#i feel soft in this chilis tonight

[manderleyfire]

BOYD CROWDER & AVA CROWDER in 'JUSTIFIED' (SEASON 2)

I lied for you taking that mining money. This is different, Ava. I guess me taking you in and building you up was a mistake. Just set you back to square one. That's not true. You took me in, and you healed me, Ava. You give me a reason to wake up in the morning. For that, I'll be eternally grateful.

[em1i2a3]

A House In Nebraska

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x (Ex?)Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!

Summary: After considering it for a long time, you have decided that it is time to leave the Thunderbolts and pursue a normal life after being passed from team to team for years. When you make the announcement it is met with a mix of emotions, but nobody is taking it harder than Bob.

Warnings: Angst and more Angst (with an ending that everyone will like hopefully), Hurt/Comfort (technically), Bob is going through it kinda, Unspoken Feelings Between Reader and Bob.

Author’s Note: I’ve been wanting to write this scenario for a while and I was finally able to get an ending that I truly loved and adored, and I am so glad that I was able to finish this and get this out to you guys, and I hope you guys enjoy it <3

Word Count: 8,336

”I’m leaving…”

The words felt foreign as they left your mouth. Soft. Like they didn’t quite belong to you. Like someone else had said them first, quietly, in some dream you didn’t remember waking from. They drifted into the room like smoke–barely there, but impossible to ignore. They were the kind of words that rearranged the air, and twisted it up into something totally different and new.

It was supposed to be a normal night.

Everyone was tucked into their usual spots around the low table in the compound’s common room–takeout containers open, steam curling toward the ceiling, the hum of the base’s heating vents filling the quiet between bites. You had ordered everything–from the popular Chinese takeout place down the road that somehow knew everyone’s preferences better than they knew each other’s. Spicy drunken noodles for Yelena. Chicken, Duck and Pork with extra rice for Alexei. Garlic dumplings with extra garlic and extra chili oil sauce for Bucky. Sweet-and-sour chicken for Walker. Tom Yum Soup and Spring Rolls for Ava. And Bob’s quiet favourite–plain lo mein with shredded pork, no veggies, extra sauce–which was nestled in front of him barely touched.

He had known something was off the moment you said dinner was on you. Everyone did actually. They had racked their brains trying to think if they somehow missed a birthday, or if a holiday passed and somehow they didn’t realize it, but after hours of thinking they had said to themselves that it was just a regular Thursday…Which raised their suspicions and their worries. But nobody could’ve ever expected this.

You were sitting between Bob and Yelena, your knees pulled up under you on the worn-down couch, your tray balanced on your lap. Bob’s thigh was pressed lightly against yours, as it always was–casual, comforting, and familiar, something he always did because it was second nature for him to be close to you. But the second your words hit the air, it was as if that contact felt electric, like a shock went through his body. You could feel him go stiff, and you didn’t even have to turn your head to know he was looking at you.

So was Yelena.

Both their heads had twisted toward you almost simultaneously, disbelief etched into the sharp lines of their profiles. It wasn’t often that they mirrored one another. But tonight, confusion and a quiet thread of betrayal lit up both their expressions like a crack of lightning.

You didn’t dare to look at either of them. You didn’t want to. You didn’t trust yourself not to fall apart. Not when you had already made the impossible decision.

So you kept your eyes on your food instead, though your appetites had vanished hours ago when you made the choice to tell the team tonight about what your plans were.

The silence that overtook the room was instant, not even the low tapping of chopsticks could be heard. Nobody moved, and no one dared to speak.

Except Bucky. Or rather–not Bucky. He was the only one who didn’t react. He stayed perfectly still at the far end of the couch, arms braced on his knees, jaw flexed like he was trying not to wince at how tense the room was at the moment. He blinked slowly, lifted his beer and took a long sip.

He was playing his part well, because he was the only one who knew–the only one you had told. You didn’t want the others trying to stop you. You didn’t want soft glances or hands on your arm or late-night conversations asking if this was about a mission, a memory or a nightmare you couldn’t shake. You didn’t want to be the problem they tried to fix.

You were done being that.

And the only person who you knew would understand where you were coming from was Bucky.

When you had told him, he had looked at you like you were speaking a different language. You had cornered him in the weapons bay a week ago, in the quiet lull between missions. He was restocking tranquilizers, and you just stood there until he looked up.

”I’m leaving,” You had said then. His brow furrowed at the announcement.

”Is everything alright?” You hadn’t hesitated to respond.

”Everything’s fine…I’ve never felt more sure about a decision actually.” That was when he stilled.

He didn’t argue. Didn’t scold you for even thinking about it. He just watched you like he knew how much it cost you to finally say it out loud. He let you speak for what felt like the first time in months. You told him about the way the noise was finally too much. The walls. The walls in your mind and the ones around this compound. You told him about waking up every morning with a part of yourself missing, hollowed out by years of being someone else’s weapon.

Bucky had listened in silence. Because he understood.

He knew what it was like to be built for the battlefield. To want to come home and realize you didn’t even know what home meant.

By the end, he nodded. Not in resignation–but in understanding. He didn’t try to convince you to stay. He promised to keep your secret.

And now, watching him at the edge of the couch–quiet, still, unreadable–you were genuinely impressed. He was playing the part like a professional. Eyes neutral. Shoulders stiff. Not a single twitch of his mouth betrayed what he knew. What only he knew.

Before anyone could speak–before the team could do what you were dreading—you jumped in again.

“I told Val a few days ago,” you said, your voice calm but low. “She’s aware of it. And… She’s actually helping me relocate.” A sharp scoff broke the tension like a blade.

“Bullshit,” Walker muttered, dropping his chopsticks onto his plate with a dull clatter, “Is hell frozen over or something? She would never do that.” You gave him a long look, steady but not unkind.

“I thought the same thing too. Trust me. But Mel followed up with a bunch of housing options…And that’s when I realized she actually meant it. She’s…Allowing me to go.” There was a pause–one of those unnatural ones where it felt like the whole room was holding its breath.

And in that silence, you noticed it.

Bob was rubbing his knees. His hands were pressing down on the fabric of his black sweatpants, fists tightening over and over like he didn’t know what to do with them. He hadn’t spoken. He hadn’t moved. But something was coming undone beneath the surface, and it was almost unbearable to watch.

Your jaw clenched as you leaned the slightest bit toward him, fingers moving gently to rest over his wrist. You didn’t grip, you just placed your hand there–soft, grounding. It was something small, but he flinched like the contact had burned him. Ava’s voice broke through next, sharp and direct.

“Why the hell are you leaving?” She asked, eyes locked on yours. Her tone was level, but there was something trembling behind it. Something brittle. “You’re one of us. This team–we’ve been through hell together. Why now?” You didn’t answer right away.

You breathed in through your nose. Let it fill your lungs like it might soften the blow. Then you met her gaze.

“I was born into an environment where I was trained to fight. Kill. Infiltrate. Deceive,” you said, each word measured, not cold–but tired. “I never saw the sun until I was sixteen. I was kept in rooms without windows. I was…Catalogued. Modified. Passed around like I was inhuman.”

You swallowed hard.

“I’ve never had a home. Never had a normal day. Never been able to choose anything for myself. I’ve spent my whole life being used–over and over again–and all I want now…Is to live in peace, and to have a normal life. I don’t want to travel and go after people anymore…I don’t want to harm people and fight them to the death. I want to wake up in a house I could call mine, and exist without being needed.” You looked around the table, eyes landing on each of them in turn, “I’m not built for this life anymore…And I know you might hate me for it and think I’m selfish…But my task here is done…” You added.

There was a long pause, thick enough to choke you–and maybe that’s what you wanted.

And then–

“…S-So you can’t live a no–normal life with us?” Bob’s voice was barely a whisper. Barely even a sound. But it shattered something deep in your chest.

You turned your head slowly to look at him.

His face was twisted into something small. Vulnerable. His eyes, wide and watery. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t furious. He was just…Breaking.

“Bob…” You said gently, your voice catching. “You know it’s not like that.”

But he was already pulling his arm away from your touch.

“Sure se–seems like it,” He said, and his voice cracked halfway through the sentence. Then he stood abruptly–too fast, too sharp–and walked out of the room.

His food remained untouched.

The only trace he had even been there was the imprint left in the cushion beside you. It felt like the air had been sucked out of the room, and your lungs were compressing and begging for air.

Yelena let out a slow, frustrated sigh, shifting in her spot, her knuckles turning white around her chopsticks, jaw set tight, clenching so hard it seemed like her teeth made a sharp grinding noise.

“When are you going?” She asked, not looking at you, not daring to even make eye contact. You licked your lips, feeling your throat tighten from the dryness that you were suddenly aware of in the air.

”Next Wednesday.” Yelena let out a low, bitter laugh. One that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Well,” She muttered, getting up from her spot slowly, “I hope it’s peaceful for you.” And without another word she walked away too. The remaining warmth of the room had left with her, and in its place was an empty, brittle kind of quiet that came after an argument no one wanted to admit had just happened.

“Wow,” Walker muttered, low and sardonic, shoving a piece of checking into his mouth without looking at anyone, “You really know how to thin out a crowd.” Bucky shot him a sharp look. A warning.

”Walker.” But he turned towards him, fork pausing halfway to his mouth, eyes narrowing with that familiar glint of provocation.

”What?” He snapped, “Are we seriously supposed to be okay with this? Just sit here and clap for her while she walks out? We all have fucking baggage here. We all bleed for this team. You were the one that was brainwashed for seventy years, Bucky. If anyone deserves a normal life, it’s you.” His jaw tightened at the comment.

”This is where I want to be, John,” He said firmly, “She doesn’t want to be here anymore…She’s burned out and exhausted. She’s done. Do you understand? Or do I need to get out the whiteboard and draw it out for you like you’re a fucking child?” That shut Walker up for a beat.

You bit the inside of your cheek, the metallic tang of blood blooming faintly on your tongue. Your stomach turned with the weight of being discussed like you weren’t even there, like you were some walking existential crisis just dropped into the center of dinner.

“Can we not act like I’m not sitting right here?” You asked, voice tight and edged.

Walker looked like he wanted to say something back, but Alexei shifted heavily in his chair, making the wood groan under his weight. He leaned forward on his elbows–his plate long forgotten in his lap–and looked at you with something gentle in his eyes.

”I support…Whatever you do,” He started slowly, his accent heavy but words carefully chosen, “You must do what you feel. Think for yourself. Not for team. Not for mission. That is not weakness. That is freedom.” His massive hand reached over and patted your shoulder—solid and warm, like he was trying to anchor you to something. His expression was soft in a way that felt rare. Earnest.

Your eyes stung.

”Thank you Alexei.” You said quietly, throat already tightening from the tears that were threatening to escape. Alexei just nodded and leaned back again, folding his arms over his chest as if he’d said all he needed to.

Walker blew out a sigh and rubbed a hand over his face, muttering something under his breath that sounded vaguely like “Still think it’s bullshit”, but he didn’t continue to push the subject–he knew it was no use.

As you stared down at your hands–at the faint tremble in your fingers, at the spot where Bob had sat, now empty–you realized something painful and true.

You weren’t just leaving a team…You were breaking a family.

And even though it was the right decision for yourself…That didn’t make it hurt any less.

———————————

You were in your bedroom, surrounded by half-filled boxes–some sealed, some still yawning open with uncertainty. The floor was a mess of folded sweaters, books, tangled cords, and scraps of your life that had clung to the corners of the compound without you realizing it. A permanent layer of dust had formed beneath the bed, now exposed, and a lone sock had somehow ended up behind your nightstand. The hum of the ventilation system buzzed quietly above you, low and steady, the only constant sound in an otherwise hollow space.

There were labels on each box–Clothes, Gear, Kitchen Stuff, Important Docs, To Val–but one sat alone at the edge of your bed.

A box labeled simply: Bob.

Polaroids, mostly. Ones you’d snapped at odd hours, between missions, at safe houses and gas stations and rooftops during sunset. There was one of him half-asleep with his hoodie pulled over his face, slumped sideways on a bench in Prague. One where he was squinting into the camera because you’d caught him mid-chew during a ramen run in Oslo. A few blurry ones he’d taken of you without asking, and you hadn’t even realized until weeks later when you found them in the stack.

You added one last thing–a keychain.

It was dumb. A glittery, over-the-top crescent moon trinket you’d won from a claw machine on a mission in Atlantic City. Bob had said it looked like something a seven-year-old would clip to their backpack. And then later, quietly, he’d asked if you could win him one too.

He’d kept it on him for months before it broke. You’d found the spare in your drawer last week, still sealed in its plastic, and tucked it into the tissue beside the photos.

The ache in your chest hadn’t stopped since that night in the common room. Not once. It hadn’t dulled. If anything, it had grown sharper with every day Bob avoided you. Every time he turned down a hallway the moment he saw you coming. Every time he shut the door a little too fast behind him. You’d tried–three separate times–to catch him when he was alone. To talk. To explain. But each time he shut you down with silence. His eyes flickered, his hands clenched, and he walked away.

He didn’t hate you.

You knew that much.

But something in him had closed off. Locked down. Like if he said a single word, the rest of it–all that golden, aching softness–would pour out and ruin everything.

Yelena, on the other hand, had surprised you.

She gave you a chance.

A few nights after the dinner fallout, she found you in the training bay–sitting against the wall with your knees drawn up, water bottle dripping condensation between your palms. She didn’t ask questions at first. Just sat beside you in silence. For nearly ten minutes, neither of you spoke.

Then she muttered, “I’m here if you want to talk.”

And this time…You did.

You told her everything. Not all at once, not easily, but enough. Enough for her to understand that you weren’t running from the team–you were running toward something you had never been allowed to have. Peace. Quiet. Your own name, your own morning, your own walls that didn’t have reinforced steel embedded in them.

Yelena didn’t say anything when you finished. Not at first.

She just sat beside you, her shoulder barely brushing yours, her eyes fixed on the far wall of the training bay like maybe she was trying to memorize every crack in the concrete. Her jaw was tense. You could hear the way she was breathing through her nose–slow, controlled. Not angry. Just…Processing.

The silence stretched. But it wasn’t the suffocating kind. It was careful. Heavy with meaning. Like the two of you were both sitting in the aftermath of something important.

You didn’t expect her to speak. You didn’t need her to.

Because she stayed.

She didn’t storm off or call you a coward. She didn’t try to talk you out of it. She didn’t even ask you to stay for her. She just sat there with you in the grief of it. Like someone holding vigil beside a wound that couldn’t be stitched.

When she finally did speak, her voice was low. Rough.

“Felt like we were finally building something here,” She murmured. “Like maybe… we were gonna be okay.”

Your throat tightened. “We are gonna be okay.”

She turned to look at you. Not cold. Not bitter. Just…Wounded.

“It won’t be the same.”

You didn’t argue. You didn’t lie. You didn’t try to sugarcoat it or cushion the fall with reassurances you couldn’t promise.

Instead, you nodded.

“I know,” You said softly. “It really won’t.”

Yelena blinked slowly, like that answer hurt more than anything you could have said. But there was a kind of respect in it, too. The way she held your gaze. The way she didn’t look away.

You offered her the only thing you could.

“I’ll FaceTime you. Anytime you want. Doesn’t matter what hour it is. If I’m free, I’ll answer.”

She gave a soft, humorless snort and rolled her eyes–but the corner of her mouth twitched. “You say that now. Wait until I call you at three a.m.”

“I’ll still be there…Even if I’m half asleep.” You replied, nudging her shoulder with yours. She looked down at her hands for a moment, then looked back at you, her eyes glossy.

”I’m still mad at you.” You nod.

”I know.”

”And I still think you’re abandoning me…”

You nodded again, “I know that too.” Yelena’s jaw twitched. She looked like she was going to say something else, but then she just reached down, picked up your water bottle, and twisted the cap off. She took a sip and handed it back like nothing had happened. Like the training bay wasn’t holding the fractured pieces of your friendship in its concrete walls.

“Doesn’t mean I’m not gonna miss you,” she muttered.

You smiled, soft and aching. “I’d be worried if you didn’t.”

She glanced at you again—this time longer. The look in her eyes was weighted, but steadier now. Not entirely okay, but… accepting. Like the fight had drained out of her and what was left was only the sharp sting of goodbye.

“You better not disappear,” she said quietly. “Or I will come find you. And I’ll drag your sorry ass back here kicking and screaming.”

You laughed–really laughed, even as tears burned behind your eyes. “Okay. Deal.” She stood then, brushing her hands on her sweats, and offered you one last look before she walked off.

It was simple. Wordless.

But it said everything.

And after the door clicked shut behind her, you exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

The ache in your chest was still there. Still raw. Still full of Bob’s silence and Yelena’s resignation and the ghost of the team you were leaving behind.

But somewhere beneath it all…Was the first glimmer of peace.

———————————

That night, sleep didn’t come—it hovered just out of reach, like a memory you couldn’t hold onto. Every time you closed your eyes, your mind filled with static. Movement. Noise. A hundred moments pressing down on your chest all at once.

So you gave up trying.

The clock read 2:47 a.m. when you finally swung your legs over the edge of the bed, the floor cool beneath your bare feet. You pulled on a robe, soft and worn from too many laundry cycles, and padded quietly across the room. The boxes seemed to watch you as you passed—silent witnesses to the pieces of yourself you were leaving behind.

You didn’t bother with shoes. It was spring, and the air was warm enough to touch your skin without biting.

The elevator ride up to the roof was quiet, but your stomach twisted tighter with every passing floor. You weren’t sure what you were hoping to find up there–maybe just some air. Maybe some stillness.

But when the doors slid open with a soft ding, your breath caught in your throat.

Bob was there.

He was lying back on one of the outdoor couches, head tilted up toward the stars, arms folded across his chest. The glow of the rooftop lights had dimmed to their nighttime setting–just enough to paint the space in soft gold. You could see the outline of his shoulders rising and falling, slow and deep.

At the sound of the elevator, he lifted his head slightly. His eyes met yours for only a second before he turned away again and let his head drop back down with a quiet thud against the cushions.

You stepped out onto the roof, swallowing the lump that was already forming in your throat.

“Bob…” You called softly, moving toward him, “I’m leaving tomorrow morning.”

He didn’t answer.

“You can’t just let me go without saying goodbye.”

Still nothing.

You moved closer, your steps careful, hesitant. When you reached the couch, you saw he had rolled halfway onto his side–facing away from you now, his back rigid, spine curved like he was holding the weight of something that wouldn’t let go. There was just enough space behind him on the cushions. You lowered yourself gently, wedging into the curve his body didn’t fill. Close, but not pressing. Not yet at least.

“C’mon, Bob…” You murmured. “Can you please just talk to me?”

You heard it first. A soft, quiet sniffle.

Then a voice, broken in half:

“Am I not wo–worth staying for?”

The question hit you like a punch to the ribs. You blinked hard, reaching toward him before you could stop yourself. Your hand rested on his chest, over the thin cotton of his t-shirt—his heartbeat thudding unevenly beneath your palm.

“Bob…” You said, your voice catching. “Of course you are. Of course you are. But I can’t stay. I can’t be a Thunderbolt anymore.”

He didn’t look at you.

But you saw the tears glistening on the bridge of his nose, catching in the faint rooftop light as they slid down into the fabric of the pillow.

“So why don’t you ju–just quit the te–team and stay?” He asked, his voice barely above a whisper, thick and shaking. “Stay with me?” You closed your eyes, your thumb brushing gently back and forth against his chest.

“Because I need a clean slate,” You whispered. “I love you guys so much…But I can’t surround myself with these things anymore. I’m so tired of it.”

His hand rose shakily and settled over yours. His fingers curled around yours like he needed to hold onto something before it slipped away.

And his chest shook beneath your hand as he cried.

“I have been owned by people my entire life,” You said, your voice low and slow, every word weighted. “I never got to make decisions for myself. I never got the choice to be… who I am now. I was born into it. I didn’t get a say. I was punished for things I couldn’t control, and I had to pick up the pieces of myself that I never knew existed.”

Bob was silent, but his grip tightened slightly.

“I have never had a sense of normalcy,” You continued. “I’ve never experienced being on my own–really on my own–and being in control of my own life without the strict schedules of missions or handlers or daily combat briefings. I’ve been surviving for so long, Bob… And I want to live.”

You shifted closer, forehead resting gently between his shoulder blades, your breath warming the fabric of his shirt.

“I’m trying to find who I am outside of a weapon, outside of what I was raised to be. I need to know who that person is. Do you understand?” For a long time, he didn’t say anything. The only sound was the soft hum of the wind brushing across the roof, and the quiet, unsteady rhythm of Bob’s breathing.

Then, finally–so softly you almost didn’t hear it:

“I understand.” He turned his head slightly, just enough for you to see the side of his face. His eyes were rimmed red, lashes damp. “…But…” He whispered, voice cracking like a fault line beneath the surface, “I ca–can’t imagine living my life without you in it…”

The words struck something so deep inside you, you almost didn’t breathe.

Your heart seized.

A slow, aching twist that started in your chest and moved outward like a ripple through still water. Your eyes filled instantly, no warning, just heat behind your lashes and the sudden blurring of everything around him.

“Bob…” You breathed. The name didn’t even feel like a word–it was just grief in a single exhale. Heavy and fragile all at once.

But before you could say anything else, he moved.

His hand found yours, and with trembling fingers, he brought it to his mouth.

You felt his breath first–hot, unsteady. It fanned across your knuckles like the flicker of a flame. His lips hovered, trembling, and then your fingertips accidentally grazed the curve of his bottom lip. You flinched–barely–but the touch set your pulse reeling.

“Yo–You can’t say that,” You whispered, voice unsteady. “You can’t…”

He nodded, his eyes closed now, like he was bracing for impact.

“I kn–know,” He said, his voice thudding low in his throat. “But I need you to also understand the truth from my eyes as well… I ca–can’t keep that bottled in.”

A single tear broke free from your lashes and slipped down your cheek. You felt it trace your jaw, warm and cold all at once. You didn’t wipe it away.

And then–

His lips pressed to the tips of your fingers.

It wasn’t a kiss, not really.

It was something else.

Like a confession made in silence. A truth laid bare in skin and breath and trembling restraint. You felt the warmth of his mouth wetting your fingertips slightly, felt the tremor in his body as he held you there like he was hoping time might pause.

Like maybe if he just held on long enough, the rest of the world might forget to take you away.

The moment stretched, thick and reverent, until all you could do was whisper into it.

“I never wanted to hurt you.”

“I know,” Bob murmured, mouth still brushing your skin.

“I think I love you.” The words tumbled out before you could catch them–raw and stripped down and full of everything that had gone unsaid for too long.

You felt him still beneath your touch.

Then he exhaled–shaky, wrecked.

“I do lo–love you,” He whispered, broken and sure and barely there.

Your throat closed around the sound.

He finally turned to face you fully then–his eyes red and glassy, the soft streetlight glow catching his hair. And the way he looked at you…God. You’d never been looked at like that before. Like you were everywhere in his world. Like you had taken root in the hollow behind his ribs and nothing–not even the grief–could pull you out.

You leaned forward, forehead brushing his, and for a second the two of you just breathed the same air. Sharing silence like it was the only language that wouldn’t break you. Bob wrapped his arms around you like he didn’t know how else to stay whole.

There was no hesitation anymore. He just pulled you into him–tightly, fully–like he was trying to memorize the way you fit against his body. His hand slid up your back and cupped the base of your skull, his fingers trembling slightly in your hair. You buried yourself in his chest, the soft fabric of his shirt warm from his skin, damp from his tears.

“I sh–should’ve said it sooner…” He whispered, voice frayed at the edges. “And I know it’s too late no–now… But I wanted you to know before you le–left…”

You pressed your face harder against him, your forehead nudging the hollow of his collarbone. His scent wrapped around you like a balm–soft and warm and impossibly sweet. He smelled like vanilla bean and the faintest trace of brown sugar, like the last page of a well-read book and fresh sheets on a summer night. There was a lingering note of coffee in there too–familiar, comforting, so Bob.

“I wa–want you to be happy,” He murmured, his lips brushing the crown of your head. “And if th–this is the way you’ll be happy…Do what you need to do…”

A fresh wave of tears slipped down your cheeks, warm against his shirt, soaking into the cotton like ink into paper. You felt the rise and fall of his chest match your own–uneven and trembling, the both of you wrapped in grief you couldn’t outrun. Not this kind.

Neither of you spoke after that.

You just held each other, clinging to the fading moment, to the ache of what was about to be lost. The silence was thick, but not empty. It was shared. Like the pause between heartbeats before something new begins.

You didn’t know how long you sat there.

But eventually, when your sobs had softened to slow, silent exhales, you shifted your weight just slightly. Your hand moved to rest over his heart, and you tilted your head to look up at him, chin resting lightly on his chest.

“Did I ever tell you about the first time I was able to go outside?” you asked softly.

Bob blinked down at you, his eyes still red and rimmed with salt. He shook his head gently, brushing your cheek with the back of his hand in a way that made your throat clench.

“I was in a lab in Nebraska,” you began, voice distant, like it was echoing down a hallway of memory. “I’d just been transferred there. One of the lab assistants was going through my records…Noticed how often I got sick, how reactive my skin was. All my charts said the same thing–chronic immune issues, recurrent infections, photophobia–but no one ever questioned why.”

You swallowed.

“They asked if I’d ever been outside. And I told them no. I didn’t even know what ‘outside’ really meant.”

Bob’s brow furrowed, his fingers curling around your waist, pulling you in closer.

“They brought me out the next day. Just behind the facility, this patch of open field surrounded by chain-link and barbed wire. It wasn’t much, but it was sky. Real sky. And sunlight.” You exhaled slowly, remembering. “I stayed out there until my skin burned. My arms, my face, the back of my neck. I couldn’t stop shaking. But I didn’t care. I was sixteen. I had spent every day of my life inside a room with no windows. I wasn’t going to waste it. I wanted the full experience.”

Bob gave the smallest, broken smirk. It was laced with so much hurt, but also wonder. He was listening with his whole body.

And then you said, voice softer still:

“…When I first saw you in the Vault… I thought I was having the same experience.”

He blinked.

“You did?”

You nodded. “When you looked at me…I swear Bob, it was like I was seeing the sun for the first time…The awe…The ache in my chest…I knew from the moment I saw you…You were going to be someone special to me…Just like the sun.” His mouth opened slightly, as if he wanted to say something–but he didn’t have the words. He just stared at you like the world had stopped moving for a moment. Like you’d just told him something too big to hold.

Then–

Ding.

The soft mechanical chime of the elevator broke the stillness, and both your heads turned.

Bucky stepped onto the rooftop, eyes adjusting quickly. His brows raised when he saw you tangled in Bob’s arms, cheeks flushed, eyes swollen from crying.

He froze.

“…Sorry,” He said quietly. “Hope I’m not interrupting.”

You sat up slowly, gently pulling away from Bob–but not far. You looked at Bucky and gave a faint shake of your head.

“No,” You said softly. “You’re not.”

And that was where the conversation ended.

——————————

The quinjet loomed like a shadow against the early morning sky, sleek and still beneath the soft haze of sunrise. The compound’s landing pad was bathed in gold light, long shadows stretching beneath your feet as the team worked in quiet rhythm, hauling your boxes up the ramp one by one.

Everyone was there.

Except Bob.

You scanned the area again–half-hoping, half-desperate–but his tall frame was nowhere in sight. Not lingering by the cargo bay. Not leaning against the railing like he always did. Not even watching from a distance the way you knew he sometimes did when he thought you wouldn’t notice.

Gone.

After everything you shared on the roof last night, part of you had believed–naively, maybe–that he’d come. That he’d meet your eyes one last time. That you’d have a goodbye that felt like something final and full and whole. Something sacred. But the empty space where he should’ve been said everything you didn’t want to hear.

And your heart cracked. Quietly. With no fanfare. Just a hollow snap beneath your ribs.

The last box clunked into place in the cargo hold. You stood at the foot of the ramp, hands hanging uselessly at your sides, watching the team slowly gather near you, one by one.

Alexei came first. He was cradling your coffee machine under one arm–comically oversized in his grip–and he set it down gently before reaching for you. His hug was firm. Solid. The kind of hug that wrapped you in safety without words.

His arms enveloped you fully, a wall of warmth and steady breath as he muttered gruffly, “Is always place for you at my table. No matter where that table is.” He squeezed once, hard, then stepped back like anything more would undo him.

Ava followed. Her hug was briefer, more reserved, but no less sincere. She touched your upper arms and rested her forehead lightly against yours. “You come visit when you can…We’ll miss you a lot.” You nodded, throat tight, and she offered a faint smile before stepping aside.

Walker surprised you.

He stood awkwardly for a moment, scratching the back of his neck like he was unsure whether a goodbye was earned between you. Then he stepped forward, arms spreading almost defensively like he expected to be swatted away. But when you let him hug you, he pulled you in–not hard, but secure. Not rigid, but genuine. His hand patted your back once, and he muttered under his breath, “It was fun working with you…And I hope you find what you’re looking for…”

You smiled, and let out a small breath, “Thanks, Walker.” Bucky was last before Yelena. He stood a little off to the side, arms crossed, jaw set. But when he stepped forward, it wasn’t with the stoic air he wore in the field—it was something softer. Tired. Human. He looked at you like he wanted to say more, but all he did was pull you into a single-armed hug, metal arm staying at his side.

“When you figure out what ‘home’ really means…Let me know…Maybe I’ll find mine too.” He murmured.

Your throat closed up. “You can visit anytime. Seriously.”

He nodded, releasing you gently, his lips twitching into something almost like a smile. “One day. I will.”

Then it was just Yelena.

And everything in you stilled.

She didn’t rush. She walked to you like she was measuring every step. Then she opened her arms without a word, and you crashed into them.

Her hug was everything.

Tight. Unyielding. Unapologetically emotional. Her fingers curled into the back of your shirt, and her breath hitched against your shoulder.

“I don’t forgive you yet,” She whispered shakily, “but I’m trying.”

You nodded, arms squeezing her just as tight. “I know.”

She sniffled, pulled back just enough to look you in the eye. Her mascara was smudged.

“I’ll call you once I land and get everything sorted,” You said, voice trembling.

“You better,” she said, and tried to blink away the tears. “Or I will track you down.”

You nodded again, unable to say anything else without falling apart.

And then–it was time.

You turned, climbing the ramp slowly. Every step away from them felt like it dragged a little piece of your heart behind. You didn’t look back. You couldn’t. If you did, you weren’t sure you’d be able to leave at all.

Inside the cockpit, you slipped into the seat, fingers shaking slightly as you ran through launch protocol. The quinjet hummed around you. Systems came online. The ramp sealed shut behind you. You typed in the coordinates for your new house, and pressed enter.

You stared out at the horizon, waiting for the weight in your chest to lessen.

But it didn’t, and as the jet lifted off–smooth, steady, rising into the quiet morning–you pressed your forehead against the glass and whispered so low only the sky could hear:

“Goodbye, Bob.”

And the clouds swallowed you whole.

———————————

The quinjet touched down in a slow, whisper-soft descent, the grass parting gently beneath it as though the land had been expecting you. You powered down the systems one by one, the low hum of machinery giving way to stillness–pure and uninterrupted. There were no voices. No distant alarms. No radio chatter or metal doors hissing open in the background.

Just silence.

When the ramp hissed open, the world met you with a breath of spring.

The air was cool–cooler than it had been at the compound–but not cold. It wrapped around your skin like a clean sheet pulled fresh from the line. There was a weight to it, not heavy, but full. Damp with dew. Sweet with the scent of tilled soil, blooming clover, and the soft tang of wild lilacs carried from somewhere far down the slope.

You stepped onto the grass, and the earth gave a little beneath your feet. The field rolled out around you like a green sea, golden in the sunlight. The quinjet stood in the middle of it like some strange, sleeping bird. A few feet away, tucked against a thicket of trees and set back from the gravel path, was your house.

Your house.

Your throat tightened as you looked at it.

It wasn’t grand. Wasn’t sleek or modern or fortified with anything but wood and love.

But it was everything.

A one-story farmhouse with soft grey-blue siding and white trim that had weathered seasons of wind and sun. The porch stretched across the front like open arms, its columns uneven and chipped but sturdy. A rickety wooden swing hung on rusted chains from one corner, moving slightly in the breeze. The railing was scuffed in places, like someone had leaned against it a hundred times to watch the sun go down. Ivy had started to creep along one edge.

There were windows everywhere.

Tall ones. Bare ones. Not a single one had bars. They were thrown open to the wind like someone had once opened them and never thought to close them again. Light poured from the inside, golden and warm, dancing over the warped floorboards of the porch.

You took a step forward.

And then another.

The mailbox stood on a crooked wooden post, its red flag bent sideways like a tired elbow. You popped it open and found the envelope tucked inside. Your name was written across the front in soft cursive. Inside: one brass key.

Your fingers curled around it.

It was heavier than you thought it would be. Not physically. Just…Symbolically. Tangibly. Like something final.

You climbed the porch steps slowly, savoring the sound of each creak under your feet. They weren’t sharp or alarming–just lived in. Familiar. You reached the front door and slid the key into the lock.

It turned with a quiet, satisfying click.

And then you stepped inside.

The warmth hit you first.

It wasn’t the kind of warmth that came from heat or sunlight. It was the kind that came from home. From a place that had been touched, loved, settled in–even if only by someone preparing it for you.

The floor beneath your feet was hardwood–old, slightly warped, but recently cleaned. A wide area rug stretched across the living room, woven in soft tones of sage, clay, and wheat. A couch was tucked beneath a large window, throw blankets tossed lazily over one arm. There were mismatched pillows, soft and frayed at the seams, like they had been used to prop up lazy Sunday afternoons.

To the right, the kitchen opened up–warm wood counters, a farmhouse sink with a deep basin, and cabinets painted buttercream yellow. A cast iron kettle sat on the stove. The window above the sink looked out into the field, and the breeze was gently lifting the gauzy curtains.

There was a small dining table tucked into the corner, set with two chairs. One of the seats had a tiny chip in the backrest. It didn’t look lonely. It looked like someone had pulled it out and sat there for hours, sipping coffee while the wind spoke against the windows.

You moved forward and set your keys in the ceramic dish that waited on the entryway table.

They landed with a soft clink.

You smiled.

It was the first real smile you’d felt in weeks. Maybe longer. A smile that didn’t ask anything from you. A smile that came from a chest slowly, slowly uncoiling.

You walked further into the house. Past the fireplace. Past the faded print on the wall of rolling hills and prairie skies. Past the stack of firewood and the tiny woven basket someone had left on the coffee table filled with lavender sachets and a handwritten note: Welcome home.

And that’s when you heard it.

A voice–low and familiar, carved with hesitation, but laced with that gentle brand of humor only one man ever used on you.

“You’re going to ha–have to get a better security system…” You stopped mid-step. Every hair on your body stood up. The air shifted around you–suddenly warmer, suddenly sharper. You turned slowly, your feet rooted to the hardwood, your breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your ribs.

The voice had come from the back hallway.

From the open doorway at the far end.

And when you stepped into the frame and followed it with your eyes–you saw him.

Bob.

Leaning casually against the bedroom door frame like he belonged there. Like he’d always been there. He was wearing grey sweatpants and a navy blue crewneck, the sleeves pushed up to his forearms, exposing the lines of his hands–familiar, scarred, warm. His hair was tousled, and wind-tangled. And his mouth–God, that soft, crooked smile was already stretched across his face.

His eyes flicked over your expression, and something about the way he looked at you made the shock in your chest soften. Melt. Like the earth had tilted just slightly under your feet but settled in a better position.

“I th–thought,” He started, his voice cracking slightly, “Instead of saying goodbye…I’d be the fi–first to say hello.” Your mouth opened, but no sound came out at first.

You blinked in shock.

And then–your smile broke through, wide and disbelieving, laced with something just this side of laughter. “How did you… How did you know? And how the hell did you get here?”

He pushed off the doorway with one shoulder and walked toward you slowly, like he didn’t want to spook you. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his sweats, and his eyes never left your face.

“Well…” He said, shrugging, “I as–asked Val.”

You raised your brows, still trying to catch up. “You asked Val?”

“She’s still ki–kind of scared of me snapping, so she…” He gave you a sheepish, apologetic glance. “Gave me the information pretty fast.”

That made you huff out a laugh.

He paused a few feet away, then looked down for a second. “Then I just…Fl–Flew here.”

You stared at him. “You used Sentry?”

He nodded once. No shame. “Of co–course I did.”

Your hand rose to your mouth, trying to hide the slow, surprised grin spreading across your face. “Jesus, Bob.”

He shrugged again. Like it wasn’t a big deal. Like flying to you was as natural as taking the subway. There was a pause. Just the two of you standing there in the middle of your new living room, the breeze moving through the open windows, the quiet pulse of shared history hanging between you.

Then Bob added, voice softening:

“Af–After you told me about that story yesterday…I thought you were go–going to be moving here.”

You tilted your head at him, warmth blooming slow and thick in your chest.

He smiled again, smaller this time. “Glad I caught on and that you didn’t just ra-randomly tell me that story about Nebraska for the hell of it.”

You laughed under your breath, a sheepish little sound, and rolled your eyes. “Even though it was still relevant…”

“Mhm,” He hummed, and then his gaze drifted past you, scanning the space like he was seeing it all for the first time–the porch swing, the chipped paint, the breeze in the curtains, the scent of lavender and old wood. “It’s ni–nice.”

You nodded. “It is.”

He looked back at you. His eyes were soft, and gentle, glistening in the lighting.

“Is it okay…If I st–stay for a little?” He asked.

Your breath hitched–just for a second–but the answer was already in your chest before he’d finished the question. You nodded once, slow and sure, the weight of your breath caught just beneath your ribs.

“Of course…” you murmured, voice soft. Then–after a beat, after a shift in the air that felt impossibly delicate–you added, “But I need to do something that I should’ve done last night.”

Bob blinked. His eyes searched yours—gentle, uncertain, wide like he hadn’t dared to hope for this exact thing. His hands slid a little deeper into his pockets, like he didn’t trust them not to reach for you on instinct.

You stepped forward. Just one step. Then another.

And when you were close enough to feel his breath on your face, you looked at him–really looked at him.

At the soft barely–there freckles scattered across his cheeks, at the faint lines beneath his eyes from sleepless nights, at the way his bottom lip trembled just slightly, as if bracing for something too good to be true.

“I should’ve kissed you last night,” You whispered.

His breath caught.

The seconds that passed between you then were slow and golden and suspended in something you couldn’t name. Something like awe. Something like gravity giving you mercy.

And when you rose onto the balls of your feet and brought your hand to the side of his face–fingertips ghosting along his cheekbone–he leaned into it like it was instinct. Like he didn’t remember how to breathe without you.

Your noses brushed.

His lashes fluttered.

And then, finally–

You kissed him.

It was slow. Soft. Barely a breath at first.

But God, it was everything.

It was months of unsaid words, of near-misses and held-back glances and aching silence pressed into a single point of contact. It was the exhale of something sacred. The kind of kiss you only get once in a lifetime. The kind that feels like a promise made in a language no one else will ever speak.

Bob’s lips were warm–tentative at first, trembling slightly against yours like he couldn’t quite believe it was happening. But then he sank into you, deepening it just a little. One hand lifted–hesitant, reverent–and cradled your jaw like you were something precious. His thumb brushed the edge of your cheekbone. His nose bumped yours gently.

You sighed against his mouth. A sound that was equal parts relief and wonder.

When you finally pulled back, your foreheads stayed pressed together, your noses still brushing, breath shared in the quiet space between your mouths.

His voice was barely a whisper.

“…Wo–Worth the wait.”

You smiled–soft, a little wrecked, fully his. “Yeah,” you breathed. “It was…And I’m glad you came…”

[aleese1111]

Bruises and Glances was so good!!! Can you do a part two? 🫶

bruises & glances two | geum seong je x fem!reader

summary: Since the night he broke someone’s face for her, Seong-je keeps coming back—closer each time, his quiet gaze carving a space between them neither dares to name. But when she finally slips him her number, the way he looks at her before stepping into the night doesn’t feel like goodbye—it feels like a beginning, or a warning.

warnings: [fluff i think] seong je being a flirt, mild language and smoking .

author's note: your wish is my command. :P requests (pls pls request)

✶ ᶻz .ᐟ , one .. two .. ??

after that night, he came more often.

not every night—but enough that it wasn’t coincidence anymore. always with the same two friends, bruised and grinning like nothing hurt. they took their usual table near the window, like they belonged there. like they’d always been there.

she didn’t say anything the first few times. neither did he.

but the air was different. heavier in the pauses. lighter in the smiles.

his friends noticed first.

the way his eyes followed her. the way hers lingered when she thought no one was looking. sometimes he’d say something low, just enough for her to hear as she passed by, and his friends would nudge each other, biting back their laughs. she pretended not to notice. sometimes she didn’t succeed.

she wasn’t sure what they were now. not exactly friends. not strangers either.

something quiet and slow had settled between them, built from stares and shared silences.

tonight was no different.

he was leaned back in his chair, leg stretched out too far like he was daring someone to trip. one hand wrapped around his water glass, fingers still scraped raw from something recent.

she walked up with her notepad, chewing the inside of her cheek to stop herself from smiling too much.

“same thing?” she asked.

he looked at her like he had all the time in the world.

“unless you’re finally gonna tell me what you eat.”

“you gonna copy me?”

“maybe.”

“that’s lame.”

he tilted his head. “maybe i just wanna know what you like.”

her stomach did a weird thing. she tried to hide it by writing something that didn’t need to be written.

“you’re taking too long,” he said, voice low and amused.

“shut up.”

“make me.”

and then—

“yah!”

her grandma’s voice cracked through the kitchen like a firework.

“you taking their whole life story or their damn order?”

her entire body stiffened. the boys at the table burst out laughing.

she turned a brilliant shade of red, barely meeting his eyes.

“i’ll be right back,” she muttered, spinning on her heel before he could say another word.

he watched her go, the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth refusing to leave.

dinner passed like that—quiet jabs, a little more open each time. he didn’t say much, but what he did say was sharper now. warmer, in his own way. and she—she didn’t pull away from it.

eventually, their plates emptied. glasses full of melting ice. napkins bunched up and stained with chili oil.

“we’ll smoke outside,” one of his friends said, standing and stretching like a cat. “don’t wait up.”

he said it too casually. too knowingly.

seong je didn’t respond, just waved them off.

the bell above the door jingled as they left. outside, the night buzzed low and distant. a scooter passed. someone shouted two blocks down.

she was wiping down the table beside his, fingers moving in quiet, practiced motions. the shop had settled into that soft, late-hour hush. chili paste still hung in the air. oil still bubbled faintly in the kitchen.

he hadn’t moved.

just sat there, arms resting on the edge of the table, watching her with that usual quiet, unreadable look.

“you always here this late?” he asked suddenly.

she glanced up, a little surprised. “usually.”

he nodded like that made sense. like he already knew.

“must get boring,” he added, picking up a toothpick and twirling it between his fingers. “wiping tables. waiting for creeps to walk in.”

she huffed a quiet laugh. “beats getting my nose broken almost everyday.”

his eyes flashed. amused. “true.”

a beat of silence.

he looked toward the window, where smoke curled faintly from where his friends stood, silhouettes under the streetlamp.

then, without looking at her—casually, like he was still thinking aloud:

“so… if i wanted tteokbokki when you’re not working,” he said slowly, “how would i know where to find you?”

she blinked. straightened a little.

“you don’t,” she said, guarded but teasing.

his lips tugged into that small, crooked grin again. “what if i get desperate?”

she raised an eyebrow. “for food?”

he tilted his head, eyes on her now. something deeper in them. “maybe not just food.”

her breath caught.

he held her gaze. still that easy, slow voice. but something in it pressed closer.

“…you could just tell me,” he said.

she hesitated. then stepped closer, grabbed a pen from the counter, and gently slid a napkin across the table.

didn’t say anything as she wrote.

just handed it over, then turned away like it didn’t mean something.

he looked down at the numbers. then folded it once and tucked it into his jacket pocket like it was the only thing worth keeping.

when he finally stood, the bell above the door jingled soft.

but before he stepped out, he looked back again.

not smiling.

not smirking.

just… looking.

and she was already looking back.

✶ ᶻz .ᐟ , one .. two .. ??

[psformybss]

Tiny Heartbeats & Big Reactions

series masterlist

warnings: pregnancy reveal, soft family moments, chaotic joy, happy tears, emotional hugs, found family, fluff, overwhelming love

════════════════

The living room still smelled faintly like cinnamon and pine, even with the fire long out and the stockings tucked away. Wrapping paper littered the corners—soft remnants of a morning they’d never forget. Her fingers played absently with the ribbon that had come off Jodi’s gift, nerves building in her chest despite knowing what was about to happen.

Almost everything had been unwrapped. Cozy sweaters, framed photos, a custom ornament with their last name etched into the glass. Just one thing left.

She shifted beside Drew on the couch, brushing her hand against his. He caught it instantly, fingers curling around hers with the kind of quiet steadiness she always loved him for.

“Okay,” she said, voice a little too bright. “We’ve got one more.”

Drew stood first, grabbing the stack from under the tree—two silver-wrapped boxes for their parents, three envelopes for Brooke, Mackayla, and Logan. Each label was hand-written, the tags carefully tied. She’d triple-checked them that morning. Open together, they said.

“Why do I feel like we’re being set up?” Mackayla joked, already eyeing her envelope suspiciously.

Logan raised a brow. “Because we are.”

Brooke gave her a look. “If this is one of those prank videos—”

“No glitter,” Drew promised. “No jumpscares. I swear.”

“Just trust us,” she said softly, barely able to keep the nerves out of her voice. “Please.”

There was a beat of silence, then the sound of tearing paper and crinkling tissue paper filled the room.

Jodi gasped.

Todd stared at the sonogram, his hand still frozen mid-lift.

Her mom sat completely still for a second longer, then slowly brought the envelope to her chest like it might vanish if she looked away.

Inside each box and envelope was the same thing: a black-and-white sonogram image, perfectly centered above soft gray letters on a tiny white onesie that read: Coming Soon.

Jodi was the first to react, eyes filled with tears as she crossed the room and pulled her into a hug so tight it made her breath catch.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “You’re really pregnant?”

She nodded, blinking fast. “Yeah.”

Drew wrapped an arm around her waist as Todd came forward, clapping a steady hand on his son’s shoulder. “That’s big news,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “That’s real big news.”

Her mom, quiet until now, stepped in front of her and gently touched her cheek. “You’re going to be a mother,” she said, eyes shining. “And I’m going to be a grandma.”

Brooke shrieked and grabbed the onesie from Jodi’s hands, spinning it around. “Is this why you skipped wine at Thanksgiving?”

Mackayla was already halfway to tears. “Liliana’s getting a cousin? Are you kidding me? This is the best Christmas ever.”

Logan grinned. “Okay but like—dibs on being the favorite uncle. I already got the charm.”

The rest of the morning became a blur of questions and laughter, tears and pancakes, more hugs than she could count. Jodi started talking nursery paint colors, and Drew’s dad suggested baby names with such earnestness it made her eyes well again.

⸻

It had been two weeks since the Christmas reveal, and tonight they were telling their closest friends.

The house was already buzzing when they arrived, full of warm food smells and overlapping voices. It was one of those mid-winter, post-holiday dinners where everyone wore mismatched socks and brought whatever dish they felt like making. JD had a pot of chili going. Madelyn brought cornbread. Rudy showed up with an entire pie that might’ve been store-bought, but no one cared.

She stood in the kitchen for a second before anyone noticed her, watching as Chase fought with the corkscrew and Madison teased him for using it upside down. The fridge door was covered in magnets and leftover takeout menus, including one from a waffle place Drew swore by.

She stepped closer, heart racing, and quietly pulled a photo from her coat pocket.

A newer sonogram. The one from last week—clearer now, unmistakable.

She swapped out one of the grocery lists and pinned the photo with a soft gray card underneath it.

Coming Soon.

Then she stepped back and walked over to Drew, who was mid-laugh with JD.

It didn’t take long.

“Wait,” Carlacia called from the kitchen, staring at the fridge. “Is this… real?”

Madelyn crossed over and squinted. “That’s a baby.”

JD looked up. “Who’s pregnant?”

They turned slowly.

She felt Drew squeeze her hand beside her.

“We are,” she said, cheeks flushing, heart full. “We’re pregnant.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“You’re what?” Madison shrieked, practically launching across the table. “Are you serious?!”

“You’re gonna be parents?” Chase yelled. “Why didn’t you say anything?!”

“We wanted to wait until everything was okay,” Drew said, glancing down at her. “We’re three months in now.”

“You’re in the second trimester?” Madelyn gasped. “Oh my God. How have you been feeling? Are you sick? Are you eating enough?”

Carlacia threw a pillow at Drew. “Have you been cooking for her?”

“She’s been fine,” Drew said, laughing. “I’ve been trying. She won’t let me near the stove.”

Austin stepped forward, quiet and smiling. “Do you know the gender yet?”

She shook her head. “Not yet. Couple more weeks.”

Rudy was grinning ear to ear. “Holy hell. Drew Starkey’s gonna be someone’s dad. That’s wild.”

“She’s gonna be the best mom,” JD added. “Like no contest.”

“Wait—when’s your due date?” Madison asked, already pulling out her phone.

“Late June,” Drew said. “Just in time to ruin your summer plans.”

“Excuse me,” she said, laughing. “I’ll be over here growing a whole human, thank you very much.”

Everyone burst out laughing.

But behind the teasing, there was something else—something softer. A kind of awe. The kind of joy that settles into the bones, warm and slow.

Later, after dessert and drinks and far too many belly rubs for someone not even showing yet, she found herself standing in the corner of the living room, watching the people they loved most laughing around a table. Her hand drifted instinctively to her stomach.

Drew came up beside her, slipping his arm around her waist and resting his hand just below hers.

“You okay?” he murmured.

She nodded. “More than okay.”

They stood like that for a moment, just breathing in the noise, the warmth, the sheer weight of this new life they were stepping into.

It was real now.

Louder. Brighter.

And just beginning.

taglist: @maybankslover

[luveline]

jade my heart I’m really feeling Peter parker tonight in this chilis. maybe just Pete listening to r go on about something she likes? Like a book or a tv show and he’s just listening but also so obsessed with her and thinks she’s adorable? I love u! 🫶🏻

ily ty for requesting <3 fem

“It’s a prequel, you know?” 

Peter feels fondness for you pretty much every second of the day, but the way you’re asking without looking at him, and the way you’re laying across his lap so unbothered, he finds himself grinning like a mad man. “I did not know that,” he says. 

You nod up and down with a severe sort of look about you, as though this is of the utmost importance. If Peter doesn’t get on the same page as you soon, he’s not gonna make it. “I can’t believe you’ve never seen the first trilogy. Like, I like you so much, but where the hell have you been?” 

“Where have I been?” he wonders. 

“Anyways, that’s not the point, sorry. They’re complicated movies. You’d like them, though. Next time I’ll bring my DVD’s and we can watch them, if you want to, you’ll really like them, or you’ll really like Natalie Portman, at least. She’s beautiful. And her character is so… complicated, I guess, she’s doomed from the beginning of the narrative and she’s the catalyst for so much but she’s also just… sorry, I’m being totally boring.” 

“Says who?” 

Doesn’t take much more than that to get you rolling again, you want to tell him that badly, “I don’t wanna spoil it anymore because I really think you’ll love them if you watch them, but you’re gonna need to watch the first trilogy to get the emotional impact, and you’ll love them, don’t worry.” 

“I’ll love them,” he agrees, attempting to lean down for a kiss. 

“Wait, is this a shut me up kiss?” you whisper. 

Peter shakes his head as he kisses you, serving for a wobbly but soft press of your lips to his. “Never. Tell me everything about it.” 

You talk until you’re hoarse, literally hoarse, and Peter has to make you a cup of water. His cheeks are hurting from smiling at you. You’ve never looked this cute, not once, not even when he took you to Coney Island and you screamed the house down on all the rides. 

“I think we better go and get those DVDs,” he says. 

“It’s dark out,” you say. 

“We’ll swing.” 

“Isn’t that against your code of ethics?” You sip your drink, pointing at him. “We’ll hear someone who needs help on the way and you’ll drop my extended editions to save them.” 

“I won’t drop anything,” he says. “Come on! Come on, if you’re this excited just talking about it I wanna see how pretty you are when we’re actually watching the movies.” 

You press your smile into a line. “You’re not just humouring me?” 

“I could listen to you talk for hours, baby, but you sound like you did the second time we got off of The Cyclone.” 

You do a spinning, meandering dance into his arms. “If you insist.” 

Your feigned reluctance is adorable. He grabs you in both hands for another misaligned kiss.

[fraugwinska]

Could you do a backstory to Hard Day? Like, how Al decided to give up control, and the first time it happened 🥺🙏

Ummm... well, I may have gotten myself a bit lost in this one :D Idk, It's gotten quite out of hand, 2,5 k words... but...um yeah :D Praying you like it :> Attention - we cook with Chili, not salt today! (MDNI)

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

The hardest Day

„That's so unrealistic! I mean, in what world would a lion eat bugs instead of the fucking fat juicy PIG?!“

„It's a kids movie, asshole, shut up!“

The gang was sprawled out in front of the TV, blankets and popcorn everywhere. Charlie got her hands on a rare copy of 'The Lion King', and invited everyone to a 'nice, unproblematic, quiet' movie night. She didn't account for Angel's constant commentary, Husk's annoyed retorts to him or Niffty's gleeful giggling at the most unfitting scenes. Vaggie, frustrated by them, started adding to the chaos, sending scolding remarks in intervals at either of them, while Charlie tried to mediate in between songs – which she always sang along with.

You, however, were highly entertained – even though you didn't catch anything from the movie, just watching them was amusing enough. The only one missing was Alastor, who had 'business to attend' and was gone since breakfast ended.

He would've hated it anyway, you knew he had no interest in movies, let alone modern ones, and group activities like these were often straining on his patience. Although getting in the hotel last, you were the one who grew the closest to him. Why? You couldn't say definitively. Maybe it was because you never took his veiled jabs by heart. Maybe because you didn't treat him the way the others wanted you to – with care, with ignorance, with suspicion; but instead with respect, an open mind and without judgment. Maybe it was because you could challenge him – discussions about books you both read could last hours, with points given to either side equally – no winner, no loser, both richer.

You liked Alastor. Really liked him. You also had a silly, little crush on him, for a while now, but you kept that to yourself, nothing going further than a few flirtatious moments 'in good fun', calling each other 'doe' and 'buck' with a laugh. A joke between friends. Friendship, you decided, was enough for you, if it was for him.

The entrance doors slammed suddenly, making you all jump in your seats. Alastor stood at the door, looking... different. Stressed? You cocked a brow when you saw his eye twitch, while he sauntered over to the group.

„Al, do you want to join us? We're watching a movie!“, Charlie said absent-mindedly, her eyes glued to the scene of 'Can you feel the love tonight'.

Alastor gave the TV set a judgmental smile and waved his hand. „Tempting, but it has been a rather hard day, I'll just take a drink and retreat to my room, dear.“ He left the group and went to the bar, your pair of eyes the only one following him. Something was NOT right. His smile was tight, his eyes wider than usual, his movements almost jagged instead of fluid. Niffty had jumped to the bar too, insisting on helping Alastor by retrieving a glass for his whiskey from one the higher shelves. In her eagerness to climb and get it, she didn't watch her steps careful enough, resulting in a few delicate wine glasses sliding from the shelfves and breaking into a hundred tiny pieces. Alastor's reaction was as unexpected as it was worrying – he always had a soft spot for Niffty, laughing over her antics and chaotic energy, often encouraging her even to produce more mayhem. This time, however, he started to scold the maid, who blinked at him with a big, guilty eye and trembling lips.

„Such indignation, really Niffty. Clean the shards at once, and try not to remain to be such a clumsy clot.“, he almost hissed, grabbing the bottle and a simple crystal glass before striding away hastily. Your eyes followed his figure until he turned the corner to the staircase, then you got up and comforted the little demon, helping her sweeping up the glass pieces while she sniffeled tears away.

You let your gaze swipe over the group, completely ignorant about what happened with Niffty, and Alastor. Ignorant of the blatantly obvious bad mood of the deer demon.

Turning to Charlie, you whispered to her that you had a headache and would be going to bed, to which she just nodded. No one acknowledged your leave, all eyes on the screen and still bickering noisily. A bunch of friends, you are, you thought annoyed with a shaking head.

Three flights of stairs later, you reached Alastor's room. You pressed your ear to the door, and heard dull bangs, like something was thrown, and a muffled voice. You knocked, and the room instantly stilled.

„Alastor, it's me.“, you said loudly, brows furrowed. „Are you okay?“

A few seconds of silence. „I'm just fine and dandy my dear.“

You put one hand on the door. He normally would open it, to speak with you directly, face uncomfortably close to face, just the way he liked it. But it stayed close.

„You didn't look fine.“, you stated. You were ever so stubborn.

„Well, I am fine. Now shoo, darling, good night.“

You stood in front of the wooden divider, contemplating. You could just go. Leave him be, wait until tomorrow. See if he would talk to you then. But then, there was your gut. And it told you Alastor wasn't well. And that just didn't sit right with you.

„Alastor. Please, let me in.“

No response, just hint of the prickling feeling of static electricity on your skin.

„I know something is bothering you, and I'm worried.“

No response. You breathe in and out.

„I'm not going anywhere until you open the...“

The door flew open, a hand wrapped around your arm and pulled you into the room, violently. You stumbled and fell against a bookshelf, catching the fall with your hands to keep you upright. You heard a slam and a click – door closed, door locked. The static was everywhere now, flushing in waves over your body. You turned around -

Alastor was pacing like a wounded animal, he seemed fluffed up, as if every hair on his body had decided to stand up. His scleras were dark pits, blackest black, and in it his irises burned angrily in crimson flames, now focusing solely on you. The prey.

„So you came to test my patience too, dear?“, he snarled, his voice so distorted it ached in your ears. „It's not enough that that waste of cables destroyed two of my radio towers. Not enough that dozens of my most profitable souls have been rendered useless by an angelic bomb. Not enough that I not only had to put the disgraceful flat screened wretch back in his place, but also his vulgar boy toy and their brazen, attention-seeking brat.“

He grew in size as he ranted, you watched him reaching the ceiling, antlers scraping along the walls. „I manage my weakening territories, manage these imbeciles who think they can play overlords, I manage this sad excuse of a hotel, I manage the princess's unattainable ideas, and now, I also need to manage you, too, of all people? What a disappointm...“

„Stop.“

You held up a hand. Alastor growled, fluffing up even more, limbs cracking and static popping. „How dare y...“

„Stop.“, you said again. Your tone was calm, void of anger, or fear, neutral and steady. He stared at you, and you held his gaze. „Breathe, Alastor.“

You saw him fighting with himself. He fought against his instinct to oppose, to command, to put you into your place, to rip you apart. His elongated claws scraped over the floor, ripping deep ridges in the wood.

„Breathe.“, you repeated, firmer this time.

Slowly, gradually, Alastor shrunk. Breathed. Crumbled. Until he was back to his usual size and form, only with an exhausted expression.

You studied him – you've never seen him like that. He never allowed anyone to see him as something other than 'the radio demon': Powerful, unshakeable, quick on his feet and always one step ahead. How exhausting it must be. To always have the control also meant to always carry responsibility, to always fear impending failure.

Your heart whispered to you, and you followed it's advice. It could be the most stupid thing you could do, but you decided to do it anyway.

„Come here, Alastor.“

He looked at you, unsure, suspicious. You sounded commanding, but not harsh. Inviting. Like a hand, reached out to someone trapped. For a moment, you almost thought you ruined everything – his eyes left yours, they fell to the ground as he shifted on his feet.

But then – steps. Coming closer. Stopping right in front of you. And suddenly..

His head on your shoulder. His breath on your neck. His voice in your ear.

„Sometimes I'm so sick of it all. Sick of maneuvering, sick of ruling, governing, planning...“

You touched his neck, he let you, caressing the soft skin, heated from his outburst, trembling slightly at the contact. It was intimate, baring this vulnerable part to you. You heart broke for him.

He pulled himself away from you, searching for your eyes. Finding them again, he took your hand, bringing it up to his face, guiding your fingers over his lips. He just said one word.

„Please.“

So much was said with this please. You heard every message. Giving up control, just for a bit, just with something he didn't care enough about to insist on ruling, could be a small bit of freedom. Letting himself be guided instead of leading.

“Kneel down, Alastor.”

His ears pressed flat against his head, but he did as he was told. He couldn't look you in the eyes. For once, you were the one towering over him. You took his face in your hands, pulling it so he looked up to you, seeing your warm smile before your lips met his.

His breath hitched, stuck somewhere in his throat.

You slid one hand to the back of his neck, pulling him closer, the other caressing his cheek as you tilted your head and deepened the kiss. Slowly, the rigidity melted away, he started to shift, lips no longer stiff but soft and molding against your own.

He tried to stand up, but you pushed him down, gently, definitively.

“Trust me to guide you, buck.”

He breathed, one, two, three times, eyes closed, grin tight.

“Yes, doe.”

Your own excitement took a back seat. You were filled with pure energy at the thought of crossing the line with him, having Alastor in a way you only dreamed about, convinced your relationship would never come this far. But. But this was not about you, for now. Maybe, another time. If another time ever came.

You lowered yourself on him, straddling him, so you were still 'taller', and rejoined your lips. You took his hands and set them on your hips, let them rest there while you buried yours in his hair, tugging lightly to bend his head back. His initial resistance lessened, and he gave in, exposing his throat, gray skin peeking out of his high collar. You let your mouth travel to his jawline, down to the small patch of delicate, thin skin, right next to his jugular. You felt him tense, felt his rising urge to protect himself from your potential strike. You let out a soft hum as you started to lick it, sucking gently, just a bit, just to make him shiver at the sensation. And how he did.

A moan, low and sweet like the strumming of a cello, escaped him, his hands crushing your hips by the force of his grip. It hurt, but you decided to ignore it. Little steps.

“Can you take more, good boy?”

His eyes snapped open, burning furiously. You met them with calmness, with a soft matter-of-fact-ness. Not smug, not mocking. A question. Proceed or Stop?

Alastor swallowed hot saliva. You could see he was getting overwhelmed, overstimulated, and yet, he had such a longing in his eyes, such desperation.

“Yes.”

One simple word. One spark, setting your body on fire. You tried to force your trembling fingers to steady, lifting yourself slightly off him to open his trousers. With every button, his breaths grew heavier, his grip on your legs grew tighter, claws already digging in your skin and drawing blood.

“Careful, buck. I'll need these in a moment.”, you said, placing both hands on his chest, pushing him flat on his back on the ground. He let you go, arms falling useless next to him.

You leaned forward, thanking any deity that would listen you decided to wear a skirt today, and placed a hand on his growing bulge. He hissed at the touch, cracking the floor as his fingers clawed into the wood of the floor instead your fleshy legs.

Freed from it's cage, Alastor's dick was already dripping with beads of precum, a sight to behold. You wrapped your fingers around it, feeling the warmth and bloodflow, it twitched in your hand. You stroke him, eliciting the most sinful noises from the demon under you.

You took a deep breath. One more, one question more, to make sure that he wanted it.

“Look at me, Alastor.”

He sat up on his elbows, looking more helpless than you've ever imagined he could. Even his smile wavered, threatening to break. You were looking for any signs of hesitation, disgust, resistance, regret. You only found desire. A want, a need, almost pleading eyes.

Your free hand pushed your panty away, enough to expose your lips, and you lowered yourself onto him, his length slowly entering you. He was big, you were tight. A bittersweet combination. Sparks flew before your eyes as he stretched you, but you were hypnotized by his eyes.

They were blown wide, returned to black, but the irises now flickering into dials, turning, left to right as he groaned. You moved, guiding your hips up and down, feeling yourself molding to his shape in the most delectable way, and getting drunk off the look on his face.

You increased the pace on which you pushed yourself on him, adding a little tilt of your hips to take him even deeper. His voice was reduced to a static-y mess, hums and groans and moans bleeding into each other. You placed both of your hands on his chest for more support, inevitably pinning him down. His hands flew to yours, threatening to push them off him, but instead, he entwined his fingers with yours, panting heavily.

It didn't take long for him to feel the pressure, unbearable and urgent, his release approaching at godspeed.

“Doe, I can't...”

Panic in his tone. He tried to put his hands on your waist to pull you off. You understood immediately – an upbringing in conservative times, decades of living by the rules of a gentleman, he was resisting against the thought of cumming inside you. You pushed his hands away.

“Yes, you can.”, you stated, smiling at him, a hint of wickedness in your eyes. “And you will.”

Your skilled movements and dedicated demeanor sent him over the edge immediately. Protests were futile as he came in you forcefully, you felt his cock pumping his seed deep into you, hot and thick as you rocked him through his orgasm. Your own high wasn't worth chasing, too far away to matter. You didn't even think about it – nothing could feel better than this.

Alastor ran his hands over his forehead, sweeping away beads of sweat as his breath calmed down.

His hand shot out to grab you, and, still impaled by him, he pulled you into his chest, invading your mouth with his tongue to kiss you possessively. As if to transfer the command, the control he had given up, back to him. Taking it from you.

For a moment you were scared. The positions had reset to their default. Would that mean he'd push you off? Say goodnight and never talk about this night again? Returning to the Status Quo. Friends, the end.

Alastor pulled your chin up to look at you. His thumb ran over your cheek, tenderly and full of care. His eyes answered every question in your mind. You weren't scared anymore.

[kythed]

asshole - atsumu x reader

tagged: american uni au, atsumu is a bad guy (or is he), fwb, suggestive but nothing explicit, reader is clearly smitten and hates themself for it, toxic and sexy

10pm, still heavy august heat. driving 20 over on the 405. californication on atsumu's cheapo sedan stereo. he'd called the red hot chili peppers "retro" once, much to your chagrin and subsequent mocking.

"what," he'd complained as you laughed at him. you'd felt like being a little mean. "they're fucking old."

"the beach boys are retro. madonna, even. 1999 wasn't so long ago. you just think all of time revolves around you."

"well, yeah. everything revolves around me." he took it in stride, because he always did.

"sure seems like it sometimes, i guess." (and you couldn't help but let him.)

anthony kiedis trailed off on the last "dream of californication" as atsumu took the exit towards your school, not slowing down until traffic forced him to. too many fast food joints, convenience stores, wayward teens with slushies and blue razz vapes.

"god, i could go for a cherry icee right now," atsumu said, one handing the wheel. he glanced over at you, tossing you an ironic grin. it pissed you off how handsome he was, and how little he deserved to be so handsome, and—this, more than anything, enraged you to your very core—how keenly aware of his own handsomeness he was.

"and i could go for a weekend in laguna," you said, trying to avoid looking at him. "isn't life cruel?"

atsumu laughed and reached over to squeeze your thigh too high up to be platonic and too hard to be affectionate. you bit your lip to keep from squeaking.

you'd been a wayward teen once, but now most of your fun was technically legal. atsumu had his party drugs that you partook in from time to time. you had your drinks, your cigs, and... him. (everyone had their vices.)

you kicked your feet up on the dash as he looked for illegal parking on campus. sex on fire came on and you idly hummed along, watching atsumu bring the car behind a senior dorm, pulling into a reserved space. he had an old handicap placard he used sometimes, stolen through the crack in the car window of some poor grandad parked at a citibank. it was totally ethically repulsive. you still found him embarrassingly sexy.

soft lips are open, them knuckles are pale.

"i love this song," atsumu said, tossing the car into park but leaving the radio on. he leaned back in his seat.

"yeah, i know," you said, fanning yourself. even your tube top over daisy dukes felt too clothed for this weather. "we hooked up to it once."

"it's cute how you still feel like you have to say hooked up," he said. "like i'm polite company or something."

but it's not forever. but it's just tonight.

"you made me finish to this song," you self-corrected, looking him in the eye. his sandy hair and cruel gaze made you shiver. how could such pretty brown eyes like that be cruel? they should've been warm, welcoming. but he was just cold all over. "and then we had sex, and it was rough, and you made me say some insane shit so you could get off. and then we took some of my edibles and passed out."

"sounds like every time we've ever hooked up," atsumu said with a shrug. he didn't remember. you smiled to yourself. were you sad? maybe, but that was just the way it was with him.

"now who's being polite?"

"yeah, yeah," he said. he turned off the car and climbed out, and you followed suit. "let's get to suna's. everyone else is probably already stupid drunk, and i'm gonna feel left out."

"i'm drunk on life," you said facetiously. "you should try it sometime."

atsumu gave a little snort laugh. somehow, it was charming. "if that works for you. i prefer grey goose."

you watched him walk on towards the apartment complex. he was always doing that, leaving you behind and assuming you'd catch up. he was always assuming you'd do anything to be near him. probably because you often did.

"come on." you were jolted out of what had quickly become a deeply engrossing train of thought. atsumu had stopped, had turned around. waiting for you. "you're so slow."

"i—oh," you said, stammering a little as you walked to him and he grabbed your hand. the gesture was a little sarcastic, but you also noticed he also didn't let go.

"i'm so ending the night with drunk fucking someone's girlfriend," he said, cool and conversational. back to normal. "or, be on your best behavior and it could be you."

"if i should be so unlucky," you said with an obligatory eye roll. (hands still interlaced.)

up above, the relentless west coast smog made for a starless night. down here, though, with your hand in atsumu's, climbing the fire escape to suna's place, where you could already hear obnoxious techno, slurred yelling, and too-loud laughter—you felt the stars in your eyes shine a little fuckin' brighter.

[gainercontent]

Room to Grow Part 3: The Tailor

The next evening, as they gathered around the table for dinner—one of Ryan’s famous chili nights—Elliot felt a new sense of resolve. The rich, savory smell of chili wafted through the apartment as Ryan stirred the pot on the stove, the steam rising in clouds. Mark was already sitting at the table, a grin plastered on his face as he filled his bowl, almost to the brim.

Elliot sat down, and as usual, the moment Ryan placed the giant pot in the center of the table, everyone reached for their bowls and began ladling generous portions.

He glanced over at Mark, who was already digging into his bowl, spooning another heaping portion of chili onto his plate. Ryan was doing the same, taking large spoonfuls, wiping the sides of the pot clean. Elliot hesitated for a moment, but the warmth in the room, the sense of belonging, reminded him of why he loved these moments.

Without overthinking it, Elliot grabbed his own bowl, scooped out a large portion, and poured some sour cream on top—just like Ryan and Mark did. He noticed both of them glance up, as if expecting him to hold back, but Elliot didn’t pause. He dug in with abandon, savoring the rich flavor and the comforting heat of the chili. The thick chunks of beef, the soft beans, and the spices made every bite satisfying in a way that felt indulgent and freeing. 

The first few bites were familiar, but as he went in for a second helping, he realized something—he wasn’t feeling full yet. The chili was delicious, and he wasn’t trying to be “good” or “healthy” or stop before he reached the uncomfortable fullness. No, tonight, he was matching them. Bite for bite.

“You’re really digging in tonight, huh?” Ryan said, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he refilled his own bowl. Mark nodded in approval from across the table, slurping another spoonful.

Elliot raised an eyebrow, giving them both a grin. “What? I’m just *enjoying* the meal.”

Mark leaned back in his chair, patting his stomach with a satisfied expression. “We like to see that. No shame, man. Just enjoy it.”

Ryan chuckled. “That’s the spirit. Sometimes you just gotta eat to eat, you know?”

Elliot’s smile stretched wider. “Yeah, I guess I’m catching on to that. I’m not just here to nibble anymore.”

And he wasn’t. He kept going, savoring each spoonful, not stopping until his bowl was empty, and then refilled again—just like Ryan and Mark. He didn’t even think about it. He just kept eating. 

By the time they finished, the three of them were all leaning back in their chairs, stuffed but content. Ryan and Mark were happy to keep snacking, popping open bags of chips and taking turns pulling out leftovers from the fridge. Elliot, surprisingly, felt no guilt, no regret, no discomfort. For once, he didn’t feel like the odd one out. He didn’t feel like he had to worry about whether he was overeating, whether he was “doing it right.”

It wasn’t just about food, either. It was about the camaraderie—the way they shared everything without judgment, how they effortlessly encouraged each other to enjoy the moment. It was about living, fully and freely. 

“You’ve got the right idea, man,” Mark said, noticing Elliot’s second bowl was empty too. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

Elliot nodded, leaning back, a small chuckle escaping his lips. “Yeah, it actually does.”

Ryan looked at him with a grin. “You’re officially one of us now. No turning back.”

Elliot could feel a lightness in his chest, like something that had been weighing on him for a long time had been lifted. He wasn’t thinking about what Tom would say or how he used to look. He wasn’t thinking about the scale, or whether he was eating “right” or “wrong.” He was just... *living.* And right now, that meant eating this delicious chili and enjoying every bite.

Later that evening, after they’d all moved to the living room, snacks scattered on the coffee table, Elliot found himself thinking about the future. He had let Tom’s comments get under his skin, but now he was resolving not to let them define him. He had his own path, his own rhythm, and it didn’t have to match anyone else’s. He didn’t have to prove anything to anyone—least of all to someone who didn’t understand where he was in life. 

His capacity had expanded—not just for food, but for embracing who he was, who he had become, and where he was heading. If that meant matching Ryan and Mark bite for bite, then so be it. But it was more than that. It was about embracing the freedom that came with not worrying, with living fully in the moment, without shame.

As the night wore on, Elliot settled into the couch, a satisfied, content smile on his face, feeling lighter and freer than he had in a long time. He was finally *full*—in all the best ways.

Elliot had never really liked shopping for clothes. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to look good; it was just that finding the right fit had always been a struggle. Back in the day, it was easy—he’d simply stick to the skinny fit jeans, slim shirts, and avoid anything too tight around his midsection. But lately, even those had been getting a little snug. And now, with his   Tom’s wedding coming up, he had no choice but to bite the bullet and get a suit that fit properly.

It was a Saturday afternoon, and Elliot was at the mall, trying to prepare himself for the inevitable. He’d already picked out a dark, sharp suit from the men’s department, but when it came time for alterations, he was directed to a small tailor shop in the back corner. 

The tailor was a polished looking man, maybe in his 40s, with salt-and-pepper hair and a meticulously pressed shirt. His hands were steady as he measured the inseams and shoulders of the various customers before Elliot. He had an air of quiet confidence, the kind of person who’d been around long enough to know what looked good and how to make something fit perfectly.

“Next!” the tailor called, looking over the top of his glasses as Elliot approached.

Elliot walked up, a little self-conscious as he stood in front of the man. He had chosen a tight-fitting dress shirt and slim chinos—clothes he used to wear without a second thought—but today, they felt a bit *too* tight, especially across his stomach.

“Alright, let’s get started,” the tailor said, measuring across Elliot’s shoulders with practiced ease. “You know, it’s not every day I get a young man in here with such a... well, let’s say, *muscular* build.”

Elliot was startled by the compliment, though the word "muscular" felt like it belonged to someone else. He wasn’t exactly a bodybuilder; he’d just been eating more and exercising less lately. Still, he appreciated the attention.

The tailor moved to take his waist measurement, and Elliot instinctively sucked in his stomach, trying to pull off the old habit. He knew that the tailor could likely tell the truth, but still, his natural reflex was to try to appear smaller.

But then the tailor, eyes narrowing slightly as he adjusted the tape measure, raised an eyebrow. “Hmm... The sizes you put down won’t work. Just curious—have you gained a bit of weight recently?”

Elliot froze. It was a blunt question, but not an unfriendly one. It was the kind of direct comment his friends might make, not a stranger who had only just met him. He immediately felt a flush creeping up his neck. 

"Uh... yeah," Elliot admitted, trying to laugh it off. "I’ve just... been enjoying life a little more recently."

The tailor smiled knowingly, giving a soft chuckle. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. A lot of people go through that phase. You should definitely take your time with the suit alterations. We’ll adjust it to fit you as best we can.”

Elliot felt his cheeks burn hotter, his stomach twisting with a mix of self-consciousness and frustration. He wasn’t embarrassed *about* gaining weight—he was fine with it, really. But being called out so bluntly about it made him feel exposed, like he wasn’t controlling things as well as he thought he was.

The tailor continued to work, unphased, as he made a few notes in his book. But after a moment of silence, he added, “If you’re looking to get back in shape or even just trim down a little, we have a gym here in the mall. It’s not much, but it’s convenient, and they offer classes, you know, just in case you want to tone up a bit.”

Elliot’s stomach churned again. He wasn’t sure if he felt more embarrassed or frustrated by the suggestion. “I, uh, yeah... I’ve been meaning to get back into it,” he said, awkwardly shifting on his feet. 

The tailor looked up from his notes, giving Elliot a knowing look. “You could also check out the GNC right next door. They’ve got some good stuff there—proteins, supplements, all that. Might help, if that’s what you’re going for.”

Elliot didn’t know what to say. The guy was nice enough, but the directness of his advice was almost too much. It reminded him of Tom’s comments earlier—about getting "back in shape." He was trying to let go of all that pressure, but here was someone offering him the very same advice, pushing him back into that mindset. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Elliot said, trying to sound nonchalant as the tailor took one last measurement around his chest.

The tailor smiled warmly, seemingly oblivious to Elliot’s inner discomfort. “Great. Now, you should check out some of the stores around here as well. If you’re looking for something more fitted, H&M has some great options. Or if you want something more casual, you could try Uniqlo. They’ve got good, stretchy fabrics. Whatever you’re looking for—no need to worry about those tight clothes you’ve got on now.”

Elliot wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cringe. Was it really that obvious? He felt exposed, like he’d been caught in the act. 

Before Elliot could respond, the tailor handed him a small slip of paper with a smile. “Here you go. It’s a coupon for a ‘Buy One, Get One Free’ promotion at the food court. For customers at the mall. I figured you could use it after the gym, or maybe for a nice treat.”

Elliot blinked, staring at the coupon. The irony was almost too much—here he was, talking about getting back in shape, and the tailor was practically handing him a free pass to eat more food at the food court. 

"Thanks... I guess," Elliot said, feeling a little awkward. “That’s kind of you.”

The tailor nodded, packing up his measuring tape. “No problem at all. They’ve been trying to get us to give these out to all of our customers.”

Elliot smiled weakly. He couldn’t help but feel like he’d just been offered a lifeline—one that both encouraged him to change and simultaneously told him it was okay to indulge.

As Elliot walked out of the tailor shop, the mall’s vibrant lights flickering around him, he pocketed the coupon. Maybe he would get the gym membership and check out the GNC. Maybe he would buy some clothes to replace the tight clothes he was becoming increasingly self-conscious of. But for the first time in a while, Elliot realized something important: the only person who could truly decide how he lived was him.

Tom’s words, the tailor’s advice—it was all just noise. He didn’t have to follow anyone else’s script. He didn’t have to rush back to the gym or avoid his favorite foods if he didn’t want to. 

Elliot looked down at the coupon in his hand, the food court so tempting, the promise of "Buy One, Get One Free" hovering in the air. For a moment, he thought about just throwing it away. But then he chuckled to himself, thinking about how much Ryan and Mark would laugh if they knew about it.

Maybe a treat wouldn’t hurt after all. Maybe tonight, he’d enjoy that freedom.

Elliot wandered through the bustling food court, the mall's fluorescent lights flickering overhead as the sounds of people chattering and the clattering of trays filled the air. His mind was still swirling from the earlier interaction with the tailor. On one hand, he felt weirdly validated—the coupon for the food court felt like an endorsement for indulging, a free pass for something he’d been doing more and more lately. On the other hand, there was still that nagging feeling, the one that came from all the recent comments about his weight.

His stomach growled in anticipation, and before he could second-guess himself, he headed to one of the Chinese food stands. The smells of sauce, fried rice, and sesame chicken made his mouth water. There was no turning back now.

The vendor behind the counter smiled warmly at him as Elliot stepped up. "Can I help you?" she asked.

"Yeah," Elliot said, glancing at the menu. "I'll take two orders of sesame chicken with extra rice, please. And can I get an extra side of egg rolls too?" He wasn’t even thinking anymore—he was just hungry, and the idea of a little extra indulgence seemed too good to pass up.

The vendor raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything, just nodded and quickly packed up his order. A few minutes later, she handed him two large containers, and he grabbed a pair of chopsticks and a soda. With his coupon in hand, he made his way to a small table in the corner of the food court.

Sitting down, he set the two containers in front of him, the rich aroma of the food filling his senses. He dug in immediately, barely even pausing to breathe. Each bite was like a little slice of heaven—salty, savory, crispy. The rice was fluffy, the chicken perfectly cooked, the egg rolls crunchy on the outside and soft on the inside.

The first container was gone in minutes, and by the time he finished the second one, he felt completely stuffed, but he didn’t care. It was so delicious. The food had a comforting, almost nostalgic quality to it, a reminder of lazy weekends when he didn’t think about calories or portion sizes. 

Elliot leaned back in his seat, a satisfied sigh escaping his lips. His stomach felt uncomfortably full, and his shirt was starting to feel a little tighter across his chest and belly. He had to undo the top button of his chinos, just for a little relief. But even that wasn’t enough; he could feel the fabric digging into his sides.

He grabbed his soda, taking a long sip, hoping it would help settle things down. Just as he was about to slouch back and give in to that delicious sense of overindulgence, he heard a familiar voice from behind him.

“Well, well, look who it is.” 

Elliot turned, stomach already churning with embarrassment as he recognized Tom’s voice. Tom stood a few feet away, his arms crossed and an amused smile on his face. His eyes quickly scanned Elliot, lingering for a second on the two Chinese food containers, now empty on the table, before locking onto Elliot’s face.

Elliot opened his mouth to say something, but just then, a loud *burp* escaped him—a deep, unintentional sound that echoed through the food court like a small trumpet. 

Tom’s grin widened immediately, and Elliot’s face flushed bright red. He shot Tom an apologetic look, holding his hand over his mouth as if trying to force the embarrassment to stay inside. But it was too late.

Tom raised an eyebrow. “Well, if it isn’t Mr. *I’m just enjoying life* himself,” he said with a smirk, clearly relishing the opportunity to poke fun. “Two meals? You sure you’re not trying to prep for a food challenge or something? Man, you must’ve been starving.”

Elliot’s stomach tightened in a mix of discomfort and self-consciousness. “I—I wasn’t really thinking,” he stammered, feeling the heat of Tom’s gaze and trying to force a smile. “Just... you know, treating myself.”

Tom chuckled, shaking his head. “Treating yourself, huh? Sounds more like you’re treating *yourself* to a new pair of pants after this,” he joked, motioning to Elliot’s stomach, which was now noticeably bulging against the fabric of his shirt and unbuttoned chinos.

Elliot wanted to laugh it off, but the words stung. He wasn’t blind—he knew he’d eaten a lot more than he probably should have, and now his clothes felt like they were about to burst at the seams. But Tom’s comments felt like another layer of judgment on top of everything else. 

“Yeah, maybe,” Elliot muttered, feeling even more self-conscious as he adjusted his shirt, trying in vain to make it fit more comfortably. “I guess I’m just... a little out of practice.”

Tom leaned against the table, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Out of practice? Dude, you’ve been in the ‘treat yourself’ phase a little too long. You sure you’re not getting a little *too* comfortable? I mean, seriously, are you planning on *not* getting a gym membership soon?”

The way Tom said it was almost playful, but there was a sharp edge to it. Elliot could feel the pressure building again, just like he had earlier when Tom had made his comments about his weight. Was this what he had to look forward to now, every time he indulged? A reminder that he was letting himself go?

“I’m fine, Tom,” Elliot said, forcing a chuckle even though his insides were twisting. “I’m not worried about it.”

Tom gave him a slow, knowing smile. “You sure? Because you’re looking a little too stuffed in that shirt there, man. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’ve been hitting the buffet a little too often.”

Elliot let out a small sigh. He didn’t want to argue with Tom—not in front of all these people, not when Tom was enjoying himself so much. Instead, he nodded and grabbed his drink, hoping it would help settle his stomach and the conversation.

“Look, Tom, I’m good. Really. Just enjoying the weekend,” Elliot said, trying to shift the focus. “But hey, good to see you.”

Tom shrugged, clearly not done poking fun. “Alright, alright. Just don’t blame me when you’re out of breath after walking to your car.” With a wink, he turned and started to walk away, but not before calling back over his shoulder. “I’ll see you at the gym sometime, yeah?”

Elliot barely managed a wave, feeling the weight of Tom’s words hanging over him like a cloud. As Tom disappeared into the crowd, Elliot let out a long, heavy breath. 

He didn’t want to care. He didn’t want Tom’s mocking to ruin his day. But there was a gnawing sense of discomfort now, both physical and emotional. His clothes felt too tight, his stomach was pushing against his waistband, and Tom’s words kept replaying in his mind, making him question everything about the way he’d been living lately.

After his awkward encounter with Tom in the food court, Elliot wandered back through the mall, the weight of the conversation still hanging over him. His stomach was still painfully full from the two Chinese meals, and the tightness of his shirt made every step a reminder that he’d overdone it. But what really bothered him was the internal nagging: *What was Tom’s point? Was this really such a big deal?* He shook his head, trying to push the thoughts aside.

It was time to tackle the next thing on his list: clothes. He’d promised himself he’d step up his wardrobe, now that he was going to be in his   Tom's wedding, and the tailor had given him a few suggestions. But honestly, the idea of trying on clothes after everything that had happened was making him feel even more self-conscious. 

He made his way to a few stores. There was a small part of him that thought maybe he could find something nice, something that fit, something that made him feel confident again. 

He walked into H&M first, picking up a few shirts and pairs of pants in sizes he’d normally shy away from. He had been sticking to small or medium shirts before, but the way his body had been changing, he figured it was time to try a large. For pants, he grabbed a 34 waist, the next size up from his usual 32s, knowing that things had gotten a little snug.

As he moved toward the dressing room, his stomach churned again—a reminder of how bloated he felt from the food court disaster. He was hoping that maybe his body would settle down a bit after a few minutes. But as he slipped into the first shirt—a deep navy button-up—he immediately realized his error.

The fabric stretched tight across his chest, showing off the small but visible bulge he’d been trying to ignore. His stomach, still swollen from the massive meal, pushed against the shirt, and he struggled to button it all the way up. Even though the shirt technically fit in terms of size, it didn’t look right. It clung awkwardly to his torso, like it was straining to keep up with the changes in his body.

He pulled it off, frustrated, and grabbed the next shirt. It was a large, casual tee in a soft gray, something he thought would be more forgiving. But as he slipped it on, he was greeted with the same tightness around the middle. The shirt hung loosely on his shoulders but clung around his stomach, where his bloated belly was still resisting the confines of his clothing.

*This isn’t working,* Elliot thought, his face growing warm again. He tugged at the hem of the shirt, wishing it would fall a little looser, but it just didn’t feel right. It was almost as if everything he tried on was fighting against him, accentuating his discomfort rather than making him feel comfortable or confident.

With a sigh, Elliot moved on to the pants. He grabbed a pair of 34s, thinking they’d fit more comfortably, but when he pulled them up, they were still too tight across his thighs and waist. He couldn’t even button them without sucking in. The waistband dug into his stomach, making it feel like he had nowhere to breathe. 

The worst part was that even though they were the “right” size, they just didn’t look how he wanted them to. His thighs felt squeezed, and the extra fabric at the waist gaped awkwardly. The fit was all wrong, no matter what he tried.

By now, Elliot’s frustration had boiled over. He ran a hand through his hair, staring at himself in the mirror. This wasn’t how it was supposed to feel. He wasn’t supposed to *feel* this out of control. He was supposed to find something that worked, that fit, something that made him feel good about himself again. But all he felt now was bloated and self-conscious, like he didn’t know who he was or what his body was doing.

He stared at the clothes in his arms—shirts too tight, pants too uncomfortable—and then, with a long sigh, he walked out of the fitting room and headed for the store exit. The idea of spending any more time trying on clothes, of facing more of these frustrating realities, was just too much. 

Instead, he made his way to a nearby sportswear store, hoping to at least find something he could slip into and feel comfortable in, if only for a little while. 

As he walked through the store, his eyes landed on a rack of gym shorts and oversized hoodies. The oversized, loose fit of the clothing immediately appealed to him. He grabbed a pair of black gym shorts in a large size—plenty of room for his legs, no tight waistbands digging in. Then, he grabbed a charcoal hoodie in an extra-large. It was soft, plush, and something that looked like it would fit perfectly without hugging his bloated stomach. He wasn’t trying to impress anyone today; he just wanted comfort.

He grabbed the items and headed to the counter, quickly paying for them without even glancing at the prices. He just wanted to get out of the mall and into something that wouldn’t pinch or pull at his skin. 

When he finally changed into the gym shorts and hoodie in the mall’s bathroom, he felt a small sense of relief. The fabric hung loose and soft on his body, covering him in a way that didn’t make him feel judged or self-conscious. It wasn’t exactly stylish, but in that moment, it was exactly what he needed. He looked in the mirror—there was still a little discomfort in his stomach, but at least the clothes didn’t make it worse. 

Elliot took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the past few hours begin to lift. Maybe this was his reality for now—clothes that fit a little awkwardly, his body doing things he hadn’t expected, moments of discomfort. But he was learning to accept it. 

As he walked out of the bathroom and into the mall, wearing the loose-fitting gym shorts and hoodie, he felt lighter—like he could take on whatever came next, without worrying about his weight. And for now, that meant gym shorts and an oversized hoodie. And that was perfectly fine.

*****New Chapter will be posted every Thursday*****

[lunareclipse-writes]

Sending an ask while I'm here 🥱

A cute lil fic with Sam Winchester

Friends to lovers perhaps? 🤔

Prompts: 11, 16, 17, 18, 20 (they fit well)

---

Title: “Stay”

Sam Winchester x GN!Reader | Word Count: ~4,000 | Friends to Lovers | Comfort, Fluff, Canon-Compliant

Prompts: 11 "You fell asleep on me. Again", 16 "Stay. You're warm.", 17 "You smell like home.", 18 "Is that my hoodie?", 20 "You're blushing. It's cute."

---

The bunker was quiet.

Unnaturally so, considering Dean had returned from a supply run thirty minutes ago, grumbling about expired canned chili and a gas station clerk who flirted too aggressively. He’d disappeared with a bottle of beer and a muttered “I’m not dealing with you two nerds tonight,” and hadn’t been seen since.

The quiet left you and Sam alone in the library.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been sitting there—just that the lore book open in your lap hadn’t been touched in at least an hour. Your eyes had drifted more than once to the man beside you, his brow furrowed as he typed something into his laptop. His glasses—reading glasses, which you still secretly teased him about—were sliding down his nose. The glow from the screen highlighted the shadows beneath his eyes, made the stubble on his jaw look darker.

He was beautiful.

It wasn’t the first time you’d noticed. And it wasn’t the first time you’d fallen asleep beside him, either.

Your head had drifted sometime during the quiet—the comfortable, safe quiet that only existed when you were beside Sam. You weren’t even sure when it happened. One moment you were upright. The next, your cheek was pressed to his shoulder, his scent wrapped around you like a blanket—cedar soap and paper and something warm and faintly herbal.

Sleep had crept in like fog. Soft. Unstoppable.

You didn’t wake until you felt movement beneath your cheek—a subtle shift—and then a low, amused murmur:

“You fell asleep on me. Again.”

Your eyes blinked open, lashes fluttering. Your body felt heavy with lingering sleep, like the air around you was weighted.

“I didn’t mean to,” you mumbled, pushing off of him gently, embarrassed by your droopiness. “Sorry.”

Sam’s arm curved instinctively to stop you from pulling away. His hand—large and warm—landed against your back.

“You’re warm. Stay.”

The words were quiet. Honest. They hung in the air like an open door.

You stilled, eyes flicking up to meet his. Sam wasn’t smiling this time. His face was unreadable in that deep, familiar Sam way. Thoughtful. A little hesitant.

You let yourself settle back into his side—not quite resting your head again, but still pressed close enough that your arm brushed his with every breath.

He didn’t move. Just turned his head slightly toward you. The fire crackled in the hearth behind the table, casting golden light across the room. It painted his hair amber, made the edges of his silhouette soft and gold.

The silence between you wasn’t awkward. It was weighted, but not heavy. Full, like the quiet before a thunderstorm or the last line of a favorite book.

Sam’s voice broke it again, softer this time.

“You smell like home.”

The confession hit you like a warm breath in winter.

You looked at him, heart skipping. He didn’t look away.

“You’re saying I smell?” you tried to joke, but it came out breathy.

Sam’s lips curled faintly. “No. I’m saying you feel like something I want to come back to.”

Your stomach flipped. The way he said it—carefully, like he wasn’t sure what you’d say back—made your heart ache.

You looked down at your lap, unsure what to do with the way your chest had started to burn. Words failed you.

That’s when Sam’s hand moved—slowly, gently. He tugged at the sleeve of the hoodie you were wearing.

You looked down and froze.

Oh.

You’d forgotten.

It was his hoodie.

You’d pulled it on absentmindedly earlier when you left your room. The bunker was always cold and your clothes had been in the dryer, and Sam’s hoodie had been left on the back of a chair near the laundry room. It was old—dark red, soft, frayed at the cuffs. The Stanford logo was faded almost to nothing.

It still smelled like him.

Now he was looking at it—at you in it.

“Is that my hoodie?”

You fumbled. “I didn’t— I mean, I was cold, and it was right there, and—”

Heat flooded your cheeks.

You knew you were blushing. Knew the color had crept across your face like a wildfire. You didn’t even have time to hide it.

Sam’s smile returned. This one was different. Not teasing. Not laughing at you.

Soft.

Fond.

He reached out and touched your cheek with the back of his fingers.

“You’re blushing,” he said gently. “It’s cute.”

You stared at him, heart stuttering.

Time stilled.

Everything in the bunker went quiet again—but not empty. Not lonely.

Just still enough for a moment like this to breathe.

Sam’s hand lingered at your cheek, his thumb brushing the skin once. His eyes searched yours like he was reading a spell.

You knew what he was about to do before he leaned in.

When he kissed you, it wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t fast.

It was the kind of kiss that started with a breath. Slow and real and warm, like everything else Sam was.

His lips were soft. His touch careful, like he didn’t want to break the spell between you. But it was there, all the same—the electricity, the affection, the tenderness that had lived between you unspoken for far too long.

You kissed him back, and when you did, it felt like coming home.

---

You stayed like that for a long time.

Pressed close. Foreheads together. Breathing in sync.

No words needed.

Eventually, your head found its way back to his shoulder. Your fingers brushed his.

This time, when you drifted off, it wasn’t by accident.

And when Sam felt you start to fall asleep again, he smiled—pressed a kiss to your temple, and whispered softly:

“You always fall asleep on me, y’know that?”

You didn’t answer.

But the smile on your lips said everything.

And Sam?

He stayed.

---

End.

---

Masterlist

[aspenmissing]

ꜰᴀꜱᴛᴇꜱᴛ ᴡᴀʏ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ'ꜱ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ || 1172 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ɴ/ᴀ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ʏ/ɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ ᴄʜᴀʟʟᴇɴɢᴇ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏᴏᴋ ᴅɪꜱʜᴇꜱ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ’ꜱ ᴄᴜʟᴛᴜʀᴇꜱ—ʏ/ɴ ᴍᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴀ ᴅɪꜱʜ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ'ꜱ ʟᴀᴛɪɴᴏ ʜᴇʀɪᴛᴀɢᴇ, ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ ᴘʀᴇᴘᴀʀᴇꜱ ᴀ ᴅᴇꜱꜱᴇʀᴛ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʏ/ɴ'ꜱ ɪᴛᴀʟɪᴀɴ ʀᴏᴏᴛꜱ, ʟᴇᴀʀɴɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ʙᴏɴᴅɪɴɢ ᴛᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ.

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ

The soft hum of jazz filled the kitchen as the evening sunlight slowly faded, casting a warm glow over the countertop. The scent of fresh herbs and spices mingled in the air, mixing with the comforting hum of the stove. Y/N and Jayce were deep in their culinary challenge, each determined to master a dish from the other’s culture. It was a rare evening where they were both focused solely on cooking, an unspoken challenge to see who could bring the most flavour to the table.

Jayce was on a mission. He had grown up with food that was rich in bold flavours, spices that could light up your soul. Tonight, he was diving into the world of Italian cuisine, attempting to master tiramisu, a dessert Y/N had introduced to him not long ago. He had heard about it for years but never thought he’d get a chance to make it himself. Now, with Y/N by his side, he was determined to do it justice.

“You sure about this, Jayce?” Y/N asked, leaning on the counter with a teasing smile. She watched him carefully measure out the espresso, his brow furrowed in concentration. “It’s not as easy as it looks.”

Jayce grinned, his dark eyes gleaming with confidence. “I’ve got this. You’ve seen me make tamales. I’m just as good with sweets.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “We’ll see,” she teased. “Just don’t blame me when it turns out to be a mess.”

Jayce rolled his eyes but couldn’t help laughing. “I think I can handle this.” He began dipping the ladyfingers in espresso with the precision of someone who had spent years perfecting his craft. The strong, earthy scent of the espresso filled the kitchen, adding an unexpected richness to the air.

Y/N was still unconvinced. She was used to watching Jayce in the workshop, tinkering with complicated designs and fixing machines with his usual ease. But cooking a dessert, especially one from her culture, was a different kind of challenge. However, she admired his willingness to step out of his comfort zone and dive right into something new. She trusted him.

On the other side of the kitchen, Y/N was in her element. She was making tamales from Jayce’s Latino culture, and she took this challenge seriously. She had always been an excellent cook, but there was something special about preparing a dish that was a vital part of Jayce’s background. As she mixed the masa, her hands moved with practiced fluidity, the right amount of salt, chili powder, and cumin added to the dough. Her heart swelled with the joy of making something for him, something that was rooted in his traditions.

“Don’t forget the chicken!” Jayce called out, his voice muffled by the low hum of the music.

“I know! Just making sure everything’s perfect,” she replied, smiling to herself. She placed the seasoned chicken into the tamale mixture, her mind racing with thoughts of how this moment was more than just about food—it was about bonding, about blending two cultures in one place.

Jayce watched as Y/N worked. The way she moved in the kitchen was mesmerizing to him—focused, yet calm. He loved how comfortable she was with everything she did. He could see the pride in her eyes as she skilfully formed each tamale, folding them with the care and precision of someone who had learned the craft from generations before. She was giving a part of herself to him, and it made him feel even closer to her.

As Y/N wrapped each tamale in a corn husk, Jayce felt a spark of inspiration. He needed to step up his game with the tiramisu, especially after seeing how dedicated Y/N was to getting the tamales just right. He turned back to the counter, carefully layering the mascarpone mixture into the dish. He was determined to nail the balance between the espresso-soaked ladyfingers and the rich, creamy filling, just as Y/N had explained. He wasn’t about to let her have the upper hand.

“How are you doing over there?” Y/N called from the stove, keeping an eye on the steaming tamales.

Jayce turned and gave her a confident grin. “I think I’m almost done. It’s coming together.” He finished the final layer of mascarpone and began dusting the top with cocoa powder, a detail he knew was important.

“You’re starting to look like you know what you’re doing,” she teased, her tone light but affectionate.

Jayce flashed her a grin. “I told you I was a quick learner. Just wait until you try it. It’ll blow your mind.”

Y/N chuckled, though she felt a small sense of pride swelling in her chest. She was glad he was taking this challenge seriously, and she couldn’t wait to see how his version of tiramisu would turn out. And even though she was a bit nervous about her own tamales, she trusted herself and the generations of cooks who had come before her.

After Jayce placed the tiramisu in the fridge to chill, the two of them turned their focus to the tamales, carefully checking the steaming pot. The savory aroma of the filling mixed with the scent of the corn husks, creating a mouthwatering smell that filled the kitchen. Jayce couldn’t resist stealing a bite of one as soon as it was done, the hot, tender masa bursting with flavor.

“Okay, you’ve won this round,” he admitted, his voice full of admiration. “These are amazing.”

Y/N beamed with pride. “I told you,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “It’s all about balance. And a little patience.”

Jayce laughed, wiping his hands on a towel. “You’ve definitely got that part down.” He pulled out the tiramisu, now chilled and firm, and set it on the table. “But you’ve got to try this. You’re going to love it.”

Y/N’s eyes widened as she took a bite of the tiramisu. Her expression softened, and she let out a small, contented sigh. “I’m impressed,” she said, her voice full of warmth. “It’s perfect.”

Jayce grinned, his chest swelling with pride. “I knew it. The challenge wasn’t as tough as I thought.”

“Maybe,” Y/N replied with a playful look, “but don’t think you can get away with it so easily next time. I’ll be coming for you.”

Jayce laughed, clearly enjoying the banter. “I’ll be ready. But for now, let’s just enjoy this.”

The two of them sat down at the table, sharing bites of the tamales and the tiramisu, savouring each dish that the other had painstakingly prepared. As the evening wore on, the soft jazz continued to play in the background, and they found themselves talking about everything and nothing at all, their laughter filling the room.

For Y/N and Jayce, this evening was about more than just cooking. It was about sharing a piece of themselves—each dish was a story, a cultural exchange, and a memory in the making. The tamales and tiramisu were just the beginning of what they would continue to build together, one dish at a time.

[dogueteeth-fhr]

34 for whump prompt?

34. “You promised not to leave.”

(Canaan & Julia. Some night post-retibution, in a bar.)

It reminds them far too much of the old days.

Sitting at the bar with Anathema, sharing a scotch and whiskey, watching Julia dance. Complaining to Themmy how much she annoys them. Smiling when Julia looks over her shoulder to make sure the two of them are still having a good time.

Sighing and rolling their eyes before playing the hero, rescuing Julia from making a fool of herself before she starts making out on the beer-stained floor with whatever handsome fish she started grinding on in the ocean of a dance floor.

Holding her hair back as she puked into the toilet, after, hands gently stroking through dark curls as they remind her that, no, they are not Mama Elena, and yes, they'll stay with her. And they would. Stay all night. Watching her sleep on the couch, already having wiggled herself halfway off of it, wondering if it was normal to do this kind of thing for a friend. Wondering if friends were really what they wanted to be.

Dead times, and a dead person's memories. Feelings that died before they could bloom.

And yet, still. The memories and the people behind them haunt Canaan in the form of Ortega, older, more wrinkled, shorter hair and weathered eyes, giggling drunk and staring stupidly at them. She's so damn lucky she dragged Cain back into her life or else they would've called her an idiot and left already. She was always far too good at making them care.

They never should have cared about her.

"Why'de you makin' tha face, Caaaaaain?" She coos, finger aiming to poke their face and ending up in the uneaten chili chips instead.

She won't remember anything about tonight.

Not when she's like this.

She'll puke out the rot, wake up, and move on.

Just like she did back then.

"Do you remember that night at your apartment you pulled me into bed with you?"

Maybe that's why it feels safe to say this.

"'Course I do," she sniffles, finger sliding against a napkin as she attempts to sit upright. She hangs halfway off the chair, and Cain's hands stay firmly laced as she curses and almost falls the rest of the way. Her voice is oddly soft, and Canaan hates that. Who gave her the right to feel soft about this? "I don't think I could ever forget."

"How funny," Cain scoffs, shoving the chili chips back. She'd remembered to get vegan chili. "You conveniently forgot everything you said that night, though."

Every promise she'd made, delirious and smelling like beer, and maybe it says something about themself how much comfort they found in that. Words poured with liquor as if the courage they brought came with truth.

"You promised not to leave."

The words are bit, snapped, stale bread between yellow teeth. Cutting gums on the way in, leaving an after-burn on the roof of their mouth. They'd been drunk, then, too. Does it hurt more or less that Julia doesn't remember the kiss? It never meant anything.

"You promised me, and then you left me."

They just wanted to be wanted again.

They just wanted to believe that they could be cared for. Loved. Desired. Cherished.

Human.

"You promised not to leave."

There's tears dripping down their face, and the patrons have long turned to mind their own business. The dance floor suddenly is far more amusing than unsipped drinks tonight. The walls feel tight on Canaan's skin. The spilled beer smells like burnt hair. A redhead screams in their peripheral. Joyous. Frantic. They're alone. So, so alone. All of them. Every single one in this bar, so, so tired of not belonging. It's so exhausting. What if they all just—

There's lips on their forehead. Someone is shouting in the background, many someones, many people fighting, but Julia doesn't move. She's not their hero tonight. Julia's lips are on their forehead, arms cradling Canaan's shaking shoulders in a tight squeeze.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, breath reeking of beer, and Canaan sobs. "I'm sorry."

Canaan wishes that they were wise.

That they learned their mistake the first time.

That her lips weren't just as soft as Canaan remembers.

She will leave again some day.

And this time, it really will be their fault.

[clonemando]

Mace Has a Tooka

(was feeling the love for Master Windu in the Chili's tonight and this fic just typed itself. Enjoy!)

Her name was Regal and it suited her as she sat primly on the arm of Mace's beat up old couch observing her domain with a calm disdain. Mace had been working on flimsy work so the pads still littered the table and several cushions of said couch and also the floor and Mace knew she hated messes. It was clear to him even without a Jedi's ability to connect to animals that she was judging him for leaving the mess so long.

"You don't get to judge me when you don't help with any of the chores." He said with a huff but started stacking the completed forms in a pile. She daintily licked one of her little claws and rubbed it over one of her brown speckled ear cones without looking at him.

"I should have told Depa to leave you in the trash." He grumbled and earned a deserved side eye from the creature for the comment.

Regal had been brought to his quarters when Depa was just a padawan and had found skinny matted tooka crawling through the garbage and had dragged it back to beg Mace to help it. She had promised that once the tooka was cleaned up and healthy she'd find it a home. He should have sensed the trap as it was laid.

He did realize his mistake the night he heard Depa talking to the creature and addressing it by name but by then it was too late. Thankfully Regal had a compatible personality to the Master of the Order. She preferred to share quiet company and a tidily kept space- despite or perhaps because of her previous life outside. She suffered no fools in her home and had once driven Qui-Gon Jinn up into a tree hissing and spitting at the man when he had barged into Mace's quarters during a bad migraine episode unknowingly. Mace appreciated her passion in either caring over him or annoying Jinn.

He had worried when she had disappeared from his quarters after the start of the Clone Wars thinking maybe she had finally come of an age for her species that he needed to accept she had gone to join the force in private to spare him pain.

Instead, Ponds had found her somehow in Mace's quarters on their ship with three kittens suckling at her stomach. Lightning had taken no time at all in sharing holos their new mascot and the kits to the entire GAR.

Depa had eagerly taken a little silver kit saying it was a sign from the force it belonged with Grey.

Plo had pretended to deliberate several days before agreeing to take the burgundy and silver spotted one but there were quickly posts of it cuddled with Wolffe both napping under Plo's cloak.

The last kit was white and red in a pattern that looked just slightly too close to the Coruscant Guard's armor that he couldn't help but enlist Hound's help in sneaking it into Fox's office.

Mace shouldn't have been surprised when Regal's offspring had apparently taken one look at Palpatine and went nuts tripping the Chancellor down a flight of stairs where, according to the unified accounts of the Guard, his lightsaber activated and he was unfortunately impaled upon it.

Mace didn't ask any further questions and accepted it despite the fact he had more than 18 stab wounds when the Jedi examined the corpse.

Running a hand over the soft fur, he took a moment to smile softly. Then he yelped as she bit his hand and flicked her ears toward the datapads he had gotten distracted from cleaning.

Yes, Regal lived up to her name.

[love-kurdt]

Swooping, Sloping, Cursive Letters: 24

word count: 1120

PLEASE READ THIS IS ME TRYING FIRST, AS THIS STORY RELIES HEAVILY UPON THE CONTEXT OF TIMT

July 4, 1989

Dear Will,

We went to the 4th of July carnival tonight, and you seemed to be having a good time. Max and Lucas were off somewhere (making out behind the darts station or some shit), and you, Dustin, and El had gone to get snacks while I held our place in line for the ferris wheel.

I watched Dustin say something that caused both you and El to laugh, and it was like my eyes were glued to you; I couldn’t look away, and even if I could look away, I didn’t want to. Because you are gorgeous when you laugh. The sound of one of your uncontrollable, naturally loud laughs in combination with the crinkle in your eyes and your unfairly contagious smile make me love you even more than I could ever begin to fathom. I love seeing you so happy.

So to preface this next part, I’m gonna admit that your brother scares the hell out of me. He’s had it out for me since you gave me the painting in the van. I think it’s because he knew El had nothing to do with the artistic process and that I was oblivious to the subtext of your speech. But, like, it’s been three years at this point, and yet he’s still trying to murder me with his glare.

As I was watching you, I felt a shoulder nudge my upper arm, and I looked down to see Jonathan giving me that same look he’d given me through the rear view mirror in the van.

“So. Mike. How’s your night going?” he asked me, and I felt like I’d committed a fucking crime or something, judging by the inflections of his voice. 

“It’s going well,” I said, “How about you?”

Jonathan shook his head. “This isn’t about me, this is about you and the way you keep staring at Will.”

I was so confused. “What do you mean?” I asked.

“Is it because he’s gay?” he shot back at me. Yeah. He went there.

“Wait, wait, what?” I sputtered out in shock. “How the hell could you think—”

“You haven’t taken your eyes off him once. Are you freaked out by him or something?” He could not have been more wrong.

“Hold up—”

“If you’re homophobic, just admit it.”

“I— what—”

“But I’ll tell you right now,” Jonathan said as he leaned further in with a hushed voice, “bigotry doesn’t look good on you.”

I’d had enough. “Jonathan, will you let me fucking talk? Jesus Christ.”

Jon took a step back. “Um, I… I got a little fired up,” he admitted. I narrowed my eyes.

“Yeah, no shit.”

He apologized.

“It’s fine,” I dismissed him. “But Jon, that’s not at all how I feel. And I find it kind of hurtful that you think that of me. Because I love him—”

Yes, you read that right. (You didn’t, actually, but I’ll chalk it up to technicalities). I told your brother that I love you. But I instantly regretted it, because the look on his face was suddenly turning soft and understanding, and I couldn’t handle the thought of having to come out to your brother before you. So I resorted to self-preservation.

“No matter what, I love him,” I said in an attempt to cover my own ass with platonicity. “He’ll always be my friend.”

Jonathan seemed to take a few seconds to process and backtrack. It kind of looked like he… pitied me for a minute. “Okay,” he eventually told me, nodding. “I’m choosing to believe you. But if you hurt him again, I swear to God, Wheeler—”

“Murder,” I replied. “Got it.”

“Good,” he said, and with that, he was off to join Nancy at the chili stand, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I hadn’t realized my staring was that obvious. I mean, it’s not news that you happen to be my favorite person on the planet or that you’re my best friend. I think it’s pretty normal for me to appreciate being in my best friend’s company and to enjoy looking at him. It’s a whole other thing entirely when it comes to the implications my staring could make with my sexuality brought into the equation. Essentially, I don’t want my own facial expressions to out me.

“Got the last candy apple,” I heard you say, and it was only then that I noticed that you’d meandered your way back to me while El and Dustin were sharing a funnel cake as they stood a few feet away. I looked down and chuckled when I saw you grinning back up at me with red-stained teeth from the coating on the apple.

“I see that,” I replied. You held up the apple to me, and I raised an eyebrow.

“Want a bite?” you asked me, and I felt myself blush. This was so romantic. I know you didn’t mean it like that, but damn, sparks were flying… in my head. My inner immature middle schooler was chanting indirect kiss, indirect kiss, indirect kiss, but I ignored the little shit’s voice and focused on the apple being held up to my face, trying to figure out how to even bite the apple. “I promise it isn’t poisonous,” you reassured me.

“Even if it were, I’d just need a true love’s kiss for the spell to be broken, right?” I teased, and watched your eyes go wide before taking your hand, which was holding the apple’s stick, into mine and taking a chomp out of the apple. I pulled back as I chewed, and licked my lips for added effect. You didn’t move your hand at all, or try to pull away from me or anything. You just stood and watched.

“… Right,” you breathed. “You would.”

And just as I was going to make my first official move on you, one that could signal, “Hey Will. I’m interested in you like that, as in romantically and sexually and everything in between because you’re the love of my life and I don’t think I’ll ever recover if you don’t feel the same, but please don’t be scared away by what I’m saying right now because I just thought you should know,” El and Dustin joined us back in the line, cutting our conversation short and shifting the topic to Dustin’s fear of heights and how he was facing his fear of the ferris wheel for El’s sake. I think they’d be kind of cute together, don’t you think? I can see it. Or maybe it’s my rose-colored lenses talking. But regardless, I’m going to try and be a bit more open with my flirting from now on. Just to see something.

Love,

Mike

-

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[starcrossedjedis]

Lemme tell you more about my "Twin Suns"

Starting with the AU, which is named "Beyond the Horizon" for now (and that's been ruining my life in the best way for the past week or so 👀)

In which Sun - going by her birth name Mira - and (an aged up by about four years) Shanks aren't ten years apart in age and actually grew up on the Oro Jackson together.

She's a spoiled sea princess and he loves to rile her up. Sometimes they hate each other, but most times they don't and nothing prepares the young pirate for the horror of Mira being abducted and missing for almost a year.

When she comes back she's changed - and it seems so have his feelings for her. There is little more terrifying than the realisation that he's fallen head over heals in love with the apple of his captain's eye.

Mira's always had a bit of a crush on the red haired boy with the charming smile and when she realises that her feelings might not be as one sided as she previously thought - and that he has no intention to act on it anytime soon, or ever - she finds increasingly more infuriating ways to try and make him break.

But then Gol D Roger is captured and executed and first loves and stubborn pride are the very least of Mira's concerns.

Suddenly she has a permanent target on her back, both as Roger's only (known) living heir and as a possible lead on the One Piece.

Suddenly Mira feels like she can't trust anyone. Not even the boy she's loved for most of her life...

~*~

And of course there's still the OG, still going strong by the title of "Bring me the Horizon" ❤️

In which Sun isn't sure about anything in her life - not even her own name. It's merely the thing that first came to mind when she came to in the middle of the East Blue when she was fourteen.

The only constants she's ever known in her life were Windmill Village - safe, idyllic and almost infuriatingly boring - and the pirate named Shanks, whose face had been the first thing she'd seen that day at sea. Shanks with the soft smile. Shanks who always brought her little trinkets when he visited. Shanks who somehow found out why she felt so different, why the ocean hated her, when she loved it so much. Her Shanks. Her first memory, forever imprinted in her mind and in her heart.

Sun, now seventeen years old didn't know much, but she knew that she was in love with the red haired pirate.

But then, on his last visit to the village Shanks tells her that he's going after the One Piece - and this time he is not coming back. She begs him to take her with him, but he is adamant she keep both her feet on dry land, breaking her heart with his rejection.

Now, ten years later, Sun has no idea why she would run into Shank’s little shadow Monkey D Luffy and his ragtag group of “not a crew” in Shells Town of all places.

But she is tired of making nice with Marines for a living and she knows an opportunity when one presents itself…

And that is them - one OC, two stories, one very undecided author looking for y'alls feedback xD

tagging my OPLA besties, because I feel extra desperate in this Chili's tonight: @auxiliarydetective @bravelittleflower @drbobbimorse @harleyquinnzelz @jamezvaldes @kingsmakers @mystic-scripture @susiesamurai

[thiswasinevitableid]

Faithful (Sternclay)

The last fill is the winner of the more sweet than spooky prompts: My friend/relative is too sick to go trick-or-treating, so I’m taking their kid

“Thanks so much again for bailing me out” Lillian ties her scarf around her neck before kneeling down, “Grace, you be good for your uncle okay? I’ll be back in time to tuck you in.”

“Okay” Joseph’s niece smiles and bends her head foreward so his sister can kiss it. 

“That’s my girl. And don’t eat too much candy” She stands and gives Joseph The Look, “moms rules, got it.”

“Got it. Drive safe.” He hugs her, then holds Grace’s hand as they wave her off to her car. 

His niece looks up at him with what he can only describe as the Stern Family Gaze, “what are ‘Moms Rules?”

“Your grandmother would let us eat as much Halloween candy as we wanted on Halloween itself. But only if we ate actual dinner first.”

“What are we having for dinner?”

“You mom left some chili for us.”

“Blech”

“All the candy you want, remember?”

She narrows her eyes,  “Fine. But I’m getting into my costume first. You’re helping me.”

“Of course, my little lake monster.” 

Ten minutes later, he’s staring at grotesque chicken in place of his niece. 

“You’re…an evil robot?”

“Her name is Chica and she’s possessed by a murdered child.” She says with the scorn only a seven-year-old child can muster. 

“Okay then. Come on, it’s dinner time.”

He’s bemused that his sister would let be something from a horror game but on the other hand maybe this means he’ll one day have someone to watch scary movies with. Not that he’s testing that theory tonight; Lily has baby pictures and is not afraid to use them if he accidentally traumatizes her kid. 

They set out into the streets as it gets dark, porches lighting up orange and purple and the smell of candy and singed pumpkin drifting through the air. 

This neighborhood is full of families, so they spend plenty of time waiting at the foot of steps for other kids to collect their candy. It takes all of five minutes before someone is telling Joseph what a good dad he is just for holding her hand when a flock of boisterous tweens storm past covered in fake gore. 

He smiles and corrects them; this happens to him a lot. Lily works on-call half the time, and his brother-in-law is an RN whose schedule seems to think he does not actually have a life. A perk of having left the FBI is that Joseph can set his own hours, so at least once a month he’s summoned to keep an eye on Grace. Not that he minds; it’s nice to talk with someone who still thinks he’s the coolest guy in the world. 

Grace insists on the long route for candy collection, and by the time they’re heading along the park towards home there are hardly any families on the street. 

As he’s asking her what her favorite decorations were, she freezes and tugs his arm. 

“There’s a dog in that bush.”

He follows her pointed finger, expecting a beagle or pomeranian cowering in the foliage. Not a fucking wolf. 

“Yes, it seems there is” there are no wolves in Madison, so this has to be a really big husky or a wolf-dog or something, “but let's leave him be.”

“But he’s hurt.” 

She’s right; the animal has a cut on its snout. Joseph takes a step, then another, and all the dog does is whimper. 

“It’s okay, big guy, we’re friendly. Are you lost?”  He gestures slowly for the dog to come to him, “let’s see who you belong to, then we can-” he sighs as he sees there’s no collar or tags, “we can figure something out.”

The dog licks his hand, sad brown eyes staring up at him. Its fur is gorgeous dark brown and very soft when Joseph pats its head. He can’t shake the feeling that he’s looking at a wolf that’s just not quite right in the face. 

“Is he nice?”

One floppy ear perks up at Grace’s voice, and then the dog flops onto its side, showing her its belly. She laughs and kneels to pat his head. 

“It seems like it. I’d say he should come with us but I don’t have a leash. So how about this; we get you home, then I’ll come back and look for him and see if we can find his owner.”

Grace agrees, reluctantly stands, and takes Joseph’s hand. A few seconds after they’re back on the pavement, this a click-click of claws following behind. 

“Uncle Joseph, look, he likes you!”

He glances behind them with a smile, “That or he wants your candy. Either way, I guess he’s coming home with me.”

Joseph coaxes the dog into his car to wait until Lily gets home. Once his sister is back and his niece is putting away her candy, he hops in and drives back to his house. It’s on the outskirts of the city, where the woods start to encroach, and the dog sniffs the air in the direction of the treeline as he unlocks the door. 

“Now, I have a dog already. Her name is Nessie. She’s a little scared of other dogs, so she might run away or hide from you. If you chase her or bully her, you will spend the night outside. Got it?”

The dog boofs once, a low and happy sound. 

“Good enough.”

As he expected, Nessie skitters out to meet him and freezes when she sees what he’s brought home. But instead of running, she cautiously comes closer, sniffing the newcomer, who sits patiently during her inspection. Then she licks him once on the face and trots over to Joseph for attention. 

Interesting. 

“I missed you too, girl. Now let’s find our new friend somewhere to sleep.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------

In Barclay’s defense, he never meant for it to get this out of hand. 

He’d known this area had some nasty off-shoots of vampire hives, but he’d also heard that some of his friends might have found safe haven here. So he was willing to risk the trip. Turns out nasty gangs of vampires breed nasty gangs of humans (or maybe it’s the other way around), and said humans like to stab first and ask questions later. He’d avoided a knife to the gut but not the face and ran for his life, changing into a wolf once he lost them so any humans would see an injured dog, not a huge scary man. The plan was to lay low until he could sneak into the night and find a safe place to hide. 

And while the foot of Joseph’s bed is certainly safe, it’s weird to lay here in the dark with a human happily asleep and completely unaware they let a vampire into their house. 

Weirder still has been how gentle Joseph is with him. No raised voices or threats, no getting annoyed when Barclays bulk knocks things over. Just the offer of dinner (Barclay managed to let Nessie eat his share without the human noticing) and then a bath. A bath during which a very good human stripped to his boxer-briefs and undershirt in order to scrub mud and blood from Barclay’s fur. A bath after which Joseph toweled him off and put a bandaid on his nose and called him a good boy for being so well-behaved.

Barclay would have gone belly-up for him in that moment even if he was in his human form.

His plan is to escape come morning, but Joseph doesn’t leave for an office as Barclay assumed he would. Instead he spends the morning on the phone calling around and checking online to see if anyone is missing a dog. When that search turns up nothing, he bundles Barclay into the backseat of his car and drives to a vet. 

Mercifully, he just wants them to check Barclay’s cut to make sure it doesn’t need stitches. He doesn’t, and he uses the moment of eye contact with the vet to put them in enough of a thrall so they tell Joseph no other care is needed. 

Joseph stops at a burger shack on the way home, pulling into the lot to eat. Barclay’s pleading eyes earn him a fry, which is for the best; he couldn’t handle much more mortal food than that without getting sick. But it’s not his fault salt and fat still smell good to a vampire.

In the evening, Joseph walks him over on a makeshift leash to a pet store, then back towards home on a sturdy, tartan-patterned one. As they’re cutting through an alley, a figure steps from a back door and calls Joseph’s name.

Barclay knows another vampire when he sees one, and bares his teeth as the man steps closer. 

“Easy, big guy” Joseph says calmly, “Alan is a friend of mine.”

“More like your fucking servant.” The vampire smiles, “my sister got out yesterday; the fang-mark stuff you showed the cops did the trick.” He offers his hand, “You ever need to woo someone or go to a funeral or anything, your orders at my place are on the house.” 

Barclay glances up to see Gravedirt Florist printed on the backdoor. 

Joseph says he’ll keep that in mind and waves goodnight. As they walk he muses to Barclay, “You didn’t act that way towards anyone else today. I wonder…can you tell vampires from humans? Or do you just want to protect me?”

Barclay barks in what he hopes is an affirmative tone. 

“That gives me an idea. After all, a vampire ‘hunter’” he makes literal air-quotes, “can use all the protection he can get.”

They reach the door of the house. Barclay shouldn’t follow him through it, shouldn’t let himself be alone in a room with a fucking vampire hunter, sure as fuck shouldn’t agree to be his guard dog. He should use all his strength to yank the leash free and run for the hills. 

Joseph rubs his head, “We can sleep on it, right big guy? You deserve a break and to be spoiled after being lost and fending for yourself.”

Blue eyes shine, trusting and kind, as the grip on the leash loosens so he can open the door. 

Barclay cuddles up to Joseph’s thigh and follows him in. 

Just a few more days. Then he’ll go.

—-------------------------------------------------------

A week after bringing the new dog home, Joseph follows the sound of Nessie’s barking into the living room. As he expected, a vampire with a grudge is waiting for him. 

“That’s the most pathetic guard dog I’ve ever seen.”

He needs at least a few seconds to grab his tool-belt from its hook.

“Oh, Nessie is just the alarm.” A growl grows in the darkness behind as he says glibly, “Bigfoot is the muscle.”

It turns out when you have a massive, snarling dog, troublesome vampires show themselves out without fight. 

—--------------------------------------------------------------------

Barclay stands, surveying the house for the last time. For two and a half weeks he’s only left it with Joseph or on the few nights he snuck out to visit the butcher. It feels wrong to be leaving with no intention of coming back. 

Nessie prances at his feet, UFO chew toy in her mouth. Whenever Joseph is gone for the day, Barclay will turn human and play with her for hours before cuddling up on the couch to read from Joseph’s excellent collection of mystery novels. 

“Sorry, sweet girl. Not today.” He rubs her ear, “take care of him, okay? And for go-ow, for goodness sake try to get him to sleep more.”

He slips out the front door and down the street. His first stop is the butcher for some blood, then to the library to use the computer to look for somewhere to live. When he comes out, no leads to be found, he sees Joseph on the corner, asking the guys at the falafel food truck if they saw a large, brown dog come this way. 

Barclay’s not going to feel bad. He’s not going back. He’s not. 

He sees Joseph several more times throughout the evening, having some version of that same conversation. 

At three in the morning, his curiosity gets the best of him, and he sneaks back to the house. Through the window he can see the human on his laptop, refreshing what looks to be the community notices page; the one where people post lost pets. 

Joseph closes the computer and leans back, wipes his eye and casts a hopeful glance at the backdoor. 

No one’s mourned his departure that much in years. 

He takes his wolf form, scratches at the door, and waits only a few seconds before Joseph is on his knees, hugging him and making him swear to never do that again. 

He can’t promise that. But maybe he can hang around a little longer. 

—-------------------------------------------------------

“Well that could have gone better.” Joseph peels off his bloody shirt, already standing in the shower to avoid making the whole bathroom into a crime scene. 

Barclay nods, a habit he hasn’t managed to hide and is praying Joseph won’t notice. His fur is matted with blood from a truly horrendous night. He didn’t know there was such a thing as a multi-mouthed graveghoul, but it turns out there is and that it’s aggressive as fuck.

Joseph points to the tub and he climbs in, lets the human scrub him clean and run his hands over him in search of injury. Once he’s clean and dry, Joseph shoos him out so he can take a proper shower. 

Seeing him step out ten minutes later in only a towel makes Barclay hot under both the literal and figurative collars.

“I’m glad you’re okay, big guy” Joseph ruffles his fur, “we make a good team.”

They do. But lately all Barclay can think is they’d make such a better one if he could be human. If he could make breakfast for Joseph after a long night, could sit and read while the human looks over his case files, could walk holding his hand instead of on a leash and talk with him about everything. 

(Could feed from him instead of sneaking drinks from a carton)

But being honest with Joseph can’t mean anything but losing him. And Barclay’s not quite ready to lose him. Not yet. 

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Here we go, some entertainment for you” Joseph sets the puzzle toy down for Bigfoot, “and some light reading for me.” He laughs at his own joke as he drops a stack of new, vampiric history books on his table.

Bigfoot wags his tail at him, then settles in to nap. Fair enough, they did have a long night of chasing down a vampire hunter who was lighting vampire businesses on fire for the hell of it. 

The first book is A Compendium of Vampirical Powers. When he hits chapter three, he turns the page to a plate showing an illustration of a vampire who has taken the form of a wolf. Assuming this is an accurate image, he’s impressed; it does look like a wolf. 

A wolf who’s not quite right in the face. 

Joseph looks at his guard dog. His guard dog who only eats when Joseph isn’t looking at him, who learns commands as if he understood english, who always seems to bark when a human would reply to Joseph thinking aloud. 

“Bigfoot?”

The dog opens its eyes and lifts its head to regard him. 

“If you…if you were a vampire, you would tell me, right?”

The dog tenses, which does nothing to soothe Joseph’s worry. 

“I wouldn’t be angry. I promise. But if I’m onto something, and you care about me even a little, please be honest with me.”

Bigfoot closes his eyes with a resigned sigh, and then there’s a large, bearded man on Joseph’s rug. 

“Um. Hi.” Strong arms wave from a ratty t-shirt, and thick, hairy legs stick out of shorts, “So, you’re right, I am a vampire. I was being chased by some of those shitty guys we dealt with last week and I panicked and turned into my wolf form to hide and then you were there and…yeah” he undoes the collar at his throat, “I’ve been living as your dog for months.”

“Ohjesus” Joseph runs a hand through his hair, “I can’t believe I was so dense, it was so obvious, oh god I have rubbed your belly so many times and you, you slept in my bed!”

“You said you wouldn’t be mad.” The vampire winces away from him. 

“Sorry. I’m just…why did you let it go for so long?”

“At first I needed somewhere to hide, then I couldn't handle running away and making you upset and I, I really, I like you, Joseph. You saw a huge, scary dog and took him home instead of calling the cops, and you were so good to me I didn’t want to leave. Even though I knew I should. I’m so sorry.” He sits up, scrunching in on himself to seem smaller, “I can go.”

“Do you have somewhere to go?”

“Not really.” The vampire says sheepishly. 

Joseph slides down to the floor so they’re face to face, “Then I’m not kicking you out. I trust you; if you were a threat to me, you would have attacked me by now.”

“Never” The force of the reply surprises them both. 

“Am I right that you don’t have a job either?”

“Uh huh.”

Joseph touches a tattooed arm, “What’s your name, big guy?”

“Barclay.”

“Here’s what I propose, Barclay: I still need extra protection. And I have the money to pay for it. So if you want, you can keep working for me and living here. Just as a roommate.”

“I’d really, really,  really like that.”

“Then it’s a deal” Joseph helps him to his feet and tries for levity, “but no more sleeping in the bed.”

“I thought it was what a dog would do! Plus it gets cold at night and Nessie hogs the spot by the heater.”

Joseph chuckles, “She really does. I’ll guess I’ll just make sure there’s lots of extra blankets in the spare bedroom.”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The benefits of Barclay having told Joseph the truth are many, starting with the fact that Barclay is an excellent cook and likes making meals for Joseph even when he can’t eat them himself.  Joseph feels like a spoiled husband whenever he wakes up to breakfast already made or comes home to dinner waiting on the table. 

Barclay is also an excellent conversationalist, even though Joseph is playing catch-up when it comes to getting to know him while Barclay is familiar with all his most embarrassing habits. Then again, it’s tremendously relaxing to be around someone who’s seen him sing to ABBA or curse at the dishwasher and still wants to spend time with him. 

For his part, Barclay is clearly enjoying not having to hide anymore, and is just as protective of him as a man as he was as a wolf. He’s also still using the dog shampoo Joseph bought him because he likes the way it makes his hair soft. 

Joseph does miss being able to touch him, and with every passing morning the temptation to reach across the table and hold his hand as they have coffee becomes less bearable.

Tonight, Barclay is humming along to the radio as he dusts pumpkin ravioli with ricotta. As he bends to grab a plate from the dishwasher, Joseph notices an odd lump in his back pocket. If it’s what he thinks it is, it’s a very interesting situation indeed. 

He stands and slips it free just as Barclay straightens. 

“Whoa, hey there” Barclay laughs as he turns, “you that…hungry…for..oh man I can explain I promise.”

“Please do” Joseph dangles the old collar between them. 

“I kept it as a, uh, a souvenir. Of the part of being hidden I liked.”

“Keep talking.”

“I liked” Barclay looks down, “I liked being good for you. Being yours. I like belonging to you because I knew you’d take care of me and it made me so fucking happy and also it was really fucking hot to be on a leash for you which gives me all kinds of weird feelings. And being with you now is agony because it’s so close to being yours, and now I know how well we work together, but I don’t want to make you feel like you have to want me….

“So what I’m hearing is that you’d like to keep being mine under certain, um, conditions? My good boy who’s also my boyfriend?” Joseph sets the collar on the counter. 

“Please.”

“I think that can be arranged.” Joseph leans in and kisses him, the vampire whimpering until Joseph puts his arms around him and holds him close. 

“Does this mean I can sleep in the bed again?” Barclay smiles, fangs glinting promisingly in the kitchen lights. 

“Yes, big guy, it does.

[breesays]

We are what we consume

What an honor it is to parent this little one. An honor? A delight. A task. A challenge. An experience that constantly melts me and reshapes me.

"Mama, I want BROSH."

You want what?

"BROSH"

What is BROSH? BRO-SHURE?

"No, BROSH."

I need a category. I need context. What do you do with BROSH?

"You eat it, mama, it's soft."

BRIOCHE? The bread?

"Yes, I want bree-OSH. And Hawaiian bread."

Only one bread, pick a bread.

"Ok, BROSH."

Like those paw-print sprinkled bumper stickers that say "who rescued who?!" Who is teaching who, here.

My therapist said, in our last meeting, that despite my anxieties, none seem centered around being a good parent. I am not worried about making the wrong choices, of passing down my traumas. "I'm here, aren't I?" I already know I'm imperfect, and I am always doing the work. There's no sense of being worried about it IN GENERAL.

The way I see it, he just needs to hear as many stories as possible. Not all of them, all at once - but a landscape of stories he can stumble through, at his own pace.

Tonight he ate a whole mango, skin and all. "Hey Google," we asked, "are mango skins edible?" Google said yes, it has lots of nutrients. Edible, but unnecessary. I went to the bathroom to floss mango flesh out of my teeth while he yelled, "hey mama, have you tried the skin?" Yes, I said, and I don't like it. "But it has NUTRIENTS" he said, nailing a word he'd learned about 2 minutes earlier.

I don't know if I would have what I finally feel like is a normal relationship with food if it wasn't for Des. I am still peripherally enticed by hacks, intermittent fasting, restriction. But I also have BUTTER in my fridge right now, and full-fat cream cheese. Me, who would for years only buy the lowest lightest skimmest barely there version of itself foods. It isn't dangerous, or taboo. It's for recipes, for baking, for taste and I do sample nearly everything I feed Des at least once. Food is an adventure, an experiment. Energy. Not the enemy.

He's a skinny preschooler, but admirably adventurous when it comes to eating. He pops cherry tomatoes like candy. We had tiny tuna wraps with nori, tuna, rice, avocado and cucumber last night. He will sample Flamin Hot Cheetos with curiosity but not destroy a whole bag. True, he has also dipped seaweed snacks into oatmilk "just to try it" but for the most part he is a paragon of intuitive eating.

Also true that I have to remind him to eat more often than not because he gets distracted, gets an idea or decides to start a project. But that's a lesson in inspiration, too. It is my job to interject before we hit HANGRY, and also my job to occasionally make meals interesting. I let him choose a couple nights a week, he often requests salmon. He's learning to chop, grate, grow, savor.

We do not forbid much, but we pay attention to what certain foods do to our bodies, our minds. Chili mangoes are not a bedtime snack. Actually, we've been tuning into what things -besides food- that we consume do to our bodies, our moods, our disposition. Videos, music, movement, how we talk.

I am learning so much.