#a bit of a strange way to ask this question but like

[palmersluvr]

champagne coast

summary: after an afternoon at the beach, the sweet nerd from your book club confesses something to you that he’s been holding back for a LONG time

warnings: lu being a bit of a perv, light clit rubbing, face riding, (lu’s nose in particular) breastfeeding, lu uses a toy on the reader, unprotected sex, breeding, lu being a soft baby after sex

notes: i put my whole PUSSY into writing this fic also btw if u don’t know what an oodie is here is is here

word count: 7.3k :)

you’ve been at surfbreak for a few months now, and slowly, it’s started to feel like home. the salty air drifting in from the coast, the distant sound of waves, and the easygoing vibe of the apartment complex have become familiar comforts. what once felt temporary now feels like it could be something more. you’ve started to find your people, friends who are always around, whether you’re all stretched out on the sand, dipping your feet in the water, or just talking while the tide rolls in. it hasn’t been perfect, but it’s beginning to feel like you belong here.

you’ve also joined a book club that meets once a week on the beach. it’s a relaxed little group, just a handful of people who bring blankets, snacks, and whatever book is on the list that week. there’s no pressure, just easy conversation, different opinions, and the sound of waves in the background. sometimes the talk stays focused on the story of the week, and other times it drifts into personal stories and shared laughs. it’s become something you look forward to, a calm, familiar space where you can be who you are and feel connected.

it hasn’t always been easy finding people who let you be fully yourself. in most places, you felt like you had to hold parts of yourself back, too much, too weird, too quiet, too loud. but something about surfbreak is different.

here, no one expects you to fit into a mold. people are open, curious, and kind in a way that feels rare. for the first time in a long while, you don’t feel the need to shrink or pretend. you’re just you, and that’s enough.

you’re at one of the regular meetings on the beach, dressed in a simple brown bikini that blends with the sandy shore. while everyone else is out in the ocean, swimming and splashing around, you stay behind, laying on your stomach on the sand quietly reading this week’s book, the stranger by albert camus.

the sound of laughter and crashing waves fills the air, but you’re completely absorbed in the strange, haunting world unfolding on the pages. it’s a perfect balance, being part of the group’s energy while carving out a peaceful moment just for yourself.

luigi strolls up from the water, his skin glistening in the sunlight, droplets tracing slow paths down his chest. he’s shirtless, wearing white and blue striped swim trunks that cling to his frame, the fabric still damp from the ocean. his brown, curly hair is a tousled mess, sticking up in places from the saltwater and sea breeze. there’s a relaxed ease in the way he moves, like the ocean hasn’t quite let go of him yet.

when he reaches you, he stops a few feet away, sporting his usual charming grin. “still wrapped up in camus?” he asks, nodding toward the book in your hands. his voice is light and teasing, but there’s a quiet warmth in it.

luigi is the heart of the surfbreak book club, its founder, organizer, and undeniable glue. he’s the one who picks out the weekly reads, sends out gentle reminder texts, and drags a tote bag full of extra copies down to the beach in case someone forgets theirs.

he always starts the meetings with a question or two, but he never dominates the conversation, just nudges it along with a natural charm and an easy sense of humor. he listens more than he talks, and when he does speak, it’s thoughtful, sometimes surprising, and always engaging. people show up for the books, sure, but more than that, they show up for luigi.

he’s the kind of attractive that doesn’t ask for attention but gets it anyway. he’s tall, with sun kissed skin and a masculine frame that speaks to how much time he spends in the water. he’s always shirtless, wearing those same white and blue striped swim trunks that sit low on his hips, still damp from the ocean.

his brown curls are always a little messy, flattened and tousled by sea spray and wind. and then there’s that smile, wide, confident, and completely disarming. it lights up his whole face, softens the air around him, and makes it way too easy to fall into whatever moment he’s creating.

and he lives right next door. just a few steps away, separated by a single wall. you hear his music in the evenings, low and steady, sometimes his voice humming along. you run into him constantly, on the way to get mail, still dripping from the shower, wrapped in nothing but a towel and that same fucking smile.

it started out casual: a wave, a laugh, the occasional conversation that went just a little too long. but over time, something unspoken has started to grow between you. a glance held too long, a brush of skin that lingers just a moment more than it should.

there’s a tension that’s always been there, quiet, constant, and impossible to ignore. you feel it when he leans close to make a comment during book club, when his knee bumps yours under the table, when he looks at you like he’s thinking something he won’t say. you haven’t acted on it, not yet, but it would be a lie to pretend he hasn’t slipped into your thoughts. on more than one night, alone in your apartment, you’ve found yourself thinking of him, his hands, his voice, the weight of his body, while your own hands moved slowly beneath the covers.

you’ve tried to push those thoughts aside, to pretend they don’t mean anything, but the truth is you’ve imagined what it would be like if he closed the space between you. and sometimes, when you catch him looking at you like he might be imagining it too, it’s almost enough to make you want to find out.

you glance up at him, and your lips curve into a small, instinctive smile. it’s not forced or overly bright, just honest, warm in a quiet, intimate way. and you see it immediately: the shift in his expression.

his grin softens, and his eyes, already warm from the sun, seem to melt around the edges. that teasing spark dims into something more tender, and for a beat, he just watches you like he’s seeing something he didn’t know he’d been looking for.

you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear and nod toward the book. “it’s hard to put down,” you say, your voice soft, thoughtful. “it’s bleak, yeah, but… there’s something beautiful about it too. the way it strips everything down, makes you sit with the uncomfortable parts.” you pause, still looking at him. “i guess i like how honest it is. even when it hurts.”

he doesn’t say anything right away, just stands there, water still dripping from his curls, his eyes never leaving yours.

then, without a word, he extends his hand toward you, open, inviting, droplets of seawater still sliding down his arm, catching the sunlight like glass.

“come on,” he says, voice low and easy, laced with that familiar warmth. “get up. come into the water with me.”

your breath catches, just a little. it’s actually fucking ridiculous how something as simple as him holding out his hand can send a burst of heat through your chest. you glance at it, at him, and suddenly you’re hype aware of everything, the heat of the sun on your back, the way his fingers are just waiting for yours, the curve of his mouth like he already knows you’re going to say yes.

your pulse stumbles as you shift in the sand, blinking up at him like he’s just knocked something loose inside you. “come onnn, can i at least finish this chapter?” you ask, trying to sound casual, even as your voice gives the smallest shake. but your hand is already reaching for his.

luigi chuckles, quiet and low, the sound blending with the distant crash of the waves. “the book’s not going anywhere,” he says, his voice calm and steady. “you’ve still got more that enough time to finish it.”

you glance at his hand, hovering there between you, and then slowly reach out to take it. the moment your fingers meet his, a rush moves through you, warm and startling, like the feeling of stepping into the sun after a long stretch in the shade.

luigi’s hand is rough and damp from the ocean, solid in yours, and it makes something flutter deep in your chest. you weren’t expecting a simple touch to feel like this, to feel like something you’ve wanted longer than you’ve let yourself admit.

he gives your hand a gentle tug, helping you up from the sand with ease. for a moment, neither of you moves. his hand stays in yours, not tightly, but like neither of you is quite ready to let go. then, finally, he does, quietly, without a word, and the loss of that contact is immediate.

you feel the absence of his hand like a cool breeze against warm skin as he turns back toward the water, and you just stand there, heart racing, trying to steady yourself against the strange, wonderful weight of what just passed between you.

you fall into step beside him as the two of you head toward the water, the sand warm beneath your feet, soft and shifting with each step. the sounds of the others in the ocean, splashes, laughter, voices carried by the breeze, drift around you, but it all feels a little distant, like you’re moving through a moment set slightly apart from the rest of the world.

you stride ahead of him without thinking, the salty breeze playing with your hair, the sun’s heat caressing your bare skin. when you glance back, words caught in your throat, you catch his eyes devouring your curves, fixed intently on your ass for a heated second before they flick up to lock with yours.

no words are exchanged. he doesn’t try to cover his hunger, and you don’t taunt him for it. the moment slips away like a tide, fleeting but heavy with raw, unspoken desire.

you turn toward the ocean, but your thoughts linger on that electric instant. a deep, sultry thrill sparks in your core, undeniable and intense. the image of luigi, steady, measured, always holding back, undressing you with his eyes ignites a molten heat that spreads through your body.

it’s not just that his gaze lingered. It’s that you ached for it, savored it. and you’re almost certain he knows exactly how much you wanted it.

the ocean wraps around you like a second skin, cool, then warm, then somewhere in between, like it’s adjusting to you as much as you’re adjusting to it. as wade in deeper, the sand slips away beneath your feet and the water begins to hold you, lifting the weight off your body until you feel nearly weightless.

the sun glints off the surface in little shards of light, and every inch of your skin hums with relief, the kind that goes deeper than muscle.

you close your eyes for a moment, letting the water slide past your shoulders, letting it soften everything. your breathing slows, your thoughts settle. there’s something about the way the ocean moves around you that makes it hard to hold onto anything heavy.

luigi is nearby, standing waist-deep, his arms loose at his sides, the water swirling around him. he glances over, his curls slicked back and dripping, and there’s something steady in his gaze. no words at first, just a look that feels like an anchor in the shifting tide.

you float closer, moving without effort, the current nudging you in his direction. when you meet his eyes, you offer a quiet, slightly breathless smile.

“now i see why you’re out here every day,” you say, voice soft and sincere.

a small flicker passes through his expression, something like understanding, something like maybe he’s glad you get it now. he doesn’t say anything right away. just watches you a second longer, then dips his hand into the water and flicks a small wave in your direction.

you laugh, light and easy, tilting your head as the droplets land against your skin. “hey!!!”

“i told you,” he says, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “it fixes things.”

you don’t disagree. you just float there beside him, the water lapping gently at your collarbone, the sky stretching wide above you, and something in your chest loosens like a knot you hadn’t noticed until now.

you then decide dive beneath the surface, letting the cool water rush over you in one exhilarating sweep. it slips along your skin like silk, stealing the sun’s warmth and leaving behind something cleaner, freer. when you rise again, gasping and laughing, you feel loose, light… until you notice something’s off.

there’s a shift at your back. a give. and then… nothing.

you freeze. your arms fold across your chest in an instant, hands clutching instinctively. the knot of your bikini has come undone, the thin strings now drifting uselessly in the water.

your pulse spikes, heat blooming across your cheeks despite the chill. you try to twist and fix it yourself, but the angles are awkward, and your hands are shaking just enough to fumble the task.

“hey,” luigi mutters softly, closer than you thought. “what’s the matter?”

you glance over your shoulder, he’s right there, watching you… not with amusement, not with pity, but calm, quiet understanding. his gaze doesn’t wander. it just waits.

“my top came undone,” you say, low, a little breathless. “i… yeah. it’s a fucking mess.”

there’s a beat of silence, and then he moves toward you, careful and slow, like he knows how delicate the moment is.

“need a hand?”

you hesitate. but you don’t say no.

he comes closer, the water shifting between you. when he stops behind you, his voice lowers to a gentle murmur. “okay if i touch?”

you nod, just once, your heart thudding hard enough to echo in your ears.

then his fingers are there, brushing your skin, collecting the loose strings. his hands are warm against the chill of the ocean, rougher than you expected, sure and steady. he works in silence, tying the knot with a surprising gentleness, careful not to rush or pull too tight. the pressure of his fingers lingers, and with it, a strange current runs down your spine.

the contact shouldn’t feel this intimate. it’s just a bikini top. just two hands tying a knot. but somehow, it’s more than that.

it’s the nearness of him behind you, the care in his touch, the heat that rises to the surface of your skin even beneath the cold water. it’s the quiet between you, thick with unspoken things.

“there,” he says finally, voice close to your ear, barely louder than the sound of the waves. “you look good.”

you stay still for a moment longer, your breath catching in your throat. you don’t want to move. not yet. not with the ghost of his touch still burning on your skin.

when you finally turn, he’s already given you space again, eyes unreadable now, jaw tight with restraint.

“thanks…” you say, softly, like anything louder might break whatever just passed between you.

he nods once, but there’s something behind his expression, a flicker of tension, of awareness, that tells you he felt it too.

and as you float there, your back still tingling from his hands, you realize something you can’t quite say out loud.

you didn’t just feel exposed when the knot came undone.

you felt seen when he tied it again.

and now, you can’t stop wondering what else he might touch that carefully… if you let him.

who knew that swimming with a friend could be so… intimate?

because that’s all that luigi is. a friend.

a few minutes pass, and luigi’s eyes flick to the horizon, where the sky shifts from molten gold to a lush, suggestive purple. the last glimmers of sunlight ripple across the water, casting long, teasing shadows over the sand.

“let’s get out,” he says, voice low and rough, catching on the heat simmering beneath his words. “it’s getting dark.”

you nod, words caught in your throat, your body buzzing with the unspoken. you move toward the shore together, steps aligned, wading through the surf as the waves lap at your calves, slow and possessive, as if reluctant to release you.

the sand tugs at your feet, warm from the sun’s lingering kiss, cooler where the water meets it. you cross your arms, the breeze grazing your damp skin, every nerve electric with the memory of luigi tying that knot at your back, his fingers brushing your spine, binding you in ways that linger.

he follows just behind, close enough to feel his warmth, the air between you charged with a pull that feels alive. his presence is a quiet throb, a temptation hovering in the space where his hands could be.

reaching your towel, the sky has deepened to a rich, velvet dusk, the beach quiet, distant voices fading into the night. you gather your things slowly, each movement heavy with what you’re not saying, what you’re not sure you can hold back.

luigi stays close, unhurried, his gaze tracing you. his damp curls fall in wild disarray, his swim trunks clinging to the contours of his thighs, the sight stirring something raw and untamed deep inside you making it hard to look at him without feeling the heat coil tighter in your core.

that’s when you see it. your eyes drift downward, catching on the blue and white fabric of his swim trunks, where the damp material molds to him, outlining the clear, bold shape of his erection.

your heart kicks up, a rapid thud against your ribs, each beat pulsing with the heat flooding your veins. the sight sends your mind spiralling, did the simple act of him tying up your bikini spark this in him?

then luigi shifts, his gaze dropping as if sensing your attention. his eyes widen, a flush creeping up his neck, blooming bright red across his cheeks. he clears his throat, voice tight. “i’ll, uh… see you later,” he mutters, scrambling to grab his towel and shirt, the sand kicking up under his feet.

without another glance, he fast walks toward the apartment complex, his silhouette retreating into the dusk, leaving the charged air between you vibrating in his absence.

hours later, you’re curled up in bed, the faint glow of the tv spilling sultry blues and grays across your tangled sheets. some old movie drones softly in the background, its murmurs barely piercing the quiet, just enough to keep the silence from closing in.

but your focus isn’t on the screen, its still trapped on the beach, ensnared by the heated pull of what sparked between you and luigi.

you’re wearing nothing but an oodie, the warm, thick material grazing your bare thighs and teasing the edges of your hips.

fresh from the shower, your body is warm, still tingling, but no amount of steamy water could erase the memory of luigi’s hands on you, his fingers, slow and deliberate, brushing your spine as he tied your bikini. that touch, lingering too long, ignited something deep and molten inside you. and then you saw what it did to him.

you close your eyes, your pulse quickening, a slow burn pulsing low in your core. the image of him is vivid, unshakable, his damp swim trunks, blue and white, molded to every hard curve of him, the brazen outline of his dick stark and undeniable.

it’s etched into you now, his body’s raw confession of want, even as he flushed scarlet and fled into the dusk.

you pull the oodie tighter, but it only teases your skin, doing nothing to douse the heat coiling in your belly. your mind keeps slipping back to that moment, to the electric jolt of desire that crackled between you, sharp and alive. you wonder if he’s awake too, just a wall away, his body taut with the same restless craving knotting through you.

a soft knock at the door snaps you out of your thoughts, sharp and unexpected in the late night quiet. your heart stumbles, pulse quickening as you slide out of bed, the oodie brushing against your bare thighs. you pad through the dim apartment, the floor cool under your feet, the air heavy with anticipation. it’s late, far too late for visitors, yet something in you already knows who it is.

you open the door, and there’s luigi, standing in the hallway, looking deliciously disheveled. his curls are a wild mess, his shirt wrinkled, clinging to his frame as if he threw it on in a hurry. his eyes meet yours, dark and intense, carrying that same raw energy from the beach, now amplified in the stillness of the night. he doesn’t speak right away, but the way he looks at you, unsteady, hungry, says everything he’s holding back.

without hesitation, he steps inside, crossing into your space with a quiet intensity that sets your pulse racing. he moves past you, his presence electric, heading straight for your bedroom like he’s pulled by some unspoken force. you follow, heart hammering, the oodie grazing your skin with every step. he reaches your bed and collapses onto it, sinking into the rumpled sheets.

you linger near the doorway, watching him sprawl across your bed like he belongs there, like the weight of whatever he’s carrying finally caught up with him the moment he stepped inside. he exhales, long and uneven, eyes shut, the rise and fall of his chest steadying as the silence stretches.

you raise an eyebrow, arms folding across your chest. “well, hey to you too, i guess.”

his eyes blink open slowly, turning toward you. there’s a flicker of something in his gaze, not quite apology, not quite need, but something tender and unguarded.

“sorry,” he says, voice low and frayed. “i just… didn’t know where else to go. i didn’t want to be anywhere else.”

his words hang between you, quiet and vulnerable. he doesn’t look away, he waits, like he’s not sure if coming here was a mistake, but he couldn’t stop himself either.

you cross the room, sit beside him on the edge of the bed. “luigi,” you say gently, “what’s wrong? you’ve been acting weird since the beach.”

his arm drops away from his face. he turns his head toward you, eyes dark and unreadable in the low light. then he says it, quietly, almost like a confession.

“look, i know you saw… how hard my dick was.”

the words hang in the space between you, unflinching and real. your breath catches, your pulse stumbling in your chest.

he sits up slowly, his knees brushing yours, gaze locked on your face. “i didn’t mean for it to happen like that. but being that close to you, tying your bikini string back up… fuck, it messed me up.”

he pauses, searching your face for something, fear, rejection, maybe even hope.

then he leans closer, his voice dropping even lower, rough with honesty. “i jerk off thinking about you most nights.” his words hit like a spark, igniting the air between you. “that picture you posted on Instagram, the one of you in that little red dress? i’ve jerked off to that too, more times than i wanna admit.”

luigi’s eyes hold yours, dark and unrelenting, the heat in them almost tangible. he shifts even nearer, his breath warm, stirring the charged space between you. “i know you’re touching yourself to thoughts of me too,” he murmurs, voice low and gritty. “i’ve heard your vibrator through these walls, they’re thinner than you think.”

your heart pounds, a rush of heat pooling deep as his words land. he presses on, gaze burning. “sometimes, i touch myself at the same time, picturing you right there, just a wall away. and every damn time, i fight the urge to just come over and fuck you.”

your cheeks flush, a warm blush spreading, but a sly smirk tugs at your lips. you tilt your head, meeting his gaze with a spark of mischief. “well you should’ve done it,” you say, voice low and teasing. “i wouldn’t have complained.”

luigi’s eyes darken, a flicker of something wild passing through them. he leans closer, his voice a low, hungry rasp. “i’ll do it now.”

before you can catch your breath, he closes the distance, his lips crashing into yours with a heat that’s been building for months. his kiss is urgent, consuming, his mouth moving against yours with a desperate edge, like he’s been starving for this. his hands find your waist, pulling you closer, fingers digging into the soft fabric of the oodie as he presses himself against you.

you melt into him, your hands sliding up his chest, tangling in his disheveled curls as you deepen the kiss, tongues brushing in a slow, sensual dance that sends sparks down your spine. the room fades, the faint hum of the TV drowned out by the sound of your shared breaths, heavy and uneven. his lips are warm, tasting faintly of salt from the beach, and every slide of his mouth against yours pulls a soft sound from you, answered by a low groan from him.

he shifts, guiding you back against the bed, his body hovering over yours, the weight of his desire palpable as the kiss grows hungrier, messier, both of you lost in the heat of finally giving in.

your lips clash with a fevered intensity, moans spilling into each other’s mouths, soft and desperate, as your tongues tangle in a rhythm that feels both reckless and right. his hands roam, one sliding under the hem of your oversized hoodie, fingers brushing up the sensitive skin of your thigh until they find your bare core, warm and slick with want.

he pauses, lips still grazing yours, and his voice comes out low, rough with awe.

“are you always this wet?” luigi murmurs, the words vibrating against your mouth. then his fingers move, finding your clit with a slow, deliberate rub that sends a jolt of pleasure through you, his touch teasing and confident as he watches your reaction, the kiss deepening with every shared gasp.

your body arches instinctively into his hand, a soft whimper escaping your lips as the sensation ripples through you, electric and overwhelming.

“oh my god!” you gasp, the words slipping out in a breathless rush, your hands gripping his shoulders as you melt under his touch, the heat in your core intensifying with every circle of his fingers.

luigi’s eyes darken, a low groan rumbling from him as he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his voice thick with desire. “lets get this off you,” he says, his hands already tugging at the hem of your oodie. he lifts it over your head in one smooth motion, tossing it aside to reveal your naked body, your skin flushed and bare under his hungry stare, the air between you crackling with raw, unspoken need.

his eyes roam over you, taking in every curve, every inch of exposed skin, his breath hitching as his eyes burn with unrestrained want.

“shit,” he murmurs, voice rough and reverent, “you’re fucking gorgeous.” he leans in, lips brushing your collarbone, then lower, his hands skimming your sides like he’s memorizing you. “i gotta taste you,” he says, the words dripping with need.

he shifts, lying back on the bed, his curls splayed against the pillow as he looks up at you, eyes blazing. “ride my face, please,” he urges, voice low and pleading, his hands reaching for your hips, guiding you toward him with a hunger that sets your pulse racing.

his words hit you like a spark, igniting a rush of heat that’s both thrilling and overwhelming, the raw need in his voice drawing you in. already on the bed, you pause for a heartbeat, your body buzzing with anticipation, then slowly crawl toward him, your movements deliberate as you straddle his chest, thighs framing his face.

guided by his hands, you lower yourself gently, feeling the warmth of his breath against your core. the instant his tongue delves into you, hot and eager, you let out a sharp moan, the sensation jolting through you like electricity. luigi moans too, a deep, primal sound that reverberates against your pussy, intensifying the pleasure as it ripples through you, his grip tightening on your hips, pulling you closer as you both surrender to the raw intensity of the moment.

his tongue laps at you greedily, swirling and sucking with fervent precision, laving over your swollen clit and dipping into your dripping core, each stroke sending shudders through you. your fingers dig into the headboard, a desperate cry spilling from your lips as the pleasure surges, raw and unrelenting.

he pulls back just enough to rasp against your soaked skin, voice thick with lust, “fuck, you taste so much sweeter than i imagined.” the words ignite a fresh rush of heat, and he dives back in, tongue working you with insatiable hunger, licking and sucking with a ferocity that drives you toward the brink, the air thick with your shared, unrestrained desire.

“luigi, please!” you gasp, your voice trembling with need, the intensity of his mouth driving you wild. your hips begin to move, slowly at first, grinding against his face as you ride the rhythm of his tongue, chasing the electric sparks that jolt through your core.

his hands grip your thighs, urging you on, his lips and tongue relentless, sucking hard on your clit, then plunging deep inside you, lapping up your slickness with a hunger that makes your whole body quake. his moans vibrate against your soaked folds, each sound sending a fresh wave of pleasure ripping through you.

he pulls back just enough to growl against your skin, voice thick with lust, “you looked so fucking good at the beach today in that little brown bikini. i was so tempted to just… drag you somewhere private and taste you for hours.”

the words hit you like a bolt, fueling your movements as you grind harder against his mouth, your juices coating his lips and chin, his tongue relentless, flicking and sucking with obscene precision, driving you closer to the edge as your moans fill the room.

your hips shift instinctively, your slick folds gliding over the bridge of his nose, the new sensation sending a sharp jolt of pleasure through you. you grind against it, slow and deliberate, the pressure on your swollen clit sparking waves of ecstasy that make you shudder.

a desperate moan spills from your lips, raw and unfiltered, as the friction builds, and luigi’s grip on your thighs tightens, his own moan vibrating against you, deep and guttural.

“oh, baby,” he groans, the words muffled against your dripping core, the sound sending shivers through you as he presses his face closer, nose and tongue working in tandem to drive you wild.

your movements grow more frantic, grinding harder against his nose, each motion pulling louder moans from both of you, the air thick with the wet sounds of your pleasure and the raw, shared hunger consuming you both.

time blurs, minutes melting into a haze of relentless sensation as you ride his face, your soaked folds sliding over the bridge of his nose, the pressure on your pulsing clit sending tremors through your core. your thighs shake, muscles tightening as you chase the mounting heat, your moans sharper, more frantic.

luigi’s hands clutch your hips, guiding your rhythm, his own groans muffled against your dripping pussy, the vibrations pushing you toward the edge. “luigi, fuck! i’m gonna cum…” you whine, voice cracking as the pleasure coils tight, ready to burst.

“give it to me,” he murmurs, voice low and urgent against your skin, his tongue swirling feverishly over your clit as his nose presses perfectly against you. your body locks, a raw cry ripping from your throat as you come hard, your release gushing over his nose and mouth, hot and slick.

luigi moans, deep and ravenous, his tongue lapping hungrily at every drop, sucking and licking your sensitive folds, savoring every bit of your pleasure as your body quakes through the aftershocks.

still catching your breath, the lingering heat coursing through you, you slide off him, your thighs shaky as you kneel beside him on the bed. your hands find the hem of his rumpled t shirt, pulling it up, and he raises his arms to assist, letting you strip it away.

his body comes into view under the soft light, a flawless display of lean, chiseled muscle, his chest broad and sculpted, abs subtly defined with each breath, his bronzed skin glowing faintly from the day at the beach. every contour of him is striking, a natural perfection that sets your pulse racing anew.

before you can soak in the sight, luigi acts quickly, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his grey sweatpants and tugging them down in one fluid motion. he tosses them to the side, the fabric landing in a heap on the floor, leaving him in just grey calvin kleins, the tight material straining over the bold outline of his erection.

your eyes lock onto it, the sheer size of him impossible to ignore, the fabric stretched taut, revealing every thick, pulsing inch. a mix of awe and desire floods you as you reach out, fingers grazing the waistband of his underwear. slowly, you pull it down, inch by inch, until his cock springs free, hard and impossibly large, the sight making your core ache. a nervous giggle escapes you, and you look up at him, a playful glint in your eyes.

“now i see why you call yourself mr phd,” you tease, voice light but laced with heat. luigi laughs, a low, confident chuckle, his eyes glimmering with amusement. “well now you know i wasn’t lying when i said that,” he replies, his tone cocky yet warm. before you can say more, he leans in, capturing your lips in a deep, hungry kiss, his tongue sweeping against yours with a fervor that makes you melt.

in one quick motion, he flips you onto your back, the mattress dipping under his weight as he hovers over you. his lips find yours again, kissing you with a slow, searing intensity, before trailing lower. his mouth closes over your breast, sucking gently at first, then harder, his tongue flicking over your nipple, sending a sharp jolt of pleasure through you as you arch into him, the heat between you blazing hotter.

a soft moan spills from your lips, your body trembling under the warmth of his mouth, and your hand instinctively slides down, fingers finding your clit, rubbing in slow, desperate circles as the pleasure builds.

each swirl of his tongue and pull of his lips amplifies the sensation, your moans growing louder, more urgent, as you grind against your own touch. suddenly, luigi pulls back, your breast leaving his mouth with a wet pop, his eyes wild with need. “i can’t anymore,” he rasps, voice thick with desperation, “i gotta fuck you.”

he shifts, spreading your thighs wide, his throbbing cock, slick with precum, dragging along your dripping pussy, the hot, torturous glide making you quiver with want. you moan, the sensation overwhelming, and your voice breaks, needy and raw, “stop fucking teasing me and just fuck me.”

luigi lets out a husky laugh, his gaze gleaming with lustful mischief. “alright, alright,” he murmurs, voice thick with heat. he positions himself, and with agonizing slowness, he pushes all seven inches of his thick, pulsing cock into you, stretching your tight walls in a way that rips a loud, trembling whimper from your lips.

“you alright?” he asks, concern lacing his tone as he stills, fully buried in your slick heat. “yeah,” you gasp, your body struggling to accommodate his massive size, “just need a moment…you’re fucking huge.” he waits, chest heaving, letting you adjust to the intense stretch. after a beat, you nod, voice steadier.

“okay, go ahead and move.” his eyes lock onto yours, fierce yet tender. “i’ll start slow,” he promises, beginning to thrust with a deep, deliberate rhythm, each stroke filling you completely. he leans down, collapsing against you, his sweat slicked body pressed to yours, nose to nose.

instinctively, you wrap your legs around his torso, locking your ankles behind him, pulling him deeper as your thighs grip his sides. your arms slide around his back, fingers digging into the taut muscles of his shoulders, clinging to him as if you could meld your bodies together.

luigi’s thrusts remain slow but purposeful, each one a steady, deep plunge that has you gasping, your walls clenching around his throbbing length. he starts to moan, low and primal, the sound vibrating against your skin.

“fucking beautiful,” he groans, his voice rough with awe, “i regret not making a move sooner.” you moan in response, your voice trembling with pleasure, “me too.” your hips rock to meet his, the slick friction of his cock sliding in and out driving you wild, your juices coating him as he fills you over and over.

he keeps fucking you, his pace steady but relentless, each thrust long and deep, his thick shaft dragging against your sensitive walls, hitting spots that make your vision blur. the wet sounds of your bodies moving together fill the room, mingling with your shared moans, his cock stretching you with every slow, deliberate pump.

his sweat slicked chest slides against yours, his breath hot against your lips as he stays close, nose to nose, his eyes never leaving yours. each thrust feels like a claim, his hips grinding into you, the base of his cock brushing your clit with every motion, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through you. your nails rake down his back, urging him on as your moans grow louder, more desperate, your pussy pulsing around him.

he groans again, deeper this time, his rhythm unwavering, fucking you with a slow, torturous intensity that has you teetering on the edge, every inch of him filling you, claiming you, as the heat between you builds to a fever pitch, the room alive with the raw, graphic intensity of your connection.

his hips grind into you, the slick slide of his shaft driving you wild, and then he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, a wicked glint in his eyes. “where’s your vibrator?” he asks, voice low and teasing, but edged with hunger.

you laugh, caught off guard, your voice breathless. “what?”

“your vibrator, idiot,” he says, a playful smirk tugging at his lips, though his eyes burn with intent.

still trembling from his thrusts, you manage a shaky grin. “uh, it’s under the pillow next to me.”

luigi reaches over, his hand slipping beneath the pillow, and pulls out the sleek toy. with a quick flick, he turns it on, the low hum cutting through the air. he presses it against your clit, the sudden vibration sending a sharp jolt of pleasure through you, amplifying the stretch of his cock inside you.

your body arches, a loud moan ripping from your throat as the dual sensations overwhelm you. he starts fucking you faster, his hips snapping harder, each thrust driving his thick length deeper, the vibrator buzzing relentlessly against your swollen clit. “oh my… fuck!” you cry out, your voice breaking as the pleasure spikes, your walls clenching tight around him.

luigi whines, a raw, primal sound, his pace quickening even more, his cock pounding into you with a wet, rhythmic slap. the vibrator hums against your clit, his thrusts growing faster and harder, each one pushing you closer to the brink.

the vibrator buzzes mercilessly against your swollen clit, sending electric jolts of pleasure through you, amplifying the brutal rhythm of his hips slamming into yours. your moans erupt, loud and unrestrained, echoing through the room as your body arches, overwhelmed by the intensity of his thrusts and the toy’s relentless hum.

luigi’s moans match yours, deep and beautiful, spilling out as he drives into you with unyielding force, the bed creaking beneath the ferocity of his movements. “you sound so fucking hot, jesus christ,” he groans, voice ragged with lust, “i could fuck you for days.” your hands claw at his back, nails raking down his skin, leaving angry red trails as you grip him desperately, urging him on. his cock fills you completely, each punishing thrust hitting that sweet spot inside you.

the dual assault of his relentless pounding and the toy’s buzzing push you to your absolute limit. you moans grow even louder, more frantic, spilling from your lips in a desperate chorus as your body trembles, teetering on the edge.

“luigi, baby, i’m gonna cum,” you gasp, voice breaking with need, “can i cum all over your cock? please?” your plea hangs in the air, raw and urgent, as your pussy clenches tighter around him, the overwhelming sensation driving you toward a shattering release.

luigi’s eyes burn with hunger, his breath uneven. “fucking do it,” he rasps, voice thick with desire, “you’re so fucking tight.” he thrusts faster, his thick cock pounding into you with ferocious intensity, each deep stroke slamming into that perfect spot inside you, the vibrator’s relentless buzz against your poor clit driving you insane. your moans escalate into frantic cries, your body trembling uncontrollably as the pleasure consumes you.

your nails rake down his back, and then it hits, an explosive wave of ecstasy crashes through you, your pussy spasming wildly around his cock, gushing hot, slick release that soaks him, dripping down your thighs as you scream his name, your body arching and quaking through the intense, shuddering orgasm.

luigi bites your shoulder, a stifled moan rumbling against you as he’s struck by the sight of your orgasm, your pulsing walls squeezing him tight. the power of your climax sends him over the brink, and he comes with a primal groan, his cock pulsing violently as he unleashes thick, hot jets of cum deep inside your clenching pussy.

each throbbing spurt fills you, his hips jerking hard as his release floods your tight core, the creamy heat of his cum mixing with your slickness, leaking out around his shaft and coating both of you as he grinds through the last shudders of his orgasm, the air electric with the raw, graphic intensity of your shared release.

his cock softens, slowly slipping out of you, leaving a warm, wet trail as he shifts, nuzzling his face into the soft curve of your breasts, his breath warm and steady against your skin. you wrap your arms around him, pulling him close, your fingers tracing gentle circles across his sweat dampened back as you press a tender kiss to his forehead, your lips lingering there.

the intimacy of the moment wraps around you both, soft and grounding after the storm of passion. luigi laughs, his voice muffled against your chest. “we should make this a regular thing…” he murmurs, a playful warmth in his tone, his curls tickling your skin as he nestles closer.

you smile, your heart still racing but soft with affection. “we should,” you reply, voice low and teasing, as you pull him closer, your arms tightening around his warm body. you reach for the blanket, tugging it over both of you, cocooning you in its soft weight, the world shrinking to just the two of you tangled together.

luigi shifts slightly, his face still nestled against you, and says, “we should have lunch together tomorrow, i don’t know…” his voice trails off, a little hesitant but warm. you grin, a playful spark in your eyes.

“aww, are you asking me out on a date?” you tease, brushing a curl from his forehead. his cheeks flush, a soft blush creeping up as he glances up at you, a shy smile tugging at his lips. “maybe…” he admits, his voice soft but sincere.

“i’d like that,” you say, your tone warm and genuine, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his back.

he yawns, a happy sound, and murmurs, “good,” his voice heavy with sleep as he snuggles closer to you, placing a kiss on your bare chest.

tags: @alleviatcd @luigisbambinaaa @gigimangione @corrodeddeadlydoll @contrarianshitstan-blog @weegeewifey @mangionesdoll @mangobabygirl @luigisnumber1fan @fligniuz @number1yearner @soulsmangione @ohsorrythen @bbyelle12 @mangionebabymama @briarloves @luigis-stellina @mangionesdaisy @thm12 @purplebadd1e @kikigoogoogaga @daydreamingwithluigi

masterlist | previous work

[marroniere]

all right everyone the fic teaser...

Fact number one: birthday parties are never about fun. In Miri Jung’s experience, your birthday isn’t really about you. It’s an event that exists with the sole purpose of gathering together all your family — and everyone your family considers family, because family, in the case of the Jungs, is a rather convoluted notion. 

Fact number two: Captain Lagret has completed the Amnesty program, so he is not supposed to be a fascist anymore.

Fact number three: right now, Captain Lagret is proposing a toast to the “fallen heroes” — “you know who I mean.”  When he says this, Miri can already tell the fallen heroes in question aren’t going to be the Red Squadron pilots. Or the people of Ghorman. Or even Saw Gerrera’s partisans. 

And no one at the Pinnacle seems to pay any attention. Well, Miri catches a couple of curious glances from a group of Pantoran aristocrats seated at the nearby table, but that’s about it. Miri assumes they might be more curious about Madam Partagaz’s choice of jewelry than Lagret’s toast. It might be the combination of five strings of yellow Naboo pearls — and a tower-like bun that probably required so much hairspray you could poison a small Outer Rim world.

“To our fallen heroes,” says Madam Partagaz, who now officially goes by her maiden name Sul Vethra — because it’s much more convenient to be Chandrilan “in this new, grim reality.” “Sagrona Teema.”

“Um.” Miri folds the napkin into a neat quarter as she tries to pick her words carefully. “I think you might be…misusing that expression?”

Madam Partagaz produces a smile that is equal parts motherly and condescending. 

“Darling, in Hanna City, we’d always say this.”

Mom shoots Miri a look that counts as her version of a death glare. A muted, polite death glare. Accompanied with a smile that doesn’t extend to Mom’s eyes. LO-LA70, also known as just Lola, chirps quietly, as if trying to comfort Miri, and climbs up her shoulder. 

“Um.” Miri taps her fingers on the table.

“Darling,” says Madam Partagaz. “Stop fidgeting, if you please. Manners, remember? And would you mind putting that thing in your bag? A restaurant is no place for such droids.”

Lola gives a quiet chirp of protest. 

Then Miri says, “All I’m saying is, you cannot wish health and prosperity to people who are already dead.”

The table falls silent. Captain Lagret gestures for the waiter droid to pour him more wine. Supervisor Grandi pretends to be very busy with her nuna fillet. Jarro, Dad’s former attendant, just sits motionless with a smile plastered over his face.

Grandpa clears his throat.

“Actually, I believe it’s time for the cake. Right, Miri?”

She sighs.

“Um. No. No. I…”

Miri pauses, trying to think of the polite way to put this, like a well-mannered young lady that she is supposed to be — at least according to her mother, her grandfather, Madam Partagaz, the principal, and all of the teachers of the Galactic District High.

Lola buzzes, as though sensing what she is about to do. This particular buzz is meant to say, “Don’t. Just don’t.” Miri ignores this. 

“I’m a little bit uncomfortable with this,” she says, slowly. “Could we please not toast to the ISB on my birthday? It’s a little bit…strange. Thank you.”

Great. Now the Pantorans from the nearby table are looking at her and not at Madam Partagaz’s ridiculous pearls. 

Captain Lagret lowers his voice.

“Your father would have begged to differ.”

“I don’t want to talk about my father, Captain,” she says. “Not today.”

“You should have sent her to Chandrila,” whispers Madam Partagaz to Mom. “I’m afraid to think what she’s learning at this Coruscanti school. They have alien teachers! There is a marvelous place in Hanna—” 

“But it’s his birthday too,” says Lagret. His expression doesn’t change for a second. “Need I remind you that your father died protecting this galaxy—”

Oh, please. Miri’s heard this crap too many times already.

“Just like Supervisor Heert, right?” she asks. 

It’s weird how bits of stories that were never really hers, or Mom’s, or Dad’s, or Grandpa’s, stories that none of them ever witnessed, have a way of weaving themselves into the family history as if they’ve always been there. The Jung family is not unlike a bad hoarding case: if something isn’t in the “might come in handy” category, then it surely has some obscure “sentimental value.”

The remaining two of Supervisor Heert’s five tookas, as well as their grandchildren, still live at Mom’s and Miri’s apartment.

The story of Supervisor Heert’s death used to be Miri’s childhood nightmare, because some adults didn’t care what details you can and can’t share with a five-year-old. The school psychologist seemed very perplexed by the case. 

Mom’s eyes narrow. 

“Don’t you dare to talk about Jasper like that, young lady!”

Lola nudges Miri with a tiny paw. 

“Like what?” Miri clarifies. “I didn’t say anything. I’m just not sure what was so heroic about becoming a droid shield.”

Grandpa’s face goes rigid. Jarro chokes on his wine. Lagret goes a shade paler, which is not something Miri had believed to be possible, given that his complexion is best described as “Maldo Kreis ice spider.” 

And suddenly, Miri catches herself thinking that she rather enjoys this sight.

“I’m also not sure how exactly Dad helped save the galaxy,” she adds. 

Let it all burn, she decides.

As it turns out, there are some things that you just can’t voice politely.

I wonder if Lonni Jung’s daughter grows up in the New Republic thinking that her father was a fascist. She is ashamed and angry. She refuses to use her last name. She has terrible fights with her mother as a teen.

Then Kleya finds her and pays a visit.

[devon-chestnut]

A Re-Introduction

Hi!

So, as you guys can see, I changed my username over here from lola-theshowgrl to devon-chestnut, and I wanted to talk a little bit about my decision, and I guess, kind of out myself while I'm at it!

Let's get into the gay stuff, first! Most of you know I've always described myself as "queer" and that's largely to save time explaining all the ins and outs of my sexuality. Those of you I've spoken about it with in any depth will know me to be demisexual and bisexual, which honestly has always made sense in my head, but what it also means can be summed up with how I explain it to hets when they ask: "Gender means literally nothing to me".

A part of me has always felt a little strange about my femininity -like it's a costume I put on- and I assumed that was how everyone felt, then later blamed on my autism. I am a woman like a tomato is a fruit; yes, on paper, that's technically correct, but also... well. You wouldn't put tomato in a fruit salad, would you?

The thing is folks, I'm intersex. I never gave it a lot of thought, because it wasn't something I ever talked about - none of my family talked about it, (it was treated sort of shamefully? Which is why talking openly like this is really difficult tbh) and surgery I underwent happened when I was very young. Too young, probably. It's only with this bigotry about toilets and people being challenged and attacked that has brought it more to the forefront of my mind.

I'm afab technically, but I've been thinking about my gender more and more now I'm friends with other folks who are gender-nonconforming. I feel more accepted to question my assumptions, and also more afraid because of how the world is zeroing in on us. I can't pretend any longer to be something I'm not.

I've "come out" many, many times, to lots of different people, and in lots of different ways, and now I've come to this understanding of myself, I can't stand to be back in the closet again. So, here I am, on near enough the eve of pride month, to let you, my friends, know that I'm officially gender-fluid, and exploring. I would really appreciate if you would use the pronouns they/them for me going forward, and the name Devon.

Now onto writer stuff! I chose the name Devon partly because it's my favourite county in the UK (it's frikkin beautiful! If you get the chance to visit, you absolutely should!) and also because it's gender-neutral. I chose the surname "Chestnut" because the "Conkers" username has become so very dear to me the past three years, and I wanted to give a nod to that.

There are a lot of reasons to use a pen name, and while I don't ever expect to become super famous or whatever, this just suits me a bit better. Also... Devon Chestnut?? It sounds like I live in an old tree stump, sleep on a bed of moss, and wear a mushroom for a hat, and that honestly suits me down to the ground, haha!

Anyway. Thanks for reading all this! HMU if you have any questions, and sorry if this is a bit all over the place - I got emotional more than once writing it, so it might be a bit choppy!

Love you, guys!

~ Devon 💛

[darlingdream1010]

Ghost Biology- day 29

Danny has pursued his dreams the most realistic way he can. He’s not an astronaut, but he studies things that are strange and not of this world. In a way, he’s got a piece of space right in front of him, at his beck and call.

For some reason, Danny feels like it isn’t from space at all…

It squirms in the small testing plate, pushing and shoving against the ceiling like a rabid animal trying to get at him.

Danny looks at it with calculating concern. He knows it’s dangerous. Other scientists do dangerous things as well. Usually, they do it with each other. A team.

Danny, he works alone.

-

“Hey Dan’, can you pass me one of those turkey sandwiches?” A coworker calls from one of the break room tables.

Danny flinched at his choice of nickname. There’s no real reason why he should dislike it. So he stays silent.

He picks up the sandwich the man wants, his fingers splayed mostly on the wrapper part of it. Yet, when he hands it over, his colleague—no, the scientist, looks at him with contempt.

What did I do to wrong?

He’s resisted asking that question for a while now, but maybe it’s his old rebellious teenage self coming back to haunt him.

“Eh…you know, you can just have that one.” He’s glaring at Danny’s fingers.

He looks down.

Just one. Just his pinky. It’s touching the sandwich bread.

“O-oh, I washed my hands, of course.”

“No, no, it’s not that.”

It is.

Danny feels something churn in his stomach. He takes the sandwich for himself—he likes turkey—and goes to eat alone. That means taking the nearest table and watching everyone else leave it.

In their hurry to get away from him, they block his view of the other scientist. The other scientist, who, try as he might, cannot get his hand to pick up a sandwich without it falling right through.

-

Someone’s building a research team again.

It’s an exciting question they’re investigating; everyone in the labs are buzzing about. All are vying for a spot.

Danny doesn’t volunteer, nor does he get asked.

What they do is whisper.

“Not picked again? Must be because he’s cursed…”

“I heard he isn’t cursed, but something inhuman entirely.”

“Someone who used to work hear called him the Banshee.”

In the daylight, he ignores the rumors dutifully. Deep breaths and factual thoughts push away the doubt.

Danny is human. He studies things that aren’t.

I am human.

-

It’s when his vision is blurry and his mind is swimming on one of those nights where the whispers torment him, that a new piece to study arrives. It lays in his curled fist. He takes it in like treasure worth millions. Strokes it curiously.

A lock of glowing white hair, splattered with a bit of blood.

Overcome with excitement, he jumps from the stiff cot he sleeps in. Danny hurries to his station in the middle of the night, eager to prove himself useful. Even if he does it alone it is still possible he could make history…!

It is at this dreadful hour. When he tests the hair and compares it to human hair—his own—and with the green goo he has acquired. Just like he does every night he gets another piece to study, he remembers.

He sees the irregular DNA intertwining with the human. It does not matter which of the three specimen he sees it in, because the answer is the same.

Danny Phantom is no longer a child, but he can never escape being a ghost.

The knowledge breaks him, making him sob uncontrollably and tear out his hair. The white and black hairs grace the floor like feathers.

The sounds of grief and confusion echo hauntingly down the halls. The sounds reach scientists working late into the night, but they are familiar with it now. Only the newest members fret. It will only fuel another wave of ostracization. Whispers. Rumors. Even laughter.

Danny realizes this as well, and he falls to his knees.

After all he fought for in his hometown…then, everything he escaped for… The only thing he had left was his chance to pursue something at least close to his lifelong dream. There was no more Jazz, or Sam, or Tucker. Just foolish little Danny thinking he could make friends here. Heal here, perhaps. But—

He was not welcome.

He worked hard.

He worked late.

He slept here.

He did his best.

What did I do wrong?

Tears burned hot trails down his cheeks.

The comprehension that he will never have the one thing he wants, the thing he’d fought for as a kid, because he does not deserve it—does not deserve to be treated like a human. It tears the little boy inside of him apart.

-

Nocturne takes pity on him and welcomes him into the realm of dreams.

Similarly, his ghost half does its best to grant him his pitiful wish. It cannot kill itself, but he can pretend. Curling in the dusty depths of his minds eye, where even the sun will not see it—

-

And so he wakes up to do it all again, with no mind of the events of the night before…

[wide-nose-and-wonderful]

SINNERS.

Pairing: Sammie x Pearline!

Warnings/Type: Hurt/Comfort, Fluff & Stuff, A Smooth Talking Preacher Boy In Another Decade. It's Early 2000's, ONE SHOT!

Summary: Young Boy Sammie Moore has finally turned twenty one! He decides to spend pre birthday at the mall with his family for some early birthday gifts. Who knew a quick break off to the food court would be so eventful.

Word count: 6,624 / Whomever comes across this work, enjoy.

It was Wednesday. The air inside the Guitar Center thrummed with the low hum of amps and the sporadic twang of hopeful guitarists. Guitars of every shape, size and pedigree, amid a lingering scent of aged wood and polished brass. Sammie held the blues like a well-worn record, already dissecting the acoustic sections across the other side of the store, thoughtfully tapping on soundboards of various models. By that time, the thought of his father found him. He recalled the very last conversation. A couple days spread out into a few months, but the words remained as clear as the day they were spoken.  

“Listen Sammie. The bottom line. Either you cut out all the nonsense. Get yourself back to going to church, or I'm gonna have to ask you to leave ma’ house. I won’t have people talking.Calling my son a Sinner. You know what kind of impact that would have on the church. My livelihood and legacy. Everything I've built so you and your brothers and sisters could make something of yourselves…” 

“But that’s your life. I’m entitled to live my own. Maybe your legacy just isn’t ma’ legacy anymore.” 

He wondered what type of state he was in. Different emotions had him undecided. Was it some sense of longing? Regret, maybe relief, some kind of fear? He bet he could write a song that would express it all, tell it better. That’s all Blues was. Express of the emotions that were a little hard to say out loud and straight out. Some emotions required a beat, a melody and a tune. 

Twenty one years today. Old enough to drink legally, as Stack reminded him. Old enough to really be out on his own with no excuses. Do his own thing, with no one to answer to. A man. The point he’d made sure his father knew. 

“We gon’ throw you a party like no other lil cousin, just you wait till this weekend…”

Sammie grinned, feeling the weight of the instrument in his grip. Stack seemed more eager then he did. Like he was in some strange way getting to relieve his early twenties. Boy, did he have some stories to tell. The things he’d done and saw. Sammie’s mind on the other hand was far from drinking and dancing. Attention from loose women. He didn’t want the party. A quiet night inside almost suited him better. He still hadn’t heard from his father. That bothered him.

Jedidiah Moore, epitome of stubbornness despite his sermons on pride and unforgiveness at Sunday service. Grudges could stay and wayne like the summer heat, and boy was he particular. In front of his congregation he presented as a wholesome man. Caring, considerate, a good listener and confidant. Behind closed doors was different. Sammie may have had too many examples to count, but his image as both pastor and father beat against one another with little equality. 

Sammie’s mother, Geraline Moore called two days prior, although loyal to his father's will, she'd been a bit more understanding in her nature as a woman, but a mother would always be curious about their child when they weren't with them. Sammie knew she'd been eager to hear just how he’d been doing since going to stay with Annie and Smoke. Questions like, was he eating, being respectful. Her voice stayed thick during their conversation, riddled with a sadness she tried to hide. Sammie regretted that the most. She’d been the last person he wanted to hurt. 

By the time Sammie sighed that fact away, Stack veered straight toward a wall full of electric guitars with a glint of mischief in his eye. The candy-apple red Ibanez  launched into a series of wildly uncoordinated power cords. Only thing to break Sammie from all his thinking. 

Elianna covered her ears at the broken melody, but there remained a particular sense of awe in her face. She’d walked off from Annie who’d been eyeing one of the instruments, following her uncle in a childlike curiosity. She’d done that ever since she could walk. Sammie often wondered if she thought Stack was her daddy, and did it instinctively. Or could she tell the twins apart just by looking.   

“Uncle,” She cried amidst the atrocious noise. ”Stop it!” 

Smoke threw a glare in the direction of his daughter's protest. He’d been busy at the front desk talking to one of the men that worked there. A sheet of paper laid out nicely on the table, separated the two like a business transaction taking place unbeknownst.

“Stack! Cut it out,” he hissed. “You gon’ break something and I'm not tryna hear they mouth.”  

The man on the other side of the table had his eye on Stack the moment he picked up the expensive instrument. Smoke noticed too, which was why when the man finally locked eyes with him, Smoke gave him a subtle but serious flash of a glare as if to say in so few words, don't say shit to my brother, I got it.

Although identical, Smoke never seemed to let anyone, including Stack forget that he was the oldest twin. Sammie confirmed that difference, almost immediately. They looked every much alike but were very different men. Stack embraced it, and lived boldly in his thirst for freedom. He had a very do whatever you want attitude. Sammie always wondered if being a twin meant that type of thing was unavoidable; the desire to break away and form a separate identity. To be one’s own person. 

As expected, Stack laughed through his noise making, even beyond Smoke’s threat. 

“You don’t like ma’ song baby niece?” 

Elianna shook her head. little hands still firmly over her ears. A giggle did manage to leave her. Annie pursed her lips when she walked over. Not entirely displeased, but not entirely amused. She’d probably gotten used to it, as long as she’d been around the twins. Stack could test Smoke’s patience.Sammie had been witness a few times when the brothers had their heated arguments. Most of the time it had to do with Smoke not liking the type of women Stack brought around. Only one Smoke ever went completely soft for was his baby girl.

To Sammie, five year old Elianna Moore was the cutest thing walking. She had equal bits of Smoke and Annie in her, but she looked more like her daddy, or at least Sammie thought so. She’d been declared a miracle child by the midwife, Annie took about a month to recover fully. A hard birth, Smoke managed to breath out one time when someone asked him. Ever since then he’d been a devoted father. Maybe a little over protective, but Sammie assumed he’d gotten the life he wanted. Annie was a good woman. She could cook and the house was always clean and smelling good. More than that, she was his comfort. Since staying with them, Sammie had walked in on at least two instances where Annie was standing cradling and holding Smokes head close to her chest. Like her heartbeat energized him.  

Another death glare by Smoke had Stack finally off his antics. He put the guitar back with that chuckle that pissed Smoke off, and moved in one swift motion to swoop up Elianna and kiss her on the cheek. She giggled, high up in his arms and hugged his neck. He gave her this sad face and pressed his forehead on hers.

“How you gon’ say ya’ uncle was bad. You spose ta be ma’ number one fan out here baby girl.” 

Elianna provided a couple pats to the shoulder. A little of Stack’s personality had no doubt rubbed off on her too.  

“You wasn’t that bad uncle Elias, but you was baaaaad.” 

She scrunched her face like she'd tasted a sour candy. Stack smacked his teeth, but smiled. 

“Why you have to elongate the word? See. You lucky you cute and you ma’ baby.” 

He kissed her forehead and put her down. 

“Big cousin Sammie, now he's gooooood,” she said, head tilted and smiling. 

A laugh escaped Annie. Stack grinned and shrugged, before he laughed himself. 

“Well. I can't even argue that. He got some talent, no doubt. Which is why we gon’ get him hooked up. Make him a big star. Then we can watch him on TV. Playing all them blues songs.” 

Sammie sighed. Stack brought it up numerous times before, even managing to convince Smoke to help get him signed to a label, and it was hard to get Smoke to agree on anything, depending on what it was. But, hesitation remained, the thought of being famous. He loved music. Loved playing the strings, sure. Learned the Guitar on his own with months of strenuous practice whenever he got the opportunity, but, recognition didn't matter too much. Humble beginnings stayed on him, even after his father's Church gained popularity. Best part about the Blues was the way it made a person feel. He’d had a few instances where people cried, said they needed that, that his voice was powerful, that the world somehow got brighter. He never felt that way at his father’s church. The music, the Gospel to Sammie, was strangely constrained in the way of freedom. Maybe not the same freedom Stack looked for in experiences, or how family presented for Smoke, but the type of freedom a bird might need to not just fly, but to soar. At least under his fathers eye, things felt like that. Contained and cadged. He had a chance at glory, and turned from it. Then like clock work, Sammie got back to thinking about Jedidiah. If he did become famous, that would seal the deal on their relationship.

“Nah Stack. It's all good.” He said, a particle smile to hide the inner battle. “I don't need all that. Y'all like ma’ music. That's enough.” 

Stack smacked his teeth. “Mind what I say. Big cousin got you. Twenty one, can't even believe it. Growing up right before our eyes.” 

Stack walked over, threw an arm which resulted in a partial head lock and hug all rolled into one gesture. He had a heaviness to his arm, weighted, but a comfort all at once. Stack faked sniffing, dapping at his own eyes in some form of dramatics with his knuckle. There were no tears to dry away. His smirk betrayed him anyway. Sammie knew he was on bullshit. Stack knew it himself, but went on talking.

“Seems like just yesterday you were that nappy head lil boy running round toothless following after us. Everywhere too. Couldn't seem to shake ya. Guess much ain't changed but this new line up you sportin’ huh.” 

Sammie gave a crooked smile before moving from under his arm. “Man. Whatever. You ain't never remember me like that.” the tone might have come off unconvinced, but he let off a chuckle afterward. Stack would always be Stack, fabricating stories with how he thought they’d played out, no matter what, but Sammie was fine with that. He took him for what he was. 

Annie stepped up, bag in one hand as she placed the other on Elianna’s shoulder. Elianna pouted just slightly. While talking to Stack, there had been a missed conversation happening between mother and daughter. That familiar dimple expressed itself on one of her little cheeks. Identical to her father's, and Stack’s.

“Mama, please get this…this one is the best.”

Sammie couldn't help but grin. Elianna Moore did have an eye, and she'd found a lovely make and model he’d overlooked. 

“I like it mama,” her dark brown hues traveled up and down the guitar. “You don't like this one, big cousin?” 

Sammie stepped forward and bent down on one knee. Doing so had him at Elianna’s eye level and in the area dedicated to vintage electronics. He ran a hand reverently over the smooth neck of a honey-blonde telecaster before his eyes landed on the charcoal-grey Gibson Es-335, perched on a stand. Elianna’s choice. 

“I do. I really like this color and pattern design too. Good pick.” 

Her eyes lit up like street lamps at the approval, and her little dimple surfaced for a second time. Her smile warmed him, but also reminded him of home. The brothers and sisters he’d left behind often looked at him in that same way. 

“Can you try it?” 

That meant she wanted a song played. Her favorite one. Oddly enough, a song Sammie took a liking to when she was months old, frustrated with his father, and ready to run away to prove him and everyone else wrong. Like a dandelion seed, Sammie envisioned himself countless times scattering away from the South, catching the wind towards something more. Muddy Waters, Mannish Boy. Sammie would never understand how she was wise enough to remember it. Maybe, it had nothing to do with the particular song at all, only that he was singing it, and made it personal that she grew a liking to the way he did it. Whatever the reason, whenever his baby cousin asked, and if a guitar was nearby somewhere, he'd play it for her. He provided a gentle pinch to her cheek, grabbed the guitar, put the band over his head and got into a good position as he stood to his feet. 

“Okay, tell me lil’ bit. What song ya’ want cousin Sammie to play for ya’?” 

Elianna tilted her head from one side to the other before she tugged at his shoulder sleeve. 

“Whaaaaat. You don’t member it?” 

Her eyes grew big.

“Course I do,” He said, and chuckled.

 He would never forget.  

This time he wouldn’t coax a mournful melody. That could only be played on the one back home where Jedidiah was. 

“You leave out here, Sammie. You not taken that Guitar wit’ ya.” 

So he left it behind. Been in mourning ever sense. Peering down at the price tag on this one he didn't own, Sammie took a breath, and promised himself he’d be careful while playing. His part time job didn’t make enough should something happen in the process of the song. He didn't want to cause trouble for Smoke and Annie. They’d been so generous. 

“Excuse me,” he said, catching the attention of one of the employees. “Y'all mind if I try this out?”

“Yeah, sure dude. I can plug it up.” 

Sammies gaze traveled. They’d hid it away beneath the counter. Smart. The amp crackled to life, filling the shop with a warm, inviting glow of sound that hummed a quiet power once plugged. Elianna brought her hands together in anticipation. Not something done for Stacks performance. Annie smiled and even Smoke paid attention. 

“Oh, daaaaaaamn. Aye, everybody come watch ma’ lil’ cousin. He bout to blow this shit up!” Stack called, with the same elongation of words he’d scolded his niece for as he waved over unsuspecting onlookers.

Whatever opinions anyone had about Elias Mooore, he was the biggest hype man and support anyone could ask for. Sammie always appreciated that about him.   

“Blow it up?” 

The man's face went pale in color. More red patches showing on areas of the skin. Smoke unfazed, shook his head. Another great supporter, just in a different way.  

“Nah. Not like that. Just an expression. Means he bout’ ta put on a show for y’all. So pay attention.” 

Sammie closed his eyes a moment, breathed deep, and let his fingers find their way to the familiar cords of Mannish Boy.

“Oooooooh, Yeah. Oh Yeaaaaaah. Everything, everything, everything gon’ be alright this moooorning…Oooooh yeah….Whooooooo!”

At the ripe age of seven, he’d gotten the opportunity to hear a studio recording of the song. He would shut his eyes and try to imagine what it was like being in that space at that exact time. Muddy there, maybe Howling wolf, little Walter for sure, the band of course, and that guitar amped and ready.

“Come on dere now preacher Boy, you gon’ sang this song…Or are you gon’ sanaaag this song…”   

Slow, a tentative rumble, built into the iconic riff, each note a drop of sweat and hard earned wisdom of all the greats that came before him. His voice joined the guitar, a raw soulful cry that seemed to emanate from somewhere deep within. Stack hollered off a loud Yeaaaaaah’ In the background. 

“Now, when I was a young boy…At the age of five…My mother said I was gonna be…The greatest man alive…But now I'm a man…I'm age twenty-one…I want you to believe me, honey…We having lots of fun…I'm a man…”

He played with a passion and skill that belied his age, and others felt it. Stack with his hootin’ and hollerin’, Smoke with the tapping of his feet, Annie’s subtle swaying, and Elianna’s innocence, off beat but happy in her own personal dance to the tune she loved.

“I spell M…A, child…N…that represent man…No B…O, child…Y…that spell mannish boy…I'm a man…I'm a full-grown man…I'm a man…I'm a rollin' stone…I'm a man…I'm a hoochie-coochie man…”

The music grew louder, the mood more festive, and pretty soon others outside of the Moore’s joined in. A crowd began to gather. Tourists paused, drawn in by the authentic sound. Children stood mesmerized. Different people, singing along, clapping hands. The air changed, thick with the raw soulful energy of the blues.

“Sittin' on the outside…Just me and my mate…I'm made to move…Come up two hours late…Wasn't that a man?...I spell M…A, child…N…that represeent man…No B…O, child…Y…That spell mannish boy…”

No telling how many new customers would arise from this performance. From behind Sammie caught a different instrument joining in. Drums. Then another, the harmonica of all things. A mournful counterpart to the Guitar. He wasn’t aiming for perfection, just connection. That’s why he never looked back to see exactly where the oncoming sounds came from, the sheer exhilaration of being alive and in the moment mattered most.  

Instead he poured his youthful heart into it, fingers dancing over the fretboard. His voice, though a little rough around the edges in his opinion, resonated with genuine feeling, catching the melody and riding it. A lively, upbeat tune filled with joy. A song born from the newfound lightness in his soul. It wasn’t quite the same, but familiar. Not home, but close to it. He’d missed the sensation of the vibrating strings. Getting lost in the music. How he’d imagine his fingers painting the air. Each note, this brush stroke of emotion.  

Then he saw her.  

At the edge of the crowd. A woman bathed in the late afternoon light. He’d swore he’d never seen hair so dark. Coiled, full, in a medium high afro of tight curls. Deep brown complexion complemented wide eyes, mysterious and endlessly captivating. She wasn’t smiling, he noticed, but her expression was one of quiet attentiveness, like she absorbed every note, every nuance of the song. 

Sammie stumbled slightly on a chord. The carefully constructed composure cracking momentarily. 

As the last chord faded away, this appreciative ripple traveled within the crowd who hadn’t noticed the slip up. Any doubt flew away with the applause. He stood and only gave a partial bow. 

“Thank y'all. Appreciate it. My lil’ cousin likes this song. Played it especially for her.” 

A look around. No Elianna in sight. No Annie, or Smoke or Stack either. Then with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, a man dressed in a tailored suit pushed through the crowd and offered his hand. 

“Magnificent! Absolutely magnificent! Heard you playing all the way down the hall. Lotta people heard ya. But me personally, said to myself what raw unpolished potential. You gotta a gleam in ya’ eye. Talent. Such that I ain't heard in a good long while, least round here in Mississippi. I’m Johnathan Remmick. Remmick Talent Agency. You, young man, have a gift..” 

Buzzing from the performance, Sammie shook his hand, a subtle half grin playing on his lips. “Thanks,” he mumbled. “Just playing around.”  

“Playing around?” Remmick chuckled, a low oily sound. “Nonsense. You’re a star waiting to be discovered. I can make it happen. I’m thinking you got the it factor. Got some big names I know would be excited to have you open for um.” He pulled out a business card. “Let's talk contract. I have connections, studios, the whole nine yards.” 

This sudden sense of uncertainty filled him up. Sammie looked out at the faces in the large pool of people. None belonging to his cousins, or Annie. This might be the right opportunity Stack always talked about, he thought, but the hype of it all had them swallowed up in different sections. He was alone with no clue what to do next. Flattered, stammered, almost unable to think logically, he grinned. 

“Wow, okay uh, yeah Mr. Remmick, That’s amazing.” 

“Amazing is an understatement!” 

Remmick clapped him on the shoulder, a little too hard, for Sammie’s liking. Something about him carried an air of doubt. Maybe the overt eagerness, or the smile, just a little off. 

“I’m talking stadium tours, record deals, the whole shaBang!” But first, we need to, shall we say, formalize our partnership.” 

“Hold up a minute,” his voice low and even. “I can’t rush this. I actually have a lot on my plate right now.” By a lot, Sammie considered his father and what that reaction would look like if he did sign with some big company to make music.  

Remmicks' smile faltered, just a fraction. 

“Ofcourse, of course. Just a preliminary chat. But I wouldn't want anyone else to snatch you up while you're still thinking about it. Time is of the essence, ya know.” 

A flimsy looking document surfaced from the briefcase, Sammie didn’t even notice he had one at first. A hastily prepared Contract of Representation. Papers that looked intimidatingly thick.

“Pretty standard artist management agreement. Take a look.” 

“You just carry these round wit ya.” 

It seemed a little too calculated.

“Always be prepared. You never can really know, can you.” 

Sammie reached for the contract, but a hand intercepted it. 

“Hold on there, Slick.” 

Stack emerged from the crowd. Broad shoulders, and even broader grin. A stark contrast to Remmick’s polished demeanor. Smoke came from the opposite direction, Annie not far behind carrying Elianna in her arms.

What’s this all about?” Smoke asked, tone deceptively mild as he took the contract from Remmick’s hand.

Stack, meanwhile, positioned himself subtly between Sammie and the white man. Remmick’s smile faltered. 

“Just a standard contract, gentlemen. Helping this young man achieve his dreams.” 

Annie, who had been quietly observing, moved beside Smoke. Eyes, sharp and intelligent as they scanned the document. “This seems a little unbalanced, Mr. Remmick,” she said, her voice polite but firm. 

“Standard for someone just starting out,” He insisted, voice a little sharper. “This is an investment in his future. He’ll be rolling in it!” 

Smoke flipped through the pages, his brow furrowing. “Forty percent commission? Control over all his music? Perpetual exclusivity? Sounds like a dream alright…for you.” He looked at Remmick, eyes narrowed. “This highway robbery, damn near.” 

“Now, see here,” Remmick sputtered, “This is how the business works! I’m offering him an opportunity!”

“Yeaaaaah. An opportunity to get screwed over,” Stack rumbled, his voice a low growl. “My cousin ain’t stupid. He just gets a little starstruck.” 

Smoke handed the contract back to Remmick. “Think you’ll find my cousin’s gonna need to consult with some professionals.” He emphasized the word ‘Professionals’ with a meaningful glance at Stack. 

“Look, I’m just trying to help. I see the potential here.” 

“We see it too,” Stack chimed in, “And we’re gonna make sure he gets his fair shake.” He placed a protective arm around Sammie like a guard. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have some celebrating to do.” 

Remmick backed away. Shot the twins a resentful look before disappearing out the door. 

Sammie looked at both his cousins with an assumed gratitude and released the breath he'd been holding in the entire exchange. For all of it he’d froze, unable to think, or find the right things to say. It reminded him of the little Mermaid. The movie Elianna loved and wanted to watch with him every time he came over. One particular scene got him thinking. The one where the evil sea witch had the mermaid sign her name on a contract. Damn near sell her soul. Sammie thought this situation might be a lot like that.

“Glad y'all came when you did. He got ta’ talkin’ so fast, didn't have time to think.” 

“Don’t worry bout’ it,” Stack said, providing him a few hearty pats on the back. “You just focus on the music. We’ll handle the sharks.” 

“And we’ll get you good representation when the time is right if you really serious bout’ this music thing. Someone who actually cares about your music, not just your potential to make them a quick buck,” Smoke added.  

“Your talent is real Sammie. Shouldn’t be exploited.” 

Annie kissed his cheek leaning a gentle hand on his shoulder. 

He wished his father saw it that way. He finally understood the underlying feeling he carried ever since he woke up that day. He missed him. That's what the unease was. Hoping Annie didn't notice, he focused on Elianna, still in her arms. 

“So, lil baby. Have yourself a good time. Big cousin do good?”

She laid her head on Annie's shoulder, but nodded with a smile that grew more and more. 

“Sooooo good Sammie. Everybody gon’ like that song now. But, that’s still our song.” 

“Sho’ is. And you was right about the guitar. It's a good one.” 

“So that the one you want?” 

He diverted his attention. 

“How you mean Smoke? You know my job won’t pay for this. Might be bout’ a year before I could even think about it.”

“Damn Preacher Boy,” Stack bellowed. “You ever hear anything I say or does it just go in one ear and out the other. For the hundredth time. I told you, ya’ big cousins was gon’ look out.” 

Smoke’s grin leveled out. “Been without your guitar for a while. Thought you might like another one. One of your own. Harder to part from it when it’s ya’ own.” 

“Y’all serious right now?” 

“Hell yeah,” Stack replied with a smile. “Pick whatever one you want. We buying.” 

But Sammie couldn't bring himself to speak. He just stood there, clutching the guitar like a lifeline. 

Elianna lifted her head in surprise, her smile disappearing as she stretched out her hand. 

“Cousin Sammie, no. Don’t cry…”

“Thank y'all….thank y'all so much.” 

… 

Sammie left the Strum Studio Guitar Center, chest full and heavy. Pulled in by the smell of Auntie Anne’s pretzels, he b-lined toward the food court. It loomed ahead. Its wide expansion of patrons on pause from their personal shopping excursions littered the area as pockets of people filled up most of the seats. The newly purchased guitar rested on his back, complements to Stack and Smoke. 

He’d become overtaken by the inevitable pull of nostalgia. Something familiar, comforting.

Miss Ruby’s Sweet Tea.

Singing always managed to make him thirsty.

He found it tucked away in the food court, a tiny unassuming counter nestled between Svarro and orange Julius. Miss Ruby herself was still there. A member of his father’s church. Devoted, religious, but with whiter hair. A shade browner. No doubt spending early mornings tending to her garden of poppies. Had it really been that long, Sammie thought. Even her hands were slightly more gnarled with age, but the warmth in her smile hadn’t changed. 

“Preacher Boy. Honey that you!” She exclaimed, her voice as sweet as the tea she made. “Lord have mercy child. Seems like a long time since I seen you. You haven’t been to service.” 

“No Ma’am. Not for a while. I moved quite far. Getting there’s been kind of a challenge.” 

“Oh Honey. There’s no excuse for missing out on the word of the lord. Pastor couldn’t help you none?”

“No ma’am. But I still make time. Say my prayers.” 

“Alright honey. I won’t go on nagging. Just tell your father I said hello when you do see him.” 

“Yes Ma’am Miss Ruby,” he said, feeling a lump form in his throat. “I will.” 

“Well. What you come here for. Sweet Tea. I’m guessing.” 

“The only kind besides ma’ mama’s that I like. So. Yes please.” 

She filled the glass with the amber liquid, a constellation of ice swirling within along with added lemon slices. Those weren't regularly added, Sammie had to add those, separately. What he referred to as the extra kick. Sweetness accompanied by a slightly sour finish. He paid her. The dead presidents, a tiny prince for such a taste only found in Mississippi. 

Sammie took a sip. Perfect. Sweet, but not cloying. Exactly as he remembered. Tangy, with a hint of lemon. Cold. Refreshing. Sunshine and honeysuckle in a glass like the catching of fireflies on a hot summer night with whispers of secrets and first loves. Best in the Delta.

The elderly woman’s words were not lost on him by the time he’d finished his Sweet Tea, and departed. He’d held on to his cellphone a solid five minutes before he decided to dial his fathers number. Found a bench to sit on in order to talk. The anxiety, though, swelled up in his legs, something terrible. One kept bouncing, before the other joined in, prompting him to get up. At least that way the tingling wouldn’t be consistent.

Sammie couldn’t understand why he was so uneased. Not even a full hour had gone by since he’d confidently performed in front of numbers of people. Strangers just passing by. All of a sudden, when it came to talking to his father, he was at a crossroads of nerves. But between the time it took to settle the debate going on in his head, he’d decided that not calling would be worse. 

Sammie found a relatively quiet corner near a bubbling fountain. He’d been avoiding this afraid of what he might hear, or worse, not hear. But guilt was a relentless tide, pulling him under. He glared at his phone, thumb hovering over his father’s contact. 

Ring. Ring. Ring. 

Each unanswered ring was a beat against his conscience. The call clicked over to voicemail. Sammie swallowed, throat suddenly dry. “Uh. Hey. It’s me. Just wanted ta’...I was thinking I should call to say uh…Uh, hope your havin’ a good day.” He ended the call abruptly, a hollowness settling in his chest. 

He slumped onto a nearby bench, the fountain’s cheerful gurgle mocking his mood. 

“…I’m so sorry to call you while you're at work, but I didn’t know what else to do….yeah….I stepped away. Said I was going to the ladies room, buy Gloria I-.” 

A female's voice broke, this kinda sob escaping her lips. 

Sammie felt a strange connection, a shared hurt.The situations were different, but that underlying emotion stung the same. That yearning for reconciliation was the same. 

Her voice, muffled by tears, continued, “I feel like they're staring me down. Both of them. He said he wanted to meet up to talk about the separation. I wasn’t expecting him to bring her…” 

Sammie shifted uncomfortably. He shouldn't have eavesdropped, but he couldn’t help it. The woman’s pain was palpable. Raw ache that resonated with the unresolved tension that was squeezing the cell phone, waiting for Jedidiah’s call back. Her conversation, like tiny needles, pricked at his attention. She sat on a bench about ten feet away, her back to him. Voice tight, laced with frantic edge.

It was her. The woman from before. 

Something in that gaze, something profound and undeniable, electrified him. When he finished Mannish Boy, he looked for her, but she was gone. Stack called these types of encounters, once in a lifetime occurrences. Sammie watched her stand to her feet. She stood a second, took a deep breath before pushing her shoulders back, proceeding to walk to the table where a man and woman sat.

She looked trapped with that pretend confidence, a bird with clipped wings. 

“You walk down this road. Better be prepared for what comes…” 

Sammie settled his resolve and made his way towards the table. This was one of those, once in a lifetimes. Heart pounding against his ribcage like a frantic drummer. He stood beside the woman, placing a hand on the back of her chair. “Hey, Babe,” he said, voice surprisingly steady.  

The woman’s head snapped up, her eyes widening in surprise. The man frowned as he gripped the other woman's hand on the opposite end of the table. The man, Sammie would assume was the ex husband and his new lover beside him. 

“Aye, anit you the one that was in the guitar center earlier? Negro put on a whole concert.” 

The man chuckled, but his voice was laced with irritation too. Good, Sammie thought. His focus never faltered. He leaned down, looking into the woman’s eyes. A silent plea passed between them. 

“You okay?” he whispered. 

She hesitated, throwing looks between him and her ex husband. Then, a subtle nod. 

That was all Sammie needed. 

He bent down and, without a moment’s hesitation, captured her lips in a kiss. Not some chaste peck. Passionate, this kind of desperate kiss. One that spoke of longing and protection, defiance and hope. He poured all his suppressed emotions into it, like how his fingers danced over the strings of the guitar, or how his voice married the melody when he sang. Just to taste the faint salt of tears... 

Sammie broke the kiss, hands still on either side of her face. His gaze locked with hers. “I missed you,” he said. “Let’s get outta here…”

He didn’t wait for a reply. Didn’t stay to examine reactions. Instead, he led her away. They walked. He could feel her trembling hand in his, a silent acknowledgement of the absurdity and bravery of what he had just done. When Sammie was sure they were out of sight he let her go. Her back pressed against one of the walls and she moved to cover her face. Embarrassed, stunned, relieved, Sammie wasn't sure.

A minute went by, maybe two before she dropped her hands and stared at him. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. 

The silence stretched. And then, it happened. She’d finally found the words. 

“My God. What were you thinking? That was.” 

“Outta line,” he finished for her. “Yeah I know. But you looked like you could use a hand back there so…” 

Sammie couldn’t read her. What would she do to rectify his actions? Slap him, scream and shout. Surprisingly, she did neither. A single tear escaped tracing a path down her cheek. She wiped at it impatiently, but another followed, and another.

He reached across, his hand hovering hesitantly. 

“Hey…”

She flinched away. 

“It's okay. You don't have to. I'm just a little overwhelmed.” 

Sammie dropped his hand. 

“Understandable.”  

Her face shifted with an air of concern. 

“How old are you anyway? You look young.” 

Sammie snorted, avoiding the question in its entirety. 

“Come on, don't do me like that.” 

She wasn’t easily swayed with the dismissal. 

“No. Really.”

Sammie lifted his chin. Lids automatically providing a low shade to his already gaze. Tongue running over his lower lip. 

“Old enough to get you out of that situation back there.”

She shut her eyes momentarily before she exhaled. 

“Right. But you just kissed me. Like…”

“Worked though, didn’t it?” 

“It was unexpected, is what I'm getting at, out of the blue. I had no time to think.”

“...But you didn’t pull away,” Sammie said to cut her off. 

He watched her countenance fall. Took note of her reaction. The way her body tensed, how she sucked her cheeks in.

“That's his loss,” he added. “Any man can see that.”

She took a second wiping a tear that slipped. 

“I'm old enough.” He peered down, then back at her. “Old enough even, to maybe take you out sometime…” 

The words slipped before he could catch them and swallow them back down, but if he didn’t ask now, the opportunity would pass by. Stack would be proud. 

“Take me out sometime?” She sounded shocked at the gesture, but not overly taken aback. 

A little grin played on him. 

“Yeah. I don't know...”

“How come you don’t know,” Sammie asked.

She took a deep breath. 

“I'm going to be going through a divorce here soon. Not sure if I got time for that kinda of thing, right now.”

“Well. While you're figuring it out, let me give you my number…”

He patted, reaching inside and pulling out a pen from his jacket pocket. Another pat, and he took out the receipt he’d gotten from Ruby’s. He used the wall as a writing board and scribbled off his phone number.  

She hesitated, but took it. 

“It don’t gotta be a date. Maybe… you might just need someone ta’ talk to.”

Her eyes scanned over the purchase on the receipt showing through by way of the dark ink. 

“Ruby's Sweet Tea. Hm. You know I never had one of those….”

“Names Sammie by the way. Most people call me Preacher Boy though.”

She looked up. “Preacher Boy?” 

“Yeah. Ma’ daddy own a church. Used to sing there. Got a lil’ popularity doin’ that for a few years. Started callin’ me Preacher Boy.” 

All of a sudden her expression changed. That light bulb moment. 

“Pastor Jedidiah, down there at New Hope Revival. You his son?” 

“Yeah. His oldest son. Anyway. You gotta name?”

“Pearline.”

He straightened his shoulders, met her gaze. The delicate lines around her eyes, the way she held herself, with a quiet strength made him glad he didn’t hesitate, the kiss still had his heart burning, but he managed not to let her know that. 

“Hm. Well nice to meet you officially, Miss Pearline.” 

“That was beautiful, what you did early,” she said, her voice a low, melodic murmur. “Muddy Water. I like him. Ma’ Grandpa played his records a lot before he passed.” 

“Great artist. Think he conveyed the feeling of being confined, breaking away from that.” 

She nodded slowly. 

“I could hear that when you sang. You have a lot of feelings in your music.” 

She let her back press against the wall. Shoulders dropping with a delicate grin on her lips. 

“And even though what you did just now was totally outta line. I mean buttin’ in people's business, well. Thanks, Sammie. Preacher Boy.”

“Mmmhmmm.”

He looked toward the path in which he’d taken to get to Miss Ruby’s. The food court had slowed, afternoon veering off into later hours of the day. The Twins and Annie were probably waiting. He promised he’d meet them back at the arcade, maybe with time enough to beat Stack in a game of Mortal Kombat. 

“You know. Best way to get over something old is to try something new. First things first. Should get yourself one of them Sweet Teas before you leave outta here.” 

Sammie would rest on that statement. He didn’t have control over anything. Knowing that surprisingly eased his mind. He reached out, took her hand and kissed the top of soft brown skin.  

“Have yourself a good day, Miss Pearline.”

Of course he couldn’t be certain when he turned to walk away that she’d ever use the number. After all, he wasn’t a mind reader in the slightest, but Sammie concluded that the pleasant look on her face at the very least, would consider it. 

END.

A/N: Oh, you think I forgot about our girl Peraline? Nope Nope, not that beautiful melanated sista’, you know I had to write something for her and Sammie! Come on now. I’ve always loved exploring canon characters if they have chemistry from their respective mediums. Plus, I feel like I owed Annie and Smoke a happy ending. They deserved to have their little girl with them. So, for whomever watched the movie and felt the same, hope her addition to this fic made you all smile. Until next time, thanks for reading!  

PLEASE DO NOT COPY OR CLAIM ANY OF MY WRITING. -Wide Nose And Wonderful /Mrs. Saint Writes.

[littleeyesofpallas]

So i got this comment on a Bleach post i forgot i'd even made. It's nd old one and i hate the way it reads so i'm not reblogging it, but I will sort of resummarize bits of it now and add to it accordingly...

Kyouraku no Jirou Sakuranosuke Shunsui[京楽 次郎 総蔵佐 春水]

Kyouraku[京楽] is written with the kanji for "capitol" (the same kyou in Kyoto and Tokyo) and "music," and together referencing the music(and somewhat implicitly theatre) of the city the compound word means "enjoyment" or "pleasure." Moreover it's the root of a few recognizable terms like kyourakuteki[享楽的]: "pleasure-seeking," kyourakuseikatsu[享楽生活]: "a life of pleasure," and kyourakushuugi[享楽主義]: "hedonism" All very directly reflected in Shunsui's overall personality and demeanor.

His full title appends, (no)Jirou[次郎]: "next son" (synonym with jirou[二郎]: "second son") making his title or epithet, Kyouraku-no-Jirou[京楽 次郎]: "(the)Kyouraku's SecondSon"

In a kind of old fashioned convention for samurai, the name Sakuranosuke[総蔵佐] is a kind of temporary or informal name. (In the real world they were something a samurai might change pretty often, either as an alias or sometimes as a kind of ornamental name or epithet, but that doesn't get used in media too often, outside strictly historical settings/characters, I assume because it tends to get confusing.)

It's maybe a little strange that Katen calls him by something as informal as a kind of a nickname. On the one hand it shows their relationship is fairly casual as opposed to formal, but it seems to bring into question their actual intimacy? I guess you can just hand wave it as a cutesy pet name thing since he also calls her Ohana(O-[お] being a now rather outdated prefix in women's names, and the hana[花] of course just being "flower." But colloquially it could be read almost like calling her "Gorgeous"/"Beautiful" as in like a nickname, not as an adjective.) in return, but in conjunction with her pretty overt oiran archetype, it suggests the kind of relationship where a wealthy patron sneaking in to see a prostitute doesn't give her his real name.

Although depending on how, either angsty or romantic you want to be and what the genre and audience are, some might argue that it's more open and honest and intimate to use fake names and not be stifled by the rigor of adhering to, or even acknowledging social roles.

It would seem a little odd for how powerful he is, and thus implicitly how good his relationship with his sword spirit ought to be to facilitate that... But then even outside the nickname thing their relationship does seem more than a little strained. His reluctance to use bankai is played off in their dynamic not unlike the aforementioned brothel patron suddenly giving the cold shoulder, leaving the woman asking, "why don't you come see me anymore?"

And in this kind of overlap of samurai era period setting and sordid romance drama that their designs and character types play with, it is a pretty common trope for the naive young man to fall in love with a prostitute, promise her to buy her freedom, and then fail to follow through on his promise, typically leading one or both of the star-crossed lovers to kill themselves with the expectation that while insurmountable social factors keep them apart in life, they can be together in death.

Oh and it's also a deliberately weird reading kinda shoehorning it into being a pun on sakura[桜]: "cherry(tree)," which of course just loops back around to the spring time and flowers thing. The actual kanji used read "General Warehouse Assistant," where the (no)suke[佐] bit is a common naming suffix. The kura[蔵]: "warehouse" bit is normal enough, but the kanji [総] doesn't normally read as "sa," which seems to be shortened from satoshi[総] or satoru[総] which are names on their own. But as far as i can tell, when it's in a compound, and particularly as a prefix, [総] is only ever pronounced "sou-".

Anyway... finally, the given name, Shunsui[春水] means "spring water." (Spring like the season) It's a kind of motif in art and poetry referring to the winter snow melting at the start of spring. As with his overall design it evokes leisure and comfort; the hard times are over, the easy and bountiful times have begun.

There's also some stuff about his sword that echos bits of all this, as well as lends kind of an ominous tone that Kubo doesn't quite follow through on... But I've been over that a few times already over the years, so i won't repeat myself here. I don't know that i've got anything new to add to any of those rants.

It's off the back of this that Kubo gave his brother the name Shunzan[春山]: "Spring Mountain" which is also a common art motif. It doesn't seem to have much more significance than that, just a kind of obvious branch off all Shunsui's existing themes. No new aspects or clever insight to add to the themes in play. Honestly it almost feels like a name Kubo might have considered for Shunsui himself in some early phase of design.

Ise[伊勢] is just written exactly like Ise the modern day city, which gets its name from the former Ise province(now Mie prefecture), but more importantly it's the home of the Grand Ise Shrine, which houses one of the royal national treasures, the yata-no-kagami; a bronze mirror featured in early shinto myth, and reflects the light of the mother sun goddess, Amaterasu. While the later developments of the manga take this reference pretty bluntly, I never actually got the feeling that it was really made to foreshadowing anything. Even retroactively the "reveal" of Nanao's backstory having this link to the Ise temple via the mirror feels like it doesn't actually come from or play with her established character at all. But maybe that's just me...

Anyway, given name, Nanao[七緒] is written "Seven Chords/Strings," as in on an string instrument; could also read "Seventh Chord/String." I don't really know what to make of this apart from that it's implication of an instrument plays into Kyoraku's "music" meaning. (I did have an alternate take on her family name and subsequently a different reading on the full name in that post I reference above, which i wrote years ago, but I honestly have no idea what I was talking about in that. I think I was off on some wild goose chase by the fact that the i-[伊] in ise is actually only used phonetically in Japanese and has no apparent meaning, unless you try and looking into how it's used in Chinese. But while Kubo definite does dabble in obscure and even chinese readings of kanji, this does not appear to be one of those times...)

Anyway, her mom has a name now too, I guess. The name Isuzu[檍涼] is written with the kanji for [檍]: "ilex/holm oak/evergreen oak/birdlime tree" and [涼]: "cool-breeze/cooling-off," like cooling off in the shade of a tree on a hot day. It doesn't really play into the Ise thing*, or Nanao's name. It's also got a weird alliterative sound to it that i don't like but maybe that's just me. I don't exactly have the best ear for this sort of thing

*see comment section

I guess you could argue that collectively both sides of this family all work together to paint a certain classical kind of scene... i don't know what to call it really, but it's a common enough scene of people lounging around in spring time drinking, listening to music, and admiring the scenery. I guess it falls under scenes of hanami:"flower viewing" but I feel like that's more specific than what I'm thinking of... Unrelated to anything but it seems popular in bonsai.

So... Technically in the real world the high priestesses of the Ise shrine have a very particular lineage, where the mythic founder of the temple was the daughter of an emperor, and every subsequent head priestess has in turn been some kind of blood relative to the throne(typically a daughter or sister, but sometimes a niece or even an aunt, or more distant relative). So, even if they aren't priestesses, and there is no apparent temple, I guess that could imply that the Ise bloodline in Bleach is supposed to be near to the Soul King's lineage in some way? Yet they don't seem to be one of the two unidentified royal houses, which you would think they'd qualify for if that were the case (or the unidentified house if we want to pretend the LN are canon and Tsunayashiro count) so it's probably not something Kubo took into consideration or intended when drawing on the Ise name.

It still bugs me that Nanao's whole shtick really felt like it came out of nowhere. not just because it hadn't been addressed before, but because it wasn't even addressing questions anyone as asking. This weird working backwards sort of writing to make up an excuse for her not having her own zanpakutou, despite that fact that Kubo drew her with a distinctive zanpakutou, so it was clearly not some big master plan twist he'd been sitting on for forever. it all just feels rushed and poorly conceived. But that's true of a lot of things in the final arc. I don't think it's because Kubo was "rushed" by editorial or something, btw --i know that seems to be the popular apocrypha-- I think he's just bad at serialization. He used to get in these rutts where the plot would just fully stall out for weeks at a time, and I'm convinced these writers blocks are what contribute to some of his worst writing. He's never exploring character or themes or advancing a plot or even answering real questions, he's just trying to turn his 19 pages in on time.

That's the kind of "rush" I see underlying these weird moments where he just unloads exposition or that he he'd do where a fight would have a big power reveal only for it to immediately fail and be overshadows by a second power reveal. It's just bad pacing and I don't think he knew how else to get thru the fights because it got worse and worse as things went on over the whole series.

[dean-winchester-is-a-warrior]

Starting at the End Ch. 4

Summary: Lily Crawford has been receiving disturbing letters from a worrisome fan. On the advice of an acquaintance she goes to Winchester Private Security and seeks out Dean Winchester to keep her safe. Will this troubled ex-marine be able to save her, and can she save him too?

Series Warnings: Angst. Smut. Fluff. (as usual, of course!) Discussion of war, loss, trauma, PTSD, grief. Stalking. Obsession.

Chapter Warnings: Nothing major. Talk of stalking. Sexist attitudes. Innuendoes made regarding sexual harassment/assault. Nothing is shown, things are implied.

Pairing: Dean x ofc (Lily Crawford)

Word Count: 5,379

A/N: This is my Dean "Bodyguard" AU. (Technically he calls himself Private Security and not a Bodyguard, but 🤷‍♀️) I've never written a bodyguard AU before, so I hope you all enjoy this one. It's been a while since I've written an ofc, so I hope you like Lily. I'm enjoying writing her. I know OC's aren't the fandoms favourite, but I really felt like I needed Lily to be Lily in this one. Hope you give it a chance anyway. ❤️

POSTING EVERY FRIDAY! ❤️

Series Master List || Dean Master List || Main Master List || Tag Lists

Lily walked sleepily out of her bedroom, rubbing her eyes. Ordinarily she liked mornings. She wouldn’t call herself a morning person exactly, since she wasn’t fully alive until she ate food and drank a cup of coffee, but she liked the quiet of mornings, the promise of a whole day that was, so far, unspoiled. 

Lately though, she’d been sleeping so poorly it took a lot more than one cup of coffee to fuel her into the day. Though sleep had been a bit easier since Dean had taken up residence. 

Things were definitely better, but also…weird.

She’d been living alone for years; it had been a long time since she’d had a roommate, and it was a bit tough to get used to having another person around all the time again. Also, of course, no roommate she’d ever lived with had followed her around everywhere she went. 

It had been two days since Dean followed her back to her place and claimed her guestroom. One of her guest bedrooms was next door to her room and the other was down a hallway towards the back of the house. She just assumed he’d take the one with a little more privacy, but as she’d led him towards the back bedroom, Dean stopped her.

He nodded towards the other room. “Is it possible to take this one? I wanna stay close to you.”

Lily felt ridiculous over the way her belly flip flopped when he said that, so she pretended it didn’t, smiling and waving him towards it. 

“Sure, yeah, of course.”

That had been two days ago and things had been a bit strange for her ever since. She’d never been around someone that seemed to be both her shadow and a ghost at the same time. Dean was literally never more than ten feet from her, but he barely spoke. He was never rude, always answered any direct question she asked of him, but otherwise he stayed quiet. 

When she was home, whether she was eating, cooking, working out in her bedroom, reading, watching tv, working on her laptop, or talking on her phone, he was always standing, or occasionally sitting, by her large living room window. He spent most of his time, when he was in her house, staring out the window and scanning her yard and the street beyond. 

When she went out, no matter what, he went with her. That was one of the first things he told her that first day. 

“Look, I’m not here to get in the way of your daily life. I don’t want you to change your schedule or the way you live, and I’m not a houseguest. Do all the things you’d normally do, in the same way you’d normally do them. But I have just two rules that are hard and fast and can’t be changed if you want me to protect you.”

His face was incredibly serious, so even though the idea of another grown person giving her “rules” made her bristle slightly, she nodded. 

“Number one,” he ticked them off on his fingers, “please never lie to me about anything. Even if you think something is insignificant, or frankly none of my business, if I ask you about something, please promise me the truth. I can’t protect you if I don’t have all the information.”

Lily nodded again. “Yeah, that’s fair. I have no big secrets, so I think we’re good.” She joked, hoping to lighten the mood. But he remained as serious as ever as he continued. 

“And two, never, ever leave the house without me.”

Lily had agreed to that easily. The uneasy feeling of being watched all the time when she was outside, made her desperately happy that someone else was standing close and watching her back. When they were out, Dean’s focus never wavered, and he always stayed just a step behind her, very close. She realized quickly that he was shielding her back while he scanned the whole area in front of them, tense and ready to act.

Somehow Dean’s constant tension when they were out made hers fade away and she was very grateful. 

But when they were home, she always felt a little awkward. He was so still and quiet, like a particularly gorgeous statue in a white button down shirt and blue suit pants. He went to bed after she did, and woke up before she ever stumbled out of her room. 

This morning was no different. He smiled briefly at her before resuming his surveillance of the front yard. 

“Morning.” She mumbled, heading for her kitchen.

She put the coffee on and began gathering ingredients for breakfast. She looked across the living room at Dean standing by the window and decided enough was enough. Who knew how long it was going to take to catch this creep and in the meantime she couldn’t take the weirdness anymore. 

“Hey, I’m making scrambled eggs and bacon. Want some?”

Dean’s head turned briefly towards her. “No, I’m good. Thanks.” And he returned to the window. 

Lily let out a quiet sigh. “Please let me make you scrambled eggs. Or over easy, or, I don’t know, poached. They don’t have to be scrambled.”

Dean looked back at her, his expression slightly curious. “Uh, no really. I’m good.”

“Do you eat?” Lily asked before he could turn away again.

The question seemed to catch him off guard and his brow wrinkled in confusion. “Yeah.” He said, dragging the word out slowly as though trying to guess at the reason for the question.

“When? I never see you eat. You’re with me all day, every day and yet in the last two days I haven’t seen you consume a morsel of food. If you hadn’t been drinking from a water bottle yesterday, I really would’ve started to think - robot.”

The hint of a smile played around Dean’s lips. “I eat in the room after you go to bed and before you wake up.”

“Eat what? You’ve taken none of the food or dishes from the cupboard. Or do you secretly cook a meal and then run the dishwasher after I go to bed? How soundly do I sleep?” Lily asked, only half teasing.

An actual smile hitched up the side of Dean’s mouth and made Lily wish he smiled more often. He thumbed towards his room.

“I packed a bunch of MREs.” Lily just blinked at him and he clarified. “They’re uh, army rations. I can just eat them as is.”

Lily must have seemed unconvinced because he continued, gesturing towards the bedroom. “The wrappers and packages and stuff are in the little garbage can in the room; you can look if you don’t believe me.”

She chuckled softly. “No, I believe you. But…” She shook her head. “That’s no way to eat for any length of time.”

Dean shrugged. “They’re actually not bad. I mean, they’re not a home-cooked meal, maybe, but they do the trick.”

“But…why are you eating packaged food, alone in your room when I’m offering eggs and bacon? And coffee?”

Dean shook his head. “Lily, I told you, I’m not a houseguest. It’s not your job to feed me, or entertain me. I don’t want to interfere with your life. You should just pretend I’m not here.”

Lily snorted. “Yeah, right.” As if there was some way to ignore a six foot Adonis standing in your living room. Not wanting to admit that was the problem, however, Lily offered up reasoning that was still mostly the truth.

“I’m trying to tell you, it’s not possible for me to just pretend there isn’t another human being living and breathing across the room from me. There’s no way I’m going to be able to live like that for any length of time. So, please, occasionally talk to me? And come eat eggs and bacon. Unless you're like, a vegetarian, or vegan or something?”

Dean shook his head and his shoulders relaxed a fraction as he sidled across the room. “No, definitely not.” He smiled as he got closer and for a moment Lily wondered if she’d made a mistake encouraging him to come nearer. Up close this man’s face was lethal. 

His mossy green eyes were slightly teasing as he sat down at her counter. “So, eggs scrambled, coffee black, and bacon plentiful, please.”

***

The days stretched on, and over the first week or so, Dean and Lily fell into a kind of rhythm. They had breakfast together and Lily ran through her schedule for that day, with Dean making notes about the locations she was going to. 

“So I can research them ahead of time.” He explained when she’d asked him why he needed to know. 

While he researched, she worked out in her bedroom - treadmill, elliptical, and free weights. She kept her blinds down all the time now. She missed the sunshine, but there was no way she was letting the creep watch her workout, sleep or dress. 

After working out, Lily showered. Dean showered at night, after everything was locked up tight, but before she was asleep, so she’d notice if anything was weird and be able to call him. Lily was slightly ashamed to admit that there had been a couple of nights when she’d contemplated making something up just to see Dean come out of the bathroom quickly, in nothing but a towel.

She was sorely tempted, but decided that it was almost stalker level behavior on her part and scolded herself out of it.

When they were out of the house, Dean returned to the stoic and silent bodyguard persona, not engaging in any conversation and barely interacting with her at all. But in the house, he’d thawed a fair bit. He’d often watch tv with her in the evening, both of them having an affinity for 70s and 80s sitcoms. The shows sometimes sparked conversation.

Lily quickly learned that Dean was much funnier than she would have originally thought. He had a quick, slightly dark sense of humor, sarcasm falling from his lips easily, and often making Lily laugh out loud in surprise.

As they passed the evenings together, they discovered they also shared the same taste in music and movies, and agreed with each other on many things to do with the state of the world. They fell relatively easily into a few conversations about politics and religion, and found they had shared philosophies. 

The one thing neither of them talked about was their past or their families. Lily never liked talking about hers, and as a result, it had sort of become a habit not to ask anyone else about theirs. Dean seemed perfectly okay with that.

One evening, nine days in, Dean turned to her after seeing a trailer for a new action movie. “So, can I ask you a question?”

Lily hated when someone said that, but she nodded. “Sure.”

There was a brief pause before Dean spoke. “What happened after the Cobra Strike movies? You were so famous, and the franchise was so popular, I would have thought you’d have your pick of movies.”

Lily felt her stomach lurch a bit. Dean must have read something on her face, because he immediately backed off.

“Nevermind. That’s none of my business.”

Lily shook her head, attempting a smile. “No, it’s fine. It’s a fair question. But uh…” For just a moment Lily contemplated telling Dean the truth. After all, he’d told her to never lie, and for some reason, she found she wanted to share the truth with him.

But then her better sense kicked in and she just shrugged, giving her standard answer, the one she gave anytime a reporter was interested enough to ask it.

“You know, the industry is just fickle and it’s just all about timing. The right project just hasn’t come along. But I have faith that it will.”

The answer felt rote, which it was, and Dean seemed to notice. But he smiled anyway and shook his head. “Sure, that makes sense. Again, sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”

They moved on to more pleasant subjects for a while longer before Lily decided to go to bed. 

***

Two weeks passed, and they hadn’t heard or seen anything from her stalker. Lily wondered, perhaps, if YA had moved on, whoever he was. Maybe Dean’s presence hadn’t challenged him - instead, maybe it had just scared the shit out of him and made him run. Lily was beginning to be hopeful that that was the case.

One morning, as she and Dean were sitting at the counter having breakfast, her phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number and frowned at her phone. Dean noticed, of course.

“Do you know who that is?” 

Lily shook her head. Dean pulled the phone from her hand and answered.

“Hello. This is Lily Crawford’s personal assistant, can I help you?”

He listened for a moment before frowning slightly. “Okay, please hold for a moment, I’ll see if she’s available.”

He took the phone away from his ear and spoke quietly. “Someone from Ethan Brown’s office?”

Lily felt her heart leap. “You mean Ethan Braun?”

Dean shrugged. “Yeah, probably what she said.”

Lily was reaching for her phone. “Give it, give it!” She said with barely concealed excitement.

Dean passed it over and Lily took a deep breath before she put the phone to her ear. “Hello, this is Lily Crawford.”

There was a slightly nasal, feminine voice on the other end. “Miss Crawford, Mr. Braun would like to sit down with you and discuss the upcoming callback audition you have for the film, Eternal Night? He’s available today at four.”

Lily nodded, trying to keep her voice level. “I would love that. Four o’clock will work, I’ll just move some things around.” She said, attempting to seem like she was busy with something more than being an out of work actor.

“Great.” The assistant said in the same monotone voice. “I’ll text you the location of the restaurant. Is this the best number to reach you at?”

“Yes. This is the best one.” Lily realized too late that she should have given the number of her agent. Successful people in Hollywood had “people”, they didn’t answer their own phones. She was suddenly even more grateful Dean had answered her phone pretending to be her assistant. 

“Terrific.” The woman said, before abruptly ending the call.

Without a goodbye, it took Lily a moment to realize they’d reached the end of their brief conversation. But when she was sure the other woman was no longer listening, she jumped up from her stool and gave a big whoop of triumph. 

She was desperately trying not to do a happy dance around her living room, so she just pumped her arms into the air.

“I have a meeting with Ethan Braun!”

When Dean continued to simply stare at her bemusedly, she tried to contain herself to explain. “He’s the producer for this horror movie I auditioned for a couple weeks ago and he wants to meet with me!”

She bit her lip and shrugged, her enthusiasm waning just a bit. “It’s a bit of a cheesy script, but there’s, I don’t know, the potential for something really interesting and a bit different, if they go the right direction. The role I auditioned for is Alexis and she’s…well, she’s a vampire, but she’s determined to blend into the world. She gets a job on Wall Street, and is…well, there’s the potential for a few good comparisons between the Stock Market Bros and a blood sucking vampire.”

She shrugged again. “Like I said, if they do things right and don’t lose the plot for the gore.”

Dean nodded and smiled. “That does have the potential to be awesome.”

Lily let out a little screech of excitement and bolted to her bedroom. “I gotta find something to wear that evokes, ‘Trader by day, Mistress of Darkness by night’.”

***

It was ten to four as Lily and Dean strolled into Vicario’s. Dean didn’t like how dark the place was. He’d looked it up, but as one of the exclusive restaurants favored by the elite of Hollywood, there were very few pictures of it online, successfully keeping its air of mystery.

Now that they were inside, Dean was even less happy. He assumed the back exit would be through the kitchen, but there was probably a delivery door as well, likely also through the kitchen. He’d like to know where both those doors led to.

Lily, of course, wasn’t paying attention to any of his worries. She’d spent most of the morning trying on clothes in her room. Occasionally she’d pop out with an outfit on, asking for his opinion. But before he could give it (that she looked amazing in everything she wore) she’d shake her head and throw up her hands.

“No, I hate this!” She’d exclaim and return to her room, where Dean could hear her rummaging around and often cursing behind her closed door. 

Finally having chosen something, she scarfed down a sandwich, and then dropped onto the couch and buried herself in the script for Eternal Night. She was silent for the rest of the afternoon.

When the time came to get ready and leave, she got up quietly and got dressed, returning to the living room, in a strange, subdued mood. 

Over the time he’d been with her, Dean had discovered that Lily was many things - funny, vivacious, easily happy, sometimes a bit temperamental, but she was very rarely subdued. In fact, he’d never seen this mood on her before, and he found it didn’t really suit her.

There was something in her eyes that resembled the same fear she’d had when she came into his office with that letter a couple weeks earlier. Without examining why, Dean felt the need to bring back the bubbly, incredibly excited Lily from earlier in the day.

As she grabbed her purse, he smiled at her, waving a hand at the red, pencil skirt and white blouse she’d landed on.

“That’s definitely the look of a vampire stock broker.” He said teasingly.

Lily laughed lightly and the tension in her shoulders had eased slightly.

“Thanks.”

But now that they were in the restaurant the nervousness and fear seemed to have returned in full force. Dean could practically feel the tension rolling off of her as he stood at her elbow.

The maitre’d approached them and seemed to be expecting Lily, and knew her on site.

“Ah, Miss Crawford, Mr. Braun is seated and waiting for you. Please follow me.” They walked towards a darkened corner of the restaurant and all of Dean’s senses were heightened. He absolutely hated this setting. 

The man sitting at the table could have been the dictionary definition of “producer��. He wore an expensive suit, a Rolex watch, and two rings on each hand, one of which was a wedding ring, Dean noted. He was a large man, slightly barrel-chested, with surprisingly narrow shoulders. His face was tanned and round, and he wore a placid smile as they approached him.

He stood up slightly as he reached across the table to shake Lily’s hand. 

“Miss Crawford, so nice to meet you.” His voice was a bit rough, almost as though he was forcing it lower.

Lily nodded as she returned the handshake, speaking as the maitre’d tucked her chair in under her. “Thank you so much, Mr. Braun. It’s a real honor to meet you.”

He waved dismissively. “Oh, Ethan, please. May I call you Lily?”

She nodded. “Yes, of course.”

As a waiter brought a pitcher of water to the table, Ethan looked at Dean standing just behind her chair, a question in his gaze.

Lily seemed a little flustered as she cleared her throat. “Oh, yes, please, um, this is my private security, Dean Winchester. Dean, Ethan Braun.”

Dean nodded at the man, who didn’t bother to try and shake his hand. Instead, he looked at Lily. “A bodyguard?”

Lily laughed lightly and it sounded nothing like her real laugh. “Oh, yes, well there’s um…” She paused for a beat, and then clasped her hands together. “You know, you can just never be too careful these days.”

Dean assumed she didn’t mention the stalker, in case this producer saw it as a potential set security issue to hire her. 

Ethan Braun nodded, but seemed a bit annoyed. “I understand.” He said. “But I’m afraid some of what we’ll be discussing is of a proprietary nature, so we can’t have it being leaked.”

Dean wanted to respond that he could give a shit about this guy’s movies and certainly wasn’t about to leak any information to the tabloids or entertainment outlets. But he kept his mouth shut until Lily spoke.

“Oh, yes, I…uh, I see. Of course.” She turned her head slightly. “Um, thank you, Dean, you can, uh, can you please wait by the car?”

Dean took a step forward so he was in her eyeline and frowned at her. “No.” He said simply.

Lily looked slightly taken aback, but then stared at him meaningfully. “Dean, thank you for your concern, but you can wait outside. I’m perfectly safe in here with Mr. Braun.”

Dean begged to differ. “Mr. Braun” just oozed entitled dickhead. But Lily’s eyes widened and she made a quick jerk with her head towards the outside. 

Dean scowled at her; she was obviously forgetting one of his two hard and fast rules. However, not wanting to cause some kind of issue for her, he took a step back.

“I’m going to go check out the exits in the kitchen, then I’ll sit over there.” He pointed to a table about twenty feet away. Thankfully the restaurant was relatively empty at that time of day. 

He nodded to Lily and ignored the producer altogether, before moving off to quickly check the kitchen. 

***

Lily laughed lightly as Dean walked away. “I’m sorry about that, he’s just a bit overprotective, I’m afraid.”

Ethan Braun was silent for a beat longer before he smiled. “It’s fine. That is the job of a good bodyguard, after all. Let’s order something.”

He snapped the waiter over and gave him their order without asking Lily. If this had been a date, Lily would have been walking out already, but this guy was a producer who could seriously impact her career trajectory. 

She felt a small knot form in her stomach as echoes of the past rang in her ears. But she shoved them aside, concentrating on Ethan Braun and the keys he held to Eternal Night.

An hour passed as they ate and talked about those people in the industry that they both knew. She noticed Dean slip back in from the kitchen and sit to the left of them, wisely staying behind Ethan so he didn’t notice him.

Ethan was like a million other people she’d met in Hollywood, pretty full of himself and his own importance. But as producers went, she’d met worse. He was at least intelligent, with a wry sense of humor and an actual working knowledge of movie-making. He was clearly more than just the money part of the film.

Finally, as they were served coffees, Ethan threw Lily a knowing look. “So then, Lily, let us admit that we aren’t just here to spin gossip about tinsel town. You want to be in my movie.”

Lily felt her stomach twist again and she gripped her hands in her lap. “Yes, very much. I really like Alexis, and I love the idea of poking a subtle kind of fun at capitalism and greed. I think the script has so much potential.”

Ethan nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! I agree. I’m glad you understood those metaphors.”

Trying not to take offense over his shock that she could pick up on symbolism, she smiled brightly and nodded.

Then Ethan got serious. “Now, as you know, we’ve cast Tom Ridgely as Severs.”

Lily nodded again. “Yes. I’m not very familiar with his work, but he does seem like a bright up and comer.” The truth was Lily had watched some of the young guy’s reel and wasn’t very impressed. She was confused by the casting until she realized he was the casting director’s son. But she wasn’t about to say that.

Ethan agreed. “Yes, I think he has a lot of talent. However, as far as putting you in the role of Alexis, obviously, the most important thing is the chemistry between you two.”

“Yes, of course.” Lily bit her lip. “I was told that I’d be booked in for a chemistry read with him.”

Ethan rubbed his hand across his chin before leaning forward and covering Lily’s hand with his own where it rested near her coffee. 

“Chemistry is everything, isn’t it?” 

Lily felt her stomach plummet and the screaming alarm bells go off in her mind, but desperately tried to continue on with the meeting.

She swallowed. “Yeah, yes. I mean, obviously it’s a big part of the success of any film.” She knew she was rambling slightly, but Ethan’s hand was closing around hers and he tugged her gently forward.

“I want you to have success, Lily.”

Suddenly a shadow fell over the table. “Get your hand off of her.”

Lily jumped slightly at Dean’s hard tone and she looked up at him as Ethan dropped her hand and sat back. 

“Excuse me?” He demanded, clearly incensed at Dean’s audacity. He turned his gaze to Lily. “Is this how you normally conduct business? Get your goon to hover around trying to intimidate people who are in a position to help you?”

Lily felt torn. On one hand, her logical mind knew she wasn’t imagining the look in Ethan’s eye a moment ago, and that part of her was so grateful Dean had come along. 

But there was still a part of her that was desperate to make this work. The film could be her vehicle back, the beginning of a possible comeback. Her desperation argued that maybe Ethan was just overly friendly, or maybe he was just trying to shoot his shot. 

With that possibility in mind she shook her head. “No, no of course not.” She looked up at the towering man beside their table. “Dean, everything is fine. You can wait outside now. I’m just going to finish my lunch and I’ll be out soon.”

Dean didn’t stop glaring at Ethan. “No.” 

“Dean.” Lily said sharply, anxious for him to understand how important this was to her, and not make things worse.

Finally Dean looked at her and his green eyes were like chips of jade. Her eyes were imploring. “Please.” She said again. “I’m fine.”

After a few breathless moments, Dean turned on his heel and walked out. Lily’s lungs deflated in relief and she smiled hopefully at Ethan, who was on the verge of actually pouting. 

“I’m so sorry, Ethan. Believe me, he’s just a bit too overzealous about his job. He didn’t mean anything by it.”

Ethan nodded, anger still simmering below the surface, Lily could feel it. When he smiled, it didn’t reach his eyes. “Sure.”

Lily cleared her throat. “So, to get back to things, you were talking about meeting with Tom and working a scene together.” She didn’t mention the words chemistry read again, hoping they could just move away from it all together. 

But obviously, this was Ethan’s big move because, as he sipped his coffee, he eyeballed her over his cup. Then he set it down and once again reached across the table to take her hand. This time though, his thumb brushed over her pulse and his voice got softer and more intimate.

“As I was saying, Lily, I want to see you succeed, and I think we could forgo the chemistry read. You know, I can get a real sense of your appeal, your sexiness and your charisma just like this.” He entwined their fingers and raised her hand to his lips. “There are things we can work on together, to get you ready, you know. I’m not the only producer on this project, you’ll have to convince the others, and of course Stewart, the director. I can help you convince them.”

He stared into her eyes and there could be no doubt of his meaning. “Right now, you just have to convince me that you’re who I want.”

Lily felt bile rush to the back of her throat and she fought against the lump of tears that formed there too. She took a sip of her coffee and asked a question in one last hail mary attempt to resurrect her hopes. 

“And if I can’t,” she looked at him meaningfully, “or won’t convince you?”

Ethan frowned. “That would be likely to ensure a bad outcome.”

Lily nodded and a tear escaped despite her best efforts. She ripped her hand away from his to dash it away quickly as she stood up.

“Well, I’m afraid that a 'hell no' is the only outcome you’ll get from me, Mr. Braun.”

She spun away from the table and wanted to walk out with her head held high. But the truth was she just felt sick, and dirty, and more heartbroken than she cared to admit; she knew she looked every bit as defeated as she felt as she slunk out of the restaurant.

She blinked into the bright sunshine as she stepped through the door. Dean was standing directly beside the door, and immediately moved in front of her, blocking out some of the glaring light.

“Lily?” He asked quietly, and there were endless questions in her name.

But she just shook her head. “Look, I won't play ball, so I’m not gonna get the role and I’d just like to go home now, please.” 

Dean’s jaw clenched and he made a move to go back into the restaurant. But Lily frantically reached out for him as he tried to walk past her.

“What are you doing?”

“Dealing with an asshole.” He said simply, still resisting her pull on his arm.

Lily jumped in front of him. “Please, don’t. There’s no point, Dean. Listen to me!” She shouted, finally getting him to look down at her. 

“I’m telling you to forget about it. You going in there and what, beating him up? How on earth would that make things better? It wouldn’t.”

Dean scoffed. “I didn’t say I was going to beat him up. I can just…pressure him to give you the role you deserve.”

“What are you, in the mafia now?” Lily shook her head and admitted the truth. “That role was never going to be mine. I was never really considered.” Her heart squeezed. “Or at least not considered as anything but a desperate has-been willing to…” 

She bit her lip and pushed on Dean’s chest. “Please, let’s just go.”

Finally Dean relented and they walked back to the car. He looked like he had a lot more to say to her, but she practically jumped into the passenger seat and slammed the heavy door. Dean walked to the driver’s side and stood there for a moment with the door closed. Lily worried for a moment that he was going to go back inside after all. 

But finally, he sank into the seat beside her. He turned the key and adjusted his mirror slightly before speaking softly. “Sorry.”

Lily frowned. “For what?”

Dean shrugged slightly. “I let you get hurt.”

His quiet words broke the dam holding back her tears and they fell silently. She laughed without humor. “Don’t be silly, I’m fine. Not the first time, won’t be the last, and there’s no one who can protect actresses from that.”

Dean grunted softly as he put the car in reverse to back out of the lot. “Huh. Bet guys like that would stop that shit pretty quick, if every time they tried, someone swooped in and broke a finger or two, maybe an arm.”

Lily couldn’t help but smile as she sniffled. “Maybe it’s worth a try.”

Dean put the car in park and looked hopeful, as though he might still get to do some damage to the pig producer inside. But Lily laughed for real and waved at him.

“No. No broken bones.”

@lyarr24 @lacilou @deans-spinster-witch @globetrotter28 @suckitands33

@alwaystiredandconfused @jzackles @jackles010378 @impala67rollingthroughtown @krazykelly

@candy-coated-misery0731 @envyaurora95 @spnwoman @deans-baby-momma @luvr4miya

@arcannaa @viviwatchestv @winharry @ladysparkles78 @kr804573

@whimsyfinny @muhahaha303 @slamminmine @zepskies @safiyas-world

@aylacavebear @kazsrm67 @slut-for-evans-stan @sexyvixen7 @nancymcl

@hobby27 @waywardcheshire @livya99 @k-slla @leigh70

@eevvvaa @kickingitwithkirk @foxyjwls007 @roseblue373 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess

@avanatural @mrsjenniferwinchester @all-alone-he-turns-to-stone @deangirl96 @stoneyggirl2

@fanfic-n-tabulous @traiitorjoe @lastcallatrockysbar @b3autyfuld1sast3r

[auroralwriting]

illicit affairs chapter seven

pairing: biker!bucky barnes x stark!reader

summary: wanda and natasha are still pushing you to talk to bucky, especially now that you've joined the southside avengers. plus, it's your first mission. what could go wrong?

warnings: violence, language, small age gap (6~ years), angst, arguing, drinking, overall crime and gang stuff, sort of enemies to lovers

: ̗̀➛ series masterlist | masterlist

In the days since you'd left the Stark Syndiates, you felt more free than ever. You finally felt like you had a place to be with the Avengers. Steve was quick to take you in, making you feel more welcomed than you'd ever had with the Syndicates.

Natasha and Wanda were doing everything in their power to make you feel comfortable. Every night was a different adventure with them—shopping sprees, a little light stealing, some vandalism for kicks, and even getting your nails done. It was everything you'd ever wanted from girls in a gang. A family that wasn’t just about power and territory, but about loyalty and freedom.

Tonight, you were out with them. Natasha’s sharp eyes constantly scanning the streets, Wanda’s quiet power humming just beneath the surface.

"So," Wanda said, kicking a little rock with her feet. "Talk to Barnes yet?"

You sighed, "Of course not. I mean—what would I even say? 'Hey, I think you might've killed my parents, but I'm not sure. Tony sure hates you. So.. did you?'"

"Well don't fucking say that," Natasha chuckled from beside you. "Just ask him for his side of the story."

"That's still sort of just asking if he killed her parents," Wanda mused, raising a brow to the redhead. Natasha gently shoved her shoulder in response, giving a small huff. "Then do it however you'd like, Stark. It's up to you."

The night air was cool but thick with tension, the kind that settled in your chest whenever you were out in the city with Natasha and Wanda. Natasha’s gaze flicked sharply from shadow to shadow, her body taut and ready to move at any sign of trouble. Wanda’s presence was more subtle. A quiet, pulsing energy just beneath the surface, like a calm before a storm.

You glanced between them, feeling the weight of their expectations and their support. It was different from anything you'd ever known with the Syndicates. Here, you were more than just a pawn or an outsider. You belonged.

Wanda nudged your arm lightly, her voice softer now. “You know, maybe it doesn’t have to be a big, scary confrontation. Just... a conversation.”

You laughed, a little bitter but mostly relieved. “Easy for you to say. You haven’t had to wonder if someone you trusted was responsible for tearing your world apart.”

Natasha rolled her eyes but gave you a small, genuine smile. “You don’t have to figure it all out in one night. Start small. Maybe just say hi. Then ask questions later.”

Before you could respond, your phones buzzed almost simultaneously—a message from Steve: We’re near the warehouse. Heading your way. Stay sharp.

Natasha’s expression hardened. “Looks like the boys are close. Let’s meet up.”

Wanda’s fingers tingled lightly, her eyes already scanning the streets ahead. “Stay alert. Hydra’s been quiet, but that never means they’re gone.”

You swallowed, a strange mix of nerves and excitement twisting inside you. This was your new life. A chance to start over, to find the truth, and maybe, finally, some peace.

As you moved through the dim streets toward the rendezvous point, the glow from the city lights flickered around you, shadows dancing just out of reach. The night was far from over.

Tonight was your first mission with the Southside Avengers. Nothing too intense, just fucking up some Hydra boys who had been following Sam, likely for some information about their business with Nicholas Fury, leader of Shield.

Hydra was dangerous, sure, but these guys were scrappy, reckless—a far cry from the well-oiled machine Fury ran. You had heard bits and pieces about Shield, they weren’t just a spy agency or a military outfit. They were something else. A shadow government operating in the gray areas, weaving together intelligence, diplomacy, and sometimes dirty work to keep the world from spiraling into chaos. Their influence stretched from scientific research to covert operations, from counter-terrorism to monitoring global threats that most people didn’t even know existed.

Where Hydra thrived on brute force and fear, Shield played the long game. They manufactured stability, manipulating events behind the scenes. They developed advanced tech, negotiated delicate alliances, and handled the clean-up after the Avengers saved the day, making sure nothing got out of control. Their business wasn’t just about fighting bad guys; it was about controlling the narrative, protecting secrets, and making sure no one else got the upper hand.

Hydra used to be much more dangerous, but that was years and years ago. They were still trying to regroup and gain money and power. It would be a long time before they were ever a huge pain in the ass. Until then, they were little pains, but pains that had to be taken care of nonetheless.

Walking into the warehouse, Steve sent you all a sharp nod. Bucky and Sam were sat on some crates, their faces annoyed, brooding looks, mainly directed at each other. They were probably arguing like "normal," if you had to guess. According to Wanda, that is.

"First mission, Stark," Steve commented, squeezing your shoulder. "The Syndicates ever do missions like these?"

You shook your head, "No. More like fucking up anyone who dared bat an eye their way. But even then, I wasn't involved."

"Well, welcome to your first mission," Sam replied, hopping off the crate, shooting Bucky a small glare.

"Alright, it's gonna be an easy one. Sam's gonna come inside to guide Hydra in, too. They think he's alone, so once they follow inside, we jump them. Quick, easy, done. Got it?" Everyone nodded in response.

The warehouse loomed before you, its skeletal metal beams and cracked concrete walls swallowed in darkness. The faint smell of oil and rust filled the air, thick and heavy like a warning you couldn’t ignore. Steve gave the signal, sharp and silent, and everyone melted into the shadows, finding their places.

You pressed yourself against a stack of crates, the rough wood biting into your palms as you crouched low. Your breath was shallow, every sense stretched taut. The distant hum of the city filtered in through broken windows, but inside, time seemed to stretch and still.

Natasha vanished into a shadowed corner near the loading dock, her movements fluid and practiced. Wanda drifted close to a pillar, her fingers twitching ever so slightly, the faint pulse of her power vibrating in the air like an electric current just beneath the surface. Bucky leaned against a rusted support beam, his metal arm almost invisible in the gloom, eyes narrowed and alert.

Steve’s voice came low and urgent. “Sam’s coming. Don’t move until we give the word.”

The silence dragged on. Your heart hammered in your chest, each second twisting the knot in your stomach tighter. You tried to steady your breath, but every tiny noise—the scrape of a loose piece of metal, a distant car horn—made you jump. Then, footsteps.

Sam moved like a shadow, slipping through the cavernous space with ease. His eyes scanned the dim room, taking in the broken crates, the cracked walls, the empty barrels. He was calm—too calm, maybe—but focused. Like he knew what was coming.

You watched, waiting, every muscle coiled like a spring. And then, just as Sam reached the far side of the warehouse, a sound from the entrance—a muffled shuffle, a sharp scrape of boots.

Hydra.

At first, it was a trickle. Two, three men slipping in, weapons drawn, eyes cold and hungry. You tensed, ready to spring into action. But then the trickle turned into a flood.

More figures poured through the door than anyone expected, their numbers swelling like a dark tide. The harsh clatter of boots echoed off the concrete, mixing with low, cruel laughter and the unmistakable snap of weapons being readied. Dozens. Maybe more. They swarmed the warehouse like locusts, filling every shadow, every corner. It was no longer a small scouting party—it was an ambush.

Everyone jumped out quickly, guns firing, the sound of fists hitting skin echoing in the air.

You ducked instinctively, narrowly avoiding a hail of bullets that shattered a crate just feet from your feet. Quickly, you realized you had no place being on the ground. Not with how many guys there were. Your best bet was on the second floor with a sniper.

Tony had trained you from a young age to snipe. Well.. sort of. Happy Hogan had been your patient, steady teacher — so good, in fact, that you’d surpassed even his expectations. Sniping was the safest thing for you to do, something that ensured you wouldn't be hurt. Not like you'd actually ever sniped anyone before. Tony kept you in lock and ket. However, in that moment, you actually thanked Tony for making you learn.

You glanced around quickly and spotted a fallen Hydra soldier, the cold weight of a sniper rifle lying at his side. Without hesitation, you crouched low, grabbing it and checking the scope with practiced precision. The familiar heft steadied your nerves.

Spotting a metal ladder at the side of the warehouse, you dashed toward it, bullets kicking up sparks and dust around you. Climbing up quickly, you felt the cool night air rush past as you scrambled to the second floor—a mezzanine level running along the walls, overlooking the chaos below.

Finding a narrow alcove behind some stacked crates, you crouched into cover. The shadows wrapped around you like armor, and you brought the sniper rifle to your shoulder, heart pounding but steadying as your training kicked in.

Your fingers moved almost mechanically, setting the scope, steadying your breath, locking onto targets moving below. Hydra soldiers darted in and out of cover, some trying to flank your team, others shouting orders and trying to regroup.

The warehouse breathed with violence and tension, every corner alive with danger. From your perch, you could see the grim dance unfolding below—friends and enemies moving through the shadows in a deadly rhythm. The stale, industrial air was thick with the sharp scent of gunpowder and sweat, a harsh contrast to the quiet moments you'd shared with Natasha and Wanda just hours before.

Your pulse hammered in your ears as you adjusted the sniper rifle, the cold metal steadying your shaking hands. Every breath was measured, each second stretched thin with the weight of what was at stake.

Hydra’s numbers seemed endless, like a dark tide threatening to consume everything in its path. You caught glimpses of their faces—hard, ruthless, full of desperate hunger for power. They moved in packs, trying to overwhelm through sheer force. But the Avengers moved with purpose, honed skill, and unbreakable resolve.

You saw Steve’s shield flash as he blocked a bullet meant for Sam, the grit in his jaw as he pushed forward despite the odds. Bucky was a whirlwind of steel and strength, throwing enemies aside with brutal efficiency. Natasha’s movements were precise and lethal, like a predator stalking through the chaos. And Wanda, with her eyes glowing faintly, bent the very air to her will, turning the tide when things looked their bleakest.

The last of the Hydra operatives fell one by one, their desperate resistance fading into silence. The warehouse, once filled with chaos and the sharp taste of danger, now lay still—echoing only with the ragged breaths of the Avengers.

You lowered your sniper rifle slowly, muscles trembling from the adrenaline but mind clear. Below, Sam, Bucky, Steve, Natasha, and Wanda gathered, bruised but unbroken, their faces lighting up with relief when they saw you descend from your perch.

"Stark," Sam started in bewilderment, "when were you gonna tell us you could snipe?"

You shrugged, a tug of embarrassment pulling at you. "It never came up."

"We are so lucky to have you," Wanda sighed in relief, grabbing your hand and giving it a squeeze, a gentle smile on her face.

"Damn right we are," Steve replied with a small smile and nod. "C'mon, let's go back to my place to get cleaned up. I'll tell Fury we took out a troop that was on us. Hopefully this sends them a signal to leave Shield alone."

Steve’s place wasn’t a penthouse, but it was still impressive—a sprawling, loft-style apartment tucked in a quieter part of the city. High ceilings, exposed brick, and wide windows overlooking the distant, twinkling skyline gave it a rugged, lived-in feel. The place had a warmth to it, the kind of space that spoke to years of hard-earned camaraderie and shared battles. The air smelled faintly of old leather, coffee, and gun oil, the comforting scents of a soldier’s sanctuary.

You stepped through the door, still feeling the buzz of adrenaline thrumming in your veins, and glanced around. Natasha had already tossed her gloves onto a worn leather armchair, flexing her fingers as she made a beeline for the small, open kitchen. Wanda was a few steps behind, muttering something about needing tea as she flicked her fingers, sending a mug and kettle floating toward the stove. Steve closed the door behind you all, his broad shoulders casting a long shadow in the dim light.

Bucky, on the other hand, sank heavily onto the old, cracked leather couch, leaning back with a small, pained grunt. His metal arm clinked softly against the armrest, but it was his flesh arm that caught your attention—a thin line of blood seeping through the torn sleeve, just below the bicep. The bullet graze wasn’t deep, but it was enough to need cleaning, and the angry redness around the wound made you wince.

You hesitated for a moment, shifting your weight awkwardly from one foot to the other as the others moved around, already falling into their post-mission routines. Finally, you took a breath and grabbed the small, metal first aid kit from a side table nearby, flipping it open with slightly trembling fingers.

"Hey," you said, your voice coming out a little quieter than you’d intended. You cleared your throat, trying to sound less nervous. "Let me, uh, clean that up for you."

Bucky glanced up, blue eyes sharp even in the low light, his jaw tightening slightly. For a moment, you thought he might brush you off, but then he gave a small, reluctant nod, rolling up his sleeve to reveal the torn, blood-streaked skin. You swallowed, your heart doing a weird little flip as you knelt beside him, pressing a clean cloth against the wound.

"You don’t have to," he muttered, his eyes focused somewhere over your shoulder. You could feel the tension radiating off him, the rigid set of his shoulders, the way his metal fingers twitched slightly against the leather.

"I know," you replied, trying to keep your tone steady, gently dabbing at the wound. "But I want to."

The silence stretched between you, filled only by the quiet clinking of glass and the soft whistle of the kettle as Wanda’s tea brewed. You could feel the heat of his skin beneath your fingertips, the pulse of his heart quick and strong, even through the thin layer of muscle.

"You did good tonight," he said finally, his voice low and gruff, barely more than a rumble. You glanced up, caught off guard, and found his eyes on you, sharp but not unkind. "Up on that balcony. Didn’t think you had those kind of skills."

You felt a small, involuntary smile tug at the corner of your mouth. "Yeah, well... Tony always made sure I could handle myself."

Bucky’s gaze flickered at the mention of Tony, a small, unreadable shadow passing over his face, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned back a little further, muscles slowly relaxing under your careful touch. You finished cleaning the wound, quickly wrapping it with a strip of gauze from the kit, your fingers brushing his skin more often than strictly necessary.

"All done," you murmured, leaning back on your heels and snapping the kit closed. You met his eyes again, and for a brief, electrifying second, neither of you moved, the air between you charged with something unspoken, something dangerous.

"Thanks," he said quietly, his voice rough but sincere.

You gave a small, uncertain nod, standing quickly and moving back toward the kitchen, where Natasha had already started pouring drinks. You felt Bucky’s eyes follow you as you went, the weight of his stare lingering like a phantom touch.

Wanda glanced over from the stove as you approached, her eyes glimmering with a knowing smirk. She didn’t say anything, but the slight tilt of her head spoke volumes. Natasha shot you a small, approving nod as she slid a glass your way, the clear liquid catching the low, amber light.

"You handled that well," Natasha murmured, her tone casual but her eyes sharp, always assessing, always noticing more than she let on.

"Yeah," you replied, trying not to glance back at Bucky, feeling the heat still prickling at your cheeks. "It’s nothing."

"Sure," Wanda whispered, the corner of her mouth twitching as she took a long sip from her steaming mug, eyes flicking briefly to the leather couch where Bucky now sat, head leaned back, eyes closed, his chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths. The air in the room felt heavier, tinged with unspoken words and uncertain feelings, a tension you couldn’t quite shake.

You took a deep breath, fingers tightening around the cool glass in your hand, and leaned against the counter, forcing your racing heart to settle. Whatever this was, it was just the beginning.

taglist: @shortandb1tchy @xoxpetals

bucky taglist: @shortandb1tchy @xoxpetals @crazyangel222 @messrkarmaismygf13

[xryptik]

SUNHATS ── making cal a hat

⠀⠀˖ ⭒ gender neutral, i have no idea how to make hats bear with me, based on a dialogue

perhaps he should be embarrassed at how quickly his attention had switched from the scrolls on the desk in front of him to the familiar appearance of your figure in a bright flash in front of the small stone dragon. the contents of the scroll were pushed aside to be inspected later as he smiled at you, who approached him with a smile of your own. ─ it didn't matter what time you visited him; he was always happy to see you; it caused his chest to warm at the thought you'd go out of your way just to talk to and see him every day.

“hi, cal!” you greet, the nickname he had become quite fond of making his smile widen just a bit (he hopes never a time comes when you don't refer to him so sweetly).

“hello, [name].” he returns, his tone much softer compared to yours but not lacking in the affection he so (obviously) held for you.

you stop beside him, glancing over the mess of scrolls scattered in front of him. the priestesses would likely be none too happy if they were to see just how unorganized he was, but he saves that thought for later when his mess causes you to chuckle.

“i have a question,” you turn back to him as you lean your weight against the desk, hip to the corner and palm flat against the surface, yet you're evidently careful not to cause damage to the old scrolls, even rolling one up to keep it out of your way. 

he nods his head for you to continue, and you do; “out of all my hats, do you have a favorite?”

it's a question he's not sure why you'd need to know ─ one that makes him pause. but he can tell by the look on your face ─ your brows furrowed, and head tilted, with your lips folded over your teeth as you look at him ─ it's one you want an honest answer to. he takes a moment, thinking back to the many hats he'd watch you wear, when he was still stone, and now, as he takes a mortal skin. ─ some were colorful and stood out, others plain; yet all well incorporated to your outfit.

“i suppose, the one you'd often wear on the sunniest days.”

“my sunhat?”

“yes, that's the one.” 

you hum, lips pursed in thought and nodding slowly, “okay, follow up question, can i measure your horns?”

while your first question made him curious, this one was rather strange, and the confusion on his face is evident as he tilts his head a little to the side and stares at you, “i’m sorry?”

you grin, one that's sweet and causes his heart to stutter just a little, “please?”

caldarus never intended to say no to you in the first place ─ not when it was you asking. while a strange request, it was harmless, and he couldn't deny your curiosity (he'd almost say he couldn't ever deny you). 

“you may, but can i inquire why?” he asks.

you purse your lips again, “i’m just curious.” ─ it's not the truth, he can tell, but he still lets you wrap his horns in measuring tape as you giggle to yourself almost triumphantly.

louis was quite surprised when you approached him one saturday just as he was setting up shop and before the rest of the townsfolk kicked off their day with a visit to the market. you'd asked if he could teach you how to make a hat, and he, at first, offered to make the hat of your wishes himself, but upon explaining you wanted to make it because it was a gift, his face lit up and he took your hand and told you you'd be a professional in hat making in no time.

you'd be there in the mornings just as he entered town, before he could unload and set up. you'd help him with his stall, and he'd give you pointers and a demonstration in hatmaking, and while he tended to the rest of the residents in your small town, you'd sit to the side, putting his teaching to work and occasionally turning to him when you needed help.

by now, everyone in town knew you were being taught by louis in hat making, but when they'd ask who it was for, you'd smile and shrug, before returning your attention to the needle in your hand and the messy unfinished base of a hat.

"do you think he'll like it?" you ask your cat, who was curled up on your pillow, blinking up at you lazily as you held up the finished product of your hard work; finally completed after many early starts on saturdays and late nights returning home from your day-to-day errands, only to immediately busy yourself with the self-given project.

your fingers were covered in band-aids after the many times you'd pricked and nicked yourself. you're quite sure valen was getting tired of seeing you at her clinic, asking her if she had any band-aids to spare since you had run out.

while not perfect, you were still proud of your work ─ it was a simple sunhat, much like your own, with a teal ribbon wrapped around it, and most notably, two holes at the top, measured and set far part to fit caldarus' horns.

"guess we'll see," you hummed, glancing down at your cat who'd dozed off, uncaring of your project and taking up a majority of your pillow. you chuckled, setting the hat on your bedside table and sliding under the covers.

the next morning, you'd slipped on your own sunhat, called your animals out for the day, and checked on the crops, before approaching caldarus' statue with the gift in hand. when you appeared in the temple, he was nowhere to be seen, likely out foraging or checking on his own crops. with that in mind, you'd tucked the hand holding the hat behind your back, keeping it hidden, and pushed the temple doors open.

you found him leaning over his crops, and you smiled to yourself, hiding your hands behind your back as you approached.

"morning, cal!" you greeted.

caldarus glanced up from the dirt and returned your smile as he stood to meet you, "good morning, [name]."

"i have a gift for you." you told him as you came to a stop in front of him.

he tilted his head, "oh, for me?"

you nodded with a hum, and held out your arms, showing him the hat you had spent so much time working on. you smile, almost shyly, and glance away from his face, towards the dirt below you as you explained, "you said you wished to wear hats as well, but your horns made it impossible, so i thought i'd make you one. it's why i asked you those strange questions before."

caldarus is silent for a moment, staring at you and the hat with evident surprise in his expression. he'd wondered about the questions you'd asked him before ─ measuring his horns and asking which hat of yours he liked more, but out of the many guesses that came to mind, he hadn't thought the reason would be because you intended to make him a hat, one specially meant for him, that accommodated his horns. to think you'd go out of your way to make something, surely not easy, by the many band-aids on your fingers, just for him, it makes his chest warm, and his heart fasten.

"thank you," he finally says, and you glance at him to find a smile on his face; one of soft gratitude and warm affection. he takes the hat from you carefully and places it on his head. you grin when it seems to be a perfect fit. (making the holes in the hat for his horns was the hardest part for you, you wanted them to fit perfectly.)

"now we match!" you giggle, pointing at your own hat, a matching teal ribbon to his own wrapped around it.

"yes, we do." ─ he'd cherish your gift; he can get away with wearing it every season, can't he?

this was supposed to be a drabble btw

[slippinmickeys]

Familiar (16/?)

“Like you?” Dana echoed.

Fox nodded. “She’s a familiar.”

She looked up into the darkening sky, heart pounding, her breath growing shallow and thin with fright. The last scraps of daylight were bleeding out over the horizon, the kind of bruised gold that meant the sun was truly gone now, and a few stars had begun to prick through the velvet overhead like pinholes in the fabric of the world.

“How do you know?”

“I know.”

Dana was still wrapping her head around this. Not just the idea of another familiar, but the implications of it. Another animal-bound soul. Another person—creature—thing—that lived by the strange and shifting rules of magic. Of fate. And if there was one… how many more were out there? Was the raven watching her? Was it tracking Fox? Or something worse?

A cool wind rippled through the stalks of wheat, whispering against her legs and lifting strands of hair from her braid. Her fingers curled into the fabric at her sides, grounding herself. The day had already been long. Her mind ached with unanswered questions and the weight of not knowing who to trust. And now this—something ancient and winged and clever, watching them from the skies.

Fox crouched down into the wheat, and she mirrored his movements instinctively, the dry stalks crackling softly around her legs. Her eyes swept the sky, searching for the dark speck that had followed them all this way. She didn’t see it now. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t there.

Still, somewhere behind her ribs, a small cup of hope tipped into her chest.

“What if she’s friendly?” Dana whispered, turning toward him, her voice softer now, touched with something like wonder. “Maybe her witch can teach me something.”

It was a genuine thought. Not born of naivety, but of a hunger—for answers, for guidance, for someone who could finally explain the path she’d been blindly feeling her way through. Someone like her. Someone who understood.

But Fox’s face was solemn in the last light. “If she were friendly,” he said, voice low and certain, “she wouldn’t be hiding. She wasn’t trying to be seen.”

Dana’s mouth went dry. She swallowed hard, the optimistic flicker in her chest guttering. Of course he was right. A creature like that didn’t follow strangers through fields for fun. There was intention behind its silence. A purpose.

“So what do we do?” she asked, already dreading the answer.

“Go into the city,” Fox said. “A bird’s easier to lose in a city than a forest.”

She nodded slowly. It made sense. Out here, they were exposed. Wide fields. Open sky. They couldn’t outrun wings—not in a place like this. But in the city? Maybe. There would be awnings and buildings and crowds and cover.

“Can we get in?” she asked, glancing toward the distant outline of the city walls, though the gates were out of sight behind the curve of the hills. Even before he answered, her shoulders tensed.

“No,” he said, his breath finally slowing from his run. “Not until morning.”

She pressed a hand against her ribs, trying to still her own breath. Her chest felt tight, as if the air around them had grown thinner.

"If we make it through the night," he added, though the words felt unnecessary. The dread curling in her belly had already told her that.

The wheat whispered around them, swaying gently in the cold wind. They could not start a fire. Dana pulled the blanket from her pack and wrapped it around her shoulders, but it was thin and worn. The breeze bit at her ankles.

Fox looked equally miserable, sweat quickly chilling in the wind, arms crossed tight over his chest. He didn’t complain.

"Come," she said softly. "We’ll share our warmth."

He hesitated for just a breath, then crossed to her side. They sat together at first, shoulders brushing awkwardly, but it wasn’t enough. The wind kept finding the gaps between them.

Dana shifted the blanket, held it open in invitation. Fox slid under it beside her, his movements slow and cautious.

She lay down first, curling onto her side in the matted wheat. He followed, careful, and after a few minutes of stiff repositioning, his arm came around her waist.

Her back pressed to his chest, and her head tucked beneath his chin. It was warmer immediately. But it was also… something else. Something strange and delicate.

His body was solid behind her. Strong. Steady. The shape of him wrapped around her own like they had done this before. Like her bones had learned him in some forgotten life.

She could feel the press of his hand against her ribs, the warmth of his breath at her neck.

The sounds of the field surrounded them: the rustle of stalks, the occasional hoot of an owl, and something more distant—metal against metal, echoing faintly from the city’s far side. The wind carried the scent of crushed grain, cold stone, and Fox. He smelled like earth and pine and something just a little wild.

She lay there, silent and very carefully still, for what felt like an eternity. She swallowed.

"I can’t sleep," she whispered.

His voice was quiet behind her. "I know."

A pause. The beat of her heart pounded in her ears.

"I keep thinking she’s watching us," Dana said. "Even now. I keep expecting to look up and see black wings above us."

"She might be," he said. "But she hasn’t made a move. Not yet."

Dana closed her eyes. "Why would another familiar be after us?"

"I don’t know." His hand shifted slightly at her side. Not to pull her closer, but to settle her. Steady her. "But she has to belong to another witch. I don’t think she’s working alone."

Dana opened her eyes. The moon had risen higher, painting silver shadows across the wheat. The city glowed faintly in the distance, a halo of yellow light.

She turned her head slightly. "Do you think we’ll lose her? In the city?"

His breath was warm at her temple. "I think we’ll have a better chance there than we do out here."

Her body slowly began to relax. Not from safety, but from exhaustion. But closeness, the steady weight of him, calmed something in her.

"I don’t want to go in without you," she said softly, thinking she’d like to have a human hand to hold while walking through the unfamiliar streets. 

"You won't be," he said. "Not really."

And for a little while, they said nothing. Just breathed together in the dark.

Eventually, sleep found her. Not deeply, not fully—but enough.

Just before dawn, Fox nudged her awake.

"Time."

The air was colder than before, the sky washed in slate blue and pale gray. Dew had crept into the blanket, hardening into frost, and her boots were damp.

They went over the plan.

She would enter the city at first light. Buy a large burlap sack. He would climb in. She would carry him through.

Neither of them liked it.

Dana was just about to argue, voice low and hesitant, when she heard it:

The caw-click-click-click of a raven’s call.

Her blood ran cold.

And then—

Light. From both sides of her. The sun. And the man. 

Fox shimmered. Changed.

She sat upright, breath caught. The transformation was faster this time, but no less jarring. One moment he was a man. The next—fur, teeth, golden eyes. Small, silent.

She stared, struck dumb all over again.

Then the city bell rang.

Once.

Twice.

The toll for the morning gate.

She scrambled to her feet, heart pounding, pack clutched in her hands.

And ran.

[discordiansamba]

shiemi has a secret.

the secret is tied to the key that she wears around her neck, hidden underneath her robes. it's a key that she rarely gets to use- she has much to learn if she's going to become a proper saio, much less inherit her mother's position as the shemihaza one day. but when she does get the chance to use it...

...well, she didn't use it to meet rin. not at first.

at first it was just a means of escape. a small way to take a break away from the pressures of destiny and duty, if only for a short while. she'd been apprehensive of the key at first- it was prudent to be wary of gifts from demons, even ones on their side. but the key that mephisto had slipped her with a wink only lead to a picturesque clearing, with a little waterfall where she could calm her heart a bit. it was only after she used it for a second time, that she realized it didn't always lead her to the same place.

...eventually, it lead her to rin.

she remembers there was some kind of festival going on. she'd walked among the colorful stalls gawking in fascination. she rarely left el, so she had never seen anything like this before. it was embarrassing to admit, but at the time, she had been too sheltered to realize even basic things- like that the stall owner who she thought had simply given her a delicious sweet treat expected money for it- and that he'd get mad at her when she told him she didn't have any.

that was when she met rin.

he took her by the wrist and grinned- and together they ran away. they left the festival behind them, away from all the noise. in hindsight, he was a little strange- but so was she. he didn't ask her any questions about herself, and she didn't ask him any questions about himself- except for their names. he ended up telling her about all sorts of things- and they ended up watching the fireworks together.

they kept meeting, somehow.

he became suspicious of her at one point. with hindsight, she understood that too- but in the moment, she supposed it was her hurt expression that had convinced him she wasn't trying to trick him. they never talked much about their lives- she only knew that rin traveled around with his mom a lot, and he only knew that she rarely had the chance to leave the house. rin showed her the world with a smile- and little by little, they became friends.

it was nice- to not have to be the saio around him.

rin was a bit odd, but that was alright- she was probably a fair bit odd herself! he was friendly with demons, which she thought strange at first... but she supposed it made sense- he was a nephilim, like her- even though his demon blood was much thicker than her own. above all else, rin was kind and always smiling-

...which was why she never realized he was hiding secret too.

(when shiemi was fifteen, she enrolled in the exorcism cram school while hiding her true identity. there were whispers that mephisto was hiding something there- and it was there that she met rin again.

...and it was there too, that she would meet rinka.)

[knighteclipsed]

The sky is different, he thinks, from such… domesticated heights. (He calls it that for lack of a better term, but what else could he describe it as, knowing it was not as high or fast as it would be under his own control?) They are taken for a practice flight, reminded of the basics and guided through every step, and Valter finds that when they were given permission to leave the ground, he and Cookie were the first to ascend, higher and higher into the sky.

…Within bounds, of course, and they were bounds he knew that Maria would obey (and therefore, so would he), but there is something about the experience that feels just a bit different. (He blames it on her size, the vastness of the world seeming so much greater when one is so much smaller, and with her compared to her wyvern, the difference is only further exacerbated.) She is a singular speck of red against the sea of brick and green.

It is different compared to the feeling that he gets in his own skin, but not really by that much. It still fills one’s lungs with openness. It still cuts one down to size. (He finds comfort, resting against Cookie’s neck, gazing out upon the world through half-lids, unfettered. It has been well over a decade since he first took to the skies.)

Landing comes simply, though it is only post-mortem that he realizes Maria may not be as skilled a rider as he. (He should have considered that sooner, what with him wearing her skin and all.) Valter decides that she’ll be able to play it off well enough. He gives Cookie an extra hug as the class comes to a close.

Medicine and finally faith. (Neither are too eventful, though they happen to be Valter’s weaker subjects of her schedule.) Nevertheless, he remains wide-eyed, attentive, and he plays the part of a  student who knows what she’s talking about when she is asked a question. (Thankfully, they are not too plentiful, and Maria’s peers handle the task rather well.)

It is then that the final bell tolls, and her things are gathered, the student wishing farewell before mixing in with the rest of the body. In the flow of people going every which way, it is easy for Maria to disappear entirely, treading where few were likely to see her. It is in this manner that Valter stalks his way back to his room, purpose and manner carefully controlled so as to seem completely benign.

He doesn’t knock, simply entering and closing the door behind him. He expects there to be a greater relief when the act finally falls.

But that wasn’t the point. Instead, red eyes drift up to find his own, and faced with his face again, Valter remembers a bit more clearly the strange predicament they had found themselves in. He elects to give his report.

“Your classes have been handled. Everything went well. I don’t suspect anyone caught on to my actions.” He pauses to formulate his next set of words, before continuing, “…How was your day?”

That was a way to ask it, he supposes. It was good enough, at least.

what my cover shows

One day, you find yourself waking up thoroughly sore, scraping yourself off the floor of a Monastery classroom. As you strain to remember how you wound up there, you catch sight of your hand – except it’s not yours. Nor are the clothes you now wear, or the body beneath them. Your actual self is standing opposite you, staring back in shock and… covered in dust? Before things spiral further, the professor attempts to quell the growing chorus of unrest with an explanation, which also serves to jog your memory. This was supposed to be a seminar showcasing the magical properties of a magic tool from Tellius known as Warp Powder. Unfortunately, its volatile nature lends itself to many potential side-effects if mishandled… one of which is ripping people’s souls out and depositing them into the nearest acceptable vessel. The unbothered professor assures everyone that this “minor inconvenience” will wear off on its own eventually, and that the Monastery will still be expecting the completion of your usual assignments and duties in the meantime. [Grants Any Weapon +1]

[crossbackpoke-check]

Looks like that video is about a month & a half after The Trade and trevors broken ankle 😣

re: this video… anon 😭 i had suspicions but it is so much worse to have them confirmed that really was like. trevor’s first Public Appearance without jamie AND post-broken ankle which is traumatic in and of itself no wonder every beat reporter was like ‘oh yeah trevor’s just devastated’

wouldn’t you be miserable too if your best friend just got traded and your body betrayed you and what if it was maybe all your fault!!!

[navydoves]

Mermaid!Rafayel and his strange affectionate habits

being in a relationship with a mermaid is pretty weird, rafayel has some weird habits!

✎ᝰ a/n: alright, back by popular demand (somewhat), we have the rafayel version of this. i could make this into a series… i could just not gaf… i could also make a “habits while in heat”, but idk!

dragon sylus version

⭐︎

❥ he chirps! mermaid rafayel trills and chirps in various patterns as a subtle way of communication. you’ll hear soft, cute squeaks come from him when he’s happy or deep in thought. or when you pet his tail, he trills from the feeling of your warm hand on his cool scales.

you didn’t understand where the noises came at first until you realized rafayel was the one making them. the sounds are so different in pitch than his normal voice that it was surprising he could make them. but they were so cute that you never really questioned them, instead you took the time to learn what each chirp meant.

❥ he brings you many gifts. a common trait amongst mermaids is that they’ll go out of their way to collect trinkets to either court someone or make their current mate happy. rafayel isn’t really sure what you like as a human, but he definitely tries to figure it out!

he’ll bring you lost shoes or baby crabs or pretty candy wrappers in hopes that you’ll take some liking to them. but when you stare a bit confused at the piles of scrap that he gifts you, he decides he has to try harder. he learns that human women are not that different from mermaids—in that they both like shiny, pretty things. so rafayel’s makes it a habit to find coins and jewels buried in the sea and bring it up to you frequently as he can. you have no real use for these miscellaneous items, but you can tell rafayel is trying really hard to please you so you accept graciously. he chirps in excitement!

❥ he quite literally, suffocates you. never intentionally, no, but rafayel doesn’t know his own strength. human bodies are comprised weaker than lemurian bodies, making you the victim in rafayel’s affectionate embraces. it’s during these times that you’re reminded of just how big rafayel is. 8 feel tall in length, you’re constantly reminded that you’re a peewee who could be crushed by this mythical being at any moment.

rafayel does try to be gentle with you, though. he intentionally tries to tone down how passionate he is so as to not knock the air out of your lungs. he really can’t help it though, you’re so small and adorable he just wants to cuddle you and eat you up.

❥ he stares at you. rafayel isn’t too adverse in the human body, so at the start of your relationship he was very very curious as to what a human female looked like. it’s for this reason he the hates the fact that you wear clothes. all he wants to do is stare at you and ask what certain things are. to rafayel, this is a normal thing to do when you’re curious. to you, this is a little embarrassing.

the especially embarrassing part is when he stares at your intimate parts. he pokes around at your vagina with a curious look and the intent to investigate what the hell was going on in there. sure, mermaid anatomy was similar to human anatomy, but he’d never really seen a human female up close until you. the weird part is, he think it’s all completely innocent.

“so… this is clit right? lot smaller than i what expected…”

lick.

“rafayel!”

❥ he sings to guide you. it’s no secret mermaids have beautiful voices. you’ve heard some distant melodic voices from the sea in your time dating rafayel—but nothing compares to rafayel’s voice itself. the first time you heard it you felt like you were floating on air and transcending your body. it was that powerful. now that you’ve grown accustomed to the hypnotizing sound, though, rafayel uses his voice as a way to guide you.

when you’re on the beach looking for him or under the sea by the grace of his power, he sings melodiously to guide you in his direction. every time it happens you feel as if you don’t even need to think about the direction you’re going, that your feet just automatically know where to go even if you’re unfamiliar with the place.

❥ he has a cycle problem. rafayel goes through many physical changes throughout his lemurian life and that makes him constantly be in kahoots. one day he’s whiny and splashing everything with water, another day he can’t get his hands off of you and is extremely clingy, maybe one day he’s just really depressed and needs to be alone. it’s hard to tell what’s coming next with him.

but it’s also not just an emotional problem, it’s a physical problem too. sometimes, you’ll meet him and see that he’s two times bigger than usual (god almighty). other times, you’ll go in for a cuddle and feel his skin is all slimy and sticks to you. every time you ask about his issues, he always has a different explanation. it leads you to think, just how many cycles do lemurians go through?

❥ he has many nicknames for you. whenever you’re upset, he’ll laugh at you and call you a “baby pufferfish.” if you’re look extra pretty that day, he’ll call you “my pearl.” if you’re struggling within his grasp he’ll call you a “cute little minnow.” rafayel is incredibly affectionate and loyal, so all the pet names he uses on you he doesn’t use with any one else—even the human ones he’s adopted like “cutie” or “darling.”

one of his favorites, though, is the one he calls you when he’s in heat. “my nest,” he says whenever he has full intention of filling you with his eggs. it’s his way of telling you that the most precious and vulnerable part of him belongs to you, because you are a nest for his babies <3.

⭐︎

[blank-potato]

Loving You Is Easy

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Reader

Summary:

“What are these for?” you ask, looking up at him with a raised brow. “You. I, um… figured they’d help you feel better,” Bob says, his voice dipping awkwardly near the end like he already regrets how earnest it sounds. You blink at him, eyes flicking between his face and the pancakes. Then a smile spreads across your face. Cute, and he makes pancakes? You’d struck gold. “Thanks… man!” you say, then pause, realisation dawning mid-sentence. You don’t even know the name of the very attractive guy standing in front of you. You laugh a little, embarrassed. “What’s your name?” “Bob.” “Bob,” You repeat, the smile on your face growing just that little bit more if that was even possible, “I like Bob.” Or You and Bob are indifferent to each other, never seeming to mesh. But when you lose your memory, something new blooms between the two of you.

Tags/Warnings: Fluff, angst, no smut, amnesia/memory loss, abandonment issues, pancakes may as well be a main character, hurt and some comfort?, acquaintances to lovers?

WC: 9.6K

A/N: Title from Easy by Mac Ayers. Also, the response to my last Bob fic was absolutely insane, thank you! Hope you enjoy this one, might write a part 2 later

***

Bob doesn’t particularly like you. 

It’s not like he hated you or anything; the two of you just didn’t connect. 

Conversations were always awkward and stilted, full of long silences and forced small talk. You’d crack a joke, and he’d give you a tight smile. He’d ask a question, and you’d give a clipped answer, unsure of his tone or where you stood.

It wasn’t animosity. It was worse: indifference with a touch of tension. Or maybe it was just that sometimes people don’t mesh, no matter how hard they try. So both of you stopped trying. You’d walk into the gym and see him already there, towel slung over his shoulder, sweat dampening his shirt.

He’d glance up. “No, no, you can stay. I was just leaving.” Even if he wasn’t actually done with his workout.

“Okay…” you’d reply, pretending not to feel the sting.

Or one time, you both ended up in the kitchen at 2 a.m., bleary-eyed and looking for snacks.

You froze. So did he.

“I’ll just—”

“No, it’s fine. I just needed water,” You interrupted.

You both moved around each other like magnets flipped the wrong way, close but never touching, repelling, retreating.

It was easier this way.

One day, you're on a mission and get injured after a strange encounter with an absurdly eccentric villain. He hit you with some mysterious ray that blasted you through a wall and left you unconscious. The whole team was worried about you… including Bob.

Sure, the two of you were awkward, distant, neither of you quite knowing how to be around the other anymore, but that didn’t change the fact that he still cared. 

So they brought you back to the Tower and did everything they could. Monitors, scans, and even a few calls to some old contacts who specialised in the weird and unexplainable.

As you lay still, unmoving, they waited. They took shifts, refusing to let you wake up alone, just in case.

Bob stayed longer than anyone. Even when it wasn’t his shift, he lingered outside your room. Because no matter how weird or strained things had become, he wanted you to wake up.

It takes a few days, but you wake up, your eyes blinking rapidly as you adjust to the light. The sterile scent of antiseptic lingers faintly in the air, and your body feels achy, like you’ve been asleep for a century.

And then you see him.

A random, handsome man is slumped over in the chair next to your bed. His head is tilted forward slightly, chin tucked, a book loose in one hand as he dozes. 

His lips part slightly in sleep, brows twitching like he’s dreaming. Something about the sight is comforting. 

You don’t recognise him.

But something in you wants to.

“Hello?”

You slip out of bed, groaning as you do so. You step close to the man until you’re but a few feet away, studying him with a mixture of curiosity and something deeper stirring inside.

You’re right next to him now, and suddenly your heart races uncontrollably. He’s beautiful — if there’s such a thing as love at first sight, this had to be it. You can’t think about anything else except his sharp jawline and that messy, adorable hair that looks like he just rolled out of bed.

Then, out of nowhere, his eyes snap open. A piercing blue that somehow feels like a shock and a spark all at once. He screams. You scream back, startled, your breath catching in your throat.

You stumble backwards, about to fall, when suddenly he reaches out and grabs your hand. Firm but gentle, steadying you.

“Thanks, guy.”

“You’re welcome,” Bob replies quietly.

“Where am I? What happened? Who are you?” you ask, panic threading through your voice.

Suddenly, a fog rolls over your mind, and you try your hardest to think, but everything’s blank except for your name.

“You don’t… remember me?” Bob asks hesitantly.

“No, are you…”You search for the right words, trying to piece things together. He was in your hospital room, probably stayed overnight, worrying about you. You’re not sure what your type used to be, but if you had one, this had to be it. Then the question slips out, “Are you my boyfriend?”

Bob’s eyes widen as if they might pop out of his head. He stammers, “Oh, no, we’re not… that’s not…” His words trip over themselves, betraying the panic and confusion inside him.

“We’re teammates,” he finally manages to say, and you take a step back, giving him space to breathe.

“We’re on a team? Like what? A swim team?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

“No, like a superhero team.”

You blink, confused. “I’m a superhero?”

“An Avenger, to be exact.”

“What the hell is that?”

***

Bob was pale and quiet, still reeling from what had happened to you. The medics were running tests, whispering terms he didn’t fully understand, frowns etched deep into their brows.

Bucky came out of the room a few minutes later, expression unreadable as he approached Bob, pulling him aside.

“What did they say?” Bob asked, his voice hoarse, almost afraid of the answer.

From the look on Bucky’s face, it wasn’t good. “She has amnesia,” he said softly. “Doesn’t remember much of anything right now.”

Bob felt the air leave his lungs. He looked toward the room, the edge of the hospital bed just visible through the cracked door. You, in there, not knowing him.

“Can you take care of her?” Bucky asked gently. “We won’t all be around all the time, and she’s going to need someone who won’t push. Someone who’ll be patient.”

Bob didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

All day, he deliberates on how he can help you out. They were going to let you out of the medbay the next morning, so he wanted to make sure you’d have something comforting waiting for you. After some thought, he lands on pancakes. 

Good food had always been his go-to to shake off a bad mood, maybe it would work the same for amnesia.

After helping you into the kitchen, he serves you the pancakes he prepared, sliding the plate toward you a little sheepishly.

“What are these for?” you ask, looking up at him with a raised brow.

“You. I, um… figured they’d help you feel better,” Bob says, his voice dipping awkwardly near the end like he already regrets how earnest it sounds.

You blink at him, eyes flicking between his face and the pancakes. Then a smile spreads across your face. Cute, and he makes pancakes? You’d struck gold.

“Thanks… man!” you say, then pause, realisation dawning mid-sentence. You don’t even know the name of the very attractive guy standing in front of you. You laugh a little, embarrassed. “What’s your name?”

“Bob.”

“Bob,” You repeat, the smile on your face growing just that little bit more if that was even possible, “I like Bob.”

You start digging into the pancakes and let out a squeal of happiness. “This thing is the best thing I’ve ever tasted, well technically one of the only things I remember tasting, but still.”

Bob feels a small rush of happiness that he was able to do something for you, no matter how simple.

“So, Bob, you and I are superheroes, correct?” you say between mouthfuls of delicious pancakes.

Bob hesitates; he didn’t quite have full control over his powers yet, but he was sure he’d get there one day.

“Well, yes…”

“Do you have powers?”

“I can fly, and I’m kinda invincible, and a couple of other things,” he says, looking away sheepishly. He didn’t want to sound like he was bragging.

But then he looks back and sees you beaming at him, the same way you had been since he gave you those pancakes.

“That’s awesome, can you show me?”

He hesitates, “It’s complicated. I can be…dangerous.”

“Oh, I get it, no pressure.”

He's surprised at how quickly you drop it, but appreciates it nonetheless. You take another bite of the pancakes before asking with a little smile, “Do I have powers?”

You were already thinking of the possibilities, maybe you could fly too, or teleport or even turn into a giant frog. The sky’s the limit.

“No…” he says,  and the wind is taken right out of your sails. So much for being a frog woman. But seeing the disappointed look on your face, he quickly adds, “You’re a really talented fighter, though, great shot too.”

“Really?”

Bob nods, giving you an encouraging smile. You twiddle your fingers, trying to ask more questions.

“Where are you from?”

“Florida.”

“What’s Florida like?”

He strains to think of what to tell you. Flashes of sticky summer air, thunderstorms rolling in over flat suburban streets, and the hum of cicadas come into his mind.

“It’s… hot.”

You giggle softly, seemingly satisfied with his answer. “Good to know.”

“So let me summarise. You are Bob, Florida is hot, I can shoot stuff.”

“That’s about right.”

He watches you devour the whole plate of pancakes, and he's still having a hard time reconciling the you he knows and the you sitting in front of him. For one, you were actually talking to him and talking to everyone a lot more. Your dynamic with the rest of the team wasn't nearly as bad as yours with Bob's, but now you seemed a lot more open.

It’s a trend that continues as you ask him and the rest of the Avengers questions incessantly the rest of the day, your curiosity never seeming to run out. Every new answer only sparks ten more questions, and somehow, they never seem to mind your enthusiasm.

“You can go through walls?!” You gasp, eyes wide with amazement, and you nearly pass out when you see Ava do it, your hand reaching out as if trying to touch the air she just phased through.

Or when you sat cross-legged on the floor, chin resting on your hands, listening to one of Alexei’s stories with such intent. It was nice seeing you so bubbly, laughing at his exaggerated tales and rolling your eyes when he insisted every mission ended with him saving the day. “There’s no way you took them all down yourself!”

“The Red Guardian defeated them all single-handedly, I tell you,” Alexei says, enjoying your reactions, insisting no one listens the way you do.

But there was a little downside. Now you were more eager to do things, and since you were also restricted to the tower, all that restless energy had to go somewhere. 

This morning, it was the kitchen.

The truth is, if he knew that his making pancakes would cause the mess that you unleashed, maybe he would’ve chosen something easier to make.

He walks into the kitchen to see you surrounded by chaos, flour on the counter, batter on the ceiling, and a pan smoking in the sink. It looks like a warzone.

“What is all of this?” he asks, blinking at the sight.

You glance up at him, cheeks flushed, hair a little wild, looking like you’d just gone ten rounds with your own breakfast.

“Pancakes,” you say with exaggerated confidence, like it was obvious.

“If you wanted pancakes, you could’ve asked,” he says, stepping closer with a shake of his head.

He would’ve made them in a heartbeat. He didn’t always know how to fix things, but it made him happy to be useful, even if it was hard to get the energy sometimes. 

Bob says, rolling up his sleeves, “I happen to make pretty good pancakes.”

“I know. The ones you made for me the other day were really good.”

“One of the few things I can do,” he mutters, the self-deprecation slipping out like muscle memory, automatic, unfiltered. He's been working on it, but old habits die hard.

You nudge him gently with your elbow. “I’m sure you’re good at a lot of stuff. And if not, at least you’re good-looking.”

Bob blinks at you, looking at you incredulously, like you’d just said the sky was green. His mouth parts slightly, like he’s about to argue, but then doesn’t.

A beat passes, and he gives a soft huff of a laugh, shaking his head. “You really are different,” he says, eyes full of something like wonder.

“But… in a good way.”

“Thanks…” You say. “So, about these pancakes, how about we make them together?”

“Sounds perfect.”

He’s about to start making more batter when he notices you didn’t even bother to put on an apron. He grabs one off the hook and makes his way back over to you.

“But I’m already messy,” you say, looking down at your shirt, now covered in flour.

“Better late than never?” he says with a grin.

Agreeing with him, you duck your head down as he slips the apron over you. Accidentally ruffling your hair in the process, and you let out a small noise of protest.

Then, gently, almost instinctively, he smooths your hair down with both hands, his fingers brushing along your scalp.

It makes you shiver and shake a little against your will. Your body apparently hasn’t gotten the memo on playing it cool around hot men who are weirdly good at domestic affection.

Great. Just great.

He steps closer and delicately wraps the apron ties behind you, moving with such care. You can only imagine what his hands must feel like, strong but soft, you thought.

All you can focus on is the little sensations you do get. The brief, accidental caresses against your back as he tries to tie the apron. His fingers brush your spine, light as a whisper, and your breath catches in your throat.

“Let me do yours,” you say, trying to distract yourself from the way your heart’s trying to break out of your chest.

He turns, and you tie the apron behind him. You can't help but notice how solid he feels, how broad his shoulders are. You feel that same flutter in your stomach you had when you first saw him in the med bay, those damn butterflies that show up uninvited whenever he’s near.

You step back and smooth out the fabric on his chest, trying to act casual.

“How do I look?” he asks playfully.

“Very chefy,” you reply with a grin.

You step aside, and he turns to see what you’ve done.

“First of all, what did you put in here?” He asks, looking at the strange concoction you had made up. It looked like a science experiment gone wrong, the way it was bubbling like it was about to come to life.

“Pancake stuff.”

“Why is it blue?”

“To complement your eyes.”

He blinks, fully expecting to see you grinning or laughing, but you’re dead serious.

As he chuckles and starts remaking the pancake batter, shaking his head with the tiniest smile, he says, “Why didn’t you just ask me to make them for you?”

“I, uh… was trying to return the favour.” You mumble, scratching the back of your head. “You made them for me when I needed them. Thought it’d be nice to do the same.”

He pauses mid-stir, glancing over at you. “That’s really sweet.” 

Bob is about to go back to stirring when he sees something.

“Oh, wait a second, you have a…” He says before trailing off, his expression shifting slightly. He reaches out without hesitation, fingers gentle as they brush your cheek. Your breath catches, heart thudding like it’s trying to escape your ribcage, as he plucks an eyelash off your face.

“Make a wish,” he says softly, holding it out to you.

You close your eyes for a moment, your mind blank except for the thought of him. You blow it away, your breath catching just a little as the lash flutters and disappears.

And a tiny part of you wonders if wishes like that ever come true.

“What did you wish for?”

Your eyes scan his, you know exactly what you want, what you need.

“It’s a secret.”

***

“You need to eat more than just pancakes,” John says with a sigh, arms crossed like a disapproving dad.

You shrug from your spot on the couch, hugging your knees and avoiding eye contact. “They’re comforting. And Bob makes them really well.”

“That’s not the point,” he replies, “You need nutrients. Vegetables. Something green.”

You’re finally saved when you see Bob come into the room.

“Bob!”

You scramble out of your seat the moment you spot him, excitement bubbling up as you point at the TV screen. An ad for a local pizza place flashes by, and it somehow sends you into a state of near awe.

“I know what pizza is, but I don’t remember what it tastes like.”

“Can we…?” you begin, unsure how to phrase it without sounding too eager—if you asked, would he eat it with you?

“I’ll order,” he says without hesitation.

“Pizza isn’t good for you either,” John points out, and you roll your eyes at him before throwing your arms around Bob, hugging him tightly. 

You throw your arms around him in an instant, hugging him tightly. He stiffens for a second, caught off guard, he still wasn’t used to how openly affectionate you'd become since the memory loss.

“Sorry, got a little excited,” you mumble, pulling back slightly.

Bob just smiles.

“We can eat it on the roof if you want,” he offers. “It’s a really nice view.”

“I’d like that,” you say softly, already picturing it.

When the pizza arrives, the two of you head up to the roof, scarfing it down like you hadn’t eaten in days. Bob watches you in quiet amusement, the city of New York sprawling beneath and around you. Lives moving, horns blaring, people rushing through the streets, but up here, it feels peaceful. Safe.

“This is so good, I could die right now and be happy,” you declare dramatically, a slice still in hand.

You flop back into Bob’s lap without warning, gazing up at him with a lazy, contented smile. He freezes slightly, his leg twitching with nerves. You’re too busy chewing to notice the way his eyes widen, or how he swallows hard and looks away for a second.

He’s glad you can’t hear how loud his heart is pounding.

“Hey,” you say after swallowing a particularly big bite of cheesy goodness.

“Yeah?” Bob answers, turning to you.

You don’t respond right away, just stare at him again, like you’re trying to memorise every detail. There’s something about being near him that makes everything else fade out. Being in love with him, even without remembering it, feels like breathing.

“I wish I could take a picture.”

“Of… the pizza?” Bob asks, confused. 

“No. Of you. You just… have one of those faces.”

He blinks. “What does that mean?” There’s a note of genuine concern. Was this your weird, roundabout way of calling him ugly?

“You have a face I wanna… immortalise. Is that super dramatic?” you ask, gesticulating with your slice of pizza. Cheese flopping to the side with every word.

Bob lets out a stunned laugh. He honestly can’t believe half the things you’ve said since the memory loss, but this might be the most unexpected yet. His ears turn a little pink.

You’re both quiet for a beat before you break the silence with a chuckle. “What is it? Have I grown another head?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head slowly. “I just… you’re so different.”

But he doesn’t say it like it’s a bad thing.

“How so?” you ask, muffled slightly by the mouthful of pizza you just shoved in. Even that, being messy and unfiltered, was a pretty big shift. Before the accident, you would’ve never let Bob see you like this. You were all sharp edges, always composed around him. Never vulnerable. Never soft.

“You didn’t… we didn’t really get along before you lost your memories,” Bob says carefully, like he’s stepping over landmines.

“Did we hate each other?”

“No, no, nothing like that. It was just… awkward,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Huh…” You glance past him, up at the stars overhead. The sky looks endless. “I know I don’t remember anything, but something in me tells me I liked you more than I let on.”

You turn your gaze back to him, sincere now. “It’s just a feeling,” you say, lightly tapping your chest. “In here.”

There’s a loud bang in the distance that interrupts the two of you, and it jolts you upright from your place on his lap.

You and Bob are instantly alert, eyes scanning the skyline. 

“Fireworks?” you ask, squinting toward the horizon as bursts of colour light up the sky.

The distant booms echo softly through the air, and for a second, the world seems to pause. The sky is painted in shimmering golds, purples, and reds. You shuffle closer to the edge, your mouth slightly open in awe, your eyes reflecting the vibrant display.

“This is so beautiful,” you whisper.

“Yeah…” Bob’s voice is quiet as he looks over at you. His eyes don’t linger on the fireworks, instead, they find you. The glow of the explosions dances across your face, illuminating your smile. “It is,” he says, but he’s not talking about the sky.

You don’t notice his stare, too entranced by the spectacle. “I mean, I don’t remember what pretty things I’ve seen before,” you say with a soft laugh, “but there’s no way anything beats this.”

The two of you stay there for a long while, sitting shoulder to shoulder as the last of the fireworks fade. You forgot about the pizza. It goes cold beside you, untouched. But neither of you cares. 

You rest your head on his shoulder, eyes fluttering closed despite the crackling fireworks and the hum of New York City below. Somehow, in the middle of all that noise and chaos, you find peace. A kind of quiet you didn’t know you needed. And before long, you’re completely asleep, your breathing soft and even, your body relaxed against his.

Bob glances down at you, frozen for a second, not from discomfort, but from something more tender. He doesn't want to move, not really. But the night is getting cold, and you shouldn't sleep on a rooftop. Gently, he shifts, slipping one arm under your legs and the other around your back. You barely stir as he lifts you.

He walks quietly down the stairs, careful with each step, your head nestled into his chest.

Then—

“What’s this?” comes a voice that makes him jump nearly out of his skin.

Yelena is standing in the hallway outside her room, leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed, clearly in the middle of getting ready for bed.

“She fell asleep,” Bob says, adjusting his grip on you slightly, trying to look casual. “So I thought I’d help her to bed…”

Yelena arches a brow. “That’s very gentlemanly of you, Bob.”

“She’s had a long day,” he mumbles, eyes avoiding hers as he starts to move past.

“Mm-hm,” she hums, still grinning. 

He walks into your room, carefully sidestepping anything that might creak or clatter. The last thing he wants is to wake you. But when he leans down to gently lay you onto the bed, your fingers curl tighter into his shirt like talons.

He freezes. “Seriously?” he mutters under his breath, glancing down at your sleeping form. You’re completely out cold, but your grip says otherwise.

He tries again, delicately prying your fingers away one by one, but you’re like a koala in REM sleep. “Yelena?” he whisper-shouts, trying not to jostle you too much.

After a few seconds, Yelena pokes her head around the corner, toothbrush in hand, completely unbothered. “What?”

“She won’t let go,” he says, exasperated.

Yelena steps into the room, takes one look at the situation, and her face breaks into a slow grin. “Of course she won’t.”

“What do I do?” Bob hisses.

Yelena shrugs. “Get comfortable?”

Eventually, after a few more whispered pleas and another failed attempt to detach you, she sighs and calls for backup. “Ava, we need a second pair of hands.”

It takes a combination of Bob and Yelena pulling while Ava gently works your grip free one finger at a time, to finally get you into bed without dragging Bob in after you.

By the time they’re done, Bob is sweating, slightly rumpled, and staring at you with a look that’s somewhere between exasperation and complete emotional defeat.

“She’s gonna be the end of me,” he sighs.

Ava pats his shoulder. “Not a bad way to go.”

***

Weekend rolls around, Bob had offered to help you go through your stuff, maybe handling familiar items, seeing old things, would help jog something loose in your memory.

You had found an old teddy bear, a digital camera with very few pictures, and throwing knives. You think it’s nice to know you’re very versatile. 

You’re in your room, standing on your tiptoes trying to reach another box on the highest shelf. You stretch a little too far, fingers just grazing the edge of it, when suddenly, Bob's reaching for it too.

“Oh, don’t worry, I can—”

Your hands slip under Bob’s, and in a sudden pulse of light and warmth, the room falls away. You’re no longer in the safety of your space. It’s a hazy afternoon, the golden sunlight casting long, sleepy shadows across cracked pavement. The distant sound of a train horn echoes through the air, and there’s a soft breeze drifting in from somewhere, maybe the coast, maybe the open countryside. It smells faintly of dust and old paper.

You’re in a memory.

A small train station. Quiet. Still. You see a little child, no older than four, and a woman beside them. The child is you.

The woman bends down, brushing your hair back with tender fingers. She’s beautiful in the way only memories can be, edges blurred, features softened by time and pain. Her lips move, whispering something you can’t hear. Words drowned out by the roaring silence in your ears.

She kisses your forehead.

Then she straightens, turns, and walks away. Her hand slips from yours like sand, and you’re left standing alone.

“Mom?”

You call out for her, a small voice barely rising above the bustling noise of the trains, but no one comes. Watching the little kid, watching yourself, sit there and cry until your voice is hoarse, tears streaking down chubby cheeks. People pass. Some glance, others don’t. Looks are given, but no one stops to help.

You come to with a sharp gasp, the memory still clutching at your chest like cold fingers. Bob is in front of you, eyes wide, his hand gently on your shoulder as he steadies you.

“Was that my memory?” you ask, your voice faint. You’re still there, in that memory, like part of your mind is dragging its feet back to the present.

“I’m so sorry, I… I didn’t mean to do that,” Bob says, his expression crumpling with guilt.

You blink at him, really seeing the way his hands are trembling slightly, his face pale. He looks visibly shaken. Like he’s taken away your clean slate. And now the only memory that’s surfaced from your past is that of being left behind.

“That’s the first thing I remember,” you whisper. “That’s the only thing.”

Bob’s throat bobs, and he steps back slightly, like he’s not sure if you want him near anymore.

“I—” he tries, but the words falter.

There’s a thick tension in the air as you try to come to terms with what just happened.  You’re uncertain, scared, and hurting in a way you don’t fully understand. But through it all, the only anchor you have is Bob.

You reach for him instinctively, like your heart knows the way before your mind catches up, but he flinches. It’s a small movement, but it cuts deep. Not because he’s afraid of you, but because he’s terrified for you. Of what he might do, what you might see again, what memories might bleed through just from a touch.

“Please?” you whisper, voice trembling. “I just… I need you.”

You hold your hand out, palm open and steady despite the way your insides shake. Like you’re telling him: It’s okay. I trust you. I’m not afraid of you.

He hesitates for a beat, long enough that you can see the storm behind his eyes. Then slowly, cautiously, he reaches out. His fingers curl around yours, and the moment they connect, you don’t wait. You step into him, into his arms, burying your face against his chest. His arms come around you like instinct, and you finally feel like you belong again. Like his arms are exactly where you’re meant to be.

He thought you wouldn’t want him anymore. Thought whatever pain you’d seen in that memory would make you run.

“I feel safe with you,” you murmur, your breath warm against his neck. It was like you could read his mind.

You sit there until you feel normal again, breathing in sync with Bob as you toy with his shirt and he pets your hair.

“Why were you so scared?” You ask suddenly.

“The last time I used my powers, things got out of control.” Flashes of what happened appear in his mind— the darkness, the destruction. 

“I read about it. What happened that day…”

Bob looks down, jaw tight, the guilt still weighing on him.

 “Where’d you hear it from?” he asks quietly.

“I’ve been trying to get my memories back,” you say. “So I’ve been reading my diary.”

Bob’s eyebrows lift, surprised. You didn’t seem like the type to keep a diary.

“I write about you quite a bit,” you add, offering a small smile.

His breath catches slightly. “Yeah?”

You nod. “I don’t seem to understand you. Every other entry is me trying to figure you out, analysing the interactions we have. One minute I think you hate me, the next I think you’re just… scared.”

He doesn't answer right away, just looks at you like he wants to say something but doesn’t know where to start.

“I think I was scared too,” you admit. 

“The way I write about our relationship in my diary seems sad. Like there’s so much I wanted to say to you, but couldn’t for some reason.”

You twiddle with your fingers for a moment before finally saying what's on your mind.

“I think you should read it.”

“Your diary? That's crossing a boundary. When you get your memories back, I don’t think you’ll appreciate it.” 

The tone of his voice told you he was resolute in his decision, but you wanted to leave the door open.  “If you want to read it, it’s in the top drawer by my bed, in the very back. I think it’d clear a lot of things up between you and her, or I guess me. I don’t know how to address myself.”

He looks at the drawer and thinks of what might be inside your diary, which you wanted him to read so badly. A few moments later, you get up off the floor and offer him your hand again, “Let’s go, I think Yelena’s making dinner.”

***

Waking up to you was disorientating as fuck.

Since you lost your memory, you’d been clinging onto him like a lifeline. Sure, you followed the rest of the Avengers around like a lost duck, trailing behind their conversations and mimicking routines, but with him… with Bob, it was different.

You didn’t just follow him, you stuck to him like glue. Something about him made you feel safe.

“Sorry! I wasn’t watching you while you slept,” you blurt suddenly, catching yourself as he looks over at you from his bed. “I mean—well, technically yes, I was, but not for a long time... just like a minute because I didn’t want to wake you, but—”

Bob doesn’t respond, just blinking at you.

“I really didn’t mean to overstep, it’s just—I came in to see if you wanted to make breakfast together, and you were asleep and you looked so…”

You stop yourself as the words threaten to spill out. If you didn’t stop, there was a solid 90% chance you’d end up professing your undying love for him, and maybe even proposing marriage right there.

“It’s okay, I get it,” he says gently, cutting in before you can spiral any further with embarrassment. “Let’s just go make breakfast.”

You exhale a laugh, relieved, your nerves settling just a bit.

You both go to make breakfast and settle on grilled cheese sandwiches. You watch as he takes a bite and melts, visibly softening.  He looks so cute, and all he was doing was chewing. You loved all the little mannerisms no one would notice unless they looked closely. The way his nose would scrunch up when he laughs, how he'd caress his hands to soothe himself, or how he makes eye contact when people are talking so intently to make sure that they know he was listening. You take out your digital camera that you had found in the box in your room, angling it just right.

Click.

When he realises you’re taking a picture, he freezes mid-bite, eyes wide.

“I’m making memories,” you say simply, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

“I’m just eating a sandwich,” he replies, baffled.

You shrug, grinning. “Exactly.”

He rolls his eyes, but there’s a shy smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Alright…”

He tries to look unaffected, but you can see it. His shoulders relax, and his cheeks flush ever so slightly. All of a sudden, you have this unexplainable power over him. He wasn’t used to someone looking at him like that, like they wanted to remember him.

“I’m sure you could find more interesting things to shoot,” he teases, raising an eyebrow.

You shake your head, smiling softly. “There’s something special about you. You look so real when you think no one is watching. I can’t help but want to capture that.”

“You mean that?” Bob says, traces of doubt leaking in.

“From the bottom of my heart.”

He chuckles, the sound warm and a little surprised. “Still… I think you should explore other things if you want new memories. Let’s go somewhere today.”

You grab his hand gently, excitement bubbling up inside you.

He takes you to a park, but all you can seem to focus on is him, how he moves, how he laughs. So you keep sneaking pictures (not so sneakily), desperate not to forget a single moment. 

“There’s a whole park to take pictures of, you know?” he says, grinning as he lowers the camera.

You glance around, finally noticing the trees, the sunlight filtering through the leaves, the vibrant colours all around. But you quickly look back at him, your smile soft.

“Yeah, but you’re the best part of the view,” you admit quietly, making him blush just a little.

Bob clears his throat, cheeks warming as he tries to shift the attention away from himself.

“Okay, okay…but you should let me turn the favour. Give me your camera, I’ll take some pictures of you,” Bob states, holding out his hand with an easy smile.

“Oh no, that’s fine. I doubt I’m that photogenic,” you say, laughing nervously. “You don’t really want pictures of me.”

Then with a sudden surge of confidence, he says, “I don’t think you realise how beautiful you are.” 

Bob doesn't know where it comes from; he wasn’t one to say something so bold like that, but he couldn't stand hearing you downplay yourself. 

He says it so softly and genuinely, you swear you heard your heart skip a beat. Your eyes meet in the silent pause, but it isn’t uncomfortable like awkward silences tend to be. It’s warm and cosy like one of Bob’s many sweaters. 

Feeling like he was staring for too long, he clears his throat before adding, “Plus, all your memories can’t be pictures of me.”

“R-right,” you stutter as you hand over the camera, your fingers brushing his. The touch is brief, but it leaves a spark, a lingering warmth that settles somewhere deep inside.

“Say cheese.”

“Cheese!” you grin, striking a playful pose.

The rest of the day is spent taking pictures as you wander around New York, basking in the warm sun, laughing at everything you see, carefree and lighthearted.

“We should get ice cream!” you declare suddenly.

He buys it for you without hesitation and snaps a candid photo as you dig into it with delight.

“This is heaven,” you sigh dramatically. “Second only to your pancakes.”

He takes another picture, catching you mid-bite, and you catch him smiling to himself.

You notice and nudge him, “How do I look?”

He looks at the screen. Your eyes are closed in pure bliss, a little smear of vanilla ice cream on your lip, with the brightest smile on your face.

“Perfect,” he says, and for a second, you’re not sure he’s talking about the photo at all.

Eventually, after your long day of wandering around, the two of you get on the subway to head back home. It's packed, shoulder to shoulder, a blur of strangers and noise. You manage to find two seats side by side, squeezed tight among the crowd.

Sitting next to each other, you're pushed up close, legs touching, shoulders brushing with every lurch of the train. The warmth of him seeps through your clothes, and you’re suddenly all too aware of how close you are.

“I had a lot of fun today,” Bob says, leaning in so you can hear him over the rattle of the subway.

“So did I,” you reply, smiling. “You know how to show a girl a good time, Bob Reynolds.”

The train jerks to a stop as it pulls into the next station. The doors slide open with a hiss, and a few people step off, thinning the crowd a little. You glance up and notice an older couple standing nearby, gently swaying with the movement of the train.

You and Bob exchange a look, then both rise at the same time.

“Please, take our seats,” you offer warmly.

They smile gratefully as they settle down, and you both step back to stand nearby, holding the pole for balance. It’s quiet for a moment, and you watch as the elderly man gently brushes something off his wife’s shoulder, then takes her hand in his. The tenderness in his gesture makes your chest ache. It was simple and sweet, watching him dote on her like she was still the only girl in the room.

“You two make such a cute couple,” the old lady says suddenly, looking up at you both with a knowing smile.

You both blink, completely caught off guard. 

“Oh, we’re not…” You start to say, but your voice trails off when Bob nudges your arm gently.

“Thank you,” he says to her, still smiling, then glances at you.

“How long have you been together?” The two of you weren’t anticipating any follow-up questions, so you had to think on your feet. It was time to put your non-existent acting skills to the test.

“A yea–” You start, but seeing the look on Bob’s face, you morph it until you say, “Month. A month.”

They both smile, clearly loving young love because old people do that. 

“And how did you two meet?” She asks, and you’re starting to see why the Avengers get annoyed with you.

“We met at…” You start looking for Bob to save you, and he does. “Hospital.”

That wasn't where you were heading, but technically it was true. “Yes, I was hit by a… bike.”

Their eyes go wide with shock. “Yes, it was an awful affair. Bike messenger gone rogue.”

“When I heard what happened, I rushed over to see her and I slept by her side,” Bob adds, which was very close to what happened when you got hit with the ray.

“When I woke up and saw him there waiting for me to wake up, I fell in love with him on the spot.”

They both swoon at your story, and when it was said like that, it did sound quite romantic, Bob realised. 

“You take care of her,” the old man interjects, his voice gravelly but kind. “Girls like that, with that light in their eyes… they don’t come around often, trust me, I’d know.”

Bob swallows hard, his gaze softening as he looks at you. You had a light—a spark about you—that he’d be crazy to deny. But the two of you were just becoming friends, finally finding solid ground; how could he risk messing that up?

Still, for the old man’s sake and maybe a little for himself, he says quietly but with conviction, “I will.”

Even if he didn’t mean it in the way the old man intended, he would take care of you.

“And keep her away from bikes. They’re trouble,” the man added, and Bob gave him an affirmative, “Of course.”

He’d protect you from bikes too.

You both watch as the couple get off at the next stop, but what they said sticks with you for much longer.  

As you walk away, you whisper, “That was… something.”

Bob glances sideways at you, amused. “You didn’t correct them.”

“You didn’t either,” you shoot back, cheeks flushing.

“I didn’t want to.”

The train buckles a little, making you lose balance and stumble, but he catches you instantly, his hand wrapping securely around your waist.

“Trying to sweep me off my feet?” you joke, but if you’re being honest, you’re just trying to hide how breathless you feel. His strong arms are around you, keeping you upright without effort. It’s enough to make your pulse stutter.

He smirks faintly, eyes flicking down to meet yours. “If I were, would it be working?”

You look away, flustered but smiling. “Shut up.”

But you don’t pull away. And neither does he.

“The next stop is ours.”

The two of you break away almost reluctantly. By the time you get back to the tower, you feel like your heart has been racing nonstop.

Once inside, you both go your separate ways, he finds his comfy spot by the window while you wander around, looking for an Avenger to follow around and maybe learn from.

A few hours later, he hears you come back into the room. You’re following behind Bucky, asking questions, and he wonders how, in the two or so weeks you’ve been like this, you hadn’t run out of questions. 

“Is it wrong of me to want to know how many pushups you can do?”

Bucky sighs, running out of words to give you. Fortunately, he’s let off the hook when you catch Bob’s eye and bound over to him.

“Meet me on the roof in 10?” you ask, leaning in close.

“Yeah, sure,” he replies, smiling.

You stand looking out at the sunset, waiting for Bob to show up.

A moment later, he appears, turning toward you and noticing you’re still holding the camera.

“I just realised we didn’t get any pictures together, so I figured…”

You stand at the edge of the roof as you sidle up next to each other, sharing the warm glow of the setting sun.

“Ready?” you ask, lifting the camera.

You snap a picture of the two of you. The flash flickers briefly.

The two of you turn toward each other, the space between you suddenly feeling electric and full of possibility.

You glance down, checking the picture on the camera. A small smile tugs at your lips, and Bob watches you with quiet intensity.

He told himself he just wanted to be your friend, and he was. He was your friend now. But being this close to you, when you looked like a daydream, it was hard to think of anything else. He liked seeing you happy. He liked being the reason you were happy. So this just felt like the natural step; he wouldn’t be afraid anymore. 

“Can I kiss you?” He utters so softly that you might not have heard it if you weren’t so dialled in to him.

“Yes.”

It was the easiest question you’d ever had to answer. 

The moment is instantly electric. It was love at first sight for you, like fate had placed him in that chair just for you. His hands gently cup your face, drawing you closer as he leans in to kiss you.

The moment your lips meet, you melt into it.

It’s easy, it’s natural. But it also feels like you’re walking on air.

Your lips melt together as the kiss deepens, slow and sure, like you’ve both been holding your breath for days and finally found air in each other.

Then, suddenly, you feel the ground vanish beneath your feet. It takes a few moments to realise what’s happening. You're both slowly lifting into the air, weightless, like the kiss has broken gravity’s hold.

You pull back, breathless, eyes wide. “We’re flying.”

Bob’s eyes are glowing, soft gold, like sunlight through clouds. And to make it that much more perfect, he’s staring at you like you hung the stars.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, “we are.”

***

The world feels light. You feel like you could do anything. Bob kissed you, and somehow, that made everything else fall into place, like that one moment was enough to ground you and lift you all at once. You kissed him so good, he fucking flew! That was something to be proud of. 

“Morning!” you greet cheerfully, practically floating into the room.

“Well, aren’t you in a good mood?” John comments, raising an eyebrow at your brightness.

“I am. Quite literally nothing could ruin my day.”

You look over at John’s plate filled with all things healthy and not a pancake in sight, and sneer, “Not even whatever is going on over there.”

“You’re going to die if you keep eating the way you do.”

“At least I’ll die happy.” 

And probably in Bob’s arms, but you’d keep that to yourself. You keep flitting around the kitchen, flashes of Bob popping up like you had a gallery in your head dedicated to him.

Then, of course, that’s when Bucky and Yelena appear, both standing stiffly in the doorway. Their faces are unreadable, but it’s clear they’re not here to chat.

“Can we talk to you?” Yelena asks, her voice calm but firm.

Your smile falters. The tone in her voice doesn’t match your mood. You glance between them, a nervous flutter stirring in your chest. They lead you to another room, and your heart pounds with each step. Once you're face to face with them, you let out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding. 

“Just tell me,” you say, steeling yourself.

Bucky steps forward, voice gentle. “There’s a way you might be able to get your memories back.”

Your heart nearly stops.

“They’ve made a device,” Bucky says carefully, “to counteract the effects of the ray you were hit with.”

You swallow hard, your lungs suddenly tight, like the air has turned to cement.

“Will I remember what happened these past few weeks?” you ask, already bracing for the answer.

“They’re not sure,” Yelena replies gently. “There’s a chance you won’t.”

The rest of the day blurs. You wear that carefully constructed smile while inside, everything feels like it’s unravelling. You laugh at jokes, eat meals, and talk to the team, but every time you look at Bob, it’s like looking at a sunset you might never see again.

Because what if you disappear?

What if the version of you that exists now—the one who fell in love, who made pancakes, who learned to laugh again—vanishes?

What if all of it was just borrowed time?

You’re curled up on the couch later, trying not to let the weight of it crush you, when Yelena finds you. She pauses, studying you quietly.

“You okay?” she asks, snapping you out of your spiral.

You glance up at her with a weak smile. “Yeah,” you lie. “I’m… I’m great.”

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Yelena presses gently. She sits beside you, eyes focused and unwavering. She sees right through you.

You hesitate, then finally let it slip out like a confession you’d been clutching too tightly.

“What if, when I get my memories back… things are different? What if you guys don’t like me anymore?”

Your voice cracks on the last word. It’s not just about them, and you both know it. It’s about him.

Bob liked you now. The person you’d become. The version of you without all the baggage, the walls, the defence mechanisms. What if the old you came back and pushed him away again?

“We’ll like you regardless,” Yelena says, firm but kind, leaning forward, her words meant to stick. “All of us.” She emphasises that last part, not missing the real question behind your fear. You and Bob haven’t exactly been subtle, floating around the Tower like someone told you the world was ending and you decided to fall in love anyway.

“You think?” you ask quietly, hating how small your voice sounds.

“I know,” she replies without hesitation. “Bob isn’t the type to run. He’s not just here for this version of you. He’s here for you, full stop.”

The thought of him leaving still prickles, sharp and cold. But there’s something warm in her certainty that you cling to. You want to believe her.

“Thank you,” You whisper with a small smile. But there’s still that little piece of doubt lingering in the back of your head. 

***

You spend all night worrying, your mind running in circles while your body stays perfectly still, tucked into Bob’s arms. His breath tickles the back of your neck in soft, steady waves. You can feel the quiet thud of his heartbeat against your spine, a rhythm that grounds you more than anything else ever has. This feels like happiness. This feels more right than anything you’ve ever known.

And nights like this… how could you give it up, when you had just begun to have it?

The thought won’t let you go. So, when you’re sure Bob is fully asleep, you carefully slip out of his arms. You sneak out of bed, heart pounding with every silent step, padding your way barefoot down the hall to the lab.

The room is dim and still. On the central table sits the device. The thing that could give you everything back and take everything away.

You stare at it. Your reflection glints back at you in its smooth surface. What would you really be giving up? The person you were before. Aloof, guarded, and apparently barely connected to anyone. No warmth, no laughter, no Bob.

Your fingers close around it. Maybe this was the price of keeping what mattered. Maybe this version of you was the better one. Maybe memories weren’t worth more than love.

You raise the device in the air, prepared to end it all before it can change you back—

Then the door creaks open behind you.

“Hey,” Bob’s voice is low, thick with sleep but steady. He stands in the doorway, his eyes not on the device, but on you. “What are you doing?”

His eyes widen in alarm. “You need to put that down. Without it, you can’t get your memories back.”

You stare at the small device in your hand, the one meant to unlock everything you've forgotten. Everything that’s been haunting your dreams and slipping through your fingers like mist.

You’re so close to throwing it on the ground, your grip tightening as your voice shakes. “Maybe I don’t want them back.”

He goes still. You can see the panic in his face, but it’s laced with something else too. Pain.

You’re biting back the heat behind your eyes, the pressure building in your chest, like red-hot guilt piercing through you. Because it’s not just about your memories, it’s about him. The fear that if you remember everything…you might lose this. Lose him.

“I don’t want to remember a world where you’re not in it,” you whisper, your voice cracking. “What if I get it all back and I’m not me anymore? What if I’m someone who doesn't love you?”

Bob takes a careful step closer, like you’re on the edge of something fragile. “Then I’ll help you fall in love with me all over again,” he says quietly. “No matter how many times it takes.”

What if you don’t love me anymore? What if getting these memories back means you lose me…?” Your voice is shaking now. “What if who I am is just… broken? I mean, my own mother didn’t—”

You stop yourself, the words dying in your throat.

Bob takes a step closer. He feels that pang again, deep and aching, like something in his chest is being pulled taut. Not just because of what you said, but because he’s watching you unravel in front of him, and he never wants you to feel like this, like love is conditional. 

“The person I am now… I want to be that person. I don’t want to be the girl you think of as a stranger. I want to be the girl you love.”

Bob’s eyes are soft, full of a sadness he tries to hide, and a depth of affection he doesn’t bother to. “I’m telling this to you because I love you. If you don't get your memories back, you'll always be left wondering who you were.”

Your hands are trembling when you finally set the device down on the table. You throw your arms around him and hug him so tightly he thinks he might break apart, and he doesn't mind it especially if it meant being held like this by you.

“I love you too,” you murmur, burying your face in his shoulder.

You both freeze for half a second, the realisation hitting you at the same time, how easy it was. How natural.

You pull back just enough to look at him, wide-eyed, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

“You said it.”

“So did you.”

And then you’re laughing softly into each other, that weight between you gone, just you, him, and the now. “I love you. No matter what version of you I get.”

He kisses you lightly, your lips moving in sync with one another. It’s more than a kiss, it’s a promise that no matter what, you’d fall in love over and over again, no matter how long it took. 

You pull him flush against you, the feeling of his shirt beneath your fingers keeping you in the moment. Like you were scared it would slip right through your fingers. You pull back and look at him; his eyes are full of desire, and so are yours.

You jump and he catches you, wrapping your legs around his waist. Your lips reconnect as if they were magnets. The kiss is more fast paced, filled with passion as you who each other just how much you need one another. He places you on a counter, his hands roaming your body as the need to explore every part of you becomes too much to bear. 

Both of you stop suddenly, your foreheads against each other as you breathe heavily. Your chests rise and fall in sync, hearts thudding loudly in your ears. You wanted to go further, God, you both did, but you knew you had to stop. 

“When you get your memory back,” he whispers.

You nod. As much as you both wanted this…you couldn't yet. Not while you weren't whole.

“When I get my memory back.”

***

“So this is it?” you whisper, voice barely steady.

You’re sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, the sterile smell of the room thick in the air. You can feel your heart pounding harder than it should.

Bob is standing beside you, his hand tightly wrapped around yours, thumb running slow, comforting circles over your knuckles. 

You glance up at him, eyes searching. “What if everything changes?”

Bob is the first thing you see when you wake up. You’re sleepy and groggy, and he’s sitting there, book in hand.

“You’re awake,” he says softly. You nod, your eyes slowly adjusting as you take in your surroundings. “Maybe I could make you some pancakes,” Bob says, trying to see if you remembered. 

“Why would you do that?” you ask, letting out a confused laugh.

His face falls, hands tightening around the book. “You don’t… remember?”

“No, sorry. Did I miss something?” you say, blinking at him, genuinely puzzled.

“I’m sorry, I… I was just—” He stammers, trying to backtrack. “It’s nothing.”

“I should let you rest,” he adds, sensing your discomfort.

Bob gets up and walks to the door, and he’s about to leave when you stop him, your voice softer now.

“Thanks for being here when I woke up. It’s very kind of you.”

He musters a small, genuine smile and replies, “Anytime.”

In the days that passed, it was hard mourning someone who’s still alive and technically shouldn’t have existed. But deep down, he knew it wouldn’t be the end. The person he fell in love with was gone, but maybe he could fall in love again, with the person you are now.

One morning, you’re sitting by the table, scrolling through your phone, when Bob quietly walks in and slides a plate of pancakes to you.

“What are these for?” you ask.

“Just felt like it,” he replies, watching your eyes light up when you bite into them despite your best efforts to hide it.

You’ll fall for each other again; it’s only a matter of time.

Masterlist

[c0ffeejelly1]

Manhandling him

Multiple character headcannon

Authors note: UGH pls this whole things was for jokes bc I can’t really be that ask to make something I feel is good. Teehee. Also I can mischaracterise all I want okay let a girl dream pls. (POST-TIMESKIP!!)

Warning: man it’s like the smallest hint of the nasty freaky stuff

“Babe, you got something on your face. Let me just…” You reach out to your boyfriend, making him look your way by gripping his chin firmly while you flick away a bit of ‘glitter’ from his cheek. “There you go.”

Strike one.

That was just the beginning of your strange behavior today.

“Hey baby, c’mere I wanna kiss…” you call him over from the other side of the kitchen counter, only to yank on his collar and pull him in for one hell of a snog. “Seriously, you have no business looking this good today.”

Strike two.

Just what was up with you today?

You just got home from work, and as he’s about to sit up to see you, you suddenly push him back down onto the couch, mumbling something about how much you “missed him”.

Strike three.

You run your fingers through his hair, pulling him closer to your lips, but then you pause to check out his face.

Perhaps you took this prank too far…

The type to be oddly into it

“…are you hard?”

This snaps your boyfriend out of his thoughts.

He’d never ever ever thought he could find himself in a situation like this. this is the kind of stuff you see in movies, right? I mean, come on!

Just picture how mortifying it is to be turned on from someone mistreating you! It’s pathetic!

He can’t just blurt out, ‘oh hell yeah I’m hard’ in response to that question—why would anyone even think to ask that? What can a guy do in a moment like this except deny it?

“What? N-no!…” He glances away, feeling the weight of your intense gaze. “…maybe?”

When you raise an eyebrow at him, his mask crumbles entirely. There’s no use in pretending.

You’ve already seen right through him, leaving him no option but to retreat into a shadowy corner and disappear.

“Yeah.” He responds, his voice tinged with disappointment. “I…I am.”

Maybe it’s because of the way you handled him like he was nothing that made him so bothered.

Maybe it was the way you looked so desperate to have him that did it for him.

Either way, he’s discovered something about himself he never knew he ever had.

And make no mistake, you were going to exploit this discovery to the fullest.

“Have I told you how much I love you babe?” You pull back from his face after practically devouring it as he stands there, grinning like a lovesick fool, dishes still in hand.

“I think you should tell me more.”

“Wrap up with those dishes, and I’ll give you a demonstration instead.”

Be ready for one hell of a night cowgirl. Wink wink

Charcters: serizawa, armin, EREN, REINER, ukai, ATSUMU, Osamu, Gojo, CHOSO, leviathan, SATAN, DIAVOLO, IIDA, denki, tamaki, CHILDE, Cyno, sanji, LAW

The type to think you’ve finally gone crazy

you call out to him, noticing he seems lost in his phone. Yet, oddly enough, he flinches slightly every time you speak.

This reaction occurs whenever you draw near him, as if your voice startles him, even when you're just a breath away. It’s not that he dislikes your voice; rather, it feels like he’s a bit intimidated by you now.

What happened to the confident guy who was with you just two days ago? Why does he seem to be tiptoeing around you like a child with a fragile toy?

“Y/N…is everything alright?” He approaches you cautiously, maintaining a bit of distance, trying to balance his interest with a hint of hesitation. “You’ve been…um, I just wanted to check—are you upset with me?”

“Upset with you?” You set your phone aside, raising an eyebrow at him. “Why would I be upset? Did you do something wrong?”

That’s the very question he’s grappling with. Your passionate touches and fervent kisses have left him bewildered about your feelings.

Are you so enamored that you can’t help yourself, or are you retaliating for something he might have done? Suddenly, a thought strikes him.

“…If this is about how intense things got last night, I’m sorry, but you did ask for it when I warned you I wouldn’t hold back—” His words are cut short as your hand swiftly covers his mouth.

“No! No that’s—just no. It was a prank babe, a trend I saw online” you say, removing your hand and placing both on his shoulders. “Last night has nothing to do with today or any other day.”

“Not even you complaining about being sore?”

“Not even me complaining about…wait I never did that!”

“Yeah buts it’s easy to tell.”

Charcters: REIGEN, giyuu, giyomei, JEAN, KAGEYAMA, hinata, kuroo, OIKAWA, AKAASHI, geto, NANAMI, Solomon, IZUKU, Diluc, LAIOS, zayne, LAW (Sowy I can see him as both)

The type to also manhandle you

Did you honestly believe you could manhandle him without facing the same treatment in return? Come on this is your boyfriend we’re talking about, In fact, I think he’s thrilled that you can boss him around so effortlessly.

So thrilled that he makes it into a competition

“Okay let’s see who tackles the first person on the bed.” His eyes shine with enthusiasm as he confidently places his hands on his hips. “If I win I get to have my way with you, and if you win, you get to have me have my way with you. Deal?”

You pause for a moment to process his words “…uh, how is that fair?”

“What do you mean?” he replies, brushing off your concern with a grin.

“I think it’s perfectly fair. No matter the outcome, you get a nice little reward, right?” His voice dances with mischief as he nudges you playfully with his elbow, clearly trying to elicit a reaction.

You roll your eyes at him, feigning annoyance, before relenting, “I guess it’s not so bad..”

“Exactly! Now, I’m going to count down. Ready? 3…2…” Before you can fully grasp what’s happening, he lunges at you, tackling you onto the bed before he even reaches 1.

“H-hey! That’s cheating, you can’t do that!” But your protests are ignored, your boyfriend already having you wrapped in his warm embrace, his face buried against your neck.

“This is what you get for how you’ve been treating me today.”

“What are you talking about?” You pause for a moment, though you suspect he’s finally caught on to your little scheme. “You mean me kissing you like any normal woman would with the love of her life?”

“No. Just you touching me all weirdly…”

“Don’t say it like that you make me sound like a perv.”

“Maybe cause you are.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“…”

“…”

“I’m not.”

Charcters: RENGOKU, tengen, connie, NISHINOYA, hinata (yes again), kuroo (YESSS AGAIN), BOKUTO, TENDOU, MAMMON, DENKI (twice and what), kirishima, ITTO, rafayel, LUFFY

The type…yeah you ain’t doing that

Screw everything I just said in the intro. If you genuinely think you can manhandle this man and succeed. You’re crazy.

“Hey, come here, you’ve got something—” The moment your hand nears his face, he seizes your wrist, staring at you as if you’ve just committed a serious offense.

“What are you doing?”

“Uh…I’m trying to like get the little speck of glitter off your face.”

“We don’t own glitter?”

“Dust then?” He shoots you a skeptical glance.

“…sure.”

So that was an absolute fail…

But you’re not ready to throw in the towel just yet. No way! You just need to bide your time until nightfall, when he’s all soft and cuddly. That’s when you’ll make your move.

As the evening unfolds and you’re prepping for bed in the bathroom, you catch sight of him reaching for something in the cupboard above you. This is your moment. The time to pull him in close and—

SMACK

“The hell? What was that for?” He rubs his forehead, clearly taken aback by your sudden move.

Who knew kissing your boyfriend could be this complicated? Somehow, you ended up colliding headfirst into him, and now he’s clearly fed up with you.

“That wasn’t how it was supposed to go…” you say with a shy smile, nervously scratching the back of your head. “You alright?”

You gently move his hand away from his forehead to check for any damage, and to your surprise, he lets you.

Wait a minute… you actually moved his hand, and he’s okay with it? Is this manhandling? I think it’s manhandling. It’s manhandling.

“…I did it.”

“Did what?”

“I touched you!”

“??”

Pls stop confusing this man he’s already tired enough.

Charcters: dimple, akashi, MIDORIMA, aomine, sanemi, KAGEYAMA (yes again), TSUKISHIMA, iwaizumi, TOJI, LUCIFER, bakugou, AIZAWA, sylus, ZORO