#and there's more of Them than there is of Us

[legolambi]

yet another sketch from yours truly

[kaiserin-erzsebet]

Do you have any tips on doing accurate research for people without access to formal education

Sure! This can't be one size fits all for every field, but I can give some starting points for history.

If you're reading a book, here's what to consider:

1. Are there footnotes or endnotes? In academia this is our way of being transparent with each other about where you got information. If a book doesn't have them, they're more interested in telling a good story than being accountable to their peers. That's a red flag.

2. Don't trust claims that seem very specific but don't have a source. Broad claims can be the author's analysis. But specific things "so and so said this" "there was a rumor that (x)" should be coming from somewhere and it is the author's job to tell you where.

3. Look out for choppy quoting. Even if someone has a source, they may not be using it well. If someone is paraphrasing a lot and only uses bits and pieces of the text while also using a lot of ellipses, you will want to try to find the whole text to make sure it's being quoted fairly.

4. Look at the publication date. Knowledge changes with time and old books tend to be outdated. You don't have to stick to the academic rule of thumb of "25 years is the threshold for new scholarship" but do be aware that if something is over 50 years old, many many people have likely revisited and revised what it's saying. Not that new books can't also be bad and incorrect, but they tend to be working with better tools generally.

5. Look up the author. I cannot stress this one enough. The author's background and political convictions can matter a lot to how they interpret things. For example, one of the biographies people tend to pick up about my dissertation topic is from the late 1920s by a man who later applied to join the NSDAP. That fact really can't be separated from his interpretations no matter how hard people try.

6. Stop reading if someone is making a lot of moral or personal judgements on a historical figure. I'm talking about the "Elizabeth I was a frigid hag and men found her ugly"-esque takes, not things like calling historical atrocities morally bad. Does it feel like bitchy gossip? That sort of thing is unprofessional, uninformative, and means someone has an axe to grind. Spite can be motivation for research, but axe grinding shouldn't show up clearly in published work.

These are things to keep in mind to make sure you're getting better information. Others are free to add on for their field or if there's something I forgot.

One very important thing to add: professors and academics like people emailing them about their research. You can do that! You can ask for copies of pay walled articles. You just have to go through the mortifying ordeal of expressing interest in an email.

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC Ask Around in the Morgue

Most times, Tim is not a fan of social interaction. If he can acquire the necessary data from literally anything written in text, without the need to actually talk to people, he does that. It's the logical thing to do, come on! People lie, or, even if they don't, they take ages to get to the point, and you can't put them on pause or set aside to return later. Some written resources lie as well, but that is, at least, way easier to prove by relying on several of them instead of a single one.

That saying, he can work in a team — Young Justice is great proof of that. Batfamily, not so much, but then, none of the Bats like working together. Because they are all hypercontrolling, manipulative, and paranoid.

And yet, keeping all that in mind, right now Tim is about to go and speak — using his mouth and words — to a GCPD mortician whom he's never seen or met before in his life.

All because of this report.

More precisely, because of the line 'pls come talk to me if u r a bat' that was inserted right into the file, just between the description of contents of the victim's stomach and the rather unappealing photo of the same thing. Tim supposes the placement was intentional — most people skip over that kind of information, jumping straight to the cause of death. Which is a homicide, by the way.

Not that it's anything unusual in Gotham.

Tim walks through the hallway, keeping his steps silent. Daniel Nightingale, the mortician, more accurately a pathologist, works graveyard shifts — very ironic and no less convenient — and most days, he does so all alone, so Tim is not expecting company. He is just keeping quiet out of habit.

And yet, as he gets closer to the autopsy room, he hears it. The chipper, amused voice from inside.

"You can't just make that shit up, I swear," it laughs, "Oh, Minerva. You were way too old to pull it off." There's a pause, and then it starts speaking again, filled with hidden laughter, "You don't say?"

The door is, thankfully, already half-open. Tim takes a quick look inside, hoping to figure out who's the other part of the alleged conversation, but the only person there — erm, the only alive person — is a guy in a gray uniform and a lab coat. Supposedly, Mr. Nightingale. There's also a corpse of an old lady on the table in front of him, of course, but Tim doubts she can hold up the conversation. A phone call? Or maybe he's just talking to himself?..

The guy raises his head briefly, turning to the door.

"Come on in, lurking in the shadows doesn't suit you," he calls, almost cheerful, and Tim pauses.

He's pretty sure he hasn't made a single noise.

Oh, well. Maybe he did. Maybe the pathologist has an alarm system in case of a zombie apocalypse. Maybe he sees the future. The possibilities are endless.

Tim steps inside.

"I'm here about your note," he says, cutting the greetings and niceties. The pathologist hums, his eyes still on the bare, skinless ribcage of the woman before him.

"Cool. Which one?" He asks without missing a beat. Tim stares; the guy looks entirely too nonchalant, given the circumstances, but that's not the only reason. Daniel Nightingale is way younger than Tim expected — twenty, at most — and he is... well, if Tim had a type, which he doesn't, he would definitely check all the boxes. Most of the boxes. A lot of boxes.

Okay, he's just good-looking, what is he even thinking about, this is getting sidetracked.

"There was more than one?" He asks because that's the logical, reasonable thing to ask. Daniel glances up at him. A tiny strand of hair escapes his pinned down bangs, and the guy huffs, shaking it away from his face. Shouldn't he be wearing a hat?

"Yeah, I put the bat alert in at least five reports I've written. Only two recently, though, so, if you could specify?" He asks. The loose strand of his hair moves all on its own, brushing itself up over Daniel's head. Then, one of the bobby pins comes out, hanging in the air briefly, and goes back into Daniel's hair, securing it from falling again. "Thank you, Minerva," the guy smiles politely, casting a glance to the side.

Tim is not sure what's going on but he has a hunch.

"I'm speaking about John Doe from last week?" He attempts, but Daniel only hums.

"Unfortunately, that doesn't narrow it down," he turns back to the table, looking down into the old lady's open abdomen with a critical eye. "Darling, do you think you'll be fine here all on your own while I speak with our dear guest?" He asks, almost demurely, and Tim is not dumb. Minerva is definitely the name of the lady on the autopsy table. The question is, does GCPD hire schizophrenics during such dire times, or is the guy really some kind of ghost-whisperer?

The chances are, honestly speaking, 50/50. It's Gotham.

There's no response that Tim can hear, but Daniel straightens back up and takes off his gloves before turning to the other side, still away from Tim. "Mind cleaning up?" He asks again and then throws his gloves into the nearest bin. They don't land, but just as Daniel huffs and goes to retrieve them, the gloves float up from the floor like someone invisible picked them up and dropped them into the bin.

"Ah, thank you, Minerva," the pathologist smiles.

Tim feels an uncomfortable chill run down his spine.

"How many ghosts are in here?" He tries for casual, but fails spectacularly, judging by Daniel's chuckle.

"Five," he answers without any pause, "Six, if you count the nonverbal kid that's hiding in Page's cold locker. Anyway, John Doe?.."

A few of the instruments Daniel has used float up from the table and start moving towards the nearest sink.

Tim takes a deep breath.

Either he's gotten himself a new contact in GCPD forensics or a very alarming new meta. 50/50.

But Daniel's smile is 100 percent going to be a pain in his ass.

[flowersforbucky]

fooled around and fell in love

bob reynolds x reader

word count: 5.7k

summary: you've never been one for commitment, and your teammates know it. when you and bob start seeing each other, it takes them by surprise and makes them worry about how he'll react to the heartbreak that they expect to follow. what they don't understand - you've never felt like this about anyone.

warnings/tags: smut, 18+ only mdni, minor angst, fingering, fluff, secret relationship trope, platonic bucky x reader, platonic yelena x reader, mentions of bob's sobriety and mental health, reader is afab, no use of y/n

author's note: thank you so much @voidsxntry for this request ♡ i'm sorry if it's not exactly what you were hoping for, it kind of got away from me and this is what my brain ended up creating 😅

“Is it bad that I don't want you to go?”

The tip of your index finger traces the defined planes of his chest. Your head rests just over his heart, and you'd love nothing more than to drift to sleep to the steady rise and fall of his breathing. His arms are wrapped around your frame, keeping your body glued to his.

You don't know how you got lucky enough to end up here. But you do know there's no where else you'd rather be right now.

Unfortunately, duty calls.

“No,” you sigh, pressing your lips to his sternum. “Is it bad that I don't want to go?”

He hums in contentment, ghosting his fingers down the skin of your ribcage. “No. Sounds like maybe you should stay.”

As soon as the word stay leaves his lips, your alarm begins to blare from your phone on his nightstand. Reluctantly, you pull away from him with a noise somewhere between a groan and a whine to silence the incessant ringing.

“As tempting as that sounds…” You trail off, throwing a leg across his body to straddle him once you’ve tossed the phone onto his bed. “Val would have my head if I sat this mission out.”

He sits up, his bare chest pressing against yours. His hands rest on either side of your hips, keeping you in place. He looks up at you with a smirk.

“I'm confident that you could handle Valentina. You’re stronger, and faster, and a more skilled fighter…” He trails off, planting kisses along your jawline.

You laugh. You adore this side of him – goofy, carefree, clingy, touchy. It’s a side of him that you couldn’t have imagined just a month ago. You knew that you liked him – a lot. Knew that he was caring, and sweet, and considerate. But this side of him – the side that only you get to see – surpasses your wildest dreams.

“I don’t disagree,” you chuckle. “But now isn’t the time to put that theory to the test.” You force yourself to crawl off of him, standing up to put your clothes back on. As much as you hate to leave him here, you and your other teammates have to catch a flight to Nevada.

Your other teammates who just so happen to be oblivious to all of the intimate time that you and Bob have been spending together the last few weeks.

It’s not that you don’t want anyone to know. There’s a huge part of you that wants to kiss him in front of everyone and scream it from the rooftop of the Watchtower that he’s yours. It’s a feeling that you can honestly say that you’ve never experienced before – the desire to show someone off, yes, but also the desire to simply call someone yours.

But right now, you and him exist in your own perfect little bubble. And as soon as everyone knows, you’re subject to their opinions.

You can hear Alexei’s raunchy teasing and Walker’s snide comments about your public displays of affection.

You can hear Valentina lecturing you about the potential turmoil that would inevitably ensue if you two were to have a messy breakup.

But mostly, you can clearly picture the look of doubt and confusion on Bucky’s face. You’ve known him longer than you've known any of the others, and he knows you well enough to know that, historically speaking, you don’t really do relationships.

At all. Ever. Until now.

You lean down to give him one last kiss before you have to leave. Cupping his face in your hands, you bring his lips to yours. He kisses you as desperately as he had when you'd joined him in his bed an hour ago, and you instantly feel warmth pool in your lower belly. As if the thought of being away from him for three days wasn’t awful enough, now all you want is to rip your clothes back off and crawl into this bed with him again.

“I’ll text you as soon as we land in Nevada,” you promise as you begin to pull away from him.

“Wait,” he stops you, pulling you back to him. “When you get back home, I want to take you out. Like uh – like a real date. If you'd like, that is.”

“Of course,” you answer automatically, your cheeks warning and a giant grin growing on your face. He instantly looks relieved, as if there was even a chance that you'd say no to him. “I thought you’d never ask.”

After a dozen or so more kisses, you say goodbye and reluctantly leave his room. When you close his door behind you, you're still smiling from ear to ear.

You walk directly across the hallway to grab your duffel bag from your bedroom, but when you start to turn your doorknob, you freeze. You could have sworn that you heard some sort of movement down the hallway. You look around, not seeing or hearing anything else.

You shrug, relieved that no one saw you coming out of Bob’s room with a huge smile on your face. Explaining that isn't something you really want to do right before a three day mission.

It also isn't something that you want to continue being secretive about either, though.

When you get home, you decide. After your date. That's when you'll tell everyone that you're together.

••••••

A few hours into the six hour flight to Reno, Nevada, everyone has settled into their respective places on the New Avenger’s jet.

Yelena decided to take the pilot’s seat this time, Walker and Ava are cleaning their guns, Alexei is snoring from his cot, and Bucky is… being especially moody and brooding today.

You’re attempting to keep your thoughts from continuously veering back to a certain someone in New York by shoving your nose into a book, when the aforementioned super soldier takes a seat beside you in your quiet corner of the jet.

Noting his rigid posture and clenched jaw from the corner of your eye, you close your book and turn your attention to him. “Christ, Buck. It’s just a simple re-con mission. What’s got you so tense?”

“Oh, nothing, really,” he whispers, avoiding your eye. “Just trying to mentally prepare for all of New York to be swallowed into a giant black cloud of interconnected shame rooms for the second time this year when you decide you’re bored with Bob.”

You freeze in place, eyes darting around the room to see if anyone had heard him. Only after accepting that no one is paying any attention to the two of you do you risk responding to him.

“What the fuck are you talking about, Barnes?”

“Don’t Barnes me,” he snips in a hushed tone. “I saw you leaving his bedroom with that giddy look on your face this morning. What the hell are you thinking?”

Realization dawns on you. You hadn’t just been imagining what you heard in the hallway after leaving Bob’s room. Of course it had been one of the ridiculously stealthy former assassins that you live with. It's honestly a miracle that no one else had caught on before now.

“Okay, and? I was in his room. What about it?”

Bucky rakes his flesh hand down his face in exasperation. “He likes you. Really likes you. Everyone can see that. And his mental state is still fragile. How do you think he's going to react when things fizzle out on your end?”

You scoff, starting to see red. It takes a lot of effort to keep your voice level enough to not draw any attention to yourself. “I’m fully aware of his mental state, Bucky. I’m the one who has been spending a lot of very intimate time with him the last few weeks. And who are you to say that anything is going to fizzle? You don’t know our relationship.”

He shakes his head, pursing his lips. “No, but I know you. And things always fizzle for you. The difference is that this time, it could effect a lot of people.”

You bite your tongue. You had anticipated some level of apprehension from Bucky about the revelation of you and Bob being a couple, but you didn’t expect him to be so vocal and harsh right before a fucking mission.

So much for telling everyone once you’re all back at the Watchtower.

“You’re thinking of the worst case scenario when you don’t need to. I get it, Bucky. He’s fragile. But I’m not going to break him. I’m going to take care of him. I’ve never felt this way about anyone. It’s not something that could fizzle even if I wanted it to.”

You don’t give him a chance to say anything else before you storm off to the bathroom towards the back of the jet. You hear Ava mumble “what’s her deal?” but you close the bathroom door behind you before you hear any kind response.

Even if it is just re-con, this is the last thing you need right before any kind of assignment. You pull your phone from your back pocket. Without thinking, you open your camera roll and scroll to the pictures that you and Bob had taken a few days ago – your first pictures together.

They’re just selfies – taken in your bed, with sleepy smiles on your faces. In one, he spoons you from behind and peeks over your shoulder at the camera. In other, you’re holding the camera above your faces and kissing him on the cheek. You’re both undressed, but your comforter is pulled over your chest enough for it to be deemed appropriate. Now that Bucky knows, and soon everyone else will, too, you select the image of you kissing him to be your lockscreen, no longer caring if someone sees it.

You smile down at the picture on the screen, reminding yourself that this is what really matters. No matter what Bucky thinks, or what the others will say when they find out.. you’re happy. And Bob is happy. At the end of the day, that’s what is most important to you.

••••••

“I’m sorry that you're missing the party because of me.”

There’s no one else around. Everyone is downstairs – mingling, dancing, and taking advantage of the full bar at the gala’s after party.

You'd seen him from across the dance floor. He was sitting at a table by himself, nervously looking around the room and sipping on some kind of fruity “mocktail” that Yelena had given him.

So clearly out of his element. You were, too.

“Wanna get out of here?” You’d asked, standing in front of him. He looked up at you like he could kiss you right then and there.

“Come with me.” You gesture towards the closest exit. “Let’s go somewhere a little less… obnoxious.”

So the two of you snuck up to the roof – but not before you grabbed an entire tray of various hors d’oeuvres for the two of you to share. You halfway expect someone to come barging through the stairwell door at any point, demanding for you both to return to the event.

You’re willing to risk it, though. For some fresh air and a break from socializing with people you’d likely never see again after tonight. For a few minutes alone with him – to have him so close that you could count his individual eyelashes and smell hints of bergamot from his aftershave.

Maybe it’s the martini that you’d downed half an hour prior, but something gives you the courage to reach out and grab his tie. You massage the silky material with your thumb for a second before gently pulling him closer to you.

“Don’t be sorry,” you murmur. “I don’t think I’m missing anything.”

The pounding of a fist against the door jerks you out of your REM cycle and back to the outdated motel room with no functioning AC.

“Time to wake up!” Alexei’s voice booms from the other side of the door. “Do not make me come pour cold water on you.”

“That would feel fucking great, actually,” you call back, noting the way that your tank top sticks to your chest like a second skin due to how much you had sweat in your sleep.

Part of you wishes you could close your eyes and slip back into the memory that ended up being your and Bob's first kiss, but you also desperately want to get out of this roach infested motel and finish the last full day of this assignment so that you can get back home to him.

You grab your phone off of the nightstand, smiling at the picture of you and Bob. You have the fleeting thought to call him, just so you can hear his voice for a few minutes. It would give you the motivation that you need to get through this final day in Nevada.

But with the three hour time difference between Nevada and New York, you know that he’s most likely still fast asleep, so you settle for sending him a text message.

Between waking up to your face, or to Alexei banging on my motel door, I greatly prefer your face. I can’t wait to see you asap. I miss you a lot.

As soon as you set your phone down, it starts vibrating, displaying Bob’s face across the screen. You answer before the second ring.

“It’s five in the morning in New York. Why are you awake before the sun?”

His laughter pours through your phone’s speaker, and you feel your heart swell. It has quickly become your favorite sound.

“Couldn’t sleep. Been awake thinking about you.”

You picture him in his bed. He always sleeps without a shirt, in either loose sweatpants or only his boxers. You bite your lip at the mental image.

“What about me?” You ask softly. You’re not sure why you whisper – you have a room to yourself for once. But you never know when super soldiers with heightened senses are listening through paper thin motel walls.

“How much I wish you were here with me right now,” he hums. His voice is raspy with sleep, and you feel goosebumps appear on your skin despite the balmy air of the motel room. “How warm you are, how good you smell, how soft you are…”

A dozen particularly graphic images pop into your head, and a familiar ache pulses between your thighs.

“That's not fair,” you whine.

“What's not fair, baby?” The name makes your heart skip a beat – you immediately want to hear it fall from his lips again.

“That,” you groan. “You being so sweet when you’re over two thousand miles away from me.”

There’s another knock on your door. Right away, you know it isn’t Alexei this time, since it doesn’t sound like an attempted break in. Ava’s voice calls from the other side, asking if you're ready.

“One minute!” You call back. “I’ve gotta go,” you say in a quieter voice to Bob. “You get some sleep, okay? I'll be home as soon as I can.”

“Promise me you’ll be safe. I have a date planned for when you get back.”

That thought gives you all the motivation you need to get through the next twenty-four hours.

••••••

Since your arrival in Reno, Bucky has yet to speak to you unless it pertains directly to the mission at hand.

You had decided that it’s best to wait until you’re back at the Watchtower to talk to Bob about the conversation that transpired on the flight to Nevada – he already worries so much when you’re all away on missions, and you don’t want to add to his anxiety.

Everyone else is acting like their normal selves, so you assume it’s safe to say that Bucky has told them nothing of your and his conversation, either. It isn’t until you’re paired up with Yelena to be lookouts on the last day of the assignment, that you notice a shift in her energy once the two of you are alone.

She’s quiet. Distant. Awkward, almost.

You consider the two of you to be quite close. You haven’t known each other for a super long time, but conversation has always flowed effortlessly between you.

So this prolonged silence is… telling, to say the least.

“Spill it, Yelena. I know Bucky has said something to you by now.” You finally break the silence, putting your binoculars back up to your eyes and focusing on the entrance to the warehouse you're staking out.

“Fine,” she sighs. “Let me start by saying that I love you both, and want happiness for you both.”

“But?” You ask, knowing there’s more to come. And something in your gut tells you that it isn’t all going to be quite as positive as her opening remark. You’re suddenly thankful for the task of keeping watch on the warehouse, so you’re not obligated to look her in the eyes.

“But,” she continues, “I would be lying if I said that I do not share some of Bucky's concerns.”

“Jesus Christ,” you curse under your breath. Though you’re not surprised, you don’t exactly want a reenactment of Bucky’s reaction.

“Let me explain,” she implores in an even tone. You go silent, waiting for her to continue.

“You and I are… alike, in many ways. We didn’t have the most traditional upbringings, and therefore didn’t have opportunities to form a healthy view of love or relationships. I would never judge you for having a history of commitment issues, because so do I.”

You’re taken by surprise at her response. You lower the binoculars from your face to look at her. She's still looking through her own pair, eyes on the warehouse and oblivious to your stare.

“But sometimes people, especially people like us… we hurt people even without meaning to. As for Bob, I would worry about him falling for anyone at this point in his recovery. He has not been sober for all that long, and he still cannot control his powers. If he were to get his heart broken, it could be... catastrophic.”

You contemplate her words before responding. Logically, you see where she’s coming from. Bucky, too. You don’t disagree that something such as heartbreak could significantly reset Bob’s progress, potentially risking a relapse or even a second incident with The Void. You're rational enough to know that their concerns aren’t completely unjustified.

But you also know how you feel about him.

You know the butterflies that erupt in your belly every time he walks in a room, you know that you could spend hours just staring at him, you know that you feel more protective of him than you ever have another human being.

“I understand your concerns, Yelena. I do. But if you’re worried about me breaking his heart, don’t be. Bucky isn’t wrong – I do have a history of commitment issues. But I’ve never found someone that I’ve wanted to commit to until I met Bob.”

She lowers her binoculars, looking at you curiously. “That serious, huh?”

You snort. “I mean, we’re going on our first official date after this mission, but…” you shake your head, still unable to fully grasp the words you’re about to say. For the longest time, you thought you might never say them about anyone.

“But I’m kind of in love with him.”

There’s a brief flicker of shock on her face, but she quickly composes herself. After a second, her lips slowly upturn into a grin and you can’t help but feel a sense of relief.

“Then let’s finish up here so we can get you home for a date.”

••••••

You didn’t think it was possible to be so happy to be back in Manhattan.

Though it isn’t the busy city that you’d longed for the entirety of the three days you were gone. It was the soft-spoken, kind of awkward but really sweet, blue-eyed guy with secret washboard abs who is waiting to greet you in your room the second that you walk through the door.

You throw your duffel bag on the floor, practically slamming your door shut behind you. He’s sitting on your bed with open arms that you happily fall into. Neither of you say anything right away. You sit in his lap, nuzzling your face into his neck as he wraps his arms around you and holds you to him.

Every bit of stress from the last few days completely melts away, even for just a few moments.

“Is everything okay?” He asks you tentatively, rubbing your back with one hand.

You pull back enough to look him in the eyes. You cradle his jaw in your hand before pressing your lips to his. “It is now,” you murmur. “I missed you bunches.”

He captures your lips in his again; this kiss less gentle than the first. His hands roam up your sides, and yours find their way to the soft brown locks of his hair. Your lips move in synchronicity with his as you maneuver yourself to straddle his lap. He’s in only a pair of sweatpants and a Henley, but you’re still covered in tactical gear.

The same tactical gear you’d been wearing beneath the blazing Nevada sun.

“I – uh,” you stutter when you break the kiss. “I really need to shower. Would you like to join me?”

A vibrant shade of pink colors his cheeks as he nods rather enthusiastically.

So fucking adorable.

You’ve never been more grateful to have a private bathroom. You turn the water on, letting steam fill the room as Bob unzips the back of your tactical suit for you. He gently pushes it pushes the restrictive fabric down your shoulders, letting you take over once it’s around your hips. He continues to stand behind you, peppering kisses along your shoulder blades while you undress. Once you’re completely bare, you turn to face him.

He's still in his lounge wear, so you take it upon yourself to help him out. You tug the hem of his Henley upwards, urging it over his head. He quickly drops his sweatpants and boxers, stepping out of them before opening the shower door for you.

Your first time showering together. Like all of your firsts together, there’s something special about it. It’s not your first time ever showering with a man – but it’s the first time that you’ve wanted to slow down and take the time to truly savor it.

This is the first time it’s ever felt so intimate. It isn’t solely driven on the desire to see each other naked (maybe there is a little bit of that, too) but more so the desire to care for each other.

Standing beneath the stream of warm water, you reach around him to grab a bottle of shampoo. You squeeze some onto your palm and then emulsify it with your hands.

“Turn around for me?” You ask, and he eagerly obliges.

Your eyes trail over the defined muscles of his back before you begin working the lather into his hair. You take your time, massaging his scalp with your fingertips until his hair is covered in suds. He melts beneath your touch, propping his forearms against the shower wall for support. You’re all too aware of the little moans that slip from his throat every so often – pretty noises that you’re honored to bring out of him.

When you’re finished, you plant a series of kisses on his shoulder. He turns around wearing a smirk that matches your own.

“Now it's your turn to turn around for me,” he says, his low voice sending a shiver down your spine. You turn around, letting the stream of water hit your chest. When he takes a small step forward to grab your body wash, you feel the head of his erection graze your lower back. You instinctively arch your back, earning a throaty groan from him.

As soon as he squirts a decent amount of the body wash into one of his hands, he places his empty hand against your belly and nudges you backwards, flush against his him. You tilt your head back enough to look up at him, lightly nipping at his jawline. With one hand, he begins massaging the sweet smelling cream across your abdomen. With the other, he palms at your breast, rolling a pebbled nipple between his fingers.

He takes his time rubbing the soap across your skin. First your stomach, then chest, and arms and back. He rinses the remaining lather off of his hands before parting your thighs ever so slightly; just enough so that his fingers can find the pearl at the apex of your folds. As his fingers rub languid circles over your clit, you rut back against him. He curses under his breath with an involuntarily jerk of his hips.

“Missed you so much,” he murmurs against the skin of your throat. Your only response is a pathetic whimper as he eases his middle finger inside of you. “Every second that you were gone.”

Your walls pulse around the slender digit at his words. You've never been so weak for a man – so completely gone that he can make you damn near come apart with just his words.

He eases the finger in and back out at a torturous pace before adding a second. His hand cups your sex; his palm applying perfect pressure to your clit.

“Fuck,” you breathe, light-headed from both the pleasure and heat from the shower. “I'm close—”

“I’ve got you,” he coos as he supports you from behind. “Got you, baby.”

You nearly go slack against him as his fingers work you through your orgasm. Your mind goes entirely blank except for the feeling of him, both in you and pressed against you.

When you come down, you're afraid to move because your legs feel like they've been turned to jelly.

“As much as I hate to stop here,” he sighs with a laugh, “We need to finish up and get dressed or we are going to be late for our date.”

How could you forget? You'd been so excited just to see him, and hug him, and kiss him that your first real, official date had somehow slipped your mind.

It also hits you that you still have no idea what said date is. When you talked to him on the phone in Reno, he said he had something planned, but didn't elaborate.

“Where are we going?”

••••••

Bob wouldn’t give you so much as a hint as to where he’s taking you.

When you'd insisted that you need some kind of vague idea so that you’d know how to dress, he had replied with something along the lines of uh – um – something comfortable? Everything you wear is cute. Wear whatever you want to. It’s a little windy out, maybe a sweater?

So, that really narrows things down.

After throwing his sweatpants and Henley back on after getting out of the shower, he went back to his own bedroom to change clothes and give you time to get ready.

You don’t recall the last time you felt so giddy about a first date. Normally, you approached them with caution and the knowledge that there likely wouldn’t be a second. They’d always felt like a waste of time, more than anything else.

But this feels completely different. A first date when you’ve already fallen head over heels for the person? Completely new to you.

You decide on a pair of black leggings, boots, and a sweater – an outfit suitable for an indoor or outdoor date. Cute enough, and comfortable.

Once Bob comes back to your room a few minutes later wearing a casual pair of jeans, Vans, and a pullover sweater of his own, you feel more confident in your choice.

“You’re so pretty,” he hums as he closes your bedroom door behind him. He rests his hands on your hips, pressing his lips to your forehead. You can’t help but inhale the scent of his freshly spritzed cologne. “Still – still can’t believe you’re mine.”

“Better start believing it,” you giggle. “Because it’s true.”

“So – um,” he hesitates. You look up at him, noticing his slightly furrowed brows and pursed lips. “I think everyone’s in the common area right now… Do you want to go down to the lobby first, or...?”

You’d been delaying this conversation since you’d stepped foot in the Watchtower. You were so happy to see him, and he was so happy to see you, that you couldn’t yet bring yourself to burst that blissful bubble.

But you don’t want to try to keep this low-key anymore, because your feelings aren’t low-key. So, regardless of anyone’s opinion on it, you want to walk out of this room with his hand in yours.

“About that…” you start with an awkward laugh. “They know. Well, Yelena and Bucky do, anyway. I’m assuming the others do too by now.”

“They know?” He repeats, confusion visible on his face. “Since when?”

“Since Bucky saw me leaving your bedroom the morning we left for Reno.” You say with nonchalant shrug. “He confronted me about it on the flight there, and eventually told Yelena…”

“Confronted you?” Bob echoes, his voice rising an octave. “Wha – what did he say? What did Yelena say?”

Now it’s you with pursed lips. You jerk your head towards your bed behind you. “Let’s sit down for a minute.” Then, noticing the panicked look on his face, you stroke his cheek with your thumb. “Just a minute, I promise. I won’t let us be late for this mystery date you have planned.”

He nods, apprehensive, but follows you to sit by you on the edge of your bed.

As concisely and delicately as you can, you recount your conversations with both Bucky and Yelena. In your own words, you explain both of their concerns. You make sure to not invalidate their worries, while also making sure Bob knows that you don’t share those some worries. He listens with a neutral expression, waiting until you come to a pause to say anything.

“So,” he starts, fiddling with his hands – a tell-tale sign that he’s nervous. “Yelena is okay with it – with us. And Bucky…?”

You grab one of his hands in yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “At the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter what anyone thinks but us. But Bucky will come around. I promise. He'll quickly see that he has nothing to worry about. Okay?”

He nods, bringing your hand to his lips and pressing them to your skin. “Okay,” he agrees with a hesitant smile.

“Now let’s get out of here and go to… where are you taking me again?” you quip.

“Nice try,” he tuts with a more genuine smile. “You’ll see when we get there.”

With intertwined fingers, the two of you make your way down the corridor, to the elevator. You pause when you reach the entrance of the common area. Everyone stops what they’re doing, looking towards you and Bob in the doorway. Bucky stands in the kitchen, while everyone else is scattered about the living room.

Your eyes dart around the room. Yelena, Ava and Alexei all possess knowing smirks. Walker’s face is pure confusion – apparently he’s the only one who hadn’t been filled in – and Bucky's face remains emotionless.

You give Bob’s hand another squeeze. “We’re going out,” you announce casually. “We’ll be back in a few hours.” Just as you start to turn around, Bucky’s voice calls your name. You stop, looking at him with raised brows.

“Can I talk to you for a second?”

You hesitate, until you see Yelena give you a small, reassuring nod.

“I’ll be just a moment. Okay?” You murmur to Bob. He suddenly looks queasy, so you encourage him to go sit with Yelena for the time being.

“I guess I am the last one to find out about this, then?” You hear Walker grumble as you walk over to where Bucky is chopping some vegetables at the kitchen counter.

“Yes?” you ask lowly, just wanting to get this over with.

“Look,” he starts, putting his knife down and looking you in the eye. “I know I overreacted. I shouldn’t have approached that conversation the way that I did. I’m sorry.”

You nod, maintaining a stoic expression. “Thanks for the apology, Bucky. I know you were only worried because you care.”

“I shouldn’t have been so harsh, though. You were right – I was assuming the worst,” he shakes his head, trailing off like there’s more he wants to say. “Look… Yelena’s coms were on while you and her were on lookout yesterday. I heard you say that you’re in lo—”

“Shhh,” you swat at him, your cheeks heating up when you realize he had overheard that little confession. “Jesus,” you groan, rolling your eyes. “Can you keep it down? We haven’t exactly told each other we love each other yet.”

You follow Bucky’s gaze to where the others are sitting in the living room. Bob sits beside Yelena, directly across from Walker and Alexei, who appear to be giving him the third degree.

At least he’s oblivious to your and Bucky’s conversation.

“My point is,” he continues, “I had no idea you felt so strongly for him. And while you don't need my approval, I just wanted to tell you that I am happy you’ve found someone that you can experience those feelings with. You deserve it. You both do.”

You relax at his words, exhaling in relief. He's right – you don’t need his approval, but it’s still nice to hear that one of your closest friends is happy for you.

“Now go save your boyfriend,” he nods toward the group of people on the other side of the room. “Alexei is trying to give him pointers for the bedroom.”

“Damn it,” you huff under your breath. You look back at your friend once more. “Thanks, Buck.”

Once you and Bob are in the privacy of the elevator, you feel a gigantic weight off of your shoulders at knowing all of that is behind you. It’s only up from here.

“Everything okay?” Bob asks, pulling you into his embrace.

You look up at him, pressing a tender kiss to his lips.

“Everything is perfect.”

••••••

..... and as for their date... should i do a part two? or just leave it up to your imagination? 🫢

either way, thanks for reading! comments and reblogs are always appreciated 💖

here's another recent bob one-shot by me: delicate

[gf2bellamy]

I had this idea while watching CM i just know you’re THE person to ask!! So i’m picturing established relationship with later seasons Reid and reader sees a pic of early seasons maybe his FBI badge or smth ? And she’s like gosh i wish i met you sooner and Spencer thinks she wouldn’t have liked him back then and she’s like bitch ???? i have this feeling that people started to find him more attractive after the prison trauma and i just want to give some love to early seasons reid like baby i would have smashed u in season 1

badge — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: established relationship, post!prison spencer a/n: hii !! loved this idea sooo much <3 because yes ! i would've literally thrown myself at s1 spencer

Spring cleaning.

It was something you had insisted on, and Spencer was reluctantly going along with it. You loved his apartment, with its cozy clutter and towering bookshelves, but there was a fine line between charmingly lived-in and needing intervention. Currently, you were seated cross-legged on the floor beside one of his many bookshelves, sorting through stacks of old files, loose papers, and, of course, more books than any one person could reasonably own.

Spencer was across from you, carefully removing each book from the lower shelf so he could dust beneath them.

You pulled out a well-worn novel, only to find four more identical copies tucked behind it. You held one up, raising an eyebrow. “Why do you have five different versions of the same book?”

Spencer barely glanced up from his task as he answered, “They’re all different special editions. That one—” He gestured vaguely toward the book in your hand. “—has annotations from the original editor. The one next to it has a foreword by a critic I like, and the third has alternate chapter endings that were cut from the final draft.”

You shook your head, amused. Only Spencer would need multiple copies of the same book. Flipping through the pages, you noticed scribbled notes in the margins.

“I haven’t read that one in ages,” Spencer admitted, suddenly abandoning his dusting to scoot closer to you. His knee bumped against yours as he leaned in, his fingers gently taking the book from your hands. He opened it to a random page, and his expression softened as he traced his old annotations with his fingertip.

A small, nostalgic smile tugged at his lips.

You watched him. His hair had fallen into his face again, obscuring his eyes as he focused on the text. You reached out, brushing the unruly strands behind his ear. He barely seemed to notice, too absorbed in the book, but his free hand caught yours, lifting it to his lips to press a quick, absentminded kiss to your knuckles before returning to his reading.

You bit back a laugh.

Of course.

You had come here to clean, and now Spencer was going to reread an entire novel instead. By the time you finished unloading the second shelf, he’d probably be done with it. You reached for a file that had been tucked between stacks of books on the second shelf. Curious, you opened it slowly, peeling back the cover to reveal its contents and then you froze.

"Oh my god."

Spencer, still absorbed in his book, didn’t even glance up as you carefully pulled out what you’d just discovered.

His old FBI badge.

You stared at it, lips parting in amusement. The photo showed a younger Spencer, his hair meticulously gelled to the side, so much more tamed than the unruly curls he had now. It was shorter, too, neatly styled in a way that looked almost foreign compared to the man currently sitting on the floor beside you, lost in his reading.

You didn’t even realize Spencer had finished his book until you felt the faint tickle of his hair against your cheek as he leaned over your shoulder, peering at what you were holding.

“What are you looking at?” he asked, voice warm.

You grinned, twisting to face him as you held up the badge. “Your old FBI badge.”

Spencer blinked at it for a second, processing, before his eyes widened slightly. “Give me that,” he said immediately, reaching for it but you’d predicted that reaction, and you yanked it out of his reach with a laugh.He didn’t even try to fight you for it, just slumped back with a sigh, though the faint pink tinge creeping up his neck betrayed his embarrassment.

“You looked so cute,” you teased, scooting backward just enough to keep the badge safely away. But Spencer wasn’t having it. In one swift motion, he hooked his hands around your ankles and dragged you forward until you were knee-to-knee with him again.

"No, I didn’t," Spencer insisted as he stared at the badge held between you.

"You totally did," you grinned, tracing the edge of the picture with your fingertip. Spencer had stopped looking at the badge entirely, his gaze instead fixed on you, the way your lips curled in amusement, the softness in your expression as you studied him.

"Your lips are still all pouty and pink," you murmured, tapping the photo where his mouth was set in a firm, professional line. Then you glanced up, only to find real Spencer mirroring the expression, his own lips slightly pursed.

"See?" you teased, meeting his eyes.

Spencer shook his head, but there was no real annoyance in it, just fond exasperation. "I wish I’d met you sooner," you said softly, your thumb brushing over the badge before your gaze flickered down for a second.

He stared at you like you’d just spoken in riddles. "You wouldn’t have liked me back then," he muttered.

Now it was your turn to look at him in disbelief. "Spencer, you look adorable," you insisted, holding the badge up again for emphasis.

"Adorable," he repeated flatly, as if that only proved his point, like adorable was code for not worth liking.

So you doubled down. "Attractive. Handsome. Pretty. Hot," you added, each word punctuated with a pointed look.That finally cracked him. A smile tugged at his lips, and he shook his head, but his ears had gone pink.

"Spencer," you pressed, bumping your knee against his, "there’s no way I would’ve missed out on that." You jabbed your finger at the photo for good measure.

He chuckled, finally tearing his gaze away from the badge to focus on you instead. His fingers brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering just a second too long to be casual.

"Don’t deflect," you accused, pointing a finger at him.

"I’m not deflecting, I’m reprioritizing," he countered, but the way his thumb traced your jawline betrayed him.

You pouted, hard, and Spencer’s eyes flickered down to your lips like he was physically restraining himself from kissing the expression right off your face. (Which, given the way his fingers twitched against your skin, he absolutely was.)

"I’m serious, Spencer," you insisted. "I would’ve literally asked you out the first second I saw you."

Spencer raised an eyebrow. "You stuttered for six seconds straight when I asked you out," he reminded you, grinning when your mouth fell open in embarassement.

"That—! That was different!" you spluttered, swatting at his shoulder. "You caught me off guard!"

"Mm-hmm." His grin widened.

"Point is—" You waved the badge between you like a white flag, refusing to let him derail you further. "—I would’ve adored you, Spencer. Any version of you."

Your voice softened at the end, and just like that, his teasing expression melted. He exhaled a laugh, shaking his head like he still didn’t quite believe you, but when he leaned in to press his lips to your forehead, the badge forgotten between you, it was answer enough.

(And if he stole the badge back when you were distracted by his smile? Well. You’d let him have that one.)

[retiredteabag]

hi teabag ily iky ily and i love your work just as much, im not sure if your reqs are open but i was wondering if you could pls do the “current bf” on the jjk guys.

Pls and thank you sweetcheeks :*

A brief and unedited headcanon request?

my masterlist

Satoru Gojo

Fussy, pouty, whiney, how many adjectives do you need?

The second he hears you use the word 'current,' his head is whipping around so fast.

"HUHHH???" - "Why would you say that :[ ??" - "Do you only see me as a short-term boy?"

He would interrupt again and again. "Take it back, take it baaaack!"

Even after you've confessed you were just trying to see his reaction, he would be unhappy. Only back rubs can cure his moodiness after that.

Suguru Geto

^_^

He knows you're being a tease.

For some reason, I get the impression that he wouldn't say anything, he'd let you speak until you were finished. Maybe you were making a video, maybe you were introducing him to a friend, maybe you were talking about him on the phone.

Whatever the case, he has to hold himself back from pinching your cheek when he sees you keep passing glances his way.

Aww, you're trying to get a rise out of him?

Too bad it has the opposite effect and makes him want to keep you in his pocket like a bratty little critter.

Kento Nanami

This man has definitely put a ring on it, so when you call him your "current husband," he is certainly doing double-takes.

Surely he's going crazy, it's just not something you would say, and yet here you are, saying it. After a pause to collect himself, I can see him reaching out to grasp your wrist, gently rubbing at your pulse.

You crack immediately, he's too sweet, and he's looking at you as if you've broken his heart.

"Kennnn!!! I was just kidding."

Choso Kamo

"Current?" He's looking at you, and poor boy is confused.

It causes you physical distress to look over and nod at him, playing it up like normal. After a hum of confirmation, he is grabbing your hand.

He brings it over to his lap, completely serious. Long forgotten is whatever video you were making.

"I don't want to be your current boyfriend..."

He's so tender, it takes everything in you not to coo at him. "You don't?"

"I thought current meant... only now... I want to be yours forever..."

Then you eat him alive. :]

Ryoman Sukuna

He's more concerned about the title "boyfriend" than he is with the assertion you're making.

You had just motioned toward him, the "current" remark meant as his introduction. Sukuna just scoffs, rolling his eyes, "Don't call me that."

And oh, you're just giddy at his response. Score! He loves you so much :D, "Oh yeah? You don't like that?"

"I'm not a 'boyfriend', that is a gross misuse of my epithet."

Oh.

"That's what you've taken issue with?" You pout at him, in all actuality, you're a bit hurt, wondering if what he had been expecting was "current employer".

It wasn't until he waved his hand in a dismissive motion that he walked off, "I am your lover, not your measly boyfriend. Do not insult me so again."

Toji Fushiguro

"Current? What the fuck?"

He is not letting you get past that, believe me. No matter how you try to change the conversation or brush it aside, he's talking over you at every turn. He doesn't even need to be domineering.

Oh, Toji can tell by the way you're trying to hold in your laughs that you're teasing him, but two can play at that game.

You're trying to proceed with whatever silly little game you had, everything after the fact was lost on Toji though, "Current...right, right... I'm the current boyfriend, funny, I guess you tell all your hoes how you wanna spend the rest of your life with them, you beg to fall asleep on top of all your boytoys-"

It would get to a point where you would just be unintelligible over his ramblings. Eventually, you would try to cover his mouth with a hand, "Oh my gosh, TojI!!" You would end the video while his lips curled into a smirk against your palm.

Yuuji Itadori

"Huh?"

It's not the instantaneous reaction that would come from the other guys; it would likely take him a second to catch up. He's just excited that you wanted him to be a part of your little video, and also a bit distracted by how pretty you look while showing off your outfit.

The words mingle in his brain for a second, smile dropping, he evaluates your meaning.

"What...?"

You steel yourself, ready for his reaction... but it doesn't come.

You turn to look at him, but he's stepped out of frame, a confused look has taken over his features, still analyzing why you would call him that. Gears still rotating, he'd look so taken aback. Trust me, you'd have to do some serious consoling for him.

"I was joking! It's a prank, Yuuji! You're my forever and ever!"

You reach down to stop recording, and Yuuji pulls a palm to his chest. "Whew! Scared me there..." Shaking his head, he would use a hand to muse his hair, " I didn't like that."

😭

Megumi Fushiguro

"Uh, no."

You don't even have it in you to try and extend it, he's already got a pinching grip on the ticklish spot of your waist. A silent, 'try again.'

You can't continue, looking at him, you can see he's already butthurt.

Good luck getting him to bring out the dogs anymore.

[the-lonely-knight]

You have to be careful with your knight. They’re not used to gentleness, and it might take some time for them to accept it. The first time you remove their helmet, they may not be able to meet your gaze. This is normal. There’s a lot more of you to take in than through a visor, and it can be overwhelming. Don’t expect them to make eye contact immediately. When you undress the rest of them, go slowly. You’ll be forced to because of the very nature of the armor they live in. Make sure you pause after every piece and allow them to get used to freedom once more. It’s especially important for them to breathe deeply once you’ve removed both cuirass and gambeson. Place your hand over their heart to ensure they take a few deep breaths from the chest before you continue. When you are finished playing the part of squire, be sure to give them something else to wear. They’ll feel far too exposed at first. Make sure it’s something light, they don’t need any more weight on their shoulders. Do not be surprised if their hands tremble when you take them. The feel of your hands is a far cry from that of their gauntlets, and it may take some time for them to adjust to the softness. Reassurance is your friend with a vulnerable knight. Encouragement can also aide you, but be cautious to avoid overuse. If your knight feels pressured, they will revert to their training, and you will never know their true self. If it is your wish to have a knightly lover, do not glorify the shell, but rather, cradle the creature within.

[aloha-from-angel]

A clip of the ending of the live-action Lilo and Stitch movie ended up on my feed, so y'all get to hear me bitch about it. Specifically, the idea of Nani giving up Lilo so she can go to a mainland college.

A. Fucking. US MAINLAND. College.

When we're out here doing SO MUCH trying to keep our Native Hawaiians home. Like, are you fucking serious? More Native Hawaiians (53%) now live outside of Hawaiʻi than within it! Only 23% of the Hawaiʻi population is listed as Native Hawaiian—and that number includes mixed-race individuals. (There’s mostly Mixed Plate Specials over here <3)

Think about that for a second. Out of well over a million people living in the islands, only around 300,000 are Native Hawaiian. That’s it.

And yeah, we can dig deeper into those statistics later, but for now, let’s just sit with how absolutely messed up it is that the underlying message of this Cash Grab L&S remake seems to be: “It’s good and right for Nani to give up her little sister to the state and go chase mainland dreams.”

Even worse? It’s Lilo who tells Nani to go. Like that’s supposed to be sweet or inspiring or something.

That is so freaking fucked up.

And it's such a gross misunderstanding of the issue WHY Nani shouldn't and WOULDN'T give her sister up.

Native Hawaiian children are more likely to be removed from their homes for neglect—not abuse. 

Several studies have found: 

Native Hawaiian kids were placed in care more often for neglect than non-Hawaiian kids. They are grossly overrepresented for being taken away because of neglect. 

"But Angel, if these kids are being neglected, they SHOULD be taken away and put in a stable environment, right?"

Yes! If they actually ARE being neglected! And if neglect wasn't based on subjective standards that target Native families! 

I went to a Hawaiian immersion school when I was in elementary school (Also because my brothers were in Special Education and this almost completely Native Hawaiian run school was the BEST for Special Education on the island) and did NOT know that Hawaiian kids were not the actual majority in Hawai‘i until I was in 7th grade and tossed in with the rest of the district in Middle school. 

A good portion of those kids were in foster care. 

Some were because of parental drug abuse or physical abuse, ect, (The local domestic violence shelter was up the road,) but a majority were from parents who were trying VERY hard to regain custody. Aunts and Uncles and Sisters and Brothers and Cousins and Tutus of all genders trying so hard to gain custody in a way that made it so it would be harder for them to be taken away. 

Some reasons I have PERSONALLY seen given as to why Native Hawaiian children have been removed from their homes are: 

"Inability to cope with parenting — (this is extremely subjective and is often a bullshit excuse to say that Native Hawaiian Caretakers aren't good enough. In the case I saw, it was because the mother was a teen mom, but she did a damn good job.) 

Inadequate housing — (Which also includes having "too many people in the house”, when culturally many native Hawaiians live with extended family. Case in point was because the kids lived with their five cousins.) 

Low or misused income — (Literally not having enough money when milk costs 10 dollars a gallon here…)

Broken families — (having a stepmom/stepdad, anything non-traditional.)

These aren't acts of violence against the kids. These are normal family lives. These kids would cry so hard about their home life, they wouldn’t focus on school, they’d act out, they’d hurt other kids and seek any sort of love and attention from stable adults. 

Native Hawaiian kids are: 

Overreported

 Overseparated 

Kept in the system longer 

More likely to re-enter foster care

This isn't unique to Hawai‘i and I won’t pretend it is. Bias in child welfare systems has also been extensively documented in African American and Native American communities, with indigenous peoples especially being targeted, especially recently. In acts that can only be described as a continuation of the White Man’s Burden ideology and residential schools, often POC children are tossed into group homes that see them as little more than a paycheck and a chance to “save the poor little wretches from their people”.

The problem was that the system was built on its own narrow ideas of what “good behavior” looked like—usually the way white middle-class kids were expected to act.

The stories I heard and the things I saw made me understand that the system was not just flawed—it is actively hurting ‘ohana in our state. The reasons kids were taken weren’t always about danger or neglect. 

It’s a quiet kind of violence, but it’s violence all the same. It fractures the very fabric of what makes a community strong—connections, histories, the ability to hold each other through hard times. 

POC children do not do well in the US foster system because of the systemic racism present.

Not to mention that Lilo has behavioral issues and is obviously going through a lot after her parents' death. She's neurodivergent, a POC, and vulnerable now that her parents are gone. 

Nani would be aware of these circumstances. She would never willingly give her sister to a system that is literally against her. And Tūtū can have Lilo removed from her home for anything from being “too old to be capable” to Lilo getting in trouble for violent behavior. (Which she's known for and likely will get worse now that the only person still alive from her immediate family is in FUCKING CALIFORNIA, WHICH, BTW, SENDS THEIR STUDENTS HERE TO STUDY MARINE BIO).

Yes, Nani is allowed to have a life outside of Lilo. She’s a 19-year-old who suddenly had to become a parent to her little sister after unimaginable loss. She’s doing it all alone—no real support system, no safety net, barely scraping by. She is SUFFERING.

But the beauty of the original Nani was that despite all that pain and pressure, she chose to fight tooth and nail for her sister. Because that’s her ʻohana. And as the original movie hammered home: ʻOhana means family. Family means nobody gets left behind or forgotten.

That wasn’t just a cute line or a throwaway bit. It was the theme of the story. It was a message about resilience, love, and keeping your loved ones together—especially in the face of colonialist systems that do try to tear families apart.

And Nani would know what would await Lilo if she were taken away—shuffled through the system, disconnected from her culture, her roots, her ʻāina. She’d be statistically more likely to end up homeless as soon as she turns 18. (Unfortunately this is a reality for so many foster kids I know.)

Yes, she left Lilo with David’s Tūtū. And yes, I’m sure David’s Tūtū is a lovely lady, even though she wasn’t in the original movie. But that’s full-on giving her sister up, letting go of custody and walking away for good. That’s not what the original Nani would do—and it sure as hell shouldn’t be painted as the “right” thing.

Lelau was one of those kids who was a real-life Lilo. (and Lilo was her obsession, ironically, she had so much Lilo and Stitch merch.) Lemme tell you a quick story about her.

She was my best friend for most of elementary school. She wasn’t “bad,” but she was different—emotional, lashed out and behaved in a way that was easy for adults to misread or just plain misunderstand. 

Her older brother had been taken by child services too, but because he was quieter, more “compliant,” he stayed with their older sister who already had a big family. That sister was trying to keep everything together, but with her own kids to raise, the weight was heavy. Meanwhile, Lelau got bounced around between different foster homes and relatives’ places because the system said she didn’t “behave.”

I think about Lelau a lot. I wonder what she would have thought if she watched this trash as a child, and saw herself in this Lilo, and saw herself as more of a burden than she already did.

Because here’s the truth: kids like Lelau already think they’re the problem. They hear it every day, even if no one says it out loud. It’s in the sigh when they walk into a room. It’s in the way teachers pull away, or how other kids are told to “be patient” with them like they’re some sort of test. It’s in the case files that reduce them to diagnoses and risk assessments. And it’s especially in the “well-meaning” media that repaints trauma and neurodivergence as something to grow out of—or to be handled by someone else entirely.

What they don’t get to see nearly enough is the fight to keep them. The fierce, messy, uncompromising love of someone who says: You’re not too much. You’re not broken. You’re mine, and I’m not letting go.

That’s what the original Lilo & Stitch gave us. That’s what Nani was. She wasn’t perfect—she yelled, she struggled, she made mistakes. But she stayed. She kept showing up. And she refused to let the system take her sister. That’s the kind of story Lelau needed. That we all needed as a kid. 

And yeah, the funny blue aliens were the real reasons we watched it as kids, but that doesn’t mean the message was lost on us.

So when I see these rewrites—this gross and horrible story where Nani gives up custody, where that decision is framed as “self-empowering” or “best for Lilo”—I feel sick. I know it’s just a story. But stories matter. Especially to kids who are already hanging on by a thread. Especially to kids like Lelau who don’t have stable adults around, who feel like a problem, who live every day waiting for someone to decide they’re too much and walk away.

Nani and other caregivers deserve better wages, free therapy, housing support, childcare, a goddamn village to help raise that child. Help shouldn’t mean losing the people they’re fighting for. Help should look like wrapping around both the kid and the caregiver. Keeping families together.

But the system doesn’t work that way—by design. It’s rooted in colonialism. It’s built to police poor families, brown families, Native families. It calls it “protection,” but it strips kids of their language, their culture, their names, and places them in homes that get paid to raise them out of context. That’s not safety. That’s assimilation.

Lelau got told again and again that her feelings were “too big,” her reactions were “bad behavior,” and that she needed to learn to “be good.” But what she really needed was someone to say, “I see you. I hear you. I get why this is hard. And I’m not going anywhere.”

She needed what Lilo got in the original story. A sister who would burn the world down if it meant keeping her safe. Her sister tried, god did that sister try, but it was so fucking hard. 

I guess I just keep wondering how many kids are watching this reboot, this sanitized versions of their own pain, and slowly internalizing that they are the problem. That the most “loving” thing they can do is to “stop being the burden”.

But that’s not love. That’s the system talking. That’s white supremacy and capitalism in a child welfare costume. That’s the lie kids like Lelau are told every single day.

And I’m just so fucking tired of it.

If you’re gonna tell a story about broken families, about loss, about trauma, about Hawai‘i, then tell the truth. Don’t paint giving up custody as this amazing, empowered choice if you’re not gonna talk about how the system coerces that “choice” out of people in the first place. Don’t act like this was the best option for the child themselves.

Because I’ve seen what happens when those kids grow up. I’ve seen what happens when no one fights for them. And I’ve seen the difference it makes when someone does.

[bloodanddiscoballs]

why the fuck do some of you need to watch the Lilo and Stitch movie at all? like genuinely I'll never understand when one of the indigenous communities asks you to show support to them and not to the capitalistic and colonial machine and you fuckers will STILL go "oh well just make sure to support it in a different way :)"

like Hawaiians have LITERALLY said don't see this movie. don't draw attention to it. here are ways you can draw attention to our plight instead. here is how you can help us. and some of you people will STILL go "just make sure to pirate this moviiiieee :))))"

like I know how little we all mean to people I do I've grown up with it but for fucks sake can't you bother to be better? can't you bother to learn about the lives that are impacted daily by the world we live in? the poverty and the destruction of land and culture and beliefs? the murder and the rape and the stealing of children and the ongoing decimation and genocide of all indigenous peoples all around the world? I would think you'd be happy to literally be handed a very simple act in how you can help right on a silver platter but apparently it's more important to gawk at a shitty DISNEY MOVIE than it is to give a flying fuck about the people around you.

I don't often make these kinds of posts cause I don't feel like they can be very helpful, but to those who are still interested in pirating or seeing the Lilo and Stitch movie I really want you to take a step back and think about why that is more important than giving aid to the people who have quite literally had their home ripped away from them and continue to every time a tourist steps foot on those islands. Genuinely I am asking you to evaluate how you view other people who don't look like you or have different histories than you and how you might need to adjust to get rid of your colonist mindset.

[heartmix]

Private Screening - MV1

Pairing: Max Verstappen x fem!reader

Word Count: 1.4k+

Warning: Max being oblivious, mention of sad reader

Summary: You really wanted to go to the private screening of the F1 movie, but Max doesn't want to

A/N: messy and all over the place

F1 Masterlist / Masterlist

To say you loved movies was an understatement. At any free moment, there was bound to be a movie on. Which is why when they announced they were making a movie about F1 with the same director as Top Gun: Maverick, you were beyond excited. 

The chance to watch them film during the season and also meet the actors made you giddy. Your excitement was more than all the drivers combined, which was hardly any, considering they honestly couldn't have cared less about it. 

Max was one of those who wanted to stay away from the movie. If he had the chance to decline partaking in it, he would have dropped it in a heartbeat. Unfortunately for him, his job forced him, and even more so, you would not stop talking about it every time a promo dropped. 

"Do you think you guys will be invited to the premiere or a private screening?" You asked Max one day while watching yet another trailer drop. 

"If we do, I probably won't go," Max said, not even batting an eye. It was off-handed and you knew you shouldn't have made it a big deal, but deep inside, you were a little hurt. 

The next week, it seemed like everyone was talking about the private screening of the movie for everyone who worked in F1, even down to the engineers. Knowing Max would decline meant you wouldn't be able to go; you were sulking whenever the topic was brought up. 

"What's with the sad face?" Charles asked, seeing your face drop as he and Alexandra were talking about what they were wearing to the premiere next week. 

"You're coming right?" Alex inquired, seemingly knowing what was going on, but she wanted you to be the one to say it. 

"I wish. Max doesn't want to go, and Red Bull is giving him an out." The fact that your eyes didn't meet theirs, instead focusing on the drink in front of you, was a sign that it bothered you a lot. 

"Does he know how excited you are for it? I swear it's all you've been talking about last season." 

"He knows, but I don't think he declined the invite to hurt me. He saw an opportunity to get out of going and took it. I know I shouldn't be sad about it, but I'll get over it." 

"Come with us," Charles mentioned. 

"What?" Your eyes snapped up to his in disbelief, thinking he was playing around. Instead, you found a genuine smile. 

"Oh yes! You can hang out with me! It'll be so fun!" Alex exclaimed with a big smile plastered on her face. 

"Are you guys sure? I don't want to overstep." 

"Trust me. It'll be fine." Charles waved off your concern, not showing a hint of worry. 

Leading up to the premiere, you were super happy. No more the gloomy state you were in. Max noticed it, of course, he noticed mostly everything about you. He was curious about the sudden mood change, but didn't chalk it up to anything. Maybe it was just one of those weeks. If it were anything important, he would be the first one you told. 

He didn't ask about it until the night before the premiere. He was lounging on the bed with the cats while you were in the walk-in closet trying to find something to wear. Not like you were going to be photographed, but there might be a picture or two that would be circulated. This was a big deal to you, and you wanted to look as good as you were going to feel. 

"Schatje, are you almost done? I want to relax and I can't do that without you right here in my arms." He yelled out, borderline whining that you weren't in bed with him. 

"Yeah, just give me a few minutes." 

"The race isn't for a few more days, you don't need to look for an outfit right now. Plus, in case you didn't know, it's in the city we live in. No need to rush." He tried again, but to no avail, you didn't come to bed. 

"Not for the race bubs. It's for tomorrow." 

"Going out with the girls?" He wondered, thinking he had forgotten that you mentioned it to him. 

"Yeah, you can say that. Alex and Charles invited me to the F1 movie screening." Hearing that, he got off the bed and made his way to the closest, confused. Did he hear you right? 

"The what?" 

"Remember the private screening for the drivers and crew. Well, since you weren't going, Charles invited me." You shrugged, not making a big deal. It wasn't a big deal anymore, now that you were going. 

"Why didn't you tell me you wanted to go?" 

"Because you said you weren't going to go before I even had the chance. Even so, you know I've been excited for it, of course, I would want to go." You sighed, looking at him standing in the doorway. It was foolish to think he wouldn't find out, but you didn't know he would make something out of it. 

"I'm sorry, you get excited for practically every movie. I wasn't thinking." He frowned, pulling you into his arms. You knew he felt bad, but there was nothing to hold against him. 

"Don't stress it. I know you don't like media stuff, and you aren't that interested in the movie." 

"Let me take you tomorrow." At this, you chuckled at his sudden urge to wanting to go. He was doing this because he felt bad. You didn't want to force him to go if he really didn't want to, and you know he didn't. 

"Don't be silly. How often do they let you decline something work-related? Plus, I'm going with Charles and Alex." 

"I know you're excited for it, and that's all I need. I'm taking you." The comment came out more as a statement. It was final. He was going to take you no matter how hard you tried to convince him. 

"It's the night before, what are you going to tell the team?" 

"Im Max Verstappen, 4 time world champion. What are they going to do? Decline me?" He had that famous Max Verstappen smugness in his tone. One that would eat everyone up. 

"And your fans say you're humble." You rolled your eyes, and he couldn't help but chuckle. 

Like it was planned all along, you and Max were making your way up the steps of the theater. Cameras flashed from all around you, but you didn't care about any of that. The only thing you cared about was watching the movie. 

"Max! Looks like you made it!" You looked up to the Red Bull social media, Jessica already with a phone fired up in her hand. 

"I did." He said with a slight smile, his way of telling her it was okay to film. 

"Are you excited to see the movie?" She said, holding up the camera to get it all on record.

"My girls' excited about it, so that means I am too." At this comment, you could feel the heat rise to your face, and you tried to look anywhere but the camera. You felt Max's eyes peering down at you, and from he corner of your eyes, you saw Jessica smirking while filming you. Whether it was the bluntness of Max or the numbers it will do on social media, she loved the comment either way. 

"We are glad to have you both." She smiled before ending the video and putting her phone down, thanking you both for the content. 

"Well, well, well, look who decided to show up." Charles' voice came in right from behind you guys with Alex on his arm. 

"Did she tell you about the situation?" Max groaned, not liking Charles' smug look. 

"I knew, I just got the confession out of her." Alex shrugged like it was nothing. 

"Well, all that matters is I'm going to have the chance to see the movie a whole month early. Speaking of you guys should hurry up and do press so we can get to the actual movie." You pushed the two drivers away in the direction of where the rest of them were. 

"You practically begged me to come, now you're getting rid of me?" Max couldn't help but tease. 

With a raised eyebrow, you looked at him in disbelief, "If I remember correctly, you begged me to let you take me." 

"Same thing." 

"Will you just go? I'll meet you inside." Rolling your eyes yet again, this pulled a laugh out of him.  

"Save me a seat?" 

"Least I could do." You smiled before he pulled you in for a kiss. 

[drewsephrry]

Love Island: Episode 9 - Imperfect for You

pairings: rafe cameron x fem!reader

warnings: cuss words, sexual innuendos

words: 5.7k

series masterlist

The moon hangs heavy over the villa, draping the yard in a silver glow that feels too quiet, too still, compared to the muffled laughter and clinking glasses drifting up from downstairs. Y/N doesn’t move. Her hand rests on the door handle like letting go of it would make everything real.

“I…I didn’t think you’d actually come.” He says, voice low, caught somewhere between relief and disbelief. She swallows, eyes flicking away.  

“Me neither.”

A silence sits between them for a beat too long. Then he gestures softly toward the couch. No pressure, just hope. She walks in slowly, almost cautiously, smoothing the fabric of her jeans as she sits down beside him, though not too close. Her body is angled slightly away.

“You wanted to talk.” She says, staring down at her hands. “So…talk.”

He hesitates, his breath shaky. 

“I don’t even know where to start.”

“Maybe the part where you lied to me?” She glances up at him, sharp now.  He nods, as if the hit is deserved. 

“Right. Fair.” There’s another pause, heavier this time and when he speaks again, his voice trembles just enough to show the crack beneath it. “I didn’t tell you about my last relationship because…I thought if you knew, you’d look at me the way I look at myself. And I already hate myself enough for what I did. I’ve gone to therapy, I had multiple conversations, apologies that probably didn’t fix anything but I still said them. I mean…I even apologized to her mom. I’m not proud of who I was. But I’ve tried to change. I have changed.”

She doesn’t answer right away. She just stares at him like she’s searching for the lie in his eyes.

“You could’ve told me.” She finally says, her voice sharp with emotion. “Maybe we could’ve saved ourselves from all of this.”

“I know.” He replies, voice raw. “I was a coward. And the other night, I was a massive dick to you. You were trying to help and I blew up. That’s on me. Every second of it.”

He leans forward slightly, eyes locking on hers with a sincerity he rarely lets show.

“I like you, Y/N. So much it scares the hell out of me. And I will fix this. I’ll fix all of it. If you let me.”

Her gaze doesn’t waver. 

“How do I know this isn’t just love-bombing?” She asks quietly. “How do I know you’re not just saying all the right things because you think that’s what I need to hear?”

His face falls and for a moment, he just stares at her, unsure if he should be hurt or if he deserves it.

“Y/N-” “No.” Her voice cuts through his like a knife. 

“I can’t sit here and listen to the same lines I’ve heard a hundred times. ‘I’ve changed.’ ‘It won’t happen again.’ Spare me.”

His jaw tightens. The words sting more than he expects.

“I’m not like him!” The words come out louder than he means and her face shifts, just slightly, but enough.

“Him?” Her voice is smaller now. Unsure. He runs a hand over his face, like he’s trying to wipe the moment away.

“Kelce told me. About your ex.” He says it carefully, almost like he doesn’t want to say it at all. “What he did.”

Her body tenses. She looks away, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on nothing.

“That’s not your business.”

“It is.” He softens. “Because it’s still in the room with us. Even when you pretend it’s not.”

“Don’t try to psychoanalyze me right now.” She exhales loudly.

“I’m not. But you call me out for not being honest with you and I get that. I do. But you haven’t been either.”

“You didn’t ask.” She snaps. The words are quick, like armor.

“I didn’t want to push.” He pauses. “But I’m not gonna pretend like it doesn’t matter. You were hurt. And whether you like it or not, that matters to me.”

She stands abruptly and for a second, he thinks she’s going to walk out. But he reaches out, catching her hand. Not to stop her, just to hold something steady.

“I’m not like him.” He says again, quieter this time. “And I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what happened to you. For how it’s still with you. And I’m sorry if I brought even an ounce of that back. You didn’t deserve that. Not then. Not now.”

She doesn’t speak. Her breath trembles and when her eyes meet his, there’s a storm building behind them.

“I’m not asking you to forget it.” He adds. “And I’m not asking you to forgive me. But I know what we have, whatever it is, it’s real. I feel it. I know it.”

He lets go of her hand.

“If even a part of you feels it too…just give me a chance. One more. I’ll spend every day showing you, proving to you that I’m not him.”

She stares at him, arms crossed tightly over her chest.

“I’m not going to apologize for not telling you.” She says quietly. Rafe nods without hesitation. 

“You don’t have to. I get it. You didn’t owe me an explanation. That’s fair.”

“But I am sorry…for pressuring you to open up.” She glances down, her voice softer. He shakes his head. 

“You don’t need to apologize for that either. This was gonna be a thing sooner or later. I’m just glad it happened now, early enough that I might still have a shot at earning your trust back.” He exclaims. She nods slowly, but her expression stays guarded. 

“It’s going to take more than this conversation.”

He nods right back. 

“I know. I’ll do whatever it takes. You want me to beg? I’ll beg.” He suggests and her mouth lifts into a smirk. 

“A little groveling wouldn’t hurt.”

Without missing a beat, Rafe slides off the couch onto his knees, taking her arms gently.

“Y/N-” “Oh my god, get up!” She says, half-laughing as she pulls him back up. He grins, now standing in front of her, his eyes flicking between hers and her lips. She mirrors the movement without meaning to.

“I’m gonna need time.” She says quietly. “To move past this. To trust you again.” 

A beat. 

“Though…a kiss like the one downstairs might help.”

He smirks and steps in, hands landing softly on her waist. 

“Yeah?” He murmurs. “You mean the ‘10 out of 10’ kiss?”

She groans, pulling back and rolling her eyes. Rafe laughs and tugs her back toward him.

“You’re insufferable.” She mutters.

“You’re gonna have to deal with it, sweetheart.”

Her heart flutters at the pet name, but she tries to play it off. He keeps going, eyes glinting.

“And let’s be real, I’m gonna remind you about that kiss for a long time. Didn’t you call it-what was it? ‘The most amazing kiss of your life’?”

“I never said that.” She insists, shaking her head.

“That’s what I recall.” He teases.

“Are you trying to gaslight me right now? I never said that.”

“No?” He leans in with a smirk. “Hmm. Must’ve been the wind.”

She laughs despite herself, fingers weaving behind his neck.

“This is so wrong.” She murmurs. His brows furrow in confusion. 

“What do you mean?”

“It’s just…kind of toxic, isn’t it? We barely talk things through and then end up right back to our usual horny selves. Like, nothing happened.” She replies.

“Wait, are you horny right now?” He asks with faux innocence.

“Rafe!” She gasps, laughing as she swats his chest. “I’m being serious.”

“Okay, okay. I get what you’re saying.” He pauses, then shrugs. “But why is it wrong? We’re figuring it out. Following our hearts…or whatever Taylor Swift lyric fits here.” He tries not to sound as corny and she snorts. 

“She hasn't said anything like that. Just...I don’t want to get into stupid fights with you just to end up making out a few minutes later.”

“So…we are going to make out?” He asks, one hand coming up to cup her cheek.

“Oh my god, do you hear anything I’m saying that isn’t about kissing?” She stares up at him in disbelief. 

“I do. I swear I do. But you’re just really pretty. It's distracting.”

She blushes and hits his chest again, though this time she leans in.

“I hate you.” She mumbles.

“No, you don’t.” He whispers, smiling as their foreheads meet. “Can I?”

She nods just as he closes the distance. Soft, slow, but with purpose. His mouth finds hers without hesitation and this kiss is different. It’s full of emotion, but also something darker, possessive, desperate, aching.

It’s gentler than before, but hot enough to make her forget everything else. Forget the kiss with Ryan. The one she shamefully leaned into. The one that had rage flashing behind Rafe’s eyes and a muscle ticking in his jaw.

Now, his hands grip her waist tighter, pulling her against him like he needs her there. Like she’s the only thing grounding him. She gasps softly into his mouth and that’s all the encouragement he needs.

His voice drops an octave, low and raspy against her lips. “So…are you getting turned on?” He asks and she giggles, breathless, eyes flicking up to his with flushed cheeks. 

“Honestly? Shut up.”

But her mouth crashes back into his before the last word even finishes. This kiss is hotter. Hungrier. His hands slide down her back, then lower, cupping her ass and pulling her harder against him. She moans softly and he groans into her mouth like it’s driving him insane. 

When they finally come up for air, her fingers are tangled in the chain around his neck, her thoughts spinning.

“You good?” He murmurs, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear with a tenderness that almost undoes her.

‘Yeah.” She nods. “Because we’re gonna be fine.” She exclaims. His lips twitch into a smile before he leans in and presses a soft, final kiss to her lips.

“We should…probably head downstairs.” He says, though he doesn’t move an inch. She turns toward the door, but Rafe stays put, exhaling hard through his nose.

“Just…give me a second.” He mutters, nodding down toward his pants, where the fabric is visibly strained. “He needs to chill.”

“I’m sorry.” She chokes on a laugh, hand flying to her mouth. “He?”

Rafe looks away, clearly flustered, trying to will his body into cooperation.

“George.”He mutters, with that smug little grin.

“George?” She raises her brows.

“You know…curious George.” He explains, scratching the back of his neck and she chuckles again.

“Oh, I’m absolutely telling the girls.”

“No. Y/N, wait-”

But she’s already slipped through the door, laughter trailing behind her.

“Fuck me.” He groans, chasing after her, catching up just before she reaches the stairs.

“Please, sweetheart.” He says, voice dropping into that low, sweet tone that usually makes her knees weak. She smirks over her shoulder. 

“You said you’d make it up to me any way I wanted.” She recalls, with wide eyes and pink swollen lips. 

“Fine.” He exhales, jaw tense “Go. Just…I seriously need a minute.”

She kisses his cheek, laughing softly.

“I said go.” He calls after her with a grin, adjusting himself with a wince.

“Sorry!” She shouts from halfway down the stairs. “Sorry George!”

His laugh follows her, thick with amusement and frustration.

Confessional - Y/N

She stares at the camera, slightly traumatized.

“I am never seeing Curious George the same way again.” She shakes her head. “Ruined. Completely ruined.”

The night winds down as the girls gather upstairs in the makeup room, wiping off their glam and slipping into cozy pajamas. Laughter bubbles up as they rehash the challenge.

“Maddy, you got the best one!” Alyssa teases, referring to Kelce’s win. The girls laugh as Maddy pulls on one of his hoodies.

“Guess I’m lucky.” She says with a shrug and a small smile.

“Anything exciting happen tonight?” Cleo asks, dragging a makeup wipe across her face. Sarah lifts a brow at Y/N, who meets her gaze for a second. Y/N gives a subtle shake of her head before turning back to the group.

“Y/N…” Kiara says, looking at her. “You and Ryan were talking before the challenge, right?”

Y/N exhales quietly, grateful they hadn’t caught the moment between her and Rafe. No one’s brought it up, yet.

“Yeah.” She gulps. “He pulled me for a quick chat. He was really sweet, honestly.”

“How are you feeling about him?” Cleo asks, eyes curious. “I mean…you did give him a ten.”

Y/N lets out a small laugh. 

“Okay, to be fair, I didn’t even know that was him when I rated him. But yeah, I told him I want to get to know him. And the kiss didn’t hurt, that’s for sure.”

“What about Rafe?” Abigail chimes in, focused on braiding her hair. Y/N’s smile fades a bit. She glances at Sarah before answering.

“It’s still… complicated.” She replies, her voice softer now. The room quiets for a moment.

“Take your time with it.” Maddy offers gently.

“Honestly, Ryan’s a way better option anyway.” Kiara adds, applying lip balm with a casual shrug.

Y/N doesn’t say anything. She just sits at her vanity, staring at her reflection in the mirror, silently nodding as the buzz of conversation moves on around her.

Downstairs, the boys are in full post-challenge mode. Shirts coming off and banter flying.

“So…Ryan.” Topper says, tossing his button-up aside as he eyes him with a pointed look. “Enjoy tonight’s challenge?”

“Didn’t we all?” Ryan replies with a light scoff, earning a few nods and chuckles from the others.

Topper glances over his shoulder toward Rafe, who’s folding clothes in silence, clearly uninterested in the conversation.

“Just asking.” Topper continues, tone more loaded now. “You did get a solid ‘10’ out there.”

That grabs Rafe’s attention. He shuts the closet door a little harder than necessary and makes his way back to his bed without a word.

“It was…nice.” Ryan admits, a small grin creeping in as he thinks back to the kiss.

“The kiss or the rating?” JJ asks, half-curious, half-confused.

“Uh, both, I guess.” Ryan scratches the back of his neck and grabs a t-shirt to throw on. Topper leans back, watching Rafe again. 

“She’s a pretty little thing, huh, Ryan?”

Rafe shakes his head subtly, trying to signal Topper to drop it.

“Yeah, for sure.” Ryan replies casually. Rafe picks up his phone, suddenly very interested in whatever’s on the screen.

“Would you pick her in a recoupling?” Topper pushes, eyes flicking between Ryan and Rafe.

Just as Ryan’s about to answer, the bedroom door swings open. Laughter fills the room.

“I’m serious, Sar!” Y/N’s voice rings out as she enters, wearing Rafe’s hoodie which is oversized on her, paired with boxer shorts. He looks up instantly, a smile breaking across his face.

She walks toward their bed, resting her water bottle on the nightstand as he lifts the blanket for her. The other girls start settling in and the tension in the room visibly eases.

“Neighbor.” Ryan says with a nod toward her as he slides into the bed next to hers.

Y/N nods back politely, adjusting herself under the covers. Rafe watches their exchange carefully. His hand slips beneath the blanket, resting gently on her thigh, giving it a light squeeze.

“I love that hoodie on you.” He murmurs, voice low so only she can hear. She glances over at him, smirking. 

“Looks better on me, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, definitely.” He grins, eyes tracing her face as she snuggles into the fabric.

“It still smells like you.” She mumbles, nose wrinkling playfully.

“Is that a good thing?” He teases, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

“God, no.” She groans jokingly.

“Oh, really?” He says with mock offense before suddenly launching into a tickle attack, his hands finding her waist. Her laughter breaks through the quiet hum of the room.

“Stop!” She gasps between giggles, trying to wriggle away.

When he finally pulls back, triumphant, she collapses against her pillow, breathless and glowing. Her eyes flicker to his lips for just a second before darting away nervously, checking to make sure no one else noticed.

Right then, the bedroom lights shut off.

“Good night.” She whispers, turning over.

Rafe hesitates, watching her. To him, it almost feels like things are falling back into place. Gently, he wraps an arm around her waist.

“Is…is this okay?” He asks, his voice soft.

She nods slowly, pressing back into him as he spoons her. His hand stays steady on her waist, his breath warm against the back of her neck.

And for now, that’s enough.

Morning sunlight creeps into the villa as the bedroom lights flicker on. Groans echo around the room as the islanders slowly stir to life.

Y/N pulls the duvet over her face, resisting the day with every fiber of her being. Rafe stretches beside her, arm brushing hers before he leans back against the headboard.

Suddenly, a burst of energy enters the scene. Sarah, wide awake and grinning, launches herself from her bed straight onto Y/N.

“Oh my god, Sarah.” Y/N groans, voice muffled by the blankets as Sarah giggles.

“Rise and shine, sleepyhead!” Sarah chirps, wedging herself between Rafe and Y/N like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

Rafe just laughs, shaking his head as Y/N’s face peeks out from under the covers, eyes squinting against the bright lights.

“Get up, girl!” Sarah urges, grabbing Y/N’s shoulders and giving her a shake.

“Sarah…”

“Come on. Big day ahead. And I want you to curl my hair like you did yours the other day? It was so cute!” She exclaims. Y/N groans but finally sits up, adjusting Rafe’s hoodie on her shoulders. 

“Why are you so energetic right now?” She asks, rubbing her eyes.  

“Good sleep? Positive vibes? Who knows.” Sarah shrugs. She hops up and tugs on Y/N’s hand, urging her out of bed.

“You’re literally the most impatient person alive.” Y/N mutters, stretching as she stands. Her hoodie lifts slightly, revealing a flash of skin. Rafe watches, a smirk tugging at his lips. Ryan, from the bed nearby, does too, but more discreetly.

Y/N grabs her water bottle, letting Sarah drag her toward the hallway. The two of them head upstairs, just the two of them, chatting casually as they brush their teeth and wash their faces.

“So…” Sarah starts, drying her face with a fluffy pink towel. “What actually happened last night? You totally skipped over the Rafe part when the girls were asking.”

Y/N spits out her toothpaste and sighs. She dries her face with a towel and walks into the makeup room next door, Sarah close behind her.

“We talked.” She says, settling into her seat. “He explained his side. Said he didn’t mean to hurt me, that he was sorry.”

Sarah listens closely, perching on the edge of the counter.

“And…okay, this is something I haven’t told anyone in here.” Y/N continues. “Before Kelce, I dated this guy. Total douche. Cheated on me. Left me feeling like shit.”

Sarah reaches out instinctively, squeezing her hand. “Y/N…”

“I’m fine now, but…that’s why I reacted the way I did with Rafe. Anyway, Kelce told him and Rafe said he didn’t want me to think of him like my ex.”

Sarah nods, quiet, letting her friend talk.

“He said he was willing to do anything to make it up to me and regain my trust. I told him I need time to think. But also…that the kiss during the challenge was really good. And one thing led to another and…we made out. A little.”

“Oh?” Sarah raises her brows.

“And now I feel like such an idiot.” She pauses, biting the inside of her cheek.

“Why?” Sarah tilts her head, waiting.

“Because I said I needed space, but then I jumped right back into kissing him like nothing happened. It’s like…my brain and my heart just aren’t on the same page.”

Sarah nods, letting her speak.

“And what we have? It’s starting to feel real. Stronger even. But…I’m so confused.”

Sarah reaches out, brushing Y/N’s hand gently. 

“Hey, it’s okay. You don’t have to figure this out right now. Feeling like this is normal. And I know you’re worried, but Rafe is totally down bad for you. Everyone can see it. I honestly believe he wants to make this work. He’s not just saying things to mess with you or make you feel stupid.”

Y/N looks down, voice softer. 

“I didn’t want to say anything in front of the girls. I love them, I really do, but I was scared of being judged for forgiving him so fast. Actually, I was trying to find you last night to tell you first. But then Topper cornered me with some protein powder rant or something.”

Sarah laughs softly.

“You’re the one person I thought would really understand me.” Y/N says, glancing over at her. “You’re my best friend here.”

Sarah’s face softens. She pulls Y/N into a tight hug.

“I love you.” Sarah whispers.

“I love you too, Sar.”

“And for the record.” Sarah says quietly, pulling back just enough to look her in the eyes. “You don’t owe anyone an explanation. If you forgive him, that’s your choice. And if anyone judges you? That’s on them, not you. Period.”

Y/N nods, a small, grateful smile playing on her lips.

“So…” Sarah leans back. “What about Ryan? No pressure, but you said you wanted to get to know him.”

Y/N exhales. 

“He’s…different.”

“Different how?”

“He’s softer. Calmer. Compared to Rafe, he feels more…balanced. At least from what I’ve seen so far.”

Sarah watches her, nodding slowly.

“I like where things are going with Rafe and I’m open to giving him another chance.” Y/N says. “But I’m not closing the door on Ryan either. It’s still early.”

Before Sarah can respond, the makeup room door swings open and the rest of the girls pour in, filling the space with chatter and laughter.

Y/N gestures for Sarah to take a seat so she can start on her hair and just like that, the morning rolls on. Chaotic, loud and full of possibilities. 

As the girls finish getting ready, a knock sounds at the door, barely catching their attention. It creaks open a moment later and Ryan steps in, one hand covering his eyes, the other holding a glass.

“Is everyone decent?” He calls out, nearly bumping into Maddy, who laughs and steadies him.

“We’re good.” She grins, pulling his hand down from his face.

He blinks, adjusting to the light, eyes scanning the room until they land on Y/N. She’s sitting in front of the mirror, nearly finished with her makeup.

“Hey.” She says, smiling.

“Hi.” He returns the smile, stepping closer. “I made you a smoothie. Strawberries, bananas and blueberries. Hope you’re not allergic or anything.”

Y/N looks up at him, surprised and touched. She stands, wrapping her arms around him in a quick, warm hug.

“Thank you.” She says softly, pulling back to meet his eyes. “That’s really sweet of you.”

He hands her the glass with a small smile. 

“No allergies?”

“Nope. Don’t worry.” She shakes her head.

“Oh, good.” He lets out a breath of relief. She takes a sip and her eyes widen.

“Okay, wait-this is actually amazing. Thank you, Ryan.”

He grins, nods once and heads out. The moment the door clicks shut behind him, the room bursts into squeals.

“Told you. The better choice.” Kiara points out again.

Meanwhile, Rafe, Kelce and Topper are mid-set, sweaty and shirtless, but the vibe is easy, until Rafe speaks.

“Y/N and I talked last night.” He says, grabbing a towel and wiping his face. His tone is casual, but the look he shares with Kelce has weight. 

“Yeah?” Kelce raises a brow. Rafe nods. 

“It wasn’t everything, but…it felt like a start. She said she’s open to forgiving me. Eventually.”

Topper doesn’t miss it. He glances over, unimpressed. 

“So not actually forgiven, but you’re getting there?” Topper asks.

“I mean…we kissed.” Rafe says it with a small smirk, but his eyes flicker with hesitation.

“Okay, that’s something.” Kelce replies, leaning against the bench. “How’d it feel?”

Rafe shrugs, then nods slowly. 

“Real. She wasn’t trying to shut me down. I didn't pressure her. It was just…her and me. Like before all the bullshit.”

“So why not forgive you already, then?” Topper asks, grabbing a dumbbell. “She kissed you but still left you hoping for her forgiveness?”

“She’s being careful.” Rafe replies. “I don’t blame her. I didn’t exactly make it easy to trust me.”

Topper scoffs. 

“I just don’t get it. If she’s still into you, then why all the ‘I need time’ crap? What? Is she keeping you on standby while she explores other options?”

Kelce’s head turns sharply. 

“Don’t do that.” He mutters and Topper blinks. 

“What?” He asks.

“Don’t talk like she’s playing him. Or like she owes anyone an answer right away.” Kelce says flatly. “You don’t know what she’s feeling.”

Topper lifts both hands in defense. 

“Alright, relax. I’m just looking out for Rafe.”

“Cool. Look out for him without throwing Y/N under the bus.” Kelce grabs his water and walks off.

Rafe stays back, running a hand through his hair, somewhere between frustrated and hopeful. Topper watches him for a second longer, then claps a hand on his back.

“Just…keep your head clear, man.” He mutters. “You’ve been through enough already.”

Rafe doesn’t answer. He just stares straight ahead, caught between the weight in his chest and the hope still tugging at it.

Confessional - Rafe

“She just needs time. That’s fair. Honestly, after everything...I get it.” He nods slowly, almost like he’s trying to convince himself. “I know she’s not playing me. She wouldn’t do that.”

The day drifts by in a haze of sunshine and splashes, the islanders lounging by the pool or stretched out under the sun. Kiara catches Pope’s eye and motions for him to join her. They head over to one of the yellow couches, the warmth still radiating off the cushions. She adjusts her sunglasses as she settles in, lips pressing into a line.

“How you feeling today? Having fun?” She asks, casual but kind. Pope leans back, smiling. 

“Yeah, it’s been chill. I think we all needed a pool day.”

She nods, agreeing, but her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Listen…” She starts, hesitating. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you for a few days now.”

Pope squints, shielding his eyes from the sun with one hand. His expression shifts.

“I liked the time we spent together. You’re a great guy. But-”

“I get it.” He cuts in gently, a familiar weariness in his voice. “I’ve had this conversation before. You’re not interested. It’s okay.”

Her face softens, eyes searching his. 

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You didn’t.” He replies quickly. “I just…wish I knew earlier.”

Kiara fidgets with the corner of a pillow. 

“You didn’t waste time, Pope. I really did enjoy getting to know you. But we don’t have that…spark. We just don’t click like that.”

“I get it, Kie.” He says, gaze dropping as he looks away.

“You can still meet new people.” She offers quietly. He nods, jaw tight, emotions tugging just beneath the surface. 

“Is that all?”

“I’m sorry.” She says.

“Yeah.” He says, standing. “Me too.”

She rises with him, smoothing her bikini bottoms before looking up. 

“Can I… give you a hug?”

He doesn’t hesitate, steps forward and pulls her into a hug, brief but sincere. He presses a kiss to her temple and offers a small smile before walking off toward the guys.

Kiara makes her way back to the sunbeds, dropping onto the empty one beside Y/N and Maddy. Both girls peek at her over their sunglasses.

“I think I hurt him.” She says quietly. Y/N sits up slightly. 

“What did he say?” She asks.

“That it’s not the first time he’s heard this. And when I apologized, he could barely look at me.” Kiara explains and Maddy sighs. 

“He really felt something with you, Kie. That’s why we told you to talk to him sooner.”

“I know.” She murmurs. “But…am I the bad guy here?”

Y/N shakes her head. 

“No. Your feelings are valid. But so are his. He liked you and he tried. So did you. You can’t force something that’s not there. But you also can’t expect him not to be hurt.”

“I agree.” Maddy adds, reclining again. Kiara lets out a slow breath and glances over at the kitchen, where JJ is trying to distract Pope with small talk and laughter that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

As the sun sets over the villa, the islanders get ready for another lively night. Cleo lounges on the daybed with a drink in hand, laughing with Maddy and Kelce when Pope walks over.

“Hey.” He says, offering a small smile. The group makes room for him, but then he glances at Cleo. “Actually...I was hoping to talk to Cleo for a second.”

Cleo raises a brow, surprised, but Maddy grins and gives her a playful nudge. With a reluctant smile, Cleo stands and smooths down her dress before following Pope over to one of the couches.

“You look really pretty tonight.” He says, sincere.

“Thanks.” She replies softly.

Pope takes a breath, clearly trying to gather his thoughts. 

“Okay, I’m just gonna be upfront and say it. You’re amazing, Cleo. And I was an idiot for not realizing it sooner. And I want to get to know you, if you’re still open to that.”

Cleo studies him, not saying anything at first.

“Pope…” She finally says, her voice calm but guarded, “I’m not interested in being someone’s second choice. You and Kiara just ended things and now you’re here saying all this to me. Can you see how that might not sit right?”

“You’re not a second choice.” He says quickly. “What you said the other night...I felt it too. I just didn’t know how to deal with it then.”

“So how do I know this isn’t just a rebound? How do I know you mean any of this?”

Pope sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“I get it. The timing sucks and it probably looks messy. But I’m not making this up. I’m genuinely attracted to you and not just physically. I want to see if there’s more there. I’m not expecting an answer right now, just…think about it?”

Cleo pauses, letting his words settle.

“I want to get to know you too.” She says carefully. “But if this is just your way of getting over Kiara, I need you to be honest now. I’m not signing up to be someone’s distraction.”

“I swear, Cleo, that’s not what this is.” Pope says earnestly. “Just give me a chance?”

Cleo watches him for a long second, then finally gives a small nod.

“Okay.” She says softly. He smiles, visibly relieved. 

“Yeah? Okay.”

They sit for a beat, the tension easing slightly, but the air still thick with possibility.

Meanwhile, on the couch beneath the terrace, Rafe and Y/N sit close. Close enough to feel each other’s presence, but not quite touching. Y/N’s eyes scan the villa, landing briefly on each islander.

“You nervous or something?” Rafe asks, his tone casual but observant. His arm slips around her shoulders. She stiffens for a second before letting out a quiet breath.

“Sorry. It’s just…” She hesitates, trying to find the right words. “I haven’t told the girls about us…possibly making up.”

“Okay?” His brow furrows slightly. 

“I mean, we talk about everything. And I didn’t want them to judge me for trying to fix things with you. They weren’t exactly Team Rafe after…you know.”

“Yeah. That makes sense.” He says, nodding slowly. Then, more gently. “I…uhh…told Topper and Kelce.”

His fingers trail lightly along her arm, not pushing, just letting her in. She blinks, then nods. 

“No, yeah…I get that. I just wasn’t ready. But I will be.”

He nods again, letting it land without pressure.

“Is that why you’ve been kind of distant?” He asks, his voice softer now. There’s a flicker of something in his expression, hurt. “Afraid they’ll see us?”

“I’m sorry.” She says quietly. “Everything just feels messy right now.”

“Don’t apologize.” He says, shaking his head. “Seriously. You’re here. That’s what matters to me.”

She melts a little, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. He immediately darts his head around, pretending to scan for witnesses like a spy. She bursts into laughter.

“Oh! By the way, can I tell you something?” She asks, her voice dipping conspiratorially.

He claps his hands and rubs them together like he’s prepping for drama.

“Spill the tea.”

She chuckles again.

“Last night, during the challenge, when you had headphones on and Alyssa came up to you, she stopped and said ‘I never got my chance with him, sorry, Y/N’ but in this super passive-aggressive, mean girl voice.”

Rafe raises his brows, unsurprised. 

“Honestly? Not shocked. You remember how she was when she first got here. I told you I didn’t trust her.” He exclaims.

“I know. It just threw me off because she’s been nice since our talk.” She sighs.

“You’re not seriously thinking about talking to her again, are you?” He asks, suddenly serious.

“I mean…I don’t know. I probably shouldn’t-” “You shouldn’t.” He cuts her off.

“But-” “No buts. You already gave her a second chance. She said she wanted to be your friend and now she’s pulling this? Nah. She’s not genuine.”

“Rafe-”

“You don’t see it or maybe you don’t want to, but she doesn’t care about you. If she did, she wouldn’t keep doing this. Did she even apologize?”

Y/N slowly shakes her head, lips pressing into a tight line.

“Exactly!” Rafe throws his hands up like it proves his point. She lets out a sigh, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Okay.” She says, her voice a little steadier now. “I’m not going to bring it up with her. It’s not worth it.”

Rafe nods, firm. 

“Good. You shouldn’t let people walk all over you.”

She gives a small nod back.

Suddenly, the sharp clack of heels cuts through the night. The bedroom door swings open and a figure steps out from the corridor of flowers. The villa falls silent as everyone turns to look.

From the beanbag, Sarah gasps. 

“Ariana? What are you doing here?”

to be continued...

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[dcxdpdabbles]

DCxDP Fanfic Idea: Not My Business

Danny Fenton develops a unique set of skills throughout his life. He knew how to disarm a bomb when he was seven, thanks to his Dad making minebombs in the front yard as a ghost defense. (They only covered humans in ecto-goo, but it was the same concept of not wanting to have it explode on him)

He knew how to fight with a bo-staff only because he had to fight off the meals his parents brought back to life with a broom. He knew how to balance a checkbook, file tax forms, and properly build credit by the time he was ten, thanks to the years his parents ran a business at the kitchen table.

His sister taught him how to charm rude customers with a smile, how to lie without flinching, and how to complete all his assignments on time, despite having only a few hours to do so. She spent a lot of time volunteering, often dragging him along, which allowed Danny to build up his resume with both soft and hard skills he likely would never have thought there was a name for.

Problem-solving, teamwork, communication, time management, adaptability, data analysis, cybersecurity, data entry, and copywriting were the skills that Jazz focused on the most. She all but beat them into his head.

Along with cooking, sewing, basic plumbing, basic mechanics, and budgeting. Jazz was the one who looked for practical abilities.

That left time for his mom and dad to teach him things like forging, combat training, reprogramming everyday objects into weaponry, defending his position before a board for grant money, turning everyday household liquids into knock-out gas, and how to talk his way out of traffic tickets.

Not to mention everything he learn as Phantom.

Danny knew how to verify jewels and gold due to the years spent in the ghost zone fighting off pirates and treasure hunters. Phantom's reputation made him a target for many ghosts who wanted to add his rarity to their collections.

How to command a room, then a town, and finally an army. Diplomatic missions increased in number as he began meeting with the leaders of various sectors within the Ghost Zones.

Really, Danny didn't make a whole lot of sense, if anyone bothered to ask him how he came to this set of skills. The thing was, unlike the rest of his family, Danny was far too reserved to show them off. He edged the line of shyness from a young age, which sometimes bled into reclusive tendencies.

He didn't get anxious from social interactions; he just didn't feel like seeking them out. Sam and Tucker felt a similar way, as they were always willing to talk to a stranger, but they tried to branch out of their safe little bubble to make friends rather than acquaintances. Then the summer between sophomore and junior year happened.

Sam, Danny, and Tucker left tenth grade as plain losers only to arrive in junior with a splash.

The trio noticed that people were staring at them more intensely than they had been before. That they were used to, what they weren't used to was that the stares were not mocking or dismissive.

It was odd, but it didn't click on why that was until winter break, and more specifically, Star's Holiday party.

Ever since the fourth grade, Star hosted the biggest party of their generation. Her parents owned the local fun center, which featured indoor kart racing, laser tag, arcade games, paintball, and virtual reality pods. Everyone tripped over themselves to be given an invitation as she offered a full day and night of free entertainment at the center.

It always ended with wild stories of teenage fun that Danny always wanted to see in person, rather than hearing about in the hallways the next day. Not that everyone in their grade went. The invitation list was super selective (Star's parents did lose a lot of profit for letting their daughter do that)

You either received an invitation from the party girl herself, or you were asked to be a plus one, which was just as much of an honor as it was a symbol of social status among the teenage population of Amity Park.

The trio was never invited, which is why they were already making their way to the student parking lot when Star stood in the courtyard, holding up the scarred envelopes. Inside them was the bracelet that one had to scan at the door of her center to let people in. It was how her father ensured only the agreed-upon guests stayed at that number.

In the middle of making plans for hot chocolate at Sam's favorite poetry slam cafe, Star had run at Tucker's car, practically falling over to knock on his window. Danny had never been so confused in his life as his friend rolled down his window to arch a brow at the girl.

She stuttered her way through a pathetic request for fashion advice that Tucker easily answered in two sentences. Sam snickered as Star seemed unsure what to do with Tucker's lack of interest in her or her popularity.

Ever since Tucker started focusing more on his self-confidence and joined the fashion community, he hadn't been so girl-crazy nor as desperate to get one's attention.

Just as Danny reminded Tucker that other cars were waiting for them to clear the road, Star had pushed three envelopes into the driver's hand and run off with a red face.

Tucker stared at the envelopes in his hands with a wild look that both Sam and Danny shared. They slowly kicked their brains back into gear when an angry honk from the car behind them sounded, and they ended up silently driving the cafe, still in a daze.

Jazz laughed herself silly when they rang her up to ask if she thought it was a trick (Sam was sure they were going to be Carrie-ed), a mistake (Danny insisted Star had gone to the wrong car, but due to the tinting, didn't realize until it was too late). Or a genuine invitation (Tcuker had always been the most optimistic of the three).

"Haven't you three ever wondered why Spectra used emotion-based ectoplasm for her appearance?" She giggled, "It makes people hot. And you guys literally spend all summer in the Ghost Zone during your internships, feeling human emotions while being exposed to natural ectoplasm. You three came back looking good."

That was a shock.

The summer apprenticeships had been a compromise between Sam and her parents. They were growing tired of her not growing out of her "phase" and were threatening to send her to a military camp to straighten her out.

Thankfully, Jazz had stepped in, brilliantly changing their minds into allowing the college student to match Sam up with a well-known friend as a mentor. She even threw Danny and Tucker into her "program" to further show that it was just what Sam needed to stop her from being a troubled teen.

Since only Maddie and Jack knew about Phantom, it took some effort among all of them to create fake websites and legitimate-looking summer programs before Sam, Tucker, and Danny arrived in the Ghost Zone in different vehicles to spend their summers. It helped that Ghostwriter owed them a favor, and he brought the programs to life.

Danny was learning medical practices of various species with Frostbite. Sam was with Princess Dorathea, learning how to govern and manage a large estate. Tucker had taken Wulf up on his offer to join him through the Ghost Zone's wildness, allowing Tucker to experience life off-screen and learn more about animals.

Jazz had said she placed them out of their comfort zones, but with trusted ghosts that could help them build well-rounded characters. At first, it wasn't for them, but the trio found themselves falling in love with their activities.

By the time they came back, they had many stories and exceptional skills to share with their parents. Sam's parents weren't happy she was still a goth, but they did appreciate her newfound determination to connect with them and her interest in running companies like the family business.

Tucker's parents were amazed by the muscles he gained and how he started to limit his screen time. He still loves his tech, but now he was branching out into fashion, helping out around the house, and appreciating animals and nature like never before.

Maddie and Jack watched as Danny grew more empathic while becoming more sure of what to do in stressful situations. Confidence that their son desperately needed had been gifted to him over the summer. He no longer lowered his eyes or slouched, even if his awkwardness lingered a bit.

That apparently made them hot? Yes, it did.

At Star's party, even though the three kept to themselves, laughing and hanging out as normal, people were constantly attempting to talk to them or simply flushing whenever they made eye contact. Danny, Sam, and Tucker all agreed that they no longer wanted to be popular.

They stay firmly behind unbreakable walls even as the party skyrocketed them to the same level of popularity as the A-listers (they refused to join the club). The three were more excited to return to their summer internships the following summer.

By the time graduation rolled around, Danny, Sam, and Tucker had been voted the most attractive and the most likely to succeed. They were a new type of untouchable royalty walking the halls of Casper High.

It came as no surprise that their resumes and internships got them offers from various colleges, not to mention their looks. Jazz, by that point, was still working on her degree at Gotham U, so the three chose to go there.

Danny was studying to become a doctor, Sam was in business, and Tucker chose computer sciences. They had moved into a house that Sam's parents bought for them, allowing Jazz to move out of the dorms into the spare room. Things were going great for a while, living in the big city and being adults on their own for the first time.

Then Danny applied for an internship at Martha Wayne Memorial Hospital in the administrative area- Sam convinced him it would be a good way to get a foot in the door when he applied to medical school. He needed someone to write him rec letters.- And one night, when he was working late on data entry, he happened to see Batman's maskless fall out of a portal produced by a trenchcoat man.

The trenchcoat man carried Batman to the abandoned operating room that had been left behind when they remodeled the place and converted it into offices, followed by the rest of the Bats. Their faces were covered entirely, but it did not hide their worry as they rushed to catch up with the pair.

A woman wearing scrubs pushed through the portal and the group of masked heroes, barking out orders to prepare the room.

There was a magic spell wrapped around the group that typically would have made them invisible, and erase their importance in the mind of whoever looked at them, as if they were from a forgotten dream. Still, Danny's ecto contamination made him immune to the spell, so he witnessed the whole thing.

Huh. Bruce Wayne was Batman. Neat.

Danny figured it wasn't his business and turned back to his two monitors to finish the Excel spreadsheet he was working on. He later left after saving his work, ignoring the fact that he now knew why the operating room had been left untouched, despite having all that technology on standby.

He would get home, mention it over a plate of reheated pizza, while Tucker would be working on an essay due at midnight. His best friend would shrug, claiming his own ectoplasim had made him immune to Poison Ivy's plants- they were shockingly similar to some of the plants Wulf and he encountered in the Ghost Zone- and had seen Red Robin's face after the man had been sprayed in the face and some of the powder lingered on his mask.

Apparently, Tucker's midnight essay writing had given him a familiar, dazed college look of exhaustion. Still, since he wasn't freaking out at the man eating plants, Red Robin had thought him too gone on whatever Posion Ivy how dosed the crowd of hostages with, to worry about his bare face. He had merely moved Tucker somewhere safe, stabbed him in the thigh with a needle, which had been rude according to Tucker, and run off to fight Ivy.

Red Robin was Tim Drake. Neat.

The two changed the subject to a TV show, but eventually Tucker had to focus on his essay, and they fell silent.

The following morning, Sam reported that she, too, had figured out a Gotham Hero's identity by accident. Her ectoplasim contamination had made her an attractive goth, who was approached by a blushing Damian Wayne to ask her to model her alternative style for his art club.

At the offer of a bit of pocket change, Sam had agreed to follow the art club president to a park where a group of teenagers were setting up canvases and easels. They asked her to sit on the park fountain for a few hours while they tried to capture her likeness in charcoal.

During the session, she noticed a change in Damian's movement as he grew more relaxed and his old habits began to shine through. Princess Dorathea had taught her the dangers of the court and how to notice little changes in body language that could keep her safe.

She thought it was odd that Damian moved like an assassin, reaching for a small knife in the same way he wielded his charcoal. It made sense later when she was rescued by Robin on her walk home from a would-be mugging and noticed the same little habits.

Robin was Damian Wayne. Neat.

If three of the many Bats were Waynes or connected to the famous family, it only logically makes sense that the rest were all Waynes too. Double neat.

The only one who was sincerely shocked by this reveal was Jazz, who had not even a hint of suspicion that Bruce Wayne was Batman.

"This is huge!" Jazz gasps, "Don't you guys realize how crazy this is!?"

"I mean, sure," Tucker slowly responded, sharing a confused glance with Sam and Danny. "But it's not really our business, is it? It's not like Danny is in the hero scene anymore."

"Well, yes but come on it's Batman!"

"I don't think Batman even cares about us, much less his Bruce persona. As someone from the bottom of the first class, trust me, the top of the first class doesn't even notice us taking up space. " Sam laughs, shaking her head. Danny hesitates to mention that Bruce Wayne has stopped by his office multiple times to bring coffee for all his coworkers, but figures the man must do that for all his employees.

Miles and miles away in Wayne Manor, Bruce narrows his eyes at the three screens displaying three newly graduated teens covered in paranormal residue. It's possible that they were all haunted and just didn't know it, which was a common thing, according to the Justice League Dark.

After some digging into their background, he found that companies, summer camps, and internships had all been fabricated by an incredible hacker who provided an oddly convincing cover-up for the various skills the trio possessed. Again, the Justice League Dark also stated that it was common, as that was a tactic the Otherworlders frequently used on humans to leech onto them.

Like a gas station in the middle of nowhere that was there and then it wasn't a few days later.

The three weren't experiencing any negative emotions, which meant whatever was haunting them would soon pass, and it wasn't necessary to intervene. Zatanna promised Bruce that everything was fine.

He had some doubts.

So far, the three have been doing everyday things that first-year college students typically do, and yet, Bruce's children have reported seeing the three often in their civilian lives.

Foley worked out at the same gym Dick did and was often at the ramen shop Jason just helped one of his friends open. Manson began spending time at Cass's favorite café and attended Duke's poetry nights as an observer. Fenton, the male one, was literally working a few floors below Tim.

A coincidence?

Or was it something nefarious at play?

Bruce decided to wait and see what happens.

[straylightdream]

how quiet can you be?

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: choi seungcheol x afb.reader

You’re not worried about Jeonghan seeing you, more so you’re worried he’ll hear. You and Seungcheol have an issue trying to stay quiet. More than once, Joshua and Jeonghan have complained about your noise level. It turns out, you’re so loud that Joshua had invested in noise-canceling headphones.

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞(𝐬): established relationship, smut with a little plot

𝐚𝐮(𝐬): nonidol au

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.2k

𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: lots of teasing

𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: unprotect p in v, clit play, creampie, sex while people can hear from the other room, these two are known to be loud, sex while staying as quiet as possible, marking, mentions of Jeonghan walking in on them in the past.

𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: 18+ nsfw

𝐚𝐧: thank you to these lovely humans @facethesunflower , @kwanisms & @supi-wupi for beta reading

𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐬.

Laying on his soft bed, his toned body is pressed up against your back. His lips are sucking on the sensitive skin on your neck as his large hand is massaging your breast, sending shivers down your spine. He runs his tongue along your skin, knowing exactly what to do to drive you wild. In all the time he’s been with you, he’s learned all the ways to turn you on with little to no effort.

Slowly, you roll your body back against his, earning a sinful moan from him. He rolls his hips against your butt as his length already starts to harden.

“Aren’t we supposed to be going to sleep?” you whisper. You know how this is going to end.

“I would rather do more than sleep,” he rasps, rolling his hips again.

“Jeonghan is going to come home any minute,” you moan as he gently nips at your skin.

“He knows you’re staying the night. He’ll knock before entering.” Jeonghan has a habit of bursting into Seungcheol’s room without asking.

His large hand grips your hip, pulling you closer to his hardened length. You’re not worried about Jeonghan seeing you, more so you’re worried he’ll hear. You and Seungcheol have an issue trying to stay quiet. More than once, Joshua and Jeonghan have complained about your noise level. It turns out, you’re so loud that Joshua had invested in noise-canceling headphones.

“You can’t promise that.” You wiggle your butt against him. You’re playing with fire right now. You know Seungcheol would have no problem having sex with you right now. The thought of Jeonghan accidentally walking in won’t stop him, or even the idea of one of his roommates hearing you.

Seungcheol used to get embarrassed when Jeonghan or Joshua would catch you making out on the living room couch, but you've been walked in on too many times to count. It's at the point where he literally doesn’t care. He’s not the type that wants to have sex out in the living room where his roommates could see, but if they’re stupid enough not to knock and barge into his room, he won’t get embarrassed. There have been a handful of times when Jeonghan has burst into the room and found you fully naked while your boyfriend fucked the living daylights out of you.

“I would prefer that Jeonghan doesn’t see me naked again,” you say, biting back a smile.

“You don’t have to be naked for us to have sex.” His lips brush your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. You know if you say no right now he won’t push the issue anymore. The thing is, he’s got you so turned on at this point that you aren’t even sure if you care if Jeonghan walks in or hears you having sex.

“You win. But we have to stay under the covers, and we’re staying in this position.” You can’t help but smile. Having sex while spooning is one of your favorite positions. Seungcheol has not only a long cock, but it’s also thick. When he fucks you from behind, he’s able to hit places and make your brain turn to mush.

He wastes no time pulling off your underwear and pushing his boxers down his thick thighs. His hand reaches over you. His fingers start toying with your sensitive clit. Biting your lip, you try your hardest to hold back your moans.

“Is my baby trying to stay quiet?” He loves to tease you while having sex.

“Cheol—“ you quietly whimper.

“Baby, Shua is in his room. Are you scared he’ll hear you?” His fingers dip down and slowly start pumping in and out of you.

“Um—“

Pulling his finger from your core, he presses his lips to your shoulder. “Lift your leg a little for me baby.” Without a word, you follow his request. Slowly, he pushes in, giving you a moment to adjust to his size. It doesn’t matter that you’ve done this over one hundred times; your body is never fully used to the sheer size of him.

Filled to the brim, his hand rests on your stomach. His lips are kissing anywhere they can reach. Your bottom lip is captured between your teeth.

“Let’s see how quiet you can be,” he teases.

He starts at a slow and deep pace. His hand has moved down so it rests on your mound. His fingers draw slow, lazy circles on your clit. It's clear he’s not trying to make this a quick romp. He intends on dragging this out for you.

One hand grips the sheets below you, while the other holds on to his arm. He’s hitting so deep you feel like you’re seeing stars. The room is filled with the soft sound of his hips hitting your butt and silent gasps. He moans softly in your ear.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you try to focus on staying silent.

His fingers playing with your clit pick up the pace. He’s trying to push you over the edge. Tilting your head to the side, he leaves a trail of open-mouthed kisses. There is no way he’s not leaving behind marks.

Pushing your hips back, you try to meet his thrusts. Quiet gasps keep passing your lips. It’s taking everything in you not to whine and whimper loudly.

“Such a good girl,” he whispers against your ear.

“Fuck—“ you whisper.

“Come for me, baby.” A tidal wave washes over you. Squeezing your eyes closed, you whisper his name like a sinful prayer.

His large hands grab your hips, holding you still. His thrusts become firm as you ride out your high. The low groans passing his lips let you know he’s on the edge of the cliff.

As your high fades away, you focus on helping him find his release by squeezing your walls around him.

“Baby—“ His grip on your hips tightens and he moans your name in your ear. He paints your walls with his milky release.

He’s snug inside you for a long moment before he pulls out. He crawls off the bed and you lay on your back, staring at the ceiling. He helps clean up his sticky cum that’s already starting to leak out.

He sits next to you, smiling gently while rubbing your thigh. “Just so you know, Shua isn’t home and Jeonghan is on a date with his friend he’s in love with. We have the place to ourselves.” Your smile drops at the fact that this man made you believe you had to be quiet so roommates didn’t hear you.

“You asshole—,“ you scream at him.

“But you were so good, baby. Nice and quiet.”

He’s wearing a cocky grin, and even though you want to be mad at him, you can’t deny that this was a fun game.

If you have asked to be tagged I request that you please reblog. If you could leave comments and or tags that would be greatly appreciated.

[marvelstoriesepic]

All up in Flames

Pairing: Firefighter!Bucky x Reader

Summary: You just want your toxic ex-boyfriend’s things to stop haunting your apartment. So you let your friends lit the match. But then the sirens come, and with them Bucky Barnes, who puts out more than just the flames.

Word Count: 9.4k

Warning: destruction of personal property; toxic relationship themes (not Bucky); mentions of an ex-partner; anxiety symptoms; fire; consequences of own actions; reader’s ex is an oc; mentions of ghosting and manipulation; Wanda, Natasha and the Reader are roommates

Author’s Note: I'm not sure how this started, but I felt a strong urge to indulge my unexpected obsession with Bucky as a firefighter. This is ever so slightly inspired by a scene from the series friends. There is an, although fluffy, but also really angsty second part coming up to this in the next few days. The writing part is complete, but I still need to finish some editing. In the meantime, I would love to hear what you think. I hope you enjoy ♡

Part two

Masterlist

You are not okay.

You are so far from okay that if you sent a postcard to okay it would get lost in transit, eaten by a dog, and then set on fire.

Which sounds stupid. But that’s about the luck you are blessed with.

The sun is setting and it might be doing you a favor with that. Spilling soft gold across the city skyline, painting your apartment’s tiny rooftop garden in a glow so warm and gentle it almost feels like forgiveness.

But you’re not in the mood for forgiveness.

You are in the mood for revenge. The emotional, irrational, wonderfully dramatic kind. The kind that smells of smoke and fury and the remnants of a man who once claimed to love you but couldn’t even spell commitment if it came with a free fantasy football draft.

Nolan Aspey. Even his name is a rotting corpse in your mind.

You’re sitting on an old beanbag chair shaped like a strawberry. It squelches when you move. You suspect it might be leaking. You don’t care. Your body is wrapped in a bathrobe that isn’t yours. It’s Natasha’s. It’s also silk, red, and wildly inappropriate for rooftop lounging in May. Still, she insisted. Said heartbreak demands drama.

To your right is Wanda, perched on a rusted garden chair stolen from the community center’s Zumba class. She’s nursing a glass of something suspiciously green and swirling it as though it’s a portion, legs crossed, eyes twinkling with mischief. Her nails are black and so is her soul. You love her for it.

To your left is Natasha, preparing your small setup. She’s wearing aviator sunglasses even though the sun is barely hanging onto the sky, and you’re sure she’s doing it for the aesthetic.

You stare at the setup. There is a bottle of wine - half full, or half empty, depending on whether you’re crying or screaming at any given moment - and a Bluetooth speaker playing a playlist titled Sad Bitch Anthems Vol. 1

You don’t feel like a bitch, though. You feel more like 73% pathetic and 27% rage.

Because in front of you, next to the trash can Natasha is placing - on a cracked terracotta platter that used to house a very unfortunate basil plant - is the pile.

Your ex-boyfriend’s stuff. A pile of heartbreak. The skeletal remains of your relationship.

One hoodie that still holds traces of his cologne - a scent that haunts your dreams and also your laundry hamper. Four concert tickets from that indie band he dragged you to. Two dozen Polaroids of smiles that now feel counterfeit. A necklace he gave you from a kiosk in the mall and claimed was real moonstone but it was plastic, who would have guessed. A series of agonizingly handwritten love letters he sent you after ghosting you for a week. A book you lent him that he never returned, except now it’s water-damaged and somehow sticky. You don’t want to ask why. And a mug that says Boss Man.

You’ve always hated that mug.

You stare at the pile and the pile stares back.

“Okay,” Natasha starts, stretching the word out and flicking open a Zippo lighter with a casually pleasing look. “Let’s set this bitch ablaze.”

“I don’t know,” you hesitate, like a woman who knows this is a terrible idea and is about to do this anyway. “Is this even legal?”

“Is heartbreak legal?” Wanda asks dramatically, putting on oven mitts and holding a fire extinguisher as though it’s a designer clutch. “Is betrayal legal? Is gaslighting-”

“We get it,” you cut in quickly. “He sucked.”

“Oh he did more than suck,” Natasha exclaims, crouching beside the metal trash bin. “He emotionally vaporized you.”

“And that’s why we’re liberating his soul,” Wanda nods solemnly, her Sokovian accent making everything sound like a funeral dirge or a hex. “With fire.”

“Alright, you freaks,” you chuckle a little weakly, something tugging at your chest. “I just- I feel like we should say something,” you continue, voice low. As though you’re standing over a grave.

Wanda lifts an eyebrow. “An eulogy?”

Natasha, already about to strike the match, snorts. “A spell, more like.”

You ignore them. Or try to.

You reach down, pick up the hoodie. Hold it in your hands as though it still is something important to you. You hate that. And it’s ridiculous because he once wore this while spilling bean dip all over your white couch and didn’t even apologize.

Still, you hesitate.

“I mean,” you go on, voice small, “is this crazy? Like, should I be processing this more healthily?”

Natasha tosses the match into the bowl with all the ceremony of a seasoned arsonist. “This is healthy,” she says lowly. “You’re purging. This is emotional detox.”

Wanda nods. “Also, we brought marshmallows.”

You stare.

She lifts a grocery bag. “In case the fire gets big enough.”

You want to protest. To say something sensible. Something like, this surely is illegal, or this is definitely going to attract attention, or rooftop gardens are not structurally designed for bonfires. But instead, you sigh. Pick up one of the letters. Hold it above the flames that are just beginning to flicker.

“I hope he can feel this from wherever he’s ghosting people now.”

The paper catches as though it was waiting for this moment. As though it has always wanted to be free of the nonsense inked into it.

Wanda claps softly. “To ashes.”

“To cleansing,” Natasha adds, sipping her wine while watching you in satisfaction.

You pick up the mug next. Look at it one last time, the painted letters mocking you with their ceramic certainty. Then you chuck it into the trash can. The sound it makes - crack, splinter, dead - is gratifying in a way therapy can’t afford to be.

Your therapist would say this is unhealthy.

Your landlord would say this is grounds for eviction.

Your heart says burn all of it to ashes.

You sit back. Watch as the fire grows bolder, licking up the fabric of his old hoodie. The smoke rises in ribbons, curling around the string lights above and the half-dead succulents in your rooftop sanctuary.

The flames kill fabric, memories, and lies. For a few seconds, it’s cathartic.

You feel free, weirdly, relaxing in your seat. Powerful. Slightly unhinged.

Wanda lets out a feral scream and throws in a pair of his socks.

Natasha sips wine straight from the bottle, smirking.

You’re laughing. Or crying. Or both.

Then there is a crackle.

A pop.

“Is it supposed to make that sound?” Wanda asks, a little too casually.

Natasha shades her eyes with her hand. “Oh.”

“Oh?” you repeat. There’s dread in your voice. A sweet, rising note of oh no I didn’t sign up for actual consequences.

“The candle wax spilled,” Natasha states, calm.

“Why was there wax?” you ask, less calm.

“I thought it would smell nice. Vanilla coconut. Seasonal.”

Wanda leans forward. “Um.”

The fire gets bigger.

It gets way bigger.

The flames lap - ever so enthusiastically - at the rim of the metal bin and start talking to the wind and now the wind is flirting back and suddenly this has escalated into something biblical.

“Uh,” you let out.

“Don’t panic,” Wanda says, panicking.

“I am panicking,” you shout, slapping at a spark that just landed on your blanket as though it’s a bug from hell.

Natasha grabs the fire extinguisher from Wanda after she only fumbles around with the handle.

Wanda holds out her wine as though it might help.

You just stare at the roaring column of flame that used to be your dignity and think you should have just blocked Nolan like a normal person.

“Should I call someone?”

“I mean,” Natasha says, still somewhat calm, brushing ash from her robe, “probably-”

Wanda does it for you.

You hear her muttering into her phone, giving your apartment number like it’s a confession while fanning the smoke with a pizza box.

And you sit there with that sinking, desperate feeling that comes only from realizing you made a terrible life choice, and you’re about to pay for it in paperwork and possibly a visit from the landlord.

The air is full of smoke and regret and singed hoodie.

At least his cologne no longer stings in your nose.

You fan the flames uselessly with a throw pillow and silently pray the neighbors of you three are too busy binge-watching reality TV to notice that the building might be on the brink of spontaneous combustion.

All you wanted was to burn some memories. Some manipulative words. A tiny, hoodie-shaped piece that saw you cry on two separate birthdays. The hoodie that watched you fall asleep restlessly on couches that weren’t yours. The hoodie he left behind as though it meant nothing, as though you meant nothing.

So now you are holding a pillow with shaking hands and a mouthful of second guesses, standing over a metal bin on your rooftop, trying not to make eye contact with the fire as it gets uglier.

And Natasha doesn’t seem to know how to use a fire extinguisher either, bits of foam leaving it, like tiny sprinkles.

You try to help with your blanket. The one with the flowers on it.

They start faintly.

The sirens.

Growing louder.

Like judgment. Or fate. Or the consequences of impulsively burning your romantic history without a permit.

That sound, loud and authoritative and promising rescue, bounces off the buildings and down alleyways like a soundtrack written just for your mental breakdown.

Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm starts wailing as though even it can’t handle the drama.

You hear the brakes of the fire truck before you see it. Hear the way they hiss and groan against the street as though the truck is just as tired of cleaning up after emotionally unstable civilians as you are of being one.

You lean over the ledge of the roof, peering down like Rapunzel mid-crisis, and there it is.

Big. Red. Serious.

Three firemen step out. Their silhouettes are backlit by flashing lights. You feel, absurdly, as though you’re in a heist film. Or a rom-com. Or a public service announcement.

One of them is talking into a radio.

One of them is already unloading equipment.

And one of them is looking up.

At you.

He squints. Cocks his head slightly. Takes you in.

A moment later, they’re clomping up the stairs, boots loud against the old steel.

The door to the rooftop bursts open.

You are trying very hard to look like someone who has not created a situation requiring professional intervention. But you know it’s not working.

You expect seriousness. Gruffness and unamused men, middle-aged with a mustache and a strong opinion on smoke detectors.

But the men walking onto your rooftop are none of that.

There is a blond one. Tall. Built like the world’s most polite oak tree.

Another one is smiling. Smirking. Radiating fun uncle energy despite the full turnout gear.

And the last one. He’s tall and broad and also wears the full gear - helmet tucked under one arm, soot-smudged gloves on the other - and still, he manages to look as though he walked off the set of a calendar shoot titled America’s Hottest Emergency. He’s the one who looked up at you from below.

“Evening, ladies,” he says, voice low and a little raspy, as though he chews gravel for breakfast but politely wipes his mouth after.

His eyes are blue. Clear. Kind.

His gear fits him as though it was pressed in heaven.

He’s calm. Collected. He glances once at the smoking bin, then at Natasha holding a fire extinguisher as though it might double as a weapon, then back at you.

“This the source?”

His voice is deep and even and somehow gentle. He gestures toward the bin, that’s now doing its best impersonation of a forge. The fire’s down to a few stubborn flames now, black smoke rising into the sky.

“Yes,” you answer, after what is definitely too long a pause.

His name tag says Barnes.

His uniform is clean and neat and slightly smudged at the knees. His hands are gloved. His expression is unreadable.

“We take it from here,” says the blond with the tag Rogers, already moving toward the bin.

“We’ve got a call about open flame, potential spread. You ladies okay?” Barnes speaks up again.

You open your mouth.

Wanda opens her mouth.

Natasha gets there first.

“It was controlled.”

He raises an eyebrow. Glances at the still-smoldering hoodie, the wine, the melted candle that now looks as though it’s auditioning for a horror movie.

“It was semi-controlled,” she clarifies.

Barnes exchanges a glance with his colleague, the one dousing the final embers. The patch on his jacket says Wilson.

“Uh-huh,” he simply lets out, though there is a hint of amusement in his tone. He doesn’t laugh. But his eyes sparkle as though he wants to.

You want the ground to open up and swallow you. You want to disappear, evaporate into smoke like the hoodie, the letters, the relationship, your pride.

You clear your throat.

Barnes already turns back to you. And oh. Oh.

His intense gaze is doing things to you.

And it doesn’t help that your face probably is covered in soot and existential shame.

“Just out of curiosity,” Bucky says slowly, a small tug at the corner of his mouth. “What exactly were you trying to do?”

Natasha folds her arms.

“Therapy,” she responds, as though it’s obvious. “We were doing therapy.”

“With fire?” Wilson chimes in, skeptical and mildly delighted.

“Had a rough night,” Wanda offers suddenly. “Her ex. Real piece of work.”

You inhale sharply. “Wanda,” you warn, wobbling with the effort to appear dignified while wearing fuzzy socks and an aggressively red bathrobe that’s slowly coming untied.

“No, he was,” she insists. “He lied. Manipulated her. Ghosted her after a year of dating. Said he wasn’t ready for a relationship, for commitment, and whatnot, and then got engaged. Two weeks later. To someone who doesn’t even like dogs.”

You see Barnes wince.

“Damn,” Wilson lets out.

You close your eyes for a moment.

The rooftop is very still, save for the hiss of water on ashes.

Barnes doesn’t laugh.

He doesn’t say anything for a second. Just looks at you. Measures you.

“That’s rough.” His voice comes low. Even. However, there is more to it.

You nod once. You’re not sure what else to say.

He runs a hand over the back of his neck. He looks as though he wants to say something else. Something a little softer. But the blond speaks up.

“Next time you feel like getting rid of things,” he says, voice sympathetic, but firm, “might want to try a donation bin.”

Natasha smirks. “Not as satisfying.”

Roger’s lips twitch. Just barley. “Well, if you’re going to keep burning stuff, maybe give us a heads-up next time.”

You just want to be swallowed by something. The earth maybe while we’re at it.

Bucky’s eyes are soft. Subtle. Like watching an iron door swing open just a crack.

“Did it help, though?” he asks, seeming sincere.

You blink.

You certainly didn’t expect a question like that. You might have expected teasing. Or mockery. Not gentleness. Understanding. As though he stood where you are. As though maybe he tried to burn his past too.

You nod, a little shyly. “A little.”

The fire has now been extinguished. Wilson and Rogers share a few words, poking the ashes with a metal rod.

And Bucky still looks at you as though you are not ridiculous. As though you are not ash-streaked and emotionally unstable.

Then he clears his throat. Smiles a slow, crooked, criminally charming smile. It’s the kind of smile that makes you want to confess things. Dreams. Secrets. Your social security number.

“Well,” he starts smoothly. “Fire’s out. No citation this time, but maybe go easy on the candle sacrifices.”

You feel something in your chest flutter. Or combust. Honestly, hard to tell at this point.

You want to thank him. You want to say something easy. But you are still a hot, melted candle of a person yourself.

So instead, you nod. “Okay,” you promise, voice rather small.

He tips an imaginary hat. Then turns back to his team. Taps his helmet once against his leg and gives the others a low command you can’t hear.

The moment is over. Clean-up begins. The fire is out. The chaos is settling.

But for some reason, your heart is still making noise.

****

Time doesn’t tiptoe.

It lumbers, loud and unbalanced, dragging itself across your days with all the grace of a wounded elephant.

But still, it moves. And you start to feel like yourself again. Piece by piece.

You sweep the ash out of your ribcage. You remember what it feels like to listen to music without flinching. To laugh and mean it. To make pasta at two in the morning just because you want to. To exist without waiting for the next disappointment.

It’s enough for you to walk barefoot again without stepping on invisible landmines disguised as memory - his coffee mug, his toothbrush, his phone charger, his smell stuck to your pillowcase like grief with a cologne subscription.

But all of that is gone now. Burned.

Literally.

Charcoal in a rooftop bin. Ashes scattered to the wind like bad omens. The hoodie’s gone. Melted into memory. Along with the notes, the tickets, the Polaroid of the two of you at that Halloween party where he said he loved you for the first time with sugar on his lips and a lie in his mouth.

You’re better now.

And on a Thursday, you find yourself sitting cross-legged on the couch, wrapped in a blanket that smells of Wanda’s lemon detergent and safety, your head in Wanda’s lap, legs draped over Natasha’s thighs, all of you filled with late breakfast and post-shower hair and the warm, sleepy glow of late morning.

Wanda is ranting about her dream journal. She always tries to analyze her dreams for some reason.

“But I was a tree, Y/n,” she’s saying, balancing a mug on your shoulder. “An emotional tree. I cried leaves.”

Natasha doesn’t blink. “That’s tracks.”

You hum amused. “You’ve always been sympathizing with nature, Wan.”

Wanda points her spoon at you as though it’s a wand. “You get it. Nature is screaming and I hear her.”

A worn novel lay on your shins on Natasha’s lap, cracked open. But she’s been on the same page for twenty minutes. You think she’s listening more than she lets on.

The apartment smells of roasted bread. The sun is slanting in through the windows just right - those lazy golden stripes that make even your chipped coffee table look cinematic.

“Do you think he knows?” you voice after a silent moment.

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “Knows what?”

“That I burned his stuff?”

Wanda hums, carding her fingers through your hair. “Don’t think about that. It doesn’t matter if he knows. The universe knows. That’s enough.”

You glance at the windows. You wonder if the hoodie screamed when it caught fire. You hope it did.

“Honestly,” you say around a handful of cereal, voice lighter, “burning that stuff was the healthiest decision I’ve ever made.”

Natasha smirks. “Aside from therapy.”

“Obviously.”

“And cutting your bangs.”

“That was a journey.”

Wanda lifts her mug. “To combustion and personal growth.”

You clink your cereal box against her cup. “Amen.”

There were, of course, consequences. A polite but stern letter from the landlord. An eye-roll of a fine from the city. For future ceremonial burnings, please contact the fire department in advance, it read.

But it was worth it.

Every last spark.

There’s a comfort here, in the clutter, in the way time is moving again. Not fast, not smooth, but forward. You’ve started reading books again. You’ve stopped stalking his Instagram. Well, mostly.

“You seem about a few steps away from writing a memoir called How to Set Men on Fire (and Still Make It to Brunch)” Natasha muses.

“I’d buy that,” Wanda immediately chimes in.

You snort.

Outside, someone yells at their dog. A siren shrieks in the far-off distance like an unfinished thought. Your apartment smells of burnt toast and coffee grounds, and it’s home.

You’re okay.

Almost.

And then the fire alarm goes off.

It screams. A wailing, shrieking, banshee of a sound, as though the building is having a panic attack and wants you to join in. Lights flash. The walls vibrate. Your soul tries to exit your body.

Wanda’s spoon hovers in the air.

Natasha glances at the ceiling with an unimpressed look.

You feel your pulse do a little skip. Not in a full panic. But a creeping suspicion unfurls behind your ribs.

Natasha is already standing, moving, with the efficiency of a woman who’s never been surprised in her life.

“Is this us?” Wanda asks, voice high and uncertain. She looks around your shared apartment. “Did we- was it the oven?”

You bolt upright. “Nothing’s in the oven.”

“Well then who-”

“I swear I didn’t light anything.” You raise your hands.

“Well, I didn’t either,” Wanda insists.

“Doesn’t smell like us,” Natasha says, sniffing the air like a human smoke detector.

But none of that matters because the building has made a decision and that decision is everyone out now.

You’re still sitting. You’re in pajamas. You all are. And not the cute kind either. The kind that suggests you’ve been crying into a tub of ice cream while watching documentaries about whales. The kind with ducks on the pants and a sweatshirt that’s two sizes too big and maybe has a mustard stain from Tuesday.

You hear doors opening. Feet on stairs. Someone is yelling about their cat.

Natasha grabs her phone and keys. “Let’s go before it turns into the Hunger Games.”

You move. Slowly.

You’ve made your peace with fire, sure - but only the kind you start on purpose. Symbolic. Controlled. Supervised by emotionally repressed firefighters with sharp jaws and suspicious amounts of upper body strength.

But this is unexpected.

This is the kind of thing that sends a hot flood of unease down your spine, because what if the universe is laughing at you again? What if you are, yet again, being punished for trying to let go?

You follow Wanda and Natasha out the door.

The hallway is bright with flashing lights - red, urgent. The sound is louder out here. So loud it makes your teeth vibrate. You can’t tell if it’s coming from your floor or somewhere above, but there’s a smell this time. Faint, sharp, ugly. Plastic and heat and something bitter curling in the air.

There’s a river of bathrobes and sweatpants and panicked neighbors. The stairwell smells like old takeout and anxiety. A toddler is crying. Someone’s dog is barking. A woman herds two cats into a carrier with shaking hands.

Mr. Feldman from 3B is arguing with someone on speakerphone about whether he unplugged the coffee maker, and you think the fire alarm might actually be the least chaotic sound happening right now.

“Was this us?” you repeat Wanda’s question, a little unsure, as you file down the stairs like middle-class refugees.

“No,” Natasha mutters coolly. “But I’m still blaming you.”

You clutch the railing and follow, ducking your head, trying not to make eye contact with any of your neighbors as your duck-printed pajama pants flap dramatically behind you.

You shouldn’t care. No one looks good during evacuation. And Wanda and Natasha look the same.

And yet. Your heart is doing something strange again.

It isn’t panic. It is expectation.

Your chest knows something your brain refuses to name.

At the bottom of the stairwell, someone holds the door open and you all spill into the daylight. The whole building is out now, buzzing like bees, people muttering and shielding their eyes.

You breathe in. Sharp. Cool. You try to ignore the knot forming in your stomach.

Smoke - real and thick - drifts from one of the kitchen windows on the fourth floor.

The crowd shifts around you - barefoot neighbors, a couple wrapped in matching bathrobes, one guy in boxers and cowboy boots holding a microwave. Someone brought their goldfish out in a bowl.

You stand near the hedges with Natasha on one side, arms crossed, and Wanda on the other, biting a fingernail and muttering something about how she definitely turned off the stove.

And then - like something out of a fever dream or a scene you didn’t realize you were still starring in - you hear it.

The sirens.

Louder this time. Close.

You freeze.

Wanda gives you a side-eye.

Natasha is already smirking. Already watching the street like a woman with a secret.

There’s a rumble. A hiss. The low growl of something inevitable.

And there it is.

The truck.

Big. Glossy red. Familiar. Like a mouth ready to swallow your dignity whole. Lights flash, the crew leaps down, gear gleams in the late morning light.

Fife firefighters fan out with mechanical movements. Their boots hit the pavement.

And one of them is Barnes.

He swings out of the cab with the ease of someone who does this for a living, the kind of grace that comes from muscle memory and a thousand repetitions.

Helmet under one arm. Radio clipped to his shoulder. That same uniform hugging his frame beautifully, as though even his clothes know how lucky they are.

He doesn’t see you at first.

He’s too busy scanning the building, hollering orders. Wilson and Rogers follow behind, already moving. You watch them as though this is a movie.

Barnes is all lines and velocity. His body moves as though he doesn’t need to think, as though instinct lives in his spine. The heavy jacket makes his shoulders look even broader, the suspenders visible where the coat parts, and everything about him suggests competence with a capital C. He’s not just handsome, he’s horrifyingly capable.

Your mouth is dry.

His eyes sweep the crowd.

And then he sees you.

He stops. Only for a second. His face changes.

You wish you had the words to explain it, to bottle it, to pin it down like a butterfly under glass. It’s not surprise exactly.

It’s something softer. Smaller. Recognition.

His eyes travel down your frame like a soft inventory. Not lewd, not invasive. Just checking to make sure you’re still whole.

Your whole body wants to shrink into itself like an accordion. You are in duck pajama pants. You have mascara from yesterday smeared beneath one eye and your socks don’t match and you have nothing to use as a shield against judgment.

Barnes doesn’t say anything as he walks past your cluster, but his gaze brushes yours again. A flicker. Like a note passed under the table. You feel it in your spine.

And then he’s gone, slipping into the building.

The door swings closed behind him.

And your whole body forgets what it was doing.

The tall blond and another man whose name tag you’re not able to make out follow him, shouting something into the radio as they rush through the front doors. Wilson stays near the truck, communicating with a woman in a blazer. Another circles the building’s exterior, already unraveling the hose in a way that feels choreographed.

Wanda exhales beside you. “Okay but why do I feel like I need to sit down.”

Natasha keeps smirking. “Girl’s not even on fire and he still looked like he wanted to carry her out bridal style.”

You don’t answer. You pretend not to hear them. You’re too busy trying to teach your lungs how to work.

A woman nearby is having a loud conversation with her parrot in a travel cage. An older man keeps pointing at the sky and saying something about chemtrails.

Across the street, a woman with curlers in her hair cradles a barking Pomeranian. A man in flannel pajama bottoms is life-streaming on Instagram, offering uninformed commentary like, “Yeah, looks like they’re going in hot. You seen that one dude? That’s the captain. I think. Or maybe the lieutenant? I don’t know, he’s got the vibe.”

But you are watching the front door.

Five minutes pass. Maybe ten. It feels like too long. You chew the inside of your cheek until it tastes of metal.

Then the door opens again.

Barnes steps out first.

He’s holding a cat.

A full-grown orange tabby against his chest. It meows furiously but stays nestled against his jacket, one paw resting just under his collarbone.

The crowd parts for him as though he is Moses with a fireproof jacket.

“Oh would you look at that,” Wanda whispers delighted. “A true hero.”

You inhale through your nose. It doesn’t help.

You continue watching how he walks across the street and hands the cat to a sobbing teenage girl who is engulfed in a comforter and clutching the fabric with trembling hands. He squats in front of her. Saying something. Something soft, gentle, reassuring. And she laughs through her tears. You watch her nod. You watch her wipe her face with her sleeve.

You want to ask what he said.

You want to ask a thousand things.

But mostly, you want to stand still in this feeling a little longer.

It’s something shaped like interest, tilted toward longing, balanced on the lip of something you never expected to feel just yet.

“Just smoke from a toaster,” one of the other firefighters calls out. His name tag says Torres. “No damage. False alarm.”

The neighbors sigh. Groan. Someone claps.

You still can’t look away from him.

He stands again. And then there’s another glance.

His posture is relaxed now. The light hits the silver of his belt buckle and makes your eyes squint. A breeze picks up and he runs a hand through his hair.

God, he looks human in a way that makes you forget you’re made of skin and not glass.

People are filing back into the building, muttering about smoke detectors and building codes, their faces pulled into various expressions of relief, annoyance, and boredom.

You’re still on the curb.

The sirens have stopped. The smoke has thinned.

And then suddenly, Barnes turns. Starts walking. Straight toward you.

Your pulse is pounding as though the building is about to fall.

You pull your sleeves over your hands because it’s all you can do with them.

You’re staring at a crack in the pavement. One that branches like lightning across the sidewalk. One you’ve never noticed before, though you must have stepped over it a hundred times. It looks like something trying to split open, as though even the concrete is tired of pretending.

You look up and he’s already halfway to you.

He is walking as though he means to. Not rushing, but not wandering, either.

He’s got his jacket slung over one shoulder this time, sloppily, as though he forgot it mattered. The suspenders are still visible, stretched over a plain navy shirt that shouldn’t be as flattering as it is. His gloves are tucked in the crook of his elbow. The radio clipped to his belt is crackling with static and shorthand codes, but he doesn’t reach for it. A smudge of soot streaks his jaw like a shadow of what he just walked through.

His boots are heavy, but his steps aren’t. His eyes are on you.

He walks like someone who isn’t thinking too hard about where he’s going but definitely knows where he wants to stop.

You blink twice. Your heartbeat forgets what tempo it’s supposed to be playing.

Natasha says nothing, but you feel her lean imperceptibly to the side, just out of the line. Wanda pretends to scroll on her phone, though the screen is black and upside down.

There is still the faint scent of smoke in the air. But his scent cuts through it - soap, metal, something warm and masculine that probably shouldn’t make your knees wobble, but does.

You consider digging a hole in the sidewalk and folding yourself into it like a collapsible chair.

But you don’t. You don’t move.

You don’t breathe.

And then he’s there. Right there.

Boots planted on pavement. A hair’s breadth too close for casual, a hair’s breadth too far for intentional.

You look up at him.

He looks down at you.

“Well,” he starts, rough voice, but you see a twitch of amusement in his mouth that seeps warmly into his tone, “this isn’t gonna turn into a habit, is it?”

Your pulse makes poor decisions. You forget every single word you’ve ever learned in any language, including your native one.

A corner of his mouth quirks up further. “Because if it is, I’m gonna start thinking you just like havin’ us over.”

You find scratches of your voice somewhere in your throat. “Wasn’t us this time, gladly,” you say, a bashful and breathless laugh fleeing your lips. You turn to Natasha and Wanda for a moment but it seems they expect you to lead this conversation.

“Glad to hear it,” he says, tilting his head. “Had me worried for a second. Fire call, same building. Whole lotta commotion. Coulda been you tryin’ to burn something again.” His tone holds a teasing edge. His eyes are glinting.

You cringe. “Right. Sorry about that, again.”

A smile breaks fully across his face - slowly, as if it’s deciding whether it’s allowed to exist. It changes his whole face. Brightens him, somehow. As though there is a light inside his chest and someone just flipped the switch.

“Ah, no worries. S’ what we’re here for,” he rumbles, amused but soft.

He’s still smiling. Still watching you with that calm, unreadable focus that makes you feel as if you’re standing under a magnifying glass, but not in a cruel way.

“Name’s Bucky, by the way,” he says, like a gift.

You stare. “Sorry, what?”

He smiles wider. “My name. Bucky. Captain Barnes, technically, but Bucky’s fine. You know, in case you decide to burn anything again and want a direct line.”

Your mouth parts.

“Oh,” is all that comes out. Brilliantly. Eloquently. Like a poet in the throes of emotional ruin.

Bucky chuckles softly, a little small. Then scratches the back of his neck.

“I, uh-” he starts, then stops. Then shifts his weight a little. “I didn’t get your name last time.”

You study the smudge on his ridiculously handsome face. The square of his jaw. The lashes too long for fairness. The scar, faint and silvery, placed just under his left eye like a comma he forgot to erase.

You tell him your name.

His smile deepens when he hears it. Grows softer. He repeats it once, quietly, as though he is trying it out. You wish he wouldn’t do that. You wish he’d do it again.

“Well,” he notes, glancing down at the pavement, then back at you. “Nice to meet you officially. Under slightly less dramatic circumstances.”

You smile. “Slightly.”

There is a beat. A quiet one. His eyes flicker down your frame and back up - quick, respectful, but curious. You swear he clocks the fact that your hands are shaking a little.

He rebalances, a ripple passing down his spine to his heels. “You okay, though? Really?”

You nod, heart hammering too loudly in your ears. “Yeah, we’re okay. It’s a relief that it was only a false alarm. And it wasn’t us.”

You gesture lamely at the girls. Wanda waves with exactly one finger. Natasha stands there with the corner of her mouth tugged up smugly. She barely nods.

Bucky doesn’t take his eyes off you.

It’s not overt. Not predatory or invasive. But it’s not nothing, either. Just direct.

He nods slowly. As though your answer passed inspection.

“You girls all live together?”

You nod again, teeth catching the inside of your cheek. “Yeah. All three of us. Since last spring.”

He hums. Doesn’t look away.

Doesn’t look at Natasha. Doesn’t look at Wanda.

Just you.

“Good,” he says finally. “That’s good. You’ve got backup.”

You smile, tentatively. “They’re alright.”

“Sure are,” Natasha deadpans.

Wanda throws a heart at you with her hands.

Bucky’s eyes crinkle a little at the edges. You want to bottle that look. Hide it in your drawer. Peek at it when the day is quiet and you forget what warmth feels like.

A pause.

You think maybe that’s it. Maybe he’ll tip his head, excuse himself, go back to his team. That would make sense. That would be the responsible, professional thing to do.

Instead, he points to your pants. “Nice ducks, by the way.”

You stare at him. You absolutely, completely stare.

Natasha makes a pretty unattractive snorting sound behind you.

Wanda is suddenly very interested in retying her shoelaces.

“Thanks,” you manage. “They’re vintage.” You hope you sound less embarrassed than you feel.

He lets out a rumbling laugh.

Then the tall blond calls his name. Rogers. Sharp. Quick. Business.

Bucky turns, lifts a hand in acknowledgment. “Duty calls.”

He takes a step backward, but his eyes stay on yours a second too long.

And then he winks. It’s absurd. It’s illegal. It’s completely unnecessary.

“It was nice seeing you again.”

Then he walks back to the truck. Climbs in.

The engine roars. The lights flash once more for good measure. The truck eases into the street, and he is gone.

But you don’t move.

You just stand there, blinking into the smoke-tinged sunlight, your names still hanging between you.

You roll his name around in your head like a stone you’re not ready to skip.

Wanda steps up beside you, peering after the truck. She sighs like a Victorian ghost. “I love that you didn’t blink that entire time.”

“I blinked,” you grumble.

“You didn’t,” Natasha confirms flatly.

You inhale deeply.

Wanda grins. “So, what are we going to burn next.”

You exhale. Laugh, light and shocked and a little bit lost.

And you don’t answer.

But you’ve never wanted to set something on fire so badly, just to see if he’d come back.

****

You don’t want to go.

Not even a little. Not even at all.

You say it with your whole chest, with your arms crossed and your face stuffed into the corner of the couch cushion.

Wanda is painting her toenails on the coffee table. “Come one. It’ll be fun.”

Natasha doesn’t look up from her phone. “It’s good for team bonding.”

“Team bonding?” you squeak. “What are we, a softball league?”

Natasha shrugs. “I’m just saying. If there’s ever another toaster incident, I’d rather not die because you were emotionally incapacitated by a bread product.”

You groan into the pillow.

Wanda and Natasha signed you up for a fire safety class.

And you’re terrified.

Because it’s been weeks since you saw him last. Weeks since the smoke, and the heat, and the stupid lingering eye contact. Since he said your name as though he meant to keep it in his mouth for a while.

And you know - because your spine told you before your brain caught up - you know Bucky Barnes is going to be there.

You know this because Wanda knows things, and Natasha forces things into being.

And yes, okay, you miss him. You do. You hate that you do. You met the guy two times and still, your heart folds a little at the sound of diesel engines, you started keeping your hair brushed and your lips soft just in case the universe decides to toss him back into your orbit.

But seeing him again would surely feel like touching a sunburn.

You don’t want to burn.

You don’t want to heal, either.

You want to stay in this in-between where you get to miss him quietly without having to do anything about it.

So naturally, you end up in a folding chair in the local fire station’s multi-purpose room at 6:59 pm on a Wednesday.

There is a faint scent of metal and ash in the air. The kind that stays on walls no matter how many layers of institutional paint try to hide it. The overhead fluorescents are buzzing as though they are irritated by your presence. A series of old community flyers hang crookedly by the entrance. One says Stop, Drop, and Roll Your Way Into Preparedness! with a cartoon Dalmatian smiling as if it has secrets.

And although you would rather perish than admit it to your best friends, you came prepared.

You’ve been preparing for this moment the way some people prepare for court trials or emotionally complex family dinners.

You know the difference between a Class A and Class B fire.

You know the ideal temperature range from smoke detectors to function.

You know that a grease fire should never be doused with water and that lots of people don’t find this fact to be obvious.

You even practiced saying pull, aim, squeeze, sweep in a tone of detached casual interest while brushing your teeth last night.

Because you thought maybe if he sees you as competent, as calm, as someone who doesn’t panic around fire or men with broad shoulders, then maybe he’d-

You don’t finish the thought.

Because it’s dangerous.

Because although you didn’t agree to go here, you technically didn’t say no, which Natasha argued was basically a signed contract in this household and Wanda only hummed from the kitchen while printing out the registration forms.

Because your stomach flipped when Wanda said his name earlier. Because it flips every time. It still flips now.

Because you think about him too much. And you know you shouldn’t.

You’ve been doing well. Truly, objectively, almost scientifically well. You burned the things of your ex. You deleted his number. You ignored the last two texts, even when they got mean. You ignored phone calls from anonymous numbers because you knew he had his ways of reaching you. You told yourself it was done.

But it was Wanda who said it last night, curled into your couch with her knees tucked under your blanket and sympathy as well as concern in her eyes.

“He’s going to keep trying, you know. That kind of man always does. The trick is to stop listening before he gets loud enough to convince you you’re still his.”

You didn’t say anything then.

But now, sitting here, hands tucked under your thighs, ankles crossed awkwardly, the words feel like something still echoing inside your chest.

You’re trying not to sweat through your light sweater, trying not to pull at your sleeves as though you are twelve again and back in gym class, trying very hard not to imagine what it’s going to feel like when he walks in.

Bucky.

God, even his name feels like a bruise you keep poking on purpose.

“Just relax,” Wanda eases from beside you, all calm and legs crossed and sipping her chamomile tea in a travel mug she smuggled in as though it’s not against the rules. “It’s just a class.”

“And not just any,” Natasha adds sultry, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder with the kind of confidence you’re not able to possess at the moment. “It’s fire safety. You’ll learn to stop, drop, and roll, and make eye contact with your future husband.”

You turn to look at her. “I hate you.”

She nods. “But in a sexy, grateful way.”

You sigh. Cross your arms. Chew on the edge of your thumbnail and silently negotiate with god.

And then he walks in.

You feel him before you see him. Like gravity shifting. Like a magnetic field drawing your molecules to the surface of your skin.

Bucky Barnes steps through the doorway in a dark navy station polo, sleeves hugging his biceps with zero regard for your emotional stability. His uniform is not the big, intimidating, soot-stained kind with suspenders and the heavy boots and the sense that something is burning. This is the community outreach uniform. His dark hair is swept back but a little tousled, as though maybe he was in a rush. There is a clipboard under one arm, a radio attached to his belt, and he looks like competence in human form.

You exhale as though you’ve been underwater.

The entire class - about twelve people in total - turn to look at him as though they’ve never seen a firefighter before in their lives. There are a few women in yoga pants, a very enthusiastic grandpa, one teenager who looks as though he was dragged here as punishment, and a few genuinely interested looking men.

He doesn’t see you right away. He’s scanning the front row, muttering something to one of the other firefighters - Danvers, her name tag reads, a straight-standing, no-nonsense woman with a kind smile. She looks as though she could carry a refrigerator up a mountain, and you sink further into your chair.

Wanda leans into your space. “I can basically hear your ovaries-”

“Shut up,” you grit out, feeling as though you might melt into the fabric of the chair beneath you.

Bucky scans the room, nods a polite greeting.

And then he sees you.

You freeze.

He doesn’t.

It’s not dramatic. Not some cinematic double-take.

It’s worse. It’s soft.

His eyes catch yours and he smiles. Just a small curve of the lips. But it’s tender. Not performative. Not polite.

Your heart cartwheels straight out of the window.

You try to smile back but you’re pretty sure what happens on your face is chaotic.

Wanda makes a sound into your ear that can only be described as a squeal disguised as a cough. Natasha looks far too smug.

Bucky turns back to the room as though nothing happened. As though he hasn’t just detonated something in your bloodstream.

But he does stand a little straighter. Taller. Composed.

Then he claps his hands once, enough to bring the room to attention. As though he didn’t already have all eyes on him.

“Alright, folks,” he begins, voice even and low and warm enough to steep tea in. “Thanks for showing up. I’m Bucky, this is Carol. We’re going to run through some fire safety basics tonight. Shouldn’t take too long. Might even be fun.”

He grins now, looking around, landing just short of you this time.

You are a molecule. You are made of panic and possibility.

“But,” he speaks up, adjusting the clipboard. His voice is still doing that low rumble thing, like warm honey poured over rock. “Before I start throwing a bunch of information at you, I wanna know where everyone’s at. What you know, what you don’t, if anyone’s set anything on fire recently - accident or otherwise.”

His gaze snaps to you for just a second.

Your face bursts into flames.

Natasha and Wanda both lean in sideways and you shut them both up with a glare.

Bucky paces slowly across the room as he talks, like someone stretching his legs, taking his time. He gestures toward the group with a nod.

“Let’s start simple,” he continues. “Say your smoke alarm goes off in the middle of the night. What’s the first thing you do?”

Silence.

A few people shift in their seats. One woman raises her hand. “Grab my purse?”

“Put on pants?” remarks one of the guys.

Bucky smiles. “Valid. But not ideal.”

You raise your hand, heart thudding. Bucky raises an eyebrow, facing you fully and nodding at you.

“Check the door for heat before opening it,” you say, voice clearer than expected. “Use the back of your hand. If it’s hot, find an alternate escape route. It not, open it slowly and stay low.”

Bucky grins. It’s real and blinding. Pulling up slowly, tugging at the corners of his mouth as though he forgot how good it feels to smile that way. A glint sparks in his eyes.

“Exactly,” he confirms, nodding. “Textbook.”

You smile back shyly before you can stop yourself.

Natasha exhales beside you as though she is watching a soap opera. “She’s showing off.”

“I’m so proud,” Wanda whispers, misty-eyed.

You ignore them both.

Bucky keeps going, asking questions you mostly end up answering.

And he keeps watching you. Keeps studying you. And every time he does, something tightens behind your ribs.

A woman behind you mutters something about you being a teacher’s pet, but you don’t care. You’re not trying to be perfect. You’re trying to show him you learned from your mistakes.

And his eyes - blue and gentle and a little too amused - sparkle when you catch him glancing again. He ducks his chin once, as if to say you got me, and moves on to demonstrate how to deploy a fire extinguisher.

When he picks one up with two fingers as though it’s a soda can, several women gasp delighted.

Your skin prickles.

Natasha takes a slow sip of her coffee and watches you as though she is analyzing battlefield tactics.

When Bucky explains PASS - Pull, Aim, Squeeze, Sweep - you mouth the words along with him without meaning to.

He notices. You know he does.

There’s this almost smirk on his face.

And you can see the softness in his expression.

He talks through the basics - smoke alarms, evacuation plans, kitchen hazards. There are visuals. Charts. A slideshow. Wanda takes notes. Natasha twirls her pen like a knife.

You try to pay attention.

But your eyes keep drifting.

To him.

To the way he gestures with his hands. The way his fingers touch the edge of the table when he leans forward. The way he makes everyone laugh when he admits he once set off a fire alarm in the station trying to microwave a burrito on one of his first days.

He glances up when you laugh.

Your hands are fiddling with the fabric of your trousers. Your nerves are a concert hall. Every thought sounds loud inside your skull.

And when you think your heart might climb fully out of your throat, he turns back to the class. “Alright,” he announces, “now that we’ve scared you enough with PowerPoint, we’re gonna break into small groups and run a few practice drills. Let’s get into the fun part.”

A few people chuckle. One woman near the front giggles, flipping her hair over her shoulder as though she’s about to audition for a shampoo commercial.

You look down at your shoes.

Wanda leans in. “Can you believe how hard she’s trying? That’s actually pathetic.”

“Shh.”

“She’s wearing heels. To a fire safety class. Who does she think she is?”

“Wanda-”

“I bet she-”

“Ladies,” Natasha interrupts, lazily observant. “We’re moving.”

You watch the people file out of the room to move to the next one.

And you want to die. Or melt. Or somehow escape through the vents like a cartoon ghost.

But you have no other choice than to get up.

Prepared. Composed. A little bit on fire.

And the first thing you notice is how warm the training hall is. Not uncomfortable, but undeniably warm, as though the air has been steeped in sunshine and engine oil and the memory of things burning. The industrial lights make a low sound above, a metallic echo rolling across the tall ceiling. The whole place smells faintly of rubber, extinguishing foam, and steel that’s been handled too many times.

The practice area is marked by orange cones and taped grids on the floor.

Bucky steps into the middle of it with a kind of slow-motion certainty that makes the floor feel as though it’s tilting gently toward him.

You watch the veins on his exposed forearms, mapping them like routes to forgotten cities.

He and Carol Danvers start with group demos. Together, they run through the basics again. People are listening, nodding, pretending they aren’t mostly watching him.

You are watching him too.

But you’re also pretending not to. A lifelong skill, fine-tuned by heartbreak.

“Now let’s try hands-on,” Bucky decides, setting down the extinguisher and glancing around. “We’ll split into smaller groups. Carol and I will come around and help out. Just don’t point the thing at your friends.”

Laughter, light and scattered.

People start pairing off. A trio of women - dressed as though they expected a photoshop - flutter toward Bucky with hopeful eyes and strategically slouched shoulders.

“Oh my god, I don’t get this at all,” one of them breathes.

The others are leaning slightly forward. “Me neither.”

Bucky doesn’t even pause. Doesn’t glance over at them. “Danvers, you good taking that group?”

Carol nods. “My pleasure.”

And Bucky walks away without another word.

Straight toward you.

Your hands are clammy.

He stops in front of your group.

“So,” he starts, eyes moving around you three before landing back on you and then on the prop extinguisher in Natasha’s hand. “Who wants to go first?”

Wanda elbows you so hard your soul might have been knocked out.

You step forward.

He hands you a fresh extinguisher, this one heavier than expected, and you try not to look as though it surprises you. He steps closer, one arm already reaching out to steady it when your grip fumbles. His hand brushes over yours. Warm. Firm. He doesn’t move away immediately.

He’s watching you. Smiling, slow, a little crooked.

“Just like that,” he mutters gently.

You are a marshmallow in a microwave.

“Okay,” he says gently, letting go slowly - painfully slowly. “Now I’m gonna walk you through it, all right?”

You nod. Words are impossible. Language is a memory. You’re not sure your legs exist anymore.

“P.A.S.S,” he says. “Pull. Aim. Squeeze. Sweep. Easy.”

You repeat the words in your head another time.

Behind you, someone clears their throat - loudly. It’s the shampoo commercial woman. You glance back and see her smiling up at Bucky as though she’s already sewn his name into a couple of throw pillows.

“Could you maybe show me next?” she asks, eyelashes fluttering like a wind turbine.

Bucky’s expression doesn’t change.

“Carol?” he calls over his shoulder.

Carol looks up from her own demo station across the room. “Yeah?”

“Got one more for you.”

The woman visibly wilts.

Carol grins and waves her over.

Bucky turns back to you without missing a beat.

And maybe it’s your imagination but he’s standing just a little closer now.

“Ready?” he asks.

You nod. Your grip tightens around the handle.

“Okay. First, pull the pin - here.” His hand finds yours again, fingers brushing over yours as he guides them toward the small metal piece near the top. It’s gentle. Confident. His breath is warm near your cheek, and you wonder if he always smells this good or if you’re hallucinating.

“Good. Now aim,” he instructs, voice lower now, not for any reason you can define. “Low, at the base of the fire. Like this.”

His arm brushes against yours as he shifts the nozzle, touching the outside of your elbow, guiding your arm as though you are made of delicate machinery.

“Then squeeze. Controlled, firm pressure.” His voice is deep. Soothing. Lulling.

He glances at you.

You do your best not to break out into a sweat.

Foam spurts out in a satisfying arc toward the mock flame target. He grins.

“Perfect,” he praises, and your breath stalls. “Last one, is sweep. Just like that.”

And he guides your hands - both of them - side to side, mimicking the motion.

You finish the drill. Exhale. Your hands tremble slightly, not from nerves. From the startling thrill of his proximity.

He steps back. You miss the warmth immediately.

“Nicely done,” he comments, and his voice is soft. Almost proud. “You did great. Handled it like a pro.”

You look away, flustered. Your fingers are tingling.

Wanda is making a face behind him as though she’s at a wedding. Natasha just raises one eyebrow.

“Thanks,” you say, and it comes out rather quiet.

Something churns in his face. A kind of satisfaction takes place.

He opens his mouth to say something else, but Carol calls from the front. “Barnes, we’re starting the fire blanket demo.”

He sighs.

And steps back.

“Alright, well,” he says, winking. Winking. “Don’t run off.”

As if you could.

As if your legs weren’t still made of goo and your brain wasn’t currently rebooting.

He walks away, and you feel every step like a loss.

You hadn’t thought you could feel like this again.

Not after him. Not after everything.

But here you are.

And Bucky Barnes just taught you how to put out a fire.

Still, your heart goes all up in flames.

“I am made for fire, for breaking and bending and healing in all the places that used to ache.”

- Nikita Gill

Part Two

[erwinsvow]

𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦 𝐲𝐨𝐮 — 𝐚.𝐜.

summary: against better judgement, you send a letter to a man at folsom with very sad eyes. against even better judgement, you send letters every week for years until he stops replying one day. and against everything you know, when he shows up at your door, you invite him inside.

pairing: prison letters reader x andrew cody

word count: 12.4k

tags: reader is silly and does things i do not recommend. kids do not write letters to prisoners and fall in love with them. unless it's andrew cody obviously. lots of context no one asked for. nurse!reader, descriptions of wound (andrew cuts himself to get into your work because why wouldn't he!), descriptions of wound handling, smut (oral - f receiving and mating press and the tiniest hint of breeding). takes place in season one, but just imagine he's got season two's hair. you have to fully immerse yourself in the fact that it's andrew cody and then ask yourself—wouldn't you take him home too? it's not her fault!

author's note: here she is! thank you for the patience ♡

you honestly had signed up as a joke. the club was known through your campus to be run by a couple of bleeding hearts. no one had thought the school would approve their activities—letters to prisoners. it was a recipe for disaster.

you should have known better.

but a friend of a friend was involved, and you knew it would make your nursing school application look better, and honestly, you didn’t think anything would come of it. a couple of letters here and there. you had thought it’d be all anonymous, messages of motivation and prayers signed with a first name only.

until your friend—bleeding heart and hopeless romantic, trying to appeal to those very same qualities in you—had shown you the website. that’s when you should have realized it wasn’t just a recipe, it was going to be a disaster.

the prisoners recorded videos—thirty seconds, short and sweet. a name, a couple of sentences about them, hometown and hobbies. underneath the video you could see what they had been arrested for. only the ones who were in for petty crimes—drugs and robbery, things where no one else had really gotten hurt, were allowed to partake. that was good at least. didn’t need any murderers sending letters to pretty co-eds.

your friend picked the guy she thought was the cutest. you watched his video—he was handsome, you couldn’t deny it. but the more videos you watched, the less you wanted to write a letter. you could almost see it, the desperation behind their eyes. it seemed like every man had nefarious intent. like your prettily written letter would not be used for motivation and prayers of a better life outside.

you decided not to send one. you’d rather have an empty slot on your application than a bad feeling in your gut for the rest of the semester. it’s not like the prison was across the country—it was just a couple of hours away.

she asked you to give it one more chance, watch a couple more videos. just pick a cute one, she’d told you. when you’d made a noise of disapproval, she had rolled her eyes.

“okay, pick whoever seems the nicest, then.”

so you had.

the video had been labeled andrew cody. first degree robbery.

the man in the video had been incredibly genuine. you don’t remember exactly what he had said—just bits and pieces. you knew he was from oceanside, born and raised from the way he sounded. he said he had a lot of brothers and a sister back at home. that he spent his time working out and reading books to distract himself from how noisy it was inside. the first thing he’d do when he got out was go to the beach and listen to the waves and breathe in the clean salty air.

and deep down inside, you knew you were just as much of a bleeding heart as the rest of your friends. you had folded instantly.

but it wasn’t just that. you spent the next several nights thinking about him. sad eyes, a singular half-smile at his own joke and then a real one when he mentioned going to the beach once he was released. he’d followed it up with—not that it’ll be any time soon. that made you sad, in turn. you thought about what he was like before prison—did he smile more? was he always so sad?

you thought about a lot of things. more than whatever your friends did, telling you how they had sent their letters, flirty yet inherently professional, so as not to get in trouble with the advisor.

you took a while to send yours. first you couldn’t think of what to write—everything felt so stupid compared to what he must be going through. andrew would hardly want to hear about the mundaneness of your daily life, or the struggles of trying to get into the nursing program.

you thought about not sending a letter at all after the first few times you tried to put pen to paper.

and then you thought about how sad he must feel, how lonely and scared, how terrible it would be to see all the other prisoners get letters besides him.

so you drove to the beach. you surprisingly had more in common with andrew cody than you even realized when you selected him. there was nothing you loved more than the beach, which is why you had even picked your college to begin with. and now, four years later about to graduate, you couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

you caught the sunrise. you brought your little notebook with you to the water after setting your bag down on the bench. the seagulls were flying around, a couple of other beach-goers walking along the border where the sand met the ocean. it was a day like any other.

there were two sides of you—a hopeless romantic inside of an inherently logical girl. one side argued how stupid it was to send letters to a stranger. the other wondered if this would be the day that changes your life. you push away the thought and focus on writing the damn thing.

you thought andrew might like if the letter smelled like the salt-water. the stupid idea felt a lot less silly when you were attempting it, bringing your notebook all the way down to the water and hovering it. a slightly bigger wave caught you by surprise, the corners getting wet where it splashed up.

cursing to yourself, you walked back to the bench with sandy feet. and then you started writing.

dear andrew, and then you paused. fuck. you got out some of the introductory stuff—your first name, that you were a nursing student. it took a while to get the rest of the page filled, until you stopped for a moment and thought about what you would tell the man with the sad eyes if he was sitting next to you.

i came to the beach to write this letter. i’m sorry if the corners are wrinkled when you get it, i almost dropped it in the water trying to get it to smell like the beach so you had a little piece of home with you. i’m not near oceanside but it’s still the pacific.

i can’t imagine how hard it must be to grow up near the water and then be so far away for so long. but at least you know it’ll always be waiting for you when you get released. they want us to write motivational things but i’m not sure how motivating it would be for you reading this letter about my silly life. so i thought i’d write about the beach instead.

it’s about seven in the morning. the weather isn’t too cold and sky is pink and orange right now. the waves were calmer an hour ago when i got here but now it’s getting more intense. there’s a couple with their dog, and another man running on the sand. i’m on a bench writing this, but i’ll walk along the water again before i leave. i would try to send you a shell but i’m sure they’d take it away. maybe sand?

i love the sound of the waves too. my school isn’t close enough to hear it, but i have one of those machines that makes the noises. it helps a lot when i’m trying to sleep. maybe you can get one when you get out too.

you fill up a page, and then another page. when you fold up the letter and slip it into the envelope, you take a couple grains of sand and drop it in there. a little piece of home for him.

then you mail the letter, and think that was that.

+

two weeks later, you get a letter in the mail. you’d heard some of the other girls had also gotten responses—some had been mildly wholesome, while others had been more along the lines of what are you wearing?

but you weren’t worried when you opened yours. andrew didn’t seem the creepy type to you, it felt more like… like he would be glad to have someone to talk to.

you read it in bed, holding an old stuffed animal tightly. his handwriting is stiff and neat, the evenness of the letters and dotted i’s and crossed t’s makes you smile. the way he wrote your name, with bleeding ink like he had pressed too hard into the paper while doing so, made you smile wider.

the first line—thanks for the sand—made you laugh.

andrew writes of the book he’s just read, how the beach you described sounds just like the one in his hometown, and a request that you tell him more about your life in the next letter. his letter isn’t as long as yours, which makes sense to you. he couldn’t have that much to write about. but the last line is what really gets you—thank you for the letter. it’s nice to talk to someone.

you blink away tears, unsure when you had started crying. you reread the letter twice over the next day and a half, deciding to head back to the beach early in the morning to write the next one.

and you’ve always been bad at this. your friends have always called you a hopeless romantic—but maybe you’re just in too deep. it was the product of having been alone for your entire life, not having the dreamy, intense love that so many of your friends had already gone through once or twice at this age. the result had manifested in how you treated the world around you. every door someone held open, every nice response, every lingering gaze could mean something more. that this could be the person, that this could be your soulmate.

you knew it was stupid. nothing could be stupider than assuming that a prisoner, for god’s sake, would be anything more than just that—a prisoner you write letters to. but your heart still beats faster each time you reread the letter, and when you think of his pretty, sad eyes and earnest expression, the urge to write another letter haunts over your entire body.

dear andrew, thank you for writing back. thank you again for writing back and not being creepy (like the responses some of my friends got). i could tell you more about my life but i really wasn’t lying—it’s pretty silly and mostly boring, but since you asked so nicely i’ll try for you. right now i’m getting ready for graduation. i bought a white dress last week. i’m waiting to hear if i got into the nursing program here. i majored in nursing so I just need to do one more year and then after that i can go work in the hospital. i’m thinking about labor and delivery since i think it would be so nice to see babies all day, but one of my friends said the emergency room is always hiring. she thinks it would toughen me up. but I’m not so sure i want to be tough. just incase all of this school talk is boring you, i’ll just tell you about my day on the condition that you'll tell me about yours. yesterday i woke up early and went on a walk. i made breakfast and went to class, and then studied in the library. my friend showed me a creepy response from one of the fellow inmates (by the way, thank you again for not being creepy.) i walked to get a chai—i don't really like coffee. and then i studied, watched the bachelor. it was terrible! my favorite contestant got sent home :(. and had dinner, then I went to sleep early because i woke up early to come to the beach today to write this for you. so i went to sleep thinking about this letter and woke up thinking about it too.

you add a little bit more about your routine this time, just so he has something to read about. you try to make yourself sound interesting where you can—but you’re really not. and you don’t want to force it, make your letters sound grand and full of lies.

you don’t know why—it’s not like you’ll ever meet him. but lying to andrew feels wrong, you guess.

stupid. you’re stupid for adding the last part—but something in your heart flutters reading the line again, because you did. andrew’s sad eyes are in your mind all the time, and you know it’s just a silly infatuation, that he’s a prisoner and you’re a random student and more likely than not, he’s not going to respond to this letter. but you still keep it in.

and so you send the letter. and what’s worse—the one you get back makes your heart swell. he says that you describe your routine so well he can almost see it happening in his head like a movie. he says that he could describe his day-to-day but that it might make you sad. you’re sure it will. he seems to know a lot about you from just a handful of letters.

you reply. he sends another. you reply. and before you can even discern what’s happened, this has been going on for the better part of a year and a half.

andrew gets all the life updates—your nursing school acceptance, how the first year goes. early morning clinicals, the mean preceptor who made your life hell for a month, the baby you got to help deliver, the cat you’re thinking about getting. and the not so great stuff—despite the nursing shortage, it seems the only available job at the hospital you like is in the emergency room.

you don’t give him names but he figures it out well enough. the program you sent the letters through was smart enough not to include the university’s name in the return address, but dumb enough to use a p.o. box in the same city. and in that city, there’s only two colleges, and only one of those has a nursing program.

these are the things he uses to figure out where you are after he gets out—not that you need to know any of that just yet.

after you get the job, the letters are stamped with the mark of the local post office. you must not know that they’re doing that, now that you can’t send the letters through the school anymore. that’s the last piece of the puzzle, figuring out which emergency room you had been working in.

he keeps those letters. they’re his sanctuary—pages and pages about your life. the highs and lows of an innocent girl who thought it would be a good idea to send letters to a prisoner. letters where you asked about him, how he was feeling, how he was doing. how much time he had left, how he thinks the next parole meeting will go, how that annoying guard has been recently. how’s your family, andrew?

if he closes his eyes, he can almost see you. you’re a faceless entity, a glowing angel with a halo hovering in his mind when he really needs you. you’re too perfect to be real—and he knows you would be outside too. if you can care this much through letters, go out of your way to send them even after you graduate, he can only imagine how you’d be if you stood in front of him.

the other students who sent letters stopped after one or two. he’s likely the only one who’s still getting them, and when someone questions who they’re from, he tells a story about his girl, waiting for him outside. a nurse—smart and pretty and devoted and who never fails to send him a weekly update. lives too far to drive up here but he’ll be there one day.

and then he gets sent to solitary.

he doesn’t like to think about it, if he can avoid it. sometimes the noises of the world get to him, brings him back to days and hours he wish he could wipe from his memory. the sound machine you recommended in your very first letter helps some. but the day he goes free, there’s only one sound he knows will calm him down—your voice, the first time he’ll get to hear it.

he has to go home first. he needs a car, the internet, a couple of phone calls to make sure he’s going to the right place.

days turn into weeks. unfortunately—very unfortunately. the only thing andrew wants is to finally see you in person, to finally hear what your voice sounds like. what color is your hair? what color are your eyes? he knows you like yellow—what would he find if he saw you? yellow hair clips? painted nails? how about your apartment? would the walls be yellow?

no, probably not. you rent. you wouldn’t do anything that wouldn’t get you your security deposit back. you’re too good for that, too safe.

yellow sheets, maybe. blankets, pillows. if he closes his eyes, he can imagine himself in it.

he tries to leave after the first job but there’s too many watchful eyes, too many moving pieces. he needs to get everything together—his truck, cash and some cards, a plausible excuse. he needs to make sure no one comes following him, needs to make sure that in his quest to come find you, he doesn’t get you tangled into the web of his family instead. he’s stuck somewhere between figuring out how to keep you safe and the realization that the safest you’ll ever be is right now, before he comes for you.

but fuck, if it doesn’t haunt him. the fact that he’s finally so close to you. that you’re a car ride away. that somewhere out there is the girl who, one day, realized another letter wouldn’t be coming.

had you cried then? been upset? wondered what had happened? bothered to find out if he was dead or freed or living without you? he hates that he couldn’t get you another letter to explain himself, but he figures explaining in person would be easier, and better. in all those years, you never once wrote him about a date or a boyfriend or anything in that realm.

the way your last few letters were, it were almost as if he was your boyfriend. (he lets the thought linger inside him for a few seconds, if that. any longer and it would possess him like a demon and he’d be rendered useless. unable to work, unable to think, unable to breathe. just him and the idea that he was that important to someone else.)

+

and then one day, a couple days after a job and after being fed up with the entire world being scared of him, he leaves to find you.

that’s just the thing—no one understands him. all his life, he’s been the unstable one, the one others are worried about, frightened of. but no one understands that there’s nothing to be afraid of.

no one, except maybe you.

so he says he’ll be back in a week, and he drives down to the hospital where you work.

he hasn’t gotten a real look at you yet. he spent the first night in the parking lot of the emergency room. he watches hordes of nurses go in and out, and no one stands out. he spends some time doing research—nurses only work three times a week.

his odds of seeing you for the rest of the time he’s in town are fifty/fifty. it feels like he should be able to pick you out from a crowd, with the way he knows you so intimately, but he can’t. he keeps an eye out for yellow water bottles or shoes or lunch bags, but he doesn’t see any for two days.

so he decides that he needs to get inside.

pope keeps a pocket knife on his person, and another one hidden in the car in case of emergencies. that’s what he uses to slice his palm open so he has an excuse to get inside. not too deep—he’s not stupid. just deep enough to need stitches, shallow enough that he can still feel all his fingers and wiggle them around.

and then he goes inside, and he waits.

each time the doors open, a different nurse steps out. some are too old, others too young. no one has anything yellow on them, or the personality that he knows could only belong to you. cheery, but serious. empathetic to a fault. you would probably cry if you saw a kid crying, just like how you used to write to andrew, telling him you had cried thinking about a patient you lost and their family, cried thinking about him alone in prison.

you’ve shed tears for him. a man you’ve never even met. he has to recognize you when he sees you. he knows he will—the two of you are bonded in more ways than one. through ink and blood and tears.

“david?” a voice calls out. so lost in his thoughts, he’d not realized the doors had opened again or the name he’d given them. he looks up, making eye contact with the nurse, his nurse, and she walks closer. “david?” the voice repeats, and he raises the non-bloody hand.

you are just like he thought you’d be. your hair is pulled back, which is a shame. he wants to see what it looks like when it’s down, what it smells like when you get close enough. pieces in the front fall out from behind your ear. his finger twitches momentarily.

and, he thinks with a pleasant sort of smugness, there is yellow—the plastic band around the stethoscope, the badge reel with a smiling cartoon on it, the pens tucked neatly in your scrub top pocket.

“hi david, i’m going to be your nurse today,” you start, looking at him in the eyes. your eyebrows furrow a little, like you’re trying to remember why this man looks so familiar—it’s not like he had expected it. his hair isn’t the same anymore, longer than the video you had seen of him. if that was your benchmark, he certainly looked somewhat different. he doesn’t fault you for not recognizing him right away. in fact, it’s better this way. “if you’re ready, i can take you back now.”

you smile at him, beautifully. a bright, wide smile, like there’s nothing in this world you’d rather do than take david back, and have a look at whatever’s bothering him. it’s genuine, it’s safe, it’s warm. how do you do it? he thinks briefly to himself, how do you make everyone feel like they’re the most important person in the world? just with a smile and a couple of sentences you must say a thousand times a shift.

andrew’s not one for many words, but his thoughts run rampant—he’s always thinking. he can’t get his brain to turn off, not now, not ever. even putting pen to paper was hard for him, even for you. but you seem to understand him, just like you did back then. without words, without talking, without touching or knowing. you just know him.

you take him to a bed behind a curtain and start rattling off a list of rehearsed questions. first name, age, date of birth. the more he says, the more you seem to get a step closer to recognizing him, but he doesn’t push it.

you come closer to the bed and gesture to his wrapped up, bleeding hand.

“may i?”

“yes. yes,” andrew says, unsure of how it’ll be to feel your hands on him for the first time. you start slowly, unpeeling the layers of gauze that he had brought with him from home as a just incase. he doesn’t flinch or wince, but you still speak up.

“i’m sorry, i know it’s not very comfortable.” you apologize without needing to, and he’s sure it’s because you want him to feel better about it. “how did this happen again?” you ask, staring at his wound closely. you’re not very far from his face. he can feel your breath even against his skin.

“accident. was cutting something.”

“well, you should be more careful, david.” his middle name has always felt foreign to him, though somehow, it doesn’t seem that way coming from your lips. andrew briefly feels like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be than here, no one else he’d rather be than david, getting his hand tended to by you.

“yeah. i should.”

“well i’m going to go ahead and get this cleaned up. just to be sure, any drug allergies?” he shakes his head. “great. we’re gonna clean it and then the doctor will be in here to stitch it up and we’ll get you on your way back home. does that sound okay?”

you look at him earnestly. as if on the off chance he said it didn’t sound okay, you’d have an answer ready to go. nothing to shame him, nothing to make him feel bad. just to comfort him and make him feel better. like there’s nothing more important than getting him back home with aid instructions for the rest of the week.

memories of your letters wash over him like a warm wave over soft sand. you’ve known from the jump that you were meant for this, but it all suddenly makes sense. how kind you are, how gentle you are with him, how you’d be with anyone.

you were meant for this, just like how you were meant for him.

“that sounds okay.”

you sit on a stool at the level of his hand. you dab with the cleaning solution and tell him you’re sorry about the sting. it’s half a dozen apologies in the short time he’s known you, and he sits and wonders, staring at your pretty hair and the undoubtedly smooth skin of your neck, that he’ll have to work you out of that habit.

you shouldn’t be apologizing for anything, much less helping people the way you do.

he stares at you while you think of another question to ask him to distract him from the pain of cleaning his wound.

and your patient is nothing if not a starer. when you got up to add something to the chart and stopped to chat with a fellow nurse and friend of yours about how long it might take the doctor to see him—calling him by his nickname, mister sliced hand in bed four—she interrupted you half way through the conversation.

“the one who’s staring at us right now?” you turned your head too quickly to see what she was talking about, and were faced with sliced-hand david, looking at you and the other nurse.

not in a creepy way, like some other past patients of yours. he’s just…looking. like he’s waiting for you to come back. his gaze doesn’t leave you, you notice. he watches your friend as though he’s watching over you.

the thought is almost… sweet.

and then you shake your head and turn around, breaking the eye contact. you have a bad habit of doing this—turning every interaction, every look into your eyes and held-open door into something more than it was.

your new friends at the hospital also call you a hopeless romantic. you knew that you were just sort of an idiot when it came to these things. it was the long-standing result of still never having been in a real relationship. you’d never felt the fireworks, never known the rom-com sort of true love and happy ending. you had never even gotten to the angst-filled third act breakup.

so maybe you were still a bit of a projector—projecting every single interaction into something more than it was. a patient with a staring problem became a man who was looking out for you, worried for you, love at first sight.

and you shake your head again. snap out of it. you had a problem, seriously.

the closest you’d even come to anything remotely related to love at first sight was the insane amount of letters you’d written to a prisoner a few years ago, and even then—

stop. it. you barely knew what the guy looked like, and yet, you found yourself wondering all the time what had happened to him. if today would finally be the day you’d find out. he could be the stranger next to you in the coffee shop. the person buying fruit next to you in the grocery store.

for all you know, he could be the next guy who walks into your life, and yet—

“you are seriously such a goner,” she says with a laugh, playfully shoving your shoulder.

“what? i-i just got lost in my thoughts.”

“a guy could blink at you and you’d be imagining your embroidered towels and baby names-”

“that is not true-”

“right, i know. you’re right. you’re just gonna hold out for mister prisoner until you’re an old lady with a bunch of cats-”

“hey! i have one cat and he is adorable, okay-”

“yeah, yeah. that’s how it always starts. one cat.”

“i’m going to go take care of my patient now.”

“don’t let him blink at you.”

you roll your eyes and make your way back to bed four, where david stares up at you with pretty, sad eyes. eyes that seem a little familiar, but it’s hour eight of twelve and you’ve taken care of half a hundred people so far. your tiredness seeps through your pores but you still smile and sit on the stool.

“sorry about that, david.”

“are you okay?” he asks, incredibly earnestly. you blink at him dumbly. once, then twice.

“yes?” you reply slowly, unsure of what he means. maybe you’re more tired than you thought. “is everything okay?”

“i saw her push you.” you blink again.

“oh. oh. no, no, she’s my friend. that was just, um-” you blank momentarily. his concern is so palpable you can feel it in the air. “-a joke. she was joking.”

“oh. okay.” david goes silent but his eyes are still on you. you decide the best course of action is to change the subject.

“so! david. this might be hard but no going in the water for at least a couple days. maybe more, depending on what the doctor says.”

“sure. can i.. can i still go sit on the beach?”

“yeah. that should be fine.” you clean out the wound further, but he doesn’t wince. “do you do that often?”

“yes. it calms me down.”

“me too. something about the sand and the waves. the air is just-”

“cleaner.” for the first time that night, david interrupts you. your eyes leave his hand to look up at his face.

“yeah,” you agree, slowly, wondering why his words feel so familiar to you. “cleaner.”

there’s a brief pause, and david doesn’t say anything. you look back down at his hand, continuing your work. but something inside of you stirs, curiosity poking and prodding at your memories. you’ve heard that before, somewhere, and even then you had thought about how no one had ever used that word to describe the ocean air before, when—

“i thought you wanted to deliver babies. do you not want to do that anymore?”

as if it was in slow motion, you retract your hands away from his. you move your head to look up at him and your jaw falls open a little—you had known david looked a little familiar, but when you had seen that thirty second video of him, his hair had been short and his skin had been a little paler, and the man sitting in front of you now—

well he wasn’t cute anymore.

he was handsome now—dark brown curls grown out. he looked like he’d spent some time in the sun, recently. his eyes—sad and pretty as they were—seemed a bit softer now. and your gaze on him made them even softer, like he was trying his best not to frighten you. how someone takes care of a skittish animal, ready to bolt at any second.

you swallow, and then bring your hands back to his, keeping the piece of soaked gauze on top of his wound gently

“i-i do. want to. this was just the only job opening when i-” you pause, sucking in a deep breath. he already knows about this—andrew. it was in one of your letters. “when i finished school.”

you feel his hand move under your touch, and then his other hand, the unwounded one, over yours. his grip isn’t tight, but it’s tense. hard. like he wants to make sure you can’t just disappear like sand between his fingers.

“i thought you might have found another job by now.”

“it-it’s hard. you get used to something and it’s hard to leave.” you pause again. there’s a million and one questions storming through your mind, but you stare into hazel eyes and they all go quiet, one by one. “you said your name is david-”

“i wanted to see if you would recognize me.”

“i’m sorry, i-”

“don’t apologize.” andrew, like his letters, speaks concisely. you should have guessed. you would send him pages just to get a few paragraphs back—and he would always say it’s because he didn’t have much to talk about, that learning about your day to day was much better than whatever he could tell you.

it was the first time your heart fluttered with the knowledge that out there, somewhere, is a man who wants to hear about your day. the closest you had ever gotten to the semblance of a real relationship. a man who cared about you, even if he never said as much. it was always clear to you, through his carefully chosen words and the things he wrote you about and how much he said he liked hearing about you.

he used to ask you questions about things from a dozen letters ago. remember to follow up after some big exam or a really hard week at work. asked you what you did to feel better. tell you what he would do to help you feel better—nothing creepy, never creepy. if you were supposed to be scared of him, you never were. he never gave you any reason to.

“are you okay?” andrew asks, and you blink yourself out of your thoughts.

“yes. yes, sorry. i just-” it’s a little ridiculous.

you’re a smart girl. you’ve always been a smart girl. you don’t do stupid things—you don’t drink yourself silly at bars and go home with random men. you don’t say yes to dates with strangers, despite how much you believe that a stranger can become a soulmate in an instant. you don’t put yourself in situations you can’t get out of.

but when it comes to andrew, you haven’t listened to a single one of your own rules. you sent him letters for ages after the other girls in your class had stopped. you had opened up about your life and wanted to learn about his life in exchange.

and despite every greater instinct, you had fallen asleep for years thinking about the day he might walk back into your life.

“did you ever get my last letter, andrew?”

you’re not even sure where the words came from—that’s the last thing you should be saying right now. how did you find me? when did you get out of prison? why are you here right now? should have all come before.

but something inside you burns, like it has for years, with the knowledge that he never sent you another letter. and you need to know why.

andrew sits up a little straighter, taking heavy breaths and staring at you. it’s the first time he’s heard you say his name, his real name. you two haven’t moved an inch, his hand still on yours. he blinks slowly at you and you don’t realize it, but you’re holding your breath.

“i did. i-i was in solitary. they don’t let you write letters there.”

“oh. i’m so sorry,” you say, and it’s second nature. you hate what andrew went through, and seeing him in front of you brings you back to the first letter you ever got back from him. how polite he was in it, how sweet the whole thing seemed. it was never meant to get this far, but it had, and you—

you are nothing if not a believer of soulmates and fate.

“that’s okay. not your fault.”

“but still. that must have been really hard.”

“i wanted to write back. i-” he stops, pulling out something from the pocket of his button-up shirt. he unfolds a piece of white notebook paper—and the breath you were holding leaves you quickly. that’s the paper you used to write him letters on.

“is that my last letter?” when andrew moves to look at you, he’s expecting it. a nervous lilt to your voice, fear in your eyes. like he’s crazy, like you’re scared.

instead he glances over hesitantly and you’re beaming up at him.

“you carry around.. my last letter?” the words come out as a smile forms on your face—pretty and genuine and sincere. you stare at him expectantly, and he doesn’t know how to respond.

“i…” the words falter. “i just wanted to ask you about it. did you, did you get that cat?”

“i did!” it comes out louder than you meant it, drawing the attention of some other nurses around you. you turn briefly, using your free hand to push the curtain so it’s closed around you two. “sorry. i did, yes. he’s so cute. i don’t have my phone or i’d show you the pictures-”

“that’s okay. you-you can show me later.”

“but i didn’t say i was getting a cat in that one. i just said i was thinking about it,” you feel breathless.

“but there was another one before that. you mentioned it then too. i figured you’d get it since you were thinking about it so much.”

“yeah. yeah, exactly.” your brain can’t seem to compute what’s going on. any fear that had been in you, if there was any of it to begin with, has completely melted away, replaced with a warm, glowing feeling in your chest, slowly spreading out to your limbs.

you had been thinking about getting a cat for ages—a thought you had mentioned to andrew maybe twice. and your justification had been just as andrew said, because you were thinking about it so much.

how did he know that?

and then the curtain opens behind you, and the doctor comes in to stitch up andrew’s hand. you have to pull away from his hand and andrew thinks you’re leaving, eyes following you and his expression shifting, but you don’t leave. you go to the cabinets to pull the supplies and help the doctor and and keep your eyes focused on the wound while his hand gets stitched up. eight stitches and not a single wince of pain or discomfort.

and though the thought makes butterflies emerge and fly around your stomach, when you finally look up at andrew, he’s been staring at you the entire time.

+

you have a tiny apartment in a shitty neighbourhood. it doesn’t feel safe at all, save for the fact that one of the houses down the street is owned by a rookie cop and his wife. there’s not that much crime, but the area inherently feels bad.

maybe it’s just that way to him—since he doesn’t want you living in a place like this.

it’s fine for now though. he’ll get you a better place soon enough. it’s by the water, and when he closes his eyes, he can hear the waves crashing on the sand. the sound alone might be enough to justify why you’d live here.

he keeps his eyes shut, just for a half dozen heartbeats, when he pulls up against your curb. he just wants to hear it before he says goodbye—it’s getting late, almost dark, and you must be exhausted. you’ve been at work all day and though you act like you’re completely fine, he knows how intense it is. there’s other letters, safely stored away, where you told him about how breaks are far and few in between, how you barely get time to drink water and eat a snack because of how busy it gets. he offered to stop and pick you up something to eat but you refused, saying you had food at home that you shouldn’t waste.

you sit in the passenger seat of his truck, staring around it as if you’re looking for some more information about it. anything would help you—half-empty drinks or gum wrappers or extra clothes in the backseat, but there’s nothing. the truck looks like he just got it yesterday, no sign of use or anything branding it as andrew’s car.

“can i walk you to your door?” you snap out of your thoughts.

okay—maybe it wasn’t the smartest idea in the world to let a virtual stranger drive you home. but when his hand was taken care of and you give him the paper instructions with way too many sample packets of antibiotic gel, all he said was that he’ll wait for you.

“wait for what?”

“to make sure you get home safely.”

and, really, what are you supposed to say to that? no, i’m good, thanks. you’d be even stupider than you already are to say that to someone who is just trying to be nice to you.

(he’s more chivalrous than any guy you’ve ever talked to, and probably more than any guy your friends have ever complained to you about. and more than that, it’d be rude to say no, especially once he realized you wait for a shoddy-at-best bus to get you home because you don’t have a car and it’s too dark to walk. he wouldn’t take no for an answer after that.)

and more than that—he waited another two hours for you to get home. every time you’d step out to bring back another patient, you’d see him, sitting there, waiting patiently for you. glancing up when the door would open to get a glimpse of you, of the small smile you shot his way before taking back whoever’s turn it was.

and he’s not a real stranger, a voice in the back of your head keeps reminding you. you’ve known him for longer than some of your coworkers have known their fiancees and husbands. and in all the time you’ve known him (meaning all the letters you’ve sent and received), you’ve never gotten a creepy word or even a fragment of a sentence that frightened you.

so you think the least you can do is let him drive you home and walk you up the two flights of stairs.

“of course. thank you, for-” your sentence gets interrupted. andrew gets out of the car and you turn to do the same, but then you see him—walking around the front of his truck, coming to your side and then opening the door for you.

oh.

your heart thuds dully in your chest at the very idea of andrew opening his car’s door for you to get out. after driving you home and politely asking to walk you up. whatever inhibitions you had melt away and you briefly think that whatever he asked of you, you’d do it in a heartbeat, no questions asked.

if that made you stupid, then so be it. you’d gladly be the stupidest girl on the planet if you get to feel whatever it was that andrew cody has made you feel for the last couple of hours.

his truck is jacked up tall, and he gives you his hand, the one without the cut, to help you get down, and you accept. he closes the door for you and lets you lead the way up the stairs.

silently, you two walk up the creaky steps together. hands brush together for all of seconds and he briefly wishes seconds lasted longer, until you’re standing in front of your door.

you’d once had a cute spring-themed wreath on the door, bought on clearance from the local store after easter, and a matching door mat. your elderly neighbor had told you to get rid of it because it was basically an invitation to criminals that a young girl lived here alone. you’re stupid, but not that stupid.

and now your front door looks barren and empty. there’s a few plants you can see from the window sill but the curtains are drawn and there’s an extra dead bolt a fellow nurse from the hospital’s husband had helped you install.

you look up silently at andrew and he looks back at you. this is it—it’s supposed to be goodbye. any normal girl would know that this is where the night needs to end, that you need to process what all of this means and if you had any friends you trusted with this information, calling them and asking what to do.

but you don’t want to call your friends, because you know what they’d say—to lock your door and get a restraining order and burn andrew’s letters, the ones you kept in a cute box under your bed and reread much too often for anyone’s comfort.

and you’re not a normal girl.

“do you want to stay for dinner?”

there’s not much to study on andrew’s expression—he keeps it stern and serious for the most part. his eyes are soft when they look at you and they soften even further when you say those words.

“yes. yes, thank you.”

you think maybe he wasn’t expecting it. you think that you weren’t expecting it either, not exactly sure where the words had come from. but you still lead andrew inside, showing him the only slightly comfortable couch you had to get delivered since you didn’t have anyone to help you lug a used one up the stairs. the squeaky door that leads to the bathroom, the tiny space you called your kitchen. your bedroom is behind a closed door and andrew stares at it when you go inside to change out of your scrubs and come back out in the kind of clothes that you sleep in.

and then he stares at the shut door even after you leave, before realizing that you’ve already made your way to the space between the living room and kitchen, a narrow expanse with a small round table and some placemats with flowers on them. you set down your backpack and take your hair out of the clip that holds it back for you at work and suddenly, he’s staring again.

it’s just a little too close to everything he’s been dreaming about for years.

“i’m really sorry. i was supposed to go grocery shopping but i hate bringing everything up-”

“don’t apologize.”

“also, i’m-i’m not really a good cook. i’m sorry-”

“i don’t think anything you make can be worse than prison food.”

“i really doubt that. you’ve never had my cooking.”

you glance back him and he meets your eyes at the same time, and you both start laughing. it’s nothing crazy—andrew didn’t seem like the kind who laughs easily anyway, but he cracks a smile and the noise is indelible—all you can think of is how you can get him to laugh again.

“do you like spaghetti?”

+

if someone had told you yesterday that this time tomorrow, andrew from your letters would be sitting across from you at your dining table, eating spaghetti that you made while rushing, looking so in place in your tiny home that your heart hurts, you think you would have passed out.

you watch him while he eats, absentmindedly swirling your own noodles on the plate, unable to focus on eating when he’s really in front of you. after countless dreams and days spent wondering what had happened to him and if he was okay and if he ever thought about you. he’s… bigger than you thought he would be. shoulders broader than you had realized from that tiny video. his mannerisms interest you more than they should—how quiet he is, but how he seems to latch onto every word when you go on and on. just like the letters, it seems he’s still a listener.

(it doesn’t help matters when he tries to clear the table and wash the dishes after—you have to wrestle the plates out of his hand and tell him to go sit down, that he can’t get his bandage wet. jostling against his iron-hard body was not on the list of things you thought you’d get to do today, and the very realization that andrew is twice as strong as you on his worst day does…things to you. things that do not need to be named or explored right now. he’s still a stranger, you try to remind yourself. no he’s not.)

but it seems that he can’t sit still. he wipes down the counter and then comes back to help you dry your yellow dishes and when you both finish up, with you still smiling at him and unsure of what excuse you can conjure to get him to stay, he finds it all by himself. you tell andrew to go sit on the couch while you finish up and he does, and when you follow him out there, he’s standing in front of it. he turns his head to look at you and then back at the couch.

your cat is perched on his usual spot, and you go over to him, scratching the top of his head between his ears and making extremely childish, stupid-sounding noises at him.

“andrew this is wardy,” you say, picking him up and bringing him closer. “he’s really friendly. i promise.”

“hello, wardy.” when he says it, you look up at him with a look he can’t find words to describe. as close to love as you can get it when it’s a technically a stranger. the way he greets your cat and helps you clean and knows more about you than some of your friends and coworkers do.

there’s no words for it. it just is.

so you sit on the couch next to andrew, your cat between the two of you, and you wait for him to tell you that he wants to leave. you flick on the television, settling for whatever silly romance movie is playing on your netflix account, sitting in the almost-silence with andrew and wondering why still, it doesn’t feel necessarily uncomfortable.

eventually andrew reaches out to pet wardy, and he curls up into his touch, settling comfortably against his forearm. (his huge, thick, veiny forearm, you think briefly, before chasing the thought away with a broom. and then another one—no wonder he had bled so much at the hospital. with veins like these.)

“this area’s not the best,” andrew says, speaking as though you need to be reminded of it, to know that he doesn’t approve.

“i know. but it’s cheap and it’s near the beach.”

“but you live alone. it’s dangerous.”

“but-” you glance over at him. he takes up most of your couch, wardy’s head resting against his thigh now, while he continues petting him. he looks over at you and it’s clear—this isn’t an argument. “you’re right. but i mean, how bad can it be? if you’re here now?”

you pause. stupidly, you’ve just revealed whatever thoughts have been rattling around in your head. like the fact that you’re assuming he’s going to be here more often, when the truth is that you have no idea if that’s true.

why would it be true? you tried, in earnest, to make sure your life never seemed anything more than it really was in your letters. but andrew drives a brand new truck and wears an expensive watch and you have absolutely no idea what he was robbing or why he was doing it—and you never asked. the assumption that just because he found you, meant that he was going to keep you was completely insane. a misgiving on your part, because surely, whatever’s waiting for him back home is better than your crappy cooking and a tiny apartment and a cat that you—

“sorry, i’m sorry. that’s such a jump. we just met. i’m so sorry, i can-” you stand up, and so does andrew.

“why are you apologizing?”

“because i just.. i don’t know.” you try to pace around your apartment but you only get a few steps away before you have to come back. “this is crazy. we’re both crazy.”

you feel it in the air before you hear him say it. it gets tenser, quieter, more serious. like what you’ve both been dreading for the last few hours is about to happen.

“do…do you want me to leave?” you turn to face him quickly.

“no! no, i don’t. that’s why this is crazy. people are going to think we’re insane. i don’t want you to go. i want you stay. i want you to tell me everything i missed in the last year and a half. i want to know what you did with my letters. i want to know-”

and when andrew reaches forward to grab your forearm—gently, not meant to hurt you—you freeze in your tracks. staring up at him, all the words in your brain, every stupid thing your friends ever told you about this make-shift relationship you had concocted in your head melting away.

“i want that too.”

“oh. well, i just thought-”

and this time, he doesn’t let you finish, leaning in for a kiss that makes your knees give out. andrew’s mouth—wet and hot and on fire—kisses you like you two were made for each other.

as cheesy as the thought feels, you swallow it and wrap your arms around his neck. it’s every stupid romance movie you’ve ever seen coming to life, your life. all because of him. he doesn’t break the kiss, not even to breathe. you feel his tongue poke into your mouth and you accept it gladly. you fall back on the couch and the movement of it makes wardy scamper off, and you move your head just for a second to see where he runs off too, but andrew doesn’t stop. he lines kisses along your cheek and your jaw until you turn back and he gets your lips again.

you feel his weight on top of you, and briefly, you wonder if you should tell him.

countless nights spent wondering what this would feel like, how he would kiss you, all the things he would do to you. you have to keep reminding yourself, you’re just a stupid girl—it’s not your fault that a few nice letters was enough to make you head over heels for the last few years.

because somewhere deep down inside, you knew. you knew that it would be like this, that it would be perfect, that it would be everything you wanted. that he would take care of you and want you as badly as you want him. your crown title of hopeless romantic had finally paid off.

another thought stirs as he keeps kissing you. it’s feverish and hot and makes you warm all over—how long it’s been since he’s had someone, how he kisses you like he’s out of practice. his mouth is so hard against yours it almost hurts, but you welcome the pain. it’s like he’s proving to you that he’s really there now, that nothing can tear him away from you.

but then he does pull away. you catch your breath, hands traveling to his face and running your fingers through his hair. andrew’s pretty eyes close and you cherish it—that you made him feel like that. he leans into your touch, head resting against your hand while you both take long, heavy breaths.

andrew leans in, pressing your foreheads together.

“i-i’ve wanted to do that,” another breath. you feel butterflies continuously emerge and flutter around your chest and your stomach, all the way down to between your legs. “since your first letter.”

and then you can’t resist—leaning back in for another hard, wet kiss. you feel him shift, strong hands on your hips, but staying firmly there, not traveling despite how much you wish they would. he’s been polite again, you think. waiting for you to give him permission.

“you can-” you start, but andrew keeps pressing kisses against your neck that make it hard to finish your sentence. “you can touch me.” you expect his hands to spread—grope and grab and tease until you’re begging for more. for him to be impatient and hungry and not stop until he’s inside of you.

“i can’t believe you’re real,” he says quietly, one hand moving up to your waist and touching the soft skin there gently. he traces up your arms and then down before intertwining his fingers with yours. you stare up at him, stupid as ever. every time you think you know anything about andrew, he proves you wrong.

“i can’t believe you are, either,” you say, tilting your head up for another kiss. a short, chaste one this time. “you’re just as nice as i knew you’d be.”

“you think i’m nice?” he asks, voice low. you nod in response, words escaping you. you settle to answer with another kiss, hands going to his shoulders to steady yourself, tugging and pulling on his bottom lip with your teeth.

you push up until he understands, and he uses two huge hands to get you into his lap, sitting up with his back against your couch. you straddle him, trying your hardest to not lose your train of thought as you realize how hard he is against you.

“i think you’re too nice,” you tease, unsure where you’re finding the confidence. under you, andrew looks spacey and flushed and all kissed out, but you don’t plan to stop. you lean in to press kisses to his cheeks and work your way to his jaw and neck. when you stop to look at him again, he looks hopelessly up at you, and you think he’s waiting again, waiting for permission to do something. “i think you’re so nice that you’re not telling me everything you’ve wanted to do to me these last few years.”

the way andrew looks up at you after you said that—god. you wish you could engrain it into your memory. you’re not someone who does this often, but you might just be good at figuring out how to get andrew to crack. he looks up with some of the hunger you’d imagined there’d be, and it makes something stir inside of you.

it feels strange to be wanted the way andrew wants you right now. you’re just not used to it, not entirely sure that you’d ever feel this way. that someone would ever make you feel this way.

your thoughts are wiped again when he pulls you into another kiss, and you deepen it, moaning into his mouth. you’re being so loud that your older neighbor might be able to hear you, but you can hardly bring yourself to care right now. andrew is quiet, like you thought he would be, but each soft grunt and heavy sigh is enough to make your entire body tingle.

you think you’re being better at staying quiet yourself when andrew scoops you up into his arms, carrying you like it’s nothing for him. you yelp loudly, forgetting everything for a second, realizing how lovely it feels to be carried by him. he leads you two to your bedroom, setting you down gently on the bed.

you stare at him, hovering above you, wondering how you’ll get to do this. how you’ll get his clothes off and watch out for his hurt hand and that you’ll finally get to feel him inside of you—when he just stops moving.

andrew looks up and around your bedroom, craning his neck to take in all of it. you’re not sure why, stuck in a position under him that forces you to just watch.

“is everything okay, andrew?” when you say his name, he turns back to stare down at you.

“yes. yes, it is. it’s just-” he pauses, looking back up and then down. the room is decorated with lots of pretty frames. there’s yellow curtains on the windows and your sheets are yellow under you too, just like he’d suspected. seeing it in real life almost sends him back to years ago—the first time he’d wondered what your bedroom looks like. the place from where you write your letters, the place you read them. “it looks just like i thought it would.”

and just like every other part of tonight, your reaction continues to surprise him. you smile and then laugh, holding onto his shoulder even tighter.

“spend a lot of time thinking about my bedroom, huh?” you tease, and he remains just as confused as ever.

you are such a conundrum. andrew thinks that he wants you so badly he can’t form a proper thought—and then the thoughts merge and blend and anger at the very idea that you’re so trusting of him. you should be more careful. you shouldn’t trust anyone how much you’re trusting him right now—inviting him inside your home, letting him into your bedroom.

and then you pull him down for another kiss and it all washes away like letters in the sand.

eventually he does pull away—though it takes an enormous amount of self control. the words you said on the couch haven’t completely left him yet and he still needs to answer you. you claw and pull at his shirt so he lets you take it off of him, you trace a hand down his chest, stopping at his heart and pressing your palm flat against him.

you’re staring, he thinks, but you’re really just admiring. taking in every detail, every scar and bruise so you can ask him about it later, moving your fingers down his abs and biting your lip while you stare daggers at his chest.

he moves away from your touch though, as sad as it makes you.

“you wanted to know everything i’ve thought about you?” andrew says, and the words make you tense up—thighs clenching, walls fluttering just from words alone. your fingers tighten around his bicep where you’ve been holding on, and you nod up at him dumbly. “can i show you?”

your head falls back onto your pillow with a thud. you nod again.

you let andrew set the pace—he peels off your clothes and you lift your hips and raise your arms in compliance. he starts with a kiss to your stomach that makes you whine, fingers leaving his skin and grabbing onto your sheets instead just to have something to hold on to.

you’re embarrassingly wet—you already know you are. it’s almost painful how badly you want him, even against better judgement that tells you that you could have, at the very least, taken things slowly.

you guess andrew just brings it out of you.

his kisses move south and you brace yourself, every muscle tensing up in anticipation. andrew is silent except for his deep breaths and somehow, with each one deeper than the last, they make your entire body shudder in anticipation. when he finally gets to your leaking cunt, you hear it. a strangled moan, sounding painful and from the depth of his chest and filled with want and need. just from looking at you. you can’t imagine what he’ll sound like when—

“this is what i thought about. this is always what i thought about.”

and then andrew licks down the length of your cunt with the flat of his tongue, and you can’t think about anything else anymore. he’s relentless, exploring you with his mouth like he’s a man starved. you can hear the noises, obscene and sloppy and wet as they are.

and then you feel it—his mouth around your clit while one finger prods at your tight opening. your back rises off the bed but he holds you down with one huge hand over your stomach. his finger slips inside you more easily than he thought it would. though you’re wetter than he imagined, he doesn’t stop teasing your clit.

your wetness coats everything—his tongue, his lips, his chin. your thighs are wet too, and he’s sure he can get your yellow sheets soaked too if he could tease you long enough. but he’s been incredibly patient all these years, unsure if he can wait any longer to get what he’s wanted.

his hand keeps you pinned down while his mouth stays on your clit and then andrew adds another finger and you thrash up against him. it’s useless against the weight of his hand holding you down, but your body moves anyways, hands wrangling into his brown curls, likely making a complete mess of them. you keep pulling and he moans between your legs and the vibration makes you thrash harder, a completely exhilarating cycle.

when he finally releases you from his grip, you think the other hand will explore up and down your body, but true to form, you’re wrong. andrew finds your hand and holds onto it, lacing your fingers with his while he keeps going.

when adds a third finger, you realize that he’s saying something against you. you can’t quite make it out with your heart thudding in your ears and how loud you’re being, but then it becomes a little clearer—

“you taste even better than i thought you would-” and you can’t stop it, the tension in your stomach winding tighter and tighter before it snaps altogether. a white hot heat washes through your body and makes you shake even harder, but andrew’s hold on you keeps you completely grounded. he works you through it, not stopping even once, not until you’re trying your hardest to pull away from him. you try to catch your breath but it’s useless. your head feels completely empty.

incoherent, you grab at andrew, murmuring something about inside, please, and he really tries to stay level headed. but one glance at your naked, writhing body and your expression while you beg for him is enough to tip him over the edge.

resisting you requires a level of self control that he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to have.

andrew doesn’t think he’s ever had any self control when it comes to you. it’s why he did this, isn’t it? showed up at your hospital with your sweet letter folded up and somehow convinced you, without saying much of anything at all, to trust him and let him back into your life. he doesn’t even know how he did it—he can’t recall most of what he said to you. it plays in his head like a movie, like how your letters used to.

he doesn’t know what he did to deserve your trust, just knows that he’ll do whatever he has to in order to keep it forever.

andrew’s thoughts about keeping you cloud him while he lifts up your legs, manhandling your body while you squeal under him. he pushes your knees to your chest and lets your legs hang in the air while he hovers over you. all he can think about is getting inside of you—-giving you exactly what you’ve been begging for, fulfilling every fantasy he’s had about you in the last three years. the noises you’ll make. how tight and wet and warm you’ll feel around him. how you’ll look with his cum dripping out of-

“andrew, please, please,” you plead, and he’s not sure that you understand exactly what you’re asking for. it’s good that it’s him you picked for those letters, good that he’s the one who tracked you down.

someone else, well, he thinks, lining himself up with your soaking wet entrance, someone else might have had bad intentions with you. not andrew, though.

his intentions for you are only good. intentions to keep you happy and safe and move you away from this tiny apartment and make sure you get the job that you want, no matter who he has to threaten in order to do so. intentions to keep everything taken care of so the only thing you ever have to worry about again is him, just like you’d done for all those years when you wrote to him.

and as he slips inside, he knows those letters are in this bedroom somewhere, that this bed is where you read them, that these were the pretty hands that held his letters and these were the pretty eyes that read them.

you stare at him while he hovers over you, not pushing in just yet. andrew’s dick is just like the rest of him—thick and broad and so wide that you don’t know how you’ll be able to walk tomorrow. there’s veins too, just like his arms, and it’s all you can think about with him enclosed over you.

when he pushes his thick head past your fluttering walls, you make a noise like nothing he’s ever heard before. pure want and heat wrapped up with pleasure and pain. you keep begging for more but he’s not sure you can even handle it—but who is andrew to deny you?

he pushes further inside of you, now half way, and you cry out. andrew leans in to kiss you again, swallowing the noise and letting you moan against his lips.

another thrust and he’s almost all the way in. he pulls out and pushes back in, and then he starts his rhythm. your tits bounce with every thrust and he watches entranced, until his eyes go back to where you and him meet. in this position, on his knees with you folded underneath him, he can see it perfectly.

it’s enough to make him finish instantly. you look completely fucked out under him, crying out with each push of his hips.

your open your wet eyes and glance up at him. through wet lashes and blinking eyes, you get out a few words, stopped by each thrust.

“is it-” you gasp, words getting caught in your throat because andrew is so deep inside of you that you can feel him in your stomach and your chest. “is it what you imagined, andrew?”

“god, yes,” he says, and the sound is so perfect to you. it comes out broken, in the form of a gasp and a moan combined, and you want to hear it again and again. he says your name like it’s a prayer grounding him to you and you keep your arms wrapped around his neck, holding him close to you and bringing him in for another kiss. you can feel andrew’s pace start to stutter, his moans getting louder and his grip on you getting tighter. you hold his face in your hands, locking eyes again.

“inside, andrew, please, i want it inside, please, please,” and again, andrew thinks to himself, like some besotted fool, who is he to deny you? he releases whatever inhibitions he had left and fills you up with his cum—rivulets almost never ending. it leaks out around his dick, messing up your sheets and staining your thighs and making a mess of everything. he hears your heavy breaths and looks to see you smiling sweetly up at him.

and then he collapses next to you.

“hi andrew,” you say quietly next to him. your hands go to his, playing with his fingers and running the pad of your thumb over the veins on his hand. “was it how you thought it’d be?”

“it was better,” he says, breathless. you giggle and lean in to press a kiss to his cheek—and for a moment, he forgets everything. the circumstances of your introduction and the way he’d discovered you long forgotten for a few heartbeats. just you and the sound of your laugh and the promise of the future he wants with you before him.

“there’s still some things i thought about that we didn’t get to yet,” you tease, and he wonders, briefly, what he’s going to do with you.

and then you two hear it—scratching at your closed bedroom door.

“oh god,” you say, sitting up in bed.

you groan a little since your thighs are sore and it’s a wet, sticky mess between them. andrew keeps his hand on your arm and helps you sit up, and joins you in the position, like he’s preparing to help if you need something.

“warden, stop,” you say, but he doesn’t listen. you turn to andrew. “i’m gonna get him.” you try to move your legs and put weight on them, but you feel your knees buckle immediately, with andrew rushing to your side to help you back into bed.

“oh my god. you broke me.”

“i’ll get him. just-just sit down.”

andrew opens the door and picks up your cat like it’s second nature, bringing him to you on the bed before getting in right beside you. your cat is sweet but there’s not many people over at your apartment, and you worry for a moment that he won’t be nice to andrew when he wants your attention. but wardy doesn’t move from his position, staying curled up again andrew’s chest and arm, completely at ease.

“he likes you. that makes sense,” you say, smiling up at him, leaning in to pet wardy’s head.

but andrew doesn’t understand.

“warden. i thought you said his name was wardy?”

“that’s just a nickname.”

“why warden?”

“oh well. it’s silly, um-”

“tell me.”

“well, uh. well, warden is just the letters in andrew. uh, rearranged.”

“oh.”

“i’m sorry. i’m so sorry, is that creepy? i was really projecting, i guess, when i got him. i just loved your letters so much and i’ve never had a boyfriend or anything like that-”

“do you think we should get married?”

thanks for reading! ♡

[navybrat817]

A Kindred Spirit

Pairing: Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Bucky meets a kindred spirit while he's grocery shopping.

Word Count: Over 2.2k

Warnings: Alpine the cat (is that a warning?), established relationship, humor, sweetness, fluff, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: More Tower Shenanigans. @buckybarnesfic, this is for you! ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

It was Bucky’s turn to go grocery shopping, which he enjoyed and loathed. It was nice being able to pick out his own food, but he had to bite back a retort every time someone left their cart in the middle of the aisle or took a little too long when they stood in front of a shelf. He should’ve asked you to join him, but he was already out running another errand and didn’t want to bother you. If you were there with him, you would’ve giggled when he grumbled at the list. You would have also agreed with him when he complained about the high cost of food, wondering why everything was so expensive. It was insane.

Walking through the store, he kept an ear open while trying not to draw attention to himself. It was an old habit from when he was on the run. He willed his shoulders to relax, but instead, he glared up at the fluorescent light, his hand twitching with the desire to hold yours. He enjoyed holding your hand, which grounded him, and loved how your heart skipped a beat whenever he kissed it.

The sooner he finished shopping, the sooner he’d get back to the tower and you.

“Why are there so many PopTarts on this list?” he muttered as he went to the cereal aisle and put them in the cart. To be fair, he hadn’t realized there were so many flavors, and he knew he wouldn’t hear the end of it if he didn’t get the right ones.

He snorted when he saw that deodorant was next on the list, immediately clocking John’s handwriting. “That’s not food, so I’m not getting it.” Yeah, it was petty of him, since he could technically buy non-edible products at the grocery store. Maybe he was still annoyed by John's comment about your ass. You had a stunning ass, capable of leaving people in awe. That didn't mean he wanted the junior varsity Captain America to ogle it.

While Bucky had a tendency to get John the generic brand of foods, he did take dietary needs and favorite foods seriously. There was a particular brand of hot sauce that Yelena preferred, and he made sure to get the largest bottle possible. He made sure to get different types of fries as well, as there was an ongoing debate about whether regular, crinkle, or curly cut fries were the best. John almost flipped the table, but the argument died down when Bucky said he’d always share his fries with you. Ava said that was love.

She was right.

The thought of you softened his demeanor, and it softened even further when he saw your handwriting. “Chocolate, please, and thank you. You’re the best!” He traced the letters with his fingers and smiled. If he had the money, he’d buy you an entire chocolate shop. Because he didn't, he made sure to grab more than enough, anticipating that Alexei might try to steal some.

Thinking it over, he grabbed one more bar. “Just in case,” he whispered.

He grabbed some flowers for you, too, because you deserved them.

As he checked out, he balanced the reusable bags Bob insisted on using and tried not to sneer at the total. It wasn’t the worst shopping trip. He finished up a lot quicker than he expected. Maybe the two of you could go for a ride on his bike once everything was unpacked.

He managed to take your keys out of his pocket without dropping any of the bags, smiling again. Using your car was easier for shopping trips and he liked that it smelled like you. He was also one of the only people you trusted to drive your vehicle, which he prided himself on.

What he did not expect to see when he got to your car was a white ball of fur curled up on the hood. “What the hell?” he muttered.

His eyes flickered around the parking lot, and he listened for anyone calling out for a cat. The cat had no collar, and he had no clue if it had a name, but that didn’t mean it didn’t belong to someone. He liked to think someone would be in distress if their pet was missing, but he didn't hear or see anyone come out to claim it. It didn’t move either when he put the bags in the trunk and placed the flowers in the passenger seat.

What the hell was he supposed to do?

Putting his hands on his hips, he stared at the animal until it lifted its head. A pair of crystal blue eyes stared back at him, unafraid and not at all bothered. He had to smile because it strangely reminded him of you, unwavering and always willing to look right at him. “Hey there,” he said, tentatively holding a hand out. He didn’t want to spook the cat. “You lost? You're not hurt, are you?”

The cat’s fur was surprisingly pristine, but that didn't mean it wasn't in pain or sick. After sniffing Bucky’s hand, it meowed and bumped its head against his hand, making his heart melt. The fur was so soft, and he swore he heard a purr. It was adorable.

“Yeah, you're cute, but here’s the thing,” he said, shaking his head at himself since he was talking to a cat. “I can’t drive with you on the hood, so…”

As if the cat understood him, it stood up and stretched. He panicked for a moment when he thought it would scratch the paint, but there wasn’t a single mark from the claws. And instead of jumping onto the street like he expected, the cat silently walked right to him and stared into his eyes again.

An agile and stealthy little thing.

“...What?” he asked as they stared at each other down.

With a gentle meow, the white ball of fur placed its front paws on his chest and crawled into his arms. He stood perfectly still, wondering what he looked like at that moment; an imposing man in a leather jacket holding a bright white ball of fluff. It had to be a sight.

“Since you don't have a collar and I don't see anyone searching for you, I can take you to a shelter,” he suggested. The second the words left his mouth he knew it wasn't happening, and there was another meow, softer and sadder that had his walls crumbling.

“Listen, you really are cute, but I can’t just take you home.” He stopped with a huff. “I’ve never had a cat before. I wouldn't know what to do with you.”

The response was to further burrow itself in his arms. 

“I have crazy roommates,” he continued. The team was in a good place, but it didn't take away that they were an entire range of crazy. How could he throw a cat into the mix? “And what would my girl say?”

He just knew the idea of a pet would thrill you, especially since the cat was so cute. Though he couldn't just spring that on you, could he? And could he spring that on the team? It was their home, too. 

But the cat didn’t budge, content being in Bucky’s arms. He found that he was content, too. Had he become a cat person in a matter of seconds?

Just like when he met you, he was fucked. 

“Okay, here’s the thing,” he said, balancing the light creature in one arm as he took his phone out to call you. “I have to clear this with my girl, and when she approves because she will, we need to make sure you aren’t chipped or anything, okay?”

Looking at the feline, he had a feeling there was no chip, that there was no home or a family. He wondered if there was a reason she chose to lay on the car he drove today. Was it looking for its own family? A place to fit in? Wasn’t that what everyone wanted?

He could give it that.

“Hey.” He let out a happy sigh at the sound of your voice. “You still at the store?”

“Sort of,” he replied, chuckling as the feline curled up more. He wasn’t even sure if it was a girl or a boy. “That’s actually why I’m calling.”

“Is everything okay?” He could hear you moving around, likely heading to the door. “Do you need me to meet you?” 

“I’m good, thanks,” he promised, touched that you were ready to go to him. “Have I mentioned you're the best?”

Nothing like buttering up his girl before mentioning the cat. 

“You are the best. I wrote it on the list,” you said. He could hear you smiling. “But why are you trying to butter me up?”

Of course, you knew what he was up to. “Because we may need to make another shopping trip for some cat stuff,” he replied, holding his breath.

You paused on the other end. “Cat stuff? Why would we need to buy cat stuff?” you asked, gasping. “Bucky, did you get a cat?!”

He breathed out. At least you didn't sound upset. “Well. Um, hang on.” He pulled up the camera and snapped the best photo he could. After sending it to you, he didn't put his phone back up to his ear right away, knowing you were about to shriek. You were usually considerate with his enhanced hearing, but this was a very cute cat.

“Oh, my GOD!” The cat tilted its head when your voice rang out through the speaker, but didn't seem unphased otherwise. “I’m sorry I yelled.”

“It’s okay. You-”

“But that is the cutest fucking cat I’ve ever seen in my life,” you continued, making him chuckle. “Where did you find her?! Did you adopt her?!”

Bucky held her closer. “I found her on the hood of the car when I came out of the store, and why do you assume it’s a girl?” 

“That beauty is a girl. I just know,” you said with complete confidence. “Okay, we need a collar, bowls, food, a litter box, a scratching post… Ooh, a little helmet so she can go on rides with you!” That did sound adorable. “Hang on. I need to make a list.” 

He chuckled again at your enthusiasm. “Before we do any of that, we need to make sure she isn’t chipped,” he said, trying not to feel guilty for not doing that before calling and getting your hopes up. And what about her shots? Were those up to date?

“If she has an owner, we’ll fight them,” you said like it was no big deal. 

Mischievous blue eyes gazed up at Bucky, and he laughed all over again. “That’s my girl,” he fondly said. “And I think she heard you and agrees.”

“So, assuming all is well, we're keeping her?” you asked, trying to sound casual but he heard your hopefulness.

Bucky's heart picked up when you said “we” because it was a reminder that he had someone by his side. “Yeah, I think we are.”

“Yes! It’s about time we got a pet,” you said, careful to not shout this time. “And cats choose their people. You know that right?”

“You think so?” he asked. 

“I know so. She was sitting on the hood of my car in a parking lot, and I think she wanted you to find her. And judging from the photo you sent, she looks right at home curled up against you,” you said. He wondered if that would've been the case had he been on his bike. Would the outcome be the same? “I’ll bet you two are kindred spirits.”

“Just like us,” he said. Pieces that just fit together. 

Your happy sigh made him smile. “Just like us,” you agreed. 

“Let me bring her by so I can drop off the food, and then we’ll take care of everything.” 

“Ten bucks says she hisses at John and adores Bob,” you teased. You were probably right. “I can’t wait to see you!” 

“I can't wait either,” he said, glancing down when he heard the soft meow. 

“I was clearly talking to her when I said I can’t wait to see you.” You giggled when Bucky growled. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Drive safe.”

“I will.” He exhaled once you hung up. “Well, that went well.” He helped the cat into the car and placed her next to the flowers. “You’ll love my girl. She’s the best.”

The beautiful feline meowed and curled up on the seat. He realized he’d have to come up with a name for her. Something special for such a beautiful cat, something that fits well. He had a feeling that the right name would come to him by the end of the day, or that you would help him if he got stuck.

“I think you’ll like the gang, too. They’re…” Bucky tapped a finger on the steering wheel. “They’re something.”

The team had been lost in many ways before becoming their own crazy sort of family.

Before he could stop himself, he said, “I know what it's like to be lost, but I’ll take care of you from now on, okay?” She lifted her head and stared with knowing eyes before he pet her head. Satisfied when she meowed, he smiled and started up the car. “Let’s go home.”

Had to bring Alpine in, okay? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

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