#space slugger

[badlydrawnrhythmheaven]

is the space slugger still dead?

[ID: Redraw of the “I lived bitch” meme with rabbit air batter. End ID]

[kittiekonfuzed]

Yeah, yeah, yeah (Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah!)

[bobert-man]

not my usual wheelhouse but the single most important vote in all of our lifetimes is here

This vote is to choose from 5 options a new colour of LEGO space Astronaut and there is a clear winner

TEAL.

ASTRONAUT.

For those unaware Teal is a LEGO colour that was discontinued for years that fans were so passionate about it was brought back. However several key parts still have yet to be made in this colour since it's revival a key one being the hands.

These were used on the ever popular Chief character from LEGO Rock Raiders (Any R.R Slugger fans should be aware) who goes for hundreds on the aftermarket

Anyone can vote as long as they make a LEGO account so I implore everyone who sees this to vote for the Teal Space friend

If not for how it's far and away the most unique and aesthetically in keeping with Classic LEGO Space then for how it will help bring down the brice of the LEGO Chief MINIFIGURE

Thank you for your service 🫡

[g4zdtechtv]

THE PILE PRESENTS: X-Play - Did It All for the Wookie | 4/11/08

Saving TV, one show at a time.

AKA the one where they thought Like A Dragon: Kenzan (the Yakuza spinoff whose sequel finally came stateside last year) was Yakuza 3, when in reality, it's NOT, and the real Yakuza 3 would come stateside the following year.

But hey, they couldn't resist making a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles III joke, could they?

(4GTV - 24/7. LIVE. WATCH NOW.)

[ben-drabbles]

Tertians

Colloquially known as "brain slugs," "third-eye bugs," or "psycho-worms," these simple-minded tartigrade-like parasitic creatures attach to a sentient being's nervous system, from which they feed on electrical impulses and specific excess nutrients. In exchange, the Tertian stimulates the sentient's psychic capabilities, to better aid in the survival of the now-bonded pair.

People who use these parasites are able to manifest psychic abilities without training or strong talent of their own, making them a popular shortcut for the likes of opportunistic diplomats or mercenaries wishing to up their game. However, due to this lack of training and indirect stimulation, their powers are less directed and cannot be further trained to any high degree. For example, one might be able to read general emotional intent without understanding specific thoughts, or perform a simple psychic push rather than fine manipulations.

The use of these parasites is not without cost, however. Like with trained psychic abilities and any other physical exercise, their extended use can tire out the wearer. Furthermore, the parasites require specific nutrients to stay alive, and feed on them in their hosts. Most are replenished naturally enough with some extra food, but the parasites are always ravenous for calciferol, known to humans as 'Vitamin D.' With prolonged use, a 'slugger' might find their bones deteriorating, along with adverse mental effects similar to extended deep-space travel. Many 'sluggers' will carry calciferol supplements, or prioritize time on sunny worlds, to stave off these effects.

Many modern psychics - at least, those who work in civilized space - will be registered with one or more agencies or governments. The use of a Tertian is a shortcut, and so is often used by people looking to avoid being noticed and registered; in many governments, they are even considered contraband due to their subversion of psychic regulations - and, perhaps, some lobbying by local psychic institutions. That is not to say they are unwelcome everywhere. HIPLAD, for example, has a 'Tertian Rehabilitation Assistance Program,' where they help extract Tertians from their hosts and train them in 'proper' psychic abilities. Less scrupulous jobs might offer their employees bonuses if they take on a Tertian, and in certain high societies, it is expected that almost everyone can read your mind, however they accomplish it.

It's easy to forget the sun. These fellows help you remember it - maybe there is a bit of light behind those beady eyes?

[faebled-stories]

Perfect Pitch

Kinkvember Day 28: Size Difference.

LOONA/Loossemble Im Yeojin x Male reader

13.6k words

AN: I did my best to get this out in time for you all! Finals are next week, and I’ve been stressing and studying like crazy😅. Hope you guys enjoy. 💖

PS: 2 More fics left.

Sunlight filters through the blinds in your kitchen, painting soft, golden streaks across the walls and counters. The warm light blends with the muted grays and creamy tones of the decor, giving the space a comforting glow. The air carries the rich aroma of pancakes sizzling on the stove, their edges crisping just right as the batter bubbles and pops. Outside, sparrows chirp in the distance, their song weaving into the quiet hum of morning.

In the doorway, Yeojin appears, shuffling in with a sleepy grace. She’s draped in one of your oversized shirts, the fabric hanging loosely around her, brushing her knees. The sleeves are far too long, barely revealing her fingertips as she rubs at her eyes. Her hair is an artful mess, strands falling into her face in a way that somehow makes her look effortlessly adorable. A soft yawn escapes her lips as her gaze sweeps over the scene, and when her eyes meet yours, a small, sleepy smile tugs at her mouth.

“Morning, slugger,” she murmurs, her voice thick with sleep as she pads toward the kitchen island.

You chuckle softly, flipping a pancake with practiced ease. “Morning, princess. Finally decided to join the land of the living?”

She groans, sliding onto a stool and propping her chin in her hand. “Barely. What time is it?”

“Early,” you reply, your tone teasing. “But I figured you’d want breakfast before I head out.”

Her gaze drifts toward the stove, watching the pancake batter sizzle as you pour another ladleful onto the skillet. “Smells amazing,” she says, her lips curving into a lazy grin. “You’re spoiling me.”

“Just doing my duty,” you reply smoothly, sliding a golden pancake onto the growing stack. You glance over your shoulder at her, catching the way she’s watching you—not just the pancakes, but you, with that fond, unguarded look that always catches you off guard.

Yeojin props herself up straighter, reaching for the syrup bottle. “You know,” she says, tilting the bottle with exaggerated precision, “you might be the only reason I eat breakfast at all.”

“Wow, no pressure,” you joke, setting the plate in front of her. “Guess that makes me essential.”

“Obviously,” she replies, rolling her eyes as she picks up her fork. She takes a bite, her eyes fluttering closed as she lets out a pleased hum. “Okay, yeah. Definitely spoiled.”

You smirk, leaning against the counter with your own plate. “It’s part of the package, princess. Breakfast, charm, the occasional rescue from top shelves. What more could you ask for?”

She shoots you a mock glare, though her grin betrays her. “First of all, I could totally reach the top shelf if I tried.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Sure. With a stepladder.”

Laughing, she tosses a piece of pancake at you, which you dodge easily. “You’re the worst,” she mutters, though her giggles linger as she takes another bite. “And I don’t need you to remind me.”

“Just keeping you humble,” you tease, grabbing a bite of your own. The room falls into a comfortable quiet, the soft clink of silverware filling the space as you both eat.

After a moment, she glances up at you, resting her chin in her hand again. “You know,” she says softly, “you’re kind of unfair.”

You pause mid-bite, raising an eyebrow. “Unfair? How?”

She gestures at you vaguely with her fork. “This. All of it. Making pancakes, being charming, looking like that in the morning light—”

You laugh, setting your fork down. “Looking like what?”

“You know what I mean,” she mutters, cheeks flushing slightly. “It’s distracting.”

“Distracting?” you echo, leaning closer across the counter. “Is that a compliment?”

“Don’t push it,” she says quickly, though the blush spreading across her cheeks gives her away.

Grinning, you lean even closer, resting your elbows on the counter. “You’re cute when you’re flustered, you know that?”

Her eyes widen, and she grabs a napkin to hide her face. “Shut up,” she mumbles, though the laughter in her voice is unmistakable.

You chuckle, reaching across to gently tug the napkin away. “Hey, I’m just being honest.”

She narrows her eyes at you, but the corners of her mouth twitch upward. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it,” you reply easily, standing straight again. You glance at the clock, sighing as you grab your cap from the counter. “Alright, I’ve got to head to practice. Can’t keep the team waiting.”

Yeojin’s expression shifts slightly, a mix of playful and reluctant. “You’re leaving already?”

“Unfortunately,” you say, slipping the cap on. “Coach might actually kill me if I’m late again.”

Before you can make it to the door, though, Yeojin hops off her stool and darts toward you, wrapping her arms around your waist from behind. “Not so fast,” she says, her voice muffled against your back. “You’re not leaving without a proper goodbye.”

Laughing, you stop mid-step and turn, gently prying her arms loose. Before she can retreat, you scoop her up effortlessly, your hands finding their place beneath her thighs as her legs wrap snugly around your waist. She lets out a surprised laugh, her arms instinctively looping around your neck as you hold her close.

“Better?” you ask, tilting your head slightly, the corners of your mouth lifting into a teasing smile.

She pretends to think about it, her gaze narrowing playfully. “Hmm, almost,” she says, her lips quirking up as she leans in to rest her forehead against yours.

“Almost?” you echo, raising an eyebrow. Without waiting for her reply, you shift slightly and press a soft, lingering kiss to her lips. Her laughter fades as she melts into the kiss, her arms tightening around your neck as her fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt. When you finally pull back, your nose brushing hers, you murmur, “How about now?”

Her cheeks flush, and for a moment, she looks speechless. Then she tilts her head, her grin mischievous. “Nope. Not even close,” she says, though the laughter bubbling in her voice gives her away.

“Not even close?” you repeat, feigning disbelief. “I’m starting to think you’re just making excuses.”

“I might be,” she replies, her smile widening. “What are you gonna do about it?”

Instead of answering, you plant a series of quick, playful kisses across her cheeks, forehead, and the tip of her nose. She squeals between giggles, her fingers tightening their grip around your neck as she tries, and fails, to stifle her laughter.

“Okay, okay!” she gasps through her laughter, burying her face into your shoulder. “That’s enough—wait, no, one more.”

You chuckle, tipping her chin up with your thumb. This kiss is slower, deeper, a silent promise in the way your lips linger against hers. When you pull back, her eyes flutter open, her gaze soft and slightly hazy.

“There,” you murmur, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “Now are you happy?”

Her voice is quieter this time, but no less teasing. “I don’t know. You might have to remind me again later.”

Laughing, you bounce her slightly in your arms. “You’re something else.”

“And you love it,” she counters, the confidence in her voice making you grin. Then, her expression softens, and she adds, “And I love you.”

The words settle between you, warm and familiar, but they still catch you off guard in the best way. Smiling, you press your forehead to hers. “I love you too.”

For a moment, neither of you moves, the quiet intimacy grounding you in the golden glow of the kitchen. Then, as if sensing the world creeping back in, she gives you a light shove. “Okay, you can go now. But don’t you forget—”

“Let me guess,” you interrupt, smirking as you finally set her down. “Good luck charm?”

“Exactly,” she says, grinning up at you as her feet touch the ground. “You’d be lost without me.”

“Lost, huh?” you tease, brushing another quick kiss against her temple. “Guess that means I’ll have to keep you close.”

She rolls her eyes, but the blush on her cheeks gives her away. “Get out of here before I change my mind about letting you go.”

As you grab your cap and head for the door, her voice stops you in your tracks. “Hey,” she calls out, a playful lilt in her tone, “don’t forget to come back in one piece… because, you know, I sort of love you.”

You pause in the doorway, turning back to meet her gaze. A soft smile spreads across your face, your eyes warm with affection. “I love you too,” you reply, your voice steady and full of meaning.

Her laughter follows you as you step outside, the sound lingering like the warmth of her touch and the memory of her kiss—a quiet reminder of everything waiting for you when you return.

-----

The way back to her dorm isn’t a quick one, she slips through the gates and into the stillness of the early morning. Her steps are light against the cool floor of the dim hallway, grateful for the quiet that greets her. Tugging at the hem of your shirt, she catches the faintest trace of you on the fabric: a warm blend of syrup, a hint of your cologne, and something uniquely yours. Your scent wraps around her like a whispered promise, bringing a secret smile to her lips, a reminder of your late-night talks, quiet laughter, and the comfortable silences that make her feel close to you, even when miles apart.

As she opens her door and takes a couple of quiet steps, her sneaky return comes to a sudden halt. Hyeju appears, leaning casually against the wall with her arms crossed, already wearing a smirk that tugs at one corner of her mouth. She raises an eyebrow, her eyes flickering from Yeojin’s face to the oversized shirt she’s wearing. “Well, well, well,” Hyeju drawls, her tone dripping with mockery. “Look who decided to come home.”

Yeojin freezes, her cheeks flushing instantly as warmth creeps up her face. It’s as though she’s been caught mid-crime—which, in a way, she has. Swallowing her nerves, she forces a breezy smile, willing herself to sound casual. “Good morning, Hyeju!” she chirps, her voice unnaturally bright. “You’re up early.”

Hyeju tilts her head, unimpressed. “You mean unlike someone who’s been out all night?” She counters smoothly. Her gaze flicks pointedly to the shirt Yeojin’s clutching at the hem of, and her smirk widens. “So… you wanna explain why you didn’t come back last night? Or should I just take a wild guess?”

Yeojin’s mind scrambles, her blush deepening as she struggles to come up with something halfway believable. “Oh! Uh… I… stayed at the dorm studio!” she blurts out, her voice pitching higher than she intended. “Yeah, you know how I get when I’m in the zone. Lost track of time and figured it was too late to come back.”

“Hmm,” Hyeju says, narrowing her eyes as she steps closer. “The studio, huh? That’s funny, because I don’t remember you taking anything with you to work on.” Her voice drips with mock innocence, but the amused sparkle in her eye gives her away.

Yeojin tugs nervously at the hem of your shirt, glancing down at it like it might provide some magical escape route. “Well, I wasn’t planning to stay all night,” she stammers, trying to salvage her excuse. “But… inspiration hit, you know? And then I, uh, borrowed this to… stay warm.”

“Stay warm,” Hyeju repeats, her lips twitching as though she’s fighting the urge to laugh. “You’re telling me that’s the shirt you grabbed to stay warm?” She gestures at the oversized fabric drowning Yeojin’s frame, clearly unconvinced. “Smells a little… off for studio work, don’t you think? Almost like syrup or… cologne.”

Caught, Yeojin groans softly, her hands flying up in surrender. “Okay, fine! I was out!” she confesses, her words rushing out as she glares half-heartedly at Hyeju. “Are you happy now?”

Hyeju finally lets out a laugh, shaking her head. “Relax, I’m not your manager,” she says with exaggerated patience. “But seriously, you might want to work on your excuses. ‘I was at the studio all night’ isn’t gonna fly if someone else asks.”

Yeojin sighs, her shoulders slumping as she nods sheepishly. “I know. I’ll be more careful.”

“Good,” Hyeju replies, stepping back to let Yeojin pass. “Just don’t make it a habit, alright? We wouldn’t want the others—or worse, the manager—getting suspicious.”

Yeojin mumbles a quick thanks before slipping into her room, shutting the door quietly behind her. Leaning against it, she lets out a long, breathy sigh, her heart still racing. Her cheeks tingle from the embarrassment of being caught, but there’s a thrill too—a tiny, giddy spark knowing she’d stolen away one last moment with you.

Glancing down at your shirt, she brushes her fingers over the fabric, her smile softening as a secret warmth blooms in her chest. Whatever it took to keep moments like this, she decided, would be worth it.

Later that day, the rehearsal studio buzzes with energy, each corner filled with chatter and laughter as the group warms up. Excitement simmers just below the surface, each member brimming with a mix of focus and joy, until the manager enters, his presence commanding the room’s attention. He claps his hands, breaking into a grin that instantly shifts the room’s energy.

“Ladies, I’ve got news,” he announces, his voice ringing out. “We’ve been invited to perform on opening night for the Kiwoom Heroes… in just four days!” He pauses, his enthusiasm lighting up the room as he continues, “It’s a big opportunity. Let’s make sure we’re in top form!”

The announcement sparks a ripple of excitement among the girls, a mix of gasps and whispered cheers filling the studio as everyone glances at each other in excitement. But for Yeojin, the reaction is different—her heart skips a beat as a surge of nerves and excitement washes over her. Performing on such a big night would be thrilling on its own, but knowing it’s your game, the same field where you’ll be standing, makes it feel that much more special. She tries to keep her expression calm, but inside, her thoughts swirl with anticipation at the chance to perform, knowing you’ll be there to watch.

Beside her, Gowon notices her excitement and nudges her with a sly smile. “Why do you look like you just won the lottery?” she whispers, her eyes dancing with curiosity.

Yeojin forces a casual shrug, desperately trying to keep her tone breezy. “I just… really like baseball,” she replies, hoping she sounds more relaxed than she feels. But her voice betrays a hint of giddiness that she can’t quite mask.

Hyeju stifles a laugh, her gaze twinkling with amusement. “Uh-huh. You like baseball, sure,” she echoes, filling the words with teasing sarcasm.

A blush creeps back into Yeojin’s cheeks as she fiddles with her hair, smiling despite herself at her friends’ knowing looks. Their playful laughter only adds to the thrill of the moment, grounding her in the comfort of their shared camaraderie.

As the rehearsal begins, Yeojin slips into a quiet daydream, her mind drifting toward the image of the stadium on opening night. She pictures the floodlights, the crowd buzzing with excitement, the electric energy pulsing through the field. She imagines catching sight of you in the stands, your familiar smile lighting up as you recognize her among the dancers. Each move she rehearses feels charged with a secret purpose, a quiet hope that you’ll see her there, knowing that her performance is, in some small way, meant for you.

-----

Back at your place, the scent of takeout fills the air as you and Yeojin unpack the bags at the kitchen counter. The crinkle of paper bags and the soft clink of utensils blend with the quiet hum of the room, creating a cozy atmosphere. Yeojin, perched on one of the stools, peers into one of the containers with curiosity, a faint smile playing on her lips.

“You didn’t forget my favorite, right?” she asks, her tone playful as she sets her chopsticks in place.

“I wouldn’t dare,” you reply with a grin, handing her a container. “See? I’ve got you covered.”

Her face lights up as she pops it open, the familiar aroma making her sigh happily. “You’re the best,” she says, taking a bite and humming in satisfaction. “Mm, this is perfect.”

You settle into the stool next to her, digging into your own food. The easy rhythm of eating together fills the space, the kind of quiet intimacy that makes even simple moments like this feel special.

After a few bites, Yeojin glances over at you, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “So,” she begins, her voice playful, “I heard you got the whole story about my water bottle fiasco.”

You smirk, glancing sideways at her. “Oh, I did. Something about turning it into a dramatic fall? Ten out of ten for creativity, by the way.”

She groans, hiding her face in her hands. “Ugh, it was so embarrassing. The girls have been teasing me non-stop.”

You laugh, nudging her lightly with your elbow. “Come on, you’re graceful enough to pull it off.”

“Oh, absolutely,” she replies, lowering her hands and giving you an exaggerated shrug. “I was the picture of elegance. Definitely not face-planting in front of everyone.”

“Right, right,” you tease, taking another bite. “Maybe you should add it to your choreography. Could be the next big thing.”

She tosses a crumpled napkin at you, her laughter spilling out despite herself. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet, here you are,” you retort, grinning as you dodge the napkin.

The playful banter continues as you finish your food, Yeojin leaning closer with each laugh, her joy infectious. Once the containers are cleared and the counter is wiped down, she hops off her stool and stretches, a satisfied sigh escaping her lips.

After dinner, the two of you settle onto the couch, a cozy silence enveloping the room. Yeojin tucks her legs under her, leaning lightly against your side as she holds the tub of ice cream in one hand and a spoon in the other. The faint glow of the lamp casts a warm light over the room, reflecting softly off her flushed cheeks.

You nudge her playfully with your elbow, your own spoon in hand. “You’re hogging it,” you tease, nodding toward the ice cream.

“Excuse me?” she says, feigning offense as she takes an exaggerated bite. “I’m pretty sure I earned this for being adorable during dinner.”

You laugh, leaning closer to swipe a small spoonful from the tub before she can protest. “Adorable, huh? I guess I’ll allow it.”

Her giggle is soft as she settles back into your side, the easy rhythm of sharing the ice cream between you making the moment feel effortlessly intimate. She hums contentedly, her head resting lightly on your shoulder as she savors another bite.

After a moment, she shifts slightly, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “So,” she begins, her tone playful, “we’re performing at the opening of your game next week.”

Your eyebrows lift in surprise, and you glance down at her. “Wait, seriously? That’s amazing!” A genuine grin spreads across your face. “I’ll finally get to see you perform live?”

“Yep,” she says, nodding eagerly. “Right there on the field before the game starts. No pressure for you or anything.”

“None at all,” you reply with a chuckle. “Just a stadium full of people, bright lights, and a surprise performance from my girlfriend. Totally low-key.”

She rolls her eyes, lightly swatting your arm. “Anyway,” she says, her voice dropping into a mischievous tone, “I was thinking… maybe I could wear one of your jerseys during the performance.”

You raise an eyebrow, leaning back slightly. “One of my jerseys? Don’t you guys usually have custom outfits for this kind of thing?”

She shrugs, taking another bite of ice cream before replying. “Custom outfits are boring. Your jersey would look way cooler.”

You laugh, watching as she fidgets with the hem of her shirt, her wide eyes glancing up at you in mock pleading. “Come on,” she says, drawing the word out. “Isn’t it a rule for girlfriends to wear their boyfriends’ jerseys? I’m pretty sure it’s, like, a law or something.”

“Oh, it’s a law now?” you tease, grinning as you take another bite. “What chapter is that in your imaginary handbook?”

“Chapter one,” she says with mock seriousness, nodding sagely. “Rule one. ‘Thou shalt support thy boyfriend by wearing his jersey.’ It’s common knowledge.”

You shake your head, amused. “And what chapter says, ‘Thou shalt not get thy boyfriend in trouble with the entire stadium’?”

She groans dramatically, flopping back against the couch as she tosses the spoon into the empty tub. “Come on! Please? It would look so good! And if anyone asks, I’ll just say you’re my favorite player.”

You can’t help but laugh, her enthusiasm impossible to resist. “Fine, fine,” you say, setting the empty tub aside and standing. “But if this backfires, it’s all on you.”

She perks up immediately, her smile wide and victorious as you disappear into your room. When you return, you hold out an older jersey, the fabric soft and a little worn. “Here,” you say, handing it to her. “It’s from my rookie year. It’s not fancy, but it’s got some history.”

Her eyes light up as she takes it, her fingers brushing over the fabric. “Rookie year?” she murmurs, slipping it on. The oversized jersey swallows her petite frame, the sleeves hanging far past her hands and the hem brushing her thighs. She stands and gives you a playful twirl. “How do I look?”

“Like someone who’s about to start rumors,” you tease, stepping closer to adjust the hem slightly. “But also… absolutely adorable.”

Her grin widens, her hands fiddling with the oversized sleeves. “See? I told you it was a good idea.”

Then, as if struck by inspiration, she looks up at you with a glint in her eye. “Wait! You know what would make this even better?”

You raise an eyebrow, amused. “What now?”

“Sign it,” she says, her voice bubbling with excitement as she tugs the fabric taut against her chest. Her hand rests lightly over her heart. “Right here. My friends will be so jealous.”

You shake your head in amused disbelief, grabbing a marker from the drawer. “Alright, but if you get in trouble, don’t come crying to me.” You step closer, steadying the fabric where her hand holds it over her heart.

She watches you intently, her smile softening as you lean in. The tip of the marker touches the fabric just above the number, and your name flows neatly, each letter deliberate. Your fingers brush against hers as you finish, the moment quiet but full of meaning.

When you pull back, she gazes down at the jersey, her fingers tracing the letters. A faint blush rises to her cheeks as her lips curve into a tender smile. “Now it’s perfect,” she whispers, looking up at you, her eyes glowing with happiness.

You smile, your hand resting lightly over the spot you just signed. “You’re impossible,” you murmur.

“And you love it,” she replies, her voice playful but filled with affection.

“Yeah,” you admit softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I really do.” You lean in to press a gentle kiss to her temple, the warmth of the moment settling around you both like a blanket.

------

The dressing room buzzes with excitement as Loossemble prepares for the event. Makeup brushes glide across faces, chatter fills the air, and their manager hands out jerseys. “These are for today’s event,” he announces, placing the neatly folded jerseys on the table.

As the girls eagerly grab theirs, Yeojin lingers by her bag, her hand already slipping inside. When the manager notices, he raises an eyebrow. “Yeojin, where’s your jersey?”

She pulls out the jersey you gave her, its fabric worn but comforting, and slips it on over her outfit. “I’ve got my own,” she says casually, smoothing it down.

The room quiets briefly as everyone notices the bold signature scrawled across the chest. Hyeju squints at it, her tone incredulous. “Wait... is that an actual jersey? Like the ones they wear on the field?”

Yeojin shrugs nonchalantly, adjusting the oversized sleeves. “It’s better than the custom ones,” she says simply, a small smile tugging at her lips.

Hyunjin’s jaw drops. “And it’s signed! Where the heck did you even get that?”

Yeojin gives a knowing smile, her voice calm but playful. “I know someone.”

The room erupts into laughter and teasing. Gowon shakes her head in disbelief. “You’re seriously wearing that? People are going to notice, you know.”

Yeojin smirks, smoothing the fabric with a deliberate motion. “Good. Let them.”

The manager sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Just don’t make my life harder, alright?” he mutters, waving them toward the door.

At the stadium, the energy is electric. Fans in team colors flood the concourse, their excited chatter blending with the hum of announcements and the faint thrum of music. The smell of popcorn, grilled food, and sweet treats wafts through the air, adding to the festive atmosphere.

As Loossemble weaves through the bustling crowd, Yeojin suddenly stops in her tracks. Her gaze is drawn to a massive display near the merch shop, and for a moment, she forgets everything else. Your face dominates the wall, frozen mid-pitch, your arm extended in a perfect arc. The intensity and focus in your expression make the image feel almost alive, radiating the determination that’s become synonymous with you.

Around the display, racks of merchandise stretch in every direction—jerseys, caps, posters, and even bobbleheads bearing your name and number. Fans gather eagerly, their voices rising in an excited hum as they sort through the shelves. Yeojin catches fragments of their chatter: your incredible game-winning plays, your record-breaking stats, the way you’ve become the cornerstone of the team’s success. Each word feels like a glowing tribute to you, a celebration of everything you’ve achieved.

Her chest tightens, a surge of pride swelling within her as her fingers brush over the jersey she wears. The fabric is soft and worn, a personal gift that feels more precious now than ever. Her gaze drops briefly to the bold signature resting over her heart, and the simple gesture of your autograph feels profoundly intimate—a reminder of the part of you that belongs only to her.

She’s always known you were talented, but this moment reframes everything. Seeing the sheer scale of admiration for you, the fans clamoring for a piece of the legend you’ve become, is overwhelming. It takes her breath away. The magnitude of what you’ve accomplished hits her fully—how much you’ve given, how hard you’ve worked, and how many people you inspire.

And yet, through all of it, you’ve never stopped making her feel like she’s the center of your world. Whether it’s through the quiet warmth of your smile, a shared joke that only you two understand, or the way your hand naturally finds hers in a crowd, she knows she’s your constant.

Her fingers linger on the jersey’s fabric as she takes it all in. The massive display with your image mid-pitch, larger than life, radiates the determination and intensity that define you. Her heart swells with something deeper than pride—an awe at the balance you manage. With so much of the world demanding a piece of you, you’ve never let her feel less than cherished.

“Wow,” she whispers to herself, her voice barely audible over the chatter around her. Her lips curve into a soft smile as she glances back at the display. There’s no envy in her chest, no insecurity—only gratitude. Gratitude for being the person who gets to witness the side of you that no one else does. She’s the one who sees you at your most vulnerable, your most relaxed, and your most real, and in this moment, that feels like the greatest gift of all.

Now, near the front of the field, they wait for their cue, the girls chatting excitedly about the size of the stadium and the energy of the fans. Yeojin adjusts the hem of your jersey, trying to keep calm despite her racing heart.

But her focus wavers when she catches sight of you warming up nearby with your team. You’re effortlessly precise as you go through your routine, each movement fluid and confident. She can’t help the small smile that tugs at her lips as she watches you work—it’s captivating, even from a distance.

Her smile falters, though, when she notices a group of cheerleaders standing just a little too close for comfort. One of them giggles loudly, her gaze fixed on you as she leans in to whisper to her friend. Another brushes her hair back dramatically, giving you a wave that’s anything but subtle. Yeojin’s chest tightens, the pang of jealousy catching her off guard. She knows she has no reason to feel this way, but seeing the way they look at you—the admiration tinged with something more—makes her jaw tighten.

She shifts her weight, crossing her arms as she tries to push the feeling aside. He’s yours, she reminds herself, the memory of your signature on her jersey grounding her. The thought brings a small, determined smile back to her face. Let them look. I’m the one who gets to go home with him.

“Yeojin, what’s got you so serious all of a sudden?” Hyeju teases, nudging her shoulder with a smirk.

Startled, Yeojin shakes her head quickly, forcing a bright smile. “Huh? Just, uh… getting into the zone,” she replies, though her voice carries a hint of flustered nervousness.

Hyeju raises an eyebrow but doesn’t press further, her attention shifting as their manager calls them toward the field.

The stadium’s energy pulses underfoot as the intro notes of their song begins. Thousands of fans pack the stands, their cheers rising in a wave that reverberates through the air. Yeojin takes a deep breath, letting the rhythm of the music settle her nerves. As she steps onto the field with her group mates, the floodlights wash over them, illuminating the entire stadium.

Her eyes instinctively search for you, when she spots you near the dugout, her heart swells. Even from a distance, the pride in your smile is unmistakable, and the way you’re watching her fills her with warmth. It’s a sight that lights something fierce in her chest, a reminder of why she’s here—not just to perform, but to share this moment with you.

Each beat of the choreography feels stronger, every step infused with purpose. The girl’s move in perfect synchronization, their sharp poses and fluid transitions blending seamlessly with the music. Yeojin pours herself into the performance, her smile radiant as she twirls across the field. She can feel the joy of the moment in her bones, every movement carrying a silent message: I’m here, and this is for you.

In the dugout, your teammates notice the way you’re glued to watching her performance. One of them nudges you with a laugh. “Look at you, totally lovestruck,” he teases, jerking his thumb toward the jumbotron. “Come on, Romeo, close your mouth before a fly gets in.”

A flush rises to your cheeks as they rib you mercilessly, but you don’t look away. You can’t. Yeojin’s every move captivates you, as if you’re seeing her dance for the first time. Despite the teasing, all you feel is pride—she’s radiant, every bit the star you know her to be.

Meanwhile, Yeojin catches sight of you on the jumbotron, your flustered expression displayed for all to see. She bites back a laugh, her heart soaring at the exact reaction she’d hoped for. It’s a private moment made public, and the thrill of it fills her with pride. She flicks her gaze toward the screen whenever she can, smiling wider each time she sees you still watching her, your admiration written all over your face.

As the performance builds to its final chorus, Yeojin locks eyes with you for a brief moment. She winks, the gesture small but unmistakable, before finishing the dance with her group, arms raised as the last note rings out.

The stadium erupts into applause, the cheers washing over her like a wave. As Loossemble catches their breath, Yeojin’s heart swells. She can still feel the way her gaze connected with yours, the bond between you two threading itself into every step she took, every smile she shared with the crowd.

When the performance ends, Loossemble exits the field, their faces glowing with post-performance adrenaline. The group gathers near their seats, collapsing into laughter and excited chatter as they relive their favorite moments. Yeojin adjusts the hem of your jersey again, the warmth of your signature over her heart grounding her as the thrill of performing in front of you still buzzes in her chest.

But her friends don’t let her stay quiet for long.

“Yeojin,�� Gowon begins, leaning in with a sly grin, her eyes glinting with curiosity, “did you see it?”

“See what?” Yeojin asks innocently, though the flutter in her chest betrays her calm tone.

“That pitcher,” Gowon replies, gesturing towards your area. “You know, the one whose face was glued to you.”

Yeojin freezes, trying to play it cool. “Oh, really?” she replies, her voice just a little too breezy. “I didn’t notice.”

Hyeju snorts, crossing her arms with a smirk. “You didn’t notice? He looked like he’d forgotten how to breathe. Seriously, Yeojin, the guy clearly has a favorite.”

“He was so obvious!” ViVi chimes in, leaning forward. “And did you see his teammates? They were dying. I swear, if you’d winked at him, he might’ve fainted.”

Yeojin laughs nervously, brushing her hair behind her ear. “He was probably just… impressed with our choreography,” she says, avoiding their knowing looks.

“Oh, sure,” Hyeju replies, rolling her eyes. “Because choreography is what had him staring like that. Not your sparkling personality or, I don’t know, the fact that you’re gorgeous or anything.”

ViVi nudges her, a playful grin spreading across her face. “You should totally go for him, Yeojin. He’s cute—and clearly into you.”

“Very into you,” Gowon agrees, her voice teasing but sincere. “I mean, the man couldn’t have been more obvious if he’d held up a sign that said, ‘Marry me.’”

Yeojin’s cheeks burn, and she quickly busies herself with adjusting her water bottle. “You’re all being ridiculous,” she mutters, though she can’t hide the tiny smile tugging at her lips.

“Ridiculous?” ViVi counters. “It’s the perfect opportunity! A cute baseball player, clearly smitten, and you, Miss Limited Edition Signed Jersey over here? It’s fate.”

Yeojin groans, hiding her face behind her hands as the girls burst into laughter around her. “You guys are the worst,” she mumbles, though her voice carries a warmth she can’t quite suppress.

“You love us,” Hyeju says with a grin, leaning back. “But seriously, if you don’t at least say hi to him before we leave, I’m taking matters into my own hands.”

Yeojin shoots her a wide-eyed look. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I absolutely would,” Hyeju replies, her smirk growing.

Before Yeojin can respond, the stadium erupts into cheers for the start of the game, giving her the perfect excuse to shift her focus. She sits back, her heart still racing as she sneaks a glance toward the field. When your eyes meet hers across the distance, your proud smile makes her breath catch, and for a moment, everything else fades away.

-----

The stadium is thick with tension—it’s the bottom of the ninth, and your team is clinging to a one-run lead. The electric energy of the crowd feels almost tangible, each cheer and murmur blending into a symphony of anticipation. Yeojin sits on the edge of her seat, her heart pounding as she watches you take the mound. She’s seen you pitch countless times before, but tonight feels different. The determined intensity in your expression, the way you square your shoulders before gripping the ball—it all sends a quiet thrill through her chest.

Her hands clasp tightly together as you take your stance, the ball snug in your glove. The batter steps into the box, and the crowd’s roar crescendos, the pitch count hovering on a razor’s edge. Yeojin’s gaze never leaves you, her chest tightening with each passing second. She watches as you grip the ball, your fingers settling into the seams with practiced precision. The tension is palpable as you wind up, your form a perfect blend of power and control.

Then, it happens.

The ball leaves your hand with a smooth snap, cutting through the air like a bullet. For a brief moment, everything feels suspended, the stadium holding its collective breath as the ball rockets toward the plate. The batter swings. The crack of impact reverberates like a gunshot, and Yeojin’s heart stutters.

A blur of motion. The ball hurtles straight back toward the mound—a split second, no time to think. Your glove snaps up instinctively, the sharp thwack of impact cutting through the noise. The ball deflects away from your head, careening off to the side, but the force staggers you. Your knees hit the dirt, and you slump forward slightly, visibly shaken.

The crowd collectively gasps, the electric energy of the game giving way to a wave of tense murmurs. Yeojin’s breath catches, her chest tightening as she watches you press a hand to your head, your face taut with discomfort. You wave off the trainer jogging toward you, trying to shake it off, but you don’t immediately rise. That’s all it takes for panic to flood her chest. Her fingers tightened around her jersey as her heart pounded as she willed you to stand.

“Oh my god,” she whispers, her voice trembling. Without thinking, she bolts from her seat, ignoring her friends’ surprised calls as she hurries down the stadium steps. Her pulse races with each step, her gaze locked on the bullpen entrance where she knows you’ll be taken.

Yeojin weaves through the throngs of concerned fans until she reaches the edge of the restricted area. A security guard steps forward, shaking his head firmly. “Sorry, miss. You can’t go past this point.”

“Please,” she says urgently, glancing past him toward the dugout. “I just need to see if he’s okay.”

The guard hesitates but doesn’t budge. Desperate, Yeojin moves to the side, craning her neck for any angle that might give her a glimpse of you. Her hands grip the railing tightly, her heart pounding as she finally spots you on the bench. From her vantage point, she can only see part of your profile, but it’s enough to confirm you’re upright, talking to the trainer.

She holds her breath, willing herself not to cry as the tension in her chest lingers. Then, as if sensing her, you glance over your shoulder. Your eyes meet hers, and though your movements are still slow and careful, the small smile you flash her is steady and reassuring. You lift your hand slightly in a subtle wave, a silent message: I’m okay.

Yeojin exhales shakily, her hands loosening their grip on the railing as relief floods her. For a moment, she lingers, her lips curving into a tentative smile in response. Then, with one last glance at you, she turns and heads back toward her seat.

By the time she climbs the steps back to her section, her friends are watching her with curious expressions. “What was that about?” Gowon asks, leaning closer.

Yeojin shrugs, brushing her hair behind her ear as she sits. “I just… wanted to check on him,” she says, keeping her tone casual despite the lingering adrenaline in her veins.

ViVi tilts her head, her lips twitching with a smile. “You’re really invested in this game, huh?”

“Well, he’s their best player,” Yeojin replies, adjusting the hem of your jersey. “Someone has to cheer for him.”

Her friends exchange amused glances but don’t push further, turning their attention back to the game. As the action resumes, Yeojin steals one more glance toward the bullpen. You’re still seated but looking steady now, chatting with the trainer. Relief washes over her as she sees you lean forward, your shoulders squared with resolve, ready to get back in the game.

The tension builds as the final moments unfold, every pitch and swing keeping the crowd on edge. Yeojin clutches at your jersey, her fingers brushing over the warmth of your signature as the last out is made, sealing the win for your team. The stadium erupts into cheers, the roar deafening as your teammates rush the field to celebrate. Her heart swells with pride, the earlier fear eclipsed entirely by admiration for your unwavering strength.

As the stadium begins to empty, Yeojin practically drags her friends down toward the field, her excitement bubbling over as she skips ahead. Her friends trail behind, exchanging confused but curious glances at her sudden burst of enthusiasm.

“Where are you going?” Gowon calls after her, struggling to keep up.

“Just come on!” Yeojin replies, glancing over her shoulder with a wide grin. Her pulse quickens as she spots you waiting in the dugout, scanning the thinning crowd until your gaze lands on her.

The moment your eyes meet, a bright smile spreads across your face, and without hesitation, Yeojin takes off across the field. Her friends stop in their tracks, staring as she runs straight to you, leaping into your arms with a joyful squeal. You catch her effortlessly, lifting her as if she weighs nothing, holding her close as she plants a quick, happy kiss on your cheek.

The group stands frozen, their eyes wide as they process what they’re seeing.

“Wait… did she just…” Gowon begins, her voice trailing off.

“Did she just run up and kiss him?” Hyeju whispers, glancing between you and Yeojin as if trying to confirm she’s not imagining things.

Their confusion grows as you set Yeojin gently back on the ground, your arm staying casually draped over her shoulder. Her cheeks are flushed, but she’s grinning ear to ear, clearly unfazed by the scene she’s caused.

With a soft chuckle, you greet her friends, your easy smile and warm demeanor making their stunned expressions all the more amusing. Finally, Gowon snaps out of it, blinking rapidly before giving Yeojin a teasing smirk.

“Okay, not to be dramatic,” she says, motioning toward you, “but… what the actual fuck?”

The rest of the group bursts into laughter, ViVi adding, “Seriously, Yeo-jin, care to explain how this happened?”

Yeojin fidgets slightly, her blush deepening as she looks between you and her friends. “What do you mean?” she asks, playing innocent. “He’s… just my boyfriend.”

“Just?” Gowon repeats, her eyes widening in disbelief. “Are you serious right now? You’ve been holding out on us! You could’ve mentioned you were dating a literal star player!”

“Speaking of which,” ViVi cuts in, her eyes widening as she looks up at you, “how tall are you, exactly?”

“198,” you reply with a grin, clearly amused by their reactions.

They all turn to Yeojin, who crosses her arms with a mock huff. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m short. You’ve all said it before,” she says, though her proud smile betrays her.

“You’re not just short,” Hyeju teases, nudging her shoulder. “Next to him, you’re basically pocket-sized. It’s kind of adorable.”

Yeojin groans, rolling her eyes. “Thanks for the reminder.”

Hyunjin steps closer, her curiosity lighting up her expression. “So…” she begins, hesitating for a moment. “Would it be weird if we, uh, tested something?”

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued. “Hmm?”

She motions toward your arms. “I’ve always wanted to try hanging off someone super strong. You look like you could handle it.”

Yeojin shoots her a look, but you laugh, glancing at your girlfriend for permission. She sighs, muttering, “Fine, but don’t break him.”

With a grin, you extend your arms, and Hyunjin and ViVi eagerly grab on, giggling as they dangle from you like children on a jungle gym. You lift them effortlessly, even spinning slightly for effect, earning cheers and laughter from the rest of the group.

“Whoa… He’s actually doing it,” Hyeju says, her tone full of admiration. “You’ve got some serious strength.”

Yeojin, however, watches with narrowed eyes, her smile fading slightly. Finally, she steps forward, hands on her hips. “Alright, that’s enough,” she says, her voice firm but playful. “Let him go.”

The girls reluctantly release your arms, laughing as they exchange amused glances. But before you can lower them fully, Yeojin leaps up, wrapping herself around you with a little huff. She locks her legs around your waist, grinning triumphantly as she turns to her friends. “This is my spot,” she declares, sticking out her tongue.

The group dissolves into laughter, though their teasing glances don’t go unnoticed. “Possessive much?” Gowon quips, shaking her head with a smirk.

You chuckle, leaning down to murmur softly in Yeojin’s ear, “Didn’t know you got jealous so easily.”

Yeojin pouts, looking up at you with a small smile. “Can’t help it,” she whispers back. “You’re mine.”

The group exchanges whispered comments, their curiosity and amusement clear. But Yeojin doesn’t care. As you hold her close, the warmth of your embrace and the quiet pride in her heart remind her that no amount of teasing could take away what you two share.

-----

As the door clicks shut behind you, Yeojin spins around with a playful glint in her eyes, arms folded in mock defiance. Her cheeks are still flushed from the night’s excitement, but there’s something else now—a spark of mischief that makes her gaze dance in the dim light.

“You know,” she begins, taking a slow step closer, her voice teasing, “you owe me for making me jealous tonight.”

Leaning back against the door, you raise an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Oh, do I?” you ask, your tone light but edged with challenge.

She nods, feigning seriousness, though the smile pulling at her lips betrays her amusement. “Letting those girls hang all over you like that… What was that about?” Her hands go to her hips as she tilts her head, her mock indignation only making her look more endearing.

You chuckle, leaning forward just enough to bring your face level with hers. “If I remember right, you gave me permission, and…” you murmur, your voice dropping slightly, “you were the one climbing me like a tree afterward. I think you made your point pretty clear.”

Yeojin bites her lip, the blush on her cheeks deepening, but she doesn’t back down. Instead, she loops her arms around your neck, her smile turning sly. “I’m not so sure,” she replies, her tone soft but teasing. “You might have to work a little harder to make it up to me.”

You slide your hands around her waist, pulling her closer until the space between you is nonexistent. “Alright,” you say, your voice a low murmur, “I’ll bite. How exactly am I supposed to make it up to you, hmm?”

Yeojin hums thoughtfully, as if considering her options, before gently nudging you toward the couch. Her hands stay light on your chest as she guides you, her steps deliberate yet playful. Once you’re seated, she settles onto your lap, her small frame fitting perfectly into your arms. The soft weight of her against you sends a warmth coursing through your chest as her hands slide up to rest lightly on your shoulders.

“For starters,” she whispers, leaning in close, her lips hovering just shy of yours, “you could promise I’m the only one who gets to cling to you like that.”

Her breath brushes your skin, teasing as her words hang in the air. You meet her gaze, a flicker of amusement in your eyes. “Done,” you whisper back, your voice soft but sure. And then, without hesitation, you close the space, capturing her lips in a kiss that starts slow and sweet, her warmth melting into you. It’s the kind of kiss that makes the rest of the world disappear, leaving only the quiet intensity between you.

As her fingers trail lightly along your chest, Yeojin pulls back just enough to speak, her voice barely above a murmur. “And you can start by spoiling me a little more,” she teases, her playful tone returning as her fingers toy with the fabric of your shirt.

Your low chuckle vibrates against her, and you tilt your head slightly, your thumb grazing her cheek. “You don’t even have to ask, princess,” you reply, your words carrying a weight that lingers between you.

The air shifts, the laughter between you fading into something quieter, warmer. Yeojin’s breath hitches as she looks up at you, her eyes searching yours for a moment before her hands find their way to your shirt. Slowly, her fingertips trace along your chest before she lifts the fabric, pulling it up and over your shoulders with deliberate grace, her movements unhurried as if savoring the moment.

Your hand slides to her waist, steadying her as you guide her closer, your fingers slipping beneath the hem of her shirt. Her breath catches as your touch skims bare skin, her body reacting instinctively to your warmth. You take your time, letting the fabric rise slowly, your gaze locked on hers, the air between you thick with anticipation. When her shirt finally falls to the floor, she exhales softly, her blush deepening as she feels your hands settle on her sides, grounding her.

Yeojin’s hands find their way to your belt, her touch sure but deliberate as her eyes flick up to yours, silently asking permission. You nod, your smirk softening into something more intimate, and she works the buckle loose before tugging the fabric free. You follow her lead, your fingers trailing down to the waistband of her jeans. Her breathing quickens as you unfasten the button, your movements steady as you guide them down, leaving them to pool at her feet.

When you straighten, your hands find the curve of her hips, your touch firm but reverent as her own hands lift to your waist, slipping beneath the edge of your pants to push them down with a gentle insistence. As the last of the fabric falls away, the space between you seems to hum, the night’s earlier excitement replaced by a quiet, electric intensity.

The room feels smaller now, the air charged as you take each other in—skin to skin, your gazes holding steady. Yeojin leans into you, her arms wrapping around your shoulders as her lips find yours, the kiss deep and unhurried, a promise that lingers between you. The warmth of her body against yours ignites something that words can’t capture, leaving the rest of the night open, unwritten, and entirely yours.

Without a word, you lean down, your arms securing her tightly as you lift her effortlessly, her body fitting snugly against your chest. Yeojin gasps softly, her legs instinctively wrapping around your waist, her arms clinging to your shoulders as she feels the full strength of your hold. The contrast between your broad, solid frame and her smaller stature sends a shiver of exhilaration through her—she feels weightless in your grasp, as if gravity itself bends to your will.

Her heart races as your hands shift, gripping her thighs firmly. In one smooth, fluid motion, you flip and lower her upside down, her thighs draping over your powerful shoulders. Her body hangs securely, her soft skin brushing against your neck while your steady grip keeps her firmly in place. The sheer size of you against her height makes her feel both delicate and cherished, a thrill sparking through her as she adjusts to the new position.

Suspended in your grasp, Yeojin’s breath catches as her lips find the warmth of your skin. The firmness of your muscles under her mouth sends a pulse of excitement through her, and she can’t help but press soft kisses there, each touch drawing a sharp, appreciative inhale from you. Her hands steady themselves against your hips, her small fingers gripping the solid expanse of your body for balance.

As you lean forward, your mouth finds her with an unrestrained hunger that takes her breath away. The first touch of your tongue sends a bolt of pleasure straight through her, and she trembles, her body instinctively pressing closer to you. Each movement of your tongue feels electric, worshiping her with a precision that makes her toes curl.

The smoothness of your skin against her inner thighs complements the warmth and wetness of your mouth, the sensations blending into an intoxicating mix that leaves her gasping. Her body trembles, her thighs pressing against your neck as her hips buck involuntarily in response to your ministrations. You grip her thighs tighter, spreading her open as you delve deeper, your tongue moving with insatiable fervor. Each stroke pulls a new, breathy cry from her lips, her whimpers of pleasure filling the room, echoing with the raw intimacy shared between you.

At the same time, Yeojin’s lips part around your length, taking you eagerly into her mouth. The sheer weight of you, the fullness stretching her jaw, makes her thighs quiver as she works to please you. Her tongue moves eagerly, tracing every ridge and vein as her lips slide along your shaft. The salty taste of precum teases her, a reminder of the effect she has on you, fueling her determination to take you deeper.

But as your tongue finds that sensitive spot within her, her resolve falters. A sharp moan escapes her lips, vibrating around you as her hips grind instinctively against your face. She fights to refocus, her cheeks hollowing as she takes you in again, but the sensations you’re drawing from her are relentless. Your tongue presses into her with precision, and her breath catches as you graze her most sensitive spot. Her movements falter, her concentration breaking as she’s overwhelmed by pleasure.

When your length brushes the back of her throat, her body jolts, her gasp muffled against you. The stretch leaves her momentarily breathless, her fingers tightening on your hips as she tries to keep pace. “Oh—” she tries to gasp, but the sounds dissolve into helpless moans, each vibration against you spurring you on. Her attempts to regain control falter again as your tongue moves deeper, coaxing another cry from her lips.

The slick, rhythmic sounds of your connection fill the room, blending with her muffled moans and your low, guttural groans. Her arousal drips onto your skin, her body trembling uncontrollably as her pleasure builds. “God, you’re amazing,” you murmur against her, your voice thick with sincerity. Your hands flex against her thighs, your grip firm and possessive as you hold her steady, your tongue stroking deeper and more deliberately.

Yeojin’s cries grow desperate as her body tightens around you, her legs trembling against your shoulders. The tension in her core builds steadily, each flick of your tongue pushing her closer to the edge. Her breath catches in sharp gasps, her body quaking with anticipation. She clutches at your hips for stability, but her movements grow erratic as she loses herself in the sensations.

When your fingers dig into her soft thighs, anchoring her even closer, the tension snaps. “Ahh—oh my god!” she screams, her voice trembling as her climax hits her with breathtaking force. Her entire body stiffens, her walls spasming uncontrollably as waves of pleasure crash through her. You hold her tightly, your grip unyielding as you press her against you, your tongue working her through every pulse of her release.

Her hips buck against your face, her cries echoing in the room as her orgasm overtakes her completely. She clings to your hips for dear life, her hands shaking as her body surrenders to the intensity. “I can’t… oh my god, I can’t,” she whimpers, the words tumbling out as the aftershocks ripple through her. Each tremor leaves her breathless, her thighs quivering as you continue your unrelenting ministrations.

Finally, her body goes limp in your grasp, her head falling forward as she struggles to catch her breath. You shift slightly, adjusting your hold to keep her steady, your touch gentle but still possessive. Her soft whimpers fill the quiet, her entire being humming with the aftermath of her release.

When she finally lifts her head, her cheeks are flushed, her mascara streaked slightly, but her smile is radiant. “You’re unbelievable,” she whispers, her voice trembling with exhaustion and satisfaction.

You chuckle softly, pressing a lingering kiss to her thigh. “That’s just the beginning,” you murmur, the promise in your tone making her shiver anew.

Still trembling from the earlier intensity, Yeojin lets out a soft gasp as you flip her to her feet, guiding her back to you with firm hands. Her body pressed flush against your chest, her soft skin warm and inviting. Without hesitation, you grip her firmly, lifting her off the ground in one smooth motion. Her legs dangle freely, toes brushing against your thighs as you hold her up by her breasts, your large hands cradling her delicate frame.

The weightlessness leaves her breathless, a shiver coursing through her as she realizes how completely you’re holding her. Your fingers curl around her sensitive nipples, squeezing gently, your thumbs brushing over her hardened peaks. Each touch draws a soft whimper from her lips, her body responding to every deliberate motion. “You’re so small,” you murmur, your voice low and rough against her ear. “I love how you fit perfectly in my hands.”

Her breath hitches at your words, and a thrill races through her at the sheer size and strength you exude. She feels utterly enveloped by you, each motion a reminder of how easily you carry her. “I love it too,” she whispers, her voice trembling with need. “Please… I need you.”

You don’t make her wait. Adjusting your grip to pull her closer, you angle her hips, lining yourself up with her slick heat. The first thrust is deliberate and deep, burying yourself fully inside her in one swift motion. Her head falls back, a sharp cry escaping her lips. “Oh my god,” she gasps, her voice breaking as her body stretches to accommodate you. The overwhelming sensation of being filled leaves her trembling in your grasp.

“Fuck, Yeojin,” you groan, your fingers flexing against her breasts as you begin to move. “You’re so tight… so fucking perfect.”

Her legs sway with each powerful thrust, the motion making her feel completely at your mercy. Her walls pulse around you, gripping you tightly as she whimpers, “Yes… so good. So full.” Her voice is breathless, her hands reaching up to clutch at your arms, her nails lightly raking over your skin as she struggles to steady herself.

Your hands knead her breasts as you pick up the pace, your thumbs circling and pinching her sensitive peaks. The added stimulation sends shivers down her spine, her body arching instinctively in your hold. “You feel that, princess?” you murmur against her ear, your voice thick with desire. “Feel how deep I am inside you?”

“Yes,” she cries, her back arching as the sensations flood her body. “I love it… love how you fill me.”

Her hands drop to her stomach, her fingers pressing lightly against her skin as if trying to ground herself. She gasps when she feels you pushing in and out of her, the motion resonating deep within. “I can feel you,” she whispers, her voice a mixture of awe and pleasure. “So deep…”

The sensation intensifies as your grip tightens, your fingers digging into the soft flesh of her breasts. Each movement becomes more deliberate, your thrusts deepening as you shift her slightly, driving her backward with every motion to meet your hips. The angle changes, and a sharp gasp rips from her throat as you hit the spot that sends jolts of electric pleasure through her. Her legs quiver in the air, her head tilting back as her body struggles to process the overwhelming sensation, her cries growing louder with every deliberate thrust.

“That’s it,” you growl, your voice low and rough, your rhythm relentless as her walls clench around you. “Right there. You feel me, don’t you? Taking you exactly how you need.”

“Yes, yes!” she cries, her voice trembling with desperation. Her body melts into your hold, entirely weightless as she surrenders to the intensity. “Don’t stop—please, don’t stop.”

Her moans grow erratic, the wet, rhythmic sounds of your connection filling the room, mingling with your labored breaths. Every powerful thrust pushes her closer to the edge, the sheer force of your movements making her tremble uncontrollably. Your fingers tug and pinch at her nipples, her cries of pleasure growing louder with each twist of your touch.

“You’re mine,” you growl, your words reverberating against her skin as you press your lips to her neck. “Every inch of you. You’re mine.”

Her legs quiver as her head falls forward, her breathing ragged. “Yes,” she moans, her voice trembling. “I’m yours. All yours.”

Your pace quickens, each thrust deep and precise, driving her to a fever pitch as her body arches and tightens around you. The sharp cries escaping her lips tell you everything you need to know—she’s right on the edge, completely lost in the ecstasy of your touch.

The relentless depth of your thrusts drives her higher and higher as her cries grow desperate and her body tightens around you. “Don’t stop,” she pleads, her voice barely more than a whimper. “Please… I’m so close.”

You shift slightly, angling her hips to plunge even deeper, your thrusts growing harder and faster, each motion sending sparks of pleasure coursing through her. Her trembling becomes uncontrollable, her breaths ragged as the tension builds to an unbearable height. Her fingers clutch desperately at your forearms, her nails biting into your skin as if anchoring herself to reality. Her cries escalate, breaking into frantic gasps as her body teeters precariously on the edge.

“Fuck—there!” she screams, her voice raw and shattering as her climax slams into her with devastating force. Her entire body convulses, her head falling forward onto your shoulder as her muscles give way, leaving her completely limp in your hands. Wave after wave of ecstasy crashes through her, her walls clenching around you with an intensity that borders on overwhelming. Each pulsation grips you tighter, pulling you impossibly deeper into her heat, her body trembling violently as she lets out a series of breathless, broken cries.

But you don’t let up. Your grip on her tightens, your hands steadying her trembling frame as you continue to thrust, your movements deliberate and unrelenting. Each motion draws out her climax, prolonging the intoxicating waves of pleasure coursing through her. Her head tilts back, her mouth falling open as her voice becomes high-pitched and fractured, her overstimulated body writhing uncontrollably against you.

“Too much—oh my god!” she whimpers, her words tumbling out in gasping fragments. Yet, despite her plea, her hips betray her, instinctively rocking to meet yours, the overwhelming sensation mingling with an insatiable, desperate need. Her body quivers in your hold, the aftershocks colliding with your unyielding rhythm, and her cries blend into the sound of skin meeting skin, her sensitivity turning into a heady, all-consuming bliss.

And then it happens, before the first climax fully fades, another builds, the relentless friction and fullness pushing her straight into a second wave. Her entire body stiffens in your grasp, her head snapping back against your shoulder as the overwhelming sensation tears through her. “I’m cumming again!” she cries, her voice a mix of shock and unrestrained ecstasy. Her walls flutter violently around you, each contraction milking every inch of you as she tumbles headlong into a second, earth-shattering release.

Her cries of pleasure become incoherent, her body melting further into your hands as her climax washes over her in crashing waves. The slick heat of her arousal coats you, and the rhythmic clenching around your length pulls you closer to your own edge. “Fuck, Yeojin,” you groan, your thrusts growing erratic as the heat in your core builds to an unbearable peak.

With a guttural moan, you pull her as close as possible, burying yourself fully inside her as your release hits like an unstoppable wave. Each pulse surges deep within her, a searing heat spreading through her core as you fill her completely. Her body responds instantly, trembling violently as her walls spasm around you, clutching you tighter with every throb of your release. The fullness overwhelms her, sending her into a frenzy of sensation, her breaths hitching into sharp, uneven gasps.

“Oh my god,” she cries, her voice trembling as her body convulses. The sensation of being filled so completely pushes her to another peak, her climax gripping her with renewed intensity. Her walls flutter uncontrollably, their rhythmic contractions pulling you deeper, as if her body is desperate to claim every drop. The pulsing heat between you draws out her pleasure in endless waves, her cries raw and unrestrained.

Your hands find her breasts, kneading them gently, your fingers brushing against her taut, sensitive peaks. The sensation only amplifies her ecstasy, her head lolling weakly against your shoulder as she rides out the unrelenting pleasure. Her body feels weightless in your hold, trembling as the aftershocks ripple through her.

As your release continues to surge, your legs falter under the sheer intensity of the moment. “Fuck…” you groan, your voice rough and shaky as your knees buckle. Losing your balance, you stumble forward, collapsing onto the bed with her still pressed tightly against you. The added weight presses you deeper into her, burying you to the hilt in a way that neither of you is prepared for.

The effect is immediate. The sudden depth makes her cry out, a sharp, high-pitched squeal tearing from her lips as her overstimulated body is driven into another powerful climax. Her thighs quake uncontrollably, her back arching against you as the intensity consumes her entirely. “Ahh—FUCK!” she screams, her voice shaking as her body bucks beneath you, her release crashing over her like a tidal wave.

Her walls clamp down hard, the rhythmic pulsations drawing every last ounce of your release into her. Each spasm feels impossibly tight, pulling at you with relentless force, her cries dissolving into incoherent moans as the pleasure overtakes her completely. Her hands claw at the sheets, her knuckles white as her body convulses, every nerve ending alive with sensation.

The deep, intimate pressure of your release combined with the weight of your body pinning her down prolongs her climax, leaving her utterly lost in the moment. Each pump reignites her sensitivity, her oversaturated nerves sending jolts of pleasure through her as if she’s trapped in a cycle of ecstasy. “I can’t—oh my god, I can’t!” she gasps, her voice broken as her body jerks uncontrollably in your grasp.

Her second climax stretches on, each wave crashing harder than the last, leaving her trembling violently. The combination of your warmth spilling into her, the unrelenting depth, and the closeness of your bodies becomes an intoxicating overload. Her cries turn into soft, breathless whimpers, her body spent yet still clinging to the aftershocks, as though it doesn’t want the moment to end.

You hold her tightly, your hands cupping her breasts as you knead them gently, grounding her in your embrace. “You’re amazing,” you murmur, your voice thick with awe as you press soft kisses to her shoulder. Your body stills, but the weight of you keeps her anchored, every lingering contraction pulling you closer as you both ride out the final moments of bliss.

When the intensity finally begins to ebb, her body goes completely limp beneath you, her breathing shallow and uneven as she shivers against the mattress. Her warmth presses against you, and you instinctively shift to avoid putting too much weight on her, but you don’t pull away. Your chest remains flush against her back, your arms wrapped protectively around her waist as the lingering tremors of her release ripple through her.

“Are you okay?” you murmur softly, your lips brushing against the shell of her ear, the tenderness in your tone grounding her.

She nods weakly, her voice barely audible as she lets out a soft, breathless sigh. “That was… oh my god, that was… the best,” she murmurs, her words trailing off as the aftershocks continue to course through her. Her cheeks are deeply flushed, her skin glistening with a sheen of effort and ecstasy. When she tilts her head slightly to glance up at you, her eyes are heavy-lidded and glazed with a dreamy, dazed expression. She looks utterly spent yet so full of contentment that it makes your chest ache with affection.

“Not going to argue with that,” you reply, a soft chuckle escaping as you brush a damp strand of hair from her face. “That was… something else.”

As you begin to shift, intending to pull away, her hand suddenly presses against yours, her fingers curling weakly around your arm. “Wait,” she whispers, her voice trembling but firm. “Just… stay. Just for a little while.”

You pause, the words stirring something deep within you. Nodding silently, you settle back against her, letting your weight ground her as you both bask in the afterglow. The intimacy of the moment feels infinite, your breathing slowly syncing as the world outside seems to dissolve.

Minutes pass, the quiet punctuated only by the faint hum of your synchronized breaths and her occasional whimpers as the lingering aftershocks ripple through her body. She remains still beneath you, her trembling legs unable to support her fully, as if the weight of the moment has left her boneless.

When you finally begin to pull out, it’s with deliberate care, your movements slow and tender, your hand resting on her lower back to steady her. The moment you leave her, she gasps softly, her body instinctively clenching at the sudden emptiness. A high-pitched whimper escapes her lips, her voice trembling with raw emotion as her body quivers in response.

“No…” she whines softly, her forehead pressing against the mattress as her fingers weakly clutch the sheets for stability. The loss seems almost unbearable, a hollow ache that fills the void you’ve left behind. “I’m so full but… I feel so empty,” she murmurs, her words laced with both longing and exhaustion.

Your eyes lower, taking in the sight of your release threatening to spill from her, glistening as it lingers at her entrance. The sight stirs something protective and possessive in you, a reminder of the connection you’ve just shared. Reaching out gently, you press a soothing kiss to the curve of her shoulder, your hand rubbing gentle circles along her back. “I’ve got you,” you whisper, your voice full of warmth as you pull her closer into your embrace. She melts into you again, her soft, spent body fitting perfectly against yours.

The world outside feels distant, the quiet intimacy of the moment wrapping you both in a cocoon of warmth and trust. Neither of you speaks, the gentle rhythm of your synchronized breaths the only sound, as her body fully relaxes in your arms.

Eventually, Yeojin stirs slightly, her head lifting just enough to mumble, “We’re… such a mess.” Her voice is barely audible, her words trailing off as her eyes flutter shut again.

You laugh softly, your hands trailing down her back in soothing strokes. “You’re not wrong,” you admit, glancing down at the tousled strands of hair sticking to her damp skin and the faint sheen that glistens over you both. “How about we clean up?”

She groans softly, her arms tightening weakly around your neck. “I don’t think I can move,” she admits, her voice tinged with a mixture of humor and genuine fatigue. “You’ll have to do everything.”

“Deal,” you reply with a grin, scooping her up effortlessly. She lets out a soft gasp, but it’s quickly followed by a quiet, sleepy giggle as she leans her head against your shoulder, her arms draping limply around your neck.

The bathroom fills with soft steam as you adjust the shower, the warm spray cascading down and curling around you both. Yeojin shivers slightly in your arms as you guide her under the water, her body slumping gently against you. She tilts her head back, letting the spray soak her hair and trail down her delicate frame. A contented sigh escapes her lips as the water warms her skin, her eyelids fluttering closed.

Her small hands rest lightly on your chest, her grip loose and trusting. “You’re too good to me,” she murmurs, her voice soft and dreamy.

“You make it easy,” you reply, brushing your lips against her temple. The water streams around you both, and her body sags further against yours, her trust in your care palpable as you hold her steady.

“Let me take care of you,” you say gently, brushing a damp strand of hair from her flushed face. She nods weakly, her trust in you evident as she allows you to guide her closer to the stream. The water trails down her body, glistening over her soft curves as she lets out a quiet, contented sigh.

You reach for the shampoo, lathering it between your hands before carefully working it into her hair. Your fingers move in slow, soothing circles, massaging her scalp with deliberate care. She hums softly, her head tilting forward slightly, her balance wavering as she leans heavily into your chest.

“Relax,” you murmur, holding her steady with one hand on her waist. “I’ve got you.”

Her lips curve into a faint smile, her eyes closing as she lets herself melt into your touch. The soft hum of the water surrounds you both, a cocoon of warmth and quiet intimacy. As you rinse her hair, guiding the water to wash away the suds, her small hands rest limply against your arms, her fingers curling weakly as if to hold onto you.

When her hair is clean, you reach for the body wash, lathering it onto your hands. Gently, you trail your palms over her shoulders and down her arms, your touch light but thorough. “You’re so good to me,” she murmurs, her voice slurred with exhaustion and affection. Her head rests against your chest, her breaths shallow but steady.

You smile softly, pressing a kiss to her temple. “You deserve it,” you reply, your tone low and full of warmth.

As your hands move lower, gliding over her back and across her sides, you notice the slight quiver in her legs. “Can you stand, or should I hold you up?” you ask, your voice tinged with concern.

She shakes her head weakly, her hands clutching at your arms. “Just… hold me,” she whispers, her tone almost pleading.

Without hesitation, you slide your arm around her waist, pulling her closer to steady her. Your other hand continues its careful work, trailing down to her thighs. Her breath hitches as your fingers glide over the inside of her thighs, your touch gentle but deliberate. You shift slightly, intending to clean her thoroughly, but the moment your hand moves higher, she weakly stops you, her small fingers curling around your wrist.

“Don’t,” she whispers, her voice trembling but firm. “I… want to keep it. Please.”

Your chest tightens at her words, the intimacy of the moment stealing your breath. You lower your hand immediately, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “Okay,” you murmur, your voice thick with affection. “Anything you want.”

She relaxes again in your hold, her trust and vulnerability filling the space between you with a quiet intensity. You adjust her slightly, resuming your gentle attention elsewhere, ensuring she feels cared for without pushing her boundaries.

As the water rinses her skin, you feel the last remnants of tension leave her body, replaced by a deep, bone-deep relaxation. Her head lolls to the side, her cheek resting against your chest as she exhales softly, her lips brushing against your skin.

“Almost done,” you whisper, your hand trailing down her legs one final time. The warmth of the water and the tenderness of the moment seem to lull her further, her eyes fluttering closed as she lets herself lean fully into your support.

When you’re finished, you turn off the shower and wrap her in a fluffy towel, lifting her effortlessly as her arms drape over your shoulders. “You’re spoiling me,” she murmurs sleepily, her voice muffled against your neck.

“Good,” you reply, pressing a kiss to the crown of her damp hair. “You deserve to be spoiled.”

Her cheeks flush deeper, but she doesn’t argue, simply burying her face against you as you carry her out of the bathroom. Once back in the bedroom, you set her down gently, sitting her on the edge of the bed as you begin to dry her hair with the towel.

Her head tilts forward slightly, her eyes half-closed as you fuss over her. “Okay, enough,” she protests weakly, though the softness in her voice and the tiny smile on her lips betray her affection for your care. “I can do it myself.”

“Not yet,” you reply with a grin, continuing to gently rub the towel over her damp hair. “You’re still half asleep, and I don’t trust you not to just fall over.”

She lets out a small laugh, her shoulders relaxing further as you work. Once her hair is mostly dry, you hand her the towel to finish the rest. “Keep going,” you tell her gently, brushing a kiss to her temple. “I’ll be right back.”

Stepping away, you pull the rumpled covers from the bed, stripping the sheets and replacing them with fresh ones. The soft fabric feels cool under your fingers as you smooth the corners, ensuring everything is perfect for her. The faint scent of lavender from the new sheets fills the air, adding to the calm, cozy atmosphere.

By the time you return, Yeojin is still perched on the edge of the bed, her towel loosely draped around her shoulders. She looks up at you with sleepy, affectionate eyes, her small frame practically folding into itself as she waits.

“All done,” you announce with a soft smile, lifting the fresh blankets and gesturing for her to crawl in. She doesn’t need any prompting, slipping under the covers with a contented sigh as you slide in beside her.

Immediately, she shifts closer, curling into your chest as you drape your arm over her waist. Her small body fits perfectly against yours, and you gently pull her closer, resting your chin lightly on the top of her head. Her fingers trace absentminded patterns on your forearm as the warmth of her frame melts into yours.

“This is nice,” she murmurs, her voice muffled against your chest.

“Yeah,” you reply softly, pressing a kiss to her hair. “You’re perfect like this.”

The quiet comfort of the moment stretches out as her breathing slows, her body relaxing fully against yours. You think she might have drifted off when she stirs slightly, her fingers tightening their grip on your arm.

“What’s up?” you ask, glancing down at her.

She hesitates for a moment, her cheeks visibly pink even in the dim light. “I… I want to hold you,” she whispers, her voice small but certain.

Your eyebrows lift in surprise, but your heart swells at the sincerity in her words. A smile tugs at your lips as you gently nudge her chin so she looks up at you. “You want to switch?” you ask playfully, your voice tinged with affection.

She nods shyly, her gaze darting away before meeting yours again. “I just… I want to,” she murmurs, her tone vulnerable but earnest. “Please?”

You chuckle softly and roll onto your back, your arm slipping under her shoulders to guide her over. “Alright, princess,” you reply warmly, settling her partially on top of you.

Yeojin wastes no time, shifting until her body molds into yours, her chest pressing against your side as her arms drape over you. One leg slides over your waist, her knee hooking securely against your hip as if anchoring herself in place.She presses into you, her cheek nestles against your shoulder as she sighs contentedly.

Her fingers rest lightly against your chest, occasionally twitching as if trying to hold onto you tighter. “This feels good,” she murmurs, her voice thick with drowsy affection. “I just wanted to… be close to you.”

You smile softly, your hand finding its way to her back, brushing gentle circles over her skin. “I’m not going anywhere,” you reply, your tone low and soothing.

She shifts slightly, her lips brushing against your shoulder in a sleepy kiss. The tender gesture makes your chest tighten with warmth, though her attempt is interrupted when she sputters suddenly, pulling back with a small groan. “Bitter soap!” she mumbles, her voice full of sleepy indignation.

You laugh quietly, your fingers trailing up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “That’s on you for sneaking a taste,” you tease gently.

She huffs playfully, burying her face into your shoulder as her arms tighten around you. “I don’t care. I’m not moving,” she mutters stubbornly, her words muffled against your skin.

“Good,” you reply with a grin, pulling the blanket higher over both of you. “Stay right there.”

Her breathing slows as her body fully relaxes into yours, the warmth and weight of her slight frame grounding you both. Even as sleep claims her, her leg stays draped over your waist, her fingers resting limply on your chest as if to remind you she’s still there.

Under the fresh covers, surrounded by the calm intimacy of the moment, you let your own eyes drift closed. The world outside fades, leaving just the quiet sound of her breaths and the steady beat of her heart against your side as you both sink into peaceful slumber, perfectly entwined.

[tojisteddy]

Could we please get more general meanie!simon headcannons?

No need to rush but have a good day!

general meanie!simon headcanons

now playing: landslide by fleetwood mac

a/n: I live for this, thank you for requesting!!! You have a good day too!!

Cannot do large crowds. It’s too loud and theres too many people and too many different conversations. He can do loud on the field, quick changes of action when it’s do or die. Just not at home. It spikes his anxiety up ten fold, make him more irritable. So he only grocery shops in the early mornings when the old ppl shop or he leaves it up to you. If you want to go shopping with him for new clothes, it’s get in and get out. Same with concerts. It has to be an artist that’s rare to see for him to go.

He’s extremely chill compared to how he was when he was a teenager/young adult. Hes sent a couple folks to the hospital, used to get into it with his team mates so bad John sent him to anger management and wouldn’t allow him back unless he got his act together. And he despised it at first, hated the happy go lucky therapist who lead the group, the fact that it was in a damned church basement, and that he had to talk to strangers. But it actually did a number on him. In a good way. Healed a few parts of him to make him into a better man, much easier to deal with, he’s slower to anger now. And if it comes storming down on him he might go for a smoke, take a few deep breaths, go walk a few paces. Price is proud of him and for once Ghost— no- Simon is proud of himself. Happy he stumbled upon you after he got his shit together. It makes him want to work harder at improving himself even more. He’s not the best, but he’s trying. He always go to group therapy every Wednesday when he’s back home, right after work. He brings home dinner, a little more- chipper.

Really doesn’t do too much talking when he’s off. He definitely a teaser, playful, but even with you, he doesn’t have much to say. You both like comfortable silence when you’re gone for cuddle together.

Doesn’t complain about the amount of stuffed animals you have or how you decorate. You’ve made his house a home, even after he fixed it up himself, it never felt good to be alone there. These are ghosts hiding there. But you brought a breath of fresh air into the place. Hes more than greatful, hugging onto your stuffed animals when your gone for too long.

Likes to do chores together, even if it’s folding laundry or walking the dogs or washing dishes— he loves being in your space.

hates your dog Fish because he’s a wild thing no matter how hard you train him. The little shit only listens to Simon for some reason when Simon only likes his dog, Slugger. Doesn’t mean the man isn’t gonna pet the cute one year old puppy though.

Squints a lot when reading the coffee signs, he definitely needs reading glasses but says hes too young for them (hes almost 35)

can talk about his favorite movies for ages, loves the classic westerns and sci-fi flicks from the 80s. Knows the actors ages and if they’re alive or not. Talks to you about them like a history lesson, you never get bored though. His voice is perfect.

A little insecure about the scars on him, that’s why he’s covered in tattoos. Some tattoos mean a lot to him, others he just got for fun.

Has a motorcycle, rides it here and there. Has taken you for a drive to meet Alice, an older woman about 80 from anger management. She’s like his grandma, he speaks softer (and smaller) when he’s with her. Alice babies the hell out of him.

His closet is more than casual, multiple black shirts and denim jeans, a few plaids, some leather jackets, bomber jackets— it’s not too serious. He’d rather invest in you, let you play dress up in your closet and watch you twirl for him. And he pays attention to every detail. What you like and don’t like. His cute fucking baby.

When he blushes, which is rare, it won’t show on his face, won’t smile at all or get red in his face— but his ears. Bright red. Be on the lookout when his mask is off.

Can knit and stitch. Not too good at stitching but he knows how to get that job done. Knitting? He joined Alice’s knitting group, club meetings to gossip are once a month of the first Saturday. He never misses a meeting.

Helps out the neighbors with their broken equipment. Broken lawnmower or mixing machine? He can fix it. He’s pretty handy. Stand off-ish but kind to his neighbors.

Spends some days drinking beer or whisky on the couch or going for a drive. Just to think about nothing but sometimes everything. Take a look at the scenic view, he takes you sometimes, kisses your hands and holds them tight without saying a word. 

Physical touch junkie, loves holding hands without saying it, brushing fingers, playing with your braids or curly hair, pinching your cheeks, having your legs in his lap— something.

Does not like clowns. Not scared but he finds them annoying. Same with mimes. Stays ten feet away.

Swears by Fleetwood Mac album ‘Rumours’, will always play it and never gets tired of it. It’s brought him out of multiple dark places. Won’t sing but will mumble the lyrics. So cute. Swears by To Noise Making (Sing) and Sunlight by Hozier and Be Quiet and Drive (Far Away) by Deftones.

Two other random hobbies? Lego building and painting. He’s shit at painting, but he does it anyway because he enjoys it. Now Lego building, hes good. As in there are a few self made projects around the house that look like real masterpieces, good. Simon spends a buck and then some on them, Soap teases him for it but he always shows them off to you, they’re amazing.

a/n: I hope this was okay anon. Let me know. Been waiting for someone to ask but meanie!simon going to anger management is like a big part of the reason I don’t write him so toxic (just a little bit like a little extra salt though). I don’t think he’s at that point in his life anymore. Also sorry for all the posts today. My bad.

most recent masterlist past meanie!simon hc

𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱<3: @bruisedfig @tessakate @sevikasblackgf @mocha-the-muse @nightfwn @mims900 @lillybunni

[eclipsturns]

⎯⎯⎯⎯ slugger . . .

matt’s on his knees, face buried between y/n’s thighs, the dimly lit room a haze of heat and shadows insidee her apartment, the space cluttered with books and half-dead plants, the air thick with her scent and the low hum of a fan that does nothing to cool the fire raging in him. his tongue’s been at it for ages, his movements slow, deliberate laps at first, now fast, messy, relentless, swirling over her clit, dipping into her folds, tasting her like she’s the only thing tethering him to the earth.

her thighs tremble around his head, slick with sweat and her dripping need, and she’s moaning loudly, a broken sound that claws at the steel cage around his heart. “matt—fuck, don’t stop,” she gasps, fingers yanking his hair, pulling him deeper, and he groans into her, the vibration making her buck against his mouth.

he’s lost in it, in her taste, her heat, the way she unravels under him; but his mind’s a warzone, a screaming mess of conflict he can’t silence.

matt doesn’t do this, no, he doesn’t feel, doesn’t fall.

he spent years of keeping his heart locked tight in a fortress of sarcasm and cold distance, fucking around when it suited him but never lingering, never caring. hookups were quick and shallow, just bodies to burn off steam, no names, no strings because the talking stage bored him to death and emotions were a trap he’d dodged since he was old enough to know they hurt.

but y/n is a goddamn wrecking ball, smashing through every wall he’s built, and he hates it, hates how his chest aches when she laughs, how his hands shake when she’s near, how he’s here, on his knees, worshipping her like she’s his undoing.

she doesn’t buy it—never has.

he’s tried telling her, voice cracking over late-night calls, eyes burning with tears he’d never let her see, frustration boiling when the words tangle and choke him.

“i fuckin’ feel somethin’, y/n. s’real,” he’d said once, raw and desperate, but she’d laughed, all soft and skeptical, brushing it off like he’s just another player spinning lines.

“y’don’t do feelings, matt, you told me yourself,” she’d thrown back, and it gutted him, because she’s right, he’d said it, lived it... but now it’s different, and she won’t see the truth bleeding out of him.

his tongue flicks faster now, sucking her clit hard, teeth grazing just enough to make her cry out—sharp, needy—and he’s drowning in her, in the way she’s falling apart, hips grinding against his face, her slick coating his chin.

“matt! shit, m’gonna—” she chokes, and he doubles down, one hand gripping her thigh, spreading her wider, the other pressing her hip to the bed, holding her still as she thrashes. his mind’s screaming.

fuck, i love this,

love her,

hate this,

hate me.

a chaotic loop he can’t escape, but his mouth doesn’t stop, can’t stop, pleasing her is the only thing that quiets the storm.

she cums hard, a gush of wet heat against his tongue, a scream tearing from her throat, body convulsing as he laps her through it, slow and greedy, savoring every shudder. her grip loosens in his hair, chest heaving, and he pulls back, lips glistening, breath ragged, blue eyes dark and wild as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

he’s a mess with his hair wrecked, shirt askew, heart pounding like it’s trying to break free, and she’s sprawled there, flushed and glowing, a lazy grin tugging her lips.

“jesus, slugger,” she pants, voice husky, teasing, “you hit that outta the park: fast as fuck through the bases, huh?”

it’s a jab.

slugger, the baseball term for a hard hitter, a sly nod to how he’s barreled through her defenses, her body, like he’s racing to some finish line she didn’t sign up for. she’s joking, but it stings, cutting deeper into the chaos in his head, especially because he’s not playing, not this time.

he forces a sharp, hollow laugh, running a hand through his hair, trying to mask the tremor in his voice. “yeah, well, y’make it easy, don’t ya?” he mutters, smirking, but it’s weak, his sarcasm a flimsy shield. his eyes betray him—searching hers, desperate for a crack, a sign she sees the truth he can’t spit out.

“y’so fuckin’ good at this... almost too good,” she teases, stretching, oblivious to the war he’s fighting, the way his throat tightens, the tears he’s choking back.

“you don’t get it,” he snaps, voice low, fraying, and she blinks, caught off guard.

“get what? your tongue game? i’m sold, matt,” she laughs, but he shakes his head, standing abrupt, pacing a step, hands clenching.

“not that—fuck, y/n, i’m—” he stops, chest heaving, words dying as frustration floods him, hot and bitter. “you think m’just messin’ with ya, but i’m not—i’m fuckin’ not.”

she sits up, smirk fading, eyes narrowing. “what—you gonna cry now? c’mon, don’t pull that shit, you don’t do this.” her voice is hard, guarded, and it’s a knife to his gut, twisting deep.

he laughs, turning away, knowing that if he looks at her, she’ll see the dampness in his eyes, the crack in his armor. “yeah, fuck me, right? can’t even say it—useless,” he mutters, voice thick, storming to the door, leaving her there, breathless, confused, still tingling from his mouth, calling after him, “matt—what the hell?”

︶ ͡ ۫ © eclipsturns 's all rights deserved !ㅤ (｡>﹏<｡) ⠀⠀𔘓⠀

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ⚡︎ ㅤ𝑀𝐘 𝓣𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ..! @courta13 @chrislilcumslvt @marrykisskilled @chrislova @sturnshood @inspiredangel @strnilolover @emely9274 @sturns-mermaid @ariieeesworld @pixie-sticks-are-good @luvjaeeee @sturnslutz @mattswifeyy @oopsiedaisydeer @v4lsturn @pair-of-pantaloons @idkwhatthisevenislol @sturn777 @whore4mattsturniolo @mattchalattee @madifilipowiczisthebest @fratbrochrisgf @sturniolo101 @ivysturnss @mattsatellite @sturnsblogs @izzylovesmatt @allisonclairee @m4gz-png @mr-wrinkleton @bluestriips @surprisecurlyfriesbackup @immaqulate @wysmols @onevison @chrepsi @mattslolita @ribbonlovergirl @milo-the-dog @madisturni @ariestrxsh @myluck4u-com @trevorsturniolo

[cina-full-moon-xanadium]

Ultraman Omega reveal trailer, poster and story overview. Debuts July 5th!

On an Earth where neither heroes nor kaiju exist, an alien suddenly falls from the sky. This Ultra’s symbol is the red space boomerang he holds, the Omega Slugger, and his name means “ultimate.”

“Omega” is an alien who has lost his memories. Taking human form and adopting the name “Sorato”, he becomes interested in the life forms called “Earthlings” that he is encountering for the first time and attempts to understand them.

When a giant life form appears, amnesiac Sorato recalls a word—“kaiju”. As these kaiju continue to appear before him, a sense of duty awakens in Sorato’s subconscious. He transforms into “Ultraman Omega” and an intense, fast-paced fight unfolds.

The Earthlings, in turn, are grappling with encountering these gigantic life forms and the alien that fights with a red slugger for the first time, watching from various places and trying to understand what they are. Before long, Sorato and an ordinary young man—an alien and an Earthling, become friends. This ambitious work poses a question through these friends’ resonating hearts; “Why does Ultraman protect the Earth?”

Now, is when they awaken. Please tune in to our latest TV series, Ultraman Omega.

[missmarveledsblog]

Spellbinding ( sam winchester x reader )

summary : sam being completely in love with reader who happens to be his best friend while on a hunt she is hit with a curse making her needy clingy mess while sam was loving the closeness it was only temporary right?

Warnings : spells and shit , sam being simp (love that for him )

In all his life he never thought he would feel like this , at first he pegged it to being a school boy crush but it only grew . she would be the one to stay up late into the morning researching while his brother just went to the bar or bed calling them " nerds"  . she'd be the one to make sure they got sleep after realising how long they had spent nose deep in their laptops or books . she'd be the one to make sure everyone was taken care of even making sure dean didn't have a diet that consisted of fast food making them home cooked meals in the bunker . she would tease and be playful so it wasn't all work . so it was hard not to fall for her in fact what scared him was how easy it happened. the fact that dean caught on was hell in itself finding new ways to torture his brother with the new found information always pairing the two off together , the little remarks she never noticed and when she did she would brush them off as dean well being dean . hunts we're both a blessing and a curse for him when she was there . he could make sure she was safe but yet her just being there meant she was also in danger , an internal battle on which part to stick with . Like now they were walking through an abandoned asylum after report of many men going mad once they've been in the   place one way or another . now they were walking through the halls , searching for whatever it was or even a clue to what it was . she hated the abandoned hospitals and asylums they had an extra creepy feeling to them . sam knew this main reason he made sure to stay closer then usual which if he was lying he kinda took advantage of it . " ah shit " she huffed . " what , what is it " . " look the symbol we've dealt with this before " she pointed walking into the large open space that used to be a rec room . the symbols spread around the room like she said it was too familiar .

" witches " he mused. " always witches get dean here , he's a lightening rod for curses " she sighed dramatically making him laugh. " what are you doing here , your not welcome " the voice called . " listen lady , neither are you " she turned to see the raven haired woman glaring . " this is my new home and intend to keep it that way " she turned to sam as he raised his gun . he was waiting for it , to be thrown across the room it was all too regular habit but yet all he felt was her pushing him and taking the hit flying across and hitting the wall . " hey darling now that wasn't so nice of you " dean held the woman tight while cas done his thing . " hey sweetheart you ok " he called. " yeah i think so ouch how do you do that sammy " she groaned wiping the dust off of herself . " what the hell were you thinking " he yelled running to check her over. " i was thinking you'd be grateful " she smiled sweetly. " idiot you could of been killed " he chastised missing the way she was looking at him . " hey kid you ok " dean smirked seeing the sudden shift in her demeanour. " so pretty " she cooed all doe eyes and mushy as she stared at her best friend before latching on to his arm . " lets get her out of here " dean snorted seeing his brothers cheeks all flushed while Y/N was clinging to him like he was the light in the dark . " hey how you feeling slugger" dean turned see sam carrying her out on his back like a koala on a tree. " she wanted to be closer because it hurt being so far apart " he groaned. " hey you should be happy hot chick all over you " held the door open so sam could put her in the back . " cas in front "dean's shit eating grin was not helping the situation and neither was the grabby hands she was making .

They found out she was hit with a curse same one those men were hit with except in her case well she was overly clingy only when sam moved away it actually hurt her like a blinding cutting pain ran through her body when they were apart for more than 60 minutes , during the first week they found that out . " a couple of weeks and she will be back to normal she said something else but cas was playing around so we had to leave quick " dean explained while Y/N was now in sams lap almost purring like a kitten nothing like the woman before . " couple of weeks , how the hell am i going to do this for a couple of weeks " sam hissed rubbing her back when she tensed at his words. " enjoy it since your such a bitch and not telling her how you feel when she's,  well not a pussy cat " he chuckled. " do you not like the affection " cas asked confused. " i would if it was of her own accord " sam muttered feeling her head resting on his shoulder after she'd fallen asleep . " i need a shower , a quick one " he said placing her down on the sofa and putting his shit around her. " don't be long i can see her screaming again , it's painful to watch " cas walked out . " i wont , i don't like it either " sam huffed running out the room . he loved it and hated it , he loved the close contact and he affection , but he missed his partner in crime , he miss how she would talk about everything and anything with him , he missed her being his best friend . yet he love having her nuzzled so close he could smell her shampoo , he loved the feeling of her soft skin under his palms. how he could see every detail of her face , how her smiled would widen in his presence . the water cascaded down his body yet the hot water done nothing to soften the stress of the situation he loved and hated all in one . What made it worse she was going through it all because she wanted to save him , wasn't it his job to keep her safe.

"where's sammy " she whined starting to sweat as she felt the tingle beginning. " he'll be back in a minute " dean huffed. he couldn't wait for it to end , the badass smart chick he loved like a sister reduce to a needy airhead , now whining like a kid for candy. " hey how come you never told sam why she so bad " cas asked again his curious nature getting the best. " because even i know the two of them need to say it without the power of a curse and hell he'd probably short circuited. " this hurts " she sniffled but her head shot up feeling his presence near it was like her skin was burning and only he could put it out. " hey i'm back " he smiled weakly feeling her arms wrap around him tightly. " i missed you , it hurt and dean was mean" she pouted . " jesus this hard to even watch " dean rolled his eyes . " well if sam loves her i'm sure it ok " . " sammy only loves me like a friend " she pouted at cas words . " that's what you think but he's in love with you ... ouch " he winced rubbing back of his head . her head shot up and a clearing of a fog sensation. " hey when did we get back here " her voice back to levelness before . " hey sweetness aint you a sight " dean smirked only for her to roll her eyes. " she's back " he cheered. " that could of been the cure , although it's very fairy tale like" cas smiled. " what the baby in the trenchcoat is saying was that you were cursed and been on sammy there like a pimple" dean explained making her realise where her hands were . " oh shit sorry " she back off cheeks flushing at the close proximity . " it's ok really " he smiled sheepishly. " so how did we break it " she asked . " i told you how sam really felt and OWWW " Castiel cried . " hey why you hit him " she ran to the angel checking him over. " oh fuck it, knowing sam loved you like truly loved you broke it , the reason she was so affected is because she loves you too " dean yelled. " do i hit him now " cas whispered . " you love me " they both said at same time . " lets give them some room " dean led castiel out of the room while the two stood stunned at the information. " wait did he just confess for us " she asked dumbfounded. " i think he did " sam stood closer wrapping his arms around her waist. " didn't you get enough " she teased turning to face him fully arms going on his shoulder. " but this time its because i know you love me " he smiled leaning his forehead on hers . " shame it wasn't a kiss breaking curse " . " i think we can change that " she couldn't respond because soon as the words left his mouth he crashed his lips on her. kissing her like she was the only source of oxygen . every part of her being felt alive and awake like never before . they melted together like two missing pieces finally connecting. lost souls lost in the dark finding the light. " i love you so much " he chuckled happy to finally being able to say the words .

"hey thought the curse was broken " bobby asked looking as she sat perched in sam's lap while he was looking through research . " it did " she smiled holding up her book she was using . " they love each other and do sick  sweet shit like this now " dean rolled his eyes . " oh stop being a baby i've seen you cuddle your car " she snorted. " i have too " castiel nodded. " well glad to have you back kid" bobby smiled getting himself a cup of coffee. sam on other hand sat smiling happily now he had the woman he loved back , the one who talked to him constantly , his best friend and now his girlfriend .

[fanficsandstuffgod]

⊹ ࣪ ˖ Competition Part 2 ⊹ ࣪ ˖

fem!soccer!fem!reader x baseball!schlatt

part two of this!

The campus was crawling with athletes and ego. Jerseys in clashing colours, chants echoing off old brick buildings, the kind of buzz that made even the cockiest players double-check their game faces.

Y/N adjusted her warm-up top as she passed the baseball field. She wasn’t looking for anyone in particular, obviously. Just… casually checking out the competition.

And there he was. Schlatt. Leaning on the dugout rail like he owned the place, twirling a baseball between his fingers like it was part of his DNA.

Their eyes met. Predictable.

“You lot got lost on the way to the kiddie field?” he called out, loud enough that half his team turned to look.

Y/N didn’t break stride. “Nah, just passing through. Wanted to see what mediocre looks like in person.”

A few soccer girls chuckled behind her. He smirked.

“Didn’t know your game was scheduled for the same time as ours. Shame. Won’t be able to watch you lose.”

She stopped, turned, arms crossed. “That’s cute. Thinkin’ you’d be invited.”

Schlatt jogged a few steps closer, stopping just shy of her personal space. “C’mon, don’t tell me you wouldn’t wanna impress me.”

“I don’t need to impress someone who thinks chewing gum and wearing sunglasses is a personality.”

He leaned in just a little, grin lazy and dangerous. “Then why’re you already tryin’ so hard?”

Y/N didn’t flinch. Just smiled that smile she knew got under his skin.

“Tell you what,” she said, walking backwards now, heading for her pitch, “you win your game, I might—might—let you carry my water bottle.”

Schlatt laughed, low and cocky. “You lose yours, and you’re wearin’ my jersey next week.”

“Dream on, slugger.”

And just like that, the line was drawn. Game on—on and off the field.

── .✦

The sun was starting to dip, casting long shadows over the stadium steps. Y/N sat near the bleachers, still in her kit, grass stains on her knees, a sheen of sweat on her skin she hadn’t bothered to wipe off yet.

They’d won. 3–2. Tight game. Rough one, too. Her left shin was definitely gonna bruise.

She was pulling at the laces on her cleats when a shadow fell over her.

“Look who survived.”

She didn’t even have to look up.

“Was hopin’ you'd be too humiliated to show your face after that little strikeout meltdown in the fifth.”

Schlatt huffed, dropping down next to her like he had a right to. His jersey was stained with dirt and whatever bruised ego he’d collected from losing.

“You watched?”

“Please. I could hear your tantrum from the pitch.”

“Wasn’t a tantrum.”

“Was dramatic.”

He shrugged, elbow resting casually against his knee. “And you? You looked... decent out there.”

“Oh wow,” she said, mock offended. “High praise from the benchwarmer of the century.”

He grinned, teeth catching the last of the sunlight. “Didn’t say I wasn’t impressed.”

Silence settled for a second—only the muffled sounds of other games wrapping up, sneakers on pavement, someone yelling for a missing water bottle.

Then—

“You still want me to carry yours?” he asked, flicking his eyes to her bag.

She looked at him, brow raised.

“I won, remember?”

“Yeah,” he said, like it physically pained him. “I remember.”

They locked eyes for a moment longer than necessary. Something slowed down between them.

Then she smirked. “Nah. I’m good.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re easy.”

He looked at her then, really looked. Less cocky this time. Quieter.

“Maybe I’d be easy... for you.”

Y/N blinked, thrown for a second.

But before she could come up with a comeback that didn’t sound like a full-blown confession, he was already standing.

“See you around, champ.”

And just like that, he was gone. Leaving her with a racing heart, a dumb smirk on her face, and a very inconvenient flutter in her stomach.

── .✦

I lounged across the couch, legs draped over one armrest, a few of the other girls curled up beside me. The house still buzzed from our win—some of the team had gone out to celebrate, but a handful of us had chosen the quieter option: movie night.

There was a bit of back-and-forth about what to watch. I’d thrown out The Outsiders—shot down instantly. We ended up settling on Star Wars, the original ‘70s one. Classic. Safe.

Don’t get me wrong, I love Star Wars. But tonight? My mind was galaxies away.

Schlatt.

God. What the hell did he mean earlier? That line… “Maybe I’d be easy… for you.”

Was he joking? Flirting? Was that even real or did my brain just decide to romanticize a casual throwaway comment?

I tried to focus on the film, but my thoughts were running wild. Like, was it completely insane to text him? Just something small. Teasing. No big deal.

I started mentally drafting a pros and cons list.

Pros: – I’d get to mess with him. – If he bit back, that’s leverage. – He’d definitely be the one thinking about me after.

Cons: – The girls would absolutely roast me. – If he was joking, I’d die. – He’d have the upper hand forever.

…Okay. Risky. But I was already reaching for my phone.

Only one problem.

Shit. I didn’t even have his number.

“Y’alright, Y/N?” Kenzie asked, eyeing me with a smirk. “You look like you’re having a full-on war in that head of yours.”

I forced a smile. “Yeah, no, I’m good. Just... hey, random—did you ever get Schlatt’s number? Back when you were hanging out with Kyle?”

She raised an eyebrow, slow and suspicious, but pulled out her phone anyway. “Yeah… why?”

I shrugged, all casual, like this wasn’t a totally deranged move. “Just need to ask him something.”

Kenzie sent it over without pushing—thank god.

i sent him a casual text, just asked how post-loss glow ws treating him.

Seconds later, my phone buzzed. One image attached.

It was him.

At a party.

Surrounded by the girls on our team—the ones who’d chosen to go out tonight. One of them had an arm around his neck. His smirk was deadly.

Oh, hell no.

I typed before I could overthink it:

too busy watching star wars. what’re you doing with our soccer girls? thought you hated their guts, slugger.

Sent.

Regret set in immediately. I stood up quickly, heart hammering.

“I’m gonna head upstairs,” I muttered to the girls.

Kenzie shot me a knowing look but didn’t say anything.

── .✦

Her phone buzzed before she even made it halfway up the stairs.

[Schlatt]:

didn’t know your girls were so friendly 😏 should’ve come out. i was hoping to see you

She stopped cold. Right there on the stairs. Barefoot. Heart skipping like it had somewhere better to be.

He wanted to see her? He was hoping—

Nope. She wasn’t gonna spiral. Not now. Not over a text sent from the middle of some rager with her teammates fawning all over him.

Her thumbs hovered. Then typed.

don’t need to be surrounded by a bunch of girls to get attention. i already won my game 😘

Send. Savage. Clean.

She didn’t expect the three dots to appear right away.

[Schlatt]:

yeah but you still haven’t won me

Her jaw dropped.

What the—?

Before she could even decide how to react, another message came in.

[Schlatt]:

you up or what?

Y/N stared at the screen.

Was he drunk? Was he serious? Was she actually considering this?

She glanced out the front window. The night was quiet. Still. Half the team was out. The other half asleep or pretending to be.

She bit her lip.

Her fingers moved on autopilot.

where are you

[Schlatt]:

west side of campus corner house. music’s loud back door’s open

Her heart pounded so hard she felt it in her throat.

Five minutes later, she was out the door—hoodie thrown over her pyjamas, phone in hand, telling herself it was just to see what the big deal was.

Not because she wanted to see him.

Not because she couldn’t stop thinking about that stupid line.

im fully convinced i've forgotten how to write bc wtf is this bro

[anunkindncss]

Do you know how hard it is to live in this country with two neurodivergent kids and not go full feral criminal when men like RFK open their mouths? Do you know the level of restraint it takes to not buy a Louisville slugger, drive to his next speaking event, and gently—lovingly—beat the ignorance out of his skull until it understands basic diagnostic evolution?

This man stood on a stage and said that autism “destroys families,” that autistic kids “will never pay taxes, never write a poem, never use a toilet unassisted.”

My son has written poems that made me cry. He works. He pays taxes. He uses the bathroom, thank you very much, without a damn government-issued manual. He is not destroyed. He is exceptional.

Meanwhile, RFK spews antivax conspiracy garbage and acts like he’s qualified to speak on healthcare while I’m out here fighting insurance battles like it’s the Hunger Games: Therapy Edition.

It is exhausting trying to protect my kids from a country that keeps electing men who treat them like collateral damage in their war on science. My kids deserve better. Neurodivergent kids deserve better. And frankly, I deserve a damn nap and maybe a medal for not turning into Batman minus the “no kill” policy.

To my fellow neurodivergent writers and creators out here: this space is for you.

You are not broken. You are not a burden. You are brilliant, capable, and deserving of stories, of softness, of rest. If no one’s told you today—I’m proud of you. My blog will always be a soft landing place, a seat at the table, and a loud voice screaming on your behalf when the world gets cruel.

Come as you are. You are welcome here.

[theholy-orthebrokenhallelujah]

Merry Month of Cohen 2025 Creations (The Only Post You Need)

It was the epic Merry Month of Cohen of the epic year 2025, and we made it.

All the 2025 Merry Month of Cohen Fics (so far, he he he!)

1. the late, late show by @resistate/resistate (Star Trek: Voyager. Pairings: Janeway/Chakotay and Seven of Nine/Chakotay).

2. the links we’ve broken by @werecountingthestars/CountingTheStarsOutside (Star Trek: Deep Space Nine. Pairing: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak).

3. Fingerprints (A) by @enterprise-come-in/sweet_georgia_peach_drawl (Star Trek: Strange New Worlds (TV). Pairing: Past Marie Batel/Christopher Pike).

4. (No One Gets) All of it Right by @regionalpancake/Regionalpancake (Star Trek: Picard. Pairing: Raffi Musiker/Cristóbal Rios).

5. For The Heart With No Companion by @enterprise-come-in/sweet_georgia_peach_drawl (Star Trek: Strange New Worlds (TV). Pairing: Number One | Una Chin-Riley/Christopher Pike).

6. Come Healing by @pc-corner/CAMIR (Star Trek: Strange New Worlds (TV). Pairing: Number one | Una Chin-Riley/Christopher Pike, Number One | Una Chin-Riley/Villain).

7. schism by @mia-cooper/MiaCooper (Star Trek: Voyager, Relationship: Kathryn Janeway & Tuvok).

8. Shame and the Chaos Goblin by @marymoss1971/TVgirll1971 (Star Trek: Section 31, Star Trek: The Next Generation, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine).

9. Can You Feel My Sunshine by Chessene (Star Trek: Voyager. Pairings: Chakotay/Kathryn Janeway, Chakotay/Seven of Nine).

10. Promise by @melethinnil/Melethinnil (Star Trek: Prodigy, Pairing: Chakotay/Kathryn Janeway). 

11. FingerPrints (B) by @enterprise-come-in/sweet_georgia_peach_drawl (Star Trek: Voyager. Pairings: Chakotay/Seven of Nine, Kathryn Janeway/Seven of Nine).

12. And I Promise, Cross My Heart, They’ll Never Catch Us by @grissomesque/grissomesque (Star Trek: Voyager. Pairings: Kathryn Janeway/Tom Paris, Chakotay/B’Elanna Torres, Tom Paris/B’Elanna Torres).

13. Lullaby for Suffering by N_Squared (Star Trek: Discovery, Star Trek: The Original Series, Star Trek: Strange New Worlds (TV). Pairings: Christopher Pike/Vina, Marie Batel/Christopher Pike, Christopher Pike & Katrina Cornwell).  

14. The Ring She Wears Isn’t Mine by @rocktherecorder/Ghille_Dhu (Star Trek: Voyager. Pairings: Kathryn Janeway/Seven of Nine, Chakotay/Seven of Nine).

15. You Want it Darker by @msbonnibelbubblegum/ladyarachnid (Star Trek: The Original Series. Pairings: Mirror James T. Kirk/Mirror Spock, Background James T.Kirk/Spock).

16. Ds9 art with Jadzia & Ezri Dax and Voyager art with Tuvok & Lon Suder by @gluecookie/@monsterfisken

17. and quiet is the thought of you by AdmiredDisorder (Star Trek: Voyager. Pairings: Chakotay/Kathryn Janeway & (ahem) Kathryn Janeway/USS Voyager).

18. You Want It Darker by MaMe45 (Star Trek: Voyager. Pairing: Kathryn Janeway/Seven of Nine).  

19. Wavelength by @lesbian-love-letter/lipstick_kisses (Star Trek: Voyager. Pairing: Kathryn Janeway/Seven of Nine).

20. Cause and Effect by @seema-unbound/SeemaG (Star Trek: Voyager. Pairing: John Torres/Miral Torres).

21. [podfic of] Fingerprints (A) by @resistate/idellaphod (Star Trek: Strange New Worlds (TV). Pairing: Past Marie Batel/Christopher Pike).

22. Gaharay by @jone-slugger/JX27 (Star Trek: Voyager. Pairings: Kathryn Janeway/Kashyk, Kathryn Janeway/Chakotay).  

23. Lifeblood by @fartherfaster/fartherfaster (Star Trek: Voyager. Pairings: Kathryn Janeway/Chakotay, Kathryn Janeway/Owen Paris).

These are the creations for the Merry Month of Cohen 2025 so far! As you can see, I’ve added links to both your stories and ao3 usernames, so hopefully people can discover new stories and writers they like!

This will be the pinned message of the blog from now on, so everyone can access easily this year’s fics!

If I, somehow, have made any mistake with any of your creations, links, and whatnot, CONTACT ME ASAP either here or on my personal: @coffee-in-that-nebula.

This blog will remain open – and how not? I haven’t even finished my own fic yet, teehee. Thee irony. But the point is: I’m here for the late participations – no worries, take your time!

Anyway, thank you all for putting up with me this year, my gifs and poor attempts at humor, and I hope you enjoyed this year’s fest as much as I did – if not more!

I encourage you all to show some love to this year’s stories, read them, and leave kudos, and comments! I personally look forward to reading each of them!

Happy creating & happy reading!

[boywithdragon]

Hi I'm Clemens! This is my regression and boyhood blog🩵

I am an adult male (late 20s) but regress to ages 4-5, 8-11 and sometimes 12-13. My age fluctuates a lot but I'm never younger than 4 or older than 13🩵

I have level 2 autism and regress entirely involuntarily, mainly due to trauma🩵

I'm almost always regressed and consider myself a permaregressor🩵

I have a paternal caregiver who I call Daddy/Dad/Papa/Dragon etc. He's the only person I am also romantically attracted to, otherwise I consider myself aromantic and homosexual🩵

I'm reliving my boyhood through my regression so this blog will mainly have "boyish" content🩵

Some things I love: Dragons, dogs, Jellycat stuffies, vehicles, dinosaurs and basically all other animals, bright (primary) colors, marbles, bouncy balls, Lego, puzzles, stars, stickers, praise, sports, and sometimes pacifiers

I don't like: Stuffies other than Jellycats, the color pink, typical "girly" toys and clothes, baby talk, scary/violent movies, yelling and loud noises.

My favorite colors are blue, green and orange🩵💚🧡

I like being called: Baby Boy, Sport, Slugger, Champ, Buddy/Bud, Little Man, Little Prince, Kiddo, Cub and other more "masculine" nicknames🩵

I am open to a platonic maternal caregiver! Please message me if you'd like to get to know me better🩵

This blog will have nothing that isn't kid-friendly. Just a safe space for me to be a boy.

[caffinateddragon-blog]

FINALLY THE ULTRAMAN DROUGHT IS OVER

On an Earth where neither heroes nor kaiju exist, an alien suddenly falls from the sky. This Ultra’s symbol is the red space boomerang he holds, the Omega Slugger, and his name means “ultimate.” “Omega” is an alien who has lost his memories. Taking human form and adopting the name “Sorato”, he becomes interested in the life forms called “Earthlings” that he is encountering for the first time and attempts to understand them. When a giant life form appears, amnesiac Sorato recalls a word—“kaiju”. As these kaiju continue to appear before him, a sense of duty awakens in Sorato’s subconscious. He transforms into “Ultraman Omega” and an intense, fast-paced fight unfolds. The Earthlings, in turn, are grappling with encountering these gigantic life forms and the alien that fights with a red slugger for the first time, watching from various places and trying to understand what they are. Before long, Sorato and an ordinary young man—an alien and an Earthling, become friends. This ambitious work poses a question through these friends’ resonating hearts; “Why does Ultraman protect the Earth?” Now, is when they awaken. Please tune in to our latest TV series, Ultraman Omega.

[teddiee]

Nothing But Gravity: Chapter 5

Summary:

"Where ya goin', slugger?" Dugan shouted over the music. "Party's just gettin' good! Barton’s about to do a keg stand that'll either make him a legend or kill him. My money's on both!"

Bucky shook his head, holding up his phone. "Gotta check on somethin'," he called back. "Rain check on Barton’s death by alcohol poisoning."

Dugan squinted at him, momentary confusion giving way to understanding as his gaze flicked to the phone. "Stark?" he asked, surprisingly perceptive for a man who had likely consumed his body weight in beer. When Bucky nodded, Dugan clapped him on the shoulder. "Go get your boy, Barnes. I'll pour one out for your abandoned hookup."

Words: 10,282

"And this one has a dishwasher," the landlady announced, as if revealing a priceless artifact. Her voice echoed in the barren kitchen, bouncing off laminate countertops that had seen better days—possibly during the Cold War. "Very rare for student housing in this area."

Bucky watched Tony circle the small apartment like a cautious cat in unfamiliar territory. His large eyes tracked every detail, from the scuffed baseboards to the suspicious water stain on the ceiling that vaguely resembled Abraham Lincoln if you squinted. In the three hours they'd been apartment hunting, Tony's enthusiasm had waned with each new disappointment, his shoulders gradually curving inward, his steps growing heavier.

"The dishwasher's nice," Bucky offered, trying to inject some optimism into the stale air.

Tony nodded absently, tapping his knuckles against the counter in that distracted rhythm Bucky had come to recognize as his analytical mode. "It's... functional," he agreed without conviction.

The landlady beamed as if they'd just proclaimed it the Taj Mahal. "And the bedrooms are very spacious!" She bustled down the narrow hallway, floral skirt swishing around sensible shoes. "Come, come!"

Bucky caught Tony's eye and mouthed "very spacious" with exaggerated air quotes. The corner of Tony's mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close enough that Bucky counted it as a victory.

"After you, Trouble," Bucky murmured, gesturing for Tony to go ahead.

Tony's footsteps dragged slightly as he followed the landlady, each step more reluctant than the last. Bucky recognized the signs: the stiffening shoulders, the tightening around those expressive eyes. Tony was retreating—not physically, but emotionally, building those invisible walls brick by careful brick.

"As you can see," the landlady continued, swinging open a door to reveal a room that could generously be described as a closet with ambitions, "plenty of space for a bed and desk!"

Tony stepped inside, his slim frame making the room look momentarily more spacious until Bucky joined him. Their shoulders brushed in the confined space, and Tony shifted automatically, creating that careful gap he always maintained. The movement was so subtle anyone else might have missed it, but Bucky had cataloged every one of Tony's unconscious boundaries, memorized the exact measurement of distance Tony needed to feel secure.

"It's..." Tony started, clearly searching for something positive to say.

"Tiny," Bucky finished for him. "Ma'am, I'm pretty sure my left shoe wouldn't fit in here, let alone a desk."

The landlady's smile never faltered. "Cozy," she corrected cheerfully. "Students these days appreciate minimalism."

"There's minimalism and then there's bein' able to high-five your roommate from your bed without gettin' up," Bucky drawled, his Brooklyn accent thickening with his exasperation.

That earned him a genuine snort from Tony, who quickly covered his mouth as if surprised by his own amusement.

"Well," the landlady sniffed, "the rent is very competitive for this neighborhood."

Bucky raised an eyebrow. "Competitive with what? County jail cells?"

"Buck," Tony murmured, but there was a glint of something like gratitude in his eyes.

Bucky shrugged unapologetically. This was the fourth apartment they'd viewed today, and each had been more depressing than the last—a parade of overpriced shoeboxes with mysterious stains and neighbors who sounded, based on the paper-thin walls, like they were either hosting nightly wrestling matches or extremely enthusiastic furniture rearrangement sessions.

The landlady's smile had turned decidedly frosty. "I have three other students interested in this unit," she said, clutching her clipboard like a shield. "It won't last long."

"Is that a threat or a promise?" Bucky asked innocently.

Tony elbowed him, but not before Bucky caught the smile he was fighting to suppress. Bucky grabbed his arm, gave it a quick squeeze, then let go.

"We appreciate your time," Tony said diplomatically, in that carefully modulated voice he used when smoothing over Bucky's bluntness. "We'll, um, discuss it and let you know."

The landlady nodded curtly and led them back through the apartment, pointing out features with significantly less enthusiasm—a light switch that "sometimes works," a closet that "provides extra character," and a bathroom where the shower and toilet had apparently reached some sort of territorial agreement that left no room for actual humans.

Outside on the sidewalk, the spring afternoon greeted them with a gust of wind that ruffled Tony's already disheveled curls. Bucky fought the urge to reach out and smooth them, to bridge that unspoken boundary between them. Instead, he shoved his hands into his sweatshirt pocket and rocked back on his heels.

"Well, that was..."

"Terrible," Tony finished, the ghost of a smile flickering across his lips. "Absolutely terrible."

"Catastrophic," Bucky agreed, falling into step beside Tony as they headed down the street. "I'm pretty sure I saw somethin' living behind the fridge. And not in a cute Stuart Little kinda way."

Tony's laugh was brief but genuine, a sound that still felt like a rare gift every time Bucky coaxed it out of him.

"You didn't have to be so blunt with her," Tony said, but there was no reproach in his voice—just that mixture of exasperation and fondness that Bucky had come to crave like air.

"Someone had to say it," Bucky shrugged. "That wasn't an apartment; it was a storage closet with delusions of grandeur."

Tony shook his head, but his posture had loosened slightly, some of the tension draining from his shoulders. "One more to see today, right?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral, as if bracing himself for another disappointment.

"Yeah, over on Elm Street." Bucky pulled out his phone to check the address. "Hope it's not as much of a nightmare as the name suggests."

The pun landed, and Tony's eyes crinkled slightly. "That was terrible."

"You're smiling, though."

"I'm grimacing in pain."

"Potato, po-tah-to."

They walked in companionable silence for a block, weaving through the busy sidewalk traffic. Bucky noticed how Tony unconsciously stepped closer to him whenever a stranger passed too near, then resumed that careful distance once the perceived threat was gone. Like a gravitational dance—pull and retreat, draw and withdraw.

"You doin' okay?" Bucky asked finally, keeping his tone deliberately casual. "We can call it a day if you want. Hit the reset button tomorrow."

Tony's fingers were working at the frayed edge of his sleeve, a nervous tell that Bucky had learned to read like a weather vane. "No, I'm fine," he said quickly. Too quickly. "Just... apartment hunting is more exhausting than I expected."

Bucky nodded, not pushing. "Yeah, feels like we're on some kinda twisted reality show. 'How Much Will Desperate College Students Pay for a Glorified Cardboard Box?'"

Tony's mouth quirked upward. "The twist is that they all have mysterious stains."

"And neighbors who either play drums or practice martial arts at 2 AM."

"Sometimes both."

"Simultaneously."

Tony's shoulders relaxed another fraction, his steps aligning more naturally with Bucky's. The gap between them narrowed without either acknowledging it—a subtle shift, like continents drifting imperceptibly closer.

Bucky snuck a sideways glance at Tony's profile, catching the way the afternoon sun illuminated the fine structure of his face—the straight nose, the sweep of dark lashes, the slight furrow between his brows that never quite disappeared. His gaze lingered on the curve of Tony's jaw, the way it angled into the soft hollow of his throat where his pulse fluttered visibly when he was anxious.

God, he was beautiful. Sure, in the conventional, obvious way that could turn heads at parties, but also in a quiet, unassuming manner that revealed itself in layers. Like a complex equation that required patience to solve. The realization hit Bucky with renewed force every time he looked at Tony, a punch to the solar plexus that somehow never lost its impact.

"What is it?" Tony asked suddenly, catching Bucky's stare. "Do I have something on my face?"

"Just thinkin'," Bucky replied easily, looking away before Tony could read the truth in his eyes.

"About?"

"How much fun it's gonna be to watch you attempt DIY repairs when somethin' inevitably breaks in whatever death trap we end up rentin'."

Tony snorted. "Me? You're the one who needed a YouTube tutorial to change a light bulb last week."

"I didn't need the tutorial," Bucky protested. "I was just... double-checkin' my technique."

"Right," Tony deadpanned. "That's why you stood on a swivel chair and nearly concussed yourself on the ceiling fan."

"The chair was stable until you walked in and distracted me!"

"By existing? I literally just opened the door."

"Exactly. Very distractin'." Bucky bumped his shoulder playfully against Tony's, and for once, Tony didn't immediately reestablish the gap between them.

They turned onto Elm Street, the conversation shifting to safer topics—finals, Steve's latest disaster in the kitchen (involving pasta and what might have been an attempt at homemade pesto that more closely resembled radioactive sludge), and Tony's latest project for his engineering class. Bucky listened attentively, relishing the animation that crept into Tony's voice whenever he discussed his work, the subtle transformation from guarded to enthusiastic that still felt like a privilege to witness.

As they approached the address for the last apartment viewing, Bucky felt Tony's steps falter again. He glanced over to find Tony chewing at his bottom lip, that familiar furrow deepening between his brows.

"Hey," Bucky said gently, stopping on the sidewalk. "We don't have to do this today. Or at all, if you're changin' your mind about—"

"No," Tony interrupted, too quickly. He swallowed, his fingers working at the sleeve of his jacket. "No, it's not that. I just—" He broke off, struggling visibly with whatever he wanted to say.

Bucky waited patiently, giving Tony the space he needed to find his words, fighting the urge to reach out and smooth the tension from his expression.

"Are you sure about this?" Tony finally asked, his voice so quiet Bucky had to lean in slightly to hear him. "About... living together? With me?" The question hung between them, fragile and weighted.

Ah. There it was—the real issue that had been shadowing Tony's steps all day.

"Tony," Bucky began carefully, "If you don't want to—"

"It's not that," Tony cut in, eyes darting away. "It's just... I'm not exactly easy to live with. I keep weird hours. I talk to myself. I don't always sleep well, and... I get nightmares sometimes. I get so caught up in projects I forget to eat or sleep for days." His words tumbled out in a rush, as if he'd been rehearsing this speech. "And I'm... you know..." He gestured vaguely, a hand fluttering near the nape of his neck where his omega marking lay hidden beneath dark curls.

Bucky's chest tightened. "Tony, I don't care about—"

"You should," Tony insisted, finally meeting Bucky's gaze with unexpected intensity. "People will talk. They'll assume things. About us. About you." He swallowed hard. "You have a reputation, Buck. I don't want to mess that up."

The conviction in Tony's voice—the genuine concern—hit Bucky like a physical blow. He could barely process what he was hearing: Tony wasn't worried about himself; he was worried about Bucky's reputation. The absurdity of it would have been funny if it weren't so heartbreaking.

"Tony," Bucky said firmly, taking a step closer, deliberately narrowing the space between them. "First of all, my reputation could use a little messin' up. And second—" He held Tony's gaze steadily. "I don't give a damn what anyone thinks. I want to live with you because you're my friend. Because we get along. Because I like hangin' out with you. It's that simple."

Tony studied him with that penetrating gaze that always made Bucky feel simultaneously seen and exposed. "Is it, though?" he asked softly.

The question hung between them, layered with meanings neither was ready to articulate. Bucky's heart hammered against his ribs, a steady drumbeat of panic and possibility.

"Yeah," he said finally, forcing a casual shrug he didn't feel. "It is. Unless... you've got another reason why it shouldn't be?"

Tony held his gaze for a moment longer, something unreadable flickering in those dark eyes, before looking away. "No," he murmured. "No other reason."

The tension eased slightly, though something unspoken still lingered in the air between them—a question partially asked, partially answered, mostly avoided.

"Good," Bucky said, perhaps too brightly. "Then let's go check out this last place before we both die of old age on this sidewalk. Who knows, maybe this one will have actual walls instead of construction tarp."

Tony's lips curved into a small, genuine smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Walls would be nice," he agreed. "A functional bathroom would be even better."

"Whoa there, Stark," Bucky placed a hand over his heart in mock shock. "Let's not get greedy. Next you'll be askin' for floors that don't slant thirty degrees."

The joke landed, cracking through some of the lingering tension. Tony's shoulders relaxed incrementally as they approached the final apartment building of the day—a modest three-story brownstone that, from the outside at least, appeared to have all its structural components intact.

"This one almost looks... decent," Tony observed cautiously, as if afraid to jinx it.

Bucky nodded, equally skeptical after their day of disappointments. "Don't get your hopes up. Remember that place on Fourth that looked normal from the outside but had that weird shrine to Nicolas Cage in the hall closet?"

"I'm still not convinced that wasn't some elaborate prank you set up."

"I wish I were that creative," Bucky chuckled. "No one dedicates that kinda time to cuttin' out hundreds of magazine photos unless they're genuinely obsessed."

They climbed the steps to the building, Bucky automatically positioning himself slightly ahead of Tony in that protective stance he'd adopted without conscious thought. At the door, they were greeted not by another overly enthusiastic property manager, but by an older man with salt-and-pepper hair and hands that bore the calluses of someone who did his own repairs.

"Barnes and Stark?" he asked briskly, extending a hand. "Everett Ross. I own the building."

They shook hands, and Bucky noticed how Tony's grip was quick and light, minimizing contact, while his own remained firm—the contrast between them outlined in even this small interaction.

"Third floor unit," Ross explained as he led them inside. "No elevator, I'm afraid, but the stairs keep you in shape." He climbed the steps with the easy confidence of someone who made this trek daily, pointing out features as they went. "Building's from the 1940s, but I've updated all the electrical. Plumbing's new as of last year. Heat's reliable, though it can get a bit warm in summer."

The stairwell was clean and well-lit, with none of the mysterious odors that had permeated the other buildings they'd toured. Bucky caught Tony's eye as they climbed, raising his eyebrows slightly in cautious optimism.

When Ross unlocked the door to the apartment, Bucky braced himself for another disappointment, but was met instead with a surprisingly pleasant space flooded with natural light from windows that actually opened. The living room was modest but functional, with worn hardwood floors that creaked welcomingly underfoot.

"Kitchen's through here," Ross continued, leading them through an archway. "Nothing fancy, but everything works. Fridge is newer, stove's older but reliable."

Bucky watched Tony's expression carefully, noting the subtle shift from guarded skepticism to cautious interest. His eyes darted around the space, cataloging details with that keen analytical gaze. He ran a finger along the countertop, tested the kitchen faucet, opened and closed a cabinet door.

"Two bedrooms," Ross continued, gesturing down a short hallway. "Bathroom's between them. Got a decent-sized closet in each room. Windows face east, so you get good morning light."

They toured the bedrooms—actually large enough to fit more than a twin bed—and the bathroom, which featured the miraculous combination of both a functional shower and enough floor space to turn around without contorting like a gymnast.

Throughout the tour, Bucky kept stealing glances at Tony, watching the gradual transformation in his demeanor. With each room that failed to reveal a deal-breaking flaw, his posture opened slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing by increments.

When they'd seen the entire apartment, Ross left them alone to discuss, saying he'd be downstairs when they made a decision.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Bucky turned to Tony, trying to temper his own enthusiasm. "So... thoughts?"

Tony circled the living room slowly, his fingers trailing along the windowsill. "It's... nice," he admitted, the word carrying more weight than its simplicity suggested. "Really nice, actually."

"The bedrooms are actually big enough for human habitation," Bucky observed. "And I didn't see a single mysterious stain."

"The kitchen has counter space," Tony added, warming to the subject. "And cabinets that close properly."

"Bathroom doesn't look like a crime scene."

"Windows that aren't painted shut."

They circled each other in the empty living room, cataloging positives with growing animation, the caution of the day slowly dissolving into genuine excitement.

"So," Bucky said finally, coming to a stop near the center of the room. "Is this it, then? We found our not-so-terrible apartment?"

Something flickered across Tony's face—hesitation, disbelief, something deeper Bucky couldn't quite name. "You really want to do this?" he asked again, voice soft. "Live together?"

Bucky took a careful step forward, entering that invisible boundary Tony maintained, close enough now that he could see the flecks of amber in Tony's dark eyes. "Yeah, Trouble," he said, his voice steady despite the riot in his chest. "I really do."

Tony held his gaze for a long moment, searching for something—doubt, perhaps, or deception. Finding neither, his expression softened into something so vulnerable and hopeful that Bucky's heart clenched painfully in his chest.

"Okay," Tony said finally, the word barely above a whisper. "Let's do it."

The smile that broke across Bucky's face felt too big for his skin to contain. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Tony nodded, his own smile tentative but genuine. "But I get first dibs on bedroom choice."

"What? No way," Bucky protested, relief and joy bubbling up in his chest. "I'm the one who found this place!"

"I'm the one who has to put up with your snoring," Tony countered, his smile growing more confident.

"I don't snore! Steve's a liar."

"I've literally heard you during movie nights. It's like someone chainsawing concrete."

"That's just... contemplative breathing."

Tony's laugh—spontaneous and unguarded—echoed in the empty apartment, filling the space with warmth that felt like promises. His eyes crinkled at the corners, his entire face transforming with genuine joy, and Bucky was struck again by how beautiful he was when he let his guard down, when the careful mask slipped to reveal the person underneath.

In that moment, standing in the dusty sunlight of what would soon be their shared home, Bucky knew with bone-deep certainty that he was in serious trouble. What had started as curiosity, then friendship, had evolved into something he hadn't been looking for—something deeper, more terrifying, more exhilarating than he was prepared to name.

But as Tony moved toward the window, animated now as he described where they could put a couch, how they could arrange the furniture, Bucky knew he wouldn't change a thing. Whatever was growing between them—this delicate, unnamed thing—was worth every risk.

"You're staring again," Tony observed, turning back to catch Bucky's gaze.

"Just thinkin'," Bucky replied, the same excuse he always used.

"About?"

Bucky grinned, shoving his complicated feelings back into their box for another day. "About how I'm definitely gettin' the bigger bedroom."

"In your dreams, Barnes," Tony shot back, already heading down the hall with determined strides.

"Hey, no fair!" Bucky called, chasing after him. "Bedroom selection requires a democratic process!"

Their laughter echoed through the apartment—their apartment—bright and hopeful as the spring sunlight streaming through the windows. And if Bucky's heart raced from more than just their playful competition, well, that was a problem for another day.

"I still think the blue one looked better," Steve said, leaning against the doorframe of Bucky's bedroom with his arms crossed.

Bucky glared at him from where he stood in front of his closet mirror, holding two nearly identical flannel shirts. "They're both blue, you fuckin' colorblind disaster."

"The one in your right hand is more... navy," Steve clarified, unhelpfully. "The left one brings out your eyes."

"Jesus Christ," Bucky muttered, tossing both shirts onto his already cluttered bed. "It's just dinner. With a roommate. To celebrate signing a lease. Not the goddamn prom."

Steve's eyebrows rose into his hairline. "Uh-huh. That's why you've changed shirts four times in twenty minutes."

Bucky flipped him off, turning back to his closet with a scowl. "Don't you have some puppies to save or old ladies to help cross the street? Your boy scout energy is cramping my style."

"My style is immaculate," Steve replied, unruffled. "And deflection doesn't work on me, Buck. I've known you too long."

Bucky groaned, flopping backward onto his bed, crushing both flannel shirts beneath him. "I hate it when you get all perceptive. What happened to the Steve Rogers who walked into a telephone pole because he was staring at Peggy Carter's legs?"

"He evolved, unfortunately for you," Steve said, pushing off the doorframe to enter the room fully. He picked up the navy flannel. "This one. And stop overthinking it. Tony's seen you in yesterday's clothes after all-night study sessions and that Mets sweatshirt you insist on keeping with all the old ketchup stains. If he's still willing to live with you after that disaster, a mismatched button-down isn't going to make or break tonight."

Bucky sat up, grabbing the offered shirt. "It's not... I just want tonight to be good, y'know? We signed the lease today. It's official. We're actually gonna be roommates."

There was a vulnerability in Bucky's voice that made Steve's expression soften. "I know," he said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "And it will be good. You guys just need to keep doing what you've been doing. Talking. Hanging out. Being... whatever you are."

"Friends," Bucky supplied automatically, though the word felt insufficient, like trying to define a hurricane as 'windy.'

Steve's look was knowing but mercifully, he didn't push. "Right. Friends. Just be yourself, Buck. That's what got him to agree to live with you in the first place, God knows why."

Bucky snorted, punching Steve's shoulder lightly. "Thanks for the pep talk, Coach."

"Anytime," Steve replied, standing. "Now hurry up. You're already late, and I'm not covering for you again."

Bucky glanced at his phone, swearing when he saw the time. He scrambled up, shrugging into the navy flannel and hastily buttoning it. "Shit. Tony's probably already at the restaurant."

"Probably," Steve agreed, unhelpfully. He paused at the door, his expression growing more serious. "Hey, Buck?"

"What?" Bucky asked, distracted as he ran his fingers through his hair, trying to make it look artfully tousled rather than just messy.

"I'm happy for you," Steve said simply. "Tony seems good for you. Different, but good."

Something warm unfurled in Bucky's chest. He met Steve's gaze, a silent understanding passing between them. "Thanks, Stevie."

Steve nodded, then lightened his tone. "Now go. Before your roommate-to-be thinks you've stood him up."

Bucky grinned, grabbing his wallet and keys. "Yes, sir. Captain, sir."

Steve's exasperated eye roll followed him out the door.

The restaurant wasn't fancy by any conventional standard—just a cozy Italian place a few blocks from campus that was known more for its generous portions than its ambiance. But it was a step up from their usual diner or basement movie nights, with actual tablecloths and soft lighting that bathed everything in a warm glow.

Tony was already there, sitting at a corner table, his fingers restlessly tapping the edge of his water glass. He wore a dark button-down shirt that Bucky had never seen before, his usual messy curls slightly tamed, as if he'd made an effort to comb them. The sight made Bucky's heart do a complicated little flip in his chest.

"Sorry I'm late," Bucky said, sliding into the seat across from Tony. "Steve was bein' a pain in the ass about my shirt."

Tony looked up, his tense expression relaxing into something warmer. "It's a nice shirt," he offered, then immediately looked like he regretted the words, a faint flush creeping up his neck.

Bucky grinned, ridiculously pleased. "Thanks. You look... different." He winced at his own awkwardness. "Good different. Not sweatshirt different."

Jesus, Barnes, he thought. Real smooth.

But Tony just smiled, small and genuine. "I do own actual clothes," he said. "Occasionally."

"Well, color me impressed," Bucky replied, settling into the familiar rhythm of their banter. "And here I thought you just had a closet full of identical hoodies, like a cartoon character."

Tony's lips twitched. "That's my weekday wardrobe. This is my fancy going-out shirt."

"Special occasion?"

Tony's gaze dropped to the table, fingers resuming their rhythm against the glass. "We signed a lease today," he said quietly. "Seemed... significant."

The simple admission hit Bucky square in the chest, leaving him momentarily speechless. Tony had dressed up for this. For him. Because he thought it mattered.

Before Bucky could formulate a response that wouldn't expose the riot of emotions swirling inside him, the waiter appeared, saving him from potential embarrassment.

They ordered—Bucky going for the lasagna, Tony for linguine with clam sauce—and fell into a discussion about the apartment they'd finally settled on after viewing what felt like half the rental properties in the college town.

"I still can't believe the view," Tony said, tearing a piece of garlic bread into smaller pieces. "Actual trees. Not a parking lot or the back of another building."

"And no suspicious stains," Bucky added, grinning. "Though I'm still not convinced that shower drain isn't haunted."

Tony laughed, the sound warming Bucky from the inside out. "I'm an engineer, not an exorcist. But I'll see what I can do."

"My hero," Bucky said, placing a hand over his heart dramatically. "Savin' me from the ghost of drain hair past."

They talked easily through dinner, discussing furniture needs (minimal, as Tony owned practically nothing and Bucky's possessions consisted largely of sports equipment and clothes), move-in logistics, and whether the kitchen was big enough for Bucky's ambitious but largely unsuccessful culinary experiments.

"I'm just sayin'," Bucky argued around a mouthful of lasagna, "my mac and cheese is legendary."

"Is that why Steve looked traumatized when you suggested cooking dinner tonight?" Tony asked, eyebrows raised.

Bucky scoffed. "Steve has no appreciation for culinary innovation."

"Adding Hot Cheetos to boxed mac and cheese isn't 'innovation,' Buck. It's a cry for help."

The casual use of his nickname—something Tony had only recently started doing—sent a pleasant shiver down Bucky's spine. "You wound me, Stark. And here I was, plannin' a Welcome Home feast for move-in day."

Tony's expression softened at the mention of "home," something fragile and hopeful flickering in his eyes. "I'd eat it," he said quietly. "Even with Hot Cheetos."

The simple declaration shouldn't have made Bucky's heart race, but it did. He cleared his throat, suddenly needing to shift the conversation to safer ground. "So, uh, Dugan's been beggin' to meet you. Him and the rest of the guys. They wanna know who's crazy enough to willingly share living space with me."

Tony tensed slightly, his fork pausing halfway to his mouth. "Oh," he said, carefully neutral. "That's... nice of them."

Bucky recognized the hesitation immediately. "It's not a big deal," he assured quickly. "Just, y'know, if you wanted to. No pressure. They're actually decent guys, once you get past the first impression. And the second. Maybe the third."

That earned him a small smile. "I'm sure they are," Tony said, poking at his remaining pasta. "I'm just not great with... groups. New people."

"I remember," Bucky said softly, thinking back to their first meeting—Tony, panicked and cornered on a rooftop, eyes wild with fear. "We could start small. Just Dugan, maybe. Or just Steve properly, since you've kinda met him already."

Tony considered this, his brow furrowed slightly in that way that made Bucky want to reach across the table and smooth it with his thumb. "Maybe," he conceded finally. "Sometime. After we move in."

"After we move in," Bucky agreed, unable to keep the smile from his voice. It sounded like a promise, like a future. "No rush."

Their dessert—a shared tiramisu that Bucky had insisted on despite Tony's protests that he was full—arrived, and Bucky watched with amusement as Tony's resolve crumbled at the first bite.

"Told you," Bucky said smugly, taking his own forkful. "Worth saving room for."

Tony hummed in agreement, eyes closing briefly in appreciation. "Okay, you win this round, Barnes."

The sight of Tony's pleasure—unguarded and genuine—sent a wave of warmth through Bucky's body that had nothing to do with the wine they'd shared. Tension he hadn't realized he'd been carrying all evening melted away, replaced by a profound sense of rightness.

This was what he wanted. Tony, relaxed and happy. Sharing food and conversation and small, quiet moments that felt significant in ways Bucky couldn't quite articulate.

By the time they finished, the restaurant had emptied considerably, the only other patrons an elderly couple by the window and a group of grad students celebrating what appeared to be the end of a grueling project.

"We should probably..." Tony gestured vaguely at the check their waiter had discreetly left at the edge of the table.

"I got it," Bucky said quickly, reaching for his wallet. "My treat. To celebrate."

Tony frowned. "You don't have to. We can split it."

"I want to," Bucky insisted, surprising himself with the conviction in his voice. "Please."

Something complicated passed over Tony's features—a flash of uncertainty, then resignation, then something softer. He nodded once, a short, jerky movement. "Thanks."

They left the restaurant together, stepping into the cool spring night. Stars were visible between patches of clouds, the campus relatively quiet on a Tuesday evening. Their breath formed small clouds that dissipated in the gentle breeze.

"I'll walk you back to your dorm," Bucky offered, falling into step beside Tony. Their shoulders brushed occasionally, a light touch that no longer seemed accidental.

"You don't have to," Tony started, but Bucky cut him off with a gentle nudge.

"I know. I want to."

Tony glanced at him, those dark eyes reflecting the streetlights, and nodded. "Okay."

They walked in comfortable silence for a while, the campus peaceful around them. Bucky found himself hyperaware of every point where their bodies almost touched—shoulders, hands, the occasional brush of their jackets. He resisted the overwhelming urge to reach out and take Tony's hand, to lace their fingers together as they crossed the main quad.

Not yet, he told himself firmly. Give it time.

"So," he said instead, "two more weeks till finals, then move-in day. You excited?"

Tony's smile was small but genuine. "Yeah," he admitted. "It'll be nice to have... somewhere permanent. For a while, at least."

The hesitation in Tony's voice, the careful qualification of "for a while," tugged at something in Bucky's chest. He wondered, not for the first time, what it was like to be Tony Stark—brilliant and lonely and always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"It's gonna be great," Bucky said with more confidence than he felt, bumping Tony's shoulder with his own. "You'll see. I'll only set the kitchen on fire like, twice a month, tops."

Tony's laugh was soft but real. "Reassuring."

They reached Tony's dorm building far too quickly for Bucky's liking. They paused at the entrance, facing each other in the pool of light from the security lamp. Tony looked up at him, his expression unreadable in the shadows.

"Thanks," Tony said finally. "For dinner. And... everything."

"Everything?" Bucky echoed, raising an eyebrow.

Tony gestured vaguely. "You know. The apartment. Taking a chance on... this. Me." His voice dropped on the last word, almost inaudible.

Something inside Bucky's chest cracked open at the vulnerability in Tony's voice. Before he could think too hard about it, he reached out, placing a hand on Tony's shoulder and squeezing gently.

"Not a chance, Stark," he said softly. "A sure thing."

Tony's eyes widened slightly, a flicker of something warm and surprised crossing his features. For a breathless moment, Bucky thought—hoped—that Tony might step closer, might close the distance between them.

Instead, Tony ducked his head, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Right," he murmured. "Well. Goodnight, Buck."

"Night, Trouble," Bucky replied, reluctantly dropping his hand. "See you tomorrow? Library study session?"

Tony nodded, already backing toward the door. "Two o'clock. I'll bring coffee."

"You're a lifesaver," Bucky grinned, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep from reaching out again.

He watched as Tony swiped his ID and disappeared into the building, lingering on the sidewalk perhaps a moment too long after the door had closed behind him.

The night air felt suddenly colder without Tony beside him. Bucky turned toward his own building, a smile tugging at his lips despite the slight ache in his chest.

Two more weeks until finals. Three until move-in day. A whole summer of coming home to Tony's brilliant mind and quiet smiles and the way his eyes lit up when he talked about his projects.

Bucky quickened his pace, the future stretching before him like a promise.

The party swelled around Bucky like an unruly tide, bodies shifting and swaying to bass-heavy music that made the floorboards vibrate beneath his feet. Red cups littered every surface, casualties of celebration strewn across tabletops and windowsills. The air was thick with the scent of cheap liquor, cologne, and the particular brand of euphoria that came with the end of finals—a heady mixture of relief and reckless abandon that buzzed through the frat house like electricity.

Dugan had dubbed it the "We Survived Everything" party. Baseball season: over. Finals: conquered. Sophomore year: officially in the rearview mirror. The mood was infectious, a joyous chaos that swept through the crowded rooms and spilled into the backyard, where impromptu wrestling matches and drinking games had already claimed several victims.

Bucky was pressed against the wall near the staircase, a drink in one hand and a girl—Leila? Laura?—attached to his neck. Her perfume was sweet, almost cloying, and her body was warm and pliant against his. She laughed at something he'd mumbled, the sound vibrating against his collarbone where her lips had found purchase.

He should be into this. He was trying to be into this.

Two months ago, this exact scenario would have been the highlight of his night. Two months ago, he wouldn't have been cataloging the differences between her laugh and someone else's, wouldn't have been mentally elsewhere while a beautiful woman worked her way up his neck.

God, he hadn't gotten laid in weeks. His body recognized the opportunity, responded to the warmth of another person, the invitation in her touch. But his mind was elsewhere, distracted, divided.

"You're thinking too much," she murmured against his skin, nipping gently at his pulse point. "Let me help with that."

Bucky forced a grin, tipping his head back against the wall. "Just enjoyin' the moment," he lied, taking another swig of his drink. The alcohol buzzed pleasantly through his system, just enough to soften the edges without dulling his senses completely.

She hummed in approval, her hands sliding beneath the hem of his t-shirt, fingertips tracing the muscles of his abdomen. "You deserve it," she said, looking up at him through mascaraed lashes. "After that last game? The way you played? God, Barnes."

The mention of the game sent a twinge through Bucky's chest that had nothing to do with desire. The loss still stung—coming so close to advancing, only to watch their season end in the regional final. He'd played his heart out, batting .400 through the tournament with three home runs, but it hadn't been enough. The team had fought hard, clawed their way through the elimination bracket after a tough loss, only to fall just short of the Super Regionals.

Coach had told him he should be proud. The scouts had been impressed. But Bucky couldn't shake the hollow feeling that lingered beneath his ribs, the knowledge that they'd been so close—

Lips found a particularly sensitive spot just below his ear, and Bucky's eyes fluttered closed for a brief moment. He made an effort to be present, to sink into the sensation, his hands tightening slightly on the girl’s waist.

His phone buzzed in his back pocket, derailing his thoughts.

"Ignore it," his companion whispered, rising onto her tiptoes to brush her lips against his. "Stay with me."

But Bucky's hand was already slipping between them, reaching for his phone. He already knew who it was, could feel it with a certainty that defied logic. Only one person texted him after midnight on a party night.

"Sorry," he murmured, turning slightly as he extracted his phone. "Just a second."

The screen lit up with Tony's name, and something in Bucky's chest loosened even as concern immediately flooded through him.

Tony (12:47 AM): Hey, are you awake?

Nothing alarming in the message itself, but Bucky had spent enough time with Tony over the past months to recognize the subtle signs. Tony never texted this late unless something was wrong. Never started with "Hey, are you awake?" unless he was trying to give Bucky an out, a chance to ignore him if he was busy.

As if Bucky ever would.

Tony (12:48 AM): Sorry, you're probably out. Don't worry about it. I'm fine.

The rapid succession of texts, the unnecessary reassurance—Bucky's internal alarm bells rang louder. Tony wasn't fine. Tony was very much not fine, even if he was trying to pretend otherwise.

"Everything okay?" The girl—Lisa, that was it—peered up at him, her lipstick slightly smudged at the corner of her mouth.

"Yeah, just—" Bucky hesitated, glancing between his phone and her expectant face. Guilt twisted in his stomach, but not enough to override the urgency building inside him. "Listen, I gotta take care of something. Rain check?"

Lisa's expression clouded, disappointment and annoyance flashing in her eyes before she smoothed it into something more neutral. "Seriously? Now?"

"I'm sorry," Bucky said, and he meant it, even as he was already formulating his escape. "It's important."

She stepped back, arms crossing over her chest. "Whatever," she said with a forced shrug. "Your loss, Barnes."

Bucky offered his most apologetic smile, already typing a response to Tony with one hand.

Bucky (12:49 AM): I'm awake. What's going on? You ok??

He slipped past Lisa, making his way through the crowded living room toward the front door. The music swelled around him, a remix of some pop song he couldn't name, bodies pressing against him from all sides as he navigated the sea of celebrating students. A hand caught his arm—Dugan, red-faced and grinning, a beer held aloft like a trophy.

"Where ya goin', slugger?" Dugan shouted over the music. "Party's just gettin' good! Barton’s about to do a keg stand that'll either make him a legend or kill him. My money's on both!"

Bucky shook his head, holding up his phone. "Gotta check on somethin'," he called back. "Rain check on Barton’s death by alcohol poisoning."

Dugan squinted at him, momentary confusion giving way to understanding as his gaze flicked to the phone. "Stark?" he asked, surprisingly perceptive for a man who had likely consumed his body weight in beer. When Bucky nodded, Dugan clapped him on the shoulder. "Go get your boy, Barnes. I'll pour one out for your abandoned hookup."

Bucky rolled his eyes but felt a surge of gratitude for his friend's easy acceptance. "Thanks, Dum Dum."

Outside, the night air felt shockingly cool after the heat of the packed house. Bucky checked his phone again as he jogged down the front steps.

Tony (12:51 AM): I'm fine. Just couldn't sleep. Working on some designs.

The deflection was so transparent that Bucky would have laughed if worry wasn't already churning in his gut. Tony didn't text at almost 1 AM because he "couldn't sleep." Not unless the insomnia was accompanied by something darker—nightmares, anxiety, the shadows that sometimes seemed to chase Tony even on his better days.

Bucky (12:52 AM): Where are you? Your dorm?

The response came almost immediately.

Tony (12:52 AM): No. Engineering lab. Lost track of time.

Bucky changed direction, heading across campus toward the engineering building without a second thought. The walk would help clear his head, burn off some of the alcohol. Besides, the night was pleasant, stars peeking through scattered clouds, a gentle breeze rustling the leaves of the massive oak trees that lined the main pathway.

Bucky (12:53 AM): Stay put. I'm coming to you.

Tony (12:53 AM): What? No, Buck, you're at a party. I'm really fine.

Bucky (12:54 AM): Too late. Already omw. Want me to bring food? Caffeine? Poorly made decisions?

There was a longer pause before Tony's reply, and Bucky could almost picture him—brow furrowed, chewing his lower lip as he tried to decide how to respond, whether to protest further.

Tony (12:56 AM): You don't have to.

Not a rejection, Bucky noted. Just another attempt to offer an out.

Bucky (12:56 AM): I know. Want to. Be there in 10.

He pocketed his phone, quickening his pace. The campus was quiet at this hour, most students either out celebrating or passed out after a grueling finals week. Only a few night owls and dedicated studiers remained, scattered across benches and lawns, faces illuminated by the blue glow of laptop screens.

Bucky's mind drifted as he walked, concern for Tony mingling with the faint buzz of alcohol still flowing through his system. What had happened? Tony had seemed fine earlier—they'd had lunch together before Bucky's team meeting, discussing move-in plans and arguing over whether Tony's robot prototypes constituted "reasonable decor" for a living room.

Something must have triggered him. A call from his dad, maybe? Tony's father remained a specter in Tony's life, rarely mentioned but always present in the way Tony tensed at certain topics, in the shadows that sometimes darkened his eyes.

Or maybe it was something else—the panic that occasionally seized Tony in crowded places, the nightmares he downplayed but that Bucky knew left him shaking and sleepless. Whatever it was, Bucky was determined to help, even if that just meant sitting with Tony in the lab, keeping him company while he worked through it.

The engineering building loomed ahead, most windows dark except for a few scattered lights on the third floor. The security guard—an older man named Stan who had long since grown accustomed to Tony's odd hours—nodded to Bucky as he approached.

"He's upstairs," Stan said without preamble. "Been there since dinnertime. Wouldn't come down even when I offered him half my sandwich." He scrutinized Bucky with surprising perception for a man pushing seventy. "You look like you've been celebrating."

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, aware that he probably reeked of beer and carried traces of lipstick on his neck. "End of finals," he explained. "But I'm good. Sober enough."

Stan's weathered face creased in a knowing smile. "You're a good friend to that boy," he said, buzzed Bucky through. "Third floor, room 307. Like always."

Bucky nodded his thanks, making his way up the stairs. His heart rate picked up as he approached the lab, a mixture of concern and something warmer, more complicated. The door was ajar, spilling a sliver of fluorescent light into the darkened hallway.

He paused, listening. Quiet classical music drifted from inside—Bach, maybe, or Beethoven, Bucky couldn't tell. It was the music Tony played when he was trying to calm himself, to focus on work rather than whatever demons were nipping at his heels.

Bucky knocked softly on the doorframe before pushing the door wider. "Special delivery," he called, keeping his voice light. "One slightly buzzed baseball player, as requested."

Tony was hunched over a workbench in the far corner, surrounded by scattered components and holographic displays that cast his profile in an ethereal blue glow. He looked up, startled, dark circles pronounced beneath his eyes, hair a riot of unruly curls that suggested he'd been running his hands through it repeatedly. He wore a henley with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing forearms smudged with graphite and what looked like machine oil.

"Bucky," he said, surprise evident in his voice despite the text exchange. "You... actually came.”

The wonder in Tony's voice, as if Bucky's presence was something unexpected rather than inevitable, made something twist painfully in Bucky's chest. He crossed the room, dropping his phone on the workbench with a clatter.

"'Course I came," he said simply, as if there had never been any question. "What's up? Lab emergency? Robot uprising? You finally build that lightsaber you keep promisin' me?"

Tony's lips twitched, a ghost of a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Nothing that exciting," he said, gesturing vaguely at the holographic displays where complex schematics rotated slowly. "Just working on some adjustments to the prosthetic interface design."

Bucky studied the displays with genuine interest. Tony's neural interface project had evolved over the semester, growing more sophisticated with each iteration. The current design was sleek, elegant in its complexity, yet Bucky could see the tension in Tony's shoulders, the tightness around his eyes that suggested this late-night work session had nothing to do with sudden inspiration.

"Looks incredible," Bucky said truthfully. "But you didn't text me at one in the mornin' to show off your design skills. What's really goin' on, Trouble?"

Tony's gaze dropped to the workbench, fingers fidgeting with a small screwdriver. "It's stupid," he muttered.

Bucky stepped closer, perching on the edge of the workbench. "Try me."

Tony remained silent for a long moment, the classical music filling the space between them. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, almost fragile.

"I got a call from MIT today. About my research proposal."

Bucky's breath caught. Tony had submitted a proposal for summer research funding weeks ago, a project extension of his neural interface work. He'd downplayed its importance, but Bucky had seen the careful hope in his eyes, the way he'd checked his email obsessively while pretending not to.

"And?" Bucky prompted gently.

Tony's knuckles whitened around the screwdriver. "They... they're not funding it," he said, each word carefully controlled. "Said the approach wasn't 'viable' without more preliminary data."

"Fuck," Bucky breathed. "Tony, I'm so sorry."

Tony shrugged, a jerky movement that failed to convey the nonchalance he was clearly aiming for. "It's fine. I mean, it was a long shot. And I've still got the scholarship for fall, so it's not like I'm—" He cut himself off, swallowing hard. "It's not a big deal."

But it was, Bucky could see that clearly. This wasn't just about funding; it was about validation, about someone believing in Tony's work, in his vision. It was about proving his worth outside the shadow of Howard Stark and MIT and all the expectations that had been heaped on him since childhood.

"Did they give any specific feedback?" Bucky asked, keeping his voice gentle. "Anything you can address for a resubmission?"

Tony nodded jerkily. "Some. They want more preliminary testing, more proof that the neural mapping algorithm can handle variable input." His voice grew steadier as he slipped into technical explanations, finding comfort in the familiar territory. "I can do that, I just need more time, more resources. Maybe if I had access to better equipment, or if—"

He broke off suddenly, frustration and something darker flashing across his face. "Howard has a fully equipped private lab," he said, voice flat. "State of the art. I could have completed the preliminary work in a week there."

The unspoken hung heavily between them: But I can't go back.

Bucky reached out, covering Tony's hand with his own, stilling the restless movement of his fingers. "Hey," he said softly. "Look at me?"

Tony's eyes reluctantly met his, dark and troubled in the blue glow of the holograms.

"This is a setback, not the end," Bucky said firmly. "Your work is brilliant, Tony. One rejection doesn't change that."

Tony's laugh was hollow. "Easy for you to say. You've never failed at anything."

The words hit Bucky harder than he expected, a direct strike to a wound still fresh from the baseball season's end. "You kiddin' me?" he asked, unable to keep the edge from his voice. "We just lost the biggest game of the season. Came this close—" he held up his thumb and forefinger, barely a hair's breadth apart, "—to makin' it to Super Regionals, and fell short. In front of scouts, fans, everyone. That's failure, Stark."

Tony blinked, regret immediately crossing his features. "Shit, Buck, I didn't mean—the game, I know how much that meant to you. I wasn't thinking."

Bucky shook his head, squeezing Tony's hand. "No, I'm not—that's not my point. I'm sayin' we all fail. It's part of the deal. You think I haven't struck out with the bases loaded? Dropped an easy fly ball? Made an ass of myself in front of scouts?" He leaned closer, holding Tony's gaze. "Failure doesn't define you. What you do next does."

Tony stared at him, something vulnerable and raw passing over his features. For a moment, Bucky thought he might pull away, retreat behind the walls he still occasionally erected when emotions ran too close to the surface.

Instead, Tony's shoulders slumped, the tension leaving him in a visible wave. "I don't know what to do next," he admitted quietly. "Without funding, I can't—"

"We'll figure it out," Bucky interrupted, the "we" slipping out naturally. "Together. Maybe there are other grants? Or equipment you can borrow? Hell, I bet Steve would let you use him as a test subject if you asked nicely. Guy's always lookin' for ways to 'contribute to science.'"

A faint, genuine smile finally curved Tony's lips. "Steve does have an admirable dedication to self-sacrifice," he conceded. "But I'm not sure even he would volunteer for experimental neural interface testing."

"You'd be surprised," Bucky grinned, relieved to see a glimmer of Tony's usual spark returning. "I once saw him eat a spoonful of wasabi on a dare. From a freshman. Guy has no sense of self-preservation."

Tony laughed, the sound soft but real. "Unlike you, who has... what was it? An 'iron will to party'?"

"Damn straight," Bucky confirmed, pleased that Tony remembered the phrase from their first meeting. "Speaking of which, aren't you supposed to be celebrating the end of finals too? Instead of, y'know, brooding in a darkened lab?"

Tony's expression turned wry. "This is my celebration," he said, gesturing at the scattered components. "Wild, I know."

Bucky studied him, noting the deep shadows beneath Tony's eyes, the slight tremble in his hands that spoke of too much coffee and too little sleep. An idea began to form in his mind.

"Come on," he said abruptly, standing and tugging gently at Tony's hand. "We're getting out of here."

Tony blinked up at him. "What? Where?"

"You'll see," Bucky said, already gathering Tony's scattered notebooks and shoving them into his backpack. "Trust me."

Tony hesitated, looking between Bucky and his work. "I should really finish these calculations—"

"They'll still be here tomorrow," Bucky said firmly. "Right now, you need a break. Doctor's orders."

"You're not a doctor," Tony pointed out, but he was already standing, allowing Bucky to guide him away from the workbench.

"No, but I play one in my dreams," Bucky replied, waggling his eyebrows in a way that earned an eye roll from Tony. "Seriously, come on. One hour. If you're still miserable, I'll bring you back and you can brood to your heart's content."

Tony sighed, but there was a fondness in his exasperation. "Fine. One hour."

They left the lab together, Bucky's hand still wrapped around Tony's wrist, a point of contact that neither acknowledged but neither broke. The hallway was deserted, their footsteps echoing on the polished floor as they made their way to the stairwell.

"So," Tony said as they descended, "are you going to tell me where we're going, or is this a kidnapping situation?"

"If I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise," Bucky replied cryptically. "Besides, I made this up about thirty seconds ago, so I'm still workin' out the details."

Tony snorted. "Reassuring."

Stan looked up as they passed his desk, a knowing smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Heading out, boys? About time. Some people sleep, you know."

"Revolutionary concept, Stan," Tony replied, the easy banter suggesting this was a familiar exchange. "We'll look into it."

"See that you do," Stan called after them as they pushed through the doors into the night air.

Outside, the campus was bathed in the soft glow of streetlamps, the spring night warm and inviting. Bucky led Tony away from the engineering building, steering them toward the center of campus, where the main quad stretched out in a vast expanse of manicured grass.

"Bucky," Tony said after they'd walked in silence for a few minutes, "if you're taking me to that party, I should warn you that I'm not really in the mood for—"

"I'm not," Bucky assured him quickly. "Promise. No parties."

Tony nodded, visibly relieved. "Okay. Good."

They continued walking, the tension gradually easing from Tony's frame with each step away from the lab. Bucky found himself hyper-aware of their proximity, of the way Tony's arm occasionally brushed against his, of the faint scent of coffee and metal that seemed to cling to Tony's skin.

His neck still bore traces of Lisa's perfume, her lipstick probably smudged across his skin like evidence of a crime. Guilt tugged at him briefly, but it was fleeting, insubstantial compared to the certainty that he was exactly where he needed to be.

The main quad appeared ahead, illuminated by soft lights embedded in the walkways. During the day, it was a bustling hub of activity—students lounging on the grass, tossing frisbees, studying beneath the sprawling oak trees. Now, at nearly 1:30 AM, it was deserted, peaceful in a way that felt almost magical.

"Ta-da," Bucky announced, gesturing grandly. "Our destination."

Tony looked around, confusion evident in his furrowed brow. "The quad? This is your brilliant plan?"

"Just wait," Bucky said cryptically, leading Tony toward the center of the open space. When they reached a patch of grass unmarred by pathways, Bucky dropped Tony's backpack and promptly flopped onto his back, arms spread wide.

Tony stood over him, half-amused, half-bewildered. "What are you doing?"

"Stargazing," Bucky replied simply, patting the grass beside him. "Come on, Stark. Live dangerously."

"Lying on the ground is your idea of living dangerously?" Tony asked, but he was already lowering himself to sit beside Bucky, cross-legged on the cool grass.

"After the week we've had? Absolutely." Bucky tugged gently at Tony's sleeve. "Come on. Full effect requires horizontal positioning."

Tony hesitated, then slowly reclined until he was lying beside Bucky, their shoulders nearly touching. Above them, the night sky stretched out in a vast canvas of darkness pierced by countless stars, more visible here in the center of campus where the light pollution was minimal.

"Oh," Tony breathed, the single syllable carrying a wealth of wonder.

Bucky smiled, satisfied. "Yeah."

They lay in comfortable silence for a few minutes, gazing up at the stars. Bucky was acutely aware of Tony beside him—the rhythm of his breathing, the warmth radiating from his body, the faint smell of coffee and something mechanical that always seemed to cling to him.

"You know," Tony said finally, voice soft in the quiet night, "when I was a kid, my mom used to take me onto the roof of our house to look at the stars. She had this old astronomy book, and we'd try to find all the constellations." A pause, weighted with memory. "It was the only time Howard couldn't find us."

The admission hung in the air between them, fragile and significant. Bucky turned his head slightly, studying Tony's profile in the dim light. "She sounds great," he said softly. "Your mom."

Tony's smile was small but genuine. "She was," he agreed, still gazing skyward. "She would have liked you, I think. She always said I needed someone who could pull me out of my head sometimes."

The words sent a wave of warmth through Bucky's chest. "High praise," he murmured. "I'm honored."

Tony's hand rested on the grass between them, fingers absently plucking at blades of green. Without overthinking it, Bucky shifted his own hand until their pinky fingers touched, a whisper of contact that could be dismissed as accidental if necessary.

Tony didn't pull away. Instead, after a breathless moment, he relaxed, allowing the contact to remain.

"So," Bucky said, voice gentle in the night air, "about the research funding."

Tony tensed slightly beside him, but didn't retreat. "What about it?"

"I've been thinking," Bucky continued, choosing his words carefully. "What if you applied for private funding? Small tech companies, medical research foundations—places that might be interested in your work but aren't connected to Howard or MIT?"

Tony turned to look at him, surprise evident in his features. "I... hadn't considered that," he admitted. "I just assumed academic channels were the only option."

"The way I see it," Bucky said, encouraged, "your work has real-world applications, right? Helping people with mobility issues, nerve damage, all that. There's gotta be companies or foundations that would jump at the chance to fund that kind of research."

Tony's brow furrowed thoughtfully. "Maybe," he conceded. "I'd need to do some research, find the right places to approach. And redesign my proposal for a non-academic audience."

"I could help," Bucky offered. "I mean, not with the technical stuff—that's all you. But I'm pretty good at talking to people, making things sound appealing. Baseball scholarships don't just hand themselves out, y'know."

A smile tugged at the corner of Tony's mouth. "Are you offering to be my hype man, Barnes?"

"If that's what it takes," Bucky grinned, relieved to see the spark returning to Tony's eyes. "I'll wear a t-shirt with your face on it and everything. 'Tony Stark: Neural Interface Genius.'"

Tony laughed, the sound bright and unexpected in the quiet night. "God, please don't."

"Too late, already ordered it," Bucky teased. "Got one for Steve too. And Dugan. We're gonna be a whole cheering section."

Tony's laughter faded into something softer, more contemplative. "You really think it could work? Finding alternate funding?"

"I do," Bucky said firmly. "Your work is amazing, Tony. Just because some stuffy committee at MIT doesn't see it doesn't mean others won't. You just gotta find the right audience."

Tony nodded slowly, his gaze returning to the stars above. "Maybe you're right," he murmured. Then, quieter: "Thanks, Buck. For... this. For coming to find me."

Bucky's chest tightened with an emotion he wasn't quite ready to name. "Anytime, Trouble," he said softly. "That's what—" He hesitated, the word 'friends' suddenly feeling inadequate, insufficient for what existed between them. "That's what I'm here for."

They lay in comfortable silence for a while longer, their pinky fingers still touching on the cool grass between them, a tiny point of contact that felt simultaneously insignificant and monumental. Above them, the stars continued their silent vigil, distant and constant.

Bucky found himself thinking about the girl at the party—Lisa, with her perfect smile and eager hands. He tried to summon regret for walking away, for choosing this quiet moment on the quad over whatever might have happened if he'd stayed.

He couldn't find any. Not with Tony beside him, looking up at the same stars, their fingers brushing in the darkness.

"Your hour's almost up," Bucky said eventually, reluctant to break the peaceful moment but aware of the late hour. "Wanna head back to the lab?"

Tony was quiet for a long moment, his gaze still fixed on the heavens. "No," he said finally, the word barely audible. "Not yet. Can we... stay a little longer?"

Relief and something warmer flooded through Bucky's chest. "Yeah," he said softly. "As long as you want."

Tony turned his head, dark eyes meeting Bucky's in the dim light. A smile—small but genuine—curved his lips. "Thanks for finding me," he said again, the words carrying a weight that went beyond their simple meaning.

Bucky smiled back, overwhelmed by the certainty that he would always find Tony, would always choose this over anything else. "Always will," he promised, the words slipping out before he could consider their implications.

Tony held his gaze for a moment longer, something vulnerable and hopeful flickering in his eyes. Then he looked back up at the stars, but not before his pinky finger curled more deliberately around Bucky's, the contact no longer accidental but intentional.

A silent acknowledgment. A beginning, perhaps.

Bucky tightened his finger in response, a gentle pressure that said more than words could. Above them, the stars continued their ancient dance, silent witnesses to the moment unfolding on the cool grass below.

And if Bucky's heart raced a little faster, if his breath caught in his throat at the deliberate touch of Tony's finger against his—well, that was between him, Tony, and the stars.