#problem is. again. i know like. three people

[blueberrybirdsworld]

Out of frame 2/4

Summary : Y/N and Lando Norris have been together for three years. Their relationship is real, steady, and full of quiet love but always behind the scenes. While fans know they’re a couple, Lando has never posted about her, avoids public displays of affection, and never mentions her in interviews. At first, Y/N understood. She believed it was about privacy, about protecting what they had. But over time, being constantly left out of frame has started to hurt.

Genre : angst, SMAU

Pairing : Lando Norris x reader

Faceclaim : @suanbeiii

Main Masterlist

Series Masterlist

@landonorris 📍Tokyo, Japan

Incredible night. Thank you to everyone who came out to support us. Big things coming 🫡

@_user1 he really posted all his friends but not his gf again... yikes

@_user2 is Y/N not in Japan with him? 😭

@_user3 nah this is getting embarrassing at this point. she literally always supports him and he can’t even tag her once??

@_user4 QUADRANT IN JAPAN LET’S GOOOO🔥

@_user5 the helmet is SICK omg 🔥

@_user6 weird how he never has a problem posting the boys 👀

@_user8 so hyped for this drop!! love seeing quadrant going global 💥

@_user10 where’s the queen?? y’all okay??

@_user11 y/n deserves a man who posts her like she posts him. period.

@your_username 📍Monaco

Girls can buy themself flowers too 💐

@_user1 wait. no japan trip for y/n this time?

@_user2 something’s off. they never miss a race weekend together 😶

@_user3 how is she real 😭😭 Lando you better be sending her flowers too!!

@_user4 the softest prettiest queen 🩷 Lando won the lottery and acts like he forgot

@_user5 Lando… be fr. how do you not post HER???

@_user6 she looks like a dream. if my gf looked like this I’d post her every 5 minutes lol

@_user7 you’re literally the prettiest person I’ve ever seen I can’t even hate you I’m obsessed 🥲

@_user8 i don’t care what’s going on but if he lets her go… we need to talk, Lando 😭

@_user9 okay but where do I sign up to be your girlfriend if Lando’s slacking??

@_user10 I hope he knows what he has. because the rest of us DO.

Texts messages

Lando You didn’t like the flowers I sent you?

Lando Seriously, Y/N? That post? What is that supposed to mean?

Y/N It means exactly what it says.

Lando So you ignore my apology and post something that makes it look like I did something wrong ?

Y/N You sent flowers. That’s not an apology, Lando. It’s a gesture. A pretty one, but not what I needed.

Lando You always want more. It’s never enough with you.

Y/N Because you don’t listen. I told you how I felt and you acted like I was being dramatic. I didn’t ask for a parade. Just for you to acknowledge me

Lando So you skip the race, don’t say a word for days, and make me look like an idiot online?

Y/N I said I had work.

Lando No. You said “don’t worry about it.” That’s code for “figure it out or I’m gone,” right?

Y/N You want to talk about code? Because not posting me, not bringing me up, not defending me when people speculate, THAT’s a message too.

Lando I thought keeping us private protected you

Y/N It doesn’t feel like protection, it makes me feel like a secret

Lando This again…

Y/N Yes. Again. Because you keep brushing it off like I’m asking you to tattoo my name on your forehead

Lando You want public affection. Fine. But maybe you could’ve talked to me instead of putting it on Instagram?

Y/N I tried to talk. You shut down. You always do.

Lando Because every time I mess up, you make me feel like I’m never enough

Y/N And every time I open up, you make me feel like I'm too much

Lando Right. Okay. Here we go.

Y/N Yeah. Here we go. Again. You don’t want to make the effort? That’s fine. Your loss.

Lando You know that’s not fair

Y/N Neither is loving someone who makes you feel invisible

Lando I have a race to focus on.

Y/N Enjoy it, Lando.

Lando Sure.

@F1LiveMoments 🎥Live interview moment of Lando at the Japan GP

Interviewer: “We didn’t see your girlfriend this weekend, is she not in Japan with you?” Lando Norris: laughs “Which girlfriend?”

@_user1 nah “which girlfriend” is CRAZY??? like are you trying to be single or stupid 😭

@_user2 he really said that on live TV… with a mic… and a camera… okay.

@_user3 and this is the man she’s been flying around the world to support in silence 💀

@_user4 he better deactivate, apologize and send 400 roses

@_user6 this girl has been nothing but quiet and supportive and he humiliates her like that? I’d be GONE.

@_user7 you can’t be “private” and also crack jokes like that… pick a struggle 😐

@_user8 and then men will say “why is she upset with me” like sir… you said WHICH GIRLFRIEND

@_user9 his media training just packed its bags and left the building

@_user10 @your_username deserves BETTER. we’re all saying it.

@_user12 this man’s idea of romance is “which girlfriend” I can’t breathe 😭😭😭

@your_username 📍Monaco

Sunday ritual 🧡

@_user1 she still supports him after that interview?? I’d be EMBARRASSED

@_user2 baby you didn’t see the clip, right?? pls say you didn’t

@_user3 I have to respect the loyalty but girl… the way he said “which girlfriend” like it was nothing 🤡

@_user4 wait… WHY is she still watching him like this?? I’m actually speechless

@_user5 this is such a sweet post but… after that live interview 😬

@_user6 girl did you see the interview from yesterday 💀

@your_username which interview?

@_user9 oh no oh no oh no 😭😭😭 she doesn’t KNOW

@_user10 this one comment just ended their relationship for real

@_user12 NAH IM SCARED. SOMEONE TAKE HER PHONE AWAY

@_user13 Lando better call her RIGHT NOW because this is about to go so bad

Texts messages :

Y/N “Which girlfriend?” Are you fucking serious right now?

Y/N Was that funny to you? Was humiliating me on live TV was what you needed?

Y/N You really went out there and said that like we’re nothing. Like I never existed.

Lando Y/N... Don’t do this.

Y/N Don’t do what, Lando? Get mad that my boyfriend made a joke like he doesn’t even know me?

Lando You didn’t want to come to Japan. You literally said you needed space What was I supposed to do?

Y/N NOT JOKE THAT YOU HAVE MULTIPLE GIRLFRIENDS ON LIVE TV MAYBE? Just a thought.

Lando It was sarcasm. The interviewer caught me off guard

Y/N No, what caught you off guard was the reality of being called out for once

Lando I didn’t mean it like that

Y/N You never do. That’s the problem.

Y/N Everything’s a joke or a deflection or a fucking PR-safe answer You don't even realize how much it hurt. You made me feel invisible

Lando You ghosted me for a week. You turned down my calls, ignored my flowers, and posted some cryptic caption like I never tried

Y/N Because sending flowers isn’t trying, Lando. It’s damage control

Y/N I was begging for real effort, for presence, for proof that I matter to you

Y/N And you know what you gave me? A joke about having multiple girlfriends ??

Lando It was a stupid moment. I panicked

Y/N God, do you even hear yourself?

Y/N You panicked and defaulted to disrespect. That says more than anything

Lando Okay well maybe if you were actually there we could have talked like normal people.

Y/N Don’t flip this on me.

Y/N I didn’t come because I was hurt, Lando. I needed space to breathe, not to be mocked globally

Y/N You know how hard it’s been? I kept telling myself you just needed time, that you were scared. Or shy. Or private

Y/N But maybe you were just comfortable keeping me secret, comfortable not choosing me when it’s inconvenient

Lando That’s not true.

Y/N Then prove it

Lando I’m trying to...

Y/N Trying would’ve been not letting those words leave your mouth.

Lando I messed up, okay? I didn’t think. I was tired and pissed...

Y/N No. You chose the words.

Y/N Enjoy the rest of Japan. Don’t worry about me.

Lando Y/N…

Y/N No. Fuck you, Norris.

Taglist (closed) : @angelluv16, @httpsxnox, @anunstablefangirl, @chocolatemagazinecupcake, @mayax2o07, @freyathehuntress, @verogonewild, @lilyofthevalley-09, @esw1012, @its-me-frankie, @linneaguriii, @ezzi-ln4, @rlbmutynnek, @actuallyazriel, @sofs16, @thulior, @sltwins, @henna006, @stylesmoonlight12, @lilaissa, @sideboobrry11, @l3thal-l0lita, @lorena-mv33, @ispywlittleeye-blog, @lesliiieeeee, @sageskiesf1, @adynorris, @curlylando, @rebelliousneferut, @justcharlotte, @secret-agents-stole-my-bunnies, @emneedshelp, @lando-505, @yukimaniac, @sashisuslover, @f1norris04, @hi26loveie, @bunnisplayground, @nina481, @reallifemermaidprincess, @cars-and-frogs, @delululeclerc, @txmhxllqnd, @lydia-demarek, @destinyg237, @rhaenyrasversion, @sarascabiosa, @readz4u, @tvdtw4ever, @mynameisangeloflife, @teti-menchon0604, @suns3treading, @op814kitty, @prettyboyroseberg, @willowsnook, @ariesandwolves, @clarksgf, @knivesdoingcartwheels, @pinklemonade34, @fat-meh, @tiaajosephin, @landosbabe4, @easy4, @jule239, @mercrussell, @skylandori, @ryuucollapse, @nickie-amore, @fairyjinn, @seonaw, @mattslovelygf, @strawberrylov-er, @linnygirl09, @dilflover44, @bell1a, @f1fantasys, @sillyfreakfanparty, @janonymus0, @taetae-armyyyyy, @charlesgirl16, @angstynasty, @jules-bea2308, @afternoonarchive, @itsbieberxholland, @rexit-mo, @chlmtfilms, @vampgege, @mochimommy2002, @budgetcupid, @lemon-stvrrr, @bell1a, @taebearyoongs, @hazzasmunchkin, @sainz0fthetimes, @didaaa4, @madelyn2000, @il0vereadingstuff, @march32nd, @chlmtfilms, @literallysza, @cheapdocmartens, @wolfstarsimpxx, @pretzelcat4-blog, @larya810, @6-noir, @urfavftoomie, @ficr3ccs, @strawberrylov-er, @wosof1, @behindmygreyeyes, @justheretoreadthxxs, @pinklemonade34, @ninass-world, @landosbabe4, @leclercdream, @raynetargaryan2,

[strawberry-nugget]

Katsuki does his own Calvin Klein ad and the comments you see all over TikTok make you jealous!

Pairing: Bakugo x fem!reader

Tags // Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, smut, top! reader, oral (m receiving), cumflation(?), jealousy, a little fighting, LOADS of comfort, Jungkook mentioned ig? All characters are 20+

You're mad.

Extremely mad.

Ac/dc’s TNT plays on repeat from the speaker of your phone, your laptop, your TV, the Main Street screen from the building across your apartment a few stories below. And truly, every single time a replay goes on and on, each screen unsynced, your anger grows even worse inside your already too tight chest.

The reason?

Your boyfriend’s Calvin Klein ad has actually broke the internet.

It’s fucking ridiculous—The whole thing is worse than what happened with Bad Bunny a few months ago.

The comments are all over the place. Messy. Too messy. Too thirsty. Too delirious. Too fucking disrespectful.

You've scrolled through way too many edits. No scratch that. You've only scrolled through edits. With millions of likes, hundreds thousands of comments—that you've spent hours reading to their entirety. The actual video from the official Calvin Klein account has thirty, no forty million likes. Almost as many saves and shares too.

You’re naturally jealous. You knew you were bound to be even if you were the one who practically begged him to say yes to the offer and you definitely knew your boyfriend was the cause of thirst for many people worldwide.

It’s never been a problem until now. You've usually encountered the occasional ‘congratulations to whoever is bouncing on it’ edit, hell you’ve even smiled like an idiot at it, but now? After digging through comments that explicitly say ‘his girlfriend aint even deserve all that’ and ‘damn Dynamight’s gf i said LET GO’ you want to scream. Yell. Get back at him.

You can’t even bear to witness the video anymore. Only because when looking at it out of context, you feel like you can forgive him because of how hot he just looks!

It’s all over your screen; Katsuki flexing his muscles, biceps, forearms, back, thighs, torso. Letting off explosions, pulling the waistband of his boxers down just enough to tease, stomping his hero boots before he kneels completely. All while being extremely sweaty.

Seriously, fuck him and that hero work durability underwear line.

You’ve now unliked the original post out of pure spite. Then re-liked it. Then unliked it again because it felt like you were feeding the beast that's unleashing negativity and pumps jealousy throughout your whole body

You’ve closed the app, deleted it, redownloaded it, and then ended up stalking your own boyfriend like you were a crazed fan girl and not the person who literally shares a bathroom with him, only to be met with the same ten posts on TikTok—yes the one where he does push ups with you on his back and the other edit he has posted of you, even the one and only repost he has that’s of your ‘somebody point me to the best ass eater’ TikTok, where he acted like a feral beast and actually tried to bend you over. 

And then his instagram, where there are only a few yearly hero chart posts that have him as a co creator and like, three actual posts that he made himself. One from his agency, one from a school reunion and one with you smiling next to him, both bloody and bruised after a villain attack with the caption ‘you should see the other guy’.

Back to TikTok now, you take one last look at the ad before you ultimately close it, yes, for real this time, fists clenched like you’re about to march straight to Calvin Klein Japan HQ and file a formal complaint about emotional damages.

Instead, you exhale sharp through your nose and storm into the kitchen like a woman on a mission.

Fine.

If the internet wants to thirst over your man like they’ve never seen shoulders before, then so be it. You’re not threatened.

Not really. Not even a little.

You’re the one he comes home to. You’re the one who knows the exact way he likes his coffee in the morning, the brand of muscle balm he’ll pretend he doesn’t need, the scar on his side he never talks about. 

They don’t know him.

But you do.

And tonight, you’re going to prove it. Prove that you’re the most perfect girlfriend for him, that you won’t let go because someone on the internet begs you to. 

You slam the fridge door shut with the kind of force that makes the condiments rattle. Chicken breast. Garlic. Thyme. That expensive parmesan he rolls his eyes at but always eats the fastest. You’ve got all the ingredients for the dumb TikTok “marry me chicken” and honestly, yeah—maybe it’s manipulative. Maybe it’s desperate.

You don’t care. You've made it before and he adores it.

If the competition is public thirst, then your counterattack is a home-cooked seduction plan followed by a bath with that weird overpriced salt soak that smells like cedarwood, cocoa and sex. Let them drool behind screens—you’re setting the mood with candles and your favorite playlist and maybe even the nice satin robe with nothing underneath if it’s clean.

And it almost works.

It almost makes you feel better. Like maybe you’ve got the upper hand again. Like maybe you’re not going insane over a stupid fucking ad where he literally flexes his thighs and kneels and sweats on purpose. And flexes again.

Until you start chopping the garlic and realize your hands are shaking.

You stop abruptly.

You stare down at the cutting board, knife hovering mid-air, and realize your throat’s a little tight. Your chest’s a little too hollow.

Because the truth is—deep down, like deep deep deep down, where all the ugliest thoughts live—you’re not mad.

You’re scared that you’re not enough. Insecure. Like youve got any right to when you've literally grown up with him. When he’s never even bat an eye to anyone but you.

But you feel like a high school girl again. Standing in the hallway outside your class, so mad and sick of jealousy that fangirls from year one are swamping your boyfriend that you drag him by the ear into the classroom and shove your tongue down his throat. 

And damn, was that punishment from Aizawa worth it when he caught you.

No, now, it’s even worse. It’s not just the girls at school. Not just Japan. It’s the whole world.

And you're so scared that the world seeing him like that is going to remind him of what he could have. Of what else is out there. Of how easily people fall to their knees for him—not in ad campaigns, but in real life.

And what are you?

Somebody who gets overwhelmed easily. Somebody who overthinks. Somebody who can’t even watch a thirty-second ad without spiraling into a meltdown that tastes like garlic seeped deeply into fingernails and salt and the distinct flavor of not enough.

What if ‘animemencracker22’ could cook better for him or what if ‘Dynamightsleftbicep’ could massage his head better when they run him a bath? If ‘gymratgirl4life’ wanted to go out with him more and if ‘corrrrruptedlvr’ wasn’t throwing jealousy fits?

You’re not the girl in the comments. You’re not the fantasy.

You’re just you.

And even when you’re holding the knife and planning the perfect welcome-home meal and pretending like the bath you’re running later isn’t strategic—you still wonder if that’s going to be enough to keep a man like Katsuki Bakugou.

Worse, you wonder if he knows you’re trying this hard, because of your overwhelming need to feel like you deserve someone like him. 

You let the knife drop and suddenly, you’re not hungry anymore. You were never even hungry to begin with. Your fucking eyes are welling up with stupid tears that you dont want to shed. 

You’re not even a jealous person. Save for two or three times, you don’t feel like this over him. And it’s not because you’ve taken him for granted, but it’s been years that you two are together that have worked you into not thinking Katsuki could want anyone else other than you. You don’t want anyone else other than him.

But what if he’s tired. What if he feels youre the same old song stuck on repeat when he could have anyone. 30 million people in the world and you included.

The silence in the kitchen hums louder than any song on loop, only broken by the sound of your choking as you’re trying not to violently sob. The garlic’s sharp sting still clings to your fingers. The oven’s preheat light blinks like a mocking little eye. Your playlist, the one reserved for special nights, is halfway into some sultry R&B Aaliyah track that now feels like a joke.

Your arms go slack at your sides.

This was supposed to feel empowering. Sexy. A big middle finger to the comment section and the edited thirst traps and the “she doesn’t even deserve him” discourse that’s been hijacking your feed all damn day.

Instead, you feel small. Stupid. Still so embarrassingly in love.

You rub your eyes with the backs of your hands like that’ll somehow push the thoughts back in. Like that’ll make you forget the way your chest aches with that special kind of loneliness that only shows up when you’re still physically close to someone but emotionally spiraling into the trenches of your own insecurity.

You glance at the clock. Patrol should end in twenty minutes. Thirty, tops. And you push your lips together, scrunching the corners of your mouth in, pursing your lips and squint your eyes. 

You’ll push through, because even if you’re so extremely jealous, Katsuki still deserves a nice home cooked meal and a hot bath, even more often than every other day, when you stay home to handle the agency paperwork, because of your latest injury after a villain attack.

He really hasn’t done anything wrong, you tell yourself, other than being extremely hot.

So you end up cooking, with tears in your eyes and the most pouty expression and by the time you finish, setting the pan on a part of the stove that isn't hot and curl down in front of the fridge, dropping to your knees to cry your heart out—The door clicks open.

Oh. Shit.

Weighty boots make contact with the floor first. The heavy stomp of post-patrol exhaustion. Then the groan of his back hitting the door frame. You hear the soft rustle of his gloves coming off, his keys clinking in the ceramic dish by the entry.

You freeze—You can’t let him see you like this. You can’t let him be the one who finds you curled on the tile like some lovesick idiot who lost a battle to TikTok.

“Heyy I’m home” you hear and you grunt to yourself, trying not to let it be known you sniffle right after.

“…Smells fuckin’ good,” his voice calls out—gruff, like he’s trying not to yawn. “You cookin’ somethin’?”

You grunt again.

He doesn’t see you right away. But his voice gets closer. Each step across the hardwood is loud and certain and distinctly him. The kind of sound that always used to make you feel safe.

Now it just makes your stomach twist.

You force yourself to stand, too fast, too suddenly, brushing your hands on your thighs then your apron and you try to act normal when your chest is about to cave in again.

Katsuki rounds the corner, still in uniform, gauntlets off, sweat clinging to his hairline, a little dirt smudged near his jaw, where some blond scruff is starting to grow. His eyes find you instantly—and narrow.

“Babe? You okay? Say hi back”

You hate how quick he notices. How easy it is for him to read you. You’ve never been good at hiding from him, especially not when it comes to shit like this.

“Oh—uh, hey. I was,” you say, eyes glued to the counter. “Got distracted.” Still, you force a smile “im fine”

“You don’t look fine.”

You flinch. “Can we—can we not do this right now?”

The silence stretches.

Katsuki exhales through his nose, tilting his head like a puppy, eyes big with inquiry boring in yours as if he’s debating whether to let it go or push. You know which one he’ll pick. He’s never, ever been the let it go type.

“You saw the ad.”

It’s not a question. It’s not even said with guilt or amusement or defensiveness. Just certainty.

You look away. Embarrassed. “Everyone and their mama saw the ad Katsuki.”

A pause. Then a sigh. Then he rubs a tired hand over his jaw.

He walks over, slow and careful like you’re a spooked animal, and you hate it. You hate that he’s being gentle when all you want is to yell at him and fall into his arms and scream into his chest all at once.

His hand lands on your waist. Warm. Familiar. Real.

“You mad at me?” he murmurs, lips pouty in the way you just love.

You shake your head up and down. A silent yes.

“I’m mad at me too tho.”

His brows furrow. “The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

“I shouldn’t care this much,” you mumble. “I shouldn’t be jealous of a bunch of people who don’t even know you. I shouldn’t be chopping garlic like it’s a last-ditch attempt to prove I deserve you, but I—I just—”

Your voice cracks.

Katsuki’s eyes soften, his lips too.

“You think I’d wanna be with anybody else?” he asks, so blunt it hits like a punch.

You don’t answer. You can’t.

He lifts your chin with two fingers, thumb softly brushing lines across your bottom lip— he makes you look him in the eye.

“I did that ad ‘cause you told me to. ‘Cause you said I should. And I ain’t think it’d piss you off—but even if it did, I’d still be comin’ home to you.”

You swallow hard.

“They can watch,” he adds. “They can comment. They can make all the stupid fuckin’ edits they want. But you think I give a shit about any of ‘em when I’ve got you runnin’ me a bath?”

You blink. “…You knew I was running you a bath?”

“You only play that playlist when you’re tryna seduce me.” He snorts.

Your face burns, but your chest still burns hotter, tighter. Tight-est. You’re not ready to let go of this just yet. A hug and no kiss yet are already making your head spin back to that awful insecure state. You hate overthinking every little thing, but you can’t help getting caught up in it.

“Chicken smells good,” he adds casually. “Wanna feed it to me naked?”

You shove his chest gently. Though when you look up at him, you realise you're still greatly mad at him. “Shut up. No”

“C’mere,” he mutters, dragging you into his arms again. You go willingly, burying your face in his neck, nuzzling your nose too deep into his skin. “I love you,” he says into your hair. “All of them can choke.”

“They’re your fans, Katsuki”

“Yeah yeah. They can choke on my dick”

Oh that—that makes you snap.

“Im sure they’d love to” you hiss, lurching back away from him, too mad at how willingly his arms let you go. 

You want to jab, hurt him just a little. Make him jealous just a tad. Make yourself look like you've got better options than plain old ‘_narutoswife’ in his IG comment section.

He doesn’t deserve it. No, not at all. He just came back home from work and you want to catch a toxic attitude instead of communicating. You just want to make him a little mad over you too.

“Fyi, if you remember, Jungkook did say in an interview that im his type! He called me a strong female hero! Choi San also follows me on instagram” you say, crossing your arms, your eyes shut closed and lips pursed.

Unfortunately, you end up making him mad at you. That was so foul. Especially when he was about to sue Jeon freaking Jungkook for what he said in that interview. When the fuck did you become his type even? And why would he say that on national TV about some other man’s girlfriend?

His eye twitches. Just barely. But it definitely twitches. Great!

“…The fuck did you just say? You wanna start somethin’ now?” Katsuki says, voice low, sharp, practically growling, mouth pushed to the side of his face, one brow raised in desbelief,

Your arms are crossed like a petty little shield but it’s not enough to protect you from the instant shift in the air—his energy changing the moment those names leave your mouth. You can see it, feel it, in the sudden tension between his brows and the twitch of his jaw, in the way he takes one step back just so he can plant his hands on his hips and fully absorb the ridiculous thing you just said.

“Well I am his type,” you mutter, fake-casual, even adding a dramatic upward move of your chin for flair. “He literally said so. On record.”

You double down when you shouldn’t. Because now you’ve committed, and if you take it back, it’ll only make you look desperate. You tilt your head, faux-casual, all sugar and venom.

Katsuki blinks once—slow. Like he’s buffering. Like you’ve just spoken a dialect of petty he never expected to hear from your mouth.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice quiet in that scary way, “are we talkin’ about Jeon fucking Jungkook right now?”

“I mean, he’s not the worst,” you say, airily. “He’s cute. Built. Has manners and a Calvin Klein ad too! Like you”

“You are not fuckin’ doin this with me—” His voice spikes as he takes a step forward, fingers flexing at his sides like he’s physically restraining himself from hurling the rice cooker across the room. “You’re mad at me for a promo gig and now you’re bringin’ up some K-pop bastard—?!”

You bite your lip to stop the smirk. It’s immature. Childish. And so, so satisfying—ah the sweet feeling of getting your lick back.

His hands fly up and immediately start doing that panicked, half-feral gesture thing he does when he’s so mad he doesn’t even know where to put his anger. “You think that’s cute? You think throwin’ other guys in my face is what’s gonna make this better? You want me to start listin’ all the bitches in my DMs right now? ‘Cause I will. I fuckin’ will—”

“Oh so now it’s bitches plural—”

“They don’t matter!” he barks. But you don’t seem like you believe him. “You’re just mad and you’re not telling me the actual reason”

Your face goes hot, tears rising again. “I’m mad because you don’t get it!”

“Then tell me! Tell me what I’m not gettin’!”

“I want you to care!” you explode. “I want you to see that this hurts! That I don’t feel good enough half the damn time, and now I’ve got people with 800k followers stitching your photos sayin’ how they’d treat you right while I’m in our kitchen  trying to figure out if I’m even the one you’d want anymore if you realise there’s someone better out th—”

“Don’t you fuckin’ finish that sentence.”

His voice goes deadly low.

You glare at him, eyes blazing. “Why not? Afraid I’m gonna be right?”

“No. Because you’re not.”

His chest is rising now, jaw clenched tight. You’ve both crossed the line, bleeding all over the tile floor with your words.

“None of them matter. Just like Jungkook doesn’t matter. I don’t care about anyone else on TikTok and I definitely don’t give a shit if he writes you a song and a marriage proposal and names his next album ‘Strong Female Hero I Wanna Wife’—you’re mine. You hear me?”

You’re stunned into silence. Half because of the outburst. Half because of the fact he just said you’re his with the kind of conviction that makes your skin burn and tingles run up your back.

“…You gonna tattoo that somewhere?” you murmur, trying to deflect your way out of being completely swept off your feet. 

He steps closer, wraps a hand around your waist, nose nearly brushing yours, eyes blazing. “Gonna put a ring on it. Don’t tempt me.”

You blink at him, wide-eyed. His palm feels hot, too quirk charged against your clothed skin “What if I’m not joking?”

He narrows his eyes. “You are.”

You shrug, then whisper just slightly. “…Maybe.”

Next thing you know, Katsuki’s scooping you up like a caveman—no warning, no prep, just two strong arms under your ass, your back colliding with his chest, and your feet dangling uselessly as he stalks toward the bathroom.

“Put me down! I haven’t even plated the chicken!”

“We’ll eat it later.”

“I— but—”

“You’re so mine, and I’m about to prove it.”

He kicks the door open like a man on a mission. Your bathwater is already perfectly hot and steamy, the playlist still humming from the speaker in the corner. You barely notice it because you’re too busy clinging to his shoulders like you’re about to be ravished.

“I can’t believe you got mad at me over a Calvin Klein ad,” he mutters against your neck, lips hot and dragging lower as he sets you down only to start untying your apron, aggressive and purposeful.

“It was a very public ad, and you were nearly naked” you argue, squirming, trying to twist out of his grasp—but he’s already unlooping the neck strap, already tossing the apron somewhere over his shoulder, not even watching where it lands on the bathroom floor “Katsuki, no—”

“Sex isn’t gonna fix everything, you know,” you say, breath hitching when his mouth finds that spot just below your jaw, the one he knows makes your knees buckle. He’s too fast to start pressing hot open mouthed kisses on your neck. 

“Then let’s talk about it” he says, calm as hell. He sinks onto the edge of the bathtub like a menace, eyes smoldering, hands still locked around your waist like you might run. “You said you don’t feel enough, why’s that? What part of us did I neglect that made you feel like this?”

You blink, thinking. Well he didn’t really do anything wrong, he just. Exists. And he’s gorgeous and amazing at everything he does.

Oh god? Do you resent him for being good at everything?

“You’re deranged.” You finally respond, pouting but refusing to look at him while you say it.

“I’m in love with you.”

Katsuki’s palms rub soothingly up and down your thighs, head tilted back to look up at you ever so slightly. He's trying to pull you in closer, get you loose, comfortable. He wants you to drop this ‘being difficult’ act you've got on right now.

You follow his lead, come in closer, until your knees scrape the edge of the bathtub and your thighs the inside of his.

“Yeah but,” you pause for a second, debating on whether this is the right thing to say. “why me”

Finally, you kneel between his legs. Your eyes are locked into his, trying to study him, his expression, trying to find a glimpse of hesitation behind his gaze, even if there’s none. 

Katsuki catches the insecurity in your head, with a simple bore of his eyes into yours. And it’s bad. How he can read you so well, like he isn't confused and insecure at times too.

“Is it cause we grew up together?”

“Well that’s why your dear to me, but no” 

“Then why?”

“Cause you’re you. Simply. You’re kind and fair. Too smart and you’re too pretty. You stand your ground and stand up for what’s right. I knew damn well who I hunched on my back and tried to set off with explosions at five years old”

He catches your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tips your face toward him until you’re locked in his orbit again.

You want to cry again. Be it the memory, or the fact that you've pushed him to say this much about why he’s in love with you. You've got no reason to get jealous over people on the internet. They don’t know Katsuki like you do. They never could. Fate chose you to be the one to grow up a few blocks away from him. All your shared memories together, no one on TikTok could live them out.

No matter any Vogue cover, any Calvin Klein ad, or late night show interview, you and Katsuki are two human beings who grew up together, beat the odds of death together. Fell in love with each other to top it. So many humans in history have had this storyline, they’ve shared their first time with each other the night before setting off to war, kissed for the first time behind the bleachers in middle school. 

“I was so scared back then” you sob. Just one violent sob after another “‘m sorry babe. I'm so sorry for how I acted right now. You're just so hot that I can’t handle it. Can you like, be that bratty little five year old again?”

Katsuki huffs a breath, mouth twitching like he wants to smirk but knows better. His hands stay firm around your waist, grounding you while leaning towards you.

“Well I can’t be five again,” he says, voice rough but fond, lips already pursing as his forehead sticks to yours “but I can give you a small brand new Bakugo”

You let out a choked, watery laugh, but he’s already shifting closer, his thighs spreading so you fit better between them. One of his hands, followed by his eyes, slides up to your chest, and with exaggerated slowness, he taps a finger just above your sternum.

Tap. Then a little higher. Tap.

Then again—until two fingers are softly “walking” their way up, up, up your chest like little boots. You blink at him.

“Katsukiiii”

Tap.

The pads of his fingers rest at the hollow of your throat for a beat before lifting to your chin, tipping your face toward him like you’re fragile glass he’s been carrying his whole life.

He’s pouting. You can see it clearly now—the petulant pull of his mouth, the faint crease between his brows, like he’s upset you made him feel things and doesn’t know how to ask for reassurance without being difficult.

“You sayin’ shit like that,” he mutters, eyes flickering down to your mouth, then back up, “makes me feel like I’m not doin’ enough. Like I ain’t sayin’ it right. And I already suck at this.”

You open your mouth to protest, say you didn’t really mean it when you said that you don’t feel enough, that it was a moment of weakness, just like when you tried to tell him you’ve got options, but he presses his thumb gently against your bottom lip, quieting you, you’ve already apologised. He hasn’t.

“Lemme show you instead,” he says.

His voice isn’t cocky. Not quite. It’s soft—almost shy. Like how it was when you asked him to walk you home a week into UA, like he knows now, sex won’t fix anything, for sure, but the humanity of it, the lack of personal space between you as you groan in each other's open mouths, will help, just a little to ease the pain of your words.

“You’re my soft spot,” he adds under his breath, kissing the corner of your mouth like he’s afraid you’ll vanish off to some hot idol that does fanservice for a living, before he finishes the sentence. “Always been. N’ I don’t want you forgettin’ it. I ain’t leaving you for no one”

His fingers trace the line of your jaw now, slow and reverent. The pout still hasn’t left. You’re not sure it ever will. But now it’s paired with heat, and a pull between your legs that starts low and deep as he finally—finally—brushes his mouth against yours.

Just a whisper of a kiss. All pout. All need. All Katsuki.

You wouldn’t really trade him for anyone, either.

You can feel how badly he wants to be touched back. He always wants to be physical and touchy after an argument. You know how grounded and real it makes him feel, how reassuring it is to him to know he is still loved enough to be touched, despite words that are meant to sting.

You make a move to peck him, only right as this was your fault, and he slowly moves his lips against your own, soft, smooth. Slipping between every hollow space until you can't pull away. Seems like the chapstick you got for him last week has done wonders to make his lips so soft and plump, when they’re usually so chapped; his mouth glides against yours with practiced ease.

“M sorry” he whispers, so faint against your lips, but you still catch it.

His voice stays in your skin long after it’s said, like steam caught between your ribs, not ready to evaporate just yet.

You don’t say anything at first—just lift your hand to cradle the back of his neck, drawing tiny circles at his nape with your thumb. His eyes flutter a little at the touch, and it’s so Katsuki the way he tries not to lean into it. Still pouting, still pretending he’s not craving softness like it’s the only thing that could save him, but you know him better.

You let your other hand wander, trailing along the hem of his work top, your fingertips skating just beneath the fabric—slow, just the way he likes it. And when your hands drift to the button of his pants, you catch that tiny hitch in his breath. Barely audible. But it’s there. His lashes drop, golden. Sun-kissed. His grip on your waist tightens, not to stop you, just to hold on.

“You said you’d show me,” you murmur, your voice dipping low, warm against the shell of his ear. “But maybe I show you first.”

He doesn’t answer. Just swallows hard. And you skip the rest of the sentence ‘how much better I am than those TikTok bitches who want you’.

The button of his work cargos clicks open beneath your fingers.

It’s intimate, the quiet that settles between you. Not awkward. Not even heated yet. Just close. Bathwater is still steaming behind him. The scent of your shared home in the air—sandalwood, white musk soap, the thick smell of chicken being cooked—him. 

His cologne, faded but still clinging to the collar of his shirt. The playlist hums something slow and familiar in the background—Hot like fire, because maybe Aaliyah wasn’t mocking you a while ago—like this moment has its own soundtrack and the world outside doesn’t exist.

Your fingers fiddle with his zipper, slow and smooth. He looks down at you—heavy-lidded, and all vermillion, lips slightly parted, like he’s already halfway gone from just being touched with intention for pleasure.

“You looked so confident in the ad” you whisper as your fingers brush just below his waistband, teasing. “But this is better. This right here. When you’re a little shy for me.”

He exhales shakily, like you cracked something open inside him. And you feel it—something primal and possessive bloom in your chest.

“No one gets to see you like this but me”

“You’re tryin’ to kill me” he mutters.

You smile up at him, biting your lower lip. “No, Katsuki. I’m just trying to blow you away with my insane head skills”

He laughs, a breathy little sound, as his hands move to take off his shirt, softly ungluing his eyes from yours for only a second. You lick your lips at the way his muscles flex, so thick and bulky and by all means yours.

Suddenly, the ad pops back into your head, every shot, every zoom in. You’re overtaken by lust driven jealousy again.

No one on fucking TikTok gets to see the way his abs flex when he cums. You do.

So you work to lower his pants in fast movements, pushing the heavy fabric down until it hits the floor in shuffling sounds. 

Your hands slide lower, palms flattening against his calves, then his hips as you stick your cheek to his thigh. He watches you like you’re a sunrise—warm and tender, grazing where his skin ends with where your skin begins, or running tender, teasing circles all over his tip through his boxers.

His fingers twitch against his thighs, unsure of where to go—if he should cup your cheek, fist your hair, or just hold on to the edge of the tub before he slides down into something desperate.

And when you look up at him from where you’re knelt, his breath catches. His hand finds the top of your head, like he needs the grounding contact, thumb brushing a gentle path through your hair, and his eyes are wide with something soft and so, so red and open.

“Yesssss” he says hoarsely, half-laughing, half-moan “im about to get the best head of my life”

You quirk your brow and pucker your lips as if it’s your turn to pout now, then, you jab “Was it bad before?”

He shakes his head, cheeks already pink. “It’s always damn perfect”

His breathing catches in his chest but by now, your lips catch onto the skin of his thigh, placing a kiss there while still looking at him. It makes him go completely red now, face ears and chest flustered.

You kiss higher on his inner thigh, barely missing where he’s straining against the fabric of his boxers. Katsuki’s knuckles press into the edge of the tub now, trying to keep himself grounded, but his hips twitch when your lips ghost just beneath the band of his boxers.

He looks like he might fall apart already. Lower lip caught between his teeth, lashes fluttering low, cheeks warm and pink in the bathroom light.

Your fingers tug at the elastic slowly—like a question. And he nods, fast, almost frantic.

You hum, and finally pull the waistband down, freeing him.

He’s already hard, tip flushed and leaking, twitching a little in the cool air. And the way he watches you—mouth parted, chest rising and falling quick—is nothing short of irrelevant. He looks at you with hunger, full blown everywhere on his face, like it burns just to feel it. His hand hovers near your cheek, and you guide it up into your hair with your own.

“Keep it here,” you murmur. “I want you to touch.”

Katsuki’s thumb brushes your scalp, tender, trembling.

His thumb twitches as it strokes your scalp.

You press your lips softly to the base of his cock. Not rushing. Just placing open mouthed kisses over his length. Letting the heat of your mouth register on every kiss before you move to the next one. Then again, higher this time. Then again—closer to the tip, where he shudders and grips your hair a little tighter. Your lips wrap tenderly around half of his tip, your tongue storming out for a circular lick before you give him a little suck.

His hips shift like he’s trying to stay still and failing. Then you kiss just beneath the tip, so close your breath makes him hiss.

“F-fuck,” he hisses, hips twitching once more. “You’re—baby, you’re—”

You wrap your hand around the base of him and drag your tongue along the underside, slow, teasing, drawing a whimper from him so small and raw that your thighs clench just hearing it.

“You gonna beg?” you ask softly, glancing up.

His head falls back against the tiled wall for a second, mouth parted, so red in the face. “Don’t make me—fuck—‘m already losin’ it.”

You take him into your mouth inch by inch, slow and careful, tongue flat underneath, eyes still locked on him. You feel his thighs shake.

He moans—a rough, broken sound—and his hand fists harder your hair. You pull back with a wet pop and stroke him slowly, thumb brushing over his leaking tip. “You’re so easy to ruin, Katsuki. One suck and you’re falling apart.”

“You—you're evil,” he pants, biting his knuckle. “You can’t say shit like that when your fuckin’ mouth is on me.”

You grin, licking your lips. “It’s on you again now.”

You take him deeper this time, hollowing your cheeks, letting your tongue drag in deliberate patterns. He groans, head tipping down again to watch, jaw slack. His voice is wrecked. Raw. Low in his throat.

“Katsuki–” you pause, you murmur, pulling off again, cupping him with both hands now. ogling your eyes into his “Tell me i'm the only one who’s ever gonna make you feel this good’

Every movement you make is intentional—little flicks of your tongue, your hand twisting at the base, your lips tight around him. You don’t let him cum yet. Every time you feel him start to twitch harder, you ease back, sucking gently on just the tip.

“Babe,’s all you—” he chokes out, voice ragged. “Never gonna be anyone else but you”

“Yeah?” you breathe. “No thirsty fangirl, no fantasy, no fuckin’ ad? Just me?”

His eyes lock on yours—glassy, wild. He nods hard. “Just you.”

You glance up again. His eyes are glassy, pupils blown. He looks desperate. Like he’s holding onto the last threads of sanity. But this moment is bathed in vulnerability, raw love that makes you want to claim again and again. Katsuki’s had his moments like this, way more than you. He lets you go through with it, he even likes how jealous you are right now, but this doesn’t mean he’s not utterly and completely ruined and under your spell right now.

You kiss his head again, so sweet, and finally wrap your mouth around him once more—this time faster, deeper, your hand working in tandem. He lets out a strangled cry, almost panicked with how hard he’s trying to hold on.

“You’re mine, Katsuki. You know that, right? Doesn’t matter how many people thirst over you online.” You press your lips around him again, drag your mouth up slow, just to the tip. “They don’t get this. They don’t get you like I do.”

He looks down at you again, eyes still glassy. So red. So wrecked.

You take him deeper, your cheeks hollowed, your tongue gliding in slow circles, teasing him at every sensitive spot. The veins on the underside of his cock, the base, as he hits the back of your throat. Katsuki moans, raw and shaky and his hips stutter forward before he forces himself still. The inside of your mouth is so slippery, so warm, he’s literally going crazy with each movement.

“Don’t even fuckin’ want anyone else.” He sounds destroyed now, ruined into a slurring mess as your hand is sliding along his thigh. 

“Let me—let me cum, shit—please, let me—”

His tip kisses the back of your throat, and you gag around him, just a little—just enough for him to choke on a moan that sounds like he’s dying.

You don’t let up. You feel the way he twitches, the way his thighs tense, the way his grip in your hair tightens. He’s close. So close. You hum against him, nodding just a little, eyes locked into his in such an intimate, tender way. You take him all the way in one last time, his tip hitting the back of your throat, eliciting just a small choking sound from you, letting him fall apart in your mouth, with every soft roll of his hips into you.

He grunts. Head lolling back again, so hard that is adam’s apple protrudes enough even for you to see. His hips stutter, and he tries to hold back—but his thighs are trembling, breath breaking. He snaps his head again, desperate to look at you and he swallows now, bites his lower lip in concentration before he clenches his legs, to buck his hips into your mouth.

His hands come to cradle your head, your cheeks, like he’s afraid to let go, like you’re the one keeping him from falling through the floor. And the way you keep eye contact with him while swallowing him down your pretty little throat–It’s a killer.

You back up, worrying his tip between your soft, plump lips and that's it–He shatters. Violently and way faster than he thought he would. Clawing at your face to make you take him in once again; he bottoms out, and you… you take him in easily, like a champ.

Katsuki falls apart in your mouth with a raw, choked moan, hips bucking just once as you hold him steady, taking every twitch, every pulse, every broken sound he makes as his cum spills in ropes down your throat. You try to swallow as much as you can, eyes tearing up at the amount of cum that’s making you choke– Katsuki’s favorite sounds when you’re giving him a blowjob. He’s only urged to spill more, but this time you back up a little, letting him fill your mouth until it spills down the sides of your lips.

“F-fuck. Baby. Fuck.” He gasps like you’ve already stolen the air from his lungs, and he spasms. His hips jerk forward once, like instinct takes over.

Your eyes well up again, tears beading on your lashes from the stretch, from the pressure, from the sheer force of him.

He groans again at the sight—his cock buried in your mouth, cum spilling out the corners of your lips, glistening. His hands cradle your cheeks like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, the feel of your skin under his thumbs.

You swallow again, letting him ride it out with one last soft suck, and he moans like he’s unraveling from the inside out. His knees almost buckle.

And still, you don’t stop touching him. Your hand strokes slow at his base as you pull back with the loudest pop, letting some of the mess trail down lower at your chin, your lips swollen and glistening as you tilt your head up.

“You came so much,” you murmur, licking a drop from your bottom lip. “Were you that needy for me, baby?”

He groans as he’s still recovering, hips twitching slightly as your breath ghosts over him. His hands finally leave your cheeks, fumbling around, still shaky, down to where his pants are.

“Where the fuck’s my phone?” he rasps, breath catching on the tail end.

You blink up at him, mock-innocent. “Why do you want it, hmm?”

His gaze drops back to you, pupils blown wide, chest heaving as he glares like you’ve just personally offended him by being too hot to handle yourself.

“First, I’m taking a fuckin’ photo of you like this,” he grits out, voice still rough and low, “with your mouth all messy, lookin’ proud of yourself like that.”

You smirk, tilting your head as cum still drips slowly down your chin, your fingers catching it just to suck them clean. “So you can jerk off to it later?”

“So I can frame it,” he mutters darkly, eyes dragging over every inch of your face. “And then you’re watchin’ the ad again. Every second of it.”

You blink slowly. “But it makes me mad”

He nods. “Yeah exactly. Youre watching it.‘Til you get so fuckin’ riled up you suck me off meaner than this.”

Your lips curl. “Meaner? Baby… I was being sweet to you.”

“Exactly,” he pants, reaching for your wrist to drag you up into his lap. “I wanna see you do it when you're pissed.”

You climb into his space, knees bracketing his thighs, grinning into his mouth as you kiss him—messy, deep, still tasting like him. “Careful what you wish for, Katsuki. I might make your dick fall off”

His voice is just a whisper now and wrecked against your lips.

“Fuck yes”

Yeah… maybe the Calvin Klein ad was a good idea.

______

The water’s somehow still warm, barely steaming, and smells like cocoa and the shea butter soap he always pretends he doesn’t use until you catch him stealing it.

You’re settled between his legs, your back against his chest, and he’s folded around you—arms over your middle, face buried in the crook of your neck, breath soft and steady against your skin. You sink into him, muscles loosening all at once.

The bathwater laps at your collarbones. His thumbs trace slow circles into your stomach. And for a while, the only sound is your breathing, synced. The occasional soft swish of water when one of you shifts. The playlist outside still hums faintly, muffled through the bathroom door. Just gentle vocals and low drums. Like the score to this quiet little world you’ve made.

“Sorry I was a dick,” he mutters. His voice remains unsure of what to say in a situation like this, yet muffled against your neck. “I just—y’know…”

“Yeah. Me too. I should not have mentioned Jungkook because people online are asking how I handle all of that” you chuckle, tenderly placing a kiss at the back of Katsuki’s hands when you lift it from the water.

He frowns, letting off a sound of annoyance “asshole, he can shove that seven song up his ass”

“Oop— you listening to him now?”

“No, it’s all over the radio though” Katsuki kisses your shoulder in response. Then again, higher this time. “But I don’t care about nobody. Just you. Always you.”

You tilt your head and press a kiss into his damp hair from the side, catching just a little bit of his ear in the process. “I know, baby. I know.”

And you do. Deep in your bones. The same way you know how his eyes soften and he whines when he’s sleepy, how his jaw ticks to the right when he’s embarrassed, how his voice drops an octave when he wants to be taken seriously. You know him. Not the whored out Calvin Klein version the world sees.

You curl your hands around his forearm and let yourself melt back into him completely, the bathwater swaying at the peak of your chest now. Safe. Soothed. Held.

He squeezes you a little tighter and rests his chin on your shoulder, finally quiet. And if you listen close, you can feel it: the rise and fall of him. The warmth of his skin. The steady thrum of his heartbeat under your back. 

“So” you murmur “wanna talk about that little mini Bakugo you mentioned earlier?”

Katsuki mumbles something under his breath, eyes closed against your skin. He’s mellowed out in the split of a second, but you’re riled up at the thought when your mind returns to it. 

“‘S no use.” He whines, finally, like he’s annoyed “Our kid’s gonna look like you”

“So you'll get a mini me all over again and I won’t get the same? Un-faiiiir! Booooooo” you groan, leaning your head back against his shoulder dramatically. The water sloshes with the motion, and he huffs a tired laugh into your neck, chest vibrating behind you.

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, lips brushing your skin. “Like I wouldn’t be fuckin’ obsessed with either version.”

You smile. Small. Soft. Let your thumb glide along the scar on his wrist and then you swallow. Blink a few times. Then nod once, slowly, before you speak.

“Wouldn’t be so bad, would it? A little baby with your temper and my sweet tooth?”

He lets out a real laugh now, low and gruff and warm against your back. “Fuckin’ menace. Our apartment wouldn’t survive.”

“Your PR team wouldn’t survive.”

“Shit, you’re right.”

You both laugh, muffled and close, and when it quiets again, you let your fingers lace through his under the water. His grip tightens like a reflex.

And then, just above a whisper:

“You really think about it sometimes?”

“…Yeah.”

“Me too.”

He kisses your shoulder again. No jokes this time. Just silence and warm water and cocoa steam. The both of you holding that dream quietly, like something sacred. 

In his arms, now, today, midst June, after feeling threatened that strangers online will ever do better than you when it comes to him, you think of you and him, back in his childhood room, watching Spirited Away as Mitsuki would fetch you cookies and milk before Katsuki would try to shove her away and she’d pretend to be knocked over.

“Hey…We’re still naming the baby Chihiro like we promised back then, right?”

He goes still behind you. Like, dead quiet. Like you’d short-circuited something in his brain.

You almost think he didn’t hear you until you feel the deep inhale against your spine, his arms tightening just a little more around you like he’s trying to fuse your body to his.

“…You remember that?” His voice is hoarse now, barely more than a breath.

You smile, eyes still half-lidded, watching the water ripple at the edges of the tub. “Of course I do. You made me pinky swear on it, when Mitsuki said we’d get married and have kids too!”

“Shut up,” he mutters, but it’s soft, affectionate—almost embarrassed. His nose nudges your jaw like he’s trying to hide the warmth in his face. “Was a fuckin’ loser.”

“No,” you say gently. “You were just sweet. Always were.”

There’s a beat. He swallows. You feel it in his throat against your shoulder.

“…Chihiro, huh?” he murmurs, finally. “Still want that? Even now?”

You nod, and his hand floats up from beneath the water, trailing along your stomach, resting just under your ribs. Protective. Hopeful. Like something unspoken is blooming there.

“I always loved that promise,” you whisper, throat a little tight. He doesn’t answer. At least not with words.

Katsuki grins against your neck, and the sound of it, the way he breathes in like he’s grounding himself in the smell of your skin—it’s everything. It’s homely. Warm water. Summer steam. A shared name from a shared childhood.

Take that ‘tojissecondworm222’, not only do you handle all that, but everything the world’s fantasy driven Dynamight has to offer, is yours. 

Always has been.

Always will be.

~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2025. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work.

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Dividers by @/saradika-graphics

[marvelwitchergilmore]

A Kiss To Change Everything

Summary: Bucky Barnes x fe!Reader -> When Bucky becomes the Winter Soldier again, he follows you around. Only you. Funny thing is, you and Bucky aren't exactly friends. So why is the Winter Soldier protecting you?

Disclaimer: Fluff, angst, a hint of smut towards the end, a brief mention of a sex dream, flirting whilst sparring, multiple kisses, love bites, swearing, the Winter Soldier protects the reader, reader watches over Bucky, one bed trope (kinda). Enemies (to friends) to lovers. A little mutual pining. Not fully proof read.

Four days. Four days, twelve hours and twenty six minutes. 

That was how long Bucky had been watching over you. Or rather, The Winter Soldier. 

“Four days!” you exclaimed quietly to yourself. “Four damn days.”

As you turned around, you jumped, nearly scattering everything off your desk. 

You swore under your breath, “What is your problem? Make a damn noise, or something!”

Four days of hell. 

For everyone. 

You had been in a meeting when Bucky had gone on the mission with Sam and Natasha, so the points were unclear. The main thing you knew was that Bucky left for the mission, but the Winter Soldier returned. 

And he hadn’t left your side since touching wheels to tarmac from the jet. And, it would make sense, Bucky watching over you. But the thing was- 

You and Bucky had never even been friendly with each other. If you ever did talk to one another, and that was a big if, it was mostly sarcastic comments and threats thrown to each other's throat. 

None of it made sense. 

Shuri had been called instantly and she had checked Bucky over. He was definitely the Winter Soldier, but he wasn’t a killing machine. He was still Bucky. Bucky was held behind a wall of memories. 

But the one thing he didn’t do was attack. It was almost like that part had been conditioned out of him. Instead, he was this looming bodyguard that never left you alone. 

Not for a minute, not even for a second. 

You never heard him, but you could feel him. Watching you, following you, part of him studying you. 

It was creepy. 

As you entered the kitchen, you turned around on your heel quickly. The Winter Soldier didn’t flinch. He just stopped walking and looked at you. 

“Alright, no. I can’t keep doing this. Sam told me not to, but, please. I am begging you. Stop following me!”

He didn’t move. He didn’t even speak. 

You ran a hand down your face and sighed. 

“Fine. If you’re not gonna leave me alone, then sit.”

You pulled out a chair and pointed to it. 

“I’m gonna be here for a while and I already don’t like people in the kitchen with me. So, sit. Or fuck off.”

He was silent. And then he moved. One slow blink before he turned his head and looked at the chair. He looked back at you and you nodded. 

Then he walked over to it and sat down. But his gaze remained focused on you. 

It wasn’t much, but it was breathing space. 

“Thank you.”

Trying your best to block him out, you started pulling out different bowls and ingredients from the cupboards. You heard the creak of the chair when he watched you climb onto the cabinet to grab the flour from the highest shelf. 

“No!” You shouted. “You move from that chair and I swear to god, Barnes, I will follow through with my promise about buying a military grade magnet. Sit!”

The chair creaked again after a short minute. 

For the next three hours, he remained sitting in that seat. People walked in and out constantly, but each time you heard a creak you’d just shoot him a look and he’d sit back down. 

“Any word from Shuri?” You asked Wanda as she walked inside to snack on your cupcake sprinkles. 

She shook her head. “Not yet. Maybe he sees you as his commander.”

You scoffed, but a pang of guilt struck your chest. “Please, when he’s him he never follows my orders. Does the opposite, actually.”

Wanda shrugged and looked over at Bucky whose eyes hadn’t left you. “Maybe he just really cares for you.”

“Now, we both know that’s not true.”

Wanda just hummed. “Who knows? There is a fine line between love and hate.”

You nodded. “Yes. That fine line is my sanity.”

Wanda laughed before jumping off the counter and leaving you to continue your baking. “Stranger things have been known to happen.”

You shook your head, but for a moment you let your gaze land on Bucky in the corner. 

There was still no explanation as to why it was you he’d chosen to follow around. Not Sam or Natasha – the very two who had been with him when it happened. Or even Steve. But you prayed it wasn’t because he saw you as his commander. 

You and Bucky may never have gotten along. You could hate each other’s guts for all eternity. But what he went through as the Winter Soldier…

That was something that nobody should ever have to suffer through. And he did. For seventy years. 

So, after the hours of being watched and guarded. After the nights of walking outside of your bedroom only to run into his back outside your door – the same place you would grab his t-shirt and drag him back into your room and make him sit down on the sofa chair on the other side of your room. 

If he was gonna be watching over you through the night, too, it meant he wasn’t sleeping. He needed sleep. But putting him back into the freezer tank wasn’t going to help anyone. 

And after the days of being followed around everywhere. 

You finally sat him down. 

Everyone had gone to bed hours ago. Most of the lights in the building had been switched off. The only light in the living space was the dim light that floated across from the kitchen island across the room. 

“Why are you protecting me?” 

If Shuri couldn’t get the answers, you were gonna ask the man himself. Maybe he had an explanation. 

But he only replied in Russian. 

“You’re important.”

Your gaze flickered over his. There was barely a hint of Bucky in him. The person sat in front of you was a soldier. A protector. Someone who told you you’re important, the same way he would tell you he had eggs for breakfast. 

“Important?” you questioned. “Important to who?”

You leaned a little closer to him, almost out of instinct. And for a split second, you saw something flicker in his eyes. Something a little softer in the middle of the brambles. But it was gone as quickly as it came. 

Reaching out, you turned his head to look back at you and you swallowed your pride. 

“Bucky,” you said, your voice soft and needing. “I need you to come back to me. I know we’re not friends, but I need you to come back to me. Bucky. Not Hydra’s Perfect Creation.”

You waited in the silence, his eyes fixed on yours. But the only thing that stared back at you as the same deep, if slightly vacant, look that had been staring at you for the last four days. 

Leaning on the edge of despair, you did something you never thought you would ever do. Not with Bucky, and certainly not with the Winter Soldier. 

You kissed him. 

Really kissed him. 

Not the undercover kiss on the cheek, or the fake movie-style kiss that you were forced to watch whenever Steve chose the film for movie night. 

A real kiss. 

And for a moment, there was nothing. No reaction. No movement. Just a stiffness that only ever came from a soldier taking a command. 

But just as you lost all hope, leaning back a little in order to break the kiss, there was a flicker of something. A slight movement from Bucky. 

His hand reached out and laid itself on your leg. 

You didn’t know how – you and Bucky had never even hugged – but you knew it was him. It was Bucky. 

Just for a fleeting moment, you felt him kiss back as his other hand came to hold your hair against the side of your face. 

But the kiss broke. 

Looking in his eyes; for the first time in four days, you saw something other than the soldier. 

You saw humanity. 

Bucky’s voice broke as he finally spoke. “Y…y/n?”

You didn’t realise when you started, but you felt yourself cry. “Yeah.”

Then you watched the panic take him over as he looked around frantically. “Oh, god- no, no, no. What did I- When did- is everyone-”

You cupped his face and forced him to look at you again. “Everyone’s- hey, everyone’s safe. Nothing happened, Buck. Nothing happened. I swear. You didn’t do anything, Bucky. You’re okay.”

There were tears in his eyes and you felt your heart crack. 

“I could have-”

“You didn’t.”

His eyes remained focused on you as he tried to slow his breathing. And for a moment, you placed one of your hands over his heart. His own hand came to cover and cup that very one against his chest.

However, just as he was calming down, you watched something settle over his gaze as he kept his eyes on you. 

“You kissed me.”

Internally, you panicked. Externally, you moved back and tried to keep your voice as level as you could. 

“I, uh, it was getting creepy, you watching over me all the time. I needed to find a way to break you out of it, so-”

“You kissed me,” Bucky repeated. 

For a second, you nodded. But then you stood. “I should- I should go and-”

Bucky reached out for you and held onto your arm gently as you stood from the sofa. Your eyes landed on his own almost immediately. But where you thought he might have chewed you out for what you did…he didn’t. 

His eyes flickered with something you didn’t quite recognise. Not coming from Bucky, at least. 

“Thank you.”

There was something in his voice that told your instincts he wanted to say something else, or something more. But you couldn’t stand there any longer; the feeling of the kiss was still tingling against your lips and his touch was almost burning your skin. 

And not in the way it would have done before. 

So, you nodded with a polite smile and he let you go. 

“I’m just, I’m gonna go and get Steve or- I’ll be back.”

Bucky watched you leave the room, but he didn’t follow. Meanwhile, you rounded the corner and held a hand to the wall in order to balance yourself before the wave of emotions drowned you there and then. 

“F-Friday. Please…” you took a deep breath. “Please alert, uh, Steve and…Sam and, uh, Princess Shuri.” Your voice broke. “Let them know Bucky is back.”

You could hear the alerts down the hallway and you remained standing as they all came out of their rooms and rushed down the hall past you. 

“He’s okay, but he’s shaken up,” you told Sam as the others ran past. Sam took your word for it and followed them. 

Then you slid to the floor, forcing your breathing to steady itself.

The following month was filled with awkward encounters, quiet encounters, medical tests, field research and psychological tests. 

And, although you and Bucky didn’t talk, you didn’t argue either. You tended to remain at least eight paces from him at all times. 

It was like the roles had been reversed. You were now the one watching over him. 

And when he was in med-bay with Banner and Shuri during the day, you watched over him as he slept at night. 

A month ago, you would have had nightmares about helping Bucky. 

But since his turn. Since that kiss – the one that broke him free – you rarely wanted to leave his side. 

But you didn’t want him to know that, so you remained eight paces away. You stayed outside of his hospital room when the others went in. And, when you fell asleep in the chair beside his bed at night, you left before Banner or Shuri could wake and walk inside to find you there. 

That changed, however, when Bucky let you know he was awake. 

You’d just settled yourself in the chair beside his bed, having put away your book, when he spoke. 

“You’re gonna get a bad back.”

You sat up. “You’re awake.”

“Not for long,” he told you, lifting his arm. “C’mere.”

You were slow to move at first, confused if slightly concerned why he was asking you of all people to lay with him. But as you climbed into the bed beside him, you felt a wave of security wash over you. 

“Is this okay?”

Bucky smiled a little as he leaned into you. “It’s okay.”

As you finally relaxed beside him, you could have swore you heard his heart monitor pick up a little before it leveled itself out again. And for the first time, in a long time, you fell asleep almost instantly. 

So did Bucky. 

By the time morning rolled around, you were the first to wake up. And, for the first time, you took a few minutes to look at the sleeping man beside you. 

A few strands of his hair had fallen in front of his face during the night, so lightly, you swept them away and you felt yourself smile. 

When James ‘Bucky’ Buchanan Barnes wasn’t being a pain in your ass all day, he was pretty cute. 

That was when it struck you. Deep in your gut, or maybe your chest. Maybe even your soul…

He’d always been cute. You had always found him cute. Handsome. Sometimes devastatingly so. 

Then you felt the highly structured walls around you crumble into nothing but dust. And for the first time in a long time, you felt truly vulnerable. 

“I-I’ll be back later,” you whispered to him although he was still asleep. 

For a moment, you held onto his hand and pressed a light kiss to the side of his temple before you slowly made your way out of his bed and out of the door. 

But you kept your promise. 

And for three weeks straight, you slept beside him each night until he was finally cleared for duty again and the threat of the person he’d once been moulded into had been eliminated once again. 

That was when things got difficult. Because, not only were you harbouring a rather big secret, but you and Bucky had become friends. 

The bun Bucky had tied at the back of his head was slowly coming loose the longer he spent sparring with you. 

“Why won’t you talk to me?” 

Bucky had been trying to get you to talk to him properly all day. 

“There’s nothing to say,” you replied as you circled each other. Bucky ended up with the advantage. 

“Really? Because you seem distracted lately. And that only seems to happen when I’m with you.”

You could hear the smirk in his voice, despite your back being pinned to his chest. 

“Don’t let it go to your head, Bucky,” you told him as you swung your legs high to flip you both onto the ground. 

Bucky rolled onto the floor and you had him pinned. 

You smiled, a little breathless. “People might start thinking you’ve got an ego.”

That was when you saw Bucky smirk. And when he smirked, you worried. His hand wrapped itself around your thigh and within three seconds, he had you pinned. 

“Oh, come on.”

“You know, I still think about it.” Bucky’s voice was a little breathless as he practically crawled up your body so he was finally face to face with you. 

You were struggling to get out of his hold. After really trying, you gave up. “Think about what?”

“That kiss.”

You stopped moving and your eyes darted to his face. You tried your best to steady your heartbeat, but you could feel the heat crawling over your chest and up your neck. 

“That was nothing.”

“Liar.” 

“I’m not lying.”

Bucky’s blue gaze focused back on yours. “You forget I know you, Y/n. I know when you’re lying.”

Shit.

Bucky added, “You have a tell.”

“I have a tell?”

He nodded. “Your eyebrow. It twitches before you throw out your lie.”

Your brows furrowed as you looked at him, but he just laughed. Only James Buchanan Barnes would have the audacity to laugh. 

“It was just a kiss, Bucky.”

“Then tell me why it felt like more?”

“Maybe that’s your issue,” you fired back. 

He just smiled, and agreed. “Yeah, maybe.”

In that moment, Bucky’s hand left the grip he had against your wrist in order to fix your hair. His touch lingered for a second longer. 

“But I have a feeling it’s not,” he added.

Your breath was gone. Your heart was working overtime in your chest to keep you alive. All the while, Bucky had a smirk resting upon his face as he stood and left you by the mats, only to grab his things and walk out of the gym door. 

But not before he looked back once more with a small chuckle. 

As you watched the glass door slowly close behind him, you rolled from your side and onto your back once more. “Fucking tease.”

For the rest of the week, Bucky watched you. He watched you watching him, whilst simultaneously trying to avoid him at all costs. But it just made him laugh. Even more so when he would catch you looking away when he finally met your gaze across the dinner table. 

But the subtle touches, the sparring sessions and his fucking teasing all added up. And since you couldn’t work the feelings away, they decided to cut you your own 4K, HD movie to play out inside your head as you entered a deep sleep. 

You woke up with a start – then you felt it. The ache in your core, the coolness of air that hit your inner thigh when you moved your duvet away from you, and the dryness in your throat. 

“Fuck. Fuck.”

Twenty minutes later, you were freshly washed and were standing inside the kitchen with nothing more than the kitchen island bulbs lighting up your workstation. You were on your third batch of cakes when Bucky walked inside, looking like he’d had a fight with his pillow and lost. 

You felt him pause by the door and look at you. You didn’t even have to see him to hear the tired smirk on his face. He continued to watch you as he grabbed what he came for and sat down at the kitchen island across from you. 

It was like he was the Winter Soldier again. Except, you could hear the smile on his face as well as feeling the curiosity in his gaze. 

The odd thing was, Bucky felt the same. He could remember what it was like, feeling the need to be beside you, to watch over you, to protect you. He could remember the moments you talked to him, when you thought he couldn’t hear you. 

He could remember it all. 

But one question stayed on his mind. Even though you were, technically, friends. You still wouldn’t talk to him. Not properly, at least. The closest he came was during your sparring session a little over a week ago. 

“What?” You finally asked, looking at him. 

“Why won’t you talk to me?”

You didn’t have to ask what he meant. You already knew. 

“Because,” you said as you turned back to your cake batter. 

“Because, why?” Bucky stood and walked over to your side. “Why won’t you talk to me?”

Whether it was the sleep deprivation, or the fact that snippets of the sex dream you’d just had about him were playing like flashes in your mind as he sat across from you, you blurted out the truth. 

“Because it’s too hard. Bucky-” You sighed, cutting yourself short. Four in the morning was not the time for this conversation. “Nevermind.”

“No, tell me.”

You stayed quiet and kept your eyes on him for a moment. Then you laid the bowl down on the counter and looked away from him. But you felt his hand hold onto yours. 

“Please,” he begged, quietly. 

“Because…we’re us. Bucky, barely two months ago I was chewing you out over how you stocked your leftovers,” you motioned over to the fridge. “And then…” You looked at him, but you couldn’t form the words. 

So he did it for you. “You kissed me.”

You nodded, your voice quiet as you finally spoke. “I kissed you.”

“Do you still think about it?”

You watched as  his fingers intertwined and danced with yours. “Thought you already knew the answer to that.”

“I need to hear it from you.”

Finally, you looked at him. 

Somehow, it was easier in the kitchen. Easier in the dim light of the kitchen island. Easier when it was just you and Bucky. 

“I still think about it,” you admitted. 

A steady blue gaze held yours as Bucky’s hand came to rest against your face, his thumb rubbing back and forth on your cheekbone. Then he leaned in, kissing you like it was the last opportunity he would ever get. 

Leaning in closer to him, he bumped against the kitchen island but managed to hold you closer. You felt his arms wrap around you completely as you kissed him back. 

 A few hours, one burnt cake and plenty of hickeys later, you were standing in your bathroom finishing your make-up whilst also trying to cover up the love bites on your neck. All the while, Bucky had just turned off your shower and in a billow of steam, wrapped a towel, low on his hips, after quickly rubbing his hair dry. 

Bucky stood behind you, moving your hair out of the way. You watched him do so as the mirror began to fog up once more. 

“Buck, you’re still dripping,” you giggle softly, trying to wriggle away from him. But the smile he gave you just knocked you to your knees. 

“Only for you, doll.”

You rolled your eyes and plucked another towel from the rail before throwing it at him. “Dry off.”

He chuckled, drying his hair and neck once more. But as you cleared the mirror again and continued to apply your make-up, Bucky stood behind you and smiled proudly to himself. 

“You owe me some more concealer. I hope you know that.”

In the mirror, you watched him lean down with a breathy chuckle as he pressed light kisses to your exposed shoulder and neck. “Worth it.”

“What are you doing?”

Through his dark lashes, he met your gaze in the mirror. “Missed a spot.”

You melted under his touch. Closing your eyes, you leaned into his kiss as his hands pushed under your top and dipped under the hem of your pants and underwear in order to flush you against his body. 

You moaned a little, feeling him harden against you. “Buck- You’re gonna make me late for work.”

Bucky disagreed. “All you’re doing is filling out case files today. Cases that we’ve finished. They can wait.”

Turning you around quickly, Bucky kissed you until your lipstick was smudged enough to warrant a whole new look, along with fresh sheets for your bed, and some new towels for your bathroom. 

[grayandthyme]

Pleaseeee, i'm begging, give this man a child (in response to the reader and Tommy's Christmas dinner fic)

i think we have much more love to give ;

Synopsis: Being the busiest couple in Jackson isn't always for the weak. Especially when your own problems arise. Warnings: Pregnancy. Slight Angst. Super fluff. Domestic Tommy & Reader. Lots of dialogue.

♫ meet me in the woods - lord huron

authors note: hehe thank u for the request.. this was so fun..

The end of summer in Jackson wasn’t just hot.

It was relentless—a thick, suffocating heat that settled deep in your bones, like the kind of warmth that didn’t let go.

The kind of heat that clings to your skin, sticky and stubborn, crawling under your clothes and into your lungs, making every breath heavy and slow.

August had a way of stretching itself long and loud in this town, and with it came the parties—endless, unyielding, and noisy.

They were fun, sure, in that wild, untamed way that made you forget the weight of the world for a little while.

But damn, there were so many.

Every evening, like clockwork, neighbors would wander by with beers in hand or a bag of venison fresh from the hunt, waving you over with that easy, worn-down grin.

It was their way of saying, 'Thank you for this safe place.'

You and Tommy—you’d stand on the porch, the warm light spilling over the wooden railings, watching the flicker of bonfires and hearing laughter ripple through the night.

Sometimes you’d sip your drink, sometimes you’d just hold Tommy’s hand and let the noise fade into something quieter—a reminder that here, in this wild little town, you had something steady. Something worth holding onto.

It wasn’t like you hated all the food. Or the invites.

You weren’t exactly an introvert—never had been. You liked people, liked the easy comfort of familiar faces, and the quiet hum of a small town gathering.

But sometimes, you just wanted to shut the door behind you, curl up close with Tommy, and disappear from the world until Monday rolled around again.

You imagined it often: staying in bed late, feigning innocence as you made him late for morning patrol, maybe even begging him not to go at all—to just stay tangled up in the sheets, right there beside you.

The food at these parties was… well, it was interesting.

Nothing ever looked outright bad, but the generosity of these families often came with a side of weird.

Lamb, for example. How in the hell did they even find a lamb out here? You tried to smile, tried to pretend you weren’t eyeing the strange cuts on your plate with suspicion.

That night, after one of those dinners, you couldn’t shake it. Your body felt stiff and heavy, like your skin was too tight around your bones. Nausea churned low in your stomach, but you didn’t want to make a fuss.

You told Tommy it was fine, that you just needed to sleep it off.

But when three in the morning crept in, the quiet was shattered. You were bent over the toilet, bile burning your throat, the sound barely loud enough to stir him from his sleep.

Tommy was there in an instant, steady hands on your back, voice low and rough with worry.

“Hey—hey. It’s alright. I’m here.”

He held your hair back with steady hands, careful but firm enough to keep it from falling into your face.

His fingers found little spots on your scalp and scratched gently, like he was trying to soothe something deeper than just the sickness—the kind of quiet comfort only he could give.

His brow was knitted tight, that rough, protective look he wore when he didn’t know how to fix what was wrong. You hated seeing him like that—worried, helpless—but he was never the type to just stand by.

“You think you ate somethin’ bad?” His voice was low, rough around the edges but soft when it was just for you.

You gave a weak shake of your head, tasting bile again, but managing a faint, half-smile through the nausea. “Maybe the food. Or maybe I’m just weak-willed.”

He snorted, the sound mixing with his quiet chuckle. “You? Weak? Nah. You’re tougher than half the people I know.”

You wanted to believe him. God, you wanted to. But right now, your body felt like it was turning against you, and no amount of bravado could stop that.

Tommy’s eyes never left yours. He pulled a damp cloth from the bathroom sink and wiped your forehead gently, his touch careful like he was handling something fragile—even if you didn’t feel that way to yourself.

“You don’t get sick like this,” he said, voice thick with concern. “Not you.”

You bit your lip, swallowing the lump that was rising in your throat.

He knew you better than anyone. He knew when you were holding back, and this wasn’t just a little stomach bug.

“Maybe it’s somethin’ else,” you whispered, voice shaky, "… Anxiety.. who knows."

Tommy’s jaw tightened. “You gonna let me figure it out, or you just gonna sit here and pretend it’s not serious? Cause' if it was me over that toilet, you'd be shittin' fuckin' bricks figurin' it out."

The banter was still there—a shield you both wrapped around yourselves when things got too real. But beneath it, the worry was raw, honest.

He stayed by your side through it all, silent except for the occasional soft word, the small reassurances that made the room feel less cold and less scary.

When you finally settled back against the pillows, exhausted, Tommy pulled a blanket up around you and sat on the edge of the bed, his hand finding yours in the dark.

It had been mostly fine. You’d eaten breakfast that morning—not much, but enough to count. And for a few days, things had settled.

You had your usual energy back, that glow in your eyes Tommy knew better than the back of his hand. You even teased him over dinner like nothing had happened.

He let himself believe you were better. Let him breathe.

But it didn’t last.

That morning at the Tipsy Bison, the air was thick with the smell of sausage, eggs, wood smoke.

Familiar. Ordinary.

And then you flinched—a sudden sharp recoil, your hand shooting up to warn Tommy off like he was a threat, like he could make it worse by being near you.

Before he could say a word, you were gone. Darted toward the bathroom, hand clamped over your mouth, the sound of the door swinging shut behind you loud enough to crack the mood wide open.

Tommy stood there, stunned, like the air had been sucked out of the room.

From the bar, Joel was already rising to his feet.

He hadn’t come in for breakfast—just coffee, just to talk about Ellie’s birthday plans. But his eyes had tracked you the second you walked in. Joel had a quiet way of watching, like he saw more than he let on.

He walked over, slow but steady, nodding toward the swinging bathroom door before turning to Tommy.

“She been sick long?”

Tommy rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly aware of how tight the muscles there had gotten. “Couple nights last week. Threw up bad. Thought it was just bad meat or somethin’. Then she was fine. Least, I thought she was.”

Joel didn’t say anything for a moment. Just stared, jaw working, brow drawn the way it always did when he was circling something in his mind—something he already knew, but didn’t want to name just yet.

“She ever get sick like that before?” he finally asked.

Tommy shook his head, “Nah. She’s usually the one takin’ care of me. You think it’s a bug goin’ around?”

Joel’s gaze slid toward the bathroom, and when he looked back at his brother, it was softer somehow.

Not pity—Joel didn’t do pity—but something older.

Something heavy.

“Smell hit her hard?”

Tommy blinked. “Yeah.”

“She tired?”

“All the time, now.”

Joel nodded, slow, like the pieces were all falling into place in his head, even if Tommy hadn’t caught up yet, “She ain’t sick, Tommy.”

Tommy narrowed his eyes, “Then what the hell—?”

Joel didn’t answer right away.

He just looked at him.

That look that said you know where I’m goin’ with this.

And that’s when it hit him.

Joel didn’t have to say it. He didn’t have to say anything at all. Not when that familiar ache passed behind his eyes—the kind of ache that didn’t belong to the years after the outbreak, but the ones before it.

Joel sighed. “Just… keep an eye on her. That’s all I’m sayin’. Maybe take her to that doc we got… You don’t gotta panic yet.”

The bathroom door creaked open then, and the two men fell silent. Joel patted his baby-brother on the back, once—solid, grounding—and moved away, giving you space.

You looked pale, but steady on your feet. Your eyes met Tommy’s across the room, questioning. He gave you a smile—soft, worried, but full of something else too.

“Sorry, boys…” you hummed, brushing the hair back from your face as casually as you could manage. Your voice had a lightness to it — practiced, bright. “Guess no more cookouts for me, huh?”

You nodded toward the barstools like you were trying to steer the moment somewhere safer, somewhere easier.

The kind of place where everything could stay simple—just Joel, Tommy, and talk of summer cookouts and birthdays instead of the bathroom door you’d just stumbled out of, and the questions that were clearly building behind Tommy’s eyes.

Joel gave a small, understanding smile, the kind that didn’t press too hard. “Yeah, well. Can’t blame you. They were servin’ somethin’ today that looked like it crawled outta the woods and cooked itself.”

You laughed—a little too hard, a little too quick.

“Right? I swear I saw it blink at me on the tray.”

The conversation picked up from there, just like you wanted it to.

Joel launched into a low rumble about Ellie’s birthday—how she’d been dropping hints that weren’t even hints anymore.

"She said, 'i'd kill for a comic book I haven't read yet,' That was yesterday,"

"Day before it was, 'a flamethrower would be sick'."

You leaned in, the corners of your mouth twitching upward. “So… books or explosives. Got it.”

Tommy chuckled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Because the truth was, he wasn’t listening.

Not really.

His eyes were on you—tracing the edges of your face, the new paleness in your skin, the way you kept adjusting your posture like your body didn’t know how to sit right anymore. Your hand rested on the counter, fingers tapping a rhythm that felt restless, distracted.

And beneath the humor, there was a flicker of something… distant in your gaze.

You were talking, smiling, keeping the energy up like it was second nature. But he knew you better than that. Knew the difference between your real laugh and your performance.

And this one? It wasn't a performance. More like a lingering fear. An inkling of something.

Tommy leaned back slightly on his stool, arms crossed, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

She’s deflecting. She knows something’s off. She’s scared to say it out loud.

Joel glanced over at him, catching the look on his face. Said nothing. Just gave the faintest shake of his head. Not yet. Let her lead.

Tommy didn’t answer out loud, but he sighed through his nose and nodded once, subtly.

You were still talking, “Maybe we get her a slingshot. Y’know, low-tech flamethrower. More sustainable,"

"She can take someone's eye out or somethin...'"

And you laughed again, tipping your head back, doing your damned best to keep everything light.

Even if fear clung to your insides. The inkling had planted itself, and you were sure as hell going to run to Maria's house after this.

"Environmentally conscious murder. I like it,” Joel drawled.

But Tommy was still staring. Quietly, carefully, like if he looked hard enough, he’d see through the mask you were wearing—see what you weren’t saying. And underneath the warmth in his chest—the love that never went away—was something else now.

A slow-growing, aching kind of hope.

He was excited.

The sun had already started to climb higher by the time you left the Tipsy Bison.

The light was sharp and golden, dust glinting in the air like tiny flecks of glass. The walk back to your house wasn’t long, maybe ten minutes if you strolled, but Tommy felt every second stretch long and thin between your footsteps.

You were quiet. Too quiet.

Not the relaxed kind of quiet either—not the peaceful, post-laugh, full-bellied kind.

This was tight. Withdrawn. Like the inside of you was folding in on itself.

Tommy walked half a step behind, watching how you carried your weight. Your shoulders hunched slightly forward. Your hand pressed to your side like you were trying to hold yourself steady without making it obvious.

Your skin had that sheen to it—not from the heat, not entirely. Something clammy. Cold-sweat kind of sick.

“You alright, sweetheart?” he asked, voice low, casual, but the tension in it betrayed him.

You nodded without looking at him, brushing a hand across your forehead.

“Yeah. Just—god, I think the heat’s gettin’ to me.”

But it wasn’t that warm. Not really. Not compared to the kind of summer heat that Jackson was known for. And you’d survived hotter days in thicker clothes, with more weight on your back and a full patrol route ahead of you.

This? This wasn’t the sun. It was something inside you.

Tommy didn’t press. Just nodded like he believed you and offered his hand. You took it, fingers slotting into his, even though yours were trembling slightly. By the time the house came into view—that small, familiar cabin with the porch he’d patched up in spring, and the garden you insisted on starting even though nothing ever grew right—your steps had slowed.

You paused at the bottom of the stairs, pressing your other hand to your chest like you were trying to quiet something that had started spinning out of control.

Tommy moved in front of you, still holding your hand.

“Hey. Look at me.”

You hesitated—eyes not quite meeting his.

He tilted his head, voice softer now, something deeper threading through it.

“You’re pale, sugar. You’ve been sick off and on for over a week. And now you can’t even walk ten minutes without lookin’ like you might pass out on me.” He gave you a little smile, trying to lighten the weight of his words.

“I know you’re tougher than that. So, what’s goin’ on?”

You shook your head, blinking hard. “I don’t know. I don’t—” You paused. Swallowed. “I just… I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure.”

Tommy’s chest tightened. “Sure about what?”

You looked at him then. Really looked at him.

And for the first time in days, your eyes stopped performing.

“I think I might be pregnant.”

The words hit him like a soft blow—not painful, but deep. Bone-deep. His breath caught somewhere between his lungs and his ribs.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stepped closer, hands rising to cup your face, thumbs brushing across your cheeks where the flush had settled in streaks.

“You sure?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

“No,"

"Not yet.” Your voice cracked, not from fear, but something more tender.

Fragile.

He nodded slowly, pressing his hand to your jaw, fingers large enough to thread through to the back of your scalp, grounding himself in the warmth of your skin despite the sweat. Despite the nerves. Despite the fact that the world still wasn’t a place where things like this ever came easy.

“How late,” he murmurs.

It isn’t a question. Not really. He’s not asking because he doesn’t know—he’s asking because you do. Because you’ve already counted the days. Because he’s seen it in the way you’ve been moving around the truth, ducking your head and brushing off the nausea, the way your hand finds your stomach when you think he’s not looking.

You don’t answer right away.

Your hands are resting on his chest now, not pushing him away, just resting—like if you let go, you might float off into something too big to hold alone. Your fingers twitch slightly.

“Almost six weeks,” you whisper.

Tommy’s breath leaves him slow.

Like he expected it, and still it knocks something loose in him.

You finally glance up, searching his face.

“I didn’t wanna say it. Not until I was sure. I thought maybe it was just stress—or my body acting weird. But then the smell of food started turning—and I couldn’t keep anything down. And I just knew.”

He lets the silence linger for a beat.

Then two. His thumb strokes absentmindedly along your jaw— gentle, grounding.

“Jesus,” he breathes, more to himself than you. “We… we might actually be—”

“Don’t say it,” you cut in, not harsh, but urgent. Your voice trembles just enough to betray the weight you’ve been carrying. “Not yet. I can’t—if it’s not, I don’t wanna hear it out loud. Not until I know for sure.”

Tommy nods, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Okay,” he says. Simple. Solid. Like a promise.

“Okay?”

“Yeah—” His voice thickens a little, something tight behind it that he doesn’t bother hiding. “Alright, Sugar,"

"... We’ll wait. No pressure. No rush—just you ‘n me, alright?”

You nod and exhale shakily, leaning your forehead against his chest again. He wraps his arms around you, holding you like he already knows. Like he’s already made space in his chest for something else—someone else.

He presses a kiss to the crown of your head, and then says quietly, “We’ll go to the doc' in town, Yeah?—tomorrow—just to be sure.”

You nod again, barely.

“Okay.”

Tommy holds you tighter, eyes scanning the horizon over your shoulder like it might give him answers. But the only thing he feels is your heart beating against his—fast, uneven, but real.

Anxious.

Morning came gray and quiet. Overcast skies rolled low above Jackson, pressing the light into something dull and slow, like the day itself was reluctant to begin.

You stood at the top of the stairs, one hand clamped so tightly around the banister your knuckles had gone white.

The wood creaked under your grip, and your other hand hovered near your stomach again, fingers twitching uselessly—like you didn’t know where to place them.

Tommy was downstairs already, boots on, jacket slung over one shoulder. You could hear him moving through the kitchen, pouring coffee neither of you really wanted.

Trying to pretend this was just any other morning.

But you couldn’t pretend.

Your stomach was churning again, not from nausea, not entirely— but from dread. From the impossible weight of what if.

You hadn’t even made it down the first step.

You didn’t want to go.

You didn’t want to hear someone else say it—say it out loud and make it real. Because what if it wasn’t real?

What if the doctor looked at you with that soft, apologetic face people used when they didn’t want to say the truth out loud? Or worse—what if it was real?

And what if you weren’t ready?

A part of you didn’t know if you wanted this.

Not in a world like this.

Not when everything still felt like it could be ripped out from under you at any second.

It wasn’t that you didn’t love Tommy—you did.

So much that it hurt to even look at him some days.

But the idea of bringing someone else into this world—into this life—made something sharp settle in your throat.

Are you strong enough? Strong enough to protect them both?

Footsteps. You didn’t even hear him come to the base of the stairs. Tommy looked up at you, eyes soft, unreadable. “You alright up there?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Instead, your grip on the banister tightened.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” you said, voice raw. “I don’t even know if I want this.”

Tommy didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. He just looked at you like he always did—with that impossible patience, like he’d wait all day if he had to. His tongue jutting against the inner of his cheek.

“You don’t have to decide any of that right now,” he said quietly. “We’re just gettin’ answers. That’s all.”

You shook your head, blinking back the sting behind your eyes. “But what if I can’t handle the answer?”

He took a step up. Then another. Slow, careful, until he was just one step below you. He reached out, gently brushing his fingers over yours where they were still wrapped around the wood.

“Then we face it together,” he said. “Whatever it is. I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

You looked at him then. Really looked at him.

And God, he looked so tired—like he’d been up all night thinking too, running the same circles in his mind.

He probably had.

You knew bits and pieces of his childhood.

Nothing there really spelled out; I can't wait to be a dad!

But still, he was there. Steady as ever. Just like always.

“I’m scared,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said. And then, quieter, “Me too.”

You exhaled slowly, chest shaking. The silence stretched again, but this time, it wasn’t as heavy.

Just lived-in.

You nodded once. Not fully ready—not even close—but willing.

The infirmary was small. Sparse.

A couple of old plastic chairs, a cot pushed against one wall with sheets too white to look trustworthy, and a narrow counter that probably used to be a breakroom table in another life.

It smelled like antiseptic and stale air.

The test sat on the counter like a live grenade.

Not touched. Not looked at.

Just there.

Tommy sat in the chair beside you, legs bouncing. You could feel the motion through the floor. He’d been quiet on the walk here, but now, now that the test was done and the clock was ticking—he couldn’t sit still if he tried.

You were perched stiffly at the edge of your chair, arms wrapped around your stomach.

“Jesus,” you mumbled, “I think I’m gonna throw up again.”

Tommy glanced at you quickly, “Again? We ain't even eat.”

“Doesn’t matter.” You groaned, rubbing your eyes. “My stomach knows something’s wrong.”

He leaned back, lips twitching. “I mean, yeah. We’re sittin’ in a glorified janitor’s closet waitin’ on a test that could change every damn thing we know. I’d be worried if your stomach wasn’t pissed about it.”

You laughed once, sharp and breathy, “You think ten minutes could go any slower?”

Tommy checked his watch like it had betrayed him. “I swear time’s been stuck at seven minutes for the last goddamn fifteen.”

You tilted your head back and stared at the ceiling, trying to breathe, “God, this is worse than patrol. At least when someone’s shootin’ at you, you don’t have to wonder.”

“Speak for yourself,” he muttered. “I’ve seen the way you look at clickers—like you’re already figurin’ out if you can shove me into ‘em and make a run for it.”

"Oh—Ha—Ha." You mock laugh, weakly. “Don’t tempt me.”

The silence returned, but not cold.

Just nervous.

Your eyes drifted back to the test sitting there on the plastic counter. Face down. Innocent.

But somehow, it carried the weight of the entire world in it.

“Feels stupid to be this scared,” you whispered.

Tommy didn’t answer for a second. Then, softly: “It ain’t stupid.”

You turned your head, met his eyes.

“It’s not stupid to wonder if we’re ready,” he continued, “Not in a world like this. Not after everythin’ we’ve seen. Hell, part of me still feels like I’m barely holdin’ it together some days.”

You leaned into him, just enough that your shoulder pressed against his.

“I keep thinkin’ about all the ways this could go wrong,” you admitted.

“Yeah,” he said,

“Me too.”

Silence again. The clock ticked—loud in the still room.

And then:

“I mean,” Tommy said slowly, “... at least if it’s positive, we’ve got a solid excuse to get out of the next five cookouts.”

You laughed, soft.

“And,” he added, nodding seriously, “Ellie’ll probably cry. You know she’ll lose her mind over bein’ some kinda badass apocalypse aunt.”

You gave a low, shaky laugh. “We’d never hear the end of it.”

“Nope.”

More silence. The minutes had almost passed.

You exhaled and stared at the test again. “You look first.”

“Hell no,” he said immediately. “Last time I looked at somethin’ first I ended up on patrol alone for two weeks ‘cause you got mad about a possum.”

“That possum was in our bathroom, Tommy.”

“And I told you—it was probably more scared of you than you were of it—”

“Tommy—”

He turned to you, eyes wide, “What?”

“I think it’s been ten minutes.” It came out more fractured than you had meant it too.

The quiet stretched until it felt unbearable. The test hadn’t moved, hadn’t shifted an inch—just lying there, face-down on the counter like it didn’t hold a future inside it.

You both stared.

Tommy finally let out a long sigh, stood, and rubbed a hand down his face.

“Alright,” he muttered. “If we just sit here, it’s gonna sprout legs and tell us itself.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He glanced at you, then reached for the test with a kind of cautious reverence—like it was holy. Or cursed.

His fingers hovered above it for a second.

“Ready?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

You shook your head.

“No.”

He nodded. “Cool—me neither.”

Then he turned it over.

And looked. His breath hitched. You could only stare at his face—the way it stilled.

All the air in the room seemed to press in, watching, waiting.

Tommy looked up, slow. Eyes wide and soft, like he was trying to process everything all at once.

“Well?” you breathed, voice already shaking.

A long beat. He held the test out toward you with one hand like he didn’t trust himself to speak.

You took it, fingers trembling. One look.

Two lines.

Clear. Definite. No guessing needed.

Your mouth opened. Closed. No sound came.

And then Tommy—ever the idiot—cleared his throat and muttered, “Guess I should’ve started workin’ on the nursery.”

You let out a choked sound, something between a laugh and a sob.

“Tommy—”

“I mean, I don’t even know what babies need. A crib? A rattle? A very tiny gun—”

“Tommy, please—” you were laughing now, but it cracked, the edges fraying fast.

“We could call it Clicker if it’s ugly—”

And just like that, your knees buckled.

You sank into the nearest chair, hands covering your mouth as the first sob tore out of you—raw and loud and helpless. You didn’t even know where it came from, only that it had been waiting.

Waiting for this moment. For confirmation. For truth.

Tommy was by your side instantly. Dropping to his knees, both hands on you—arms, shoulders, whatever he could touch.

“Hey. Hey, Sweetheart, look at me—”

"Look at me.”

You couldn’t. Your face was wet, hands shaking. The fear was everywhere, full-bodied. Your whole world had tipped on its axis and you couldn’t get a grip on anything.

“I’m scared,” you gasped, “I’m so scared. What if I mess this up? What if something happens? What if I’m not enough?”

"Jesus fuck—Two people to worry about.. I can't—I can't—"

Tommy cupped your face, firm and steady. “Hey, look at me. Please.” You did. Barely. Your vision blurred and eyes red.

“You won’t mess this up,” he said, voice low and fierce. “You hear me? You’re the bravest person I’ve ever known. You’ve kept us alive. You’ve held me together more times than I can count. And you won’t be alone in this.”

You let out another sob, softer now, body sagging forward until he caught you. Held you.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you whispered.

“Neither do I,” he murmured into your hair.

“We’ll figure it out... Together. That’s all we’ve ever done.”

You buried your face in his shoulder, still crying, but holding him tighter now. He didn’t let go.

And for a while, you just stayed there. In that too-bright little room. With the test forgotten on the counter and the whole future quietly rearranging itself in your arms.

The walk back was slow, the kind of slow that lets the world catch up with you—but this time, it wasn’t heavy.

It was softer, almost like the tension had slipped out through cracks you hadn’t noticed before.

You fell into step beside Tommy, shoulders brushing, breath mingling in the cool morning air.

Tommy chuckled, shaking his head. “Hell, I’ll ask Joel to give me a crash course. He’s seen more kids than I have—well, in his own way.” His grin softened when he looked over at you. “Don’t worry. I’ll figure it out.”

You felt something warm twist in your chest, the edge of your nerves dulling just a bit. “You askin' Joel for lessons?” you said, a smile tugging at your lips. “That’s kinda exciting, actually.”

He glanced at you, eyes softening, “Yeah? Maybe it is.”

You squeezed his hand lightly. “Maybe this whole thing’s not as terrifying as it feels.”

Tommy nodded slowly. “Yeah. We’ll learn."

The walk back felt lighter now, and for the first time in quite awhile, the future didn’t seem quite so scary.

Sunday night came with the soft clatter of dishes and the low hum of familiar voices filling Tommy and your small kitchen.

The smell of stew simmered on the stove, and Ellie was already teasing Tommy about how he “overcooked the potatoes again,” just like every week.

Joel leaned back in his chair, eyes soft but watchful—always tuned to the undercurrents in the room.

You sat beside Tommy, hands intertwined under the table, your fingers laced tight like a secret you both held close.

Dinner moved along with laughter and easy banter, the kind that made the walls feel less like shelter and more like home.

And then, as Ellie reached for the last piece of bread, Tommy cleared his throat—a rare thing that pulled everyone’s attention.

“If we told you guys something… a secret, almost,” you exhaled, fingers writhing in Tommy’s palm, “… would you keep it with us?”

Joel’s eyes narrowed just slightly, the kind of look that said I’m listening, but don’t test me.

Ellie’s smile flickered into something quieter, more curious.

Tommy nodded, his voice low but sure. “It’s big. Good big.”

Ellie leaned forward, elbows on the table, her grin replaced by a look that was almost reverent. “Try me.”

You swallowed hard, heart pounding against your ribs like it was trying to get out. Then, steadying yourself, you spoke.

“We’re gonna have a baby.”

The words hung in the air, soft but undeniable.

Joel blinked, his usual tough-guy mask cracking just a little. “You’re serious?”

Tommy’s grin broke free. “Yeah. Ain’t no joke.”

Ellie’s eyes lit up like the sun had just come out after years. “Holy shit!” she bursted out, the words tumbling free before she could stop them.

Joel’s eyes snapped to her, sharp and unyielding for just a moment. “Language,” he muttered low, but then the edges of his mouth twitched into that rough, almost-grin he reserved for moments that mattered.

You let out a breath, nodding toward Tommy.

“So… you guys gotta help us tell the entire town.”

Tommy’s grin deepened, a spark lighting in his eyes. “Yeah. We ain’t exactly keepin’ this quiet, not with you two around.”

Ellie laughed, her usual fire flickering back. “Guess everyone’s gonna know sooner or later.”

Joel leaned forward, voice softer now, steady, a nod, “Well, you got us. We’ll make sure Jackson hears it from the right folks.”

You felt the tight coil of fear inside you loosen just a bit, replaced by something warmer—the kind of steady, fierce love that had carried you this far.

Ellie’s grin turned mischievous. “Hell, I’m already planning the biggest damn welcome party this town’s ever seen.”

Joel shook his head, chuckling quietly. “You’re impossible.”

"n' they're called.. baby showers.. not 'welcome parties.."

. . .

It was only two months in that you had finally realized just how much of a monster this pregnancy was turning him into.

“Tommy,” you exhaled, leaning heavy against the stair railing, one hand pressed to the swell of your lower belly—still decently flat, but betraying you in all the quiet ways. “I’m havin’ a kid, not dying. I can go on patrol for a bit longer…”

He turned from the front door, boots half-laced, eyes narrowing like you’d just told him you were joining a damn raider crew.

“Oh yeah?” he drawled, setting his foot back down and folding his arms over his chest. “And when was the last time you made it two blocks without needing to sit down or puke your guts out?”

You glared. “I made it three yesterday.”

He arched a brow, unimpressed.

“Only ‘cause I carried you the last one.”

You let your head thunk lightly against the railing, groaning. “You’re suffocatin’ me, Miller.”

“I’m keepin’ you alive,” he corrected, taking a few steps closer, “There’s a difference.”

You squinted at him.

“Barely.”

Tommy gave you that grin, the one that meant he knew damn well he was being an ass—and that he couldn't care less.

“I swore to protect you. That didn’t come with a clause about unless you’re real stubborn and feelin’ fine for five minutes.”

You shoved lightly at his chest when he got close, but he just cupped your cheek, warm hand steadying your half-sagging posture.

“I love you,” he murmured, serious now. “But you’re not goin’ back out there with our baby in your gut and a pack on your back.”

You blinked up at him. “You’re really pullin’ the baby in your belly card?”

“Damn right I am.”

"Gross. Makes me sound like a shell." You exhaled. He kissed your forehead, gentle and firm. You melted into it despite yourself.

Low resolve. Blame the hormones.

“Fine,” you began, “But I’m still gonna yell at you for bossin’ me around.”

He smiled, tongue swiping against the front of his teeth, “Please, sweetheart, it keeps me goin'.”

. . .

Tommy’s hum was low and steady, a quiet thread weaving through the soft morning light spilling into the room.

His fingers brushed your hair back, careful, like you were the most fragile thing in the world.

The scent of breakfast floated in—smoky, warm. A promise of normalcy after the storm.

“You gonna sleep all day?” His voice was gentle, almost teasing.

You exhaled, sinking your face deeper into the pillow, hiding the tired ache in your eyes. “Well… I was up all night.”

He raised a hand in mock surrender. “I slept through it. I know—I’m a monster—sorry.”

You cracked a tired smile. “Yeah, you are.”

Your eyes drifted to the crib near the window, soft light casting gentle shadows over the small, sleeping form.

A quiet breath escaped your lips—a mix of exhaustion and something like peace.

“Go on, Daddy,” you said, voice light but sure. “Get a move on.”

The words slipped out easy, like a promise wrapped in encouragement, as you pushed yourself up from the bed, steadying against the weight of your body and the weight of sleep.

Tommy caught your gaze, a slow grin spreading across his face.

“Alright, alright... I’m on it.”

He rose, the faint creak of the floor beneath him filling the quiet room, and with a glance back at you—soft, full of unspoken love.

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[literallypyro]

Three (mostly) random headcanons for all the mercs!

Warnings: none

Genre: fluff, angst if you squint

Scout:

-He can cook, but only WITHOUT a recipe. Look, I know he's illiterate, so just imagine someone's reading it to him, mkay? Idk what it is, but when he has to follow a recipe, it ends in disaster. Let him wing it, and you'll think you're at a 5 star restaurant.

-Tells his mom all about you. She basically knows everything about you, and it's not because she asked.

-Total malewife. What you say GOES (unless you tell him to stop buying Bonk. That's a losing battle, toots. When has a little radiation ever hurt anyone?)

Soldier:

-While this man is virtually never quiet, he's noticeably the least loud around you. Unless you feed into his loudness. If that's the case, may God have mercy on the rest of the team's souls.

-He isn't book smart, and with a lot of people, emotional intelligence isn't really his strong suit either. But around you? It's like this mf has a sixth sense. It's almost concerning. You CANNOT hide your emotions from this guy.

-Please for the love of all that is American, take this man to a chiropractor. I know he's used to rocket jumping, but that's precisely the issue. He doesn't even realize how fucked up his joints are.

Pyro:

-Actually the sweetest ever. Just cuz they're crazy doesn't mean they aren't the silliest hopeless romantic ever. Can't kiss you through the mask, but will damn sure try. They have left a print on your cheek from pressing their mask into it before, and they will do it again.

-If someone disrespects you, they will be catching Pyro's hands. The flamethrower will be saved for when the idiot who insulted you can't use any of their limbs.

-CLINGS to you when it's bed time. You'll have to wait until they fall asleep if you want out of their grasp (but why would you?)

Demoman:

-Never short on stories. If you're bored, just say so, and he already has five stories in mind that he hasn't told you yet. Sometimes he laughs a little too hard and it takes a minute to get back to the story.

-PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE compliment this man. We see how quickly he can swing between insecure and confident. Additionally, he would absolutely adore any eye patches you make him. If you make him multiple, he's switching them out every day. Make ones for specific occasions, and bro is at your mercy.

-If you can out drink him, or even just keep up, he's lowkey worried about you. He knows he has a problem. He's actually pretty realistic about it. He WILL be asking if there's something you want to talk about at some point.

Heavy:

-He knows you don't need to be protected at all times, but he has a hard time letting you defend yourself. Just look at the way he grew up. A big chunk of this man's personality is just "bodyguard to loved ones". You will have to bring his attention to it if you want him to back off, and as soon as you do, he listens. It's mostly out of habit, if I'm being honest.

-Lord help anyone who makes you uncomfortable. He gets such a threatening look on his face as he asks the person questions that don't SOUND like threats, but they damn sure feel like threats.

-Oh, you thought he wouldn't go out of his way to write translated versions of his Russian books so you can read them when he's not around? Well you're WRONG. If you ask if he has translated versions of his books, he won't tell you he was the one who translated them, but you recognize his handwriting.

Engineer:

-This guy will grill out every single day if you ask him to. Burgers? Got it. Hot dogs? Easy peasy. Smoked ribs? Don't gotta ask him twice! Mans will make sure every craving you have is satisfied, or may lightning strike him where he stands.

-He has already memorized your schedule. You were about to take a shower but- it's already on? No one's in there??? And it's at the perfect temperature???? Not to mention how your laundry was mysteriously folded when you were too tired to do it all at once... Safe to say, even though it was unintentional, he has committed every single one of your habits to memory like a tattoo.

-This man is a thinking, breathing jukebox. Can play literally any song from any genre off the top of his head. He can also easily convert songs to different genres.

Medic:

-He actually has amazing handwriting when it comes to signatures. The only reason he writes like a stereotypical doctor is because he wants to be able to switch up last second if he needs to.

-You are one of the very few people he trusts to watch his birds, and it's because he knows you know how he is. Did you forget about the whole baboon uterus thing? Surely not.

-Actually surprisingly careful with you. He'd be mentally punching himself if the rib thing with Heavy happened to you. Even owns your soul so the devil can't try to use you against him.

Sniper:

-Your are literally the only reason he would sleep in the base at night, but he REALLY prefers you sleep in the camper with him. He's kinda clingy, but not to Pyro's extent. Seeing how he is with everyone else, he obviously understands personal space.

-Secretly has the voice of an angel. He has intense stage fright about it, though, so NOBODY is about to find out.

-If you're scared or over-cautious of animals, he's definitely gonna fix that. He'll ease you into it, but given the time, you will have pet and fed every animal he can get his hands on.

Spy:

-We've all seen how much of a romantic this guy is. You are getting absolutely SPOILED ROTTEN when he is around. Hold his arm anytime you want. You want flowers? Tell him which ones, what color, and from where, darling. Can't dance? Well, he's pretending not to notice. He gazes at you lovingly, and you can't even tell he's in immense pain from you stepping on his feet.

-Has every high end cologne and has a different one for every occasion. This guy has SO MANY. He even has different ones for different restaurants. You could consider it a hyperfixation if you wanted to.

-You are his queen/king/monarch and WILL NOT let you forget it. Tells you every single day, sometimes multiple times a day how important you are to him and how much he cherishes you. Who cares if the team is around? They're just mad he got to you first, ma beauté.

[voxsymphonia]

this really sums up a lot of our issues with the comic now, even if we did really enjoy it on our first read. this specific set of lines between Roxy and Rose from a couple panels, "you remind me of Dirk, you're laid back" really just epitomizes the level of mischaracterization at play here.

really??? laid back like Dirk??? Dirk fucking Strider, the most up-tight man of all time??? Laid back like Dirk Strider, the guy with a stick so far up his ass not even TRICKSTER MODE could pull it out?!?!?!?!?! what comic did you read, because it wasn't the Homestuck I read!

i mean, if anything, Rose and Dirk are comparable in how not laid-back they are.

and on the topic of Themes, nothing surpasses the cognitive dissonance to me of the Tiaratop That Makes You Good. you know, the evil mind control device that puts They Live subliminals in your brain and activates your subconscious fascist conditioning, well we made it Good now, and if we put it on enough people it'll solve all their problems. You know this symbol of Jane being forced into a roll she didn't want, forcing her into a subordinate position that encourages her to abuse her friends because being in the middle of the power hierarchy is better than being at the bottom? Well we fixed it, it's Good now, it will fix all your problems if you just accept Good Guy Mind Control ::::)

and then, meraki has been posting about like her ocs of different species, and how she's gonna use them in the epilogues as disguises for her authorsona, so she can subtly warp the narrative for them, and then EXPLICITLY MAKES THE CONNECTION WITH DOC SCRATCH!!!! girl, that's the BAD GUY, you're not supposed to be emulating him!!!!

her cerulean blood trollsona is really fitting, considering "i'll just take direct control of the story and cut Lord English out of it, and manipulate everything so that it works out as a happy ending for everyone" is literally what Aranea did in Game Over. has Homestuck's message about the villainy of the author figure just completely go over your head? Did you read the guy turning the website green while he narrates about how much he loves grooming children and spreading his seeds to young girls, and think "the only way to stop a Bad Guy with an authorsona self insert writing the story is a Good Guy with an authorsona self insert writing the story"???

also also ALSO, i'm on a rant now, the whole thing with letting Gamzee out of the fridge, giving him the Tiaratop That Makes You Good and suddenly WOW, i'm ok now, i'm normal now, I'm reformed, it's fine... THAT'S THE EXACT SAME SHIT THE CANDY HOMESTUCK EPILOGUES WERE PARODYING THREE YEARS BEFORE YOU DECIDED IT WAS GREAT, ACTUALLY! like, look at this and tell me it isn't exactly what the candy authors were making fun of!

gamzee's fine now! he can be your blorbo again! all the murder and domestic abuse, that was just Bad Guy mind control! we stopped the Bad Guy Mind Control with the Good Guy Mind Control, and now he's fine! he's Reformed, even!

like, it is supposed to be better or worse that in CSAU, nothing was ever his fault in the first place, so he has nothing to feel sorry for? it's ok guys, lord English was fronting, i'm fine now!!!

ugh. i cant believe i liked this at one point! if people want to play with their grey alien dolls and mash them together, sure, enjoy, but i'd rather something with SUBSTANCE, something that's trying to say something. For all its flaws, at least the Epilogues are trying to engage with the themes of the work it's building off of. What are the themes of CSAU? Nothing bad should ever happen to you, unless you're Vriska or Jane, because fuck these two people in particular? The problem with Bad Guy mind control devices is they aren't being countered with enough Good Guy mind control devices? You can be transgender, as long as you're indistinguishable from a cis person and just a background character for the REAL version of you who's cis? anyways, rant over, good night

biggest homestuck fan red flag is liking that crow strider AU

[lunarriviera]

Hi! Hope you're doimg well! I wanted to ask, what do you do when you get stuck when writing? Like, I know I want to go from point A to point B, but I'm stuck at point A and not sure how to get to point B.

nonny i am busting in here all excitedly like the koolaid man at four in the god o’clock of the morning to answer this, because I ACTUALLY KNOW THIS ONE: 

the solution to this issue is, in fact, square brackets. like this: [???]

what? you say. how works this? you say. READ ON I WILL TELL YOU

so right now in the scene i’m trying to pull together/make into prose, from tattered drafts/sentences/allcaps/bullet points/etc., i have three things that need to happen: 1) police will search a suspect’s house, 2) one of them has to find something incriminating, 3) the suspect’s son has to burst in and cause a lot of trouble. those are my B points. but right now, i’m stuck at point A: shen yi and he rongyue are sitting in the car talking about feelings when they need to get out and go do their damn jobs. how do i get them to move. why aren’t they moving. why are they still sitting there talking, this isn’t brunch goddammit.

at this point as a writer, you get to make a decision: EITHER a) your idea about what needs to happen in this scene was all wrong, and the reason you’re “stuck” at point A is that maybe point A is actually a very interesting place for your characters to linger inside, and maybe they really need to be there a while longer, in case they have things to say or do. and point B maybe isn’t the point B you thought it was going to be, but it’s going to be something different (maybe shen yi and he rongyue realize they need backup, or they decide they’re going someplace else to do something different, instead).

OR: square brackets. it works like this. (and by the way i learned this from @seperis because she is literally a genius, thank you sep darling you should know saved my whole entire life.) here is some of my draft to illustrate:

[shen yi and he rongyue saying a bunch of words about feelings and things not related to the case they’re supposed to be investigating]

“I wonder,” said Shen Yi thoughtfully, “what would happen if you just asked her to go for a walk with you?”

[TK]

Shen Yi stopped in front of the painting and looked at it, at first out of habit, and then more closely, as he instinctively stepped back the correct distance to see both the whole canvas at once as well as its technique. From the other room, he could hear He Rongyue and [Name of Her Assistant] doing [something something something]. He still had on nitrile gloves, so he came closer again, to touch the varnish, feel along the grooves of the brushwork. He frowned. This wasn’t a reproduction—this was a genuine [name of painter redacted bc it’s a plot point and a surprise].

[TK]

“What the fuck are you people doing in my house?” came an aggrieved voice from the landing. Everyone turned to look up at the young man standing there, keys in one hand, a cup of iced coffee in the other. He was, Shen Yi realized, Huang Wei, and that was neither unexpected nor a particular problem, but the person with him was probably going to be a very particular problem indeed.

you can see how i gestured towards three different parts of this scene, even though i didn’t finish any of them here and have no idea what the connective tissue will be between them. and i did this by skipping huge wads of prose and just tossing in “[TK]” for now. ”TK” by the way is an abbreviation i learned while working for newspapers/magazines; journalists use it to mean “to come,” as in, “something important is missing here so i promise i will make a bunch of phone calls and get that detail/fact shoved in there before we go to press.” We use TK instead of TC because you can word-search TK and that letter combination isn’t in any english words (or at least very few; anyway i can’t think of any).

at some point, of course, you will have to fill in “[TK]” or rather, i will, here with all the stuff that’s missing—dialogue, action, and description, mostly; i tend not to summarize or use exposition much, but usually default to telling a story in-scene (a time-honored tradition in fanfic). but the beauty of TK and above all, the square brackets, is that you don’t bog down. you don’t go down a research rabbit hole because you can’t remember the name of He Rongyue’s assistant (Xiao something? Feng?) and you don’t wind yourself into knots figuring out how to get them out of the car and into the house. you keep moving, like a shark.

so if you’re stuck getting from A to B? stop trying to get from A to B. just SKIP there, skip to where you want to be. throw in “[something goes here]” so you remember to go back and add it later. if you have a general idea of what goes there, put that instead: “[somehow they get out of the car still talking and head inside. oh wait how do they break the door down. is jiang xue with them?]”—like that.

the trick with any piece of fic longer than, say, 7-8k, is NOT to get bogged down. anything with multiple scenes, really—even if you have, say, five scenes planned for your oneshot, you will find one really easy to write and then you’ll stare at the next one, which SHOULD be easy to write, for eleventy hours, sweating like that gif of jordan peele. don’t do that. just put “[this is the scene where chen fei throws a chair and ruan nanzhu says something cutting and walks out, and that’s the moment chen fei knows he actually likes the bastard.]” then skip! skip, skip. skip to the moment where you know the next thing that will happen! write that part instead! “it’s two years later and chen fei is furious, because he has to see that lovesick look on ruan nanzhu’s face whenever he thinks qiushi isn’t paying attention. the worst part is that lin qiushi is genuinely loveable, so chen fei can’t even hate him. he starts hiding in his room.” etc.

the thing about writing ANYTHING is not to lose momentum, not to get stuck in what novelist robert pirsig called “a gumption trap.” or, as alec baldwin’s character says in glengarry glen ross: always be closing. keep moving! don’t sit in one place too long or you really will get stuck. if you find yourself fussing with a paragraph, or adding more to a scene when you didn’t mean to add more instead of stopping and moving on, or pacing around the house irritated with yourself, drink a lot of very cold water and then SKIP.

skip to the part where you know what happens. if you don’t know what happens, either go for a long walk and think about what exactly Han Juwon or Naruto or Bob the Builder or Taylor Swift or Viktor Nikiforov or Wang Meng or whomstthefuckever would do/say in this situation. after about 15-20 minutes i’m usually either turning around to go home and write it down, or giving myself complicate mnemonics based on trees and street signs, so i have a chance of remembering what i just realized absolutely has to happen next in the story.

in conclusion:

1. [TK!] [square brackets are your friends!] [you can use them!] [to skip ahead!] [and leave a stuck spot BYYYYYEEEE hit da bricks] [and just go to a more pleasant spot where there’s a shady tree and some soft green grass to lie on]

2. …and then later when you take another pass through the document, on some day when you’re mentally fresher and maybe you haven’t read it for a couple days, you’ll find yourself adding a few sentences. or one sentence. or some words. it’s fine. it’s all fine. look we can’t all be out here writing a million words a year. some people do, sure. as writer annie dillard says, some people eat cars. but if you want to write something with some bite to it, some texture and grit and heft, you’re gonna endure some tortuous slowness and a lot of [TK]. so best start getting real comfortable with that now. if you wanted an easy hobby i have some difficult news for you, you picked the wrong fucking one.

3. the reward for your patience with yourself and your writing process will be all those times when you’re driving, showering, cooking, and/or DMing with bestie, and suddenly What's About To Happen Next will hit you like a bolt of lightning and nearly scalp you in the process. holy shit, you’ll say to yourself, stunned. i now know exactly who’s coming through the door with huang wei and it’s not at all who i thought it was. (this jolt of electricity is why people are pantsers, by the way. we suffer through our own cluelessness for an eternity, just to have that one shocking moment of godlike clarity. the crash usually sucks but the high is unbelievable.) (and i say this, but i always have an outline. i just usually mostly ignore it, because apparently my continued survival is predicated on the fact that imaginary people talk in my head and i just write down what they say.)

4. finally i have ABSOLUTELY written fics of every length just to get to One Particular Scene which i wrote first. i wrote the ending of my current long wip really early on, and everything leading up to it has just been me trying to figure out: okay, so what’s it going to take to get them there? in the words of george w. bush, whom i am not much given to quoting, you are the decider. you can decide to write your fic backwards if you want to! write C first and then go back and add B and at the very end A! no one will ever know, it’s between you and your drafts. then you can do what i do, and write an excessively long nervous a/n about it all, when you post.

this got long but tldr just remember: [tk]. love you have fun writing!!! <3 <3

[serensama]

A Word with Friends: Of Houses, Hearts and Hidden things

Ahhh finally, this thing has a name.

Thank you @hedwigoprah you wondrous creature, I am a fan of this amazing game and this week's word. I may not use it as often as I should but gee when I read it in something, I do enjoy it quite a lot hahah. My thanks to @woundedsoul12 and @jenn2d2 who tagged me in their awesome work too <3 This week got away from me (yes, again, I have a problem) at 3.1k so yeah- LONG POST.

Read on Ao3

Avarice

1. Excessive or inordinatedesire of gain; greed for wealth 2. Inordinate desire for some supposed good.

---

Enduring the Fifth Talon’s cane was nothing; the man was barely putting half of his strength into his hits. He had almost taunted Viago by saying that Caterina could still hit harder than him, but thought better of it; it wasn’t as if he wanted the man to hurt him more. 

Illario had been prepared for his reaction, knowing what would happen when they were found out; it was a certainty that someone would notice them. It wasn’t even cloudy when Lilya led him by the hand through the front door of her shared home with Viago. He knew the moment he agreed to follow what was to come. It was only a matter of time.  

“What were you thinking?!” the older man hissed, striking him again out of fury. “Don’t! You can’t talk yourself out of this one, Dellamorte. You knew I tolerated this idiocy because it made her happy. If you’re deluded enough to think I wasn’t aware of you sniffing around her since the Antiva City mission, you’re more of a fool than I thought. I let this happen because some part of you makes her light up, and I am not yet completely without mercy. But to protect what is mine, I will be. Do not force my hand, Illario. This ends, now. And for Maker’s sake, put on your underwear man, and get out of my House.”

Illario knew that things would be set in motion, and he would either have to accept and live with them, or be incited to rally against them - and he knew which he intended to do. He was well aware of what people thought about him. That he was capricious. That he was materialistic, callous, shallow, and only liked to gamble, duel and fuck. They were not wrong. Those things were all true to a degree, he was as they said- but he was also more. And it was times like these that he was grateful for people continuously underestimating him. 

He put on his underwear and picked up his leathers, reaching into the pouch to pull out a velvet drawstring bag, about to throw it to Viago, but the Talon squinted at him with distrust and shook his head. “Open it, and put whatever is inside on her dresser,” he ordered, not foolish enough to catch something thrown at him by another assassin. 

The younger man sighed and pulled at the strings, then tugged at the fabric to show Viago a small, glass bottle. Even from across the room, Illario could see the way recognition fell upon his face, his eyes glued to the crystal atomiser. He knew what it was. He knew the effort it took to get one, the time and the expense. What people in his position meant by giving someone a bottle of bespoke perfume. 

“Do you even know if she feels the same way about you? Are you so sure in your affections that you would doom two Houses to bloodshed? Do you want to see Lilya hurt?” he asked, still staring at the bottle.  “There are only three certainties in my life, Fifth Talon,” Illario replied, pulling his pants on one leg at a time. “That I will become the First Talon, that I will one day die, and that I will do both with Lilya by my side.” Viago said nothing or deigned even to give the other man another look, moving past him to pick up the bottle before he left the room. 

Illario jumped out of Lilya’s bedroom window, easily hopping down from the second-floor drop. He hoped she liked her perfume and understood the meaning behind such a gift. Viago certainly had. Effortlessly, the Crow bounded over the rooftops and made his way to the building where all the chatty little fledglings congregated, smirking to himself. He didn’t care if he forced Viago’s hand or Caterina’s- he would suffer every blow for both he and Lilya, and then he’d return the favour to them tenfold.  ---

He had never wanted for anything. He’d been a happy enough child- except during his time with Caterina. Even then, he couldn't claim he had it harder than any other Crow. The hollowed out Villa was miserable, Caterina even worse, but he would never insult his brethren like that. Not after he’d borne witness to the training facilities in their capital. 

When he became a full Crow and was deemed worthy to be treated as an actual member of his house again, he gained access to luxuries that would make even the most decadent nobles burn with envy. In a life where everything lay at his fingertips, he regularly indulged in new and exciting pleasures: the finest wines, custom-made livery, and exclusive experiences that could only be afforded by those with the right connections and obscene amounts of coin. And for a time, it worked- a patch over the gaping wound in his chest that never seemed to close, no matter what he did.

He knew there was more to life, even if others thought he cared only for his superficial diversions and his relentless desire to succeed Caterina. But his true avarice did not lie in ambition alone. It ran deeper. It was a hunger to be seen, to be wanted, to be accepted. Perhaps even loved… if he dared admit it.

So imagine his surprise when, after years of searching, he found something that made the ache subside. He still remembered the first time he saw her; he had taken a contract in Antiva City when he happened upon someone who made him stop dead in his tracks. She stood quietly in the corner, stoic, more focused on the children in front of her than on the senior Crow who had entered the training yard. Curious, he stopped one of the trainers from his House and asked about her.  “Hey, Gianni, who is that?” 

“Who?” 

“That one over there, with the black hair past her waist,” he grinned, unable to tear his eyes off of her for more than a couple of seconds. Gianni scanned the yard and scoffed, rolling his eyes at Illario and laughing, thinking the Master Assassin was merely joking. When Illario did not join in and continued to stare at the woman, Gianni sobered and gawked at him, completely baffled. 

“Are you being serious?” 

“What?” he asked, still watching the girl as she corrected her sparring partner’s grip on their dagger. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me. Have you been living under a rock back there in Treviso? That’s Viago’s girl.”  Illario finally tore his eyes away from her and back to his stricken acquaintance, who appeared to be afraid on his behalf. Typical Gianni, how he had managed to survive as a Crow for so long was anyone’s guess. “What, like Viago’s girl or Viago’s fledgling who just so happens to be a girl?”

“Yes.” Gianni sighed and shook his head, utter disbelief plastered on his tattooed face. “She’s the most promising one of the bunch, escorted here by Viago himself about five years ago. Used to come up here every few months to check in with the instructors, but now she’s close to becoming a full Crow, he’s been coming up much more often to check in and mentor her personally.”  Illario whistled and nodded appreciatively. He had never heard of Viago purposely taking time to directly manage any of his House’s fledglings, either he really did have a special interest in her or he was already making moves to be considered for the next Fifth Talon. 

“So, for once, be smart, Illario-” “I am always smart, Gianni-”  “Yeah, a smartass. Viago isn’t someone you cross, he’s actually eerily similar to your grand-”

Illario pinned the trainer with a sharp glare that made the man swallow his words, coughing nervously as he excused himself. And whilst he didn’t pay any heed to Gianni’s words, he did not approach her for years, until they were chosen to take part in the same contract. 

A member from each House had been handpicked by their Talons and sent to Antiva City for a reconnaissance and assassination contract arranged by the royal family. So, everyone was concerned when Viago had his little paramour stand for House de Riva in place of one of the other Master Assassins under his command. They all wondered if it added credence to the rumour that the Fifth Talon was finally tired of the pretty young thing now that Teia Cantori was in the picture. They all looked at her with a mixture of derision and pity- stupid, little girl- a Talon and bastard son of the King was never going to be her means to a happy ending. What truly impressed Illario was that she didn’t let their not-so-subtle snickers or whispers affect her at all; the youngest of their team acting the most mature. It was laughable. 

They had to form two-man cells to complete their missions, and he raised his hand immediately to be paired with de Riva. There was no contention; they all saw her inexperience as a liability rather than the potential for excitement she might bring. Their comrades rolled their eyes at him and sent knowing smirks his way, assuming he was only after one thing- and happily let him chase after her. She had been quick to voice her displeasure at being paired with him. The first words out of her mouth after leaving the meeting were that Viago would kill her for getting partnered with him, and he laughed, flattered, not at all offended that the Fifth Talon had even thought to warn her about him. He found it absolutely hilarious. “Really? Pray tell, please tell me what Viago de Riva had to say about me.”   Lilya eyed him warily but relented, seeing no harm in his knowing. “He told me to keep my wits about you. That there was more to you than what most people saw.”  Well, well, well. Perhaps he had been too harsh on the man. As much as he kept to himself, he certainly did know how to read people.“He also said that when you tried something, and that you would, I had his permission to kill you.” 

Yes, he really was a great judge of character.  

“Oh really, Baby Crow, you think you’d be able to kill me?” he asked, genuinely entertained by the confidence the little chit had. If he weren’t already intrigued by her, it would have been the beginning of his fascination. Lilya shook her head and smiled up at him, her posture relaxed as she stood before him at a polite distance.  “No, of course not, Master Crow,” she said plainly, both maintaining eye contact for long enough for him to realise her eyes were the exact same shade as his mother’s favourite emerald ring. She stepped forward and invaded his personal space, an audacious thing she was, her hands locked behind her back to show that she was no threat, even leaving her front open, practically welcoming him to try to attack her underhandedly. “I know I can kill you.” 

Lilya smirked up at him. The vixen. He didn’t know why, but he believed her, and he knew it said something about himself that it somehow made her more alluring. Illario wasn’t afraid of her threats, no, he was much more concerned with the fact that this small thing had managed to captivate him by doing so little. It was not just because she was stunning, but she, too, had more bubbling under the surface, and he was ever so curious to find out what. 

Illario tapped her on the nose, Lilya crinkling it slightly which amused him to no end- he almost wanted to ask her to do it again. What in Maferath’s bloody balls was happening to him?  

“I look forward to seeing all you can do, de Riva,” his voice huskier than he intended as his eyes roamed down her form.   

“Oh, I’m sure you are,” she replied wickedly, “but I’ll make sure you don’t.”   

A challenge. That’s all she was. Just a tantalising challenge wrapped in leather and smelling like the flowers his father would give to his mother whenever he’d return from a contract... What were those flowers again? 

She was about to turn and walk away from him, but she thought better of it and locked eyes with him again. He opened his mouth to say something undoubtedly witty when she returned the favour, and tapped him softly on his nose, stunning him. She grinned and wished him a good night and walked away with a sway he wasn’t sure could be taught. Even by the Crows.

Oh, he was going to have so much fun with her, for however long it lasted between them. 

---

But it didn’t end. 

He had waited for the illusion to fade, for her veneer to dull. Waited for his desire to be sated, for the thrill of the chase to slow down into banal routine, for the smile she drew from him to lose its warmth and become just the practised curling of his lips. But it never happened. Each time he returned, he wanted more. She shone brighter, each touch and taste of her sweeter than the last. Everything- both familiar and new- remained vibrant, intoxicating, and effervescent. His smile for her never faltered, not once.

It was enough to drive him mad, if he weren’t already half-mad from whatever spell Lilya had cast over him.

She cut through all his bullshit, had seen him more bare than anyone and still wanted to be around him. It was unheard of, unthinkable, unbelievable. Yet there she was. She tried to convince him (her, it was always her that needed convincing) that it was just for fun, just good sex, that she enjoyed spending time with him, and it really wasn’t serious. That they were able to walk away at any time, no strings attached. Like good little Crows.

And there they were, four years later, more entwined than ever. Neither knew where to begin cutting away at their attachment without tearing into themselves, only to find pieces of the other still clinging, impossible to remove, without leaving something important behind. There was no clean break for them, only the painful truth that moving on would mean losing parts of themselves they could not bear to part with (each other, they did not want to lose each other).

Illario didn’t know how to go back to the time before she became part of his life. To return to the dull and the dreary- the contracts, the mindless games of craps at the Diamond, and the endless waiting. Always waiting, for Caterina to make up her mind.

How was he supposed to go from sipping cappuccinos at Café Pietre in the mornings, as they sat back-to-back, both of them reading the latest serials from Tevinter... to nothing? From cuddling on a random rooftop, far from prying eyes, watching the skyline of Treviso shift and shimmer as the city changed. From those days when he came back from a contract feeling tainted, scrubbing himself raw, only for the noise in his head to quiet at the gentle brush of her hand through his hair. The sound of her humming, steady and soft, easing a pain he hadn’t even known he carried.

How could he lose all of that?

He couldn’t.

He wouldn’t. 

The sound of a carriage drew near, his ears picking up on the horses’ hooves on the street just in time to start moving, his introspection almost causing him to miss her after waiting for her for the last four hours at the least-travelled passage to get to Antiva City. He thanked his gut for knowing the overly paranoid bastard would send his right-hand through there in case there was to be a confrontation, and Lilya was forced to reveal where her real talents lay; there would be little risk of witnesses. 

He threw caution to the wind and leapt between the buildings to descend from his perch, losing his footing when one particularly loose tile slid down the roof, causing the assassin to fall short of his intended landing and almost swearing loudly enough for the carriage driver to hear. Illario crouched low to the ground, pressing himself into the shadows so the man wouldn’t see him as the carriage rolled by. He grabbed onto the railing just behind the driver’s box, and Illario could feel his ire grow at the old man who still hadn’t noticed anything amiss. If the man had been in charge of her safety, Illario would have slit his throat to save the driver from the embarrassment of doing such a poor job.

He was close enough to the door to hear Lilya swearing and cursing his name, and he almost barked with laughter. There he was, dangling like an idiot to see her- and he was probably the last person she wanted to see, especially after he was the reason she’d been sent off on a useless contract. Illario tapped on the driver’s arm; the man jumped at the sudden contact, pulling the carriage to a harsh stop. The Crow flashed his knife at the shaking man and mouthed for him to stay. The driver nodded frantically and dropped the reins to his feet. Illario smiled and tipped an imaginary hat to him.  

“You called for me, Paloma?” he chuckled, opening the door to one of the most beautiful sights he had ever seen- Lilya, staring at him with her mouth slightly open and eyes so full of hope that he knew, without doubt, he had made the right choice that day. Following her to her house, risking what could become another Crow civil war, he would do it all again. He would follow her into the Void itself and call it the Maker’s side, so long as she stood by him.

Caterina might never name him as Talon, but he’d be damned if he let her take the one good thing he had left, the one thing he knew was his. She could choke on her pride and the archaic rules that were written in the blood of others; he wasn't giving her up. Not now. Not ever. 

He left Lilya, knowing that she could take care of herself without him or Viago bothering her and hovering on the sidelines. He had to hold up his end and begin his preparations. He didn’t know if six months was enough time for everything he had to do, but he’d do the impossible for her homecoming- oh, it was going to be one hell of a party. 

Softly tagging: @rookamell @mythals-whore @talkmagically @selennes @serstolas @davrinsleftpectoral @thedissonantverses @himluv @hightowerqueen and anyone else who wants to play- im super late this week so I don't know who has been tagged or not TT__TT

[loppezz]

My be a bit ooc but I think UU!Loppezz probably thinks, that despite how horrible wemmbu makes her feel and how bad wemmbu treats her. She it technically speaking, the safest when shes with him, because for some god damn reason the purple freak still tries to defend loppezz in fights, even tho time and time again wemmbu acts like he hates her.

Also a bit more of a Wemmbu headcanon tbh but it ties to UU!Loppezz, but the fact that Loppezz doesn't see wemmbu for his mace, is probably why wemmbu defends her so much, but at the same time hates it.

Wemmbu is constantly called "the guy with the mace."

"What do you mean you're retired? You took out a bunch of invis guys- you have a mace man" - Theo

"Why didn't you go in there with you mace and just kill them like last time dude." - Egg

Wyll wanted to kill wemmbu for the reputation. To become the new mace wielder.

Constantly he's been told to just use his mace and that it would so much more simpler if he did. It's ingrained into his head that all he is good for, is the mace.

Only three people truly see wemmbu as something other than the mace.

Rejoice, who saw he had one then brushed it off like it was nothing, which I like to think is partly why his death changed Wemmbu so much.

Flame, who told him to fight him normally in a 1v1, he wanted to fight the true wemmbu, not the one with what was basically an unfair cheese, in a twisted way that made wemmbu feel seen as more than just a mace.

And finally, Loppezz, she sees wemmbu for who he truly is, a blood-thirsty psychotic killer, who needs some dude named Eggchan to hold him back half the time. And I think that partly irritates wemmbu. Shes seeing behind that mask, that power, and seeing a psycho killer whos only goal is to shower in blood and riches. It's partly why he dismisses her so easily and treats her and anything she owns horribly. He HATES that someone is see the real him, but at the same time, he's grateful, he's not just seen as some weapon in the eyes of loppezz, so despite how annoyed he gets at her, he still protects her and doesn't let her die.

For Rejoice he died to quickly for him to process that, and Flame is too skilled for him to do anything really.

I finally had some time to read through this and HOLY MOLY PEAK, i would agree with everything here, and heres some food for thought.

loppezz has no one who she can trust to not kill her other than wemmbu, although he is the single last person she would want to ask but in regards to her motivations he is the only option, because he wont kill her.

there have been times where she has tried to confide in him and be friends in hopes that maybe he'll take her under his wing but their history is destined to be a rivalry probably. Sky Civ is the best example of that. He has given her the cold shoulder many times, and many times when she didnt need him the most, he always took away what new found protection she had.

It always leads back to wemmbu being the source of her problems, and shes not sure how to escape. She knows exactly who he is, which brings her some anxiety at his unpredictability but can also count on it aswell! which is kind of a curse, but its a guranteed result.

[angel06babysworld]

Debt Collector

sugar!daddy!rafe x slutty!reader

Red Flags and Jealous Hands

༶•┈┈༓┈⛧┈༓┈┈•༶

The first message came a week later.

UNKNOWN:

“Miss me, baby girl?”

She stared at the screen too long. Too frozen.

She’d changed her number. Moved buildings. Burned bridges to cut ties with them. That part of her life was supposed to be done. Buried. Paid off.

But you don’t walk away from men like that.

You run. And you keep running.

She deleted the message.

And then came the second.

UNKNOWN:

“You still owe us.”

The panic didn’t hit all at once. It seeped in slowly. She started checking over her shoulder when walking home. Looking twice at cars parked across the street. Her heart didn’t beat right for three straight days.

She didn’t tell Rafe. Because she knew what he’d do. And maybe that scared her more than the texts.

The third message came while she was with him.

She was in his lap again, his hand on her thigh, her head on his shoulder. Her phone buzzed. She didn’t mean to check it, but the preview popped up before she could stop it.

He saw.

He always saw.

“Who the fuck is that?” he asked, voice too calm.

“No one,” she said too fast.

He snatched the phone before she could lie better.

Silence.

Then: “You know these people?”

She didn’t answer. His jaw flexed. His hand curled tight around her phone, like he was deciding whether to snap it in half.

“Are they watching you?” he asked.

She swallowed. “I don’t know.”

Wrong answer.

Rafe stood up so fast, she nearly fell off his lap. Pacing now. Breathing hard. Like someone lit a match in his bloodstream.

“Have you seen them? Talked to them?”

“No. I haven’t—”

“Then why the fuck are they still texting you?” he snapped. She stared. He’d never raised his voice like that. Not once.

“Because I owe them money,” she said quietly. “Because I thought I could handle it myself.”

He stopped. Looked at her like she’d slapped him. “You thought I’d let someone come after you?”

“I didn’t think you needed to be involved,” she said. “This isn’t your—”

“I own you,” he cut in. Calm now. Cold. Final. “That makes it my problem.”

Her stomach flipped.

She wanted to argue. Scream. Slam the door on his control. But all she could do was sit there, breath tight in her chest, heart hammering. Because the way he said it— I own you— didn’t sound like a threat. It sounded like a promise.

tags: @amelialovesrafe @alyisdead @illumoria

[eponastory]

Watching From the Tower Part 3

Bucky x F! Reader

Your code name is Scout and your job was easy. You worked the cyber side of things for the New Avengers. You directed them where to go with your hacking skills, and you are the eyes in the sky. There was just one problem... you don't like leaving the tower. You are not a complete agoraphobe, but you are pretty close. Leaving makes you feel so unsafe and people touching you, that's even worse. So, when James Buchanan Barnes the former 'Winter Soldier' tries to get you out for one mission, things got a little hectic after that.

Part 3 Summary: We learn how you met Bucky for the first time and then what is going on with the radiation in Singapore... and then an intimate moment happens.

One Year Ago…

Your coffee machine was broken again. It was on its last leg to begin with because you had it since you were in college and it’s been close to twelve years. You took very good care of your coffee maker because without caffeine, you couldn’t get the work done that you needed to. It just didn’t happen without your four cups of coffee in the first part of the day. But lately, it’s been having some issues. That didn’t matter as long as you were able to pour that delicious, warm smelling brew in your ‘I’m a Hack’ mug and then add more creamer than coffee. You were golden. 

As it was, you were on the trail of something big. Of course, it was brought to your attention by an anonymous whistleblower named ‘Isurvivedthewarforthis1917’ which had you in stitches because you immediately traced the email to a specific IP address in Brooklyn, New York. Well, he may be old, but he at least knows how to work an email. Hell, you had a feeling he knew you could track him down. Since he was on the campaign trail that he obviously had no reason to hit, you were definitely on to him just as much. 

He was on the news on the daily at this point with someone always bringing up his past as the Winter Soldier and how he killed JFK. You were pretty sure that pardon he was given didn’t even hold up to the people that were against him. 

You smile as you see him on the news looking very awkward in front of the camera and partially choking up a little when asked questions he was uncomfortable with. You could see in his eyes. Of course the interview had been completed on Thursday and today was Saturday. It was really silly how the emails he sent you started off with him sending documents that he uncovered because one of his interviewers asked him something. What that was, you didn’t really know, but it was pretty much a given. 

Actually, you’re still not sure how he even found you. You just know one day there was an email from ‘Isurvivedthewarforthis1917’ with a name and a few documents that were definitely classified. How did he get them? You weren’t sure, but maybe the Winter Soldier was smarter than people gave him credit for. 

Maybe.

You sit at your desk when you get the alert on your screen. It’s on the messenger app that you made him download because emails are easily traceable and you can do something about the app because you made it. 

Isurvivedthewarforthis1917: I need your help with something. 

Yournamesobvious: Okay, what do you need? BTW. You looked awful in that interview.                        Ever thought about getting a stylist?

Isurvivedthewarforthis1917: Was it the hair? Or the suit?

Yournameisobvious: Sorry, but it was totally both. Anyway, what’s up?

Isurvivedthewarforthis1917: I knew it. 

Isurvivedthewarforthis1917: Valentina, she’s going to be hosting a gala later this month. I would like it if you could work the crowd. 

You panic. You’ve barely left your apartment in close to three years and this man who is pretty much a complete stranger you’ve been doing some ‘research’ for is asking you to go into public? 

Yournameisobvious: Uh… sorry. I can’t go. I have a thing I have to do that night. 

Isurvivedthewarforthis1917: I didn’t even tell you the date. 

Isurvivedthewarforthis1917: Is it because you are afraid of going out? 

Your hands freeze over the keyboard. You’ve never told him about your phobias. 

Isurvivedthewarforthis1917: I get it. Trust me.

Yournameisobvious: I don’t think you do.

Isurvivedthewarforthis1917: Try me. 

There is a knock on your door and you look at the messages on your screen before you make them disappear. You don’t know who could be at your door right now, but you do everything you can to clear your space, hiding the evidence of the PI files you were working on and everything else. 

“Just a moment!” You yell out before putting everything back in the filing cabinet by your desk and moving to the door. “I swear to God Philis if that is you, I didn’t take your mop.” You unfasten the chain lock and turn the four deadbolts on your door before opening it. 

Your eyes go wide when you see Future Congressman James Buchanan Barnes leaning up against the wall on the outside of your door dressed in black with his hood up over his head. You shake your head because you have no idea how he found you. Then again, he was a former brainwashed assassin. He holds his phone up as you look at him in disbelief. 

“Wasn’t hard to find you.” He shows you the last thing he sent before putting his phone in his pocket. You question him with your eyes because you’re too stunned he’s there to speak. “Backdoor tracer. Very handy when you’re looking for someone. Been using it since the mid 2000’s.” 

You shake your head and come to your senses. “Backdoor tracer? Really?” You scoff. “Old school, but efficient.” Opening the door wider, you decide to let him in and he removes the hood from his head. He’s tall, broad shouldered, definitely not what you expected in person, but you can’t be picky. “How did you figure out which apartment was mine?” 

“It wasn’t hard. Your name was on the buzzer, but I managed to use another old trick to get in by buzzing someone else and acting like I was bringing food.” He puts his hands in the pockets of his jacket. “And I got your name from the same person who told me about you. It was on her phone while she wasn’t looking.” 

“Illya.” You sigh hard when you realize who you were dealing with here. “Alright, so you are resourceful.” You run a hand through your hair and then slap your hands against your thighs. 

“She left her phone where I could get a hold of it.” He smirks in a way that makes you think he’s joking, but he really isn’t. 

“Okay, so what are you doing here?” Crossing your arms, you shift from one foot to the other. “I guess I’m not what you expected, huh?” 

He shrugs. “I may have done a background check on you.” He says it like it’s not a big deal. “Besides the point, I’m here to see if you’ll help me with this one thing and if it’s a no, then I’ll leave.” He looks over at the door. 

“I don’t like leaving my apartment.” You don’t need to explain any further when you see his face change. “You know what happened don’t you?” 

“I saw the police reports.” He doesn’t mention if he had seen her medical reports. “What happened to you, it’s unforgivable.” He takes a step closer, but you take a step back and he sees that. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay.” 

“Do you ever leave?” The question is not what you expected. 

“For the necessary things– like the doctor and sometimes when I really need something.” The last time you left your apartment was for that one doctor appointment that you dread every year. The one no woman likes to go to. “I have to force myself out.” You sit on your couch, grabbing a throw pillow and hugging it to yourself to guard against whatever he might do. Bucky Barnes is still a stranger in your home, even if you’ve been talking to him through the internet. 

He sits down on the opposite side and you notice his vibranium hand then. He doesn’t hide it. You’d think that he would, but he doesn’t. It’s there for everyone to see. Somehow that interests you a little more than it should because it’s Wakandan technology that anyone would want to get their hands on. 

“I need your help.” You aren’t sure if he’s pleading with you are if he’s demanding, but it’s clear that he’s desperate. “The files I asked you to dig up, what did you find out?” 

“Everything is locked up tight.” You have been working for three weeks to get into tight encryptions to unbury those files. “When I do get into something, it’s like there is nothing to see, but it’s clearly been tampered with. There are outlines where code has been changed by an algorithm and then a scrambler.” You pick at the sleeve of your hoodie. “She has someone doing this and they are just as good as I am.” 

Bucky shrugs. “We’ll figure it out.” Then he switches back to the reason why he is here. You were waiting on his strategy. “I have to work the people at the Gala to see what I can find out and gather evidence.” 

You aren’t good with crowds. The thought of being anywhere else except right where you were made you panic because it was unsafe and someone could be right around the corner ready to… no. You can’t think about it. Squirming in your seat, you start to shake as memories you wish stayed buried resurfaced again. Of course, he notices and puts his eyes on you. You can’t stand the look of pity that anyone gives you once they realize what is happening, but instead those blue eyes are filled with something else. 

Understanding. 

Public knowledge of what he had gone through was the reason you were wary of him, but it was the things that you didn’t know that made you feel different. Not so much scared, but cautious because there were only so many things you could find about him. The rest you had to ask him about. So, you sit there on the couch, crossing your legs and holding onto a throw pillow. Its your shield against him. 

“I can hack the cameras and hack cellphones to listen to chatter.” You offer him this one thing. “Its pretty much all I can do from here.” 

“That's all I need.” He gives you a half smile. 

You stand up going to your filing cabinet that you hid everything in and rifle through it looking for something. There it is. A small case about the size of a business card and as thick as a USB drive sits at the bottom. You pull it out before bringing it to Bucky and handing it to him.

“These are comms. Stark-tech that is made to be discreet. Fits right on the inside of the ear and you’ll be able to hear me from the gala. It works off of satellite transmission.” You watch as he opens the case up to see tiny little dots that are of different skin tones. “You’ll have to call me when you put them in so I can hook up the satellite.” He looks up at you, impressed by what you have. “You stole these from Stark?” 

“I made them.” Before the Snap, before five years of torture. “Stark didn’t like the idea, he wanted something more along the lines of Wakanda.” You had never been to Wakanda or seen what they had to offer so matching technology was problematic. “I think they are just as good, if not on par.” 

He nods as he looks at how tiny they are. “No one else will hear you?” 

“Nope. It’s directional and I calibrate them to your specific hearing range.” 

“Perfect.” He shuts the case and stands up. “I’ll call you when I get to the gala.” Bucky pockets the case. “I’ll keep checking in with you until then.” 

You watch as he leaves, feeling like he is going to be a permanent fixture in your life. 

Now 

“Are you sure that it's Plutonium?” The same man who came to your apartment over a year ago walks beside you as you both walk through the halls. 

He's got the tablet in his hands with all the information you could dig up from spectrometers within the area of the mission. You are positive that its Plutonium, but more so positive there was a good amount that had been pooled together for whatever reason. Its radioactive isotopes were picked up at least five kilometers out from the source, which is not good. Still, besides the bouts of nausea and fatigue that the team encountered, the radiation was mild. 

“Bucky, I'm pretty sure that some experiment went wrong there and now we either have some super villain or a monster growing in there.” You had used another satellite to keep an eye on it and noticed that the heat was clustering together into a smaller area. “My bet is on a super villain.” 

Bucky stops, grabbing at the fabric of your cardigan to pull you back. “Wait a moment… you're saying someone pulled a Valentina.” 

“Or… a Banner.” You cock your head with a smile. “Bucky, there are dozens of people out there that are capable of doing some really bad stuff with their knowledge… you know this.” 

“Yeah, I do.” He starts walking again and you go with him. “But we cant fight someone who is literally nothing but radiation.” 

“No one can.” You shrug. “But the worst part is, whatever it is will be around for a very long time.” Thinking back to your days in college level organic chemistry, you think of the scenarios that could've led to this. “In 1945 there was an incident involving a core of Plutonium. Two scientists didn't handle it properly and were exposed to the radiation. Both died within days.” The Demon Core was a well known radiation incident that happened just after Project Manhattan concluded. Radiation wasn't understood well enough then, but now, someone had to be an idiot to do something with it. 

“So what do we do?” 

“This is a very different beast, so I have no idea.” The thought of your team, your family, going up against something so deadly terrifies you. “Bucky…” 

“I know.” He stops right in front of the elevator. “We can't fight this. At least, I don't think we can.” The doors open and you both step inside. “We'll keep an eye on this though.” He hands you the tablet and you take it, sliding it under your arm. 

“Right.” There is definitely a lot to be concerned with. “Shouldn't we alert the government about this?” 

Bucky looks at you. “Yeah, that's what I'm going to do now.” He gives you that half smile that you both love and hate so much. “Then, after that, its lunch time because I am starving.” 

“Are you eating chili dogs again?” 

“No.” He scoffs. “I'm ordering Greek today.” You hum, standing in silence for a moment before his vibranium pinky reaches over to wrap around yours. “You want some?” He looks at you from the side. 

Feeling his pinky wrap around yours is a little jarring at first, but it's clearly something he's testing with you. Testing your boundaries has been his motive lately, but he's been respectful about it. Ever since he carried you to your apartment a week and a half ago, he's been doing these little gestures to get closer to you. Its not out of character for him, but its something you find both annoying and endearing. But this? This is surprisingly okay. You can handle this. 

“Yeah, I'll take some.” You squeeze his pinky with yours. “You think you're so sneaky.” 

“I have no idea what you are talking about.” The doors open and he walks out to the hub where the team can usually be found, however it was just Bob. “It’s unusually quiet here today.” He notices just like you do. 

No Walker bickering with Ava over something stupid. No Yelena arguing with Alexei. It was just quiet, except for the sound of Bob playing the Nintendo Switch. You actually miss the noise, but at the same time, you aren’t sitting at your desk rubbing your temples in frustration when Walker tries to explain something that is so simple. You look at Bucky, still holding on to his pinky before he’s pulling you towards his office without anyone there to see, because there can’t be any rumors or ideas. 

His office is spotless. No clutter because he hates not being able to find anything while your apartment looks lived in. You’ve never been to his place, but you can imagine that his home is just as spotless as the office he occupies. There aren’t a lot of things that make it look like its his space, but you do see the books on the shelf behind the desk. The ones that you ordered for him sit on the shelf and then you see one on the desk with the bookmark you gave him in it. It makes you smile that he kept it. You know he keeps you on his mind because you are the first person he texts in the morning. 

When he shuts the door behind you, his hand leaves yours. You aren’t sure how to feel about that because you’ve become accustomed to his pinking hooked around yours after a short time. You watch him as he stands in front of you, his eyes looking into yours, asking permission to do something. You aren’t sure what he wants, but you take the initiative and reach your hand out to touch him. 

Your fingers ghost the material of his jacket sleeve before you grip it. Maybe giving him something would ease the tension that has been slowly building between the two of you for over a year now. 

Bucky inhales before he’s lifting his right hand to your cheek, brushing it with his thumb and then leaning forward as his vibranium hand moves to your side. He places a tender kiss on your lips, giving you the chance to back away if you need. It’s fine. You aren’t feeling violated or forced. You don’t feel the panic that you think you would feel as close as you are to a man. To anyone really. You know Bucky. You trust him because he protects you from everyone. He gets in between you and Val when she comes up to be petty or pick on you. He is always hovering over you because he knows you’re vulnerable, and sometimes its annoying as Hell. Still, you let him because you do care about him. 

When he pulls back, he looks into your eyes to see if he did something you didn’t like, but you lick your lips. You tasted whiskey on them. Probably from the sip he had earlier before he came to you for the results of the scans. 

You don’t say anything when you crash your lips against his. But just as you do, alerts start going off and you want to shoot whoever is calling in for a mission now. 

“Goddamnit.” He spits out as you break apart. 

The timing couldn’t be any worse. 

Part 2 Master List Part 4

[shipstorms]

do you ever do the thing where you write whatever to get going on something else and then you end up with like 17 googledocs made up of a single paragraph each —

anyway here’s one of them. inspired by moneyball. main problem here is that i’ve never followed baseball and have only been to games for beer and garlic fries. mea culpa.

"Uh huh," John says. Pinches at his chin like he's thinking, even though there's nothing in his brain right now. "Uh huh. Okay. And just how do you figure?"

Harding looks over at Gale, who has his eyes downcast and is clearly not expecting to take the lead on this one. He startles back up to attention when Harding says, "Gale. Why don't you tell him."

Gale’s got tufted blond hair, but everything else about him is sharp — eyes, face, shoulders, knees, general countenance. He should be peering out condescendingly at John from the pages of a magazine that he’s jerking off to instead of sitting in his living room on a thrifted armchair, lit dully under a sixty watt bulb.

John redirects his question. "How do you figure?"

"Math," Gale says after a pause.

"Math."

"Statistics. Sabermetrics," Gale corrects himself.

"Must've missed that part of college. Enlighten me."

Harding looks at Gale again, but he doesn't need prompting this time. "Front offices look at all the same things. Home runs. Batting averages. RBIs." Gale's got a deep and scratchy voice, one that near reverberates through the underfurnished apartment. "The tried and true five-tool player kind of stuff, combined with marketability. Would this guy sell tickets for us? Would he look good on a Sports Illustrated cover?"

"Got that part in spades, Bucky," Harding chimes in, but John barely hears him, stuck in a standoff with Gale who now seems to be locked into the conversation with intensity. Zero to a hundred kind of guy, apparently.

"That doesn’t get you wins unless you’ve got two hundred million to blow," Gale continues. "Not enough people are considering obvious stats like on-base percentage or walks. Or they’re not considering it as heavily as they should be. And hardly anyone's looking at, say, slugging percentage. But that's the stuff that actually matters, if you want to build a solid team from the ground up."

Harding nudges his way in. "And no one's looking at all of those things put together," he concludes in his weighty drawl, settling back against the cushion like he's said something profound.

John sits back as well. Harding is still giving him a self-satisfied look as if John is supposed to know what to do with all this information. Biggest thing he learned going pro was not to beat around any kind of bush. Better to mow it down and get straight to the point. Close behind that lesson was another about not putting stock into promises no matter who was doing the promising, but John had already absorbed that one decades ago.

"Still doesn't explain why you want me," he says. "You know my stats? All of them?"

"Yes," says Gale.

"Then you know I have shitty numbers for just about everything you listed. And if you talked to anyone at all before schlepping out here, then you'd know that my elbow still feels like pins and needles and, oh yeah," John snaps and twitches his head, "I can't throw the goddamn ball anymore."

Harding leans forward, on the verge of a rebuttal, but Gale gets there first.

"Yeah," he says unblinkingly. "But you had a three-eighty OBP before your injury.

"That’s one stat."

"And most importantly, you're cheap."

John can’t help it; he laughs. Sometimes, rarely, the truth could be funny without being anything else. "We still talking about math here?" he asks, and Gale offers up the faintest of smiles. More a tightening of his lips, but it loosens that staid expression in a weird paradoxical counterbalance. "Listen, I appreciate that. I appreciate it, even if those sound like fighting words." He jiggles his leg up and down. "You know, my pops would say not to trust anything from anyone coming around past nine p.m."

"That’s a good piece of advice," Gale says. He’s staring at John dead on, probing in a way that would make anyone wonder what he sees. "My dad would say put five hundred bucks on black."

[cangrellesteponme]

sometimes...

sometimes i think that if we do a mey rin zine we should set its release date in may... because month of mey

[xxplastic-cubexx]

what is your favorite thing about charles and your favorite thing about erik? separately, as in what you like most about their characters :]

a devious question this one is, my friend!!! it's hard enough for me to explain my thoughts cohesively, but having to pick ONE thing i particularly love is difficult. with characters like charles and erik, theres been so much done with their characters over the decades and so they have so many components to them that make them so interesting and fun to observe. BUT I TRY FOR YOU TODAY. under the cut i kinda ramble and the size of this text box makin me anxious

i think if i were to be simple and broad, what i enjoy most about charles is his determination to help others, even if he isn't really thanked and/or if people don't even like him. ofc, this isn't to say he hasn't done wrong- to be honest, the fact he does wrong/questionable things at times is another aspect of him i really enjoy, maybe because- broadly speaking- he's meant to be altruistic (intent vs outcome and all that). i don't know if that's super exciting to most people, but it is for me

as for erik, my reason for liking him is easier to explain tbh. To Be Simple And Broad, his progression from villain to antihero over the decades has been fun to observe (as much as i have so far anyhow) and analyze. i think to be a bit more specific, him using his rage and pain as justifications for his villainous actions is definitely what compels me the most: hurt people hurt and the sort, an idea i've always found interesting (something something vicious cycles and the like). yet now, he recognizes this wasn't really. A Just Thing To Do and is beginning to change that, which i enjoy

[n0bluev]

@fushiglow hmm….wonder who i’d draw this for all of a sudden and why… 🤔🤔

[megumi-fm]

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