aspenmissing

[aspenmissing]

2/ʟᴇꜱꜱ ᴍᴏᴠɪᴇꜱ ꜰᴀɴᴅᴏᴍ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ

ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴀɪɴ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ || ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴏᴠɪᴇꜱ

☆ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ | ❋ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ | ✧ꜱᴘɪᴄʏ | ​ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛᴇᴅ

𝙷𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚋𝚘𝚢

𝙴𝚍 𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚗

𝙵𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝙽' 𝙵𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚛

𝚃𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚎

𝙷𝚊𝚢𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝙰𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚢

𝙲𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚞𝚜 𝚂𝚗𝚘𝚠

𝙼𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚂𝚌𝚑𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚝

ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴏꜰᴛᴇꜱᴛ ʜᴏᴜʀꜱ ☆

𝚆𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚖 𝙰𝚏𝚝𝚘𝚗

𝚅𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝙲𝚘𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛

[aspenmissing]

ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴏꜰᴛᴇꜱᴛ ʜᴏᴜʀꜱ

ᴍɪᴋᴇ ꜱᴄʜᴍɪᴅᴛ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ || 1998 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ɴᴏɴᴇ?

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ᴀ ʟᴏɴɢ ɴɪɢʜᴛ, ᴍɪᴋᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴇꜱ ʜᴏᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ꜰɪɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀʙʙʏ ᴀꜱʟᴇᴇᴘ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴜᴄʜ. ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇxᴛ ᴍᴏʀɴɪɴɢ, ʜᴇ ᴡᴀᴋᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴘᴀɴᴄᴀᴋᴇꜱ, ʟᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ, ᴀɴᴅ Qᴜɪᴇᴛ ᴘᴇᴀᴄᴇ—ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴡᴏʀᴛʜ ʜᴏʟᴅɪɴɢ ᴏɴᴛᴏ.

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴍɪᴋᴇ | ᴀʙʙʏ

The front door creaked softly as Mike slipped inside, shutting it behind him with a tired grunt. The sound of the lock clicking into place echoed through the quiet house. He stood still for a moment, fingers still gripping the door handle, shoulders slumped forward under the invisible weight of another long night shift. His eyes, rimmed red from exhaustion, took a moment to adjust to the dimness inside.

His keys jingled faintly in his hand before he tossed them into the ceramic bowl on the entryway table, where they landed with a soft clink beside the ones you’d dropped earlier. His jacket, half-zipped, hung heavily off his frame, but he didn’t have the energy to shrug it off yet.

The only light came from the flickering glow of the television down the hall, casting soft shadows across the living room. Some old animated movie played on low volume, the kind with cheesy voice acting and a plot that had long since stopped making sense. Still, it was comforting in a distant, background sort of way—the kind of thing you let play just to keep the silence at bay.

But what caught Mike’s attention wasn’t the TV.

It was you.

You were curled up on the couch, your head resting back against the armrest, one arm protectively draped around Abby, who lay fast asleep with her cheek nuzzled into your side. Her hand was clutching a fistful of your shirt, and your other arm was looped over her gently, thumb brushing her shoulder in your sleep.

The sight hit Mike in the chest like a wave.

You looked so still, so peaceful. So safe. Both of you did. The blanket covering the pair of you had slid down a little, exposing Abby’s messy curls and the soft slope of your shoulder. The dim TV light played across your face, highlighting the slow, easy breaths rising and falling from your chest.

You stirred slightly, sensing him even before you opened your eyes. When they met his, your features immediately softened.

“Hey,” you whispered, your voice gentle and warm, as if you’d been waiting for him. As if he hadn’t just walked in looking like a ghost of himself.

Mike exhaled. It wasn’t quite a sigh—it was quieter than that. A release. The kind that only came when he saw you.

“Hey,” he replied, his voice hoarse.

You carefully shifted, brushing a strand of hair from Abby’s forehead without waking her. She murmured something incoherent and turned her face closer to your side, still clinging to you like a teddy bear. You rubbed her back slowly.

“She wanted to wait up for you,” you said softly. “But she crashed about ten minutes into the movie.”

Mike stepped closer, letting his eyes roam across the living room—the now-finished puzzle on the coffee table, two mugs half-full with chocolate milk, and a forgotten coloring book flipped open to a carefully shaded drawing. His gaze lingered on the page. It wasn’t just any sketch—it was a handmade drawing of a familiar brown bear, complete with a little black bowtie and wide cartoon eyes. Crayon lines wobbled slightly outside the edges, but the care in each stroke was unmistakable.

It was… home. Somehow. A place that held more peace in a single night than he’d felt in weeks.

“Sorry I’m late,” he murmured, guilt tugging at the edges of his voice. “Things ran over again.”

“You’re always late,” you said, not accusing, just stating it with a soft smile. No frustration, no disappointment. Just a quiet understanding. “I get it.”

He lowered himself onto the couch beside you, shoulders still heavy. As he sat down, his eyes lingered on Abby’s small, peaceful form. She looked content—her brow smooth, breathing even. The nightmares hadn’t reached her tonight.

“She okay?” he asked, still watching her.

“She’s good,” you reassured him, shifting slightly so he could settle in beside you. “We did a puzzle. Made some mac and cheese, which I accidentally burned a little. She said it added ‘crunch’ and that I’m forgiven. Then she showed me how to draw wolves with laser eyes.”

He let out the faintest chuckle, barely more than breath. “Laser eyes. Of course.”

“She made a whole backstory. They fight evil alien hamsters.”

Mike shook his head, an amused huff escaping him. “She’s something else.”

You smiled, watching him for a beat longer before nudging his leg gently with yours. “You want me to make you something? I can reheat the mac and cheese. The unburnt part. Or something better.”

He opened his mouth like he might say yes—he wanted to. He was starving, hadn’t eaten since a vending machine sandwich hours ago—but all that faded under the comfort of you right here, like this.

Instead of answering, he leaned into you and gently rested his head on your shoulder. His body sagged the moment he touched you, his frame finally allowed to relax for the first time all day.

“No,” he murmured. “Just… this. This is enough.”

You didn’t say anything. Just turned your head and kissed his hair, your fingers finding his and squeezing gently. He closed his eyes.

The soft hum of the TV filled the space. Abby snored lightly. You stayed like that for a long time—Mike’s breathing slowing, your head tilted against his, his fingers laced with yours beneath the blanket.

And for once, there were no nightmares. No screams. No flickering horror behind his eyes. Just warmth. Just you.

Just home.

Light spilled across the hardwood floor in soft, golden sheets, filtered through the faded kitchen curtains you’d both been meaning to replace but never quite got around to. It stretched lazily across the living room, brushing over the back of the couch where Mike lay cocooned in the blanket you’d pulled over him in the middle of the night. The air was still cool from the early morning chill, but it carried warmth in other ways.

The smell hit him first.

Something buttery, sweet, and warm—real breakfast. Not vending machine granola bars. Not Abby’s favorite sugary cereal. Something homemade. Something comforting.

Mike blinked blearily, his body sore in a way that only came from passing out on the couch without meaning to. He stretched slowly, muscles tight, neck aching just enough to remind him he wasn’t a kid anymore. As his hand ran through his tousled hair, he sat up with a quiet groan, the blanket slipping off his shoulder and pooling around his waist.

It took him a few seconds to orient himself. The living room was bright now, the flickering light from last night’s TV replaced by sunlight dancing across the floor. The TV was off, someone had folded up the half-finished puzzle on the table, and Abby’s tiny sneakers had been tucked neatly by the door.

It was quiet.

But not tense quiet—not the kind filled with unease or the dread of something waiting to go wrong. No, this was a stillness filled with peace. With routine. The kind of silence that felt earned. Like waking up in a home where the world slowed down just enough to let you breathe.

And then he heard it.

The soft tsss of something sizzling in the pan. The rhythmic clink of a fork on a plate. A quiet giggle.

Mike turned toward the kitchen.

And there you were.

Standing at the stove in one of his old, worn T-shirts—the gray one with the faded logo he hadn’t worn in years but couldn’t bring himself to throw out. On you, it hung loose and oversized, slipping off one shoulder, the hem brushing against your thighs over a pair of soft pajama shorts. Your hair was swept up into a lazy bun, a few loose strands falling across your face, glowing golden in the sunlight.

You were humming something under your breath, lost in a rhythm all your own, flipping pancakes with practiced ease. The skillet hissed as you poured more batter, expertly nudging the edges with a spatula.

Abby sat at the small kitchen table, legs swinging beneath her in a happy little rhythm, a plate in front of her already half-cleared. Syrup glistened on her chin and a paper napkin had become her makeshift art canvas, now featuring a syrup-drawn stegosaurus with far too many legs.

She spotted Mike first.

“Mike!” she called, her voice muffled through a mouthful of pancake. “She made dinosaur pancakes!”

He blinked at her for a moment, then smiled—sleepy and lopsided, but real. “Did she now?” he rasped, voice still heavy with sleep.

You looked over your shoulder at the sound of his voice, and your eyes lit up when you saw him. You gave him a soft, knowing smile. The same one you’d given him last night. The kind of smile that didn’t ask for anything, didn’t need an explanation. The kind that simply said, I’m glad you’re here.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” you said gently, flipping another pancake and sliding it onto a plate. “You want coffee or OJ?”

Mike didn’t answer right away.

He just stood there, blinking at you, as though trying to absorb everything all at once. The sight of you in his shirt. The sound of Abby giggling. The smell of real food. The warmth of the morning sun on his face.

He walked toward you slowly, as if still in a dream. There was something magnetic about you—something grounding. Like gravity.

When he reached you, he didn’t speak. Just leaned down behind you, arms encircling your waist, head coming to rest gently on your shoulder. His body sagged into you as though this was the first moment he’d allowed himself to fully let go. You were solid, real, warm.

You leaned your head lightly against his. His stubble brushed your cheek. “Tired?” you asked softly.

“Mmm,” he murmured. Then, after a beat: “This… this is the best thing I’ve ever woken up to.”

You smiled, a small laugh escaping you as you flipped the last pancake onto the plate. “And you haven’t even tried the pancakes yet.”

His arms tightened briefly around you. “Don’t need to.”

Behind you both, Abby tapped her fork excitedly against her plate. “I saved the T-Rex for you, Mike! But he only has one leg now. Sorry.”

Mike turned to her with a crooked smile. “Thanks, Abs. He’ll still taste ferocious.”

Abby giggled, clearly proud of her own joke.

Mike stepped back just long enough to pour himself a cup of coffee from the pot you’d already set brewing—dark, just how he liked it—and then returned to sit at the table across from Abby, his fingers curling around the warmth of the mug like it was keeping him alive.

You joined them moments later, setting down a full plate in front of him—pancakes shaped like a variety of slightly mutated dinosaurs, complete with blueberries for eyes and syrup puddled into messy little volcanoes.

He stared at the plate like it was a masterpiece.

“Didn’t know you were a sculptor,” he said, glancing up at you with something unreadable in his eyes—half amused, half soft, all in.

You shrugged, sitting beside him. “You should see my spaghetti monsters.”

Mike took a bite, humming quietly in approval. “Okay. This is the best thing I’ve ever woken up to.”

“Better than vending machine sandwiches?”

“Don’t even compare them. That’s sacrilege.”

You laughed, and it was the kind of sound that filled the whole room without raising the volume. Abby reached over to steal one of the blueberries off Mike’s plate with a mischievous grin, and he let her.

There was no rush to be anywhere. No panic. No ghosts at the door.

Just pancakes and morning light and sleepy, syrup-sticky joy.

And for the first time in a very long time, Mike let himself believe he could have this—keep this. Not just survive the night.

But wake up to something worth surviving for.

[aspenmissing]

ᴏᴘᴘᴏꜱɪᴛᴇꜱ ᴀᴛᴛʀᴀᴄᴛ

ᴋᴀʀʟᴀᴄʜ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ (ꜰᴇᴍ) || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ || 1191 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ɴ/ᴀ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴛᴇɴᴛ, ᴋᴀʀʟᴀᴄʜ’ꜱ ꜰɪᴇʀʏ ᴡᴀʀᴍᴛʜ ᴀɴᴅ ʏ/ɴ’ꜱ ᴄᴏʟᴅ ɴᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴇʀꜰᴇᴄᴛ ᴍᴀᴛᴄʜ. ᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴄᴜᴅᴅʟᴇ ᴄʟᴏꜱᴇ, ᴛʀᴀᴅɪɴɢ ꜱᴏꜰᴛ ʟᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ Qᴜɪᴇᴛ ᴄᴏɴꜰᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴꜱ, ʏ/ɴ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴢᴇꜱ ꜱʜᴇ’ꜱ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ꜰᴇʟᴛ ꜱᴀꜰᴇʀ—ᴋᴀʀʟᴀᴄʜ ꜰᴇᴇʟꜱ ʟɪᴋᴇ ʜᴏᴍᴇ.

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴋᴀʀʟᴀᴄʜ

Karlach was a furnace.

That wasn’t just metaphor—it was literal. The infernal engine ticking behind her ribs was always on, like a constant forge stoked just beneath her skin. It pulsed, glowed, and hummed with every breath she took, every laugh that boomed out of her mouth, every fierce declaration she made in the heat of battle.

Her body radiated warmth like a living hearth, her very presence enough to ease the sting of winter’s bite or the deep, bone-chilling damp of a long rainy trek. To sit beside her was to invite the sun into your bones. To touch her? That was like cupping fire in your hands—controlled, steady, and alive.

Y/N, by comparison, was a walking frost spell.

Not in personality—no, Karlach would be the first to say Y/N was all soft eyes and steady kindness—but physically? She was cold to the touch. Always. Her fingers would creep under Karlach’s shirt in the middle of the night like little icicles hunting skin. Her nose, a weapon of frozen destruction. Her feet? Gods save the woman if Y/N’s bare toes found Karlach’s calves during those quiet, sleepy moments.

It wasn’t something Y/N could help. Some people just ran cold, like they had a deep winter curled up in their blood. No fire, no number of furs or blankets, no extra socks would change it. She could sleep directly on top of a campfire and still wake up with blue fingertips.

Karlach first noticed it early in their travels, back when they were still stumbling through awkward tension and half-spoken flirtations.

It had been a particularly brutal night—one of those Underdark evenings where the damp crept into the deepest crevices of your armor and bones. The fire had been stubborn to light, the kindling soggy, and when it finally sparked to life, the group gathered gratefully around it, basking in the crackling warmth. Gale and Shadowheart were already shrugging off cloaks and armor, while Astarion leaned in with the practiced flourish of someone who knew exactly how to find the best angle for both light and admiration.

Y/N, on the other hand, sat slightly apart, arms wrapped tightly around her knees. Her breath misted in the cold air, hands hidden under the too-long sleeves of her shirt. She didn’t speak, didn’t complain—she rarely did—but Karlach could see the tremble in her shoulders. The kind you tried to pass off as nothing. The kind you thought people wouldn’t notice.

Karlach noticed.

“You’re freezing, love,” she’d said, voice rich with concern and that signature raspy warmth.

Y/N had startled slightly. Then smiled, small and shy. “I run cold,” she murmured, as if it were a confession. “Always have.”

That smile didn’t fool Karlach. It was tight around the edges, like her jaw was clenched just to keep her teeth from chattering.

Without another word, Karlach had opened her arms and said, “C’mere.”

It wasn’t a question.

Y/N hesitated only a second before scooting over, settling against her. Karlach didn’t just pull her in—she wrapped around her, tucking the smaller woman into her chest, arms caged gently around her ribs, one hand absently rubbing warmth into her back.

From that night forward, it became their routine. A quiet agreement unspoken between them.

When they set up camp, Y/N sought Karlach’s presence. When the chill set in, Karlach was already waiting. When exhaustion settled into aching bones and the world outside the tent was all cruel gods and crueler odds, Karlach’s arms were a promise: I’ve got you. I’m here.

Tonight was no different.

The night air outside was bitter—one of those creeping colds that snuck through cracks in the tent and whispered frost across the grass. The others had turned in, and the fire had burned low. But inside their tent, the world was warmer.

Karlach lay on her back in her undershirt and pants, sprawled across the bedrolls like a lion basking in her den. The faint glow of her heart pulsed through the fabric, casting a soft orange light that danced against the canvas walls. Her skin glistened with a sheen of heat, not from exertion, but from the simple fact of being.

Y/N was curled up on top of her, legs tangled with Karlach’s, arms wrapped loosely around her middle. Her fingers were spread across Karlach’s sternum, right over the humming furnace beneath.

Karlach’s hands rested lightly on Y/N’s back, calloused fingers tracing slow, idle shapes. Circles. Spirals. Stars. Not quite drawing, not quite thinking—just being.

“You know,” Karlach mumbled into Y/N’s hair, voice half-muffled, half-gravel, “I think you only keep me around for body heat.”

Y/N let out a sleepy, amused hum, her cold nose nudging against Karlach’s collarbone. “Mm. That’s about seventy percent of it.”

Karlach snorted. “That’s fair. What’s the other thirty?”

Y/N shifted, just enough to press a kiss above the heartlight, right where the soft metal under Karlach’s skin gave off the strongest warmth.

“Your laugh,” she whispered. “The way you make everything feel... less heavy. The way you carry people—emotionally and physically.”

Karlach chuckled, and Y/N smiled. She could feel the laugh, warm and low, vibrating through her like a purring beast.

“And the fact you always burn the fish but never stop trying to cook it anyway.”

“Hey now,” Karlach said, mock-affronted. “That’s slander. I only burn it half the time.”

“You charred it into coal this morning.”

“That was an ambush, babe. The pan was defective. The fish was possessed. Gale distracted me with his stupid poetry.”

Y/N giggled softly, melting further into her. “Sure. Possessed fish.”

They fell into a companionable silence, the kind that only came with real comfort—when words weren’t needed, because the steady rise and fall of a chest under your cheek said more than any sentence ever could.

The only sounds were the rhythmic pulse of Karlach’s heart, the muted crackle of embers outside, and the distant call of a night bird in the trees beyond camp.

Then, softly:

“Seriously, though,” Y/N murmured, her voice small, vulnerable in the dark, “I’ve never felt like this before. Safe, I mean. Like I could fall asleep in the middle of a blizzard and not even notice, because you’d be there.”

Karlach’s breath caught. Just for a second.

She tightened her arms, pulling Y/N closer, her hand pressing flat between her shoulder blades. Protective. Fierce. Gentle.

“You’ll always have me,” she said quietly. “You’re my favourite little icicle.”

Y/N groaned. “Don’t make that a nickname.”

Karlach grinned against her. “Too late. It’s happening. I’m getting it engraved on a dagger.”

“If you do, I’m sleeping with Astarion.”

“Traitor.”

“Cold hearted traitor.”

They both laughed, warm and real, and Karlach leaned in to press a kiss to Y/N’s temple. Then her brow. Then, finally, the corner of her mouth.

“Get some sleep,” she whispered. “I’ll keep the cold away.”

Y/N nodded sleepily, already fading, her breath soft against Karlach’s neck.

And as she drifted off, cocooned in that impossible, infernal warmth, she thought: This… this is what home feels like.

And she wouldn’t trade it for anything in the Realms.

[aspenmissing]

ꜱᴛᴇᴀᴅʏ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ

ᴄʀɪᴍɪɴᴀʟ ᴍɪɴᴅꜱ ᴄʀᴇᴡ x ᴘʟᴀᴛᴏɴɪᴄ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ/ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ-ɪꜱʜ || 6598 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴛᴀʟᴋꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ ᴄᴀꜱᴇꜱ, ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ, ꜱᴇʟꜰ-ᴅᴏᴜʙᴛɪɴɢ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ʏ/ɴ ᴊᴏɪɴꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴀᴜ ᴀꜱ ᴀ ɴᴇᴡ ᴘʀᴏꜰɪʟᴇʀ, ɢᴜɪᴅᴇᴅ ʙʏ ᴀᴀʀᴏɴ ʜᴏᴛᴄʜɴᴇʀ’ꜱ ꜱᴛᴇᴀᴅʏ ᴍᴇɴᴛᴏʀꜱʜɪᴘ. ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴛɪᴍᴇ, ꜱʜᴇ ɢʀᴏᴡꜱ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴀ ᴄᴏɴꜰɪᴅᴇɴᴛ ᴀɢᴇɴᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴇɴᴛᴏʀ ʜᴇʀꜱᴇʟꜰ, ᴄᴀʀʀʏɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀᴡᴀʀᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴇᴀᴍ’ꜱ ʟᴇɢᴀᴄʏ ᴏꜰ ᴛʀᴜꜱᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴛʀᴇɴɢᴛʜ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇ.

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴀᴀʀᴏɴ | ꜱᴘᴇɴᴄᴇʀ/ᴛᴀʀᴀ | ᴅᴇʀᴇᴋ/ꜱᴛᴇᴘʜᴇɴ | ᴊᴊ/ᴘᴇɴᴇʟᴏᴘᴇ | ᴇᴍɪʟʏ/ᴀʟᴇx | ʀᴏꜱꜱɪ/ʟᴜᴋᴇ

FIRST STEPS

Y/N’s palms were slick with sweat as she stood outside the glass doors of the BAU conference room. The muffled voices inside were a steady hum, but inside her head, everything was louder — the pounding of her heart, the racing of thoughts, the questioning of whether she was truly ready for this.

Her fresh FBI badge felt heavy on her chest, almost like a physical reminder of the expectations resting on her shoulders. She was the newest member of the Behavioural Analysis Unit — straight out of training, with just enough classroom knowledge to feel overwhelmed now that she was about to face the reality of profiling actual criminals.

The door slid open, and Aaron Hotchner stepped out. His presence was calm and authoritative, as always. He noticed her immediately and gave a slight nod — no smile, but something far more reassuring in his eyes.

“Miss Y/L/N,” he said, voice steady and low. “Glad you’re here. Let’s get started.”

Aaron stepped out of the conference room and glanced back at Y/N with a steady, calm expression. “Follow me,” he said simply, his voice low but firm.

Their footsteps echoed softly down the corridor as they made their way toward the bullpen. The hum of conversation and the clicking of keyboards grew louder with each step, a mix of focused work and casual camaraderie filling the open space ahead.

=

The bullpen was a hive of activity. Spencer leaned over his desk, animatedly explaining a complex theory to Derek, who stretched his arms above his head and cracked a rare, easy smile. Emily stood nearby, casually scrolling through her phone as she exchanged a few quiet words with JJ, who leaned back in her chair, relaxed but watchful. Penelope hovered close by, her bright energy unmistakable even from a distance as she chatted animatedly with the group.

Aaron stopped beside Y/N and nodded toward the team. “This is where you’ll be spending most of your time. Everyone, this is Y/N — our newest agent.”

Before anyone else could speak, Derek smirked and raised an eyebrow. “Well, rookie, welcome to the madhouse,” he said, his tone teasing but warm.

Penelope’s eyes sparkled as she looked up from her keyboard, fingers pausing mid-typing. “Finally!” she exclaimed, practically bouncing in her chair. “I’ve been hacking into the transfer sheets for weeks, just waiting to see a new name pop up. You’re officially the newest addition to the team — I’m so excited to meet you!”

Y/N blinked, slightly taken aback but smiling nonetheless. “Wow, you were waiting for me?”

Penelope grinned. “Absolutely! It’s not every day we get fresh talent, especially someone with your reputation already circulating.”

Emily smirked and crossed her arms. “Don’t worry. You’re in good hands here.”

“We’re glad to have you with us.” Spencer said, giving her a small smile.

JJ sat forward, eyes kind and steady. “If you ever need anything, you just let us know.”

Just then, David Rossi emerged from his office, his presence commanding but warm. He approached with a welcoming smile.

Y/N’s eyes widened for a moment, a spark of admiration clear in her gaze. “Mr. Rossi, it’s an honor. I’ve read all your case files and your work on behavioral analysis — you’re kind of a legend.”

Rossi chuckled, clearly amused and pleased by the sincere compliment. “Well, thank you, Y/N. That means a lot coming from someone joining the team. Welcome aboard — we’re glad to have you.”

Y/N swallowed, her nerves easing as she took in the steady confidence radiating from the group — each member offering their own unique welcome, all unmistakably sincere.

“Thanks,” she said quietly, feeling the mix of excitement and relief settle deep inside her chest. “I’m really glad to be here.”

Aaron gave a brief, approving nod. “Alright. Let’s get started.”

LEARNING THE ROPES

The first case Y/N was assigned to was a home invasion turned murder in a small, unassuming town in Virginia. On paper, it didn’t stand out much — a wealthy couple, mid-40s, brutally murdered in their home. Nothing stolen. No signs of forced entry. The local police were rattled by the sheer violence of it, and their confusion was apparent in the jumbled case files that had been passed along to the BAU.

It was her first real field case, and it felt like the ground beneath her feet had shifted.

She’d been assigned background research and victimology, and she'd thrown herself into the task. But now, hours later, well past the fading hum of the office’s usual day shift, Y/N sat in the dim bullpen with her jacket off, sleeves rolled to the elbows, her face illuminated by the flickering light of her desk lamp and the glow of her laptop screen.

The silence was oppressive — the kind that settles deep in your bones. She didn’t even realize she was chewing on the end of her pen until her jaw ached.

Dozens of open files lay scattered across her desk. Crime scene photos. Autopsy reports. Victim histories. Witness statements. None of them made sense. The timeline had no gaps, but no meaning, either. The couple had no known enemies, no recent drama, no financial motive that jumped out. The violence was overkill — the husband beaten so badly his own brother hadn’t recognized him in the morgue. But why? Why them?

She leaned back in her chair, exhaling slowly. Her fingers ran through her hair and lingered there, gripping the strands like she could hold her brain in place if she just squeezed hard enough.

“I just don’t see the connection,” she muttered aloud, voice rough from disuse. “It doesn’t add up.”

A voice answered quietly from behind her.

“Sometimes it’s not about what’s in the files.”

Y/N startled slightly, her hand falling from her hair. She twisted in her seat to find Hotch standing there, just a few feet away, coffee in hand. His tie was loosened slightly, the first few buttons of his shirt undone — a rare sight that reminded her how long he, too, had been up.

The lights above cast shadows beneath his eyes, the weight of the case visible in the tired set of his jaw. But his presence was steady, unwavering, as it always was.

“It’s what’s missing,” Hotch continued, stepping closer, voice quiet, unintrusive. “What the killer doesn’t say or do. That can tell you just as much as what they leave behind.”

Y/N swallowed, her frustration rising into her throat. “I’ve gone over it all, five times. There’s no pattern. No forced entry, no witnesses, no real motive that sticks. It’s like they were chosen at random.”

She gestured toward the photos. “But that doesn’t make sense either — this wasn’t chaotic. It was personal. Deliberate. Angry. But there’s nothing in their past to explain that level of violence.”

Hotch nodded, setting his coffee down on the edge of her desk and leaning slightly over the files, scanning them silently for a long moment.

“I used to get stuck in this part too,” he said finally, voice even softer. “Trying to build the profile from what’s there. But the truth is, a good profile comes just as much from the gaps. What’s absent can be louder than what’s present.”

Y/N leaned forward, mirroring him instinctively, her fingers resting beside his on the folder between them.

“How do you do it?” she asked after a beat. Her voice was smaller this time. “How do you look at this — at all of this — and keep your head when everything’s falling apart?”

Hotch didn’t answer immediately.

He straightened slightly, crossing his arms, eyes fixed on the evidence board nearby. The tension in his shoulders was subtle, but it was there. A heaviness that came not just from years of experience, but from carrying the weight of other people’s trauma — his team’s, the victims’, the survivors’. And maybe even his own.

“I’ve asked myself that question a lot,” he said eventually, his gaze still distant. “In the early days, it nearly swallowed me whole. You think you can separate yourself — keep work and life in two neat little boxes. But this job doesn’t let you do that.”

Y/N was silent, watching him, listening to every word like it might be the key to unlocking her own sense of overwhelm.

Hotch rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture she’d come to recognize in their short time working together. It was subtle, barely there — but it always came before something meaningful. Something he didn’t often let himself say.

“You do it by focusing on the work,” he said finally, voice low and steady. “You find something small — a thread, a detail — and you follow it. Because in the middle of the chaos, that’s all you have. Control over your own process. Discipline. The hope that if you keep digging, eventually, the truth will give itself up.”

He looked down at her then — really looked. And in his eyes, she saw something she hadn’t expected.

Understanding. Recognition. Not just in her struggle, but in the fact that she was still trying.

“And you remember,” he added, “that you’re not alone.”

The weight of those words landed like a soft blow. Y/N blinked, biting the inside of her cheek.

She nodded, slowly. “I guess…I keep thinking if I don’t figure it out, someone else gets hurt.”

“You’re not wrong,” Hotch said. “But you’re also not the only one in the room.”

He gestured gently to the quiet bullpen around them — dark now, mostly empty, but still echoing with the lives that passed through it.

“We do this as a team,” he said. “Lean on us. Learn from us. You don’t have to shoulder it all on your own.”

For the first time that day, the tightness in her chest began to loosen.

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and looked down at the files again, eyes sharper now. She saw what he meant — not the details she had already memorized, but the gaps. The missing behavior. The things that weren’t there.

“Maybe the lack of forced entry is the entry point,” she murmured, more to herself. “If the couple knew their killer…”

Hotch gave the faintest nod. “Now you’re thinking like a profiler.”

He left her then — quietly, without fanfare — and returned to his own office, the glass walls glowing faintly in the dark.

Y/N stayed at her desk a little longer, newly focused, her mentor’s words echoing in her mind.

You focus on what you can control.

You’re not alone.

And just like that, she got back to work.

TEAM DYNAMICS

Over the next few weeks, Y/N began to settle into the BAU’s rhythm — a rhythm that was unpredictable, demanding, and always moving faster than she expected. The days bled into nights, flights blurred into crime scenes, and every briefing felt like a test. But amidst the chaos, something else began to form — a bond. A connection to the team that wasn’t in the job description.

At first, she treaded carefully, afraid to misstep. But the team, for all their brilliance and weighty presence, made space for her in their own quiet ways.

=

Spencer Reid was the first to break through her nerves. He was a whirlwind of intelligence — the kind that could be intimidating in theory, but in practice was surprisingly kind. One afternoon, while reviewing a case involving multiple arson-murders across state lines, Y/N found herself stuck on the victimology. She sat at her desk, flipping through autopsy reports with furrowed brows and a scribbled notepad in her lap.

Spencer, walking by with a book in one hand and coffee in the other, noticed her expression.

“You’re looking for a pattern,” he said gently, setting the book down on the table beside her.

She glanced up. “Yeah. I thought maybe it was occupation-based, but two of them were retired, and one was a college student. I can’t find a common thread.”

He leaned in slightly, eyes scanning the files over her shoulder. “Sometimes the connection isn’t in who they are — it’s in where they are. What if it’s geographic?”

She blinked. “Like a comfort zone?”

He smiled. “Exactly. See, Y/N, if we look at the victimology and the locations, we might uncover a pattern in the unsub’s emotional comfort zone or perceived control area.”

“Right,” she said, scribbling quickly in her notes. “That makes sense.”

He tilted his head, thoughtful. “You’ve got a good eye. You just need to trust it.”

His words stuck with her. Spencer never made her feel like she was playing catch-up — instead, he treated her like a colleague in the making, someone worth investing in. And every time he launched into one of his rambling facts mid-case — about fire behaviour or geographic profiling or the neurological link between scent and memory — Y/N listened like she was soaking up gold.

=

Derek Morgan, on the other hand, was all instinct and presence. He had the kind of charisma that filled a room without trying. At first, Y/N had been nervous around him — not because he was unfriendly, but because he was so confident. But that shifted the night they ended up in the bullpen after hours, both nursing lukewarm coffee and lingering over the same case files.

She’d been second-guessing a line she added to the profile — a detail about dominance behavior at the crime scenes.

“I just… I don’t know if I’m reading too much into it,” she admitted, voice low.

Derek leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, studying her.

“Profiling’s part science,” he said, “but it’s also part gut feeling. You look at the data, yeah, but you also listen to what your instincts are telling you. Don’t ignore them.”

She glanced at him, uncertain. “Even if I’m wrong?”

He smiled, something warm and steady in his eyes. “You’ll be wrong sometimes. We all are. But if you don’t trust your instincts now, you’ll never learn where they’re strong. This job’s about reading between the lines — and that starts with trusting yourself.”

And from then on, Derek became someone she knew she could lean on. He didn’t coddle. He expected her to keep up. But when he clapped her on the back after a good profile or nodded at her in the field, it meant something.

=

Emily Prentiss was different — quieter, more watchful. She didn’t say much at first, but Y/N could feel her presence. The way she’d catch Y/N’s eye in a tough moment. The subtle nods of encouragement. And eventually, Emily started offering insight — not all at once, but when it mattered.

One day in the field, Y/N hesitated during a suspect interview. She stumbled over a question, letting the unsub redirect the conversation. Afterward, Emily pulled her aside in the hallway of the precinct.

“You did fine,” she said calmly.

“I froze,” Y/N muttered.

“You paused,” Emily corrected. “That’s not the same thing. You didn’t lose control of the interview — you were just feeling the room. That’s a skill, not a failure.”

Y/N blinked. “You think so?”

Emily gave a small smile. “I know so. And if I didn’t, I’d tell you.”

That was Emily’s way — honest, direct, and unshakable. Over time, Y/N began to emulate her — the cool head in high-stress situations, the fierce loyalty, the ability to walk into a room and own it without needing to raise her voice.

=

JJ, as the team’s media liaison and sometimes profiler, was grace under pressure personified. She had a way of connecting with people that was natural and genuine — victims, press, teammates — and she extended that same warmth to Y/N without hesitation.

“You have to listen more than you speak,” JJ said during one of their quieter afternoons back at Quantico. “Interviewing isn’t about pushing for answers — it’s about giving people space to speak.”

Y/N nodded, biting the inside of her cheek. “I worry I come off… stiff.”

JJ chuckled lightly. “You’re new. That’ll fade. Just try to be present. People can tell when you’re really listening — and that can mean everything.”

When Y/N finally nailed her first interview — calm voice, controlled pacing, the right questions at the right time — JJ was the first to clap for her when she exited the room. And she didn’t say much, just a proud, “Told you,” and a little wink that made Y/N’s stomach flip in the best way.

=

And then there was Penelope Garcia — walking glitter, joy incarnate, the BAU’s very own heartbeat. To say Penelope took a liking to Y/N was an understatement.

On Y/N’s third week, a mug showed up on her desk — pink, bedazzled, and proudly declaring: Rookie, but Make It Fashion. There was no note, but when she looked up, Penelope was peeking over her monitor with a grin.

“Welcome to the chaos, cupcake,” she said. “You need anything — coffee, snacks, a hug, a crime tech miracle — I’m your girl.”

Y/N quickly learned that Penelope ran the tech with lightning speed and grace, but also ran emotional triage for the whole team. She was the one who made sure birthdays were remembered, that people drank water during long debriefs, that someone brought cookies after hard cases.

And she adopted Y/N like a little sister.

“You’ve got that wide-eyed ‘am I supposed to be here?’ look,” Penelope told her once while adjusting the settings on a case file projection. “But trust me — Hotch doesn’t waste time on people who can’t handle it. If you’re here, it’s because you belong.”

That meant more than Y/N could ever admit.

=

David Rossi was… different. Elegant in his approach, deliberate in his words, and always with the quiet gravitas of someone who’d seen far too much and still showed up anyway. At first, Y/N felt intimidated — Rossi was a legend in the Bureau. But one night, long after everyone else had gone home, she found herself alone in the break room, pouring lukewarm coffee into a paper cup.

“Bad day?” came his voice from the doorway.

She turned, startled. “Oh — no. Just… long.”

Rossi walked in, sleeves rolled up, loosened tie, holding his own cup. “They’re all long in this job. But some are worse than others.”

He sat across from her and nodded at the case file she had tucked under her arm.

“You know, the secret to surviving this job isn’t just profiling. It’s pacing yourself. Knowing when to push and when to pause.”

Y/N hesitated, then asked, “Do you ever… feel like you’re in over your head?”

“Every damn day,” Rossi said without missing a beat. “But then I remind myself I’ve earned the right to be here. And so have you.”

From that moment, Rossi treated her like someone he expected to become great. He’d slide books onto her desk — ones he’d written, and ones by people who'd inspired him. He’d throw in subtle questions during briefings to challenge her thinking. And when she nailed a theory or contributed something solid, he’d raise an eyebrow and murmur, “Nicely done.”

For a man of few unnecessary words, that praise went a long way.

=

Bit by bit, without even realizing it, Y/N was becoming a part of the team. They taught her in small moments — in case files and coffee breaks, in long flights and hallway conversations. Not by lecturing, but by treating her as one of their own.

And through all of it — their quirks, their brilliance, their scars — Y/N found something unexpected.

Not just a job. Not just a team.

But a family.

PRESSURE AND GROWTH

The walls of the bullpen felt like they were closing in.

It was 2:47 a.m. and the BAU headquarters was eerily quiet, save for the occasional rustle of paper and the hum of the overhead lights. The current case had been dragging on for six days. Three victims, all abducted, held for roughly thirty-six hours, then murdered and dumped near bodies of water. The unsub’s ritualistic staging made no sense. No clear signature, no solid victimology. Just chaos that masqueraded as intention.

Y/N sat at her desk, surrounded by scattered files, coffee gone cold, and a notebook filled with theories that had led nowhere. She was exhausted — mentally, emotionally, physically. Her hands were trembling just slightly as she flipped through the autopsy report for the third time, eyes blurry from lack of sleep.

This was the hardest case yet — and her first major one where she’d been trusted to help shape the profile.

And now they were stuck.

She rubbed at her temple, biting the inside of her cheek. What if I’m not cut out for this? What if I’m not strong enough, sharp enough? What if I already missed something? That thought lodged deep in her chest and stayed there, growing heavier by the minute.

"Still here?"

The quiet voice broke through her spiral, and she looked up to see Hotch standing just behind her desk. He looked as tired as she felt — tie loosened, shirt sleeves rolled up — but still composed. Always composed.

"Yeah," she said softly, trying to sound steadier than she felt. "Didn’t want to go home knowing we still don’t have a lead."

He stepped closer and looked over the scattered case files.

“You’ve been going over the victimology again?”

Y/N nodded. “Trying to find a pattern. An age group, a shared career path, something. But it’s like the victims were picked at random. There’s no consistency. It doesn’t make sense.”

Hotch pulled out the chair next to hers and sat, folding his hands on the desk. His voice was calm, measured — the kind of tone that slowed racing thoughts.

“You’re doing better than you think.”

She exhaled, eyes drifting down to the table.

“But what if I’m wrong?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “What if I already missed something important and someone else dies because of it?”

There was a long pause. When she looked up, Hotch was watching her — not just listening, but seeing her. The weight behind her words wasn’t lost on him.

He spoke gently. “This job… it forces us to carry things no one else can see. Doubt, guilt, fear. It’s part of the work. But you don’t let it stop you. You learn from it. You keep moving.”

She swallowed, trying to hold back the sting behind her eyes. He continued:

“You’re here because you earned it. You were selected for this team because you see things others don’t. You think deeply. You care. And yes — sometimes we miss things. But you don’t carry that burden alone. You carry it with us.”

There was a pause. Then, almost imperceptibly, she nodded. His words grounded her — the kind of reassurance that didn’t sugarcoat the weight of the job, but reminded her she wasn’t bearing it alone.

Hotch stood up and gave her a small nod. “Get some air. Then come back to it with fresh eyes.”

She nodded again, quietly this time. “Thanks, Hotch.”

=

Y/N didn’t go home. She stepped outside into the early morning chill, took a deep breath, and then came back inside.

She sat down at her desk and forced herself to look at everything differently. Not as a profiler trying to prove something — but as a teammate trying to save someone.

What am I missing?

She laid out the timeline again, side by side with the dump sites. Three rivers. Three bodies. Roughly the same travel distance from the city center, but in completely different directions. Then she paused, eyes narrowing.

They weren’t placed randomly. Not exactly.

Her heart began to race — not with fear this time, but with clarity. She pulled out a map, overlaying each dump site. She traced the points.

There was a pattern — a triangle, perfectly even.

She looked at the center point. An industrial park. Abandoned warehouses. She zoomed in. One in particular had once been a city-run treatment facility — it had shut down two years ago. Fenced off. Forgotten.

She checked the timestamp of the latest abduction. Thirty-four hours ago. The window was narrowing.

Without hesitation, she grabbed her notes and shot to her feet, the chair skidding slightly behind her.

“Hotch!” she called, moving briskly toward his office, where the light was still on.

He looked up from his desk as she burst through the doorway, breathless but focused, gripping the map in her hand like it was a lifeline.

“I think I found something,” she said, voice urgent but steady. “I was going over the dump sites again — and it hit me. They’re not random.”

Hotch rose from his chair immediately, crossing to meet her as she spread the map across the surface of his desk.

“Look,” she pointed quickly, tracing the three known locations. “They form a triangle. Almost perfect. Equidistant, equal angles. It’s deliberate. And when I mapped the center of the formation…” She tapped the center point. “It lands right on an abandoned water treatment facility on the edge of the city. Decommissioned two years ago, barely patrolled, but still standing.”

She looked up at him, eyes wide with realization. “It’s secluded, close enough to each dump site to match the unsub’s timing, and he’d have complete control of the environment. I think that’s where he’s keeping them.”

Hotch studied the map for a few seconds in heavy silence, his eyes scanning the locations, her markings, the logic she laid out. Then he looked back at her.

“You’re right,” he said firmly. “That fits the timeline. And it fits him.”

Y/N’s heart leapt, but she kept her hands steady.

Hotch reached for his phone. “I’ll get a team mobilized. You stay with me — you’re the one who cracked this open. We’ll brief them en route.”

He paused, looking at her with something deeper than just approval. “Good work, Y/N.”

And just like that, the doubt that had been gripping her chest for days started to unravel — replaced by purpose.

She gave a sharp nod, adrenaline rising again. “Let’s go.”

=

By sunrise, the team surrounded the warehouse. Inside, they found the latest victim — alive. Frightened, but alive. The unsub had fled moments before, likely sensing law enforcement’s approach. But thanks to Y/N’s lead, it didn’t take long before they tracked him to a nearby motel.

He was in custody within hours.

=

The sun was high in the sky when Y/N finally sat down, adrenaline giving way to exhaustion. She was drained, but there was a glow of quiet accomplishment under her fatigue.

Hotch walked over, coffee in hand.

“You saved her life,” he said simply, setting the cup in front of her.

Y/N looked up, a little stunned.

Hotch didn’t often hand out praise.

“I just… saw the pattern,” she said modestly.

He gave her a rare smile — small, but sincere. “And you trusted yourself. That’s the mark of a real profiler.”

She felt her chest swell — not with pride, exactly, but with something deeper. A sense of belonging.

“Thank you” she said. “For not letting me spiral.”

Hotch nodded once. “That’s what I’m here for.”

BELONGING

The elevator chimed softly as it slowed to a stop on the BAU floor. Y/N stepped out, the familiar hum of computers and low murmur of voices usually greeting her. But today, something was different. The hallway was unnervingly quiet—too quiet.

She paused, brow furrowing. No laughter bubbling out of Penelope’s office. No pages flipping in Spencer’s quiet corner. No teasing banter from Derek echoing down the hall. Even JJ’s soft footsteps were absent.

The silence wrapped around her like a thick fog. A flicker of unease stirred in her chest.

She rounded the corner, coffee in one hand, a thick case file tucked under the other arm, and pushed open the glass doors to the bullpen.

The sudden eruption of sound startled her so much she nearly spilled her coffee.

“SURPRISE!” they shouted in unison.

Confetti cannons exploded near Y/N's desk, scattering colourful flecks through the air. Streamers fluttered like bright ribbons against the sterile walls. Balloons bobbed near the ceiling, and at the centre of the commotion stood Penelope, practically glowing with excitement. Her fingers clapped enthusiastically, eyes shining wide and bright.

Y/N froze for a heartbeat, blinking rapidly as the team’s faces came into focus — smiling, teasing, beaming with something warm and genuine. Spencer’s lips curved in an almost shy smile. Derek leaned casually against a desk, arms crossed but eyes sparkling. Emily’s gaze held a quiet, proud twinkle. JJ gave a soft, approving nod. And there, near the back, stood Rossi — leaning against a filing cabinet with a grin tugging at his lips, arms folded but eyes alight with pride.

A tray of cupcakes sat perched on the corner of her desk, frosting glistening under the fluorescent lights, candles waiting to be lit.

Her lips parted in surprise, voice tentative. “Um... okay, I’m flattered, but my birthday’s not for another four months.”

Penelope gasped with mock offense, nearly tripping over her own feet in her trademark heels as she hurried to Y/N’s side. Grabbing her hand firmly, she practically pulled her forward with infectious energy.

“It’s not your birthday, silly!” she laughed. “Come on — just come see!”

Y/N laughed along, feeling the warmth spread through her despite the early hour. She allowed herself to be led, curiosity sharpening as she approached her desk, where a small black box sat neatly in the center, wrapped with a red ribbon that shimmered in the overhead light.

The room hushed, all eyes turning toward her, the weight of anticipation suddenly heavy in the air.

Her fingers trembled just slightly as she hovered over the ribbon.

“You guys didn’t have to—”

“You earned it,” Hotch’s voice broke through softly behind her. His presence was calm and solid, yet unmistakably warm.

She glanced back to see him standing with that familiar quiet authority, but something gentler flickering behind his usual composed gaze.

Carefully, Y/N untied the ribbon and lifted the lid.

Inside, nestled in rich velvet fabric, lay a gleaming new FBI badge alongside freshly minted credentials. She lifted them reverently, eyes scanning the embossed words:

Special Agent Y/N L/N — Behavioral Analysis Unit.

The weight of the moment settled around her like a quiet tide. For a heartbeat, she was still — the gravity of what she held finally sinking in. This was more than a piece of metal and paper. It was a symbol. A recognition of every late night, every doubt faced, every case studied and every instinct trusted.

Hotch stepped closer, expression unreadable but steady as ever.

“You’re no longer in training,” he said, voice low but steady. “As of today, you’re officially a full-fledged agent of the BAU. Congratulations.”

Her breath caught. She blinked once, twice, as disbelief slowly melted into pride. “Wait… seriously?”

Spencer, standing nearby with a shy smile, nodded. “It’s official. You passed your evaluation with flying colors.”

“You’re one of us now,” JJ said, her tone warm as she extended a cupcake toward Y/N — a peace offering wrapped in purple frosting.

Derek grinned, crossing his arms with a teasing glint. “Not bad, rookie. Guess I’ll have to find a new nickname for you.”

Emily smirked, folding her arms. “Or maybe not. ‘Rookie’ has a nice ring to it.”

Rossi chuckled and stepped forward, voice rich with warmth and a hint of pride. “You’ve earned every bit of this. I remember what it was like starting out — that mix of nerves and determination. You wear it well.”

Laughter bubbled around the room, soft and genuine, wrapping Y/N in a sense of belonging she hadn’t fully allowed herself before.

Her gaze swept across each face, overwhelmed but grateful. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll eat a cupcake before I burst from holding in all this excitement,” Penelope said, already pushing the sweet treat into her hand with a grin that could light up the darkest case file.

Hotch’s lips twitched, the smallest hint of a smile breaking through his usual stoicism.

“Say you’re ready for what comes next,” he added, eyes locking with hers in a moment of unspoken understanding.

She met his gaze, seeing not just the leader who demanded excellence, or the mentor who challenged her relentlessly, but the man who had believed in her when she doubted herself most.

“I am,” she said firmly, voice steady and sure. “I’m ready.”

The bullpen erupted into light applause and playful cheers, Penelope already rallying the team for an impromptu photo with the cupcake tray held like a trophy. Derek and Emily refused to hold anything frosting-related, sharing amused smirks. Spencer was busy cataloguing the chemical composition of the confetti glitter, mumbling to himself about polymers and biodegradability. JJ just shook her head fondly at the chaos.

Rossi clapped her on the shoulder one last time, his smile widening. “Welcome to the family, Special Agent.”

Hotch gave her one last nod — a flicker of pride passing behind his calm, steady eyes.

Then, turning quietly, he retreated toward his office, pausing in the doorway to glance back one final time.

“You’ve got the instincts,” he said quietly. “And the heart. That’s what makes a real profiler.”

Y/N clutched the badge to her chest, her smile soft and real — the kind reserved for moments when the world finally feels right.

For the first time since joining the team, she didn’t feel like she was trying to keep up.

She felt like she belonged.

STEADY HANDS

Years later, Y/N would find herself revisiting those early days at the Behavioural Analysis Unit with a quiet, almost reverent pride. The kind of pride that doesn’t shout from rooftops but hums softly beneath the surface — a steady heartbeat in the background of all she had become.

She remembered the sleepless nights spent poring over case files until her eyes burned, the gnawing uncertainty that came with her first few field interviews, and the weight of every decision made in the grey areas of morality and logic. The work was relentless, often merciless, testing every ounce of her mental strength, her emotional endurance, and her belief in herself. There were days when the darkness felt suffocating, and the line between hunter and hunted blurred in dangerous ways.

But through it all — every tense briefing, every breakthrough, every devastating loss — there was one constant, unyielding presence.

Aaron Hotchner.

She could still hear his voice, low and steady, during those moments of doubt:

“You focus on what you can control,” he had said once, after she’d questioned herself in the bullpen. “And you remember you’re not alone.”

Y/N nodded quietly then, but now those words were a lifeline.

He didn’t offer easy answers or empty encouragement. Instead, he gave something far more valuable — unwavering trust and a clear path forward when the way seemed impossible.

=

Even after Hotch left the BAU — after the tough decision to step away to protect his family and himself — that legacy lingered.

One afternoon, as the team gathered for a briefing, Y/N found herself sitting beside Derek Morgan, who gave her a reassuring smile.

“Hotch set the bar high,” Derek said, his voice calm but firm. “But he also taught us how to pick up the pieces when things fall apart.”

Y/N glanced around the room, catching the quiet agreement in everyone’s eyes.

Derek leaned in, lowering his voice. “And remember — you don’t have to carry it all on your own.”

His departure, not long after Hotch’s, left a different kind of silence. Where Hotch was the calm strategist, Derek had been the fierce protector — a force of nature who challenged the team to be brave, to fight harder, to never back down from the darkness.

=

New faces began to fill the office, weaving their own stories into the fabric of the BAU.

Tara Lewis arrived with her sharp mind and quiet determination, challenging Y/N to see the behavioural science from fresh angles, pushing her to grow beyond the comfort zones Hotch had helped create.

One afternoon, as they reviewed a complex case file, Y/N looked up from the notes. “Tara, your insight on the victim’s background—sometimes the smallest detail that seems irrelevant is actually the key to understanding the offender’s mindset. Keep pressing on that.”

Tara nodded thoughtfully. “I’m still finding my footing, but your experience makes it easier to know where to focus.”

=

Luke Alvez brought relentless energy and a willingness to dive headfirst into danger, teaching Y/N lessons about courage and intuition in ways no textbook ever could.

“Luke, your gut instincts during interviews are impressive,” Y/N said after watching him work a lead in the field. “Don’t second-guess them, but always back them up with evidence. That balance will keep you sharp.”

Luke flashed a grin. “That’s why I’m learning from the best.”

=

Stephen Walker, steady and reliable, became another pillar — someone who understood the balance between tactical precision and empathy, often reminding Y/N that strength wasn’t just physical, but deeply emotional too.

During a strategy meeting, Y/N said, “Stephen, your approach to de-escalation is just as crucial as any tactical move. Remember, sometimes the strongest thing we can do is listen.”

Stephen gave a small smile. “Thanks, Y/N. Your guidance makes all the difference.”

=

Alex Blake, with her meticulous attention to detail and calm professionalism, added another layer of perspective that Y/N found herself increasingly valuing in the complex puzzle of profiling.

As Alex laid out the timeline for a case, Y/N remarked, “Alex, your thoroughness keeps us grounded. Don’t underestimate how much that steadiness helps the team connect the dots.”

She looked up, appreciative. “I’m grateful for your mentorship, Y/N. It’s shaped how I approach this work.”

=

Throughout these changes, Y/N never lost the feeling of being part of something bigger than herself — a team that was less about titles and more about trust, respect, and a shared burden. Each new member brought a new spark, new challenges, and new lessons, but the spirit of mentorship and steady support remained, passed down quietly from one leader to the next.

And though Hotch was no longer standing at the helm, his influence lingered in every strategic plan, every calm directive, every moment when Y/N found herself guiding others with the same steady hands and measured voice she had once depended on.

One evening, as the team gathered to debrief, Luke glanced at her and said, “You remind me a lot of Hotch—calm under pressure, but never losing sight of the people.”

Y/N smiled softly. “That means more than I can say. I only hope I can give you all what he gave me.”

She realized then that mentorship wasn’t just about the one who leads; it was about the legacy they left behind — the seeds they planted in those who came after, the courage they inspired, and the quiet strength that lives on even when they’re gone.

=

Y/N had become that steady hand for others now. The one who would listen without judgment, who would offer guidance not through commands but through example. And when new agents walked through the doors — wide-eyed and uncertain — she would meet them with that same quiet encouragement Hotch had given her, because she understood better than anyone what it meant to feel lost, and what it took to find your footing in the dark.

So when the weight of the world pressed heavy on her shoulders, and the nights grew long with the unending hunt for justice, she reminded herself of one truth:

She was not alone.

She never had been.

And through every change, every goodbye, every new hello, the BAU was home — a family forged not by blood, but by trust, resilience, and the steady hands of those who had come before.

[aspenmissing]

ɴɪɢʜᴛᴍᴀʀᴇꜱ

ʙᴜᴄᴋʏ | ꜱᴛᴇᴠᴇ | ꜱᴛᴜᴄᴋʏ | ᴛᴏɴʏ | ᴍᴏᴏɴᴋɴɪɢʜᴛ | ᴘᴇᴛᴇʀ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ/ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ/ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ || 6637 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ɴɪɢʜᴛᴍᴀʀᴇꜱ, ᴅɪᴅ - ᴍᴏᴏɴᴋɴɪɢʜᴛ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ᴀ ɴɪɢʜᴛᴍᴀʀᴇ ᴘʟᴀɢᴜᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍɪɴᴅ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛꜱ ᴛʜᴇᴍ

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʙᴜᴄᴋʏ | ꜱᴛᴇᴠᴇ | ᴛᴏɴʏ | ᴍᴏᴏɴᴋɴɪɢʜᴛ | ᴘᴇᴛᴇʀ

The night was quiet.

Outside the apartment, the city murmured in low, distant sounds—cars passing, a siren echoing far off in the distance, the occasional bark of a restless dog. Life still breathed out there. But inside their tiny Brooklyn apartment, everything was still. Safe.

Moonlight spilled through the gauzy white curtains, casting pale ribbons across the hardwood floor. They shimmered against the tangled mess of blankets, across the curve of a bare shoulder, the edge of a jaw, a sleeping hand resting loosely beside a warm body.

The ceiling fan spun slowly, its rhythm soft and familiar, stirring the warm summer air. The scent of lavender drifted faintly from the pillow where her head rested, mingling with the clean, quiet smell of home.

It was peaceful.

At least—it was for her.

Bucky stirred first.

A twitch in his left hand. A tightening in his jaw. Just a subtle shift at first, so small it barely rustled the sheets. But it grew—bit by bit, like a wave gathering speed far from shore. A sharp inhale, followed by a short, panicked grunt through clenched teeth. He turned onto his side, face pinched, sweat beading at his brow.

His breath came quicker now.

Deep. Uneven.

Then came the words, cracked and strained, escaping without his consent:

“Нет… нет, пожалуйста…” (No… no, please…)

His voice was raw, desperate. The Russian came from somewhere buried deep. A place carved into him long before she knew him. Long before he knew himself.

Y/N stirred at the sound.

Her brow furrowed as she blinked against the dim light, already reaching instinctively toward him. “Bucky?” she murmured, voice still thick with sleep.

Her hand brushed the sheets between them—soaked with sweat. She sat up, now fully awake, her eyes adjusting to the shadows. He was facing away, his entire body rigid, curled in on itself like he was preparing for impact. His chest rose and fell in uneven heaves. He was shaking.

Another burst of Russian slipped from him, panicked and breathless: “Я не хочу... Не заставляйте меня снова...” (I don’t want to… Don’t make me do it again…)

Her heart clenched.

“Hey…” she whispered gently, scooting closer, her hand reaching for his shoulder. “Sweetheart, you’re dreaming. You’re okay. You’re safe. You’re—”

And then—

He turned.

Fast.

Too fast.

The world flipped. One second she was trying to reach him—anchor him—and the next, she was flat on her back, the wind knocked from her lungs, his full weight bearing down on her, and his metal hand wrapped around her throat.

It was cold.

Unforgiving.

Unmistakable.

The room went deathly still.

For one endless heartbeat, she couldn’t breathe—not because of the pressure on her windpipe, but because of the look in his eyes.

Wild. Unfocused. Hollow.

He wasn’t here.

Not with her.

His body was here—but his mind had been dragged backwards through time and locked in a cell. And in that place… she wasn’t Y/N. She wasn’t his girl. She was a target. A mission. A command to execute.

She froze.

Her pulse thundered in her ears, but she didn’t fight. She didn’t scream. She didn’t push him away.

Instead, she drew in a slow, shallow breath through her nose and lifted her hands—slow and careful—and laid them on his chest.

His heart was hammering.

Terrified. Uncontrolled.

“Bucky…” she rasped, voice gentle but firm, even with the strain in her throat. “It’s me.”

He didn’t blink.

“It’s Y/N,” she said again, her thumbs gently brushing over his pecs, grounding him. “You’re not there anymore. You’re not in the chair. You’re not under their control. You’re safe. With me.”

His breath caught.

There was a flicker—just the faintest twitch in his expression.

Recognition.

His grip loosened—hesitant at first, as if unsure whether to trust the reality in front of him. And then the weight dropped away entirely.

He scrambled backward with a hoarse gasp, nearly tumbling off the side of the bed. His chest heaved, his skin slick with sweat, his eyes wide and glassy in the moonlight.

“Y/N—God—no—” His voice cracked on the words. “I didn’t—oh God, I didn’t know it was you. I didn’t mean to—I thought—” He dragged a hand through his hair, his voice collapsing into a breathless whisper. “I thought you were one of them.”

He couldn’t look at her. He couldn’t even face her. He curled in on himself, back hunched like he was expecting a blow.

Y/N sat up slowly, her fingers grazing her throat. It didn’t hurt, not really. There’d be no bruises. Just a lingering chill and the ghost of pressure. But that didn’t matter now.

She was focused only on him.

On the man sitting in the corner of their bed like he’d rather vanish than face her.

She moved toward him, not rushing—just slow, deliberate movements, like approaching a wounded animal. He flinched when the mattress shifted beneath her, but didn’t pull away when she touched his knee.

“I could’ve killed you,” he whispered. His voice shook so hard the words were barely legible. “In one second. One reflex. I could’ve—” He squeezed his eyes shut and covered his face with both hands. “Jesus Christ, I’m a monster.”

“No, you’re not.” She said it with certainty. Quiet, but firm. A full-bodied truth. “You’re not a monster, Bucky.”

He shook his head violently. “You don’t know what I saw. What I did. I was back there. In the chair. The commands in my head—my hands were already moving before I knew where I was. It wasn’t me, but it was. And I just…” His breath hitched. “I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you.”

Y/N’s heart ached in her chest.

Still, she reached for him, easing her arms around his shoulders, pulling him against her. He resisted for a breath—one tense second—and then he let go.

He collapsed into her, his forehead dropping to her shoulder, his metal arm limp at his side while his flesh hand gripped the back of her shirt like a lifeline.

She wrapped herself around him, holding him tightly as if her arms could shield him from the memories clawing at his mind.

“I hate this,” he whispered brokenly. “I hate that they still have this hold on me. That even now, I can hurt the only person I care about without even knowing I’m doing it.”

“You didn’t hurt me,” she whispered back, her fingers stroking through his damp hair. “You stopped. You came back. That matters, Bucky. That’s everything.”

“I was trained not to stop,” he said bitterly. “I was trained to kill without hesitation. Without conscience.”

“You were forced,” she reminded him, gently but firmly. “You were brainwashed. Tortured. Turned into a weapon. But that’s not who you are anymore.”

“I still feel him,” he said quietly. “The Soldier. Sometimes he’s so close I swear he’s right there in the mirror, just waiting for a chance to get out again.”

She pulled back just enough to cup his face in her hands. “Even if he is there… you’ve beaten him every time. You’re not a weapon. You’re not what they made you. You’re James Buchanan Barnes. You’re mine. And I love you.”

He finally met her gaze. Tears shimmered in his eyes—but he didn’t blink them away.

“You still love me?” he asked, like a child who expected the answer to be no.

She kissed his forehead. “Always.”

He choked on a sob and buried his face in her neck. She held him, whispering against his temple.

“You’re safe now,” she said over and over. “You’re safe. You’re safe.” Eventually, his trembling slowed. His breathing steadied.

And when he asked, voice barely audible, “Will you stay?”—she answered without hesitation.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

They lay down together, wrapped in each other, his head pressed to her chest, her hands running through his hair and down his spine. She whispered to him about the mundane little things waiting in the morning—the sleepy stretch of sunlight, their favourite coffee mugs, the bakery on the corner she wanted to visit.

And slowly—bit by bit—the fear slipped away.

Bucky’s eyes fluttered shut, this time not haunted by command triggers and screams and cold metal tables, but held steady by the rhythm of her heartbeat beneath his cheek.

The Winter Soldier was gone.

Only Bucky remained.

Safe. Held. Loved.

And as the fan above turned and the moonlight shifted across the walls, Y/N stayed awake a little longer—watching him, guarding him with soft fingers and softer words, until morning came.

The room is quiet.

That rare kind of stillness that only comes in the depths of night—when even the world outside seems to hold its breath. Moonlight drapes across the bed like soft silver ribbon, streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows in uneven bands, spilling over tangled sheets and resting against the curve of your cheek. Far below, the quiet hum of the city barely reaches this high up, muffled by thick glass and the solitude of being stories above the chaos.

Outside, wind whistles gently past the tower, brushing against the windows in soft, hollow sighs. Somewhere in the distance, a siren cries out and fades into nothing—background noise to a city that never fully sleeps. But up here, it feels distant. Contained. Almost unreal.

The walls are bathed in shifting shadows—stretched long and soft by the gentle glow of the skyline. The quiet hum of the tower’s systems pulses faintly beneath it all: air filtration, security sensors, subtle and mechanical reminders that even in stillness, the world moves.

The night is cool. Calm. Safe.

Steve lies on his back, sunk deep into the mattress, chest rising and falling in the steady, familiar rhythm of sleep. His body is warm against yours, a quiet furnace you’ve unconsciously curled toward. His arm is slung over your waist, his hand resting low on your belly, fingertips twitching now and then in some half-forgotten dream. You’re tucked tightly into his side, head nestled beneath his jaw, your cheek pressed into the soft space where his neck meets his collarbone.

There’s peace here. The kind that settles in your bones when you finally stop running from everything—past, future, fear. Wrapped in the quiet lull of his body, his scent, his presence, you sleep deeply. Safe. Home.

Until you’re not.

It starts with a tremble.

A subtle, barely-there twitch of your shoulders. A furrow in your brow that creases the softness of your face. Your breathing shifts—gentle exhales becoming shallow, quick, stuttered. Steve doesn’t stir at first, only murmurs something unintelligible in his sleep and pulls you a little closer, his nose brushing your hairline.

But then you whimper—a small, broken sound that doesn’t belong in a room like this. You shift against him, and your hands clench the sheets, twisting them in fists. Your body curls inward like you're trying to shield yourself from something only you can see. Sweat beads at your temple. Your lips part, breath catching in jagged gasps.

Steve frowns in his sleep, sensing the disturbance, his instincts already stirring. But it’s the sound that comes next that wakes him.

A scream.

Raw and splintered. Torn from deep in your chest, jagged and wild with fear.

Steve’s eyes fly open. “Y/N?!”

He lurches upright so fast the mattress dips sharply beneath him. His hand flies out, instinctively reaching for you, his pulse thunderous in his ears. For a brief, horrifying second, he thinks you're hurt—really hurt. Bleeding, wounded, gone.

But then he sees you.

You’re still beside him, tangled in the covers, your body curled like a question mark, like you’re trying to disappear into yourself. Your eyes are squeezed shut, face contorted in a way that breaks something in his chest. Tears stream down your cheeks unchecked, shining in the moonlight. Your lips move, but your words are slurred, panicked, distant.

You’re trapped. Somewhere far away. Not here.

“Sweetheart,” he breathes, voice catching. “Hey, it’s me. You’re safe. It’s just a dream.”

His hands are trembling now, his adrenaline still spiked. He reaches for you gently, palms warm against your shoulders as he tries to ground you. “Y/N… baby, wake up. Come on, come back to me.”

You flinch under his touch, a strangled sound escaping your throat.

“No—please—don’t take them—” you whisper, voice cracked and raw. “I can’t—I can’t do it again—”

“Shh,” Steve murmurs, heart aching. “You don’t have to. You’re not there. You’re here. With me.”

You’re sweating, shaking, caught in some nightmare version of the world—and he hates that he can’t pull you out faster. Guilt blooms in his chest even though he knows it’s irrational. He cups your face, thumbs brushing softly over your cheeks, over the tears that keep falling.

“Open your eyes, Y/N,” he urges gently. “It’s Steve. You’re home.”

Your lashes flutter. Then your eyes snap open—wide, wild, terrified. Your gaze darts around the room like you’re searching for proof that it’s real. You don’t seem to see him at first. Not really.

“Steve…?” your voice breaks on his name.

Relief slams into him like a wave. “Yeah, baby,” he says, softer than before, like he’s afraid the sound might shatter you. “I’m right here.”

You stare at him for a long moment—your eyes glassy, chest heaving, tears still fresh and warm. Then you lunge forward, wrapping your arms around him with such desperation it steals the breath from his lungs. You cling to him like he’s the only solid thing left in the world.

And maybe, in that moment, he is.

He wraps his arms around you immediately, pressing you close, tucking you under his chin. One hand rubs your back in slow, grounding circles. The other tangles gently in your hair as he murmurs against your temple.

“I’ve got you. You’re safe. I promise.”

Your sobs shake against his chest, each one sharper than the last, cutting through the quiet like knives. “It felt so real,” you whisper. “You were gone. Everyone was. And I was alone. I couldn’t—” You choke on the words, like they’ve lodged somewhere too deep to reach.

Steve closes his eyes. Holds you tighter.

“You’re not alone,” he says. “I’m not going anywhere. Not tonight. Not ever.”

You grip the back of his shirt so hard your knuckles ache. “I kept screaming for you and you didn’t come. I thought—I thought I’d lost you forever.”

“I’m here,” he repeats, kissing your hair. “I’m right here.”

Gently, he lies back down with you in his arms, never loosening his hold. He shifts until you’re cocooned against him, tucked under the covers, your head resting against his chest. His heartbeat is steady beneath your cheek—firm, real, alive.

Your breathing begins to slow, syncing with his, though your fingers still cling to him like you’re afraid the moment you let go, he’ll disappear.

He strokes your spine with gentle, rhythmic passes of his hand. “You wanna talk about it?” he murmurs.

You shake your head, voice small. “Not yet.”

“That’s okay,” he says. “We’ve got time.”

He stays like that for a long time, watching your eyes flutter closed, watching your breathing even out as exhaustion begins to pull you under again—this time not from fear, but from comfort.

And even after you fall asleep again, Steve doesn’t.

He keeps holding you.

Keeps watching the door, the windows, the dark corners of the room—guarding you like a soldier on watch. Because he knows the real battle isn’t out there. It’s in the mind. And if he can be the light in the dark for you—even just a little—he’ll stay awake all night to do it.

He’ll be there.

To wake you.

To hold you.

To bring you back.

Every time.

The faint glow of the TV still lingered in the dim living room as the credits rolled, casting lazy shadows that flickered against the walls. The movie was long over, but none of you had moved yet, still cocooned in the warmth of the shared blankets draped over laps and legs. The faint scent of popcorn, buttery and slightly salty, hung in the air alongside the subtle undertones of Bucky’s leather jacket and the comforting softness of Y/N’s favorite sweater.

Y/N nestled comfortably between Steve and Bucky, their bodies pressed close like a silent vow of protection and trust. Steve’s arm curled around her shoulders, fingers resting lightly against her collarbone, while Bucky’s hand found her knee, thumb stroking soothing circles. It was a small, simple moment, but one layered with years of battles fought and scars healed, both visible and hidden.

Steve’s eyes fluttered closed, the weight of the day pulling him under like a tide. His breath slowed, evened out, and for a moment, the world felt safe, quiet — almost perfect.

But peace was fragile.

A sudden hitch in his breathing broke the stillness. His fingers clenched tight around Y/N’s waist, gripping as if holding her close could anchor him. Beads of sweat formed along his brow, and his chest tightened painfully. His body trembled subtly, betraying the calm he tried to wear.

“Steve?” Y/N’s voice was low, gentle, but laced with immediate concern. Her hand slipped from Bucky’s knee and moved to his shoulder, shaking him lightly.

Bucky’s head snapped toward Steve, blue eyes wide, instantly alert. He shifted closer, his mechanical arm settling behind Steve’s back as if to shield him from whatever storm had clawed its way in.

Steve’s eyes flew open, pupils wide and dark. The remnants of a nightmare clung to him like a suffocating fog — cold, sharp, unyielding. He swallowed hard, voice cracking as he whispered into the quiet room, “I… I dreamed you both were gone. I lost you...forever.”

Y/N’s fingers trembled as she lifted her hand to cup Steve’s cheek, her thumb brushing soothingly over damp skin. “Steve, it was just a dream. You’re here. We’re here.” Her voice was steady, but inside her chest clenched. She hated to see him like this, vulnerable and haunted.

Steve’s gaze was unfocused, distant, as if part of him was still trapped in the nightmare’s grip. His fingers trembled on Y/N’s waist, nails digging into fabric as though trying to hold on to reality.

Bucky moved even closer, voice a calm anchor in the swirling tempest. “Hey, it’s okay, Steve. You’re safe. Look at me.” His hand gently shook Steve’s shoulder, deliberate and firm but kind.

Steve blinked rapidly, trying to clear the fog in his mind. His breathing was shallow, uneven.

Y/N pressed her palm to his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath her hand. “Breathe with me, Steve. In… and out. Slowly. We’re right here. You’re not alone.”

Steve’s lips parted, as if to speak, but no words came. Instead, a strangled sound escaped him, the ghost of fear lingering.

Bucky’s voice softened, almost a whisper now, “We’re not going anywhere. Not without you. You’re part of this — part of us.”

Y/N slid from between them and shifted so she was in front of Steve, taking both his hands in hers. “Look at me,” she urged gently, her eyes searching his. “You’re awake now. The nightmare’s over.”

Steve’s eyes met hers, a flicker of recognition sparking beneath the haze. Slowly, the tension in his face eased just a fraction.

“You’re here,” he repeated, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes,” Y/N said firmly, a small smile warming her lips. “We’re both here. Safe. Together.”

Bucky moved to sit beside Steve again, sliding an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close enough that Steve could feel the steady strength radiating from him. “We’ve got you, Steve. Every step.”

Steve’s shoulders sagged as the weight of the nightmare finally lifted. His breath steadied under their combined warmth and care.

Y/N leaned in, her forehead resting lightly against his. “You don’t have to be strong all the time. Not with us.”

Steve’s eyes closed, and for the first time since waking, he allowed himself to relax completely. His fingers twined with Y/N’s, and Bucky’s hand tightened gently on his back.

“Thank you,” he murmured, voice raw but steady.

“Always,” Y/N whispered, brushing a soft kiss against his temple.

“And forever,” Bucky added, a quiet vow in the stillness.

Steve exhaled slowly, the last remnants of the nightmare dissolving into the night. His gaze drifted between the two people who had become his anchor, his family, his home.

“I’m scared sometimes,” he admitted, voice barely audible. “That I’ll lose you.”

Y/N smiled softly, squeezing his hands. “We’re not going anywhere. We’re in this life, this mess, together.”

Bucky nodded solemnly. “No matter what comes, we face it as one.”

The three of you settled deeper into the couch, wrapped once more in blankets and the quiet strength of each other’s presence.

Outside, the city breathed on, indifferent and vast. But inside this small room, with the flickering shadows and the soft hum of your shared breath, there was only safety. There was love.

And in that moment, even nightmares couldn’t break the bond you had forged — unshakable, unbreakable, and fiercely yours.

The soft hum of machinery filled the cavernous lab, punctuated by the faint clink of tools and the occasional electric spark. Tony Stark sat hunched over the workbench, fingers tapping rhythmically against the scattered blueprints and miniature arc reactors. His eyes, rimmed with dark circles, traced jagged lines and intricate circuitry with mechanical precision. The endless chase to perfect his latest suit upgrade was never-ending, a task that consumed him both day and night.

But tonight, the fight against exhaustion finally won.

His head lolled forward, a tired breath escaping him as his body surrendered. The glow of monitors faded behind closed eyelids, and the hum of the lab softened into the background lull of a fleeting escape: sleep.

But sleep was no sanctuary. In the depths of his dreams, the world twisted and warped—unrecognizable and cruel. It was a scene torn from his deepest fears, a place where everything he dreaded became real. There she was—Y/N—standing alone in an empty room, bathed in pale, cold light. Her bright eyes, once full of warmth and laughter, now dimmed with exhaustion and hurt. She turned to him slowly, her face etched with quiet sorrow, lips trembling just enough to betray the tears she refused to shed. “You don’t care anymore,” her voice echoed through the void—soft but cutting, distant yet unbearably clear. “I’m tired of waiting, Tony. You always push me away.” His chest tightened. He reached out with trembling hands, desperate to stop her retreat, to hold her still in this crumbling world. But no matter how hard he tried, she slipped further away—like smoke dissolving in the wind, like a memory fading in the light of day. “You’re too busy. Always working. Always fighting. But never here... not really.” The words burned like acid, searing into his heart. The echo of her footsteps grew faint, swallowed by shadows. And then—nothing.

A sharp intake of breath ripped Tony from the nightmare. His eyes snapped open, pupils wide and wild in the dim glow of the lab. His heart hammered against his ribs as sweat clung cold to his skin, slick and uncomfortable. The nightmare clung to him still, a bitter aftertaste on his tongue, whispering doubts and fears he’d buried beneath a facade of genius and invincibility.

He wiped his forehead with a shaky hand and pushed himself upright, the sterile coldness of the lab suddenly suffocating.

He needed her.

Not the distant echo from his nightmare. The real her. The warmth of her skin, the steady rhythm of her breath, the steady presence of the person who ground him when everything else spiralled out of control.

His footsteps echoed quietly as he ascended the stairs to their apartment, the city’s distant lights casting long stripes through the window blinds. Each step was measured but urgent, driven by a heart desperate for reassurance.

=

The bedroom was dark, save for the faint glow of street lamps filtering in. There she lay—peaceful in sleep, a stark contrast to the storm raging inside him. Her chest rose and fell softly, steady and calm, her hair splayed across the pillow like a dark halo.

Tony’s breath hitched. The sight of her, vulnerable and serene, was almost too much.

He sat carefully on the edge of the bed, as if afraid that any sudden movement would shatter the fragile moment. For a long moment, he just watched her—tracing the delicate curve of her jawline with his eyes, the gentle slope of her cheek.

Then, as if drawn by an invisible force, his fingers reached out. Slowly, tenderly, he tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, careful not to wake her.

“Hey,” he whispered, voice rough and raw, laced with a vulnerability few ever saw. “You’re not going anywhere. Not on my watch.”

He shifted then, cautiously lying beside her, closing the small distance between them. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her close with a gentle urgency—as if holding her tight could erase the ache of the nightmare, the guilt of his mistakes.

Her warmth pressed against him, steady and real. The soft rise and fall of her breathing grounded him, tethering him back from the edge of his fears.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice low, barely audible as he pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. “For everything—when I’m distant, when I push you away. It’s never because I don’t want you.”

His fingers traced slow, soothing circles along her back, memorizing the feel of her skin as if to convince himself she was truly there.

“I just... I don’t always know how to say it. How to be better. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love you. God, I love you. More than I’ve ever been able to say out loud.”

He swallowed hard, the weight of his emotions pressing heavy on his chest. “You’re the best part of me. The only part that really matters.”

Y/N stirred gently, a soft murmur escaping her lips. She didn’t pull away. Instead, she nestled closer, as if sensing the storm inside him and offering shelter.

Tony closed his eyes, breathing her in—the familiar scent, the warmth, the life that steadied his fractured soul.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promised quietly, his voice thick with emotion. “Not now. Not ever.”

For the first time in a long while, the nightmare began to fade—replaced by the undeniable truth of her presence, her love, and the fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, he could learn to be the man she believed he was.

The night air hung heavy and thick with silence, broken only by the soft, steady rhythm of breath and the distant, muted hum of the city that drifted through the slightly cracked window. But inside the modest bedroom, where moonlight pooled quietly on the worn wooden floorboards, peace felt like a fragile illusion—shattered beneath the relentless weight of a mind that refused to rest.

Beneath the thin blanket, Marc lay still, his body seemingly calm, but inside, his thoughts churned violently. The nightmare clawed at the edges of his consciousness like a cold, dark tide—relentless, unforgiving, and merciless.

The cold, raspy voice of Harrow echoed through the haze of his dream, winding its way into Marc’s ears with venomous precision. It slithered through the shadows, whispering cruel promises, “Let her suffer.” The sharp, echoing crack of gunfire shattered the silence of the nightmare. Then came Y/N’s scream—raw, desperate, filled with panic and fear. It bounced off unseen walls, growing distant until it was cruelly cut short, silenced like a candle snuffed out too soon. Marc saw her fall. The image played in agonizing slow motion—Y/N collapsing to the ground, lifeless, helpless. The vivid, horrific vision burned itself into his mind’s eye with brutal clarity, refusing to fade.

His chest tightened painfully, as if his heart had been squeezed in an iron grip. The raw, crushing ache of loss struck him deeper than any wound his body had ever known.

Then, without warning, a jarring sensation ripped him from the nightmare’s grasp—but it wasn’t Marc who opened his eyes this time.

Steven.

His eyes fluttered open slowly in the darkness, wide and gentle, reflecting the faint moonlight. The quiet in the room felt suddenly colder, heavier, as though a suffocating weight had settled over every surface and filled the space between them.

His breath caught painfully in his throat as he turned his head toward the empty side of the bed.

It was vacant.

The warmth of Y/N’s presence was gone.

His hand reached out hesitantly, trembling as it searched the cool, empty sheets beside him. The sharp sting of panic blossomed deep in his chest, spreading cold and sharp like shards of glass.

“Y/N?” His voice was a fragile whisper, barely audible and trembling with dread.

But only silence answered back—thick, heavy, absolute, suffocating.

Steven’s breath hitched, a painful catch lodged somewhere deep within him. The nightmare’s hold didn’t loosen. It wasn’t simply a dream anymore. It felt like a warning.

“She’s gone...” The thought sliced through him like a jagged shard, sharp and merciless.

Swallowing hard, Steven felt a visceral wave of dread roll over him—numbing, suffocating, and impossible to shake.

The fragile, gentle Steven began to retreat, shrinking beneath the crushing weight of fear and loss.

Then, with a violent shudder, something fiercer surged up from the depths of his fractured mind.

A furious, roaring fire erupted within his chest, and with a sudden, brutal snap, the presence of Jake took hold—wild, angry, and unrelenting.

Jake’s eyes snapped open wide, blazing with rage and a fierce, untethered fury. His jaw clenched so tight it ached, fingers twitching uncontrollably as if desperate to tear the world apart with his bare hands.

Harrow was going to pay for this.

Without hesitation, Jake’s body snapped upright, a motion so fast it stole Steven’s breath away. His hands trembled violently as they gripped the cold metal of the gun resting on the nightstand—his lifeline, the only weapon he had to tear apart the nightmare that haunted them.

Every fibre of Jake’s being hummed with raw fury, every muscle taut and ready to explode.

With a terrifying determination, Jake moved swiftly toward the bedroom door, each step heavy and resolute, fuelled by anger and a desperate need to protect what remained of his broken world.

Then—a faint sound stopped him cold.

A quiet noise, hesitant and soft, came from the bathroom. The subtle creak of a door handle turning echoed faintly in the stillness. For a moment, time seemed to hold its breath.

Y/N appeared in the doorway, framed gently by the dim moonlight filtering through the frosted glass.

She looked calm, serene—like someone waking slowly from a light sleep. Her hair was tousled in a way that made her seem impossibly vulnerable, her eyes still heavy with remnants of dreams.

In that instant, everything slowed.

Jake’s burning rage froze solid, stiffening every muscle in his body. His nerves screamed, alert and raw, torn between relief and the lingering remnants of his fury.

Before Jake could move, before he could even find his voice, a new presence rose—stronger, deeper, older.

Marc’s consciousness surged forward with fierce protectiveness.

His arms wrapped around Y/N in one swift, seamless motion, pulling her close with a possessiveness born from desperation and love.

Y/N gasped softly, startled by the sudden contact, her wide eyes searching his face.

Marc’s voice was low, thick with an emotion he rarely allowed himself to bare—rough and urgent. “Don’t ever scare me like that again.”

Y/N’s arms curled around him in return, steadying his trembling form, grounding him as the rapid beat of his heart pounded against her like a drum.

For a long, precious moment, they remained locked in that fragile embrace—a bubble of safety amid the storm raging outside and within.

Slowly, carefully, they moved back toward the bed.

Marc eased her down, his hands lingering on her back, reluctant to let go, as if willing to hold her there forever.

The warmth of their shared breath mingled in the cool air, the steady rise and fall of her chest beginning to soothe the tempest inside him.

Then, as the tension finally ebbed away, the shifting began once more. Marc pulled back, retreating beneath the surface.

The softer, gentler presence of Steven emerged again, replacing the fierce protector with one worn thin by exhaustion and vulnerability.

Steven’s face appeared just above Y/N’s hair, eyes closed tightly, as though holding back tears he refused to shed.

He buried his face into the warm curve of her neck, his voice breaking under the weight of relief and lingering fear.

“I thought I lost you... I can’t... I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

His hands trembled as they traced slow, trembling patterns down her back, fingers clutching as if trying to memorize every inch of her skin.

Y/N’s fingers gently threaded through his hair, a soothing gesture, and she whispered softly into the quiet room,

“It was just a nightmare. I’m right here.”

Steven exhaled shakily, the tight coil of tension slowly unspooling from his shoulders.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured, voice barely above a breath. “It’s just... sometimes the fear gets too loud inside my head. And I forget... I forget that you’re real.”

Her smile was gentle, soft as a balm, the kind that wrapped itself around his heart and held it safe from the darkness.

“We’re still here. Together.”

For a long time after, they lay wrapped in each other’s arms—two halves holding tight against the shadows, healing quietly in the stillness of the night.

Steven nodded against her skin, clutching her close, and finally, sleep came to claim him once more.

This time, the nightmare was nothing more than a distant shadow, fading slowly away in the warmth of her presence.

PETER

The night air was crisp, sharper than usual, but you barely noticed the chill as it slipped beneath your sleeves and danced along your skin. Your breath came out in soft, uneven puffs, little clouds that scattered into the darkness. You sat on the rooftop’s edge, legs swinging freely over the side, your fingers gripping the rough concrete beneath you. Below, the city sprawled endlessly—an ocean of glowing windows and buzzing streetlamps, the steady pulse of life that never truly stopped.

But your heart felt heavy, knotted tight in your chest. The nightmare still clung to you like a shadow you couldn’t shake. You had seen him clearly—Peter—his face twisted in pain, blood staining his shirt, his eyes searching desperately for you as he fell. The vividness of it had jolted you awake, heart hammering against ribs as if trying to break free. You had sat up gasping, unable to breathe, cold sweat clinging to your skin even as you pulled the blankets close.

You knew it wasn’t real. You had to know it wasn’t real. Peter was out there right now, moving through the city with that same fearless determination you adored, helping people, saving lives—your Peter, the boy who always tried to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. But still, the panic hadn’t loosened its grip. You needed to see the city, to feel connected to him somehow.

So quietly, so carefully not to wake anyone, you slipped out of bed and made your way through the dim apartment until you found the fire escape outside the window. The cold metal under your palms felt grounding, real. You climbed up, each step taking you farther from the safety of your bed and closer to the sky. When you reached the roof, you settled yourself at the edge, the city lights stretching out in every direction—endless and alive.

Your thoughts spun as you gazed out at the tangled streets below. You pictured Peter there somewhere—maybe perched on another rooftop, maybe racing through the alleys, or perched high above on the Brooklyn Bridge. You imagined his heartbeat matching your own, steady, strong. You imagined his voice, soft and familiar, calling your name.

Minutes passed. The city hummed its lullaby beneath you—the distant honk of cars, the murmur of night-shift workers, the occasional siren in the distance. You tried to breathe slower, to push back the echo of the nightmare. You hugged your knees, resting your forehead against them, willing yourself to be calm.

SWOOSH.

The sudden movement caught your attention before you even heard it. A streak of red and blue swung down from the sky with practiced grace, landing lightly beside you. Your breath hitched, and your heart gave an unexpected flutter of relief.

Peter. Your Peter. Here.

He peeled off his mask slowly, as if savouring the moment he could finally see you, the smile in his eyes flickering with warmth despite the exhaustion that shadowed his face.

“You’re up late,” he said softly, his voice low and laced with concern, as if he’d already guessed what had brought you here. “What are you doing up here?”

You swallowed hard, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I... had a bad dream.” You glanced at him, eyes glassy and raw. “You were hurt. I couldn’t stay in bed. I needed to see the city... and wait for you.”

Peter’s smile softened, shifting to something gentler, more tender. Without a word, he scooted closer, the warmth of his body pressing against yours. His arm slipped around your shoulders, pulling you in close enough you could hear the steady beat of his heart beneath his suit.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice steady and sure. “I’m right here. I’m okay.”

You leaned into him, the tension in your shoulders melting away as you rested your head against his chest. His fingers found yours, lacing them together, grounding you in the present. The city buzzed softly below, but in this moment, it all felt distant, like you were wrapped in a bubble of quiet safety.

“I don’t want to lose you,” you confessed, voice breaking a little, vulnerability shining through the night. “Sometimes, it feels like everything around us is falling apart.”

Peter tightened his hold gently. “I know,” he said. “But we’re stronger than that. We’re in this together. You and me.”

His thumb traced small, comforting circles on the back of your hand, slow and steady. You sighed, the tightness in your chest loosening with each breath. The nightmare hadn’t vanished completely, but the fear was melting into something softer—hope, and the warmth of being with someone who understood.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promised quietly, voice low but unwavering. “If you ever feel scared, you come find me. Or just come up here—this city has a way of making the impossible feel a little more possible.”

You let out a small laugh, bittersweet but genuine. “I like that idea.”

For a long while, you sat like that, tangled together in the quiet night. The city stretched beneath you, endless and beautiful, alive with light and shadow. Peter’s presence beside you was a steady flame in the darkness, a reminder that no matter how scary the night might get, you had each other.

Eventually, Peter whispered, “Come on, let’s get you inside before you freeze out here.”

But you stayed for a moment longer, fingers entwined, hearts beating in sync, feeling safe. Because with him, the nightmares didn’t feel quite so real. And the city—your city—was a little less lonely.

[aspenmissing]

ᴍᴀɪɴ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

ʏ/ɴ ɪꜱ ᴋɴᴏᴡɴ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜᴏᴜᴛ ᴍɪᴅᴏʀɪᴊɪᴍᴀ ᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰɪᴇʀᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴜɴʏɪᴇʟᴅɪɴɢ ʟᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ʀɪʙꜱᴛᴇᴇᴢ ᴛᴇᴀᴍ, ᴊᴏᴋᴇʀꜱ—ᴀ ɢʀᴏᴜᴘ ɴᴏᴛᴏʀɪᴏᴜꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ꜱᴇᴛᴛʟɪɴɢ ᴄᴏɴꜰʟɪᴄᴛꜱ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ꜱᴛʀᴇɴɢᴛʜ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇꜱᴏʟᴠᴇ. ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ ꜱʜᴀʀᴘ ᴍɪɴᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ꜱʜᴀʀᴘᴇʀ ɪɴꜱᴛɪɴᴄᴛꜱ, ꜱʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴀɴᴅꜱ ʀᴇꜱᴘᴇᴄᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ʟᴏʏᴀʟᴛʏ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʜᴇʀ ᴛᴇᴀᴍᴍᴀᴛᴇꜱ, ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ʟᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰʀᴏɴᴛ. ᴀᴛ ʜᴇʀ ꜱɪᴅᴇ ɪꜱ ꜱᴜꜱʜɪ, ʜᴇʀ ʟᴏʏᴀʟ ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴠᴇʀ-ᴡᴀᴛᴄʜꜰᴜʟ ꜰᴇʟɪɴᴇ ᴀʟʟᴍᴀᴛᴇ—ᴀ ꜱᴛʀɪᴋɪɴɢ ʙʀᴏᴡɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴍ ᴍᴀɪɴᴇ ᴄᴏᴏɴ ᴡʜᴏꜱᴇ ᴘʀᴇꜱᴇɴᴄᴇ ɪꜱ ᴀꜱ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴀ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴇᴀᴍ ᴀꜱ ʏ/ɴ ʜᴇʀꜱᴇʟꜰ. ʏᴇᴛ ʙᴇɴᴇᴀᴛʜ ʏ/ɴ’ꜱ ᴛᴏᴜɢʜ ᴇxᴛᴇʀɪᴏʀ ʟɪᴇꜱ ᴀ ꜱᴇᴄʀᴇᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ꜱʜᴇ ʜᴀꜱ ʏᴇᴛ ᴛᴏ ꜰᴜʟʟʏ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀꜱᴛᴀɴᴅ: ᴅᴏʀᴍᴀɴᴛ ᴀʙɪʟɪᴛɪᴇꜱ ʙᴜʀɪᴇᴅ ᴅᴇᴇᴘ ᴡɪᴛʜɪɴ ʜᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀᴛ, ɪꜰ ᴜɴʟᴇᴀꜱʜᴇᴅ, ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴀᴛ ᴀ ᴅᴇᴠᴀꜱᴛᴀᴛɪɴɢ ᴄᴏꜱᴛ—ɴᴏᴛ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʀꜱᴇʟꜰ ʙᴜᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴏɴᴇ ꜱʜᴇ ʜᴏʟᴅꜱ ᴅᴇᴀʀ. ᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱʜᴀᴅᴏᴡꜱ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʀ ꜰᴏʀɢᴏᴛᴛᴇɴ ᴘᴀꜱᴛ ʙᴇɢɪɴ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴜʀꜰᴀᴄᴇ, ꜱᴏ ᴛᴏᴏ ᴅᴏᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʀᴜᴛʜ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʀ ᴍʏꜱᴛᴇʀɪᴏᴜꜱ ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀꜱ. ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴅᴀɴɢᴇʀ ꜱᴛʀɪᴋᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇʀ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ɪꜱ ᴛʜʀᴇᴀᴛᴇɴᴇᴅ, ʏ/ɴ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ꜰᴀᴄᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴜɴʀᴀᴠᴇʟɪɴɢ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʀ ᴄʜɪʟᴅʜᴏᴏᴅ ᴍᴇᴍᴏʀɪᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴍʙʀᴀᴄᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ɪɴᴄʀᴇᴅɪʙʟᴇ ꜱᴛʀᴇɴɢᴛʜ ᴡɪᴛʜɪɴ ʜᴇʀ—ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ɪᴛ’ꜱ ᴛᴏᴏ ʟᴀᴛᴇ.

ꜱᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ 1 || ʜɪᴀᴛᴜꜱ (ᴇᴅɪᴛɪɴɢ)

[aspenmissing]

ᴍᴀɪɴ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

ʏ/ɴ ᴍᴄᴄᴀʟʟ’ꜱ ʟɪꜰᴇ ɪꜱ ᴛᴜʀɴᴇᴅ ᴜᴘꜱɪᴅᴇ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴡʜᴇɴ ʜᴇʀ ʙᴇꜱᴛ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ, ꜱᴛɪʟᴇꜱ ꜱᴛɪʟɪɴꜱᴋɪ, ᴅʀᴀɢꜱ ʜᴇʀ—ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇʀ ᴏʟᴅᴇʀ ʙʀᴏᴛʜᴇʀ, ꜱᴄᴏᴛᴛ—ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀɴɢᴇʀᴏᴜꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴜɴᴘʀᴇᴅɪᴄᴛᴀʙʟᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴡᴇʀᴇᴡᴏʟᴠᴇꜱ. ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʙᴇɢɪɴꜱ ᴀꜱ ᴀ ꜱɪᴍᴘʟᴇ ꜱᴇᴀʀᴄʜ Qᴜɪᴄᴋʟʏ ꜱᴘɪʀᴀʟꜱ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴀ ᴅᴇꜱᴘᴇʀᴀᴛᴇ Qᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴛᴏ ꜰɪɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍɪꜱꜱɪɴɢ ʜᴀʟꜰ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ᴍʏꜱᴛᴇʀɪᴏᴜꜱ, ꜰʀᴀɢᴍᴇɴᴛᴇᴅ ʙᴏᴅʏ—ᴀɴ ᴇɴɪɢᴍᴀ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ʜᴏʟᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴋᴇʏ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴀʀᴋ ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴇᴀᴅʟʏ ꜱᴇᴄʀᴇᴛꜱ. ᴄᴀᴜɢʜᴛ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏʀᴅɪɴᴀʀʏ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴜᴘᴇʀɴᴀᴛᴜʀᴀʟ, ʏ/ɴ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ʟᴇᴀʀɴ ᴛᴏ ɴᴀᴠɪɢᴀᴛᴇ ᴀ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ꜱʜᴀᴅᴏᴡ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇᴀʟ ᴀ ᴛʜʀᴇᴀᴛ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴀʟʟʏ ᴍɪɢʜᴛ ʜᴀʀʙᴏʀ ʜɪᴅᴅᴇɴ ᴍᴏᴛɪᴠᴇꜱ. ᴡɪᴛʜ ꜱᴄᴏᴛᴛ ꜱᴛʀᴜɢɢʟɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʙᴀʟᴀɴᴄᴇ ʜɪꜱ ɴᴇᴡꜰᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴡᴇʀᴇᴡᴏʟꜰ ɪᴅᴇɴᴛɪᴛʏ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇꜱᴘᴏɴꜱɪʙɪʟɪᴛɪᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ɪᴛ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴛɪʟᴇꜱ’ꜱ ᴜɴʏɪᴇʟᴅɪɴɢ ʟᴏʏᴀʟᴛʏ ᴀɴᴅ Qᴜɪᴄᴋ ᴡɪᴛ ɢᴜɪᴅɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ɢʀᴏᴜᴘ, ʏ/ɴ ꜰɪɴᴅꜱ ʜᴇʀꜱᴇʟꜰ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ʙᴀᴛᴛʟᴇ ꜰᴀʀ ʙɪɢɢᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ꜱʜᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ɪᴍᴀɢɪɴᴇᴅ. ᴀꜱ ꜱᴇᴄʀᴇᴛꜱ ᴜɴʀᴀᴠᴇʟ, ᴀʟʟɪᴀɴᴄᴇꜱ ꜱʜɪꜰᴛ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴀɴɢᴇʀ ʟᴜʀᴋꜱ ᴀᴛ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴄᴏʀɴᴇʀ, ʏ/ɴ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ᴄᴏɴꜰʀᴏɴᴛ ʜᴇʀ ᴏᴡɴ ꜰᴇᴀʀꜱ, ꜰɪɢʜᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ꜱʜᴇ ʟᴏᴠᴇꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴅɪꜱᴄᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʜᴏᴡ ꜰᴀʀ ꜱʜᴇ’ꜱ ᴡɪʟʟɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ɢᴏ ᴛᴏ ᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛ ʜᴇʀ ꜰᴀᴍɪʟʏ. ɪɴ ᴀ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ꜱᴜʀᴠɪᴠᴀʟ ᴅᴇᴘᴇɴᴅꜱ ᴏɴ ᴛʀᴜꜱᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴛʀᴇɴɢᴛʜ, ʏ/ɴ’ꜱ ᴄᴏᴜʀᴀɢᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴛᴇꜱᴛᴇᴅ ʟɪᴋᴇ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ—ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʜᴏɪᴄᴇꜱ ꜱʜᴇ ᴍᴀᴋᴇꜱ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ.

ꜱᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ 1 || ʜɪᴀᴛᴜꜱ

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ᴍᴀɪɴ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴏɴᴇ-ᴍᴀꜱᴋᴇᴅ ʜᴏʀʀᴏʀꜱ ᴏꜰ 1880ꜱ ᴇɴɢʟᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴀɴᴅ ʙᴀᴛᴛʟᴇꜱ ɪɴ ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ-ᴅᴀʏ ᴍᴏʀɪᴏʜ, ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴜɴ-ꜱᴄᴏʀᴄʜᴇᴅ ꜱᴀɴᴅꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴇɢʏᴘᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴜʀʀᴇᴀʟ ᴄᴏʀʀɪᴅᴏʀꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ᴘʀɪꜱᴏɴ ɪɴ ꜰʟᴏʀɪᴅᴀ—ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴊᴏᴜʀɴᴇʏ ꜱᴛʀᴇᴛᴄʜᴇꜱ ᴀᴄʀᴏꜱꜱ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰᴀᴛᴇ ɪᴛꜱᴇʟꜰ. ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀɪᴍɪɴᴀʟ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ᴏꜰ ɪᴛᴀʟʏ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴄʀᴏꜱꜱ ᴘᴀᴛʜꜱ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʀᴏɢᴜᴇ ᴀꜱꜱᴀꜱꜱɪɴꜱ, ɢᴏʟᴅᴇɴ ᴀᴍʙɪᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴀ ʙᴏʏ ᴅᴇᴛᴇʀᴍɪɴᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱʏꜱᴛᴇᴍ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴡɪᴛʜɪɴ. ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴇʀᴀ ʙʀɪɴɢꜱ ɪᴛꜱ ᴏᴡɴ ᴄʜᴀᴏꜱ, ɪᴛꜱ ᴏᴡɴ ʜᴇʀᴏᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴠɪʟʟᴀɪɴꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴀ ᴅᴇᴇᴘᴇʀ ɢʟɪᴍᴘꜱᴇ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ʙɪᴢᴀʀʀᴇ ᴛʀᴜᴛʜꜱ ꜱʜᴀᴘɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴜɴɪᴠᴇʀꜱᴇ. ᴀꜱ ᴀɴᴄɪᴇɴᴛ ʟᴇɢᴀᴄɪᴇꜱ ʀᴇꜱᴜʀꜰᴀᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴛʏ ʙᴇɢɪɴꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴜɴʀᴀᴠᴇʟ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀ ʙᴀɴᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴜɴʟɪᴋᴇʟʏ ꜱᴛᴀɴᴅ ᴜꜱᴇʀꜱ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ꜰᴀᴄᴇ ᴀɴ ɪᴍᴘᴏꜱꜱɪʙʟᴇ ᴘᴀʀᴀᴅᴏx: ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ꜱᴜᴘᴘᴏꜱᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ… ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴇᴛ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴀʏ ʙᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴏɴᴇꜱ ᴡʜᴏ ᴄᴀɴ ꜱᴀᴠᴇ ɪᴛ. ᴀ ꜱᴡᴇᴇᴘɪɴɢ ᴛᴀʟᴇ ᴏꜰ ꜰᴀᴛᴇ, ʀᴇʙᴇʟʟɪᴏɴ, ꜰᴏᴜɴᴅ ꜰᴀᴍɪʟʏ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴜɴʙʀᴇᴀᴋᴀʙʟᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴛᴀɴᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ᴡʜᴀᴛ’ꜱ ʀɪɢʜᴛ—ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴠᴇʀʏ ꜰᴀʙʀɪᴄ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ᴛᴜʀɴꜱ ᴀɢᴀɪɴꜱᴛ ʏᴏᴜ.

ᴘʜᴀɴᴛᴏᴍ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ || ʜɪᴀᴛᴜꜱ

ʙᴀᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴛᴇɴᴅᴇɴᴄʏ ||

ꜱᴛᴀʀᴅᴜꜱᴛ ᴄʀᴜꜱᴀᴅᴇʀꜱ ||

ᴅɪᴀᴍᴏɴᴅ ɪꜱ ᴜɴʙʀᴇᴀᴋᴀʙʟᴇ ||

ɢᴏʟᴅᴇɴ ᴡɪɴᴅ ||

ꜱᴛᴏɴᴇ ᴏᴄᴇᴀɴ ||

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ᴍᴀɪɴ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

Y/N, the fearless and determined Paladin of the Purple Lion, steps into the spotlight to join the legendary Voltron team—Keith, Lance, Shiro, Pidge, and Hunk. With sharp instincts, unwavering courage, and a will forged through adversity, she brings a powerful new presence to the fight for the universe. As she bonds with the Purple Lion, Y/N unlocks hidden abilities and uncovers a deep, mysterious link to the Voltron legacy. Alongside her fellow Paladins, she faces deadly threats and uncovers secrets that could change everything. With strength, heart, and the support of her team, Y/N must rise to the challenge and help lead Voltron to victory.

ꜱᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ 1 || ʜɪᴀᴛᴜꜱ (ᴇᴅɪᴛɪɴɢ)

ꜱᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ 2 ||

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ᴍᴀɪɴ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

ʏ/ɴ ᴅɪxᴏɴ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ɴᴇᴇᴅᴇᴅ ᴍᴜᴄʜ—ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʜᴇʀ ᴅᴀᴅ, ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇʀ ᴡɪʟᴅ, ʟᴏʏᴀʟ ᴜɴᴄʟᴇ. ɢʀᴏᴡɪɴɢ ᴜᴘ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ᴀ ᴍᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴡᴀꜱɴ’ᴛ ᴇᴀꜱʏ, ʙᴜᴛ ꜱʜᴇ ʟᴇᴀʀɴᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴛᴏᴜɢʜ, Qᴜɪᴄᴋ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜰɪᴇʀᴄᴇʟʏ ɪɴᴅᴇᴘᴇɴᴅᴇɴᴛ. ʜᴇʀ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ᴡᴀꜱ ꜱᴍᴀʟʟ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ꜱᴀꜰᴇ. ᴛʜᴇɴ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇᴅ. ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ ʀᴏꜱᴇ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ꜰᴇʟʟ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴜʟᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴏɴᴄᴇ ʜᴇʟᴅ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ ᴠᴀɴɪꜱʜᴇᴅ ᴏᴠᴇʀɴɪɢʜᴛ. ɴᴏᴡ, ꜱᴜʀᴠɪᴠᴀʟ ᴍᴇᴀɴꜱ ᴍᴀᴋɪɴɢ ɪᴍᴘᴏꜱꜱɪʙʟᴇ ᴄʜᴏɪᴄᴇꜱ, ᴛʀᴜꜱᴛɪɴɢ ɴᴏ ᴏɴᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜰɪɢʜᴛɪɴɢ ʜᴀʀᴅᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴇᴇ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ꜱᴜɴʀɪꜱᴇ. ɪɴ ᴛʜɪꜱ ʙʀᴜᴛᴀʟ ɴᴇᴡ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ, ʏ/ɴ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ᴄᴀʀᴠᴇ ʜᴇʀ ᴏᴡɴ ᴘᴀᴛʜ—ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ʟᴏꜱꜱ, ᴅᴀɴɢᴇʀ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ɢʜᴏꜱᴛꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴡʜᴏ ꜱʜᴇ ᴜꜱᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ. ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴀ ᴅɪxᴏɴ ᴍᴇᴀɴꜱ ꜱᴜʀᴠɪᴠɪɴɢ. ʙᴜᴛ ꜱᴜʀᴠɪᴠɪɴɢ ᴅᴏᴇꜱɴ’ᴛ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ᴍᴇᴀɴ ʟɪᴠɪɴɢ.

ꜱᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ 1 || ᴇᴅɪᴛɪɴɢ

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ᴄᴏᴜʀᴛʀᴏᴏᴍ ᴄʜᴇᴍɪꜱᴛʀʏ

ʀᴀꜰᴀᴇʟ ʙᴀʀʙᴀ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ || 1857 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ɴ/ᴀ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ᴀ ꜰɪᴇʀᴄᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʀᴛʀᴏᴏᴍ ꜱʜᴏᴡᴅᴏᴡɴ, ᴅᴀ ʏ/ɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀᴅᴀ ʀᴀꜰᴀᴇʟ ʙᴀʀʙᴀ’ꜱ ʀɪᴠᴀʟʀʏ ꜱᴘᴀʀᴋꜱ ᴜɴᴇxᴘᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ ᴄʜᴇᴍɪꜱᴛʀʏ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴅʀɪɴᴋꜱ, ʙʟᴜʀʀɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪɴᴇ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴏᴘᴘᴏɴᴇɴᴛꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴍᴏʀᴇ.

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʀᴀꜰᴀᴇʟ

The courtroom was silent — not with peace, but with pressure. It was the kind of stillness that only came after a verbal chess match between two lawyers who knew how to push each other’s buttons and draw blood without ever stepping out of decorum.

Your heels clicked faintly on the polished floor as you stepped forward from the prosecution’s table, shoulders squared, posture regal, voice smooth as silk. “Respectfully, Your Honour,” you said with a calm laced in steel, “I’d like to remind Mr. Barba that a dramatic pause does not count as an objection.”

There was a slight rustle of papers and suppressed laughter from the gallery, but your eyes were locked on the man across the aisle — Rafael Barba. He sat, legs crossed casually, elbow resting on the arm of his chair, fingers pressed to his lips like a king amused at court.

He lowered his hand, tilted his head just enough to be insufferable, and offered a smirk that could've been patented for charm and irritation. “Only when you’re not interrupting my rhythm, Counsellor.”

“Must be easy to lose rhythm when your argument’s off-beat,” you replied sweetly, eyes narrowing just a fraction.

“Counselors,” Judge Petrovsky interjected with a long-suffering sigh. She leaned forward with that look only seasoned judges had — the one that read, You’re both brilliant, and you’re both exhausting me. “This isn’t a tango, people. Proceed.”

You inclined your head with mock humility, stepping back as if giving Rafael the floor. He gave you a slight nod in return, that unspoken acknowledgment — we’ll pick this up later.

You both had reputations. Barba was the firebrand ADA with a sharp tongue and a sharper mind — the kind who could slice through witness testimony like a scalpel. You were the strategic one, surgical with your words, careful with your emotions. If he was heat, you were control. And in that courtroom, your styles collided with sparks.

The witness fumbled under Barba’s cross, then tried to steady himself under your redirect. The jury shifted in their seats. The gallery whispered. And when closing arguments came around, you both danced that final, devastating duet. He was eloquent. You were brutal. The jury took hours to decide. The tension lingered even after the gavel struck finality.

But it wasn’t courtroom tension anymore.

No.

Something else had taken root.

The early evening air was crisp when you stepped out of the courthouse. You paused at the top of the stairs, feeling the weight of the day finally begin to slip from your shoulders. The sun was low, painting the city in streaks of gold and fire. Horns blared distantly, and the sidewalk bustled with late commuters and lingering court staff. You were reaching for your phone to call a car when a familiar voice floated up from the steps below.

“You owe me a drink.”

You turned, already smiling. Rafael Barba stood a few steps down, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve with practiced ease, the ghost of a smirk curving his lips.

“I believe I earned it, Counsellor,” he added, eyes glinting beneath the fading sunlight.

You walked down the steps to meet him, raising an eyebrow. “Earned is a generous word.”

He feigned offense, hand to his chest. “Objection. That’s slanderous.”

“Overruled,” you said, brushing past him with a playful smirk. “I let you have that one. Consider it an act of mercy.”

He chuckled, the sound deeper than his usual courtroom laugh — unguarded, real. “Mercy. Right. I should thank you then. Preferably with bourbon.”

You glanced over your shoulder at him. “The place on 7th still open?”

“Unless it’s collapsed under the weight of prosecutorial egos,” he said dryly.

You nudged him with your shoulder. “Careful, Counsellor. That almost sounded like flirting.”

He tilted his head, smile widening. “Would that be out of order?”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the grin tugging at your lips. “Come on, Barba. Let’s go before you start quoting case law at me.”

“Oh, I brought case law,” he replied smoothly, falling into step beside you. “But I thought I’d wait until the second drink.”

You snorted. “Charming.”

He gave you a sidelong glance. “So they tell me.”

The bar on 7th was the kind of place that didn’t need to advertise. Nestled between a pawn shop and a closed-down theatre with a flickering marquee, it looked unassuming from the outside. But the moment you stepped through the door, the world shifted. It was dim and warm, the air touched with the scent of old whiskey, polished wood, and the faintest trail of cologne from the man beside you.

Inside, the lighting was low, golden. Vintage sconces cast pools of light along worn brick walls. The booths were high-backed and made of old leather that groaned when you sat, and the bar itself—mahogany, rich and dark—had been polished by time and elbows, the kind of place with history layered into every groove.

Soft jazz drifted from a record player in the corner. Not a playlist. Not a DJ. A record player. Real vinyl. It suited the place. Intimate. Timeless. Quiet enough for conversation but loud enough to hide the sound of hearts picking up speed.

As you stepped inside, Barba didn’t even have to approach the counter. The bartender looked up from rinsing glasses and gave him a familiar nod.

“Regular?” the bartender asked, a dry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I’ll take two,” Barba said, then turned to glance your way. “Neat, right?”

You nodded once, surprised but a little impressed that he remembered your preference from some office mixer two years ago—one of those tedious events you both spent in the corner dissecting appellate court rulings like it was foreplay.

You slid into a booth tucked in the back, sinking into the cool leather and exhaling a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding since you stepped out of the courthouse. With a relieved groan, you kicked off your heels beneath the table, letting your sore feet rest against the polished floor. Your blazer came off next, folded neatly and draped over the edge of the booth, revealing the sleeveless black blouse you’d worn beneath. Practical. Elegant. Tactical.

Barba joined you a moment later, setting your glass down with that same courtroom precision he used when presenting evidence—deliberate, exact. His jacket remained on, but his tie had been loosened and the first button of his shirt undone. Still composed, still sharp, but something in his posture had softened. Like he’d shed the weight of the job—if only a little.

He lifted his glass.

“To mutual respect,” you offered, voice low, the glass cool in your fingers as you tapped it to his.

“To formidable opponents,” he replied, and there it was again—that glint in his eye, a flash of something sharper than amusement. Admiration, maybe. Or interest. Possibly both.

You took a slow sip. Bourbon, rich and smooth, warmed your throat. You tilted your head as you studied him. “You mean to worthy distractions.”

He let out a soft chuckle, the kind that rumbled low in his chest. “Touché.”

The moment stretched, but it didn’t strain. There was no courtroom to impress. No judge watching. Just the two of you and the low thrum of music and the sharp scent of aged oak from the bar.

“You’re not used to being challenged,” you observed, the words falling somewhere between curiosity and flirtation.

Barba didn’t answer right away. He swirled the bourbon in his glass, gaze lingering on the amber liquid before lifting to meet yours. “I enjoy being challenged,” he said, voice slower now, heavier. “Especially when the challenger knows what she’s doing.”

You raised a brow. “Is that respect I hear, Counsellor Barba?”

He smirked—subtle, but unmistakable—as he leaned in, elbows resting on the table, fingers lightly tapping his glass.

“Please. Outside the courtroom,” he said, voice dropping just slightly, “it’s Rafael. Only colleagues call me Barba. Or Counselor.”

You tilted your head, a teasing lilt in your voice. “Oh? And what does that make me, then?”

His eyes gleamed. “Dangerously close to neither.”

You let out a quiet laugh, sipping your drink. “Careful, Rafael. That almost sounded like flirting.”

He grinned, leaning back slowly with that infuriating, self-satisfied ease. “Only almost?”

You blinked, amused. “So Rafael it is, huh?”

“You've earned it,” he replied smoothly.

“I’ll let you have it,” you countered, lips curving in a faint smile. “But if we’re keeping it fair, you can drop the ‘Counselor’ too. Y/N is fine”

He leaned in just a fraction more, head tilted, voice quiet. “Oh, but I like calling you that.”

There was a pause. Not the kind that begged to be filled, but the kind that hung, heavy and electric. You stared at each other across the small distance, and something buzzed at the edges of your skin.

You set your glass down with a quiet clink and met his gaze evenly. “Flattery? So soon?”

“It’s not flattery if it’s true.”

You considered him for a long moment. The Rafael Barba you’d heard about—the biting cross-examiner, the iron spine in court—was all real. But here, under the golden lights, with a whiskey in hand and no one to perform for, you were starting to see the edges of something more. Tired eyes that still sparkled with sharp intellect. Hands that had gestured with precision now resting, relaxed, on the table.

“You know,” he said, voice dipping lower, more intimate now, “next time we’re on opposite sides…I won’t go easy on you.”

You let that sink in. “Good,” you said finally, and your voice was just as soft. “I’d be insulted if you did.”

Barba sat back, watching you with an expression that bordered on admiration. Then, his eyes drifted toward the bar.

“Another drink?”

You tilted your head, giving him a playful look over the rim of your glass. “So tell me, Rafael… is this your strategy now? Get me tipsy and hope I let my guard down?”

He smirked, already rising to his feet with a slow, deliberate stretch. “Only if it works.”

You narrowed your eyes, amused. “Fine. But behave at the bar. No charming the bartender for extra drinks while you’re up there.”

He stood with a slow, deliberate stretch, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt and smoothing his tie with one practiced motion. “No promises, Counselor.”

“I thought we retired that title for the evening.”

“Old habits,” he said, offering you a wink before turning away.

You watched him walk to the bar, taking in the way the light cast across his shoulders, the sharp cut of his suit, the confidence in his stride. He greeted the bartender with a few quiet words, resting one hand casually against the bar as he waited.

He looked back once. Not to check on the drinks. To check on you. And your heart—traitorous, eager—skipped in response. You sat back, running your fingers lightly around the rim of your glass, a soft smile ghosting across your lips.

Rafael

Not Barba. Not just Counsellor.

Rafael

And maybe… something more.

[aspenmissing]

ʙᴀʙʏ ᴍᴏᴍᴇɴᴛꜱ

ʙᴜᴄᴋʏ ʙᴀʀɴᴇꜱ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ || 3514 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴛᴀʟᴋɪɴɢ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴏɴᴇꜱ ꜰᴇᴀʀ ᴏꜰ ʜᴜʀᴛɪɴɢ ᴄʜɪʟᴅ (ᴏɴ ʙᴜᴄᴋʏ'ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ)

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ᴄᴜᴛᴇ ᴍᴏᴍᴇɴᴛꜱ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ʏ/ɴ ᴀɴᴅ ʙᴜᴄᴋʏ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ɴᴇᴡ ᴘᴀʀᴇɴᴛꜱ.

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʙᴜᴄᴋʏ

MORNING SUNSHINE

Every morning, without fail, Bucky woke to the soft, warm weight of Y/N’s hand resting gently on his bare chest. It was a small, soothing ritual they both treasured — a quiet, sacred moment of calm before the world outside began to stir and pull them into the rush of the day. The gentle press of her palm, steady and familiar, was enough to ground him, a tether to the home and family they were building together.

Nestled safely between them, their baby stirred, a tiny body curled close to Y/N’s side. The first golden light of dawn filtered softly through the cracked curtains, spilling across the rumpled sheets and bathing their little family in a honeyed glow. The warmth of the sun mingled with the warmth of the room, creating a cocoon of serenity that held them safe.

Bucky’s gaze drifted from the delicate curve of Y/N’s cheek — flushed faintly with sleep, eyelashes long and dark against her skin — down to their baby’s sleepy face. Those wide, curious eyes blinked open slowly, taking in the world with a quiet wonder. The baby’s soft breath was a gentle rhythm between them, a fragile pulse of new life that made Bucky’s chest tighten with a fierce, tender love.

He smiled softly, almost breathless in the quiet joy of this new chapter, this fresh beginning. His fingers moved with a reverence he didn’t often allow himself, brushing a loose strand of Y/N’s hair back from her forehead. His touch lingered there for a heartbeat — warm, gentle, protective — as if trying to imprint the moment into memory.

“Morning, love,” he whispered, his voice low and thick with feeling, the words soaked in affection and something deeper — awe, gratitude, a profound sense of belonging.

Y/N’s tired smile was the best thing Bucky saw all day. It was soft and delicate, the kind of smile that came from deep inside, full of exhaustion and overwhelming love all at once. Her eyes, still heavy with sleep, flickered up to meet his, sparkling faintly in the early light.

“Did you hear that?” she murmured, voice thick with hope and amusement. “The baby just said ‘mama.’” Her tone was playful, but beneath it was a tenderness that made Bucky’s heart ache.

Bucky chuckled quietly, tightening his arm around both of them to pull them closer, holding them in the warm cocoon of their bed. “Pretty sure that was just a burp,” he teased, his voice rich with laughter that rumbled softly in his chest.

Y/N laughed softly, her head resting against his collarbone, the faint scent of lavender shampoo mixing with the baby’s sweet innocence. “I’m going to take that as a ‘mama’ for now,” she whispered, her words like a promise.

Their baby gurgled happily, stretching tiny fingers toward Bucky’s face, as if trying to join the conversation or to claim him as part of this new, perfect little family. Bucky reached out carefully, letting the baby’s soft hand curl around his flesh finger, marvelling at how something so small could hold so much life, so much hope.

For a moment, time seemed to stand still — the golden light, the quiet breaths, the soft rise and fall of chests all tangled together in the gentle rhythm of dawn. Bucky felt more whole than he ever had before. The past, with all its battles and pain, faded into the background, eclipsed by the warmth and love that filled this quiet room.

He pressed a gentle kiss to Y/N’s temple and then leaned down to kiss the baby’s forehead, his heart swelling with a fierce joy that no words could capture.

“Good morning, family,” he whispered softly, knowing that no matter what the day brought, these moments — small, perfect, and filled with love — were what truly mattered.

THE DIAPER DUTY DUEL

It was a lazy afternoon when Bucky, determined to prove his worth as a hands-on dad, declared he would take on diaper duty. Y/N, sitting comfortably on the couch with a book in her lap, watched him with a mixture of amusement and affection as he crouched down before their wriggling baby, brow furrowed in concentration.

“Alright, Operation Clean-Up is a go,” Bucky muttered seriously, eyes scanning the changing table like it was a battlefield.

Y/N giggled softly, putting down her book. “You sure you’re ready for this, soldier?”

Bucky shot her a mock glare. “Don’t underestimate me. I’ve got this.”

The baby, however, had other plans. As soon as Bucky peeled back the diaper, the little one twisted and squirmed, making the task instantly ten times harder.

Bucky’s eyebrows shot up. “Whoa, okay, that’s a lot of movement for such a tiny person.”

Y/N smiled, reaching over. “Need a hand?”

Bucky shook his head with a grin. “Maybe just some moral support.”

Y/N got up and leaned beside him, gently humming a lullaby as Bucky fumbled with wipes and diapers. Despite the chaos, the scene felt peaceful — two parents learning the ropes together, their baby the joyful centre of the world.

After a few more attempts and lots of laughter, Bucky finally triumphantly secured the fresh diaper. “Victory,” he declared, puffing out his chest with pride.

Y/N smiled, brushing a kiss across his temple. “Best diaper duty I’ve ever seen.”

FIRST LAUGH

That evening, the world outside had quieted down, and inside their cozy living room, the soft glow of a single lamp cast a warm, golden halo over Y/N. She sat curled up on the couch, wrapped in a soft blanket, cradling their baby gently in her arms. The baby’s eyes were wide and bright, shimmering with the kind of pure curiosity that only a little one discovering the world for the first time could have. Those tiny eyes flicked from Y/N’s calm, loving face to Bucky’s energetic, playful one, filled with wonder and delight.

Bucky, who had always been a bit of a goofball when it came to his family, especially with their little one, was on a mission to coax out a smile. He’d been practicing all day, determined to get a genuine laugh. Now, sitting on the floor just a few feet away, he made silly faces — scrunching up his nose as if it had a life of its own, sticking his tongue out at just the right moment, and producing exaggerated, comical noises that ranged from goofy whistles to the occasional, dramatic “boop” sound.

The baby’s gaze was fixed on him, completely absorbed. The little one’s lips curled ever so slightly, but the laughter hadn’t come yet. Bucky’s grin didn’t falter; he knew it was coming. He was patient, coaxing more and more exaggerated expressions, his eyes sparkling with mischief and love.

For a long moment, the baby just watched silently, as if processing every detail of Bucky’s face and movements. Then, suddenly, like a burst of sunlight through a cloudy sky, a bubbling, full-bodied laugh spilled out from the baby’s lips. It was a pure, joyous sound — unfiltered and beautiful — and it filled the room like the sweetest music.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat, and she gasped, eyes wide and shining with tears she refused to wipe away. “Did you hear that? Did you hear that laugh?” Her voice was a mixture of disbelief, awe, and pure happiness.

Bucky’s grin widened even more, pride radiating from him like a beacon. He scooted closer, reaching out to gently ruffle the baby’s soft, fine hair, his metal fingers surprisingly tender. “Told you I was the funny one,” he said, mock-seriously, his voice low and warm.

Y/N laughed softly, resting her head against Bucky’s shoulder, the kind of laugh that comes from the deepest well of contentment. “You’re definitely winning at this dad thing,” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion.

The baby, seemingly encouraged by the laughter, giggled again, reaching up with those tiny hands to poke Bucky’s cheek. Bucky made a playful grimace, exaggerating the moment like a seasoned performer. “Ouch! That’s a low blow, kid,” he teased, winking at Y/N.

“I think I’ve found my favourite audience,” he added, his eyes never leaving the baby’s sparkling gaze.

Y/N smiled, feeling the warmth of her little family settle into her chest like a steady flame. The world outside could wait; here, in this quiet living room bathed in soft lamplight, nothing else mattered but the sound of their baby’s laughter and the love that surrounded them.

They stayed there for a long while — Bucky continuing his silly antics, Y/N whispering sweet words and gentle encouragements, and their baby, caught in the joy of discovery and the comfort of their family’s embrace. In those simple, perfect moments, they were more than just a couple or new parents — they were a whole world unto themselves.

QUITE MOMENTS

After a particularly long day filled with endless diaper changes, late-night feedings, and countless little cries that tugged at every ounce of patience and love they had, the house finally settled into a much-needed silence. The chaos of the day gave way to a peaceful stillness that wrapped around them like a soft blanket, thick and soothing.

Y/N and Bucky sat side by side on the couch, bodies heavy with exhaustion but hearts full in a way only new parents understood. Their baby was nestled deeply in Y/N’s arms, breathing steady and slow, lost in the fragile world of dreams. Y/N’s fingers moved in slow, careful circles across the baby’s soft cheek, gentle enough to keep sleep undisturbed.

Bucky’s metal hand, cool and steady, found its way to rest on Y/N’s back. At first, it was just the instinct to be close — to be part of this quiet family moment. But soon, a tenderness he hadn’t expected bloomed inside him, and he began to trace slow, soothing patterns along her spine — a silent lullaby, a promise of safety and comfort.

Neither of them spoke for a long while. Words felt unnecessary here. The weight of the day pressed down on them both, but in this moment, their silence was enough. It carried everything — the deep exhaustion that came from caring so fiercely, the relief that their baby was finally resting, the profound love blossoming between them, and the unspoken vow that whatever storms the future held, they would face them together, side by side.

After a few minutes, Y/N finally broke the silence, voice soft and tired but full of warmth.

“I didn’t think I’d ever get used to this… the crying, the feeding, the constant mess.” She gave a small, wry laugh. “But then I look at her, and it’s all worth it.”

Bucky’s breath hitched slightly as he glanced down at the baby, whose tiny chest rose and fell in peaceful rhythm.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, his voice rough with emotion. “It’s… different from anything I’ve ever known. But I’m not going anywhere. We’re in this together.”

Y/N shifted closer, her head resting lightly against Bucky’s shoulder. “You know,” she murmured, “there are moments today I thought I’d lose it. But then you’d make some ridiculous face or silly joke, and I’d laugh so hard I forgot all about the chaos.”

Bucky chuckled softly, tracing a little circle on her back with deliberate care. “I’m glad my goofiness is good for something,” he teased gently. “Besides making you smile, of course.”

She smiled back, a tired but genuine curve of her lips. “You’re more than that, Buck. You’re everything.”

A pause stretched between them, comfortable and full. Then Bucky whispered, “I never imagined I’d want a family like this. But now? I can’t picture my life without you two.”

Y/N’s fingers brushed over his metal hand, her touch light and reverent. “Neither can I.”

The baby stirred a little, tiny fingers curling around Y/N’s shirt. Y/N glanced down and smiled softly, whispering, “Hey, little one. You’ve got two people who love you more than anything.”

Bucky pressed a gentle kiss to Y/N’s temple, then rested his head lightly against hers. “We’ll figure it out. The hard days, the sleepless nights… all of it. Because we have each other.”

Y/N sighed contentedly, closing her eyes as she let the calm wash over her. “I love you, Buck.”

“I love you too, Y/N. Always.”

They sat like that for a long while — two souls quietly entwined in love and hope, their small family whole and unbreakable.

FEEDING TIME

The soft glow of the nursery nightlight cast gentle shadows across the room, bathing everything in a warm, calming light. Y/N settled into the rocking chair, careful to get comfortable with the baby cradled gently in one arm and the bottle filled with warm formula held in the other. The baby was fussing—a little whimper here, a wriggle there—tired but stubbornly refusing to feed easily tonight. The tiny hands kicked softly, fingers curling and uncurling, like a tiny general refusing to surrender.

Bucky stood just a few feet away, arms crossed, wearing a look that was far too serious for such a domestic scene. His jaw tightened slightly in mock focus, as if he were preparing for a covert mission behind enemy lines. He cleared his throat loudly and took a couple of slow, deliberate steps toward the chair, lowering his voice into a low, urgent tone, as if briefing a special ops team on an impossible mission.

“Alright, soldier,” he began, pointing dramatically at the bottle in Y/N’s hand like it was a high-stakes objective. “This is Operation Feeding Time. Our objective: secure the target — that’s the little one — and get her to latch and drink without alerting the enemy.” He glanced around the room like they were surrounded by hostile forces. “Enemy in this case: the infamous ‘witching hour’ fussiness. Known to cause chaos and sleep deprivation.”

Y/N let out a soft laugh, shaking her head fondly. “You’re ridiculous.”

But Bucky was undeterred, a mischievous grin curling at the corners of his mouth. “I’m deadly serious. The baby’s hungry, and we’re outnumbered by spit-up, diaper changes, and an endless supply of sleepless nights. Casualties are not an option.”

He crouched down slightly, hands resting on his knees in a tactical stance, his eyes narrowing in mock concentration as if he were surveying a battlefield. “Y/N, you’re the lead on bottle delivery. I’ll be on standby for cleanup and morale support. Do you copy? Ready to deploy?”

Y/N rolled her eyes but played along perfectly, setting the bottle to the baby’s lips with practiced ease. “Roger that, Sergeant Barnes. Bottle is prepped and ready for deployment.”

Bucky took a step back and lowered his voice even more, whispering like a commander coordinating a stealth operation. “Remember, steady hands. This mission requires patience and precision. One wrong move, and it’s chaos. There’s no room for error when the enemy is this unpredictable.”

As Y/N gently coaxed the baby to latch, Bucky kept up the commentary, watching every tiny movement with exaggerated seriousness. “Engage. Steady… steady… good. Target is responding. Initiate feeding protocol.”

The baby’s little mouth finally latched onto the bottle, sucking eagerly now as the fussiness began to melt away. Bucky let out a barely contained whoop, grinning from ear to ear. “Mission accomplished. Target secured. Extraction point: the couch for cuddles and a well-earned nap.”

Y/N smiled warmly, shaking her head but clearly loving the moment and the goofy energy Bucky brought even in the most mundane parenting tasks. “You’re the weirdest dad ever.”

Bucky shrugged, eyes shining with affection. “Hey, if treating parenthood like a tactical operation keeps us sane, I’m all in. Plus, I’m pretty sure it keeps you entertained.”

The baby gurgled happily, reaching up with a tiny hand to poke Bucky’s metal hand. But Bucky quickly caught the little hand with his flesh hand gently, holding it close.

“Looks like we’ve got a fan,” Bucky said with a soft chuckle. “Alright, team, get ready for phase two — diaper change drills. I’m calling in reinforcements.”

Y/N laughed, rocking the baby a little as Bucky mock-saluted. “You’re officially on cleanup detail.”

As the baby finished the bottle and finally drifted off to sleep in Y/N’s arms, Bucky settled down beside them, feeling a quiet pride swell inside. Maybe it wasn’t a battlefield, but every day felt like a mission worth fighting for — because this was their family, their team, and there was no one else he’d rather have by his side.

TINY HANDS, BIG HEART

One quiet night, the soft light filtered lazily through the living room windows, casting a warm glow over the cozy chaos of baby blankets, toys, and scattered books. Their little one lay peacefully on a soft blanket spread across the floor, eyes wide with curiosity as she reached out toward everything in her tiny world. Her small hands grasped at colourful mobiles hanging nearby, then clumsily explored the fabric beneath her.

Nearby, Bucky sat on the floor, his metal arm resting carefully just a few inches from the baby’s outstretched hand. For years, that arm had been a source of pain for him — a reminder of battles fought, lost time, and scars both physical and emotional. He still wasn’t entirely comfortable with its coldness, the way it felt so different from the softness of flesh and bone.

His eyes flickered down to the baby, whose tiny fingers suddenly twitched and stretched toward him. Time seemed to slow as those little fingers curled around the smooth, hard surface of his metal hand.

Bucky froze. His breath hitched ever so slightly.

A swell of conflicting emotions washed over him — surprise, awe, and, buried deep beneath it all, a fragile, trembling fear.

What if he wasn’t gentle enough? What if his touch scared her? What if the cold metal sent the wrong message, the wrong feeling?

He looked down at his arm, half-expecting the baby to pull away. But she didn’t. Instead, she held on, her grip tentative but determined — as if she somehow understood that this cold hand was hers to hold, that this arm that had caused him so much pain was now a source of safety.

Slowly, carefully, Bucky curled his fingers around hers, his movements almost reverent. He tightened his grip just enough to offer support without pressure.

“Got you, little one,” he said softly, his voice low and almost unsure, as if speaking the words aloud helped calm the storm inside him.

From the couch, Y/N watched, her heart swelling with an emotion so fierce it made her chest ache. She saw the hesitation in Bucky’s eyes — that deep-rooted fear of hurting, of not being enough, of what his metal hand represented. But she also saw the vulnerability blossoming into something beautiful: a father learning to trust himself, to trust the love that had grown far beyond the pain.

“That hand’s been through so much,” Y/N said quietly, her voice thick with emotion, “and now it’s theirs. Yours and hers. It’s part of your family.”

Bucky glanced up, eyes shining with something close to tears — a mixture of relief, gratitude, and a fierce protectiveness. “Yeah,” he whispered. “And I’m never letting go.”

He looked back down, watching the baby’s fingers twitch against his metal palm, and felt a warmth spread through him that he hadn’t expected. That cold arm, once a symbol of loss and suffering, was now a lifeline — a bridge connecting him to the future he never thought he’d have.

Y/N scooted closer and gently rested a hand over Bucky’s. “It’s a new chapter,” she said softly. “One where every part of you — metal and flesh — belongs here, with us.”

Bucky shifted his body just enough to pull Y/N closer, his free hand coming up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m scared sometimes,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Scared I’ll mess it up. Scared that this,” he gestured to his metal hand, “will scare her or hurt her.”

Y/N shook her head, smiling through the tears that had gathered in her own eyes. “She doesn’t see the metal, Bucky. She sees you. Her dad. The man who sings silly songs, who makes her laugh, who loves her more than anything.”

He inhaled deeply, grounding himself in that truth. The baby’s grip on his hand tightened for a brief second, a tiny heartbeat of connection that said more than words ever could.

“I’m learning,” Bucky said, voice stronger now. “Learning how to be the dad she needs. And with you... with both of you... I think I’m gonna be okay.”

Y/N kissed his cheek gently, leaning into him. “You’re more than okay. You’re amazing.”

For a long moment, the three of them sat there — a little family bound together by something stronger than steel, something softer and fiercer than fear. The metal hand that had once been a barrier was now a bridge. And in that quiet afternoon light, hope felt as tangible as the baby’s small fingers wrapped around Bucky’s own.

They stayed like that for what felt like forever, Bucky’s heart swelling with a quiet, fierce love he never thought possible — a love that could hold all the scars, all the fears, and still grow stronger every day.

[aspenmissing]

ᴍᴀɪɴ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

[𝘼𝙘𝙘𝙚𝙥𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝘿𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝] 𝘠𝘦𝘴 𝘪'𝘮 𝘢𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦, 𝘯𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘴𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘩 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘯 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘺 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘺 𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘭, 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘭𝘭 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘢𝘧𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺'𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘮 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵'𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺'𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘴𝘰 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘯𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬, 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭; 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺'𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘣𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. (𝘋𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵.) 𝘋𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘥 𝘛

ꜱᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ 1 || ʜɪᴀᴛᴜꜱ (ᴇᴅɪᴛɪɴɢ)

ꜱᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ 2 ||

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ᴍᴀɪɴ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱʜᴀᴅᴏᴡᴇᴅ ᴄᴏʀɴᴇʀꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴀᴍᴇʀɪᴄᴀ, ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴍᴏɴꜱᴛᴇʀꜱ ʟᴜʀᴋ ᴀɴᴅ ʟᴇɢᴇɴᴅꜱ ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜᴇ, ꜱɪʙʟɪɴɢꜱ ꜱᴀᴍ, ᴅᴇᴀɴ, ᴀɴᴅ ʏ/ɴ ᴡɪɴᴄʜᴇꜱᴛᴇʀ ᴅʀɪᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴘᴇɴ ʀᴏᴀᴅꜱ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ᴄʜᴇᴠʏ ɪᴍᴘᴀʟᴀ, ᴄʜᴀꜱɪɴɢ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɢᴏ ʙᴜᴍᴘ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɴɪɢʜᴛ. ʀᴀɪꜱᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪꜰᴇ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ᴛʀᴀɢᴇᴅʏ ᴛᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ꜰᴀᴍɪʟʏ ᴀᴘᴀʀᴛ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴡɪɴᴄʜᴇꜱᴛᴇʀ ᴛʀɪᴏ ʜᴜɴᴛꜱ ɢʜᴏꜱᴛꜱ, ᴅᴇᴍᴏɴꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴍᴏꜱᴛ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴅɪꜱᴍɪꜱꜱ ᴀꜱ ᴍʏᴛʜ. ʙᴜᴛ ɪᴛ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏɴꜱᴛᴇʀꜱ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴜᴛꜱɪᴅᴇ ᴛʜᴇʏ ꜰᴀᴄᴇ—ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴄᴀʀʀɪᴇꜱ ꜱᴄᴀʀꜱ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀꜱᴛ, ꜱᴇᴄʀᴇᴛꜱ ʙᴜʀɪᴇᴅ ᴅᴇᴇᴘ, ᴀɴᴅ Qᴜᴇꜱᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴜɴɪᴠᴇʀꜱᴇ ʀᴇꜰᴜꜱᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ. ᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇʏ ʙᴀᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴀɴᴄɪᴇɴᴛ ᴇᴠɪʟꜱ, ᴏᴜᴛᴡɪᴛ ᴀɴɢᴇʟꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴇᴍᴏɴꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴜɴʀᴀᴠᴇʟ ᴀ ᴄᴏꜱᴍɪᴄ ᴄᴏɴꜱᴘɪʀᴀᴄʏ ᴛʜʀᴇᴀᴛᴇɴɪɴɢ ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ʜᴜᴍᴀɴɪᴛʏ, ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏɴᴅꜱ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴀʀᴇ ᴛᴇꜱᴛᴇᴅ—ᴀɴᴅ ᴜʟᴛɪᴍᴀᴛᴇʟʏ ꜰᴏʀɢᴇᴅ ꜱᴛʀᴏɴɢᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ꜰᴀᴛᴇ ɪᴛꜱᴇʟꜰ. ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴜᴘᴇʀɴᴀᴛᴜʀᴀʟ, ꜱᴀᴠɪɴɢ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ, ʜᴜɴᴛɪɴɢ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ… ᴛʜᴀᴛ’ꜱ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴀ ꜰᴀᴍɪʟʏ ʙᴜꜱɪɴᴇꜱꜱ. ɪᴛ’ꜱ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ʟᴇɢᴀᴄʏ.

ꜱᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ 1 || ᴇᴅɪᴛɪɴɢ

ꜱᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ 2 || ᴇᴅɪᴛɪɴɢ

ꜱᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ 3 || ᴇᴅɪᴛɪɴɢ

ꜱᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ 4 || ᴇᴅɪᴛɪɴɢ

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ᴍᴀɪɴ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

ʏ/ɴ ᴅᴀʟʟᴀꜱ — ᴀ ɢɪʀʟ ᴡʜᴏ, ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴀ ʏᴏᴜɴɢ ᴀɢᴇ, ʟᴇᴀʀɴᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀᴜᴇʟ ᴡᴀʏꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ. ʜᴏᴡ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴏᴡɴ ɢᴀɪɴ. ʜᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴏꜱᴇ ᴡʜᴏ ᴀʀᴇ ᴅɪꜰꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴛ ᴀʀᴇ ᴛʀᴇᴀᴛᴇᴅ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀɴɪᴍᴀʟꜱ, ʀᴇᴅᴜᴄᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ɴᴜᴍʙᴇʀꜱ ᴏɴ ᴀ ᴄʟɪᴘʙᴏᴀʀᴅ. ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ꜱᴜᴄᴄᴇᴇᴅ. ᴏᴛʜᴇʀꜱ ꜰᴀɪʟ. ʙᴜᴛ ɴᴏᴛ ʏ/ɴ. ꜱʜᴇ ᴇꜱᴄᴀᴘᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʟɪꜰᴇ. ꜱʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ꜰʀᴇᴇ. ꜱʜᴇ ʀᴀɴ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴏʀᴇꜱᴛ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴇᴀʀᴛʜ ꜰɪʀᴍ ʙᴇɴᴇᴀᴛʜ ʜᴇʀ ʙᴀʀᴇ ꜰᴇᴇᴛ, ꜱᴛɪᴄᴋꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴛᴏɴᴇꜱ ʙɪᴛɪɴɢ ᴀᴛ ʜᴇʀ ꜱᴏʟᴇꜱ — ʙᴜᴛ ꜱʜᴇ ᴅɪᴅɴ’ᴛ ꜱᴛᴏᴘ. ꜱʜᴇ ᴋᴇᴘᴛ ʀᴜɴɴɪɴɢ, ᴄʜᴀꜱɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʀᴏᴍɪꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ꜰʀᴇᴇᴅᴏᴍ. ᴡʜᴇɴ ꜱʜᴇ ʙᴜʀꜱᴛ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʟᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ, ʜᴇʀ ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴄᴀᴜɢʜᴛ ɪɴ ʜᴇʀ ᴛʜʀᴏᴀᴛ. ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ʀᴇᴀʟ.

ꜱʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍᴇᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇᴍ, ʙᴜᴛ ɴᴏᴡ ꜱʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ꜱᴇᴇ ᴛʜᴇᴍ — ꜱᴍᴇʟʟ ᴛʜᴇᴍ, ᴛᴏᴜᴄʜ ᴛʜᴇᴍ. ʜᴇʀ ꜰɪɴɢᴇʀꜱ ʀᴇᴀᴄʜᴇᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ᴏɴᴇ, ɢᴇɴᴛʟʏ ᴄᴜʀʟɪɴɢ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʜɪᴄᴋ ꜱᴛᴇᴍ. ꜱʜᴇ ᴘᴜʟʟᴇᴅ ɪᴛ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴏɪʟ, ʙʀɪɴɢɪɴɢ ɪᴛ ᴄʟᴏꜱᴇ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʀ ꜰᴀᴄᴇ. ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴄᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴡᴀʀᴍ, ᴇᴀʀᴛʜʏ, ᴀʟɪᴠᴇ. ꜱʜᴇ ꜱᴍɪʟᴇᴅ ᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ʀɪꜱɪɴɢ ꜱᴜɴ ɢʟɪɴᴛᴇᴅ ᴏꜰꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴏʟᴅᴇɴ ᴘᴇᴛᴀʟꜱ. ꜱᴜᴄʜ ʙᴇᴀᴜᴛʏ. ꜱᴏ ʙᴏʟᴅ. ᴛʜᴇʏ ꜱᴛᴏᴏᴅ ᴛᴀʟʟ ᴀɴᴅ ᴜɴᴡᴀᴠᴇʀɪɴɢ, ꜰᴀᴄɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ ꜰɪᴇʀᴄᴇ ᴋɪɴᴅ ᴏꜰ ɢʀᴀᴄᴇ. ᴛʜᴇʏ ʙᴇɴᴛ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡɪɴᴅ ʙᴜᴛ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ʙʀᴏᴋᴇ. ᴏʜ, ʜᴏᴡ ʙᴇᴀᴜᴛɪꜰᴜʟ ꜱᴜɴꜰʟᴏᴡᴇʀꜱ ᴀʀᴇ.

ꜱᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ 1 || ɪɴ ᴘʀᴏɢʀᴇꜱꜱ

ꜱᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ 2 ||

ꜱᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ 3 ||

ꜱᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ 4 ||

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ᴋᴏʀᴇᴀɴ/ᴊᴀᴘᴀɴᴇꜱᴇ ᴅʀᴀᴍᴀꜱ

ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴀɪɴ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

ᴀʟɪᴄᴇ ɪɴ ʙᴏʀᴅᴇʀʟᴀɴᴅꜱ -

ꜱʜᴜɴᴛᴀʀᴏ ᴄʜɪꜱʜɪʏᴀ, ᴋᴜɪɴᴀ, ʀʏᴏʜᴇɪ ᴀʀɪꜱᴜ, ꜱᴜɢᴜʀᴜ ɴɪʀᴀɢɪ, ᴀɴɴ

ꜱQᴜɪᴅ ɢᴀᴍᴇ -

ꜱᴇᴏɴɢ ɢɪ-ʜᴜɴ, ꜰʀᴏɴᴛ ᴍᴀɴ, ʜᴡᴀɴɢ ᴊᴜɴ-ʜᴏ, ᴄʜᴏ ʜʏᴜɴ-ᴊᴜ, ᴋᴀɴɢ ᴅᴀᴇ-ʜᴏ

ꜱᴡᴇᴇᴛ ʜᴏᴍᴇ -

ᴄʜᴀ ʜʏᴜɴ-ꜱᴜ, ʟᴇᴇ ᴇᴜɴ-ʜʏᴜɴᴋ, ᴘʏᴇᴏɴ ꜱᴀɴɢ-ᴡᴏᴏᴋ, ꜱᴇᴏ ʏɪ-ᴋʏᴇᴏɴɢ, ᴊᴜɴɢ ᴊᴀᴇ-ʜᴇᴏɴ, ᴅʀ ʟɪᴍ, ꜱᴇᴏ ʏɪ-ꜱᴜ (ᴘʟᴀᴛᴏɴɪᴄ), ꜱᴇᴀʀɢᴇᴀɴᴛ ᴋɪᴍ ʏᴇɪɴɢ-ʜᴜ, ꜰᴀᴛʜᴇʀ ᴘᴇᴛᴇʀ

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ᴀɴɪᴍᴇ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴀɪɴ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

ᴊᴏᴊᴏ'ꜱ ʙɪᴢᴀʀʀᴇ ᴀᴅᴠᴇɴᴛᴜʀᴇ -

ᴊᴏɴᴀᴛʜᴀɴ ᴊᴏᴇꜱᴛᴀʀ, ᴊᴏꜱᴇᴘʜ ᴊᴏᴇꜱᴛᴀʀ, ᴊᴏᴛᴀʀᴏ ᴋᴜᴊᴏ, ᴊᴏꜱᴜᴋᴇ ʜɪɢɪꜱʜɪᴋᴀᴛᴀ, ɢɪᴏʀɴᴏ ɢɪᴏᴠᴀɴɴɪ, ᴊᴏʟʏɴᴇ ᴄᴜᴊᴏʜ, ᴄᴀᴇꜱᴀʀ ᴢᴇᴘᴘᴇʟɪ, ɴᴏʀɪᴀᴋɪ ᴋᴀᴋʏᴏɪɴ, ᴊᴇᴀɴ ᴘɪᴇʀʀᴇ ᴘᴏʟɴᴀʀᴇꜰꜰ, ᴅɪᴏ ʙʀᴀɴᴅᴏ, ᴏᴋᴜʏᴀꜱᴜ ɴɪᴊɪᴍᴜʀᴀ, ʀᴏʜᴀɴ ᴋɪꜱʜɪʙᴇ, ʏᴏꜱʜɪᴋᴀɢᴇ ᴋɪʀᴀ, ʙʀᴜɴᴏ ʙᴜᴄᴄɪᴀʀᴀᴛɪ, ʟᴇᴏɴᴇ ᴀʙʙᴀᴄᴄʜɪᴏ, ɢᴜɪᴅᴏ ᴍɪꜱᴛᴀ, ᴅɪᴀᴠᴏʟᴏ, ʀɪꜱᴏᴛᴛᴏ ɴᴇʀᴏ, ᴇʀᴍᴇꜱ ᴄᴏꜱᴛᴇʟʟᴏ, ꜰᴏᴏ ꜰɪɢʜᴛᴇʀꜱ, ᴡᴇᴛʜᴇʀ ʀᴇᴘᴏʀᴛ, ɴᴀʀᴄɪꜱᴏ ᴀɴᴀꜱᴜɪ

ᴏɴᴇ ᴘɪᴇᴄᴇ (+ʟɪᴠᴇ ᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴ) -

ᴍᴏɴᴋᴇʏ ᴅ. ʟᴜꜰꜰʏ, ʀᴏʀᴏɴᴏᴀ ᴢᴏʀᴏ, ᴠɪɴᴇꜱᴍᴏᴋᴇ ꜱᴀɴᴊɪ, ᴘᴏʀᴛɢᴀꜱ ᴅ. ᴀᴄᴇ, ɴɪᴄᴏ ʀᴏʙɪɴ, ɴᴀᴍɪ, ꜱʜᴀɴᴋꜱ, ᴅʀᴀᴄᴜʟᴇ ᴍɪʜᴀᴡᴋ, ʙᴜɢɢʏ, ᴛʀᴀꜰᴀʟɢᴀʀ ᴅ. ʟᴀᴡ, ᴇᴜꜱᴛᴀꜱꜱ ᴋɪᴅ

ᴍʏ ʜᴇʀᴏ ᴀᴄᴀᴅᴇᴍɪᴀ -

ɪᴢᴜᴋᴜ "ᴅᴇᴋᴜ" ᴍɪᴅᴏʀɪʏᴀ, ᴋᴀᴛꜱᴜᴋɪ ʙᴀᴋᴜɢᴏᴜ, ꜱʜᴏᴛᴏ ᴛᴏᴅᴏʀᴏᴋɪ, ꜱʜᴏᴛᴀ ᴀɪᴢᴀᴡᴀ, ᴇɪᴊɪʀᴏ ᴋɪʀɪꜱʜɪᴍᴀ, ᴍɪɴᴀ ᴀꜱʜɪᴅᴏ, ʜɪᴛᴏꜱʜɪ ꜱʜɪɴꜱᴏᴜ, ᴀʟʟᴍɪɢʜᴛ, ᴍɪʀᴋᴏ, ᴍɪʀɪᴏ ᴛᴏɢᴀᴛᴀ, ᴛᴀᴍᴀᴋɪ ᴀᴍᴀᴊɪᴋɪ, ꜰᴀᴛɢᴜᴍ, ʜᴀᴡᴋꜱ, ᴅᴀʙɪ, ᴛᴏᴍᴜʀᴀ ꜱʜɪɢɪʀᴀᴋɪ