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kikiiswashere · 8 months ago

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Four to Tango

As promised, part two of Waltzing for Three!!!

Thank you for helping me reach 200 followers for this little ol' blog of mine 🥰 And welcome to all the newcomers!

The idea for this ficlet was born of watching my bestie @sand-sea-and-fable help out a pregnant friend by lifting her belly off her hips, and it just sort of spiraled from there.

It's also worth noting that I myself am not a mother, nor have I given birth, nor do I wish to be a mom (husband got the ol' snip-snip). So why this fic? Good question 😅

That being said, I did my best to write about the labor process relatively accurately without getting into the super nitty-gritty of it 😂 So, please enjoy this weird little fever-dream of a fic, and please comment and reblog 💗

Tags for the interested parties: @luhmoon, @legendaryflowercheesecake, @thebeserkvernid, @miffysoo

Pairing: Established Silco x AFAB!Reader

Rating: Teen/Mature (brief reference to oral sex)

CW: Non-graphic descriptions of pregnancy and labor

Insistent cramping had woken you up in the wee-hours one morning, swelling and ebbing in a slow rhythm that sent your heart tapping, a loop of nerves coiling around your gut – little room that there was for it.

Silco had been a terribly light sleeper ever since Vander’s betrayal, ever since those early years on an under-tested Shimmer variant that left his brain unable to fully settle. So, the moment you shifted into a sitting position, he shot up as well.

“What’s wrong?”

Words got gummed up on fear and excitement in your mouth. There was a slight tremor in your fingers as they grazed over your belly. You had noticed it sitting even lower on your hips these past several days. While you were very done with being pregnant, you were still nervous and surprised to say –

“I think it’s time.”

With comical amounts of speed, but awe-inspiring grace, Silco flung himself from the bed, divesting himself of his eyepatch and pajamas. After changing into a simple set of trousers and an old button-up shirt, he fetched the stopwatch Jinx had invented to easily time your contractions, and wrote a tube prompting your midwife that she was needed. It had been decided early on that the babe’s delivery – barring any complications – would happen at The Last Drop. You, nor Silco, were willing to venture outside to a clinic when your family would be at its most vulnerable.

Too nervous to lay down, much less fall back asleep, you began pacing the large bedroom in your large sleep shirt. Every time a contraction locked up and spasmed through your lower belly and back, your fingers pressed the stopwatch’s clicker. And you breathed as the midwife had instructed. Silco kept you company, walking with you up and down the length of the bedroom, holding your hand and becoming an anchor to squeeze when contractions rolled through. Together, you both noted and kept track of their intervals. Their spacing and length suggested that the little one’s arrival was not imminent, but the consistency indicated that this was indeed labor.

The midwife arrived, ushered in by a half-asleep Sevika. You’d bribed her with an absurd bonus and several pre-paid sessions at Babette’s for her to crash in one of the Drop’s private guest rooms during these last days of your pregnancy. She was needed for security, and to stand-in for Silco when his attention and priorities would be elsewhere.

“Good luck,” she’d grumbled, barely glancing at you before shutting the bedroom door, and trudging back down the hall.

The midwife was a petite, wizened Vastaya who’d been selected for her services not only because of her field prowess, but because she was staunch loyalist to you and Silco. Shimmer had helped save more than one of her clients when the birthing process had begun to go sideways, and that was enough for her to hitch her wagon to your agenda.

She was also direct to the point of rudeness – a personality trait that was wholly welcome given the slippery, hidden, self-serving rhetoric you were used to having to deal with.

“Time?” she asked, setting her medical bag down on your dresser with a heavy thunk.

“Forty-five seconds to a minute, about every seven minutes,” you answered. Then gasped and doubled over as another contraction bent you.

The midwife hummed. “How long?”

“About an hour,” Silco said. He squeezed back at your hand as you rode out the current wave rolling through.

Clucking her tongue, the midwife shook her head, long ears slapping lightly against her horns.

“Early.”

Silco frowned. “You are being more than thoroughly compensated to show up whenever we ask.”

“Indeed. To the bed, miss. Let’s have a look.”

Once your legs were freed from the lock of the contraction, you shuffled to the bed. Silco helped you into position, and the midwife closed in. Her fingers were warm, but the tools were cold. The combination, along with your nerves, caused your lungs to shudder.

“Five,” she declared, drawing her head from between your thighs.

“That’s halfway,” you chuckled weakly. Silco brushed his thumb over your knuckles

The midwife hummed in agreement. “True. But as discussed, this process is not linear. And being your first delivery, it is very likely this will take a while. How is the pain?”

“Fine. Manageable.” It came out as a grit, but she didn’t seem to doubt you.

“You should eat and drink while you can. Is there anything else you want or need right now?”

Together, you and Silco walked to the small kitchen in your private quarters. You rested your forearms on the counter as the length of your spine hammocked behind you, hips gently swishing side-to-side. Silco kept the breakfast blissfully simple: toast with a light slather of butter, and a mug of warmed water with lemon.

Eating was slow going. Between the jitters and contractions, your appetite was seriously curbed. When you finally made it to the second piece of toast, Jinx shuffled into the kitchen, bleary-eyed and bed-headed. Her bedraggled demeanor did not last long though, as her whip-quick senses tuned into the energy of the space. Big, blue eyes tracked between Silco – unusually underdressed – and your strange posture. One could nearly hear the cogs in her head clicking and whirring.

“Is it time?!”

In a flash, she clambered onto the stool next to you, bright and tittering. Her exuberance washed over you in a relieving breeze. Reaching over, you ran a hand through her unkempt hair.

“Sure is, kiddo.”

“When will he be here?”

“Could be a while yet, Jinx,” Silco answered. He set a glass of juice in front of her. “What would you like? Toad-in-the-hole? Porridge? Pancakes?”

“Make ‘em have a face!” she crowed.

A hook of a smile pulled at Silco’s mouth as he turned back toward the stove.

Jinx settled onto the stool; legs kicking merrily beneath her as she sipped her juice.

“What does it feel like?”

“Like intense menstrual cramps.”

Her small face squished in a ponder. While you had had that conversation with her, Jinx had yet to broach into that aspect of puberty. Thus, she had no point of reference.

“Kinda like when you roof-run after eating, and your abs cramp up,” you offered. “Kind of.”

A contraction swelled upon you, and you grit your teeth, face pinching, head dropping. Silco stepped away from the stovetop, and placed a grounding hand between your shoulder blades. Jinx watched, eyes wide and worried. Timidly, she shifted toward you, pressing her forehead to your shoulder.

The pain continued, but was temporarily numbed by the overwhelming love and gratitude for the two people on either side of you.

Your family.

It was never part of the plan when it came to your Silco’s ideas to lift Zaun up, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. And in a few hours, three would be four. Your heart beat big, tapping against your throat as the contraction passed. You clicked the stopwatch.

“That seems worse than roof-run cramps,” Jinx said suspiciously.

You chuffed. “Like I said: Kind of.”

Silco rubbed his hand up and down your spine a few times, before kissing your temple and returning to the stove.

“You remember what we talked about?” you asked Jinx.

She fiddled with her hair, nodding. “I can come and go as I please.”

“Right. If you want to be with us, I want you to be there. If you don’t, that’s fine, too. You get to decide, and it doesn’t have to be right now.”

Jinx nodded again, eyes staring into the middle-distance. Reaching over, you brushed your fingers through her hair again. Her eyes snapped back to yours.

“Are you scared?”

You gave her a reassuring smile.

“No. I’m happy.”

It wasn’t a lie. But a few hours later, your happiness was thoroughly overshadowed by the pain of labor. It was staggering how it had intensified. How it was becoming near non-stop as the space between contractions shortened and shortened. Gravity felt impossible to contend with on top of everything else, so you sank onto your bedroom floor with a low, guttural growl.

Silco had been attentive throughout, anticipating your needs before you even voiced them. Ever your anchor, your source for steadiness. Even now, on your hands and knees, his own wide palms settled onto your hips and pressed in. It pulled an appreciative groan from your throat.

“You’re doing so well, my love.”

“It doesn’t feel like it.”

Your eyes flicked to the bathroom door where Jinx was helping the midwife prepare a warm bath. You were proud of your girl. Admittedly, part of you doubted she would choose to stick around once labor became loud and more intense. When you could no longer keep yourself from crying out, hesitancy had flickered in her eyes, and her brows pitched in concern. But instead of dashing away, she’d reached for your hand and held tight.

“Is there anything you can give her?” she’d asked the midwife incredulously.

The female had smirked, impressed and moved by the girl’s protectiveness of you.

“I have mild pain relievers, but nothing that will fully numb – “

“Shimmer?”

The midwife’s black lips thinned. “That is only to be used in emergencies,” she explained. “It is too potent and powerful to be used for anything other than the most extreme circumstances. Which – “her eyes looked up at your haggard form on the bed – “does not seem probable. Her labor is progressing as it should. There is nothing to worry about.”

Jinx frowned, doubtful, and hunkered closer to your side.

“Seems like a dumb design that it hurts so much.”

“Agreed,” you wheezed.

“Come,” the midwife said, “let’s check you.”

She declared you’d progressed to eight centimeters. That had been three hours ago. And the pain just continued to climb and build.

A small sob burst through your teeth. Silco knelt at your side, quietly saying your name.

“I’m scared, Sil,” you admitted in a whisper. You were thankful Jinx wasn’t near to hear you back-pedal. Your breath hitched and words tumbled out: “I don’t know if I can do this.”

He took your warm and tear-streaked face between his hands, and repeated your name.

“Look at me.”

Reluctantly, your tired and wet eyes focused on his face. He looked at you with fierce earnestness, thumbs sweeping across the apples of your flushed cheeks. Suddenly, part of you grieved that the baby would never know Silco without his scars. Or yours. Outside and in.

Silco called your name again.

“Look at me,” he repeated. Your eyes slid back to his. Blue and red pinned you in place. “You can do this. I’ve not met anyone more tenacious, nor strong, nor as spirited as you. Those are but a few of the reasons I fell in love with you so long ago.” His eyes softened now; his adoration made plain. “You’ve absolutely no reason to doubt yourself.”

A small hiccup bubbled from your mouth, and you pressed your face into the warmth of his palm, breathing him in deeply. Not having properly dressed for the day, he hadn’t put any cologne on. The natural terra-sweet scent of his skin filled your nose. You were grateful for his support, respect, and belief in your abilities. A sudden, silly thought flitted across your mind.

“Not my dance moves?”

A single amused breath huffed from his throat. That infinitesimal smirk – one of the reasons you’d fallen in love with him – appeared on his lips. His blue eye flashed; as it often did when an idea struck him. Silco lifted to his feet, and used a strong grip to pull you to yours. He guided your arms to loop around his shoulders and neck, while his went to your low back. A weary chuckle left you as you understood. Your cheek was a relieved, heavy weight against his shoulder. It had to be a strange sight, this dance configuration: with your body slouched against his, massive belly hanging between you two. Slowly, your feet began gently shifting side-to-side.

“Admittedly,” he murmured against your crown, “your dance moves leave something to be desired right now.”

You laughed, even as another contraction swelled within you. Silco’s hands firmed up on your body, holding you upright as it moved through your body.

“I’ll make it up to you,” you hissed as most of the pain subsided. It was such now that there was no longer any real relief.

“A dance and a suck job? Lucky me.”

Your fingers pinched Silco’s upper back, and you felt the tremor of silent laughter in his shoulders.

“Tub’s ready!” Jinx sang as she flounced out of the bathroom.

Managing to smile at her, despite another great, contracting swell that threatened to bring you to your knees, you took her hand. Silco kept a strong arm wrapped around your middle, and you followed Jinx into the humid warmth of the bathroom.

The water helped. Its heat soothed your pained muscles and aching bones. The irony was not lost on you that you found peace in it. After a few minutes of settling into the tub, you gave Silco a look that to anyone else may have seemed like nothing. But he caught the message in your eyes, and tucked himself close to the tub’s edge, taking your hand. Jinx huddled herself into his lap, nervously fingering the buttons on his shirt.

About an hour later, the midwife’s large ears flicked in your direction as the quality of your breath shifted, as the sounds leaving you turned deeper and more animal. Her deft hands slipped into the water and between your legs.

“Something changed,” you gasped, hunching slightly. “It feels like – “

“It’s time,” she said, pulling her hands from the water. Somehow, she’d also stripped your underwear off in the same movement without you noticing. “It’s time to push.”

Push. The word settled into your body with a deep, innate knowing.

Yes. That’s what you were feeling. The near uncontrollable need to bare down. An old, predetermined instinct washed over you. You could do this.

But you did not want to do it alone.

“Sil.”

The grit of his name and the way you shifted yourself forward spurred your partner into understanding. Swiftly, he stood, deposited Jinx onto the stool he’d vacated, and then stepped into the tub, sliding in behind you. Settling against his chest, your hand ferociously intertwined with his. His heart beat firmly against your back.

“You can do this,” he whispered into your ear.

“Give me your other hand, dear,” the midwife said. You did so and she guided it under the water, preparing you to feel and catch. “Push.”

“Push! Push!” Jinx cried, her little fists pumping and bopping in the air madly.

Gritting your teeth, you did just that. A sound you didn’t know you were capable of making burst from your lungs. When the air ran out, you slumped against Silco’s chest.

“Breath in,” the midwife demanded. You did so. “Push!”

You did again, a roar ripping from your chest. A roar that ended in a surprised yip as something into your hand.

“Again,” the midwife demanded.

And you complied, baring down with everything you had. With all the might and tenacity and power your body could exert. Another battle cry echoed off the bathroom tiles, and a solid weight slid into your hand. You ripped your other hand from Silco’s grip, and pulled a wriggling newborn from the water.

“It’s a boy!” Jinx yelled, bouncing up and down in her seat.

Her brother’s face squidged, and his pink mouth opened in an announcing wail. You joined in and pulled the babe to your chest. Silco went very still behind you, scarcely breathing. Then his hands appeared over yours, cradling the baby at your chest. Like on the night you’d taken in Jinx, he pulled his legs up around you both and held tight.

Later, once the placenta had passed (something Jinx was equally horrified and enthralled by) you were helped out of the tub, and cleaned. The midwife tied off the babe’s umbilical cord, and once some time passed, you watched with an incredibly full heart as Silco severed it.

You weren’t sure if you’d ever seen the expression on your partner’s face. A soft, careful, wonderous thing. Then it hit you all at once. You were watching Silco fall in love. The notion took your breath away and fresh tears welled in your eyes. Jinx clung to you, and you to her.

“Thank you for being with me, Jinx. It helped.”

The girl beamed up at you, holding on tighter.

“I think it is your turn for a shower, sir,” the midwife said, twisting off the umbilical nub.

Silco watched her hands like a hawk as she did. He slid in once she finished, and wrapped him in a blanket Jinx had decorated. It was a small thing, but you caught the tremor in his hands. Keeping Jinx tucked against your side, you came to stand next to him.

“He’ll be here when you get out of the shower,” you whispered, voice hoarse.

“Yeah! Go get the baby juice off you!” Jinx ordered.

Silco’s expression of awe turned to one of bemusement as he glanced at your daughter.

“Yes. I suppose I should.”

Your own hands shook a bit as you gathered your son – your son! You wondered if the shock would wear off – and ushered Jinx to follow the midwife out of the bathroom.

With no small amount of effort, your body, beyond sore and exhausted, climbed into bed. The baby cooed and nuzzled and fussed against your chest as you settled into the pillows and duvet. Jinx climbed in on the opposite side, and snuggled close.

“He’s already sleeping!”

“It’s hard work being born. Don’t you remember?” you chuckled.

Jinx laughed, “No!”

A small smile curled the midwife’s mouth as she snapped her bag shut. She turned to you and bowed her head.

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” you said, eyes on your boy. Then you lifted them to hers, and said again, “And thank you.”

She nodded again, horns catching the light in the room.

“It was my honor.”

She gave you and the baby one last cursory check over, and took her leave.

A few moments after she left, there was a knock on the door, and Sevika stuck her head in.

“Ogre!” Jinx cried. “I gotta brother!”

Even Sevika’s presence couldn’t dampen Jinx’s mood.

Silco’s lieutenant grunted, and stepped over to the bed. She stayed at a distance though, craning her neck to peer down at you and the baby.

“Yep. That’s a baby. Congrats.”

“Thank you, Sevika.”

Behind her, Silco emerged from the foggy bathroom in a fresh pair of slacks and an unbuttoned shirt. Sevika tilted her strong chin in his direction and he nodded back.

“I’ll leave you all to it then,” she said.

Her poncho twirled as she spun back to leave. As she and Silco crossed paths, a metal finger tip whipped out from beneath the red fabric, and poked his bare belly. He jolted and shuddered. He sneered at her, but she just snickered and slipped out of the room.

Silco shook his head, damp hair beginning to curl at the ends. He rounded the bed, and climbed in, sandwiching Jinx between your bodies. He leaned over the girl’s head and kissed you.

“What’re we gonna name him?” Jinx pipped.

You and Silco exchanged a look.

“I’m not sure,” you admitted.

“I’m sure we’ll come up with something.” he added.

Immediately, Jinx began rattling off all her suggestions.

Before a name could be decided, you fell asleep. Jinx followed shortly after; her plump cheek pressed against your shoulder. Gingerly, Silco lifted the baby from your arms, and brought him to his bare chest. The boy tensed, and then melted, a small wispy sigh leaving him.

Silco melted, too; a foreign, near indescribable softness filling him up. He brought his hand to the boy’s back, its length and width nearly covering all of him. His son was so small.

His son. His son.

Emotions gripped him so intensely he nearly choked.

Elation, love, fear.

Grief.

There was grief that his child was born technically as a citizen of Piltover. But that anguish was small compared to the other one that had been tucked away in the scar tissue of Silco’s heart ever since you had told him of the pregnancy. A pain that he hated he harbored.

The secret grief was that Vander wasn’t here to see this. The grief that his Brother had ruined any chance of participating in this milestone. The grief of Vander’s death (justified though it was) was scratched open as Silco’s son lay on his heart. The grief that, had things gone differently, Silco would’ve named the boy after his Brother.

“Sil.”

Silco’s head whipped around at the sound of your voice. Your beautiful, exhausted, beautiful face shone up at him. There was a smile on your lips that he wished to taste, so he leaned over Jinx’s head again and pressed his mouth to yours.

“I told you you could do it,” he whispered leaning back. You smiled and nodded wearily.

The baby grunted and shifted against Silco’s chest, and he pet the back of his head so, so softly. It broke your heart into a million pieces, and then they jumped right back together. Your eyes slid back up to your partner’s profile.

You felt his grief, because it was yours, too.

“I know, Silco,” you whispered. He looked over to you. Jinx snored softly between. “I wish it had been different, too.”

Silco’s eyebrow dropped, and his lips softened. He glanced down at the baby on his chest, and chuckled ruefully.

“I truly don’t know what to name him.”

You shrugged. “We’ll figure it out.”

He nodded. You sat in silence for a while, listening to your children breath. Jinx’s raspy breaths and the baby’s snuffling. It was music to your ears. You would never tire of hearing it.

Just as you were about to doze again, you felt Silco’s energy shift. Eyes sharpening onto him, you watched as he first gently ran his fingers over Jinx’s freckled cheek. Then, so carefully, he lifted the baby from his chest so he could look at his small face.

“You and your sister will have better than we did,” he promised. “Me and your mother will give you a nation.”

Your son’s eyes fluttered open and closed, the bud of his mouth stretching into what looked like a small smile. Your throat tightened horribly, and you tucked your nose into Jinx’s crown.

When you were sure you could speak without choking, you lifted your head and said, “We promise.”

I hope part two scratched the itch <3 If you enjoy my work and would like to support me (firstly, THANK YOU!) check out my Ko-Fi page!

ko-fi.com/kiki13

#silco #silco fanfic #silco x reader #dad!silco #soft!silco #jinx #big sister jinx #silco x afab!reader #cw: pregnancy #cw: labor #drive by appearance of sevika #sevika

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fardwader · 2 months ago

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you’re too good to me (and you know it, too) pt. 2

pairing: peter parker x fem reader

summary: For some unknown reason, Peter Parker cannot stop finding new, inventive ways to humiliate himself in front of you.

And for some reason, you keep helping him up anyway.

Or, the 5 times you save Peter— and the 1 time he saves you.

pt 1, pt 2, pt 3, pt 4, pt 5, pt 6

a/n: school is actually kicking my ass rn ahah but i'm finally done with finals hooray. pls enjoy this next chapter!!! wordcount: 2.1k

taglist: @ladylokilaufeyson5 @wlnut

tags: 5+1 fic, slow burn, friends to lovers, reader is annoyingly oblivious, peter is a sad dork, no use of y/n, sarcastic peter and an even more sarcastic reader, multi part, past gwen and peter, not canon compliant, gwen stacy is so beautiful...., crazu overuse of italics.

(two)

Peter Parker is a fucking idiot, a desperate one at that— the kind of idiot that gets himself stuck on fire escapes chasing down his ex.

In his defense, he hadn’t planned on following Gwen.

It just, sorta… happened.

He was grabbing coffee— minding his own business, when he saw her walking out of the conference center across the street.

Her platinum-blonde hair caught the light the same way it used to back when things still made sense. And suddenly, his feet were moving before his brain could say,

“Dude. No.”

Peter rationalizes this very stalker-ish behavior by saying he just wanted to see where she was staying, as much as he loves New York— it isn’t very safe.

He’s totally not trying to bump into her and have a totally normal, natural, totally not planned conversation that may— no, he fucking hopes— will lead to a reconnection like those cheesy rom-com movies they used to watch together.

Instead, he climbs up a rickety fire escape on the side of a brownstone she disappeared into, just hoping to catch a glimpse through a window.

Totally normal behavior.

But the window he had planned on crawling through was, surprise, surprise, locked– and no amount of budging, tugging, and honestly— praying– would get it open.

Now, he’s crouched down— hood pulled over his head, trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible while contemplating all of the life choices that led him here.

“Why am I like this?” he mutters, slumping forward, forehead thudding against the rusty railing.

He exhales a long, miserable sigh that sounds like it carries the weight of the world— glaring at the pigeon that landed smugly a few feet away.

“Don’t judge me,” Peter mumbles at it.

The pigeon ruffles its feathers and flies off, which somehow feels deeply personal.

“Peter?”

Oh God.

He knows that voice, your voice.

The voice of the person who somehow always seems to catch him at his lowest.

You’re looking up at him from the sidewalk pavement, coffee cup in hand, face contorted in unmistakable confusion.

“What! No–no, nah, nope. Who’s– who’s Peter?” He rambles, voice lowering a few octaves in a very failed attempt to mask his own identity.

You blink slowly. “Why are you hiding in my fire escape? Are you living up there now? Is this, like, your new thing?”

Of course, the one time he gets stuck in a fire escape trying to creepily follow his ex, it’s your fire escape, your apartment.

He should’ve recognized the apartment complex he had found himself in after that one horrible, unfortunate night where he drowned his sorrows in bad beer and whined about his ex to a stranger— before waking up in said stranger's apartment.

Peter sighs, long and theatrical. “No. Yes. Kind of. I was just— Gwen—uh, she walked in there and—”

“Gwen? The Gwen?” you ask, incredulous.

There’s a beat.

The wind rattles the old rotting frame of the window that is currently trapping him up there.

He can’t seem to form the words in his throat, his face flushing with embarrassment.

“Okay,” you say finally, “stay right there.”

“Not really a choice,” Peter mutters.

You disappear into the building. He assumes you’re either going to let him in or call security.

He’s not sure which he deserves more.

Two minutes later, the window behind him creaks open with a painful groan.

Peter whirls around and sees you crouched inside, sliding it up with effort. You reach out and wave him in.

“Come on, Romeo. Before someone sees and calls the cops.”

He grabs your arm for support, squeezing his body through the tiny wooden frame.

You cross your arms. “So. You gonna explain?”

He pulls his hood down and flops onto his back, hair sticking out in all directions.

“She didn’t— She didn’t call,” he says, practically deflating.

You pause. And damn it, the way you soften in that moment— face morphing into nothing but understanding— it makes his throat ache.

“I just thought, if she was gonna come back, she would call, y’know. Ask to meet up or something.” He focuses on the dizzying pattern of the carpet, looking anywhere but your face.

“That’s stupid,” you say gently.

“I know.”

“Kind of sweet. But still, so stupid.”

Peter groans and throws an arm over his face. “God, I’m the human equivalent of a spilled drink.”

“Yeah, but like… a fancy one. Maybe with a little umbrella.”

He huffs out a laugh, but it dies in his throat when the sound of heels clicking echoes down the hallway outside the apartment.

You both freeze, like two stupid deer caught in the middle of a highway.

No words— just wide eyes and a beat of silence that feels like it could shatter glass.

Peter slowly lifts his head, scrambling up and creeping up to your peephole.

He leans in, squints, then visibly recoils.

She’s there. In all her horrifying glory, her perfect blonde hair styled back in a slick ponytail— black headband perched atop her head.

She’s as beautiful as he remembers, maybe even more, actually.

“Oh my god,” he backs away from the door like it’s practically radioactive.

“What? What is it?”

He spins back to you, wide-eyed, shaking his head. “Oh my god,”

Peter’s already at least halfway out the window and onto the fire escape, his lanky arms getting stuck in the wooden frame.

“This is it. This is how I die. Gwen Stacy catches me mid-pathetic-spiral, and I just combust on the spot.”

You grab him by the hoodie and pull him back in before he can do something even dumber. “She’ll see you if you go back out there. Just— get in the closet.”

He blinks. “What— what closet?”

You point. “That one. Go.”

Peter scrambles toward the small utility closet in the corner and practically swan-dives into it, bumping into a mop, a Swiffer, and at least five cans of Raid. He barely manages to tug the door shut as—

knock knock knock

You spin, tug your face in a tight smile, and open the door.

And there she is. Gwen Stacy.

All effortless elegance, like she walked straight out of one of his better memories, wearing a badge that says “KEYNOTE SPEAKER” like a crown.

She's stunning— even more stunning than you expected. The kind of stunning that makes time stall for just a second. You think you get why he was absolutely floored in that bathtub.

“Oh, hi! I’m uh, Gwen,” Gwen says, blinking in surprise, “listen, this might be a little weird, but do you live here?”

“Yeah. I sure do!” you blurt out, way too loudly, voice an octave higher than normal.

From inside the closet, Peter visibly cringes, the volume physically hurting him.

Gwen’s brows knit together slightly. “Sorry, I just— thought. God, this sounds crazy. But I thought I recognized someone on the fire escape earlier.”

“Nope,” you say, popping the P forcefully— a little too forcefully, causing a speck of spit to fly out of your mouth and right onto her pristine black blazer.

It almost moves in slow motion, like a car crash you can’t tear your eyes away from.

It finally lands, painfully clear against the black of her— no doubt expensive-blazer.

“Oh shit, I’m so sorry,” you fluster, face warming in absolute mortification.

You frantically fumble your arms around, trying to wipe it off, but afraid of actually physically touching her.

She looks at the foam on her blazer, brows pinching together— before wiping it off with her sleeve, face stretching into a tight-lipped smile.

“It’s alright.”

A beat of unbearable silence passes between you two.

“So, it’s just you in here?”

“Uh, yeah. Just me in here, it’s just me,” you blurt.

Behind you, a muffled thud echoes from the closet.

Your eyes go wide.

Gwen tilts her head, curious. “Is everything okay?”

“Yep! Totally fine! That was just my, uh— cat!”

“Your cat?”

“My cat!” You’re fully sweating now. “Very big. Very... clumsy.”

Gwen gives a polite smile, clearly weirded out but too classy to say anything. “Well... sorry to bother you. I just wanted to make sure no one was in trouble.”

“No trouble here,” you say, physically blocking the crack of the door so she can’t see your closet. “Have a great conference!”

She lingers one more second, like she’s trying to place something, and then finally walks away, heels clicking smartly down the hall.

You sag in relief, peeking out the crack in the door just in time to catch her figure pulling out a tiny bottle of alcohol and spraying the spot with it.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, practically dissolving into the floor.

Peter swings the closet door, stumbling out, a little disheveled but absolutely horrified.

You tug your hoodie tighter around you as you and Peter step out onto the street, blending into the afternoon shuffle.

You’ve barely gone half a block before he groans again, dragging his hands down his face.

“I hid in a closet,” he mumbles.

“You dove into a closet.”

“In your defense, it was the best choice at the time,” you add helpfully. “Not that there were many.”

Peter shoots you a flat side-eye.

“At least you didn’t spit on her,” you mutter, rubbing your hands over your face.

“You spit on her?”

“No, like— uh, my mouth did that thing where like, when you talk, a little spit flies out–”

His cackle cuts you off; he’s laughing so hard he’s doubled over, almost stumbling on the sidewalk.

You feel your face warm. He’s never going to let you live this down.

“You spit on Gwen Stacy,” he says through a wheeze.

“Stop it! I just got really nervous. She’s just so beautiful. You didn’t mention that she was that beautiful.”

“This is why you shouldn’t fall in love with smart, successful women,” he says through another laugh, “They host conferences, catch you stuck on fire escapes, and make you spit on them.”

“You were not spying— okay, actually, you were. But not like… in a creepy way,” you protest.

Peter throws his hands in the air. “Is there a non-creepy way to stalk your ex and then get stuck outside on a fire escape because you wanted a glimpse at her?”

You think for a moment, but can’t seem to find an answer.

Peter groans. “I should’ve just stayed in the closet.”

You nudge him with your elbow. “You’re not staying in any closets. You’re dealing with your feelings like a semi-functional human being.”

He gives you a look that screams, Please.

“You followed Gwen because you’re sad,” you say more gently, “not because you’re an actual psycho-stalker. It just didn’t go the way you wanted. That’s okay.”

Peter doesn’t respond immediately. Just stares ahead, shoes scuffing the sidewalk.

“It’s like… there’s this version of me that existed when I was with her. And I don’t know how to be anyone else anymore.”

You bump his shoulder. “Maybe that version of you existed with her, but that doesn't mean it's the only version of you that exists.

You're still you, Peter.

The entirety of your being didn't just disappear when she walked away. You're allowed to grow past that chapter in your life. It doesn't mean you have to erase it though, or erase who you were. Just let it be one part of your story, one part of your past.

Not your whole life.”

Peter looks at you. And for a second— a breath, a heartbeat— something shifts behind his eyes. He doesn’t say anything, but the silence stretches between you like a held breath. Quiet. Fragile.

You hold it for a moment. Just long enough for it to settle.

Then he lets out a low exhale, scrubs a hand over his face, and murmurs, “I can’t believe I got stuck in a fire escape.”

You blink— then snort. “I can’t believe I spat on your ex-girlfriend.”

A laugh bubbles out of Peter, warm and soft— and a second later, you’re laughing too, the sound rising up your chest.

This entire situation is completely absurd, and you both know it, too.

“Dude, I’m pretty sure your neighbors thought I was, like, a burglar.”

You grin. “Oh, they know there’s literally nothing in my apartment worth robbing.”

“That’s not true,” he says, lop-sided grin etching itself onto his face, “your couch is pretty soft.”

“If anyone steals my couch, Peter— I swear I’ll burn this entire city down to ashes.”

You walk the next few blocks side by side. Still a little sad. But, somehow, a little lighter.

Something warm settles in his chest, something quiet and steady. It's new, and kind of terrifying.

It’s not Gwen.

But maybe, for the first time in his life, he’s okay with that.

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#peter parker x reader #tasm!peter x reader #x reader #spiderman x reader #peter parker fanfiction #fluff #tasm peter #tasm peter parker #peter parker x y/n #tasm peter parker x y/n

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animereaderinsertwriter · 5 months ago

Text

part one - two - three - four -five

i saw you in a dream (bucky barnes x reader)

tags/warnings: plot with porn, fluff, a little angst, there is some mild amnesia, major plot twist, first person (bucky's) pov, inspired by this song

blurb: In this life and every life; waking and dreaming; this I swear.

These are the words inscribed on Bucky's wedding ring. A wedding ring that he doesn't remember ever having. It's not a vow he made-- not that he remembers, anyway-- but it might just be one that he decides to keep anyway.

ao3 here

“I’ve decided to call off of work for a while,” my wife explains to me over breakfast. “I’d rather be around if you need me than be at work, and we’ve got ample savings to live off of in the meantime.”

I ask her if she’s sure about that— I don’t really need a babysitter, I’ve already gotten over my meltdown about this whole thing— but she assures me that she believes it’s the right decision.

“What do you do for work, then, that they let you have time off so easy?”

She hesitates.

“I work for Tony Stark,” she replies after a moment. “As it stands, though, he’s got an excellent team, so they can share the load of whatever I’m leaving behind. Besides, it’s time I took a vacation.”

She’s keeping something from me, but I let it slide.

“Babysitting me is hardly a vacation.”

She shoots me a sly grin over her cup of coffee.

“Who said I was babysitting? Keep up the sass and I’ll call Dolores to sit with you while I go to Bali.”

I’m startled into a laugh.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Wouldn’t I? Try me, soldier boy.”

There is a strange energy between us that makes me feel oddly playful. I want to forget about eggs and bacon and chase her around the house instead.

Gradually, though, that energy fades as we run out of things to talk about. Awkwardness subsumes us again, and since I cooked, (Y/N) offers to wash dishes, presumably to escape the weight of the silence between us.

About an hour of that tension is all either of us can stand.

“I’m going downstairs to train,” she says, throwing a bar cloth over her shoulder. “Would you like to join me?”

I blink.

“We have a downstairs?”

“Yes— a basement.” A fond smile comes over her face. “You designed it yourself.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“I did?”

“Oh yes.” She grins. “Come on, dear— I’ll give you the tour. You’ll love it.”

She walks past me just close enough for me to feel the heat from her body, but does not touch me. She keeps going just long enough for me to see the full length of her figure, then turns back to throw at me a mischievous look over her shoulder.

“Well? Coming?”

She keeps walking, and I keep staring. This time, though, I grin. This hint of playfulness gets a rise out of me not unlike the one from before, and I realize that this must be what normal is for us.

What a fox.

Like a hound dog wagging his tail, I move to follow her. This, if nothing else, should prove interesting.

***

Three and a half hours later, I’m sore, sweaty, and I can’t feel my face.

To be fair, we’ve only been working for most of three hours. The majority of the first hour was spent on rediscovery— and what an hour it was! Not only did I apparently stock most of the cool machines I’d used in Wakanda, but there were also some things I’d never seen before, such as the combat simulator that Shuri had apparently gifted me last year for my birthday. (Y/N) warned me that it felt real, but I didn’t believe her until those nerve stimulators of Shuri’s mimicked exactly the feeling of a bullet ripping through my shoulder. It’s unpredictable, the simulator; it generates combat scenarios at random, and not every conflict ends well even if you do everything by the book. It’s a genius invention, and I spend an hour and a half on that alone.

As fascinating as the combat simulator is, though, it doesn’t hold a candle to what comes next.

While I rest from playing with all my (new) gadgets, my wife has been working slowly and steadily, alternating between lifting weights and training with a punching bag. She’s sweating heavily, and she looks pretty fatigued, but she keeps at it with a determination that reminds me of Steve. Eventually, though, she sits down to rest too, and between gulps of water, she says,

“Spar with me.”

“What?”

The word comes out as a laugh. She smirks.

“Laugh now, Sergeant Barnes, but I learned from the best.”

“Oh yeah?” I challenge playfully. “Who?”

Her smile is radiant and warm; it feels like a house fire in my chest.

“You.”

My heart skips a beat.

She thinks I’m the best.

It’s a stupid thought, perhaps even a silly one, but it’s there. Even so, looking at her now, moving to stand with her hair all mussed and her face all sweaty, I know I can’t seriously spar with her.

At least, that’s what I think until she whirls a kick at my head, forcing me to block it with my forearm.

“I said,” she pants, baring her teeth in a feline grin, “spar with me.”

The word no had been on the tip of my tongue— but I’ve never been one to leave a blow unanswered.

I grin back, and the game is on.

I launch myself from my seat, aiming to use my size to my advantage and grapple her— safely, gently, of course— to the ground. All my arms catch is air. She bounds lightly backwards, as graceful as a dancer, and holds her hands up in a ready position.

After I aim a few hits at her, missing each one, I realize her strategy. I’m bigger, stronger than her, sure, but it takes a lot more for my muscles to move my larger body than it does hers. She’s baiting me into my strikes, hoping to fatigue me before she presses what then will be her advantage. I adjust accordingly. I feint left, but move right— the motion traps her as my metal metal hand closes around her soft flesh. I think I have her until she uses the same momentum that I use to pull her to me to bash her forehead against the bridge of my nose, stunning me. She wrenches free and tries to sweep my feet, but I’m too sturdy for her. Instead, she falls with the motion, and I follow her to the floor in an unsightly but effective crawl to try and close the distance between us for a grapple. She doesn’t make it to her feet before I’m on her, and I know it’s game over now.

Size for size, strength for strength, I’ll win.

Surprisingly, though, she still makes me work for it.

In an impressive show of agility, she rolls away from me before I can grab her— but not before aiming a kick at my temple that, had it landed, might have been deadly. Frustrated, I make a grab at the foot that kicked at me, and she stomps my fleshy hand with her heel— meet punishment for the pettiness of my grab. Truly irritated now, and in sorry pain, I get my feet underneath me and throw myself at her once more.

She rolls again, and my hand misses her arm by only half an inch. In fact, she almost makes it to her feet before I finally latch both arms around her waist and bring her down hard. I win the ensuing scramble; only a few seconds pass before I have her pinned beneath me, my hands circling her wrists and forcing them to the ground beside her head. Her legs are pinned open by my knees, and I grin in fierce triumph.

“I win,” I say, and I know my expression must be wild with joy.

Her expression doesn’t exactly match mine, though. Her eyes are wide, her lips are parted, and…

And her chest, slightly exposed and pressed forth by her raised arms, is heaving.

The world slows. My awareness narrows to just the places where our bodies are touching, which is… a lot of places. My heart is racing, I can’t catch my breath— and neither can my wife. My wife, who is panting, sweaty, and beautiful, whose soft thighs are on either side of mine, and whose eyes say she wants me to close all the distance that there is between us.

“Bucky.”

She breathes my name like a sigh, and I know that in this moment, I’ll do whatever she asks of me.

“Bucky,” she repeats, “I think— I think I need to shower.”

That’s… not what I wanted to hear.

I let her up. She dusts off like it’s nothing, but I can see the tremble in her limbs. She’s fatigued beyond fatigue, utterly exhausted— and so, I find, am I. On unsteady legs, I move to follow her, then stop.

“Eat something,” I tell her belatedly, uselessly. “I mean, to keep your strength up, you should probably eat.”

She turns. Her smile is sad.

“Thanks Buck, darling. I will.”

And thus, like a newborn fawn, she stumbles out of the room on shaky legs, leaving me to stand in humiliating silence with a raging hard-on and nothing to do with it.

***

While (Y/N) showers, I raid the kitchen.

My own shower was short and cold. I took it in the guest room, which is just as richly furnished as the rest of the house. It wasn’t the best shower I’ve ever taken, though, since I wouldn’t exactly call it refreshing. I came out of it just as I came into it— tired, frustrated, and hungry.

One of those things can be fixed quick, fast, and in a hurry by an enterprising guy like me, though, and I place my bets on the fridge as I crack it open for a peek at its treasures.

There is everything imaginable in that refrigerator. So much that I have a hard time choosing anything at all. I settle on boiled eggs, string cheese, and an apple to start, and when that doesn’t do the trick, I manage to put together the ingredients for a simple but flavorful soup.

By the time (Y/N) returns from her shower, the soup is finished and there’s a bowl cooling for her on the counter. I serve it to her myself when she comes into the kitchen, and she thanks me tiredly as she sits at the dining room table.

“This is good.” She blows on the steaming spoonful she’s scooped up. “Thank you.”

I shrug.

“Sure thing.”

Once she’s done, I take her bowl and clean up. Her eyes are drooping sleepily, and I have to work to hide my smile from her as she yawns cutely.

“Wanda, Nat, and Bruce want to go out tonight,” she sighs tiredly, looking at her phone. “They’ve invited us, if you’re interested— although, just so you know, they likely have selfish intentions for asking us to come.”

I cock my head to the side in question. My wife blinks blearily, then clarifies.

“You can’t get drunk, so you always DD.”

“Not selfish, then.” I laugh, “just common sense.”

“Mm, maybe. Wanda gets weepy when she’s drunk, and Bruce gets cornier. Natasha stays Natasha, but sometimes her languages become… interesting.”

“And you?”

She grins.

“I have no idea what you mean. I’m a delight, as usual, even when I’m drunk.”

Oh, I can translate that pretty easily. My money says she’s worse than all three of them combined.

“So,” she continues, “you in or out?”

I consider declining— (Y/N) seems too sleepy now to go out later in the day— but then I remember our sparring earlier and decide that, super-soldier-ness be damned, a drink might be a good idea after all.

“I’m down. You sure you’re not too tired? We worked hard earlier.”

“I’ll nap,” she yawns.

I continue cleaning up, and she shuffles in the direction of the master bedroom with a muffled thanks for the food.

A little while later, I settle in on the couch and very politely pretend that I can’t hear the distinct buzz of a vibrator through the walls as my wife, on the other side, softly calls my name, doubtless thinking me unable to hear.

Damn that super soldier serum. Never did me any damn good.

***

I’ve never taken so long to dress in my life.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s like I completely fried my brain looking at the wardrobe in front of me. There are… there are colors here. Colors and designs and textures— how the fuck am I supposed to match any of this to anything else? I have half a mind to ask (Y/N) for guidance. However, the other half of my mind would insist that I jump off a bridge before resorting to having her dress me like I’m some kind of doll, so instead of looking at the clothes and continuing to overwhelm myself, I move to look at myself in the mirror and try to imagine an outfit that I would like.

While I’m scrutinizing myself trying to find the best outfit, I realize that my hair is different than I remember it. It’s still long, but there are more layers. I like it, I think. It makes me look cleaner, sharper.

I finally settle on a black button-up and a pair of jeans. There’s a jewelry box on the dresser that I found my socks and underwear in, and I open it to find jewelry that must belong to me: a couple medals (Jesus, they’re old!), a silver chain, and a set of cufflinks.

There is also a wedding ring.

I lift the wedding ring and examine it. There is an inscription looping on the inside of it that reads,

In this life and every life; waking and dreaming; this I swear.

I consider putting it on my finger, but I decide against it. I haven’t earned the right to wear it— not yet. I have no right to my wife; as I am, I can’t be what she needs. I’ll need to wait until I can prove to her and to myself that I can still make her happy before I can feel right about it.

I place the ring back in the jewelry box and try not to feel disappointed.

I pick up the silver chain. It might be a nice addition to the outfit, I think. I put it on, stare at it, then take it off. I peer at myself, sigh, then put it back on.

It’ll have to do.

After much wailing and gnashing of teeth, I finally manage to meet my wife in the living room, ready to head out. I make it halfway through the threshold to the living room before my jaw hits the floor.

Her dress is champagne gold with a perfectly-draped neckline that I feel sure makes my eyes bulge out in cartoonish heart shapes. The thin straps of the halter neckline settle pleasingly over her shoulders, and when she turns, I thank God for every roll, dimple, and contour of her back. Her long, delicate earrings brush her shoulders as she turns back to me, and I decide then and there that it’s over for me. There’s no way I’m not going to spend every minute of every day trying to make this dame happy for the rest of my life. Greek statues would be jealous of such a beauty. Hell, I don’t discriminate— statues of every race, color, and creed can eat their hearts out. They could never compare to her.

“Hey handsome. Whatcha think? Will I do?”

My approval must be obvious; she smiles cheeky and adds,

“It has pockets!”

To show me, she sticks her hands in them. The motion makes her breasts jiggle prettily, and I fix my gaze on the light fixtures in the ceiling trying to will away the urge to peel that fucking dress off of her with my teeth like I have any right whatsoever to do so.

I really don’t know what the hell’s come over me. I feel like a hound-dog slavering over a fox. I’ve always loved women— who doesn’t?— but this feels… different. I ache for her in a way that makes me want to crack open her rib cage and live there.

“You look great.” My mouth is dry. I clear my throat. “Really great. I feel a little underdressed, looking at you. I can change, though, if you— ”

She grabs my arm, right on the muscle of my bicep.

“Don’t you dare,” she murmurs, looking up at me through her lashes. “If you look any better, I’ll have to keep a baseball bat around to beat the women off of you.”

She squeezes my bicep, then releases me, her expression subdued.

Was that… jealousy?

Interesting.

I offer her my arm— the metal one. She takes it, and I try not to feel smug.

“Ready?”

She smiles, nods, and accepts the arm I offer— but not before glancing at it and frowning. I frown too, confused about what might have displeased her, but there’s nothing I can figure out before we’re loading up in what is apparently my Jeep Wrangler. She directs me to each of our friends’ houses— “Wanda last,” she insists, “to give her time to put the kids to bed”—and then to the nightclub Natasha likes.

The club is nice— the whole place looks like the inside of a lava lamp— but it’s full to the brim with sweating, drunk, scantily-clad people who all seem to feel entitled to touch everyone else. I personally don’t have any interest in that sort of thing, especially not this grinding business that looks little better than public dry-humping. Back in the day, I’d be spinning girls all around the dancefloor; I’d keep them on the floor until their feet hurt and even after. Now, though? I wouldn’t be caught dead doing… whatever that stuff is.

Well, if (Y/N) asked for a dance, I’d do my best. Anybody worth their salt would know better than to say no to a dame like her. But the thing is… she doesn’t ask me.

“I’m going to dance for a while,” she yells at me over the sound of the music. “Are you good here?”

“Peachy,” I shout back, propping my feet up on a rung of the barstool I’ve claimed. “Have fun, beautiful.”

Her smile glows in the blue-green light, and then she’s gone with Wanda and Natasha, who seem just as eager to dance.

Out of politeness, Bruce hangs out with me at the bar for a little while and we talk shop— S.W.O.R.D’s research and operations, Steve’s programs there— but it’s clear that he wants to dance as well. Before long, I send him off with a clap on the shoulder for encouragement, and then I’m alone at the bar, sipping surprisingly good whiskey.

A while later, a woman sidles up beside me to order a drink. I turn to look at her. She’s a dark-haired beauty with skin the color of polished bronze and hair like big, dark, fluffy clouds. Her lips are full, and they glitter with reflective golden gloss.

“Hi!” She greets me as we make eye contact. “You’re super handsome, oh my God!”

I blink.

“Uh, thanks.”

“Say, do you wanna dance?”

“No can do. I’m here with my wife.”

The response is automatic. I shock myself with it. For a guy that’s only been married less than forty-eight hours, I’m coming to find that the “nope, I’ve got a wife” instinct sure does kick in fast.

“Oh my bad king! Have a good night!”

She turns to go, but I reach out and grab her arm.

“Wait, wait!” Jesus, fuck, I can’t believe I’m doing this. I’ve got to be the stupidest man alive… but this might just be what I need. “I… think I might need some advice. Do you know stuff about relationships?”

She purses her lips in thought, then nods her head.

“Bad ones, yeah. Good ones, not so much. Also, babe, I’m a little drunk so I dunno how useful I’ll be to you right now.”

“That’s fine.” Reconnaissance, I tell myself. This is just simple reconnaissance. “You mind if we talk a minute?”

“I don’t mind at all! Yap away!”

I tell her the important bits and leave out the stuff she probably shouldn’t know.

“Like I said, I just feel like I barely know her anymore, but I… I want to try and make it better. She’s good to me, and I want to be good to her. Plus, the chemistry is…” I think back to that sly smile, the press of her thighs against mine. “Off the charts. I just wanna be the man she fell in love with.”

Lani— that’s my new friend’s name— nods thoughtfully.

“And you say you’ve only been back stateside for a couple days?”

I nod and feel a little guilty using someone else’s war for my white lie. Still, though, I don’t know what all my excuses would consist of if there was only peacetime in recent years.

“Then this is just relationship throat-clearing,” Lani tells me confidently, throwing back the shot I bought her. “Ack— that’s strong. But yeah, it’s just a phase. If you wanna speed stuff up, I recommend physical touch. Not the sex kind, you understand— just hold her. Your bodies have probably done a little forgetting even if your minds haven’t. Might be a good idea to start there.”

“But how do I initiate it without coming off.. weird?”

Lani and I talk for a long time. I lose track of how long. Before I know it, it’s been two hours, and I look up to realize that I haven’t seen my wife in that amount of time. I look around, but I don’t see her.

“Don’t worry,” Lani is telling me, “You seem like a good guy, and you’re trying. If she loves you, you’ll work it out just fine.”

A weird look comes over her face, and she adds, “Besides, if I’m guessing correctly… she’s definitely still burning hot for you, king, so good luck out there.”

I turn back to her and thank her sincerely. She pats me on the shoulder and thanks me in turn for the drinks. It’s only right, she insists, that her bad experiences should serve to help someone else prevent them. With that, she’s off, and I’m sitting by myself once more.

Tired now, but armed with a good strategy, I stand, stretching my legs. I scan the dancefloor for my wife, but I don’t see her in the immediate vicinity. When I do catch sight of her, I wish I hadn’t— her eyes are all molten fury as she squishes her way through the crowd of dancing bodies. Whatever has happened tonight, she’s not happy about it, that’s for damn sure. Still determined to act on the advice I was given, I start to make my way toward her, but before I can get very far, I see someone grab my wife’s arm and yank— hard. She stumbles, and I catch sight of the person who’s holding her.

It’s a man. A large, scruffy-looking man with a look of trouble about him.

I start to shove through people faster.

(Y/N) tries to snatch her arm back, fails. She’s clearly a bit drunk, and stumbles when he yanks her over to him. I’m two strides away, but not close enough to help before the situation explodes.

My wife, full of righteous fury from the soles of her feet to the crown of her head, rares back and punches the guy straight in his ugly face.

He lets her go then, but people start screaming and the crowd jostles me away from her. I’m trying very hard not to lose my patience and start swinging my elbows— I could kill someone like that with my level of strength— but I’m starting not to care as I watch her use her fists like hammers on the guy’s skull. I’ve seen shit like this among soldiers before, back in the day. She’s drunk, she’s angry— and, judging by how long she lasted against me sparring, she’ll catch a fucking manslaughter charge if I don’t intervene soon.

I scream her name above the din, but she doesn’t hear me. Her knee connects with Ugly Guy’s nose, and I finally break free from the people-prison that had me trapped.

“Hey!” I call out to her, reaching for her arm. “Baby, hey, he’s had it, okay, you made your—”

She whirls on me, and I catch hell in the form of a cupped hand smacking painfully against my ear.

“Stay the fuck out of this,” she snarls at me, vicious and cruel. “I’m not done here.”

Oh, but she is. I can be every bit as vicious and every bit as cruel as she can be, and I prove it by grabbing her from the back and putting her in a metal-armed headlock.

“Stand down, babygirl,” I growl close to her ear. “You don’t want to kill him.”

“I do,” she confesses darkly, struggling vainly against me. “I want his bleeding heart in my hands!”

“Then not here, not now.” Bouncers have finally noticed the commotion— too late, sadly. They’re heading for us, but I keep my voice level and calm. “Behave or I swear to God I won’t let anyone bail you out of jail.”

“You have no right to command me!” She thrashes in my arms like a trapped animal. “Let me go, asshole!”

“I have every right.” I tighten the lock.

“Says… who?”

“Says this.” I tighten my arm more, and she wheezes like a squeaky toy with the squeaker ripped out. “Now behave. I don’t wanna go to jail.”

And, let’s be real— if that stupid, ugly fuck decides to raise his hand to her even in self defense, it’ll be both of us sitting in a jail cell. I’d kill him for it.

I let her go then, and she stumbles, clutching at her throat and gasping for air. I feel an instant flash of regret, but I have no time to process it before I’m gathering her in my arms and promising the bouncers that we didn’t start it, but that we’re leaving so as not to cause more trouble. They look at us skeptically, but decide that we’re apparently not worth the trouble and send us on our way.

Natasha and Bruce catch up with us at the doorway. They saw the whole thing, apparently, and had the same trouble I did with trying to reach (Y/N) before she caused more trouble for herself and us.

“You guys go on home,” says Natasha, a strange look in her eyes. “We’ll catch up with Wanda and we’ll all get an Uber home when we’re ready.”

“Are you sure?” I ask, desperate for an answer in the affirmative.

“Yes, we’re sure,” Bruce says, placing a reassuring hand on my wife's shoulder. “We all get mad sometimes— and sometimes, we all need a break.”

If Bruce Banner tells you that you need to take a chill pill, you take one.

And so that’s how my wife and I end up parked in our garage, staring straight ahead at the wall in absolute silence. I’m lost in thought, pondering how such a promising evening went to shit so fast, when (Y/N) breaks the silence.

“I’m sorry I hit you.” Her voice wavers a bit. “And that I called you an asshole. I was just so mad…”

She’s fighting tears. I want to stretch out my hand to her, but I don’t know that the gesture would be welcome.

“S’okay. You had a right to be mad at that guy. He was a total creep.”

She shakes her head.

“I wasn’t… I wasn’t mad at him. I mean, I was, but not initially.”

I turn to her, but she’s staring straight ahead, jaw clenched. With great effort, I keep my voice gentle.

“What happened? Why were you angry, then?”

Her lower lip trembles.

“I really don’t want to talk about this right now, Bucky.”

It’s not the answer I wanted, but it is an answer I will accept.

“That’s okay. We’ll talk about it later.” I think for a minute, then add, “Also, I’m sorry for putting you in a headlock and then insinuating that I have a right to order you around.”

She huffs a laugh.

“I deserved it. All you did was keep me from making a pretty big mistake.”

“Still,” I insist, “I was meaner than I would have liked, and rougher too. I’m sorry.”

“Bucky, please don’t apologize— not for this. It was the right call.”

“But I am sorry it had to happen that way. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

To my shame, there is still a red line at her neck where my arm pressed against it. It’s not bruised or anything, but the mark itself shames me.

My wife turns to me, rigid and acerbic. She says,

“James Buchanan Barnes, I have begged on my actual knees for the same thing you did this evening and worse for my own, selfish… lascivious reasons. When I tell you that no apology is necessary, I mean it. You have nothing to apologize for. No touch from you could ever be too rough for me.”

The implication she just made— that she enjoyed being in a headlock, that she… gets off on that rough and ready side of me— lays heavily between us.

I’m utterly speechless.

“Ugh, I’m still fucking drunk,” she groans. “Don’t listen to me. I’m going to bed.”

She clambers out of the Jeep and makes her way into the house. I sit there for a minute to process, then turn the car off and follow her inside.

By the time I make it in, the water to the main shower is running. With a loose plan in mind, I undress down to my boxers and slip between the covers of our shared bed adjacent to the bathroom and wait for her to finish.

Then my hearing picks up on something I’m not supposed to hear— a whispered phone call that is meant to be masked by the running water of the shower, but isn’t.

“I don’t know, Shuri.” My wife is saying, her voice thick with tears. “He may wake up tomorrow and remember everything. No, the tests won’t be back for— oh stop that, you know we don’t have Wakanda’s resources. No, I don’t think international travel is a good— Shuri! Listen to me, he’s okay. Why am I so emotional then? Why do you think! Because— ” there is a pause, a shuddering breath, then, “Well, I’ve made a fool of myself. Oh, Shuri, what a jealous fool I’ve been!”

(Y/N) recounts the evening as she remembers it, and I am horrified to discover her version of events. Right off the bat, I apparently managed to fuck up by not wearing my wedding ring— apparently she saw that as a sign of rejection and not the show of respect I had intended it to be. That pain, of course, exacerbated the jealousy she describes to Shuri as me openly flirting with and buying drinks for a hot, drunk chick— a jealousy that she thinks she doesn’t even have a right to feel because I’m no longer hers— or at least that’s what she thinks I seem to think.

This account paints me in a terrible light indeed. I feel physically ill listening to all of my actions being laid out and twisted into something they were never meant to be.

“I can’t even be mad at him, Shuri,” she cries, a terrible, aching sound that wrenches my heart and roils in my gut. “It’s not his fault— he doesn’t even know me. And— I mean, yeah, I know he saw the ring ‘cause he had on the necklace, so he had to have looked in— ugh, don’t distract me! My point is, what if he never remembers? He— he may want to leave. No, I won’t stop him— I want him to be happy, even if it’s not with me. I just— I love him, Shuri. If he leaves, it will break my heart.”

I keep listening , but those words bounce around in my brain.

If he leaves, it will break my heart.

“I don’t even think he thinks I’m pretty anymore. When he saw me in my cute little dress— you know, the gold one with the pockets?— he looked up at the ceiling as if he’d rather look at anything else. Oh, Shuri, it’s over. It’s hopeless!”

It’s all I can do not to bust the bathroom door down and correct every misconception she has. Instead, I bide my time, resting my eyes and my body as she finishes her phone call and her shower. She needs this time and space, so I give it to her until the water shuts off and she makes her way to the bedroom where I lay in apparent sleep.

(Y/N) steps softly up to the bed, then hesitates. I’m willing to bet she’s contemplating sleeping in the guest room. Without opening my eyes, I say,

“Don’t be shy. There’s plenty of room.”

Gingerly, she climbs into bed. She settles as far from me as she can get— an admittedly respectful distance in a circumstance such as this one. Still, I’m unsatisfied.

“You can stay there if you’d like,” I tell her, “but I’ll feel terrible if you fall off.”

She doesn’t move. It’s remarkable how quiet her crying is, but I can feel the sadness radiating off of her in waves.

I sit up.

“Hey.” I open my arm— the metal one— up to her. “Come here.”

She shakes her head.

“You don’t have to do this, Bucky,” she sniffles. “You— you’re really not obligated to comfort me. If anything, I’m supposed to be comforting you.”

“Why?” I ask. “I’m not the one who’s lost anything. From where I’m sitting, I’ve only stood to gain. I have a home, friends, and a beautiful wife where I used to have none of those things. But you… you’ve lost a husband.”

She covers her face with her hand, and I take it upon myself to close the distance between us. I pull her to me, and she buries her face in my chest while she cries.

“I’m sorry,” she says, over and over. “I’m sorry…..”

I soothe her as best I can. I rub circles into her back and hold her close. When she shifts awkwardly, I grab Kleenex from the nightstand and let her blow her nose. The whole time, I take Lani’s advice and don’t let her get more than three inches away from me.

When she’s calmer, I begin to speak. I start with what I feel should be the most obvious fact that she has misunderstood.

“I think you’re the most beautiful woman in the world.” I tell her firmly, brushing hair away from her face. “I’ve seen a lot of women in a lot of places all around the world and even outside of it, and to me, you beat the hell out of all of them. When I saw you in that dress, it was all I could do to keep my hands off of you and go back to whatever it was we were doing in the basement earlier.”

My wife blinks owlishly. I don’t wait for her to respond before I press on.

“But,” I continue, “I kept my hands to myself because I haven’t earned that yet. I’m stumbling in the dark here with no clue what I’m doing— I’m not the man you married. At least, not yet. But I’m trying to be. I want to be him. That’s why I didn’t wear my wedding ring. I wanted to be worthy of it— worthy of you— before I put it on. In retrospect, I’m realizing I must have seemed like an asshole by not wearing it— even further from the man you know and love.”

“Oh Bucky,” she sighs, tears streaming down her face, “you really are the man I married, even if you don’t know it, you sneaky, conniving, eavesdropping bastard. You listened to my phone call with Shuri, didn’t you?”

I turn pink from the top of my chest to the tips of my ears.

“That depends on how mad you’ll be if I say yes.”

She lets out a snotty giggle that’s stupidly cute.

“S’what I get for marrying an assassin and a spy,” she smiles through her tears. “Go on, dear— you might as well finish up. You’d better have a jam-up excuse for letting that girl fawn over you all night, or I’ll still be cross with you.”

I shrug.

“That one’s easy. I was asking her for advice about you.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

She’s quiet for a long time after that. I keep handing her tissues and she keeps blowing her nose until the fount of her tears finally dries up.

“So?” I probe gently, taking her hand in mine, “Am I forgiven?”

“Of course.” She squeezes my hand. “It’s me who should be asking for forgiveness— I should have trusted you to start with.”

I shake my head with a grin.

“My wife can do no wrong as far as I’m concerned. Even when she does something wrong, I’ve got to assume that it’s my fault somehow.”

“Bucky,” she laughs. I lean my forehead against hers and decide to press my luck.

“Can I kiss you? I’ve wanted to since we sparred earlier, and I think it would go a long way towards soothing any ruffled— mph.”

Her lips are soft against mine. She kisses me once, twice— and then I deepen the kiss, adjusting our bodies until my hand is threaded through her hair, forming a cup around her skull as we kiss deeply, unhurriedly, as though we have all the time in the world. Her hands roam and so do mine, and in this slow, sensual exploration, I am completely, utterly lost.

Selfishly, I want more. I want to pull my wife into my lap and let her feel what she does to me— I want to kiss and touch her and make her feel good— but Lani had advised me against this temptation.

“If you give in too soon, somehow sex and intimacy become the same thing, which… they aren’t,” she’d told me. “She needs one much, much more than the other, and I’ll give you a hint— it’s not sex. Trust me, even if it feels right in the moment, it won’t later. It’ll feel transactional. That's the worst possible outcome, ‘cause when it comes down to it, there’s always a better deal somewhere else. Give her safety, though, and she’ll always be yours.”

So that’s what I do. I hold her and kiss her and touch her until she’s tired, and then I tuck her into my chest and wait until her breathing evens out to close my own eyes and sleep.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fanfiction #smut #fluff #angst

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kirkwallguy · 25 days ago

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Idk if you've posted about it before and I missed it, but I saw ur tag mentioning you have a critique on datv's treatment of transness and I'd genuinely be interested in hearing about it :)

hi, yes i have but it's been a while since i last talked about it! i've been meaning to write a long essay on my issues for a while but it would require actually playing the game and i don't want to do that. here's a long rant that got away from me though:

i've complained sometimes about various stereotypes or missteps in the way specific trans characters are represented, but i'd be able to ignore that if it weren't for my main issue, which is that trans characters just aren't properly woven into the world, leaving them feeling alienated in a way queer characters in previous games never were.

it's very clear that the writers haven't broken down their own perceptions of gender and the various cultures surrounding it enough to say something insightful, which is fine because most people haven't, but when people defend the game on the sole basis that its depiction of transness is revolutionary i do have to take some issue. there are books from the 60s that take a more interesting approach to deconstructing gender lol. veilguard may feel progressive in the landscape of aaa video games but i don't think that means it should pass without critique and i don't think that we should have to settle for this when it's possible to do so much better.

the easiest and most frequently discussed example of not properly incorporating transness into thedas is the use of language in the game. you've probably seen the endless arguments about whether taash calling themself nonbinary is an anachronism, and though i'm sure some of the arguments are in bad faith i think people overestimate how many people (on here specifically) are arguing from that perspective. it's been extremely frustrating to be called transphobic by cis people over this when i'm coming at it from the perspective of someone who has actually studied shit like this.

this is a problem throughout the game but it's easier to examine codex entries for this post than go through entire scenes. i've talked about hating the language in this codex entry before, but it really annoys me so let me complain about it again lol.

acknowleding that trans as a prefix means "change" is actually a good start here and if wasn't for how this codex entry continues i'd just shrug and move on, but i really hate the absolutist way it uses the very modern "affirming" and "was always" narrative and language as though it's universally agreed upon. you can argue that this is subjective and what taash was told (though which shadow dragon is talking to them like a GIC psychologist lol?), but when the entire codex entry feels like an educational pamphlet for clueless cis people it just comes across as very odd.

and then the rest of the codex entry just abandons any attempt at making the words "work" etymologically and gives extremely bare-bones descriptions of them. some of these words are younger than me, i saw them being coined on various forums and corners of the internet. is it representation if you say the word and put absolutely no effort into representing or even discussing the agender/bigender/demigender/others experience? in another post i compared this to being like if they did a lord of the rings remake and confirmed legolas as being bisexual by making him wear a bi flag pin with no extra context - of course people TODAY use that flag to signal their experience with bisexuality and there's nothing wrong with that, but to link modern language/signals with an experience that has clearly existed since before either of those things were invented comes right back around to being oddly invalidating, as though these experiences wouldn't exist without modern english speaking understanding of them.

as for the argument about whether or not it's anachronistic: i don't personally think you need to adhere to a binary of modern / historically accurate language and culture to make queerness work in a medieval-ish fantasy setting. the previous games (for all their faults) managed a pretty established status quo where they didn't aim to portray a utopia with a widespread queer culture while also not being gratuitous with their homophobia. and as much as queer x-topias can be interesting when done well, i think this is a good thing for a big budget fantasy game - unless you're EXTREMELY in the know about gender roles and queer theory etc, how can you hope to portray a queer utopia? some people write books whose sole point is to portray a world without gender roles or homophobia and they still misstep, i don't think it's the casual inclusive background thing a lot of fantasy authors believe it to be. it would have gone the same way as origins' claim that men and women are treated the same; maybe you make queer people hold hands in the street without being questioned and nobody makes negative comments about your romance option, but do you subconsciously assign gender roles to jobs? do you portray the majority of npcs adhering to western cishet gender norms? what is the ratio of monogamous f/m relationships portrayed compared to other relationships? these are all things people just straight up don't think about when designing a world and they will accidentally create a society that is welcoming of queerness in THEORY while actually replicating our own cishet patriarchal values.

i don't think veilguard is attempting to be a utopia, i don't think it's attempting to be anything but a finished game, but i see people defending it on the BASIS of it being a utopia fairly often.

taash's arc is another pretty big example of this struggle to examine gender in real life beyond the writers' experiences, namely white canadian. it's a deeply racist attempt at a multucultural narrative where one culture (which has already been demonised throughout the series, including in veilguard) is portrayed as less welcoming of queer people while the other culture, which is still a society with binary gender roles despite being a matriarchy, is portrayed as being instantly and unquestionably accepting.

there's a LOT of potential in an arc for a character like taash if they'd been written by someone with actual interest (and probably experience) writing about the queer experience of existing within two very different cultures. the qunari ARE a culture who are fairly big on binaries but they have an established acceptance of transition that would make their understanding of gender fairly fluid, meanwhile the lords of fortune seem ideal on the surface but human/(our) culture has so many hidden binaries that you don't notice in everyday life unless you're the one being alienated by them.

this could have been a chance to slightly turn the racist Othering of the qunari on its head by showing our own society from the perspective of perhaps some aqun-athlok characters taash befriends, a codex entry about an aqun-athlok character from the past that taash finds and takes inspiration from (maybe they start out aqun-athlok then reject the gender binary entirely?), or even from shathann, perhaps as a character who has explored her gender in the past or decides to explore it as a result of taash. (imagine if shathann was actually aqun-athlok herself, having adopted taash, and some of her complicated feelings about the qun involved the fact that her identity was more accepted there. just SOMETHING to balance the scales a little.)

then again, not even rivain gets to be the fully "progressive" society and taash has to go to the shadow dragons for their gender education. i think it's funny that someone seemed to be projecting an ultra-progressive modern activist group image onto the shadow dragons, i think i've said before that they remind me of all the modern au fanfiction about les amis from les mis that i used to read as a teenager, when they're supposed to be a ruthless abolitionist group. i think this choice was largely to facilitate interaction between the factions but it does feel a little odd given the other racist elements in taash's arc.

there's also the issue of the actual topic of medical transition being avoided. we have tarquin and mae, two characters who have seemingly undergone some kind of medical transition. we have top surgery scars in cc. but there's no discussion of how this transition happens - is hrt magical as krem suggests and is that the only option? is surgery affordable? do different countries and cultures have different levels of advancement in medical transition? these are things i'd want to see written about in codex entries, not lists of various identities that anyone can find by googling a list of genders.

i'm a little disquieted by the avoidance of medical transition given everything happening irl, but it's maybe the issue i understand the thought process behind the most. it feels like a very safe attempt at not veering too far into what happened with krem / the decades of weird fascination with trans bodies. my feelings on this entirely hinge on whether or not the dragon king does actually have top surgery scars lol, for my sanity i'll say he doesn't.

anyway, this all sucks because i've seen SO many fans do better for casual oc posting or fanfic. i've seen so many amazing ways trans culture and hrt and surgery could work in thedas and it's depressing that the writers couldn't even attempt to do something interesting with it. i know there was a lot of crunch that impacted the quality of the writing but i do also think some of these issues would have persisted if they'd had all the time in the world.

#ask #anonymous #long post #sorry i didnt mean for this to get SO long i meant to make 2 points max and just rambled #but yeah. my basic thoughts. one day i'll write a full essay but i dont want to replay veilguard lol #i didn't post about this for a while because i tended to get a lot of negative attention when i did but i think i have the majority of #hardcore veilguard defenders blocked now so lol. we'll see.#the criticism of taash isnt really comprehensive but that's the gist of it. if i wrote about them alone it'd take thousands of words lol

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formosusiniquis · 4 months ago

Text

c-sharp on an untuned piano

Robin Buckley & Steve Harrington wc: 855 | T | tags & themes: Stobin hivemind, Steve & Robin's weird gender, women's rights for day 4 of @stobinmonth: possession AO3

“So it’s like feminism.”

Robin rolls her eyes, but she really didn’t explain it that well and unlike what Dustin says they can’t fully read each other's minds. It’s just hints and like mood and danger and stuff, like bees. He almost wishes he could show this to Dustin to prove that the kid isn’t right about everything.

But that little comment got him a danger signal.

They aren’t bees. So he knows enough to know that danger is Robin and he’s said something stupid that’s annoyed her.

“It’s more than feminism. It’s about ownership.”

That isn’t exactly helpful.

“Ownership,” he says. He thinks he can taste the syllables that he just put into the word. Or maybe like he put too many in there.

“Ownership,” she repeats.

“I didn’t pay a lot of attention in History but…”

There’s that danger signal again. Raises the hairs on the back of his neck, tastes bitter in the back of his mouth. The danger signal is the worst one.

“That’s not what I mean. It’s about possession, belonging, being.”

“Those words don’t mean the same thing, Rob. I’m trying but is this really a big enough deal that you want to fight Keith about it?”

“I do, actually. He’s inventing a dress code that doesn’t exist because I told him to stop putting his hand on my lower back when we work together.”

That’s anger that he can feel now, buzzy like bees. Which he thinks is funny, the bee feeling and them having bee brains, but Robin doesn’t.

“Okay, okay,” he taps the desk in front of him trying to send calm and ‘I believe you’ signals which are complicated and probably getting buried under the louder murkier ‘what is happening’ thing that he’s actually feeling. “Tell me again.”

“Miss and Mrs. are linked to marriage, they’re the only ways women were referred to and it’s about how they’re being tied to a man. Like possessions. Ms. is about being a person and not something that a man can put his name on. I don’t belong to anyone, ergo Ms.”

It still doesn’t totally make sense. He can tell from the emphasis that she’s using the different spellings of the word, but all three sound the same to him. It’s important to Robin though, and he understands how the concept of marriage frustrates her even if he doesn’t understand it.

“Give me one then.”

“Steve.”

“If I’m wearing one too then Keith can’t say anything about dress code.”

“You aren’t a Ms., Steve.”

“I could be.”

“You could be?”

This disbelief tastes like humor, bright and rich like honey. It doesn’t have the weight on the back of the tongue. It bubbles and fizzes like a fresh, cold coke.

“If you can be, I can be. I’m young and I’m kind of already tied to a guy but I could be Ms. Buckley too and that wouldn’t be too bad.” He nods, set and settled on this. Except for one thing, “Dustin would argue you’re kind of already linked to someone though.”

There’s warmth, that’s love he thinks, or fondness. Both of them feel like the slow heat of an electric blanket, heavy like a quilt. “You could be Ms. Henderson if you’re worried about what he thinks about our freaky brain thing.” Robin says.

“Hivemind.”

“Mind meld.”

“Mind meld,” he agrees.

She taps the desk now, hits it with the corner of a tape they’ve been pretending to shelve for the last hour, it’s 10PM on a Wednesday and if Keith wanted them to get any work done he wouldn’t have started a fight with Robin right before their shift started.

“You’re missing one crucial part of the Ms.”

“Nah.”

“Nah? You can’t just say nah.” Surprise, tart like a good grape.

“What do you mean I can’t say nah, I’m saying nah, no, nope. If you can be one, I can be one. We’re the same, it’s like possession.”

“Possession?”

“Maybe not that. Parts of the same thing, if you’re a Ms, I am cause we’re the same thing. You got me and I’ve got you.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Joy is a feedback emotion. Good feedback, not the sound of a microphone too close to a speaker. It starts like a bell ringing and gets bigger and bigger until it fills the both of them to bursting. Robin pops first, tap, tap, tapping his arm in a happy little patter that always makes him think of Thumper and Bambi and movies on the couch with his mom.

“You need a button for your vest.” She tugs at the side with his name tag on it. “Or we could quit.”

“You’re gonna quit over a button.”

“I’m gonna quit cause Keith doesn’t know a French New Wave from a German Expressionist film. The button is like the sound of a buzzing light bulb on an already bad day.”

“The radio station is hiring.”

“Better uniform.”

“Anything is better than Scoops,” Steve says. In his nightmares he’s always wearing that stupid hat.

“A lot of buttons could fit on a lanyard.”

“Ms. Buckley, let’s quit our job.”

#stobin month #stobin month 2025 #stobin #platonic Stobin #steve harrington #robin buckley #Steve and Robin #stobin hivemind #challenged myself to write something for this prompt in an hour and this is what we got #took longer to find a title and aesthetic images for my bluesky to write it #its a little rough but i'm trying not to spend so much time picking at little pieces like this and just getting them out #so enjoy

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literallymechanical · 1 year ago

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Stellarators and Tokamaks, Part 0

Heyo now that I have a bit of breathing room I'm going to write up a series of posts on the history and physics of the two most prominent kinds of magnetic confinement fusion reactors: stellarators and tokamaks. Check my #fusion tag for more on fusion in general.

Anyway, today I'm going to show you a picture and explain where the names "stellarator" and "tokamak" come from. In Part 1, I'll start getting into some actual physics.

(source)

That's a tokamak on the left and a stellarator on the right. Specifically, the stellarator is Wendelstein 7-X at the Max-Planck-Institut für Plasmaphysik in Germany.

The yellow is hydrogen plasma undergoing nuclear fusion (like stellar plasma in a star!), the blue are the magnets and coils, the black arrows (in the tokamak) and green stripe (in the stellarator) show the path of a magnetic field line within the device. I will explain why the field lines do that in Part 1.

So,

What's with those funny names?

The stellarator was invented at the Princeton Plasma Physics Laboratory in 1951 by Lyman Spitzer, who is also the namesake of the Spitzer Space Telescope. The name is a portmanteau – "stellar" as in "stellar" and "-ator" as in "-ator." As a result, I find it very hard to say "stellarator" without dropping into a 1950's radio announcer voice. As in,

"The boys at Princeton have whipped up a brand new atomic reactor! That's right, their "Stellar-Ator" has brought the power of the stars to the good ol' U S of A, right here in scenic Plainsboro, New Jersey!"

"Tokamak" is a portmanteau of "тороидальная камера с магнитными катушками." First built in 1958 at the Kurchatov Institute in the USSR from concepts proposed by Andrei Sakharov, the United States Atomic Energy Commission was never successful at getting American scientists to stop using the Russian word for the device.

So that's Part 0! Stay tuned for some actual science.

#fusion #tokamak #stellarator #engineering #science

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vivalas-vega · 3 months ago

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fine line / part one

look at me trying new things !!! dipping my toe into a new fandom - long time lurker, first time contributor. first four parts are written, I just wanted to get this out and get some feelers and feedback. this is gonna be a big one, i'm working very hard !! please please please, let me know what you think (gonna update the header - just wanted to put something for now lol)

fine line / mcu x reader / part one

summary: Three kids from Brooklyn. A war that asks too much. And a woman with secrets stitched into every seam.

also - seems obvious bc of the title but fine line by harry styles is the song for this fic, if you like listening while reading that should def be on your playlist (maybe I’ll make a playlist, I’m undecided)

to be tagged in future works, please turn on post notifications for @vegaslibrary

word count: 2.5k

warnings: (not specific to this part, but for the series as a whole. this fic is 18+, you are responsible for your own media consumption). language, angst, drinking, smut, violence, references (and descriptions) of bucky's abuse within hydra, canon-typical situations - this is the mcu y'all, shit will get a little crazy, and a little devastating

Summer, 1943

“Come on, doll,” Bucky sighed, hand on your waist gripping firm to try and stop you but you just gave him one of those looks that was so classically you. A little annoyance, a little mischief. “A double date with Steve and Bonnie isn’t really what I had in mind for our last night.”

His hand shifted just slightly, not enough to be considered indecent for how publicly you were situated, but enough towards your hip that you knew what he meant, what he wanted. “There’ll be plenty of time for what you’re suggesting later, Sergeant Barnes,” you replied, the smirk on your lips completely undercutting how innocent you sounded. You pushed him closer to Steve, forcing them to soak up as much conversation as they could before Bucky left at first light tomorrow morning.

“I don’t see what the problem is. You’re about to be the last eligible man in New York.” Bucky said. “You know there’s three and a half million women here?” He was trying to make him feel hopeful and optimistic about his departure but you and Steve both knew it was fruitless. Bucky was leaving, leaving the two of you behind to go fight the war. It had been just you three since you were children, against the world, and your trio was about to fracture… in ways the boys didn’t even know.

“I’d settle for just one,” Steve sighed and you flashed him a bright smile, trading places with Bucky and looping your arm through his.

“Well, then it’s a good thing I’ve taken care of that, isn’t it?” you asked, waving to Bonnie in the distance, waiting for you all just at the entrance.

“What did you tell her about me?” he asked apprehensively.

“Oh, only the good stuff, Steve,” you replied, leaning closer, “and there was a lot to tell.” You made introductions and nudged him forward, trying to push him out of his shell but Steve didn’t do well with letting the rest of the world see who he was. You and Bucky were larger than life, and so was he according to you, but you two seemed to be the only people who knew that.

Howard Stark took the stage—a technology man so ahead of his time you half-believed he was a time traveler. You considered yourself a fairly practical woman, but even you couldn’t help feeling giddy as he spoke of a flying car. You watched in awe as he made it hover above the ground and you turned to face Bucky when you heard him mutter holy cow, with an awe struck smile on your face and delight in your eyes.

He leaned down to press a kiss to your cheek before turning to say something to Steve, who had disappeared at some point in the last five minutes, causing him to look around confused. You gave a sad smile, pointing toward the recruitment center. Bonnie didn’t notice, still marveling at Stark’s other inventions.

“I’m not sure why he wants to face the rejection time and time again,” Bucky said, a mix of disappointment and sympathy in his tone.

“He’s a dedicated man,” you said. “It’s a fine trait in what would make a fine soldier… I just wish they could see that.”

“Well, not everyone can see the world as you do, doll,” he said, pulling the door open for you. “But it’d sure be a good thing if they did.” You frowned slightly when you found Steve, standing in front of a mirror meant to show the person in front of it in a full military uniform… and Steve’s eyes rested where the neck was supposed to be. You thought the world of him, as did Bucky, and you hated how much him and everyone else fixated on his size. You always said a man was measured not by his stature, but by what his heart contained, though Steve could only hear you say it so many times before he stopped believing it.

“Come on,” Bucky said, clapping him on the shoulder and Steve turned, almost a little embarrassed at being caught in front of the display. “You’re kind of missing the point of a double date, we’re taking the girls dancing.”

“You go ahead,” he replied, stepping away from the mirror with his hands in his pockets. “I’ll catch up with you.”

“You’re really going to do this again?” Bucky asked with a disapproving look and you shot him one of your own.

“Well, it’s a fair. I’m gonna try my luck.”

“As who? Steve from Ohio? They’ll catch you… or worse, they’ll actually take you.” You gave Steve a sympathetic look, you’d watched him torture himself with this since the war began, and it broke your heart.

“Look, I know you don’t think I can do this-”

“This isn’t some back alley, Steve. It’s a war,” Bucky shot back and you sighed, realizing Bucky’s little side mission before he met up with you was pulling Steve out of another fight.

“I know it’s a war.”

“Why are you so keen to fight? There’s lots of other important jobs-”

“What do you want me to do? Collect scrap metal in my little red wagon?”

“Yes! Why not?” Bucky was exasperated and you let out another sigh. This is how it always was, it was you in the middle of them constantly… because you could so clearly see both sides. Bucky had points, but so did Steve.

“I’m not gonna sit in a factory, Bucky. Even Button is doing more than me,” he protested and your eyes darted around… of all the places you didn’t want your laundry aired, a recruitment center was pretty high on that list.

“Steve,” you nearly whispered, a warning. You didn’t need any attention on you or what you did for the war, the less people knew the safer you’d be and the better you could carry out your tasks.

“Sorry,” he muttered, giving you an apologetic look. “Men are laying down their lives, Bucky. I’ve got no right to do any less. It’s not just about me.”

“Right, cause you’ve got nothing to prove,” Bucky shot back and the air grew more tense around you. You wished they wouldn’t fight, not when you had a gut feeling things would never be like this again. Tomorrow Bucky would ship off to war, you’d disappear into your work, and Steve… you didn’t know what Steve would do. This moment could have been the last where you were all still just kids from Brooklyn.

“Come on, aren’t we goin’ dancing?” Bonnie called out, lingering near the entrance.

“Yeah, we are,” Bucky answered, a slight edge to his tone as he tried to pull you away but you planted your feet.

“James,” you said, voice firm. “Not like this.” You gave him a look and he glanced back to Steve, letting out a sigh as he conceded. You were right, as always.

“Promise me you won’t do anything stupid until I get back,” he said, a teasing lilt to his tone as he fixed the distance he’d created just a minute ago.

“How can I?” Steve asked. “You’re taking all the stupid with you.” You cracked a smile, watching Bucky pull him in for a hug, both of them muttering something like punk and jerk. “Be careful,” he added when Bucky pulled away and you could see the longing in his eyes. Longing for his best friend’s safety, longing to go with him.

“Stop by the shop this week, okay?” you asked, leaning down to press a kiss to Steve’s cheek and he nodded half-heartedly. “Don’t disappear on me too, Rogers,” you prodded, keeping your tone light and he gave you his full attention, promising he would come by before you ran to catch up with Bucky. Perhaps it was a low blow pulling on his heartstrings like that, but you felt you had to. You didn’t have much time to make sure he’d be alright without Bucky… without you. You all had jobs to do, and as soon as Bucky shipped out yours would be your focus, you just didn’t know what Steve’s focus would be.

You and Bucky burst through the door like you were outrunning the end of the world, clumsily making your way inside your small apartment without letting your lips stray from his. Your back hit the wall with a soft thud and he took the opportunity to trail kisses down your neck as his hands roamed everywhere, trying to memorize the feel of you as best he could and you were doing the same. You wanted his touch burned into your skin, the memory lodged in every fiber of your being.

He groaned when you grabbed him by the lapel of his coat, one you’d made for him, and pulled him back to your lips, kissing him with such an intensity that his grip on your waist became bruising. Good, you thought. Give me something to hold onto when you’re gone. The sound that tumbled from your mouth when he hoisted you off the ground to set you on the table shot straight through him and he couldn’t get his hands to move fast enough as they pulled your coat down your arms and began working on the buttons of your dress.

Each inch of skin he exposed made him crumble for you, and his hands landed on either side of your neck to pull you back into a kiss, demanding and hungry… possessive. The slide of his tongue against yours melted you into him, sent tingles to the tips of your toes…. Your fingers were more controlled as they undid his belt, more graceful than his movements had been but the way you tugged it off and threw it on the floor was anything but. You slid your fingers through the loops and pulled him flush against your core, softly biting his bottom lip as he groaned into your mouth.

“God, Button,” he whispered, pushing the hair from your face. “You tryin’ to kill me before I ship out?”

“Maybe just incapacitate you,” you replied and he shook his head before his lips traced a path along your chest. Your fingers tangled in his hair as he lingered just above your heart and when he lifted his eyes to meet yours they were dark, unreadable.

“You’re gonna vanish, aren’t you?” It was barely above a whisper but it felt loud as it rattled through your ears, heart still thudding rapidly and his hands still holding you like you might vanish right now. You’d grown so still you felt a little like glass beneath his fingers but he pressed on anyway. “I know what you’re planning, you might be able to fool Steve, but not me.”

You didn’t answer, just let your hands slide up to rest on his chest… not quite pushing him away, but not pulling him closer either. “You think I’m stupid?” he asked, catching your chin and pulling your gaze to him… not forceful, but insistent. “You’ve been wrapping things up for weeks, meeting people you won’t name. Soon as I got my papers, you started pulling away. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

“Bucky-”

“I get it. You want to do more. You’ve always wanted to do more.”

“So please don’t fight me on it,” you replied, soft and sure. “Not tonight.”

He swallowed hard, jaw flexing as he considered his next words. “I’m not trying to stop you, I just-” he exhaled sharply. “I don’t know how to walk out of here tomorrow and feel like it’s really you that’s leaving me.”

“Because it’d be so easy if it were you leaving me?” you asked as you ran your fingers through his hair and he didn’t have an answer, because it wasn’t easy either way. “Forget tomorrow. Just be here. Just… be here.”

There was nothing else to say, and he didn’t know how to deny you anything, especially not when you pleaded. His eyes scanned your face for a moment and his grip on your face squeezed, just slightly, before he pulled you back into him, kissing you with a new purpose. Now, it wasn’t just him that had to make it back home to you, you had to make it back home to him, too. He didn’t like those odds, both of you being out there.

He pulled you up and helped you pull off the rest of your clothing before pushing you back onto the bed and settling above you, hands taking in every inch of flesh they could. Each movement felt loaded, a whisper of I love you, of I miss you, of please don’t break my heart. Each push of his body into yours filled you like fire and you wished you could stay here like this with him forever… that there wasn’t a war you were both so determined to fight, that you didn’t have to worry about the world outside your apartment door. You wished you lived in a world where the only thing that mattered was you and Bucky in this bed, giving and taking everything you had to offer.

You laid curled against his side, head resting on his chest and listening to the steady thump of a heart that you knew belonged to you. Your fingers moved idly along his skin, as if you were trying to stitch something into him. “I keep thinking about everything we’re never gonna get.”

Bucky was quiet for a long moment. His hand moved slowly along your back, like he could calm the ache out of you one inch at a time. “Like what?”

“Sunday mornings,” you said. “Stupid arguments over curtains. You kissing me in a grocery store, and it not meaning goodbye.”

He smiled, a little sad, “I would kiss you in a grocery store.”

“You’d kiss me anywhere, Sergeant.” you teased, voice thick with affection.

“True,” he chuckled before you fell back into silence. You could feel sleep trying to pull you under, your body exhausted from the weight of his touch, the weight of what it had meant, but you fought it… wanting another minute. Another ten. Another twenty.

“Promise me something,” you said, your voice smaller than you meant it to be.

He looked down at you. “Anything.”

“Leave before I wake up.”

“Button,” he started, already knowing he’d barely be able to stand leaving you as it was.

“Don’t make me watch you walk away,” you murmured. The pain of it lived in every word. “I won’t be able to take it.” He stared up at the ceiling like it might hold a better answer, jaw tense. “Promise me,” you prompted and you saw it break in his eyes. That familiar crack, the one that always came right before he gave in… because it was you. It would always be you. There wasn’t a single thing you could ask of him that he wouldn’t do, even if it broke his own heart.

“Okay,” he whispered. “I promise.” You stared at him for a long moment, memorizing every sharp line, every soft crease, like your eyes could hold onto him when your arms couldn’t.

You pulled him back into you, losing yourself in him again. There would never be enough kisses. Never enough I love you’s. Never enough of this.

But it had to be.

This one night had to hold all the ones you’d never get.

Time was already moving on without you. But for now, it was just him. Just you. Just this.

And that would have to be enough.

next part

#james bucky barnes #james bucky barnes x reader #james bucky barnes x you #james buchanan barnes #james buchanan barnes x reader #james buchanan barnes x you #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky #bucky x reader #bucky x you #steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #mcu fanfiction #mcu x reader #mcu x you

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emloafs · 7 months ago

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so you think the mohawk kid stares at his best friend's lips a lil too long, now what?

HAWKMETRI FIC REC! here's a complete list of my favorite Hawkmetri/Binary Boyfriend fanfics for those who need a crash course into this niche brain rot (which no one asked for). Read below!

silver on your tongue, copper on your lips by HearJessRoar | 2k words | CMON YOU ALREADY KNOW! There’s a reason this one of the highest ranked fics in their ao3 tag. It’s so them. Fighting turned makeout sesh? Spectacular give me fourteen of them right now. Couldn’t tell you how many times I've read this...

The Cobra Effect by slrandomperson | 6.9k words | THIS ONEEE everyone knows this one everyone loves this one. This fic invented the ‘what if Eli DIDN’T break dem’s arm’ trope imo. This fic walked so others could run. Still the best of its kind.

Spoilers for My Valentine by Asphodelia ( @asphodel-storm) | 11.9k words | If you are going to read any fic, READ THIS ONE! Takes place around s3, but Demetri does his best to not only snap Eli out of his red-Hawk evil phase but also woo him by reminding him (and spoiling) of all the nerd shit he likes. It is as good as it sounds. I go back to this one ALL the time.

I don’t care what you call me (as long as you call me) by Anonymous | 4.2k words | I’ll say this for multiple fics, but this is my favorite hawkmetri fic. It’s so fun and fluffy and SO THEM. basically eli is like call me whatever and demetri finds the perfect opportunity to do something very funny and also some wooing.

this is our get along shirt by Anonymous | 3.8k words | Listen maybe I just like fics where Demetri successfully turns Eli back to the light side simply by reminding him of the good in the things he used to hate about himself/his life. In this fic, circa s3, Demetri wears all of the old clothes Eli left at his house to get his attention. Eli gets PISSED. It is everything to me.

One Of The Finer Things in Life by Ithinkwehaveanemergency | 4k words | Eli basically being like “oh no he’s hot” after seeing Demetri shirtless. Fluffy and also hot and so well written. As always, this author captures them perfectly. It’s funny and it’s cute and I love it.

And I Will Not Fall Hard This Time by Ithinkwehaveanemergency | 12.7k words | Another one from this author!! Essentially, Eli and Dem become friends with benefits in college and don’t think that will end poorly for them at all. Note: If you don’t like NSFW, this one is not for you, but i personally love a little spice when it’s well done. Everything about this fic makes my heart hurt. Like they’re so gone for each other but they SUCK AT COMMUNICATING. I’ve read this one so many times too. So many kisses for this fic. Like it has a chokehold on me I can’t explain

Always Thinking I Could Love You More by Ithinkwehaveanemergency | 6.5 words | Listen if you know me you know I love a fic that centers around Hawk’s hair. Essentially Hawk dyes his hair and Demetri is STARING. Bestie Yasmine is here to meddle. (can you tell i really like this author?)

lavender haze by youngervolcano | 3.1k words | This one is light and FUNNY. Classic everyone thinks they’re dating but them. Very cute quick read.

andisol by samemoon ( @carmendiazbian) | 25k (incomplete) | Don’t get me started on this one!!! The way my heart HURT reading it!!! Takes canon and changes it a little, but essentially a deeper look at Eli after s3, slowly mending Demetri and Eli’s relationship, and a look at how they got where they are now. I need to reread this one again because it is just one of the most well-written hawkmetri fics I’ve come across. It’s not completed, but I assure you it is still worth the read.

Who You Are Inside by Asphodelia ( @asphodel-storm) | 4.9k words | I just think this one is neat! ‘His Dark Materials’ AU with daemons - I know absolutely nothing about that world, yet I still really liked this! Follows canon but with animal companions that are actually your soul/their shape reflects your soul. Childhood Eli and Demetri and falling back together with a dash of a soulmate trope. So fun if you love a tad of a fantasy element!!

Second Chances by Asphodelia ( @asphodel-storm) | 31k words | Is this one realistic in the slightest? No! But I loved it! Essentially this is what would happen if Pre S1 Eli swapped bodies with S3 Eli. Has some really strong parts and the premise is so silly but endearing that I love coming back to it. Good characterization too! Again, a nod to anyone who loves a little fantasy (another Asphodelia fic!)

Or you could read one of my fics if you feel so inclined.

Be sure to check ratings and warnings! Only read what you like!

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gingerteafairy · 2 months ago

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𝐜𝐡𝐫𝐲𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐮𝐦

rodrick heffley x fem!reader

chapter one versão brasileira

summary: No one sees you. No one answers. You're never leaving this place. It stood like an indifferent sentinel, ticking steadily forward, mocking you with every cold, mechanical click. As quickly as the leaves wither, this premise was about to change

tags n warnings: angst/comedy, ghost!reader, death, sensitive content, language, love at first sight. word count: 3.1k

“Missed again.”

Your voice floated into the air, thin and hollow, a bored sigh slipping past your lips as your fingers flicked another peanut into the void — or rather, at yet another oblivious passerby. People, all too consumed with their dramas of flesh and bone to notice the figure hovering just out of sync with time. You existed between the then and the now. And they didn’t see you. Not really.

“Still an hour 'til sunset,” you muttered, eyes fixed on the old clock tower in the square. It stood like an indifferent sentinel, ticking steadily forward, mocking you with every cold, mechanical click.

No one sees you.

No one answers.

You're never leaving this place.

You launched another peanut. It sailed inches from the head of a man glued to his phone.

“So close,” you muttered, squinting and shaking the bag in your hand — empty. “Looks like I’ll need more peanuts, Mr. Dort.”

With a resigned sigh, you drifted over to Mr. Dort’s weathered cart. The moment your fingers touched the container, the peanuts darkened and faded from sight — at least for the living. Still, the weight in your palm brought the smallest flicker of satisfaction. Something tangible. Something almost real.

Mr. Dort had probably been there before the clock itself — a walking urban legend, if legends sold candy and ignored ghosts like you.

“Drumroll, please. Wish me luck, Mr. Dort,” you said with a crooked smile, lining up your next shot. Your target: a boy with massive headphones, head bobbing to music, oblivious to the world around him.

“Ow—what the hell? Greg!”

Direct hit.

“Yes!” You clapped for yourself — silent applause for a solo show — laughing under your breath. The boy looked around, puzzled. Then his gaze landed squarely… on you.

“Hey! Why’re you throwing stuff at me?”

You froze. Hands mid-air, eyes wide. Time truly felt like it stopped.

Frantically, you scanned the square. Maybe someone else nearby? Maybe he was talking to someone behind you. But no — it was just him. And you. And the space in between closing with every step he took.

“I’m talking to you. Do I know you or something? Why’re you chucking crap at me?” He stopped right in front of you, one drumstick raised like a weapon — a punk knight armed for battle.

You hesitated. “No…” It came out barely audible. A reflex from when you still had to explain yourself.

“Then what the hell, huh? My neck’s itching like crazy now. I’ll probably mess up that roll I just invented — do you know how long those take?” He gestured wildly, frustration written all over him. His gaze locked on yours — and then… something shifted.

His eyes weren’t just looking at you. They were seeing you.

“You can see me?” The words spilled out louder this time, edged with disbelief.

He squinted, then snorted a laugh and crossed his arms. “Uh, yeah? You’ve got this freaky blue hair, one black eye where it should be white, and a ripped-up Metallica shirt that’s honestly kinda awesome. If you tell me where you got it, I’ll pretend none of this ever happened. Not even your eye thing.”

You stepped back, fingertips brushing your lips as if you could somehow keep the truth from slipping out.

“You can… see me.”

A warmth spread in your chest. A sensation so unfamiliar it was almost frightening. Like a heart — long forgotten and still — had just stirred awake.

Someone sees me.

“Hey, kid. If you’re gonna stand there blocking the path, at least buy some peanuts,” Mr. Dort’s gravelly voice shattered the moment like glass.

“What? I was talking to that weird girl rig—” He turned around, suddenly unsure.

And you were gone.

“…Forget it. How much for the peanuts?” he asked, still scanning the space where you’d stood.

“One dollar.”

“I’ve got seventy-five cents…” He held out the change with a sheepish shrug.

“Good enough. Now scram. You’re in the way.” Mr. Dort handed over the bag, already returning to ignoring the world again.

The boy crossed the street slowly, then paused before reaching the other side. Something tugged at him.

He turned around. One last time.

“I must be dreaming about that shirt too much...”

You watched from behind a lamppost, half-hidden in its shadow. Your heart — or whatever remained of it — was still beating faster than it should have.

Across the street, he was still looking.

As if he felt it too.

“I’ve been watching too many movies... I really need to stop hanging out at Misha’s,” you muttered, scratching absentmindedly at the side of your head.

Your fingers snagged on a soft tuft of hair — still blue, exactly the same shade it had been the last day you breathed. Frozen in time.

“Being dead has its perks, Mr. Dort,” you said with a crooked little smile, twirling the bright strand between your fingers. “Like never needing to touch up your hair. Or worrying about it falling out.”

“Yeah, yeah...” Mr. Dort coughed — long and gravelly, as always — scratching the white beard that clouded his chin like a stormy sky. He didn’t look at you. He never did.

But sometimes… it felt like he heard you.

You approached slowly, and with a sudden, quiet rush of affection, you wrapped your arms around him in a featherlight hug. Your body passed partially through his — a sensation both cold and nearly solid, like hugging a memory made of mist. Strange, but comforting.

“Sometimes I think you really do hear me,” you whispered.

Your laugh was low, tinged with something softer — wistful, maybe. You stepped back, watching him grumble something under his breath and turn toward his peanut crates.

“I’m heading to the corner,” you said gently.

“Right. Gotta restock the peanuts,” he replied with the flat tone of a bored vendor — or someone who knew far more than he let on.

You gave a shrug and spun on your heels with a ghostly grace. The wind at dusk curled around you like fingers, tugging at your tattered Metallica tee, carrying the scent of a fading day. As you walked, your gaze dropped — something broke the rhythm of the cracked pavement below.

A wallet.

You knelt without a sound, knees never quite touching the ground, and picked it up as if it were some sacred relic. The leather was worn, soft with use, and on its surface — a hand-drawn skull, sketched with messy teenage strokes. Imperfect. Authentic.

“Rodrick Heffley...” you murmured, voice quiet with wonder as you flipped it open.

Inside, a faded ID, a little bent from years of neglect. And beneath it, a photo.

Him.

Mid-drum solo. Grinning sideways, completely in his element.

You laughed — small, involuntary — surprised at the feeling it stirred. Like you were holding a piece of him. Something warm. Something alive. A spark of now in your otherwise endless after.

You sat there in silence for a moment, wallet in hand. You could’ve dropped it off at the downtown lost and found. You could’ve given it to Mr. Dort.

But you didn’t.

You kept it.

A strange decision. Maybe selfish. But the sky was deepening into violet, and something inside your chest — something quiet and long asleep — whispered that this story wasn’t over.

Not for you.

Not for the boy who could see ghosts.

Downtown was nearly empty, wrapped in the warm hush of the day’s end. Just a few scattered figures lingered by the bus stop — tired employees drifting out of shops with sagging shoulders and bags heavy with the day.

You liked to watch them — follow them as far as your invisible tether allowed. Sometimes you’d see where they lived, how they slipped off their shoes the moment they crossed the threshold, shedding the persona of the street like an old coat. It was a quiet ritual. Intimate. Human.

Yesterday, you stayed at the bus stop.

Today, you wandered toward the parking lot instead, chasing a new face to observe. Sometimes, that’s where the best stories happened — like the surprise love confession whispered between headlights and silence. Eventually, you’d learned: the most beautiful moments rarely chose beautiful places.

“Knew I wasn’t losing my mind.”

The voice hit you like a cold wave. You turned instinctively, shoulders tensing — and there he was. The boy from earlier. Rodrick. Grinning like he’d just won a secret game no one else knew was being played.

Your reaction was instant. The words slipped out before your thoughts could catch up.

“I’m sorry. I… I kept your wallet.” You stepped toward him with hesitant feet, holding it out with trembling hands.

He took it back with a careless shrug. “There’s nothing to steal in there anyway. Unless you’re into dust or my dentist’s reminder card.” He chuckled, then added — as if it were the most normal thing in the world:

“Hey, where’d your cool eyes go?”

“My... eyes?” You blinked, then remembered. “Oh — they change back when the sun sets. Actually, everything kind of resets. Even my clothes.”

“Except your hair. And thank God for that. It’s awesome.” He laughed, and your mouth opened slightly in surprise. “Oh. Shit. Was that rude? If it was, I’m sorry — I can be an idiot sometimes. My mom says it’s a gift.”

He scratched the back of his neck, sheepish, words tumbling over each other.

“No, no, it’s okay.” You laughed softly, hand rising to your still-vibrant blue hair. “It’s just... been a long time since anyone’s talked to me like that. Most people just ignore me. Or pretend I’m not there.”

“Same. Haven’t had a girl talk to me in years either.” He smiled — small, crooked — eyes dropping to the ground. “We’re kind of like... social ghosts.”

You let out a quiet laugh, but something shifted deep inside you.

“I think our situations might be a little different...” Your voice came out softer than intended. Sadder, too.

“Well, well, look who it is...” Another voice cut in — laced with mockery. A guy with a mohawk was heading toward you, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at one side of his mouth.“So your girlfriend’s real after all, Heffley?”

Rodrick blanched, just a little, but recovered quickly. He stepped closer to you, hesitated, then slung an arm over your shoulders like he was defusing a bomb.

“Of course she’s real. This is...” He turned to you, brows raised, waiting.

You said your name and offered your hand. The mohawk guy shook it, visibly thrown off.

“Dude… I don’t know what shocks me more — that she exists, or that she’s actually hot. Seriously, props.”

He laughed, giving Rodrick a playful shove, then looked you up and down with a spark of curiosity barely hidden.

“We should hang out sometime. She should totally come to a band rehearsal. Be fun having her around.”

Rodrick turned to you again, the fading light unable to hide the tension behind his eyes. He swallowed hard, trying to play it cool as he rubbed the back of his neck.

“That’d be cool… What do you think?” He aimed for casual, but his voice betrayed him. You heard it — the fear underneath. Fear of seeming dumb. Fear you’d say no.

And something inside your ghostly chest twisted in a way it hadn’t in years.

“I… I can’t.” The lie fell out before you could stop it. “My parents are super strict. I’m not allowed to leave the neighborhood.”

You looked away, eyes catching on a crack in the pavement. The truth was an open wound — and exposing it now might bleed too much. Maybe for him. Maybe for you. Maybe for both.

But Rodrick didn’t back away. He didn’t joke. Didn’t roll his eyes. He just nodded — like he understood more than he should.

“It’s all good. We’ll just hang out here, then.” He smiled — a real smile, unguarded — like your refusal was just a small obstacle he was already willing to work around.

“Seriously?” You blinked at him, surprised, your eyes locking with his without meaning to.

“Seriously.” He held your gaze, steady — as if he saw through the veil of your existence. “You’re, like, one of the coolest people I’ve ever met, so… it’s fine by me. I could even talk to your parents, if that helps.”

Nothing beat there anymore — and yet, for the first time in years, you felt something that almost resembled life.

“Thank you… Rodrick…” Your voice barely came out, a whisper. Your hand rose to your chest.

“Can the lovebirds stop making out in front of me?” Rodrick’s friend groaned from his bike, pulling a face. “Seriously, how do you kiss that guy?”

You and Rodrick exchanged a glance, both blushing like teenagers caught in the act. The laughter that escaped you was light — nervous, but real.

“Screw you, moron.”

Rodrick chuckled, waving him off.

The other guy flipped him off with a teasing grin before roaring off into the night. Rodrick let out a soft laugh, then stepped back, removing his arm from around your shoulders — like he’d just realized how intimate it was.

You reached up and gently touched the spot where he’d held you, trying to hold on to the warmth. The cold was already creeping back in.

“That guy’s an idiot. Sorry about that.” Rodrick’s voice was quieter now, almost embarrassed. “I just… kinda hugged you outta nowhere.”

“It’s okay.” You smiled — small, mirroring the shy curve of his own lips. “Your friend seems cool. I’d love to see a rehearsal. Thanks for inviting me.”

Rodrick shoved his hands into his pockets, stepped a little closer, and raised an eyebrow.

“So are you gonna tell me the real reason you can’t come? ‘Cause I didn’t buy that story for a second.” His tone was light, teasing — but his gaze was gentle. Kinder than you felt you deserved.

You took a deep breath, as if it would help — even though your lungs hadn’t needed air in years. You pulled your sleeves down over your hands, curling into yourself.

He was dangerous. Not like a threat — but like a chance.

A chance to care. A chance to feel.

And it hadn’t even been half an hour.

You looked down, then up again — straight into his eyes, ready.

“I’m a ghost. I died in 1999 and… I’m probably way older than you by now.” You gave a sad, apologetic smile, like you were sorry for existing. “I died in front of the clothing store downtown. I don’t remember how. All I know is, since then, I can’t leave this block. I only appear at night. No one’s ever seen me. No one’s ever touched me. Until you.”

Rodrick didn’t say anything.

“And that scares me.” Your voice shook near the end.

You walked over to the wall and slowly let yourself slide down to sit, arms around your knees, eyes turned toward the sky like the moon could hide you from him.

For a moment — too long a moment — only the wind moved.

Then Rodrick snapped his fingers, eyes lighting up like he’d just had an epiphany.

“I’ve got it. New Loded Diper song.” He rubbed his chin dramatically, as if composing on the spot.

“Picture this — the lead falls hard for a girl who only appears at night. But she’s just a ghost in the window, haunting his dreams, spilling all his darkest secrets.”

You turned to look at him, surprised. He was holding one hand up to the sky, theatrical, like he could already see the scene painted in the dark.

“Dude, I have to write this down.”

“You don’t think I’m crazy?” you asked, barely above a whisper, like part of you almost expected the answer to be yes.

Rodrick turned his face slowly, like he was taking in the moment before responding.

“If anyone’s crazy, it’s me — I’m the one talking to a ghost.” He let out a soft, disbelieving laugh before dropping down beside you on the ground, legs stretched out, arms behind his head, eyes scanning the stars. “It sucks you can’t leave this place… there are so many cool spots I’d love to take you to.”

You turned your head, resting your chin on your shoulder, watching him with quiet curiosity.

“Like what?”

“Like Al’s ice cream shop.”

“That place still exists?” You laughed, surprised. Rodrick’s eyes lit up when he saw you smile like that.

“It does! And they have, like, 300 flavors.” He gestured dramatically, like he was putting on a show.

“I’m pretty sure most of them taste exactly the same — they just have different names. Like: Strawberrylicious, Triple Strawberry Duo, Orange Ketchup, Grape Chocolate…”

He counted them on his fingers, each one more ridiculous than the last.

“That’s a scam,” you said, laughing, leaning your head back against the wall. “But I’d still wanna try a Triple Strawberry Duo. It’s been, like, twenty years since I had ice cream.”

Rodrick laughed with you, shaking his head — until a ringtone cut through the air with a guitar riff, killing the mood. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and answered it with an already-exhausted look.

“Yeah, I’m still here... Yes, I’m coming. No, Mom, I’m not on anything, for God’s sake. Chill, I’m going home. Bye.” He hung up with a heavy sigh and shoved the phone back into his pocket.

“Thanks for today, Rodrick. It was—”

“Hey, what’s with the goodbye vibes?” He cut you off with a crooked smile. “You talk like you’re gonna die.”

The silence that followed was short — but heavy. You froze, caught off guard by the unintentional irony. He noticed immediately.

“Shit. Sorry. Dumb joke.” He scratched the back of his neck, awkward. “I just meant… I’ll see you again, okay?”

He stood up in one smooth motion and held out his hand to you — that familiar hand. Warm. Real. You took it carefully, like it was made of glass, and let him pull you back to your feet.

“You sure it’s safe for you to hang around here at night?” he asked, glancing around like he could shield you from whatever danger lurked in the shadows.

“It’s not like anyone can kill me.” You smiled, dryly, your shoulders lighter.

Rodrick laughed, pointing at you with a spark in his eyes. “Okay, that was good.”

He started to walk away slowly, taking one last look at the square before heading for the old white van. The streetlight shimmered on the foggy windows as he unlocked the door.

“Take care. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“What time?”

“Doesn’t matter. I can see you anytime anyway.”

He smiled, already climbing into the driver’s seat, the engine rumbling to life.

You watched him drive away, waving until the van turned the corner and disappeared. Part of you wanted to follow — take a single step beyond the square, just to see if the boundary still held. Maybe tonight, after everything, it would finally be gone.

But… maybe it was better to keep this moment somewhere it couldn’t break — in your heart.

Because if you tried — and failed — If you still couldn’t cross… Then all of this would become just a memory. And remembering that you were still only a ghost… Wouldn’t just be sad.

It would be cruel.

#rodrick heffley x reader #rodrick x reader #diary of a wimpy kid rodrick #rodrick heffley #x reader #imagine #reader insert #fanfic #rodrick rules #doawk rodrick #devon bostick x you

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