doing so well,” you smirked. “I saw the Wheaties boxes.”

“Alexei’s idea.”

“The Russian guy?”

“It was his dream,” Bucky shrugs. As he stands he places a file on your desk, “Think about it”

You watched him leave your office before picking up the file, it contained a dossier for every member of the Thunderbolts.

Bucky’s was first, heavily redacted as you’d expected. You knew a little of his past, or at least what he had shared with you while you had helped him with his campaign, but he had kept the details of what had happened while he was under control of Hydra to himself.

John Walker. Former decorated army ranger and Captain America for a short time before the murder of a civilian in a public setting led to his less than honourable discharge.

Yelena Belova. Former Red Room trained assassin with the Black Widow, working as a contract killer for Valentina before the Thunderbolts.

Alexei Shostakov. The Red Guardian, Captain America’s counterpart in Russia. The one behind the Wheaties box…and ‘encouraging’ people in supermarkets to buy them.

Ava Starr. S.H.I.E.L.D operative turned mercenary who could phase through objects due to a constant state of molecular disequilibrium. You made a mental note to look that up later.

And…Bob? You turned Bob’s, Robert Reynolds’s, part of the file over to find that the page in your hand, containing next to no information about the man, was it. There was a picture — he was cute in a boy next door kind of way — and a few sparse details about the man but nothing more.

You quickly closed the file as your office door slammed open, your 11am meeting had finally arrived. Some trust fund baby who wanted you to fix his public image to keep him out of prison. He was charged with several assault counts, all of which he argued were the other person's fault and daddy’s money had brought him two hours of your time.

After his time was up, he had offered you his number like it was some kind of reward. You declined and dialed a familiar contact.

“Barnes? When do you need me to start?”

[iamthatonefangirl]

Hii, I wanted to ask for some "boys being boys" kind of one-shot. The setting is: Sam, Tony, Bucky and Bruce were arguing about how they could make the Winter Soldier some safety protocol for Bucky's gf since she's also a fighter and go with them in the missions (All of this happening while they were drunk, so OF COURSE IT DOESN'T SEEM LIKE A BAD IDEA.) Bucky also doesn't know that the WS knows gf and is already very protective of gf, so when Steve and Reader (who is Bucky's gf and some kind of Steve's little sis) appear, things get a little… weird with WS being a possessive bf.

(Can I be annon ✨🐍/sparkilin snake?)

~✨🐍

bad luck - nsfw bucky barnes/winter soldier

hey anon I love the emoji combo omg. I went a slightly different direction from your ask but this is my interpretation of it :)

disclaimer: mentions of homicide, bucky turns into the winter soldier obviously, fully consensual smut by both parties although not explicitly stated.

for those of you who follow my winter soldier fics - I will list this in my winter soldier masterlist and my bucky masterlist. this will NOT be correlated with my pre-existing winter soldier series.

~~~

you'd only seen the winter soldier emerge twice, so far.

one time in a hydra base on a mission.

a second time in an ambush he wasn't prepared for.

~~~

you were with him the first time it happened.

in the case anything had gone wrong and somehow it happened, you'd been briefed ahead of time to make a run for it, not to engage the soldier. they would be able to find Bucky later and subdue him.

Bucky gave you a different set of instructions.

if somehow he turned, he instructed you to shoot him on sight. don't hesitate, don't wait. do what you had to in order to stay alive.

"goddamnit, Bucky, I'm not going to fucking kill you," you hissed at him, wishing you could just smack him upside the head. "there's a million other options before that."

"listen to me," he pled with you, "if it comes down to it, you shoot me. you do not hesitate. do you understand me?"

you were appalled.

"I'm not going to-"

"no," he interrupted you, voice stern. "either you promise me you'll do this, or I'm telling Steve to send someone else with me."

you almost felt like crying.

you thought about it. you thought about saying hell no, have him send someone else.

but you didn't trust anyone else to not shoot him if it came down to it.

so you lied.

"I'll kill you if I have to."

~~~

you didn't think it would actually happen. no way in hell.

you were roaming the base, trying to find the information you'd been sent for. you separated from Bucky in the attempts of getting in and out quicker.

after a few minutes, you heard a stark cry of your name from the distance, and your heart fell to your stomach.

you ran as fast as you can, hoping to stop it, do anything at all-

you run up to him, grabbing his arms and shaking him.

"Bucky? goddamnit, Bucky, look at me!" you yell at him.

you're met with those cold, dead eyes that you were told meant run for your goddamn life.

you're too late.

so you began to back up, following the orders you'd been given, trying to run. they could save Bucky, they could, but you had to get the hell out of there. you started to back away, ready to turn and bolt.

it was just your luck that you tripped and fell flat on your ass, all while the soldier was stalking towards you ominously.

you didn't have time to get up.

so you unholstered your gun, pointing it at him, tears coming to your eyes. you held it shakily, trying to make the split second decision,

what do I do? what do I do?

this was not supposed to fucking happen. you weren't about to kill the love of your life.

you were met with the greatest surprise of your life when he didn't rip your arm off, or reach out to choke you to death with his bare hands, or anything of the like.

he grabbed the gun from your hand with ease, and threw it to the side, then reaching for your hand and hauling you to your feet.

you stood there, face to face with him, wondering what the hell was going on. why didn't he immediately attack you?

the sound of gunshots filled the room. someone knew you were there, whoever was left of hydra, surely operating under the assumption that the soldier would kill you and then they could take back their precious asset.

you scrambled for your gun, but he picked it up first, pushing you behind him while he easily decimated the agents running at you.

you were stunned. Bucky never killed anyone, he wouldn't do it. but you had just watched him, not him, kill a dozen people without a second thought.

you prepared for him to turn around and shoot you, but he didn't. he looked you up and down for injuries, saw none, and his face relaxed.

you scrambled for what to do next. "the team, they'll come running at the sound of gunshots. you have to go, they can't know you're..."

you trailed off. your thoughts were a mess.

"I have to go."

he let you make a run for the exit.

~~~

obviously, you lied.

you told everyone that you never saw him. all you saw was the mess of dead, bloodied bodies, and no Bucky. which pointed to the obvious: he turned.

no way in hell were you going to admit anything.

a few sleepless nights passed without Bucky by your side, and with each passing day, you worried more and more that you'd never get him back. that by lying, you'd somehow messed up, and that it was somehow your fault you'd never see him again.

when your apartment window opened in the middle of the night a few days after the incident, you grabbed your gun and watched as the dark figure made its way into your apartment.

Bucky, finally.

"fuck, oh my god, you're okay," you say, running towards him, putting down the gun. you bring your hands to his shoulders, taking in his disheveled appearance.

"you've got to be starving," you comment, but then you look back up at his face.

it's not Bucky.

he's staring at you, looking into your eyes so intensely you'd think it's all he knew how to do.

"are you hungry?" you ask tensely, unsure what else to say. he says nothing in response, but reaches out to you for the second time, this time gripping your waist tightly in both hands as though he owns you.

"mine," he growls.

your breaths become shallow, and you debate your options.

he didn't hurt you last time, he protected you. he let you go. he hasn't hurt you this time.

mine?

you don't fight him when he pulls you into his arms and hauls you to your bed.

you would never admit to a single soul that you were eager, that you were excited when he started to yank at your clothes and began to suck at the skin of your neck.

"no marks!" you exclaim in a panic. you can't have Bucky see it, he'll freak. you're most certainly not sure how you're supposed to explain this to him, but you will.

eventually.

clearly, your request pisses him off, but he lets up on his ministrations, running his mouth across your chest without leaving a single bruise in his wake.

his hands are more firm on your skin than Bucky's. he's not giving, he's taking. he's going to do what he wants.

you moan at the realization.

his hands yank your sweatpants off, not wasting any time as he shoves his hands in your underwear, only to find you absolutely dripping for him.

you hear him grunt at the discovery, quickly pulling his own pants out of the way, not wanting to wait another minute to fuck you.

you've taken Bucky a million times, only a few of them this quickly, with this little prep.

you don't let yourself think about the fact that you've never gotten this wet this quickly before.

he tolds you tightly by the waist underneath him, pinning you to the bed, taking what he wants. he's careful not to leave any marks, just as you asked.

"mine," is all he says, over and over again, the whole time he fucks you.

all the while, you're sobbing out with how fucking good it is, prepared for the neighbors to bang down your door the next day and demand you shut the fuck up.

you don't care. right now, all that's on your mind is that you're his.

~~~

when you wake up the next morning, you're not sure what to expect. you see him laying there next to you, dead asleep. at some point, you both must have stripped off the rest of your clothes to sleep.

you slip out of bed, pulling on your pajamas, telling yourself to not think about how you're going to explain this to him until after you've had coffee.

you're looking out the window above the sink, sipping your beverage, when you hear a familiar voice say your name from behind you.

you whip around, lukewarm coffee sloshing over the sides of the mug, to see him standing there.

"Bucky," you say in relief and run to him.

when he begins to ask questions, you lie. you shouldn't lie to him, but now isn't the time to tell him. you have to wait until he's come to terms with the fact that he was turned again.

you'll tell him when he's ready.

you feed him the same story you fed the rest of the team. you never saw the winter soldier, you only saw the mess he left. when he came in the window last night, you were asleep.

you never saw the winter soldier.

and that's what you told everyone when you brought Bucky in to show everyone that he was alive and himself again. that's the story you stuck to when everyone began arguing over what they were supposed to do, how they were supposed to deal with this. they fought over how to keep you safe going forward, assuming that you would be the first person on the winter soldier's kill list.

you bit your tongue as the anxiety of keeping the secret broiled in your stomach.

~~~

the second time it happened, you weren't there to stop it.

he was only a few blocks from the compound, going for a run around the city, when the ambush happened.

another handful of rogue agents grabbed him, this time intending to set him loose on everyone in the compound. surely they could prevent what happened last time, that they could direct him to kill whoever they pleased.

they were wrong. in the same fashion as the time before, he killed them all without hesitation, the only thought in his mind: you.

you were alone in the fifth floor kitchen, thinking about how it was long past time for you to tell him. it'd been weeks, and he deserved to know.

you just hoped he wouldn't leave you when you told him, that he wouldn't try to convince himself you were better off without him, safer without him.

suddenly, you hear the door slam.

you turn towards the noise, having scared the living daylights out of you, when you see Bucky walking in.

"fucking hell, don't do that, you scared me," you say, tending to your food on the stove, building up the courage to bring up the subject weighing heavy on your mind. "I made lunch. I was hoping we could talk."

he doesn't say anything in response, walking up behind you and wrapping his hands around your waist in the same manner as the time before.

"mine," he whispers in your ear, and you freeze.

not Bucky.

you barely flick the stove off before he's grabbing you all over, a metal hand running up your shirt and his other hand dipping into your pants.

"fuck, how did you-" you begin to ask him, but you know he won't answer you. he probably won't even know the answer.

you lean back against him, letting him carry your whole body weight as he gropes at the flesh of your breast and begins to rub circles over your clit.

"mine."

you almost wonder if it's the only word he knows with how much he repeats it to you.

"yes. yours," you affirm, spurring him on.

this time, he leaves a mark on your neck.

"yours, fuck, I'm yours," you whine as you come too quickly, giving yourself over to him willingly.

"you belong to me," he growls in your ear, wrapping a metal hand around your throat and gently squeezing. the unspoken implication of "not him" is not lost on you.

you don't have it in you to disagree.

~~~

do we want an angsty part 2?

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[polarisjisung]

ꨄ ME AND THE KITCHEN WITH DIAMOND RINGS

COOKING KISSING W/ BF!MARK

wc: 0.5k warnings: uhh they makeout ig notes: i can't believe mark released 200 a whole year ago | LIBRARY

Mark can't cook. It's a simple fact that everyone knows.

But Mark isn't stupid. Anyone can follow a few instructions and throw a few things into a pot, stirring every once in a while to make sure things don't stick, and he's no different. He's done it a thousand times before and as long as he doesn't lose focus or slip up, which unfortunately happens a little too often for his liking, it goes pretty well.

So maybe, it's not really that Mark can't cook, more that he shouldn’t.

You can though, and your cooking, if you do say so yourself, isn't too bad, pretty good in fact.

So Haechan, cannot for the life of him understand why, when you and Mark are in the kitchen together, the food always turns out a little caramelised. Burnt, if he wasn't trying to protect your feelings.

He walked into the kitchen last week to the smell of something a little charred, noticing how you and Mark were already sighing and groaning about how difficult it'd be too clean the pot.

“You burned the food again?” he couldn't even act surprised, “What even happens in here when you two cook together.”

He should've figured from the way your cheeks flushed over and the tips of Mark’s ears turned red, but Haechan was too focused on hunting for something to satisfy his hunger from your fridge.

And you couldn't have been more glad that he didn't push any further, because God knows how you'd live it down.

But Mark doesn't seem to care. Not about being caught, and definitely not about the stew bubbling away on the stove on one end of the kitchen, because he had his arms looped around your waist, placing kisses to your cheek even after you'd both agreed to actually cook this time.

“Mark.’ You warned.

Your voice wasn't exactly intimidating or anything, so with a grin, he only continued to place kisses across your face, eventually trailing down your neck, in hopes he would change your mind.

But your grip on the spoon was firm, for all of maybe five minutes.

Soon enough your back was against the counter and your lips were moving against his, a hand pressed against his chest.

“Mark, we should really–”

He cut you off, “Kiss some more?” He smiled, taking in your features for a moment, “Yeah I agree.”

“Mark the food.”

He shrugged, pulling you into for another kiss, “Just one more.”

That was a lie if you'd ever heard one.

Because soon enough, Haechan had come through the kitchen door with two fingers dramatically pinched over his nose. You didn't notice of course.

“Guys I really don't understand how you manage to—.”

You froze, barely processing his words as Mark stumbled back, his hands halfway under your shirt.

“Oh my God.”

All you could do was clear your throat and smooth your hair down, leaving Mark to deal with Haechan, who stood in the doorway, mouth agape.

“I should've known you didn’t burn the food by accident.” He muttered, running a hand through his hair.

“Dude we were um, multitasking?”

Haechan scoffed, “What trying to start a family while making dinner?”

tags: @nebularsung @suzayaaa @nanawrlds @sinisxtea @dearlyminhyung @flaminghotyourmom @jisworlds @jenobubbles @nctdreamchaser @lotties-readings @mystverse @chenlezip @blondemrk @17ericas @ayukas

[gyugraphy]

psyche (1)

— synopsis. After the catastrophe in New York-when the Void tore through the city-the Thunderbolts know it can't happen again. Bob Reynolds doesn't need another collar or containment spell. He needs help. Enter her: a psychiatrist with an unusual gift, capable of stepping into the mind itself. No one expected her to reach him-least of all, him. "You're just going to leave me the moment it gets too hard, aren't you?" he says. She meets his gaze, steady and unshaken. "I've walked through nightmares to get to you. I won't walk away now."

— pairing. robert reynolds (sentry/the void) x reader

— warning/s. mentions of trauma, mental illness, depression

— word count. 5.1k

⋆˙⟡

“Strange called,” Christine Palmer said, not looking up from her tablet.

You glanced in her direction but didn’t respond. You felt like there isn't anything worth saying. Instead, you focused on the soft, familiar sounds around you—the quiet clatter of metal instruments being cleaned at the nearby sterilization station, the steady shuffle of footsteps on polished hospital floors. A monitor beeped somewhere down the hall, keeping time in the way only machines could. The hum of fluorescent lights overhead, that you never really noticed, added to the background noise.

In the corner, a few patients sat hunched in plastic chairs, wrapped in hospital blankets that offered more symbolism than warmth. Their faces were drawn, tired, a mix of exhaustion and quiet anxiety. Some waited for scans, others for pain relief, a few just for answers that might never come tonight. They all shared the same energy, that tension that lived in the bones of everyone who passed through the ER after dark. You knew it well.

You were supposed to have clocked out an hour ago—your shift technically ended at midnight—but no one really left on time in this place. The ER didn’t care about schedules. It held you in its grip until it was ready to let go, and sometimes, not even then. Not when a life could still slip through the cracks—because of a missed bleed, a bad stitch, or the wrong word spoken at the worst possible time.

Christine tapped her screen a few times, then added, “Apparently, Bucky Barnes asked him to help find a psychiatrist.”

That made you pause, your fingers hesitating on the chart you were holding. Still, you didn’t look up. The case wasn’t serious—just a minor injury with a straightforward treatment plan. You met Christine’s gaze briefly, then looked back down, eyes scanning through lines of notes more out of habit than need.

“You know I’m not practicing anymore,” you muttered. “Psychiatry, I mean.”

Christine leaned a hip against the counter beside you, folding her arms. “Since when? You’re double-boarded. And don’t give me the ‘I’m just a surgeon now’ line. I’ve heard it too many times to believe it.”

“It’s not a line. It’s a preference,” you said, your voice flat. “Organs are a lot simpler than people's minds.”

“Sure,” she said, the sarcasm thin but present. “You can cut them open, take out what’s broken, sew them back up, and call it a day. But that’s not why you switched.”

Your hands stilled mid-note. The chart blurred for a moment, your pen hovering above the page.

“Tell Barnes to find someone else.”

“Actually, he didn’t call,” Christine said quietly. “Strange didn’t either.”

You looked up, and she turned the tablet toward you.

“They just sent me this.”

Your name was there in bold, black text at the top of the screen—accompanied by layers of encrypted clearance codes, redacted fields, and a formal request for psychiatric consultation. It wasn’t just a note. It was government-level. Serious. Sealed. No fluff. No context. No diagnosis.

Just one name buried in the lines of classified language.

Robert Reynolds.

You stared at it. The name carved through you like a scalpel—sharp, precise, and deep. Your chest went tight. Not with fear exactly, though it wasn’t far off. Christine watched you too carefully now.

You said the name aloud, almost to yourself. “Reynolds. Sentry? The Void? The man who turned Manhattan into literal shadows?”

Christine’s voice softened. “He’ll could probably eat you alive,” she said. “Whoever it is. You know that.”

You didn’t answer. You glanced at the clock hanging on the wall beside you. You reached for the gloves on your hands, peeled them off one by one, and tossed them into the biohazard bin beside the counter. The silence between you stretched.

“You’re not going to do it,” Christine said, trying for a steadier voice. “Right?”

But you were already moving. You grabbed your coat, your badge, and turned toward the hallway that led to the staff exit.

“Right?!” Christine repeated, this time louder. You only waved her off by raising one hand as you continued to walk.

Christine sighed under her breath, watching you go.

“Oh, she’s in trouble,” she mumbled, more to herself than anyone else.

⋆˙⟡

The city didn’t feel real when you stepped outside.

Maybe it was the late hour. Or the way the streetlights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a dim, unnatural gold. The sidewalk gleamed with recent rain, and the night air clung to your skin—cool, damp, electric. Maybe it was just the words still echoing in your mind.

Bob Reynolds.

You heard that name before—not whispered behind closed doors, not even in passing. People avoided it deliberately, like saying it out loud might stir something sleeping. Might invite the dark back in.

He doesn’t need containment. He needs healing.

That was what the message had said.

But you knew what it really meant. You could read between the encrypted lines. Reynolds wasn’t just unstable—he was a ticking bomb they didn’t know how to disarm. He wasn’t a patient; he was a problem no one wanted to admit they couldn’t fix.

They were looking for someone to step into the fire and hope they didn’t burn.

You had no intention of being that someone.

Not anymore.

It was just past two in the morning when the elevator doors slid open on the surgical floor. Most of the hospital was asleep or pretending to be. You were still on your feet—finishing post-op notes in the nurses’ station, trying to tether yourself to something routine. The soft tap of keys, the faint smell of coffee gone cold, the distant echo of an intercom down the corridor. These were the things that kept you grounded when your hands weren’t cutting. When your mind threatened to drift.

The hallway was quiet. Empty.

And then, something shifted.

You didn’t hear him at first. You felt him. A subtle change in pressure. A ripple through the air, like the building itself had gone tense.

You looked up.

There he was.

Bucky Barnes. Standing in the middle of the hallway like a ghost. Dressed in black, that metal arm catching the flickering light overhead. Expression unreadable. Posture coiled.

Your fingers hovered over the tablet.

“Subtle,” you said dryly.

He didn’t smile.

“I’m not here to make a scene.”

“You’re five seconds from getting tackled by security.”

“I turned off the cameras on this floor.”

Of course he did.

You sighed and slid the tablet aside. “You could’ve sent a message.”

“You would’ve ignored it.”

He wasn’t wrong.

You stood, slowly. Kept a polite amount of distance between you. “You want a consult.”

“No,” he said. “I want you.”

That gave you pause. He saw it.

“I read your work,” he continued. “The old stuff. Before you scrubbed it. Neural pathway immersion. Psychogenic structure mapping. Entering the subconscious. Rewriting trauma loops from the inside.”

You kept your expression still. “That research was never meant for clinical application.”

“It saved people.”

“No, it delayed their collapse. That’s not the same thing.”

He took a step closer. “You walked into the mind of a patient mid-psychotic break and helped him walk back out.”

“That patient relapsed two weeks later. Nearly took out his care team with him.”

“But he lived,” Bucky said. “That’s more than Reynolds has right now.”

Your chest tightened, but you didn’t let it show. Not much, anyway.

“So let me get this straight,” you said, voice cool. “You want me to crawl into the mind of the most powerful bipolar the world’s ever known? A man who once turned half of Manhattan into literal shadows? You want me to walk into that and—what? Talk him down?”

“He’s not just the Void.”

“No. But the Void is part of him. You don’t separate the two.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. His voice dropped.

“He’s trying, okay? He’s lucid. Or close to it. He’s afraid of what he’s done. He wants to be better—but no one can reach him. They’ve all stopped trying. Except me.”

You studied him then. Not just his words, but everything else—the tight set of his shoulders, the wear in his eyes, the quiet tremor under all that steel. This wasn’t just a mission for him.

“You care about him.”

His breath hitched. “I know what it’s like to be controlled by something inside you. Something you didn’t choose. Something you hate.” His voice cracked just a little. “So yeah. I care.”

You looked away. The floor felt suddenly distant under your feet.

“I’m not a miracle worker, Barnes. I’m not some psychic surgeon. I can’t promise I won’t make things worse.”

He hesitated. “Would you try… if he asked you himself?”

That stopped you.

Your throat went dry.

“You think he wants me?”

“I think he’s afraid of you,” Bucky said. “Which is exactly why I think he needs you the most.”

You exhaled slowly. The kind of breath that emptied your lungs and still didn’t feel like enough.

The name echoed again in your mind like a wound reopening.

Robert Reynolds.

You crossed your arms instinctively, bracing against the words. Against everything they meant. You weren’t ready to say yes—but you couldn’t walk away yet. Not when the puzzle Bucky had thrown at you was already rattling around in your mind like a loose coin.

"Tell me more about him," you said, before you could second-guess yourself.

Bucky blinked, clearly expecting you to brush him off, maybe even shut him down. But you hadn’t done that. Not yet.

He stepped a little closer, lowering his voice as if the air itself might carry his words further than he wanted. "Bob... he's not what you think."

You could feel the weight in the silence between you, the hum of fluorescent lights and distant beeping from another part of the Tower, but it felt miles away. The shift in Bucky’s voice wasn’t a demand. It was a plea—one you weren’t sure you could ignore.

"He's always been complicated," you said, trying to keep your tone neutral. "Sentry and the Void aren’t easy to separate."

Bucky nodded slowly. “I know. But right now? He’s more fractured than ever. The Void doesn’t just come out and take over anymore. It’s... it’s slipping into him, little pieces at a time. He doesn’t know where the man ends and the monster begins.”

You stared at him, thinking of everything you’d heard about Bob over the past few months—the whispers, the rumors, the stories that came with living in a world of meta-humans. The Sentry, a hero with the power of a god, the man who’d nearly torn apart the world itself in a breakdown. The Void, a primal force of destruction that had no regard for morality or life.

But hearing the weight of that confusion in Bucky’s voice was new. And it unsettled you more than it should have.

"Where is he?" you asked, voice quieter now.

"He’s here, in New York," Bucky said, his eyes flicking away. "Living on the same floor as the rest of the Thunderbolts— or the new Avengers. We’re all on the top level of Avengers Tower, trying to keep him from... from himself."

You blinked. Here? With the Thunderbolts? In Avengers Tower? That was... an entirely new layer to the situation. You weren’t sure what was more surreal: the fact that Bob Reynolds was living under the same roof as some of the most dangerous people on the planet or the fact that you’d just been asked to walk into his mind.

“How is that even... manageable?” You asked the question, but you weren’t sure if you were asking Bucky or yourself.

Bucky’s jaw clenched. "We try to keep him grounded. When he’s not... when he’s lucid, he’s like any other person. He talks about everything—sports, movies, some of the stuff that made him happy before everything broke down." He exhaled sharply, clearly frustrated. "But the minute he starts spiraling, it all goes wrong. The Void starts leaking through the cracks. And it’s not just him anymore. He reflects everyone else’s fears. He mirrors them. It’s like we’re all living in his nightmare when that happens."

The implications hit you like a truck. A man who could turn his fear into destructive power was now having his own breakdown while everyone around him became collateral damage.

You closed your eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of Bucky’s words settle deep in your chest. “Is anyone else in danger?”

Bucky hesitated. “Not unless we provoke him. But... it’s getting harder to contain. We don’t know what he might do when he finally snaps, and we can’t keep him isolated forever. Not without breaking him completely.”

You shook your head, barely processing the words. Living with the Thunderbolts? This wasn’t just a clinical case anymore. This was a man in desperate need of help who could bring the whole team down with him if things went sideways. And you were being asked to wade into the heart of it.

“I don’t even know where to begin,” you muttered, more to yourself than to Bucky. “You want me to just walk into his mind, face whatever twisted version of reality he’s experiencing, and fix it? I’m not a magician.”

“You’re the only one who’s ever been able to do something like that,” Bucky pressed, voice low but insistent. “You helped people when it seemed like no one else could. Even when it wasn’t perfect, they stayed alive. And you’re the only person who can actually get in there, see it from the inside. No one else has that ability. No one else can.”

You pressed your palms against your face, exhaling sharply. Your mind spun. This wasn’t just about fixing someone. This was about getting close to a raw, broken mind—an unstable mind that could tear apart everything around it if pushed too far. You’d been in this position before. You’d seen minds crumble and break. You’d been the one to pull them back—but not without a price.

“Why me, Bucky?” you said, the question finally spilling out. “You know this isn’t going to be easy. I’m not some miracle worker. I can’t promise I won’t make it worse.”

Bucky’s expression softened. “Because you’re the one who never gave up on the people everyone else walked away from. You see them. Really see them—without the fear, without the labels. You don’t treat people like they’re lost causes. You treat them like they’re still worth saving.”

You took a step back, your chest tightening. You’d made it clear years ago that you wouldn’t practice psychiatry anymore. You weren’t the kind of person who specialized in people’s mental health, not when it carried so much emotional weight, not when the cost was too high.

"He's afraid of himself," Bucky said, almost as if he were reading your thoughts. "He’s terrified that he’s going to lose himself again, that the Void is going to take him completely. But there’s still some part of Bob in there. He wants to be better. He wants to make it stop. I know he does."

You swallowed. “So where does that leave me?”

Bucky stepped closer again, lowering his voice. “I need you to help him. Not fix him. Just help him understand he’s still in control—if he is. If there’s still a way to reach him before it’s too late.”

You closed your eyes again, the pressure in your chest rising. But when you opened them, Bucky was still there, his gaze steady, waiting for something.

And you knew, despite everything, you were already halfway in. Even if you didn’t want to be.

⋆˙⟡

The Avengers Tower loomed like a monument against the night sky, its gleaming windows reflecting the city lights below. As you stepped inside, the difference hit you immediately. It wasn’t the usual cold, sterile atmosphere of hospitals or military facilities. No, this place was warmer—not in temperature, but in feel. It had a kind of lived-in quality you weren’t expecting. The faint smell of coffee lingered in the air, mixed with the scent of old books and worn leather furniture. Shoes were scattered by the door, someone’s guitar leaned against the wall in the corner, and someone had scratched “Yelena was here, losers” into the corner of the counter.

"This is the Thunderbolts' floor," Bucky said as he swiped the access panel, letting you both pass through. There was a strange undertone to his voice, a quiet sort of pride—or maybe wariness. "It’s... a work in progress."

You raised an eyebrow. “A rehab wing for ticking time bombs?”

Bucky gave a small, tight smile. “Something like that.”

The elevator doors opened to a wide living area that was surprisingly quiet, dimly lit. The hum of music thudded faintly from another room, but the space itself was calm—almost peaceful. You noticed how the walls weren’t bare and cold like the rest of the building had been. Bookshelves lined the walls, mismatched furniture sat comfortably in corners, and discarded snack wrappers sat on the coffee table. It didn’t feel like a headquarters for elite soldiers and heroes; it felt more like... home.

Before you could take it all in, a voice rang out, piercing through the quiet.

“Bucky!” The voice was sharp, teasing. “Who’s the new blood?”

You turned to see Yelena Belova striding toward you. Barefoot, dressed in sweatpants, her braid half undone, and a crooked grin on her face, she looked like she didn’t have a care in the world. She took a long look at you, her grin widening.

“She’s not mine,” Bucky said quickly, as if almost to assure you—or himself.

Yelena shot him a knowing glance. "Pity," she said, her grin only growing wider. Then, her eyes shifted to you. “I’m guessing you’re here to meet Bob?”

Bob. That nickname.

You nodded, but you could feel the weight of Yelena’s gaze. Her expression shifted slightly, and you didn’t miss the subtle change. It wasn’t fear, but something much more calculated—like someone who knew the danger that came with being in close proximity to a ticking time bomb, and what could happen if that bomb ever went off. There was wariness in her eyes now, something you hadn’t expected after the teasing remark.

Bucky didn’t miss it either. “I’m bringing her to meet him.”

At the mention of Bob Reynolds, Yelena’s expression changed again. Her playful smile slipped just a fraction, and the playful tone in her voice dimmed. She didn’t say anything for a moment, just looked at you with a kind of guarded understanding, before finally speaking.

“Be careful,” she said, her tone softer now, though still carrying an edge. “He’s a bit sweet. Until he’s not.”

You paused, the weight of her words sinking in. Sweet. Until he’s not. That one sentence sent a chill down your spine. You’d heard the name Bob Reynolds before, the Sentry, the Void—the rumors about his mind and his power were legendary. But this? This was a whole different level of complication. Sweet until he’s not. You couldn’t ignore the warning, not when you were about to walk into that very storm.

Bucky stepped forward, breaking the moment of quiet tension. His voice was quiet but firm. “I’ll be with you. You’re not going in alone.”

You didn’t say anything right away, your mind already racing. You weren’t sure if you were relieved or more uneasy now that you had confirmation Bucky would be there. It didn’t make it less dangerous.

“Thanks,” you finally said, though you weren’t entirely sure what you were thanking him for yet. Maybe it was just for getting you this far.

Yelena took a step back, a small smirk still tugging at the corner of her lips. “I’m just saying,” she added casually, “you don’t have to rush in. No one will blame you if you need a minute to run.”

You chuckled lightly, though the humor didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Right,” you said, your voice tight, “I’m sure that’ll be helpful.”

Bucky didn’t linger, turning toward a door at the far end of the room. It was heavy, imposing. You could tell this wasn’t just any door; it was the kind that kept the more... unpredictable things behind it. Bob Reynolds, the man who had lived through the collapse of his own mind, who carried the weight of the Void in him. You had an idea of what kind of danger he represented, but standing in this place, it felt much closer than you had ever imagined.

“Ready?” Bucky asked, looking over his shoulder. There was a glimmer of something in his eyes—maybe it was concern, maybe it was just routine. Either way, it didn’t settle your nerves.

You took a deep breath. “As I’ll ever be,” you said, but even as the words left your mouth, you felt the truth of them slip through your fingers. This wasn’t about being ready. This was about what you could handle when everything fell apart. You didn’t have any illusions about how this might go.

With a quiet hum, Bucky led the way to the door. You followed, feeling a kind of coldness creep into your limbs despite the warmth of the room around you. Whatever was waiting behind that door wasn’t just about Bob Reynolds. It was about everything that had led him to this moment. The Sentry. The Void. The man who had been both savior and destroyer. And now you were about to walk into that darkness.

The door to Bob’s room was slightly ajar when you arrived, and Bucky didn’t hesitate. He knocked once, then pushed the door open.

Inside, Bob sat at the edge of the bed, his posture tense, hands clasped tightly between his knees. His blonde hair was a little too long, and his shirt was wrinkled, like he hadn’t bothered to care about his appearance in the last few hours—or days. He was staring at the floor as though it might somehow provide answers to whatever was going on in his head.

When you stepped inside, his eyes flickered up to you. The movement was slow, almost as if it took him effort to pull himself away from whatever was haunting him in the depths of his mind. And then—he blinked.

“Oh,” he said, the word soft and distant, like it didn’t quite belong to him.

Bucky stepped forward, giving you a glance before offering the introduction. “This is her,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “The one we talked about.”

Bob stood, his movements awkward, like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. He was tall—broad in the shoulders, built like a man who could break cities—but he moved like someone terrified of knocking something over, of breaking something fragile.

“You’re… the mind walker,” he said quietly, his voice low, tentative.

You nodded, crossing the room slowly to close the distance. “And you’re the man with the monster inside him.”

Bob’s lips twitched—a ghost of a smile, fleeting and uncertain. “Guess we both come with warnings,” he muttered, the humor in his voice strained but there all the same.

The air in the room felt thicker now, the weight of his words hanging in the space between you. You studied him for a moment longer, the tension building like an unspoken agreement that neither of you could escape. You stepped closer. Without saying anything more, you both sank into the floor, sitting cross-legged across from each other. The distance between you was minimal, just your knees nearly brushing. But it was enough to feel the tension crackling in the air between you.

“I need your permission,” you said softly. “To go in.”

Bob didn’t hesitate, though his eyes were dark with uncertainty. He nodded once, the smallest motion.

You closed your eyes.

At first, there was nothing. Calm. His mind opened before you like a gate, as if it was letting you in—but something was wrong. Behind that gate, you could feel a storm building, growing, ready to unleash.

And then—

You were in.

It was worse than you had expected. The space around you was dark, twisting. The architecture was impossible—floating staircases, walls that screamed, mirrors that bled shadows. It felt like a mind split in two: one side terrified, the other hunting. The chaos was dizzying, the sensation of being swallowed whole by something far larger than you.

And then you felt it.

Something massive, coiling around the core of his mind. It was there, lurking. Watching you.

The Void.

It turned its head, and you felt its eyes on you—it smiled.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” it whispered, its voice like shards of glass scraping against your skull.

Pain bloomed instantly. A searing throb behind your eyes. Your nose started to bleed, the pressure inside your head unbearable.

“Get out,” Bob’s voice said, faint, distant—not the Void’s. “Get out now!”

And before you could even process the command, your body snapped back. Your eyes flew open, and you gasped for air, choking on it as blood dripped from your nose. You blinked, disoriented, and found yourself back in the room with Bob.

He stumbled backward, pale, his breath ragged, eyes wide with fear. “You saw it,” he said, his voice trembling.

You wiped the blood from your face and sat back, trying to catch your breath. “I felt it,” you said quietly, the weight of the experience still heavy in your chest.

Bob’s eyes searched your face, his expression torn. “Did it… did it touch you?”

You shook your head slowly. “No. But it came close. Too close.”

He let out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t know it would go after you.”

You exhaled, trying to shake off the lingering feeling of the Void’s presence. “We’re not ready,” you said, your voice a little steadier now. “We need to know each other first. Establish a connection before diving into something like that.”

Bob didn’t say anything for a long moment. He just stared at you, like you had said something that didn’t quite register in his mind. His expression was still unreadable, but there was something there—a glimmer of hope, perhaps, that you could give him something he’d lost. Something he didn’t think he could ever get back.

“Okay,” he said softly, as if testing the words. “We can… get coffee or something.”

You gave him a small, understanding smile. “Let’s start with daylight.”

Later, back in the common room, you nursed a pounding headache and a steaming cup of tea. Yelena was sprawled across the couch, her feet resting on the armrest, eyes half-closed. Her gaze flickered over to Bob, who lingered just inside the doorway, watching you like he was afraid you’d vanish if he looked away.

Yelena’s lips curled into a mischievous smile. She lowered her voice, but you could still hear the teasing note in it. “Someone’s got a crush.”

Bob’s face flushed instantly, his eyes widening in embarrassment. “I do not,” he muttered, like a kid caught in the act.

Yelena raised an eyebrow, her smirk turning smug.

For the first time all day, you couldn’t help but laugh. It was the kind of lightheartedness you hadn’t felt since stepping into this mess, and it felt like a small, precious thing in the middle of all the chaos.

You finished your tea, Yelena stretched across the couch like she owned the place, eyes flicking between you and Bob with far too much interest. Bob hovered by the doorway, visibly trying to gather the nerve to speak, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like a schoolboy.

You stood, brushing off your hands. The day had been long, and you were more than ready to go.

Just as you stepped toward the elevator, Bob moved quickly, blurting, “Uh—wait!”

You turned to him, surprised.

He looked like he instantly regretted speaking so loud. “I just—uh, I think we should talk again. Tomorrow. If you want. About… you know. Everything.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Alright. Where?”

Bob blinked. “I—uh, I don’t actually know where you work…”

You let out a breath. “Metro-General Hospital”

His eyes lit with recognition. “Right, yeah. That makes sense. I’ll be there. I’ll wait until your shift’s over.”

You studied him for a second. He was tall and intimidating by most standards, but right now he looked like someone nervously asking their crush to prom.

“Okay,” you said, biting back a smile. “I’ll see you then.”

Bob nodded too many times. “Cool. Good. Great. Okay.”

You stepped into the elevator. As the doors started to slide shut, you heard Yelena’s voice behind you���lazy and far too entertained.

“She said yes, Romeo,” she drawled. “You can breathe now.”

Bob muttered something unintelligible.

Yelena’s laughter echoed down the hall just before the elevator doors closed. You shook your head, grinning to yourself.

Tomorrow was going to be something.

⋆˙⟡

The Sanctum-like glow of protective wards hummed low along the ceiling as Stephen Strange poured tea into two mismatched cups. The room they were in wasn’t grand — no spell-casting library or mystical relic chamber — just a quiet observation lounge. It had a clear view of the city below, and right now, the skyline looked distant and unbothered by the storm they were preparing for.

Wanda Maximoff stood by the window, arms crossed. Her reflection in the glass looked tired.

“You didn’t tell them everything,” she said without looking back.

Strange let out a quiet sigh as he set the teapot down. “I told them what they needed to hear.”

“No,” she said, turning slowly. “You told them just enough to believe this was still safe.”

Strange didn’t flinch under her stare. He simply raised his cup and sipped.

“She’s walking into a fractured mind with something ancient wrapped around its spine. The Void doesn’t just destroy—he consumes. She’s not just risking injury. She’s risking... unmaking.”

He nodded, gently. “I know.”

Wanda stepped closer. “So why send her?”

“She’s not like us,” Strange said.

Wanda frowned. “That’s not a reason.”

He looked up at her, finally setting the cup down. “It is. You, me, even Charles—we bring power, force, structure. She brings something else. She listens. She understands how to walk with someone in their madness, not just force them out of it.”

Wanda studied him for a moment, then said, quieter, “What’s the best-case scenario?”

“She reaches Reynolds. Helps him stabilize. Creates a bridge between him and the monster he’s trying to cage. If she succeeds… the Void stays dormant.”

“And the worst?”

Strange was quiet for a long moment.

“If the Void latches onto her,” he said finally, “we lose both of them.”

Wanda looked down.

“She doesn’t know how dangerous she really is, does she?” she asked.

Strange gave a faint, unreadable smile.

⋆˙⟡

A/N: Let us all pretend Wanda is very alive for the sake of this fic! Part 2 will most likely be posted this weekend (or later, i have work during weekdays). Comment or dm me if u wanna be included in the taglist for part 2 <3

[guilty-ff]

𝐒𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐆𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐊𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐌𝐞

After walking out mid-argument, Dante ends up with Enzo, bad advice, and demon-grade alcohol. The goal? Forget everything. But what good is drinking your feelings away when your body won't even let the alcohol stick?

Pairing: Dante x Fem!Reader

Genre: Oneshot, romance, hurt comfort, mild Angst, Fluff!

Warnings: language, Emotional miscommunication, Mild alcohol use, Mentions of past trauma/abandonment issues

Authors comment: This idea hit me while rewatching the 2007 anime. Dante was drinking and I thought, if he can even get drunk with his regeneration?? Wouldn’t it be fun (and a kinda tragic) seeing Dante all frustrated, trying to get wasted but his demon healing just won’t let him?

It didn't start with a fight.

It started with quiet tension. A half-answer here. A missed call there. The kind of things that build in the background, until one day, something stupid stirring up the tension.

Tonight, it was the dishes.

Not the end of the world, right? Not even a big deal. Just a small, silent irritation. The sink was full. Again. You'd come home late to that same damn pile, untouched, like a monument of Dante's laziness.

"Seriously?" you asked, not even raising your voice at first. "You said you'd clean the kitchen."

Dante, lounging on the couch with his boots up and one arm slung behind his head, barely turned his head. "I will."

"When?"

He yawned. "Eventually."

You stood in the doorway to the kitchen, fists clenched at your sides. "You live here too."

"Yeah," he said, stretching, "and I kill demons for a living. One of us is clearly more exhausted."

That did it.

"Oh, you're exhausted? Try coming home after twelve hours of dealing with people who actually communicate, only to realize I'm dating a guy who thinks emotional labor is a side quest."

He sat up a little at that. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you don't show up, Dante. Not for the little stuff. Not when it matters."

He stood now, slowly, arms crossed, like you'd just challenged him to a duel instead of a conversation. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"Physically? Sure. Emotionally? No. I have to dig to get anything out of you. You dodge every serious talk with a joke. You ghost me for hours after missions. You don't answer texts. You act like I should be grateful you're even around."

He narrowed his eyes, jaw tightening. "You think I don't care?"

"I think you're scared to."

Silence.

For a second, the world shrank. There was no sound, only tension in the air. His mouth opened. Then closed.

You took a breath. "You treat this like it's temporary. Like you're just waiting for me to leave. You act like I'm disposable, like everyone else who's hurt you. That's not love, that's defense"

His voice was too quiet when it came. "Everyone leaves."

"And that gives you permission to push me away first?" you snapped. "To be cold and dismissive and act like you don't need anyone?"

His eyes flashed. "I never said I didn't need you."

"Then act like it, Dante!"

He flinched. Not visibly. Not in a way most people would notice. But you knew him. You saw it, in the small drop of his shoulders, in the tight line of his mouth.

He looked at you like you'd touched a bruise he didn't know was still sore.

Then, without a word, he turned and grabbed his coat.

“Don’t,” you said quickly, your anger slipping away. “Don’t walk away. Not again.”

But he was already at the door, and then gone.

He didn’t take his phone, didn’t say a word, didn’t shout, just the soft click of the door as it closed behind him.

And then, silence.

You paced the apartment, every minute ticking louder than the last. You called once. Twice. Ten times. Nothing.

And when he finally walked back through the door two hours later?

He was dragging a crate of alcohol like it was his soul in a box.

Earlier...

Dante sat in Enzo's crusty kitchen, arms crossed, sulking like a kid who'd lost his lunch money.

"I dunno, man," he muttered. "She said I treat her like she's disposable."

Enzo was already halfway through a beer and nodding slowly. "Well, do ya?"

Dante squinted. "No."

"Then it's simple: she's wrong."

"She's not wrong," Dante admitted.

"Oh."

There was a pause.

"Okay," Enzo tried again, rubbing his stubbled chin. "Maybe she's just being... emotional. Women, y'know. Feelings and all."

Dante stared blankly. "You've been divorced three times."

"Exactly. I know things."

Dante dragged a hand down his face. "I shut down. That's the problem. I don't know how to talk about any of it: The nightmares, the constant fear that everything's gonna go to hell again, so I don't."

Enzo blinked.

"Jesus Christ."

Dante laughed bitterly. "I never learned how to let people stay. Mother died. Vergil left. Everyone I ever cared about either died or disappeared. She gets close and it's like... my brain starts screaming. Like she'll vanish if I breathe wrong."

"Alright, alright," Enzo said, waving his beer. "Enough of that. You're spiralin'. That's girl therapy talk."

"It's called trauma, Enzo."

"Whatever. You don't need therapy. You need alcohol."

Dante looked up slowly. "What?"

"Alcohol! Fixes everything. You drink, you talk, or maybe you don't, and then she feels bad for you and bam, makeup sex."

"That's... not how people work."

"Worked for my second wife. For a week."

"You're an emotional hypocrite," Dante muttered.

“Exactly. Look,” Enzo said, searching through his stash like it was some kind of treasure chest. “I’ve got the good stuff. Demon-proof, Hellfire brand. This stuff would probably knock Cerberus out cold.”

Dante barely registered the words. His mind kept going back to the mission, the one he screwed up. He took down Cerberus, got paid, and then… nothing. No text, no call, no follow-up. He promised he wouldn’t do this again, but here he was, pulling the same bullshit.

Enzo, oblivious to the storm rising in Dante’s head, kept on his monologue. “You know what’s crazy? You take down Cerberus like it’s a walk in the park, get a fat paycheck, and still can’t pick up the damn phone? What happened, Dante? You don’t even have the decency to say ‘Hey, I didn’t die fighting a three-headed mutt. I’m fine.’” Enzo scoffed.

Dante’s frustration bubbled over. “I—”

“I know, I know,” Enzo interrupted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “It’s tough, man. That damn Cerberus battle really took it out of you. Big, bad demon, yada yada… but here’s the thing, you still can’t handle texting her? You get all emotional, come back looking like a damn mess, and then ghost her? That’s cold, bro.”

Dante felt a knot tighten in his chest. He wasn’t just mad at Enzo for talking about it like it was some kind of joke. He was mad at himself. He promised his lover, he really did, but once again, he failed. He couldn’t get out of his own way.

Enzo kept going, still not realizing how much he was digging in deeper. “Look, you’re so good at demon slaying, but when it comes to basic human interaction? You’re trash. And I don’t even mean like ‘rookie-level’ trash, I mean pro-level trash. You can take down an ancient demon, but you can’t pick up the phone? Dude, even I managed not to screw things up like this in my old relationships, and I’m a disaster. Like, seriously, I’m the disaster.”

Dante slammed his head against the counter. The guilt was suffocating.

Enzo, not noticing a thing, just kept yapping. “It’s not that hard. You show up at her place, look tragic, say nothing, drink dramatically. That’s the secret. Women love that tortured crap. Hell, I love it, and I’ve been through some shit.” He smirked, clearly thinking he was dropping wisdom. “Why do you think I’m always pulling in these tragic, mysterious vibes? I sell it, man. If I can do it, you can do it.”

Dante groaned, rubbing his face. “This is not helping. That sounds manipulative."”

Enzo didn’t even notice. “You’re telling me it’s manipulative? No, no, no. It’s drama. It’s called drama, son. We’re in the business of devil hunting and trauma bonding. You think any of the girls I’ve been with cared about me picking up the phone? Nah. It’s all about the act.”

Dante looked at the Hellfire bottle in Enzo’s hand, then back at Enzo’s grinning face, and sighed heavily. “I can’t get drunk anymore.”

Enzo raised an eyebrow, completely unfazed by Dante’s crisis. “Not with that attitude."

Dante raised a brow.

"Look," Enzo said, now dragging a wooden crate out like it was treasure. "You show up at her place, looking tragic, say nothing, drink dramatically."

Dante looked at the crate, then at Enzo, then sighed like the broken man he was.

"You're a disaster."

"And you're takin' the box as the next paycheck, so shut up."

Back in the apartment, Dante wordlessly slammed the box on the counter and uncorked a bottle like it owed him money.

You stood at the edge of the living room, arms crossed, watching this demon-slaying idiot fumble with the strongest liquor in the realm.

"Are you... drinking?"

He didn't look up. "Enzo said it would help."

"Oh no."

You stepped closer. "Dante. Tell me you didn't just trauma-dump on Enzo."

He swallowed a third of the bottle and winced. "Kinda."

"You told the greasiest man alive that you're emotionally shut down?"

"Yep."

"And he said drink through it?"

Dante slammed the bottle down. "He said it would either make me cry or pass out. So far it's just making me thirsty."

You deadpan blinked. "You're half-demon. Your liver literally regenerates."

"I KNOW."

You sat down at the table, chin in your hand. "You thought you could drink away emotional repression?"

He gestured at the second bottle like a broken man. "This one has a skull on it. Maybe it'll work."

"You're pathetic."

"I'm trying," he muttered.

"By what? Hiding from the consequences of emotional negligence?"

"I don't know how to do this," he said, shoulders slumped. "I know how to kill and destroy things. But I don't know how to stay."

Silence. Just the ticking clock. His hand tightened on the glass.

"I figured... maybe if I just felt something strong enough, I could finally say it."

You blinked at him.

"...So your genius plan was to outdrink your own trauma?"

He shrugged one shoulder. "It made sense at the time."

"You're a disaster," you said flatly, but your voice cracked at the edges, not from anger now, but from relief.

He finally looked at you, eyes tired, haunted, and young in a way that made your chest hurt.

"I didn't mean to scare you," he said, quieter. "I wasn't trying to disappear, I just... I don't know how to do this. When you got mad, it felt like- like it was already over. So I figured if I could just feel something... anything loud enough, maybe the words would follow."

You stared at him, then exhaled a breath you didn't realize you'd been holding.

"That's the dumbest emotional strategy I've ever heard."

He opened his mouth to argue, but you cut him off by stepping in and kissing him. Fast, warm, and full of everything you were still too exhausted to say.

He froze, then breathed out through his nose, leaning into it like something in him had just... let go.

When you pulled back, you raised an eyebrow.

"You still owe me a full conversation, idiot."

He gave a half-smile. "Can I be drunk for it?"

"You are very sober."

"Unfortunately."

He gave the ghost of a grin.

"Honestly? When you started yelling, I flashed back to the one time my old man raised his voice at me."

You narrowed your eyes. "Sparda yelled at you?"

"Once. Real quiet. Real disappointed. Genuinely horrifying." He held up a finger. "But you? You're way scarier. Banshee-level scary."

You tried not to smile. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"Wasn't meant to be," he muttered.

"Also," you added, grabbing the bottle and inspecting the label, "this says 'Do Not Consume If Mortal.'"

He groaned. "Enzo's gonna kill me."

"No," you said, placing the bottle on the counter. "I'm gonna kill the both of you."

Later, as he lay half-curled on the couch, shirt half-off, a bottle abandoned at his side, he mumbled just loud enough to betray himself:

"Damn it... Enzo's advice almost worked. Makeup sex counts for emotional healing, right?"

You, brushing your teeth in the next room, spit into the sink and yelled,

"You really are allergic to accountability."

Next morning:

It took exactly one full day before you marched Dante back into Enzo's trashfire excuse for an office.

You didn't knock.

The door flew open hard enough to rattle the coat rack and knock over a stack of demon-hunting magazines from 1998.

Enzo, chewing a meatball like it was his final meal, froze with sauce halfway to his chin.

"Well, well, if it ain't my two favorite lovebirds-"

"You gave him poison in a bottle!" you snapped.

"Technically it's concentrated hellbrew-"

"HE TRIED TO DRINK THROUGH HIS FEELINGS."

Enzo raised his hands in mock innocence. "Whoa, whoa. I didn't tell him to turn into a drunk cowboy in your kitchen. I offered an alternative path to emotional growth. Through liquor."

Dante stood awkwardly behind you, very much regretting his life.

"You," you pointed, turning to him. "You listened to him."

"In my defense," Dante muttered, "he said it was demon-proof and emotionally numbing. I panicked."

You folded your arms. "So your brain went: 'Hmm. I have unresolved abandonment issues... Better drown them in demonic Everclear and hope for the best.'"

He gave a sheepish shrug.

"And it almost worked," he added.

You slapped his arm. "It didn't."

"Okay, but technically we-"

"It didn't."

Enzo was now watching with the same face he made when demon entrails exploded in his car: morbid curiosity and suppressed laughter.

"Look, sweetheart," Enzo said, "not everyone's good at feelings. The kid's got a sword twice his body weight and the emotional range of a wet sponge."

"Hey-!" Dante frowned. "I tried to talk about my issues."

"You tried to mainline whiskey and stare into a mirror."

"Same thing!"

You glared at both of them. "You're not off the hook either," you snapped at Enzo. "He doesn't need alcohol, he needs a therapist."

Enzo scoffed. "I've been a therapist for years."

"You once told Dante to 'punch grief in the face.'"

"And he did! It was very liberating."

You sighed, hard enough to summon storms.

Dante reached up behind his head and mumbled, "Okay, okay. Maybe I'm bad at this."

"No," you said. "You're terrible at this."

"...But I still wanna try."

Your anger melted just a little.

He stepped closer, rubbed the back of his neck. "I don't know how to fix everything in here," he said, tapping his chest. "But I don't wanna lose you just because I never learned how to talk."

You held his gaze.

"You're lucky you're hot," you muttered.

He smirked. "Jackpot."

You groaned.

Enzo stood up, wiping his hands on a suspiciously oil-stained towel. "Alright, lovebirds. Get outta my office before you start trauma-bonding on my furniture."

Dante turned to leave, and Enzo pulled him aside at the last second.

"Hey," Enzo whispered, voice oddly serious. "Next time she yells, listen. And don't try to drown it out. You'll screw it up worse."

Dante nodded.

"Also..." Enzo handed him a sealed bottle with a wink. "Save this one for after you make up. You'll thank me."

You grabbed it and dropped it in the nearest trash bin.

"No, he won't."

As the bottle clattered into the trash, Dante groaned into his hands.

“She’s gonna kill me."

[mixingandmelting]

If you haven't already, can I request a scenario with the Task Force members 141 reacting to their s/o referring to them as their husband? Like, they could be on a date together and when someone comes over to talk to them, their s/o would casually refer to their partner as their husband. And the members have to do a double take because there's no way in hell they heard them being referred to as such

I think it'd be funny but cute simultaneously

John Price:

Everything that happens during his double-take takes place behind the glass he drinks out of. Eyes widening then snapping towards you as he pauses from the sip he’s taking for a second. And you nor the other person doesn’t realize it.

“What? There’s no way you’re taken. You don’t even have a ring-”

“Actually, it’s quite the opposite.” He wraps an arm around your waist, shuffling closer to you. “My significant other is very much taken and we’re happily married.” 

Just like that, the guy leaves without starting a fuss though the two of you don't take your eyes off him until he’s actually gone and away from the bar counter. 

“So, husband?” 

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to put you on spot-” Your quick to turn around, voice guilt ridden until you notice the expression he’s wearing. “Er-Well…”

His heart melts at the sight of your flush going further down, past your shoulders while you try to distract yourself. You love him where you’re subconsciously thinking of him as your husband. You think of him as your husband. 

Smile full of warmth, eyes matching it with adoration, he presses a kiss on your temple and tangles his fingers with yours while you’re nuzzling your burning face into his shoulder. He does make note on the diameter for your ring finger, after all he tends to make it his mission to make your wishes come true while having also been on a window shopping adventure for a ring to get you. 

Johnny “Soap” Mactavish:

His ears perk up, the term you called him heard clearly and echoing inside his head. 

“Husband?” 

If anything, rather than disappearing, his smile continues to grow impossibly bigger at the exasperation you let out as you realize your slip up. 

“Johnny, please. Don’t--“ 

“Don’t what? Say I’m your husband?” 

Wrapping his arms around you, he easily lifts you up and places you on his lap, chuckling when you yelp and warn him you still have food in your hands. Not that it matters, his eyes flickering between you and the other person I.e., your friend he’s meeting for the first time, making sure he wasn’t the only one to hear what you called him. 

“Well, you called him your husband.” Instantly that earns your friend a stink eye from you and complaints how you have no one on your side.

As for him, his chest is about to burst, the fuzzies and warmth of the love you have for him spreading all over his body.  It makes him giddy and want to kick his feet like a kid, just so damn happy he’s not boyfriend, he’s husband. Your husband. 

The rest of the time is spent with you stuck on his lap because he refuses to let you go. No matter how much you tap his forearm, tug at him, he’d whine how your hurting your husband’s heart. He also ends up becoming besties with your friend who joins in and acts as his wingman much to his delight and your disappointment. 

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick:

The drink goes down the wrong way and he starts coughing. 

“Kyle? Kyle? You okay?” 

No, he’s not. Absolutely not. His heart is racing, his pulse is pounding. He’s really, really hoping his face is not flushing. 

You patting his back makes matters worse, him suddenly hyper aware of you and your existence. The same hyper awareness he went through when he first realized his love for you was more than mutual. 

It was an accident while you gave the waiter his and your order. A fumble. Yet, in as much as he knows it was- 

“H-husband?” 

He swears, it’s because he can hear his voice still sound scratchy that led to him to stutter and clear his throat. Not from shyness or being bashful. 

Though, it didn’t seem like it mattered. Your lips in the shape of a small “o” with your face fairing no better than his when he turns and looks at you. 

For the longest moment, the two of you struggle to hold a normal conversation with you struggling to form a sentence while he tries to assuage you that it’s fine at the same time.

Food appears and a few bites in he and you are able to speak somewhat coherently.

“I,er, it was a passing thought. What it would be like with you being my husband...” 

“I’m your husband,” was his smart reply, stating matter-factly than a question. 

Needless to say, you both didn't let go of each other's hand when walking out afterwards nor did the matching dopey smiles disappear. 

Simon “Ghost” Riley:

“Ghost”.exe stops working, a hand with the glass in the air except he’s not drinking out of it. 

Husband. You called him husband. And not any husband, your husband. Loud and enunciated that it leaves no room for any misunderstandings or mishearing. 

“He’s your husband? Him?” 

“Yeah, my husband!” Blissfully unaware of his inner turmoil, he tenses when you wrap an arm around his and pull it closer to you. Tensing because he’s trying to hold back from squishing you, smother you in affection. But it’s not helping when you’re being so fucking cute- 

“Pfft. Yeah? It doesn’t seem like he thinks that way-“ 

“You got a problem with it, mate?” 

He doesn’t need to say anything else, the girl quickly turning around and leaving with her tail between her legs. He assumes you’re keeping your hold on him in case she comes back. Until he looks down and catches the sight of your neck a dusty pink. 

He’s about to say something until you suddenly jump out of your seat and let go of him.

“I’ll be right back.” You further confirm his suspicions, seeing your ears hold the same hue as you head towards the restroom. 

“Didn’t think you’d like being a hubby.” 

“Shut it, Johnny.” There’s no bite in his words, the corner of his lips twitching. 

Catching this, the rest of task 141 take turns making jabs at him, all which he has no choice but to endure as he grunts it’s husband not hubby. 

[amnayel]

actually, malleus um stops the time in a certain area and puts every living being there into a deep sleep

it’s possible that people’s body would atrophy bc of the amount of time they would stay in one position, but this is only a theory ortho thought and it wasn’t confirmed, what we know for sure is that the time was stoped

and if time has stopped in itself, no one would grow old or get weak, that was the entire point of malleus plan: everyone would live happily every after for a thousand years

at the end the consequences are: a damaged building and a couple of scratches

the biggest damages were: lilia’s death, silver and sebek with major injuries

lilia, silver and sebek getting hurt was a punishment in itself, the people he tried to protect the most were the ones he hurted. the building was reconstructed and the majority of people barely noticed what happened bc in the end all they actually experienced was… a good night of sleep

that’s why they forgave him too: they didn’t really suffer anything, and it was in their culture to forgive someone who is genuinely apologetic about their acts

then i go back to my original point: seeing his father die + losing his magic + being mutilated = IS ACTUALLY A REAL PUNISHMENT

malleus actually is the one that payed the most what is insane considering he is the only one who genuinely thought he was doing something good lol, people forget that malleus is >not human< and he can’t relate to people the way others characters could

add this to 2 centuries of trauma and loneliness and you have a teenager that dont know SHIT about what to do, especially in a moment he is feeling utterly powerless after being told his whole that (1) he is almost a god and (2) he is responsible for the happiness and safety of everyone around him

malleus is a character that wants to do good when everyone around him expects him to do evil, people expect that malleus will make thunder fall down the sky, that he should say and other should obey and no one dared to give him another option other than being fearsome, so everything he knows about being good he learned from lilia or from his own experiences, and he didn’t have either enough time with lilia nor enough experiences

idk why people want so much to make a villain out of these character when it’s obvious this game is about traumatized teenagers with too much power in their hands, it’s way past time some people here realize that NO these character ARE NOT evil, they are normal people that have good and bad inside of them

malleus actions are understandable AND not justifiable, that doesn’t make him a bad person bc he did something bad

if you do something bad you have to pay for it, and he did, i don’t get why some are só against the idea of forgiveness

the very own ob boys being against he coming back to the school as if they haven’t done WORSE. is actually laughable

he doesn’t deserve worse, he is a teenager that has suffered enough: before and after this story

nah if you think that:

• being MUTILATED

• losing his magic

• seeing HIS FATHER DIE BY HIS OWN HANDS

isnt enough punishment, then please think again

its really valid to complain about the ob boys not paying for what they did - bc this is a REAL problem with twst writing - but malleus did???

literally NO ONE ELSE had to pay like he did, and most of them caused more damage

and he also genuinely apologized, what if i’m not mistaken only riddle and vil also did

nah yall cant look at his hornless face and say he deserves worse