#And what do i have to look forward to when its over ? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

wbbfannnnnn13 · 1 day ago

Text

Close Coverage // Chapter 3

a/n: wrote this chapter singing “and i bet we’d have really good bed-chem" the whole time (edit: don't get too excited. nothing happens. at all. just building tension, i'm just excited for what's coming.)

wc: 4.5k

warnings: one singular curse word lol

**** Chapter 3: Chemistry Test ****

Azzi

Azzi walked into the studio three minutes early.

Which, for her, was basically late. Especially when Paige Bueckers had already arrived and taken over the entire energy of the room.

The space looked like a Nike campaign had exploded inside a Pinterest board—cool-toned LED panels glowing overhead, softbox lights suspended from a grid of matte-black rigging, and a forest of C-stands, tripods, and silver camera carts arranged in barely organized chaos. Lenses gleamed from every direction. Coiled cords ran underfoot, taped down in neon gaffer strips like a roadmap only production assistants could read. Somewhere in the back, a massive monitor replayed silent game footage on loop—a slow-motion Sparks–Valkyries highlight reel with a grainy filter, like someone had decided this needed to feel both nostalgic and expensive.

Azzi clocked the setup immediately. The positioning of the lights, the reflective bounce boards angled to flatter skin tone, the black-and-white wardrobe rack sorted by player name and shoot order. Every crew member moved like they were late to something else—coffee in one hand, walkie in the other, eyes scanning, not stopping. It was the kind of set that looked effortless but buzzed with urgency. Like it had a budget. Like every second was paid for.

And then—she clocked Paige.

She was sitting half-sideways on a makeup stool, sipping something green and overpriced, mid-laugh with the stylist like they were old friends reuniting after war. Her blonde hair was already camera-ready. Her voice cut through the background like it had its own channel.

It was… a lot.

Azzi’s instinct was to put her hood back up. Just for something to do with her hands. Instead, she rolled her shoulders back and stepped in.

Paige looked up. “Hey stranger.”

Azzi stopped.

Not dramatically. Just enough that her momentum shifted—like her body clocked something her brain wasn’t ready to name. Knees soft. Shoulders settling. Like she was prepping for a screen she hadn’t seen coming.

She didn’t answer right away.

What was there to say? Hey. Long time. You’re still allergic to subtlety, I see.

Paige’s fingers curled around her cup. Like her body noticed the tension before her brain caught up.

“You made it,” she added, still smiling like they were in on a private joke. “I was starting to think you’d ghost the whole campaign and make me carry the brand alone.”

Azzi’s mouth twitched—reflex, not approval. “Wouldn’t want to steal your spotlight.”

Neither of them moved.

Paige’s hand twitched at her side, like maybe it wanted to do something—offer a fist bump? A handshake? Set the building on fire?

Then she shrugged, like she’d decided against all of it. “Please. You were born with your own.”

Their eyes held for a second too long. Not in a soul-searching way. More in a did you really just say that with a straight face? kind of way.

Azzi blinked once. Was that supposed to be a compliment? A deflection? A dare? Hard to tell with Paige. Half of what she said came wrapped in smirks and static.

And just like that, Paige turned. “Come on,” she said, gesturing toward the wardrobe rack. “Let’s make the internet combust.”

Azzi rolled her eyes. Not hard. Just enough to register as God, you’re exhausting.

Then she followed.

Mostly because standing still felt worse.

There was a black-on-black outfit waiting for her on the front of the rack—more fashion-forward than functional. High-waisted compression shorts. A cropped sports bra with subtle mesh paneling and a matte finish that looked like it had been engineered in a wind tunnel. Over it, a structured half-zip jacket with asymmetrical seams and a stitched Nike swoosh so understated it felt like a dare.

Azzi took it in quietly.

Definitely not built for comfort. Definitely not built for hiding.

The stylist—sleeves full of tattoos, bangs cut blunt—beamed. “This set’s so you. Strong. Minimalist. Intimidating in a good way.”

Azzi managed a polite smile. “Cool.”

She didn’t do short shorts. Not unless there was a stopwatch involved and zero audience.

She didn’t say that, of course. Just kept her expression flat as she took the hanger. Didn’t flinch at the hemline. Didn’t blink at the cropped cut of the top.

And she definitely didn’t look at Paige’s version—already hanging on the far end of the rack. Same set. Different color. White, clean, sculpted. Same heat-engineered fabric. Same precise, cling-to-everything silhouette.

Same full-body fuck you to subtlety.

Because of course it was.

Of course they’d dress them like opposing forces and choreograph it like a standoff. Rival energy, but camera-ready

Paige hadn’t said anything yet. But Azzi could feel her. Some people were loud. Paige was gravity.

Azzi ducked into the changing area and pulled the curtain closed behind her.

This wasn’t the usual jersey-and-smile setup. This was curated tension. Glossy, charged, edited within an inch of going viral. Rival energy repackaged as brand synergy. And she was wearing it. She peeled off her hoodie and stared at the set in her hands.

It was sleek. Sharp. A little ridiculous. The kind of outfit that made her want to fold her arms across her chest and say no comment.

She didn’t feel exposed. She looked like the version of herself the world already believed in. She just hated when that was the headline.

She put it on anyway.

One leg at a time. Jacket zipped halfway. Waistband adjusted.

Nothing self-conscious—just routine.

The mirror inside the changing space was unforgiving in that high-def kind of way. Azzi stared at her reflection. Not out of vanity. Just… a systems check.

She looked like she belonged. Composed. Precise. Exactly the image they'd expect—and the one she'd worked for.

But her pulse was ticking a little too fast. Her mouth was dry.

Because this wasn’t just a shoot. Not really.

This was Paige. In white. Lit like a movie poster. And Azzi had to act like it wasn’t designed to get under her skin. Easy.

She cracked her knuckles once, soft and controlled, then pushed the curtain open and stepped into the chaos.

****

Azzi wasn’t nervous. She just… didn’t want to be here.

The lights were too warm. The set too curated. The energy too loud in that artificial way that made her feel like she was watching someone else’s highlight reel in real time. These kinds of shoots always left her skin buzzing—not from excitement, but from the strain of pretending it came naturally.

She didn’t like pretending.

There were too many people. Too many reflective surfaces. Too many invisible expectations stitched into the fabric of the outfit she’d been handed like a costume. One wrong look and she’d come off too cold. One wrong angle and she’d look like she didn’t belong.

And Paige—Paige was already on.

Effortless. Engaging. Built for the lens.

This was her thing. The camera found her like it was orbiting something. Every movement was intentional. Every look a full sentence. Even her rest face had charisma.

And Azzi? She was just trying not to overthink where to put her hands.

“All right,” the photographer clapped. “Let’s start with the shoulder shot.”

Azzi blinked. “The what?”

“You two facing each other. Paige’s hand on Azzi’s shoulder. Azzi—look just past her. Stoic. Power contrast. Very dual cover energy. You’ll see.”

Azzi didn’t move.

Because of course that was the first pose. Paige touching her. Her standing still. Their bodies arranged like a statement.

Professional. Artistic. Controlled.

But also… no thanks.

“Got it,” Paige said, already stepping into place like she was born to be directed.

Azzi let out a breath. Quiet. Quick. Then moved to her mark like her body had made the decision before her brain could veto it. She kept her gaze neutral. Shoulders squared. Arms loose at her sides.

Then Paige’s fingers touched her shoulder.

And every inch of calm evaporated.

It was light. Barely there. But warm. And definite. Right at the edge of the collarbone, where tension gathered and refused to leave. Paige’s hand settled, fingers angled like she’d done this before, like she knew how to look effortless even while burning through someone else’s equilibrium.

Azzi’s jaw clenched.

Not because she was angry. Because she didn’t know what to do with the way her whole body noticed.

And then—God—there it was. The look.

Paige’s eyes locked on hers—sharp, steady, too blue to ignore. The kind of blue that belonged in ice or glass or something breakable. Azzi hadn’t even realized she was holding her breath until that gaze landed. And then it was all she could do not to flinch.

So she looked past her. Just slightly. A soft shift of focus.

Like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t a retreat.

“Perfect,” the photographer called. “Now hold that. Little closer. Eyes locked, Azzi—through her, not at her. Paige, smirk if you’ve got one in you.”

Paige chuckled. “Always.”

Azzi didn’t respond. She kept her eyes trained on the softbox light just past Paige’s head. She didn’t dare shift focus—not when Paige’s breath was brushing her cheek. Not when she could feel the shift of Paige’s weight, just barely leaning in.

The camera clicked. Paige’s hand didn’t move. If anything, it flexed. Just enough to register.

Azzi felt it. Sharp. Immediate. Unwelcome.

Not annoyance. Not distance.

Just heat. Low-grade. Inconvenient. The kind that didn’t belong here.

Not under lights. Not with Paige.

Definitely not with Paige.

Click.

The heat between them wasn’t visible, but Azzi was sure someone would see it in the playback. Or maybe it was just her. Maybe she was the only one who felt like the air was folding in on itself.

Paige’s voice came low. “You good?”

Azzi nodded. Once. Tighter than she meant to.

“Okay!” the photographer said. “Reset!”

The camera stopped clicking. The crew buzzed with quiet approval. Someone muttered “perfect contrast” behind a lens. Another assistant scribbled notes onto a shot sheet.

Azzi stepped back automatically. Paige’s hand dropped from her shoulder, but the imprint stayed.

She didn’t shake it off. Just moved toward the wardrobe cart like gravity had changed slightly.

“You can relax for a sec,” someone called out cheerfully. “Next setup’s being lit now.”

Azzi nodded, already halfway to the water table.

She took a sip she didn’t need, just to feel grounded. Coolness on her tongue. Something to do with her hands.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Paige laughing with the stylist again. Head tilted. Arm draped casually across the back of a stool. The kind of effortless comfort that came with being born camera-ready.

It was annoying.

Not the charm—that was expected. It was the ease.

Azzi didn’t get to feel easy. She got to feel prepared. Locked in. Polished within an inch of her own permission. She didn’t know what to do with someone who made the performance look like personality.

Paige caught her eye briefly. Lifted her brows like, everything okay?

Azzi nodded once. Quick. Like punctuation. She turned away before Paige could read too much into it.

She wasn’t rattled.

She just needed to reset. That was all.

The crew called them back a minute later. Next setup.

“Back-to-back. Heads tilted slightly, almost touching.”

Azzi swallowed.

Perfect.

****

They stood with their backs nearly touching. Only an inch apart, if that.

Close enough that Azzi could feel Paige’s breath when she exhaled. Could sense her shifting slightly in place, the quiet rustle of compression fabric brushing fabric. The air between them felt weighted. Tight. Like it hadn’t been there before they stepped into position.

Azzi rolled her shoulders once, slow and subtle. Trying to shake the static building under her skin. It didn’t help.

“Let’s bring your heads a little closer,” the photographer called. “Like you’re in sync without even trying. Just the idea of contact.”

Azzi tipped her head inward.

And paused. Because Paige did the same at the exact same moment—too smoothly, too deliberately.

Now their temples were nearly grazing. The curve of Paige’s cheek hovered just behind Azzi’s jaw.

The warmth was unreal. So was the way Paige smelled—lemon, maybe lavender. Clean. Sharp. Familiar in a way that felt like a trick.

Azzi hadn’t meant to breathe it in. Hadn’t meant to notice. But now it was in her throat, under her skin.

Too close. Too much.

Azzi blinked hard, locked her eyes on a piece of tape near the base of the backdrop. Something to anchor her. This wasn’t that deep. It was just another pose. Another shot. She could stand still. She could survive proximity.

Then Paige’s voice slipped in, soft and way too close to her ear. “You’re gonna hate this picture.”

Azzi didn’t move. “Why?”

“Because I look good,” Paige said, amused, “and you look like you’re trying not to blink.”

Azzi exhaled through her nose. Steady. Controlled. “You really think everything revolves around you.”

“No,” Paige murmured, the corner of her mouth curling. “Just everything interesting.” Azzi didn’t respond. Didn’t need to. The photographer’s camera clicked again—rapid fire.

“Perfect,” he called. “Stay right there.”

She tried. But Paige tilted her head just slightly—closer. Her hair brushed the back of Azzi’s neck, and Azzi’s skin lit up like someone had hit a switch.

“You’re doing it again,” Paige said quietly.

Azzi didn’t move. “Doing what.”

“That whole don’t-look-at-me thing.” A pause. “Kinda funny, considering.”

Azzi’s throat tightened. “Considering what.”

“You’re literally in a campaign. With me. In spandex.”

“I’m being professional.”

“And I’m not?” Paige asked, voice low now, laced with something lighter. “We’re allowed to have fun while we work. It’s called range.”

Azzi didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Her jaw was tight and her pulse was going rogue, and she had no idea what her face was doing because she wasn’t even sure her body still belonged to her.

She could feel Paige smiling behind her. Could feel it.

The photographer called, “Alright, last one! A little more lean. Just barely—like you’re pulling toward each other without meaning to.”

Azzi shifted imperceptibly. Paige leaned in without hesitation.

And for a second—just a second—Azzi let herself tilt.

She didn’t move. Didn’t shift the inch of space between them.

But she felt it. The heat. The gravity.

Like her body was suddenly aware of just how close it was to Paige’s.

The smallest lean and they’d be touching. Shoulder to shoulder. Hip to hip.

She stared straight ahead. Counted the clicks of the shutter. Focused on the lights.

Tried not to wonder how much of this was for the camera. Tried not to care.

But her pulse was misfiring. Her skin was too loud.

And that— Yeah. That was the problem.

The camera clicked once more.

“That’s a wrap on stills!” the PA announced. “Five-minute reset for mic’d up.”

Azzi stepped forward like she’d just been released from something. She didn’t look back.

Not at Paige. Not at anyone.

She needed air. She needed water.

She needed her body to stop reacting like it didn’t care that this was just a photoshoot. She let her arms fall loosely at her sides. Let her eyes stay on the wall behind the camera. Anywhere but Paige.

The energy that had filled her shoulder hadn’t left—it was just drifting now. Diffused under her skin.

Someone handed her a mic. She took it without a word.

“We’re moving into the rapid-fire segment next,” the PA said, chipper. “Stay in those outfits. Just mic’d up and vibing. Keep the banter light but competitive. Think: rivals who maybe share playlists.”

Azzi didn’t go for water. Didn’t peel off the jacket or shake out her arms like some of the other athletes did between setups.

She walked quietly around the back of the studio—just out of sight, behind a stack of unused light panels—and pressed her spine to the cool concrete wall.

Her hands were still.

But her chest was tight. Her pulse steady but wrong.

She tipped her head back, eyes closed, and tried to exhale like it might help. Like the memory of Paige’s hair grazing her neck would just… leave.

It didn’t.

Neither did the heat. Or the scent. Or the way Paige had said “Just everything interesting” like it wasn’t the boldest thing anyone had whispered into her space in months.

It was all still there. Stuck to her skin like static.

And the worst part? For half a second—just one—she’d actually wanted to lean in. Not as a joke. Not because of the setup. Because she felt something.

And what the hell was that?

She’d spent her whole life brushing past moments like this. Ignoring distraction. Controlling static. Staying locked in.

But that—whatever that was—cracked through.

So she did what she always did.

She shut it down.

Pulled the drawbridge, sealed the gates, rebuilt the wall—fast, practiced, automatic.

Her shoulders squared. Her face reset. Her breath leveled.

Professional. Controlled. Untouchable.

That was the job. That was the plan.

And if her pulse was still off, if her skin still buzzed— Well. She’d learn to ignore it.

“Alright,” the photographer called. “We’re going mic’d up next. Just keep it loose—banter a little. Let the chemistry do the work.”

Azzi didn’t flinch. Didn’t react.

Let Paige try.

Azzi had walls for a reason.

And this time, she’d remember how to use them.

Paige

Mic’d up spots were supposed to be fun.

Paige had done enough of them to know the beats—banter, charm, maybe a spicy one-liner that made it onto SportsCenter’s TikTok page. But this didn’t feel like that.

This felt like trying to walk across a balance beam while someone threw lit matches.

That someone was Azzi.

They weren’t friends. Weren’t teammates for long. Weren’t anything, really, beyond years of headlines and one too-long stare during a USA scrimmage when they were sixteen and seventeen. Still, being paired for a promo like this meant they had to pretend.

Pretend they had chemistry. Pretend it wasn’t weird. Pretend Paige wasn’t thinking entirely too much about how good Azzi looked in that cut-sleeve jacket and fitted shorts and impossible-to-read expression.

Because she did. Look good, that is. Sharp. Serious. A little intimidating. In that way that made it hard to look away.

There was something in the air now. Not loud, but there. Like the charge right before a tip-off. Or a spark that hadn’t decided if it wanted to catch.

And for a second—just a flicker—Paige wondered if Azzi felt it too.

But then Azzi blinked. Shoulders squared. Jaw set. Like she’d just flipped a switch behind her eyes.

Door closed. Message received.

Huh.

“Rolling in three…” the producer called. “Two…”

Paige locked in her best “camera-ready” grin and turned toward her. “All right. Let’s show the people Huskies and Irish can play nice.”

Azzi didn’t look at her, but her eyebrow lifted just enough to register. “Pretty generous, calling you nice.”

Paige let out a quiet laugh. “Wow. Coming out swinging already.”

“Just setting expectations.” Azzi’s tone was flat, but the corners of her mouth tugged up like she couldn’t quite help it.

The crew chuckled. Paige leaned in slightly. “It’s okay to be nervous. I’m a lot to be across from.”

Azzi’s mouth barely twitched. “You said it.”

That got a full laugh.

Paige felt it—the buzz of attention, the rhythm kicking in. Okay. This, she could work with.

“First question,” the PA read. “Who’s got the better handle?”

Paige raised her hand immediately. “Me. Obviously.”

Azzi glanced at her. “If you like dribbling in circles.”

“I call it creative movement.”

“I call it a waste of the shot clock.”

Laughter again. Paige smirked, but her brain stalled for half a second longer than it should’ve. Because that… kinda stung. Not because it was wrong. Just because Azzi said it like she meant it.

“Next,” the PA said. “Who talks more trash?”

Azzi, instantly: “Paige.”

Paige’s hand flew to her heart in mock betrayal. “Oh wow. No hesitation.”

Azzi shrugged, barely glancing her way. “You’re not subtle.”

“And you’re no fun.”

It slipped out quicker than she meant it to. A little too sharp, a little too real. Not quite a joke. Not quite not.

Azzi’s head turned, slow and deliberate. Her gaze narrowed—not dramatic, but pointed. Like a thread had just been pulled too tight.

Paige’s fingers curled lightly in her lap. She shifted, just enough to feel it.

“Sorry,” she added, with a smile that was trying too hard to land right. “You are fun. Like, very… introvert-fun. Deep cuts only.”

Azzi didn’t respond. Just looked at her, eyes steady. Measuring.

A beat.

“Okayyy,” the producer said slowly, dragging the word like they were trying to break the tension. “Moving on. What’s one thing the other person does that annoys you on the court?”

Paige tried to laugh. “Where do I start?”

But Azzi didn’t wait. “She flops.”

That made Paige blink. “Excuse me?”

Azzi turned slightly, angled just enough to be caught by the second camera. “You sell contact like it’s an acting reel.”

Paige’s jaw dropped, then clicked back into place. “I get fouled.”

“You get dramatic.”

It was said plainly. No heat, no bite. Which somehow made it land harder.

Paige laughed again, but it came out tight. “Well, not everyone can be an emotionless highlight reel.”

Azzi’s smile vanished.

Not all at once. Just enough to shift the whole tone of the room.

Her shoulders stiffened. Eyes fixed on the PA, like Paige had suddenly stopped existing.

One hand flexed against her thigh. Small. Measured. Controlled. Which said everything.

And just like that, the air changed. Even the lights felt hotter.

Azzi’s expression didn’t flicker, but the silence that followed? Loud.

“Sorry,” Paige offered, hands half-raised. “I meant it as a compliment. You know—methodical, flawless, machine-like.” Azzi’s jaw tensed.

The PA didn’t even look up. “Cool. Um… let’s maybe not start a fight on camera?”

A beat.

“Or at least wait until lunch.” “No, it’s fine,” Azzi said quietly. “I didn’t realize being consistent was a flaw.”

“Didn’t realize having a personality was one either,” Paige muttered, mostly to herself.

Too late.

Azzi looked at her.

Really looked.

And Paige suddenly wanted to rewind the last twenty seconds of her life.

The director clapped once. “Okay! Let’s take five!”

The crew moved fast—headsets off, cameras paused, someone offering water like they could cool the temperature in the room with hydration alone.

Paige stayed frozen. Mic still on. Brain on fire.

Azzi unclipped hers without a word and walked off set.

Paige watched her go, heart in her throat. This was supposed to be easy. Charming. Safe.

Instead, she’d pushed too far, misread the moment, and hit a nerve she didn’t even know was still raw.

Now Azzi was iced over, the crew was tense, and Paige was sitting there like the punchline to a joke no one found funny.

Maybe Azzi never had.

****

Paige sat in the makeup chair, mic off, fingers curled loosely around a half-empty water bottle, trying to untangle the five-minute spiral that had just knocked the air out of the room.

A makeup artist drifted by with a compact and a brush, pausing beside her.

“You good?” she asked gently, not meeting her eyes.

“Totally,” Paige said, voice light, smile tighter than it should’ve been. “Just… conserving energy.”

The makeup artist nodded. “Right. Gotta save some for the drama.”

Paige gave a short laugh—too quick, too bright. “Yeah. Can’t peak too early.”

The makeup artist moved on without a word.

Paige stared at her reflection. Yup. There it was. That smile that didn’t quite reach. The kind you practiced until it felt like muscle memory.

It started fine. Easy. Banter, jabs, the kind of low-stakes teasing that made shoots like this go viral for all the right reasons. And then—somewhere between the eye rolls and the too-close pose and that one line about emotionlessness—something shifted.

Azzi had walked off.

No dramatic exit. No fight. Just a clean, quiet done.

And Paige was still here, stuck in the residue.

She’d said worse things to teammates in scrimmages. Sharper lines. Harsher tones. And they’d laughed. Or barked back. Or let it roll off like athletes do.

But Azzi wasn’t someone she had that kind of rapport with. Not someone she could read or recover with.

Paige leaned forward, elbows to knees, watching the studio lights dim into standby. The set was quiet now, everyone moving around her like background noise.

She didn’t know why this stuck.

She didn’t think they had anything like that between them. She hadn’t thought about Azzi that way. Not really.

They were on similar paths. Always had been. But Paige was older. A year, technically—but in the world they came from, that was just enough space to make them feel like separate weight classes.

Azzi had been the phenom trailing behind. Paige had been the one already living in the spotlight.

And Paige? She’d been too busy trying to live up to that—to the “once-in-a-generation” thing—to ever think about chasing someone else’s lane. She didn’t compare herself to the other girls in her class. Not Caitlin. Not Angel. Not Hailey.

She’d learned early that comparison was a rigged game. There was always someone louder. Sharper. More liked. More marketable.

So you pick a lane and you run it until your lungs burn.

That was the job.

By the time Azzi made her splash, Paige was already being called a generational player. The next thing. The sure thing. She was too busy keeping up with her own expectations to look back, or sideways, or anywhere long enough to clock a rivalry.

And maybe that was part of it.

Maybe she hadn’t seen Azzi as a threat.

Not because she wasn’t one—but because Paige had been too busy trying to live up to the spotlight she’d never asked for, but couldn’t afford to drop.

She thought Azzi was quiet. Controlled. Just a player in her orbit.

But maybe she wasn’t orbiting. Maybe she’d been lining up a shot this whole time. And Paige had just turned her back to the basket.

She sat back, watching a loop of their stills flash across a muted monitor screen. They looked good. Too good.

There was something there—sharp, charged. Like tension caught mid-spark.

Weird.

They weren’t friends. Barely talked. But the camera had caught something real.

Like they’d slipped into a story neither of them remembered starting.

She wasn’t sure what they’d captured in those frames.

She just knew it didn’t feel fake.

Maybe she should’ve known, back then.

She remembered seeing Azzi at some AAU tournament. Just once. Azzi was younger—quieter—but already dangerous with the ball. Unbothered by the noise. Paige had been all highlights and handshakes by then, already half-branded.

She didn’t stay long. Didn’t say anything.

But she remembered thinking: That girl doesn’t play for cameras. She plays to win.

And for the first time, she started to wonder:

What if this was a rivalry? Not the headline kind. Not the one you get handed. The kind you only recognize once it’s already shaped you.

#pazzi fics #pazzi #paige x azzi #paige bueckers #azzi fudd #fanfiction

166 notes · View notes

brooklyn-duo · 3 days ago

Text

Bucky has to agree, “It doesn’t make sense on paper sure, but it makes sense to me when we’re together. I’m sure you could find anyone you wanted to have sex with but its like we talked about after that second time together, there’s something different when we’re together and it’s hard to find that anywhere else,” he points out, sitting forward with his arms resting on his knees easily, looking over to him and shaking his head, “If he thinks that I was coerced, I’ll tell him the truth, that I was the one who sought you out the second time. That I made the decision that I wanted to do this completely clear minded, and that it’s my choice. If it ends, or something happens, it’s not because you tricked me, but because we’re fuckin’ human, and that just happens sometimes.”

He reaches for his drink to take a slow sip, clearly thinking about what Tony offered, shaking his head, “No, no you don’t need to come with me, i know he’s your friend too but I think I should be able to tell him. I’ll..I’ll try to tell him tomorrow, that we’re friends and that we had dinner tonight because I needed help dealing with the anxieties i had about the procedure tomorrow. Then we can talk about it more, we can talk even after the procedure if he wants more details, but at least he can know the truth about how you’ve been helping me deal with my issues with the arm and everything”

Bucky is quiet for a while, nudging his food around as he takes in what Tony said because he knows he has a point. He wasn’t trying to lie to Steve, but he was actively dodging answering questions like when Steve asked what he was doing tonight, he had said just getting dinner and probably watching a show. What had been true…but he had left out that it was at Tony’s place not his own apartment. And he had been enjoying not having to explain this to anyone else because friends with benefits had never been his thing. He could already hear Steve reminding him of the way he had tried it with a girl back in the 40s, when he hadn’t been sure he was ready for commitment, and had fallen head over heals for her within a month. It wasn’t the same anymore, he wasn’t a 21 year old kid that didn’t know how anything worked anymore, and he had a lot more baggage to deal with.

He does chuckle at the last thing Tony says, breaking out of the intense moment of thinking to nudge him, “Oh yeah, I can see that, which is exactly why putting skates on the suit would be so perfect, no one would be expecting it and the big bad guy you’re fighting would expect you to come flying not rolling,” he grins, clearly happy to keep joking about him being just like Inspector Gadget.

It’s a long few minutes as he eats a soup dumpling before he breaks the silence again, “It’s not that I want to keep it from him, I just don’t know how to explain it. Because if I do tell him, I’ll tell him everything, that we’re friends that have sex as..as often as we both want to honestly, right? He’s a black and white guy, and he knows how I used to be back before the war. I was a flirt, i dated and I had steady girlfriends. Even If I wanted to date now, I wouldn’t be doing it the same as i was back then but I’m worried that’s all he’ll think about when he finds out. And I don’t…I don’t’ want to feel like I have to defend what we have, because it’s what I want. This, being friends with you like this, its what I want, I don’t want to feel like it’s ‘wrong’ or something that I need to convince my best friend and brother to be okay with,” he says, his voice was quiet at first but as he continued he starts to get more annoyed about it and he gets louder.

“I know I can’t exactly predict what he’ll say, he’s his own person but I know him like I know the back of my hand, and I can hear him cautioning me now as if I ain’t older than him and been through just as much as he has, and I know it’ll make me mad and I just…I don’t want to fight with him..” he says quietly, setting his food down to sit back, running his hands through his hair as he tries to calm down. He didn’t want to worry Tony or get him worked up, but the more he realized he needed to be honest about this friendship with Steve the more he gets worried about the outcome.

#ironwinter rp #pick your battles #james buchanan barnes #tony and bucky #bucky barnes rp #marvel roleplay #mr tony stark

232 notes · View notes

returnofeternity · 1 day ago

Note

"you find yourself trying to hump the vibrator as jackie's face contorts into an annoyed frown, knowing that you're about to be dragged away and fucked dumb."

Part 2 where Jackie fuck R so loud the whole party could hear them (tongue, finger, strap)

jackie gives the girl a big, cocky smile before she seizes you by the collar of your shirt and drags you away, her hand gripping so tightly that you swear you heard it rip somewhere.

everyone's staring at you, some whooping and whistling, as jackie shoves past people and leads you to her room upstairs. it makes you embarrassed but so turned on, and the vibration between your legs makes you whine as your thighs rub against each other from how fast you're walking to keep up with jackie.

she shoves the door open and pushes you in first, and you watch with dark eyes as she slams it shut and locks it.

she's so hot when she's mad, you think.

you can't help but squeeze your thighs together as you stand and look at her, waiting for her to tell you what to do because she's in charge now. you squeeze them harder when she slowly walks up to you like she's a predator trying to trap its prey.

suddenly the vibrations stop, and you're left confused and dizzy. your hole squeezes around the vibrator so well, missing its pulses.

jackie pouts and tilts her head. "oh, poor baby." she looks at you, still rubbing your thighs together for relief, and scoffs. "you're so pathetic. did you really try to flirt with another girl just to get me to fuck you?"

she stops in front of you, staring hard.

"it worked, didn't it?" you mumble back, shrugging.

she huffs and pushes your shoulders back, causing you to fall onto the bed. you grin up at her as you scoot back and watch her crawl toward you, feeling your stomach swirl with excitement at how good she's going to fuck you.

jackie stops when she's in between your legs, and she looks you up and down. "take your clothes off."

without missing a beat, you do as you're told. you fling your shirt off and huff and puff as you fumble with unbuttoning your pants, and when you take a peek at jackie, she's looking unamused.

when you finally get them off, you feel so much lighter. and the cool air of her room hits your soaked panties so deliciously that you whine and snap your hips up.

"i want those off too." she says, gaze boring into the big wet spot on your panties.

you bite your lip as you hook your fingers under the fabric, whimpering quietly as the vibrator moves inside of you while you tug them down. jackie leans forward and watches closely, her fists clenching when she notices the rope of arousal clinging to your panties and the vibrator. she licks her lips subconsciously, thinking about grabbing them from you so she can taste you before she really digs in.

but then you're throwing them to the side and opening your legs for her, and she's much more occupied with other things.

;

thinking about her sucking your juices off the vibrator first. she doesnt even care that she moans so pathetically as she takes it out from you so easily because of how drenched you are, she just brings it to her face and sniffs it while looking you in the eyes. they flutter so cutely as she inhales you, and then she's shoving it in her mouth and deepthroating it as deep as possible to taste all of you. and for a second, you forget it's you who's supposed to be punished in a few minutes.

she gets a bit drunk on your taste. her eyes are so clouded over when she opens them again, and now you remember about your punishment because she's looking at you like she wants to eat you alive.

her pretty lips feel so amazing on your pussy as she dives in, and fuck, you love how messy she always is. always so eager and desperate to taste all of you that she's kind of just kissing and sucking every part of it, but it feels so good. her tongue swirls around your clit so tortuously slow, and she's so strong as she holds your hips down and keeps you still. it's not enough to have you screaming yet, and she's huffing as you clench your jaw to keep in your pathetic moans.

she wants to hear them!!

so she adds her long fingers to the mix. and she gets a little something out of you, more whines and gasps, but it's still not what she's looking for. but it's fine for now, especially because she's much more focused on getting you to take all three fingers while she laps at your clit.

honestly, you don't even mean to be that quiet. it's just that your brain feels so fuzzy and jackie's fucking you so dumb that you can only let out broken moans and grasp at her head.

and god, thinking about feeling her ring rubbing against your walls as she fingers you. she has a good time licking it clean while she makes you take out her strap so she can really fuck you now.

this is where she gets you to break. and honestly, it doesnt take you long to start letting out those loud moans she's been hoping for as her thick cock hits your sweet spot so perfectly over and over again. she's got such good strap game. and she loves it when you scratch her back all nice and bloody because she's making you feel so good.

you're so loud for her, and her ears twitch every time you let out an "oh, fuck, jackie. feels so fuckin' good." at the top of your lungs.

she's so proud knowing that the whole party can hear you, can hear you scream her name as she fucks you dumb.

she definitely makes you walk back out to the party (once she makes sure you're all right and cleaned up!!) just so she can show off her work for a little bit before telling everyone to get the fuck out.

#anon #jackie taylor thoughts 💭#jackie taylor x reader #yellowjackets x you #yellowjackets x reader #jackie taylor x you

102 notes · View notes

riesobunz · 2 days ago

Text

When Silence Speaks | D. Malfoy

synopsis: After a heart-wrenching breakup with you, a certain Malfoy turns to Astoria Greengrass in an attempt to move on. Unbeknownst to him, you aren’t playing the game he expected. You’re silent, more reserved than ever. He wanted your attention. He got silence.

cw: slytherin!reader x draco, astoria is the same yr as them, angst, toxic dynamics, break up themes, pansy is a sweetheart!!! yearning, yearning, and yearning… oh did I say yearning?

wc: 1.6k

a/n: hello everyone, this is my first ever fic! I hope you guys like it <3 (inspired by don’t smile by Sabrina Carpenter I recommend listening to it while reading this 🫶🏻)

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ

Having Defense Against the Dark Arts as your next class was already troublesome for you, but the fact that your teacher made you and your ex sit together? You wanted to end it right then and there.

Seeing Draco looking at someone with those eyes — eyes that had known every feature of your face and had seen you at your best and worst — how could he look at someone else like that now?

You kept your eyes forward, forcing yourself not to look at him. Not that he would care when he looked at Astoria with that subtle smirk, the one that used to be yours.

“Perhaps you know the answer,” Professor Snape said, turning to look at you. His voice sliced through the quiet classroom. “What’s the key difference between a Hex and a Curse?”

All eyes shifted to you, waiting.

“A Hex causes minor harmful effects and is often mischievous, while a Curse is designed for serious harm or control and is generally considered dark magic,” you answered, your tone cool and precise.

His lips curled, not exactly a smile but more like approval.

“Correct,” he said, turning away. “Five points to Slytherin.”

Just as class ended, and students began to head out, as if fate were toying with you, you saw Draco walking with Astoria in the hall. The two of them were close enough that their shoulders brushed.

“Brilliant. Absolutely bloody brilliant,” you muttered to yourself, a bitter laugh threatening to escape, your chest tightening with something sharp and unwelcome.

Draco passed some kind of book to her. “Don’t smudge the corners. That’s a limited edition,” he said.

“I’ll treat it better than your last relationship,” she teased, her eyes flicking to you for just a second.

A pang cut through your chest. They knew you were listening — or worse, they wanted you to be.

You tried to hide your face to escape the embarrassment of once being his — and the guilt of being the one who ended it.

Without a word, you turned and left the corridor, each step faster than the last until they were out of sight. You couldn’t stay there, not with him looking at her like that. The further you walked, the more your thoughts crowded your mind, loud and unwelcome.

You tried to calm your aching heart, to find comfort in the memories you once shared.

And yet, your mind kept circling back, lingering where it shouldn’t.

Did the moments you created together mean nothing to him now? How could he look so unaffected when you were falling apart?

The cold, dim atmosphere of the dorms welcomed you. You made your way to your bed, cocooning yourself in the blanket, nearly swallowed by its warmth. The silence is broken only by soft rustling — and then, the subtle presence of a familiar, expensive perfume drifts through the room.

“Alright, enough of this,” Pansy’s sharp, annoyed voice cut through the silence, though beneath it was concern.

She straightened you up. “Merlin, you look like someone ran you over with a Hippogriff.”

You groaned. “Not now, Parkinson.”

Pansy raised a brow. “Oh, please.” She gagged at the pile of tissues beside you. “You’re literally a pathetic pile of heartbreak while Malfoy plays snogging with Greengrass.”

You rolled your eyes. “What do you want?”

“Nothing. Just wanted to make sure you haven’t, I don’t know, thrown yourself into the Black Lake.”

You scoffed.

“He’s doing it on purpose, you know. The book, the hallway, the stupid limited edition line. He wants a reaction.”

“Well, he’s not getting one.”

Pansy clicked her tongue. “He already has. You just gave it to him in silence.”

“Also, the Greengrass girl was loving every second. She’s always been good at pretending she’s innocent while twisting the knife,” Pansy continued.

You sat up, arms wrapped around your knees. “Well, what do you think I should do?”

“Hmm… you could always use a hex or two.”

“Pansy!”

“Yeah, yeah,” she teased, grinning. “Just don’t let him ruin you, your class, your entire day. Don’t let him ruin that beautiful face of yours, too.”

You chuckled. “Alright. Thanks a lot,” you said with a smile.

“I’ve got you. Always.”

The next morning came too quickly, though it carried a quiet sense of peace. You woke to warm sunlight spilling through your window and fresh air filling the room. Despite the lingering ache, you decided that no matter what attitude Malfoy showed, you would ignore it and keep living your life, doing your best to move on from him.

Your footsteps echoed softly against the stone, each one a reminder that the day had to start, whether you were ready or not.

By the time you reached the Great Hall, your stomach was already twisting, not from hunger, but from everything else. Still, you made your way to the Slytherin table, reached for the usual bland porridge, and added a generous swirl of honey.

“Didn’t know you’ve got a sweet tooth,” Pansy said, raising an eyebrow as she slid onto the bench beside you.

Your face warmed slightly. “A habit of mine,” you muttered, stirring the honey in.

More students headed into the Great hall, their chatter and footsteps filling the space. Familiar laughter echoed from around the corner. You braced yourself.

And then, your eyes met his, like the moment had slowed without warning. His robe was perfectly neat, his tie slightly loose — and for a second, you remembered how often you were the one fixing it. He walked beside Greengrass, his hand resting on her waist, like it belonged there.

“Hey,” Pansy said gently, her hand pressing against your back. “Don’t mind them. Keep eating. Remember what we talked about.”

You nodded, letting yourself breathe for a moment. You wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. They were not worth your time, and most importantly, there were plenty of things you still needed to work on rather than being held back by whatever this drama was all about.

And somehow, you did.

That whole week was pretty hectic; not only did you ace every test, but you also earned full marks on every assignment. You focused on working hard, determined to be better and to prove something to yourself. You gained the attention of your professors, their whispers filling the halls like a quiet applause — but so did someone who had sworn he would never look for you again, yet somehow couldn’t stop watching from afar.

Draco was watching. From the school grounds, across the library, and even from the corner of the common room.

He never spoke. Never approached.

But he looked.

And you hated that part of you still hoped he’d say something.

You’d almost forgotten about Friday nights patrol. Almost.

When you saw the list with your name beside his — Astronomy tower. Late shift. Draco Malfoy. — You swore your insides turned to knots. Head boy and Prefect. How ironic.

You arrived early.

The stars shimmered above, the cold night air kissed your skin, and the view below stole your breath. For a moment, you felt at peace—until footsteps echoed behind you, followed by the scent of some obnoxiously expensive perfume, one that was painfully recognizable.

“Well, if it isn’t the one who broke up with me.”

You turned slowly, arms folded across your chest. “What are you doing here?”

He raised a brow, stepping closer. “Patrolling. Head Boy duties. Or have you forgotten everything, like you forgot about us?”

There it was.

You scoffed. “Don’t turn this on me.”

“Someone has to,” he said bitterly. “You ended things. Not even explaining why you suddenly left me.”

Your voice dropped. “If only you’d looked at me. Just once.”

His mouth snapped shut.

You stepped closer, your words barely above a whisper. “I was tired, Draco. Tired of reaching out… only to find you with her instead.”

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t deny it.

“I missed you.” Your voice cracked as tears welled in your eyes. “I always missed you. Even when I tried to convince myself I didn’t.”

You looked at him—truly looked—and it hurt. It hurt to see the boy you loved in front of you and know he wasn’t yours anymore. Maybe he never fully was.

“But maybe we were never meant to last. Maybe we’re just better on our own.”

The words left your mouth like a slow ache, heavy and irreversible.

Draco stepped forward, close enough that the scent of his cologne mixed with the night air, so familiar it almost broke you.

“I never stopped wanting you,” he said softly.

Your breath hitched, yet you didn’t move.

“I’ve been aching for you. Trying to find any excuse just to feel you again, to be near you, but—”

“But what, Draco?”

“But you left.” He whispered, taking a step closer to you.

“I did,” you replied, voice cracking. “Yet I never stopped loving you.”

That was all it took.

His lips were on yours, slow and searching. At first, hesitant — afraid you’d pull away — but you didn’t. It was raw, full of everything that had gone unsaid. A kiss soaked in guilt and something that still burned.

And then… you pulled away.

“I—this is wrong.” You turned away. “Maybe it’s better if we just end it.”

He didn’t argue back, not even a plea. “I’m sorry.”

Then he turned away, far from that tower, and far from you.

It then hit you. That tower had once been yours. The secret kisses, the late-night stargazing, the quiet laughter shared in the dark. It used to be ethereal — soft and timeless, like magic untouched by the world.

Now it held only silence.

And somehow, that silence spoke louder than anything he could’ve said.

It told the truth you couldn’t bring yourself to voice.

It said everything he wouldn’t.

Because when words slip away, silence speaks.

₊˚⊹ ⁀➴ m.list

77 notes · View notes

urfavnewgirl · 4 hours ago

Text

in the midst of you dragging your desk chair to the bathroom, jason speaks.

“sweetheart, i don’t understand why you insist on doing this.”

“because,” your hand finds his upper arm, dragging him with you, “i am trying to prove a theory.”

the direction of his steps matches yours instinctively, almost as if you were the steering wheel commanding his body, mind, and soul.

“the theory being…” his eyebrows raise, and he tilts his head, “that i have curly hair?”

“yes. exactly. now sit down.”

he sighs in false pretense and takes a seat. jason todd was putty in your hands, but of course, he would never admit it. so he pretends to be annoyed. reluctant. not a fan of your ideas, no, rarely ever.

but in reality? he’d probably let you dye his hair a ghastly shade of green, just to feel your touch. so he lets you do this, too. especially when you pause in front of the bathtub, your grip shifts to his t-shirt, and your eyes assess his face as if this were your first time undressing him. you’ve seen him shirtless a million times before, and yet, your quiet demand for consent remains a constant with him.

once he nods, the material slips off with ease, your gaze flickers across his toned upper body, patterns of scars and inscriptions of countless horror stories marking his beautiful skin. you lean forward. he almost sighs in relief when your fingers curl around his shoulders, and your lips meet his body in a featherlight kiss.

you pretend not to notice the nearly cherry-colored hue to his cheeks as you halt beside his seated form, adjusting the water temperature.

“okay, pretty boy-“

“do not call me that.”

with your fingers on the back of his head, you gently guide him down, “i’ll call you whatever i want.”

your teasing words, as always, drastically contrast the sweetness of your actions, and he finds himself unable to even feel a sliver of annoyance towards you. instead, he settles into your touch like an enzyme finding its appropriate substrate. lock-and-key.

"you’re annoying."

"your head is in my hands. behave."

he doesn’t reply, can’t afford to, not when he knows you can see the flush on his face intensifying at your commanding tone.

"let me know if the water is too hot. or too cold."

"’s fine."

you hum.

the next few minutes pass by in silence, accompanied by your ever so careful movements. shampoo. once. then twice. your fingers curl through his hair, and he softens completely. the lightest coating of conditioner. brush. curl cream. scrunch. hair gel. scrunch again, and finish with an old cotton t-shirt plopped on top.

you pull him off the chair, look up at him with a grin. "you look so silly."

he slides his warm hands up your arms, resting them just below your shoulders, and it takes everything in him not to mirror your expression. "i don’t think you can seperate art and artist here. so, if i look dumb, that’s your fault."

"maybe..." you press a kiss to his cheek, and his hold on you tightens immediately, "the artist doesn’t wanna be seperated from the art."

he chuckles briefly, pulls you closer to him until your nose meets his chest, his arms wrapping around you like a weighted blanket.

"ditto. maybe."

you return his embrace, nuzzling into him.

"...also, the artwork’s kind of unfinished. still need to diffuse."

he groans.

twenty minutes later, you’re done, proudly standing behind his form in front of the bathroom mirror. there’s an array of products messily stood atop the washing machine now, his neck hurts like hell, but your giddiness alone makes him forget about it all.

plus, his hair really does look good. curly, like you anticipated.

"am i van gogh, or what? well, minus the ear part."

he turns around, faces you. "you are."

"pretty, right?"

you’re smiling at him, and he swipes his knuckles over your cheek, his hand finding refuge on your face. he nods, his voice lowering. "mhm. pretty."

"you should thank me properly."

"yeah," he blinks at you, slowly, "got any ideas?"

"one million dollars, transferred to my bank account right now."

he laughs in disbelief. "i think i have a better one."

"two million dollars?"

he grins once more, shakes his head. he leaves not an atom of empty space between you as he pulls you in for a kiss. it’s a rough first meeting thanks to the speed of his actions, but he slows down immediately, and so does everything else around you.

jason reciprocates everything you have taught him, today and everyday before - by kissing you softly, sweetly, with a gentleness only ever reserved for you. your knees nearly give in, but he’s here to catch you.

it’s your turn to blush when he pulls back, and he throws the ball even further into your court by running his thumb over your bottom lip. "that good enough for you?"

you blink. "i don’t know. one million dollars is a lot of money."

he hums, his gaze locked on yours. "guess i’ll have to try again, then."

"i guess so."

and he does just that, until your flush turns a shade of maroon not even the great masters themselves could recreate.

heyy.... not proofread.. see u in a month........ wrote this while spiralling due to exams... thought id post it to feed the children. sorry if it sucks. also i dont even like curly hair on men idk y i wrote this!

#jason todd fluff #jason todd x reader #jason todd headcanon #dcu fluff #jason todd headcanons #jason todd x you #jason todd x y/n

86 notes · View notes

p-artsypants · 3 days ago

Note

“A cane will for for now. As long as…” she glanced to his injured fin and winced. Who knew how that would affect his transformation? Would he be missing a few toes? Half a foot? The whole foot? “Well, you should be able to pick up walking fairly easily. But we’ll definitely get you a cane.”

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Babe, you’ve never done this before, right? But you know what to do? I know there’s probably a bit that’ll be hard to explain, but can you elaborate? Do I need to get you to the sea or the cove? Or once the moon comes up…poof?”

“We’ll need to get you some pants and skivvies. Not to meant boots and socks! The underwear should be easy enough, but the pants…” she stood and looked through the sewing kit for the measuring tape. Then she came over to the cart and had Hiccup sit up so she could measure his waist. Then she measured the length of his tail.

“I’m going to see if I can ‘borrow’ a pair roughly this size. We’ll make adjustments when we can measure to accurately.” She grinned.

“Now, one more question. While you have legs, are you human? Or are you still a merman, just able to blend in? Do you still have magic? I suppose it doesn’t really matter, but I am curious.”

As they talked and planned, they didn’t notice a new presence until he was on the steps.

Chief Spitelout had come in person, though she hadn’t expected him to be the first to stop in. He didn’t look particularly happy.

“My boy told me all about what happened,” he said after a moment. “Sorry about your tail, lad. I hope you’ve been well cared for. And I hope the old wives tales about merfolk cursing those that harm them are false. We’re in hard times enough as it is.”

Astrid gnawed in her tongue. Spitelout was good at keeping things running, but he wasn’t the best at interpersonal conflict and diplomacy. She worried where this conversation was heading.

“What’s your goal here, boy? Why’d you come to our little village? Snotlout says this was Astrid’s hare-brained scheme, and I don’t doubt that. But I do doubt she could say anything to convince a creature of the sea to risk its life to come to shore. So what do you want? Gold? Weapons? Information? You’ll find we’re low on the first two and shut up tight on the third.”

“Chief, he’s harmless. He was just curious! Yeah, it was my idea, but he just wanted to learn about our culture.”

“Like what?”

“Well, how we make stuff. He said he’s salvaged parts of shipwrecks and was curious how things were built. Is that a crime?”

Spitelout narrowed his eyes at her. He’d always been stand-offish, only really cracking a smile when he did something honorable. Once she started beating Snotlout in training, he soured towards her. Then, rumors of marriage contracts started floating around and he got all sweet and polite. It seemed after her father’s rejection, and no doubt Snotlout’s testimony that Hiccup had won her over, Spitelout was back to distain.

Well, she never really liked him anyway. He seemed like a terrible father, and likely a worse father in law.

Though Hiccup’s father might not be better, given the reputation.

“I know you’re blinded by love for your little fish boy, but I have a village to think about, Miss Hofferson. It’s my job to make sure all strange creatures that crawl onto our shores are truly as harmless as they say. Now, if you’d let the boy speak for himself?”

After a long training session, all Astrid wanted to do was cool off on the beach. Maybe a tiny swim, even though the ocean was so cold at this time of year. She pushed through the brush and staggered down to the shore.

Only to find a boy lounging in the shallows.

“Oh!” She dropped her axe in the sand. From his bare torso, she assumed he was naked. “Sorry! I didn’t know someone else would be…here…” as the apologies flowed, she realized from the waist down, he had green scales and a pair of fins.

No wonder she hadn’t recognized him.

“No way…” she inched closer. “A real mermaid! In the flesh! Are the stories true?” She stamped down her overwhelming curiosity for a moment to give him a stern point. “Don’t try anything fishy, mermaid. I’m very capable of protecting myself, got it?”

((I saw the prompt and went feral, hope you don’t mind))

[X]

Hiccup started, the water around him splashing as he sat up straight in surprise, before he moved a little further back, his cheeks flushed.

"No, sorry, I, I shouldn't--" Ducking his head, the merman awkwardly held up a hand, "Usually no one comes here..."

But his movements only caused his tail to briefly break the surface, emerald scales glittering in the sun for a moment before dipping below the water again.

Firmly, he responded, "Merman. I am a merman. And no, don't worry, I, I wasn't going to try anything...I know you'd probably kill me if I did..."

Clearing his throat, he ran a hand through his hair, which had partially dried in his time sitting in the shallow water. "What, what stories are you referring to?"

He knew, or at least had a gut feeling about what she was asking, but he wanted to hear it from her. She appeared wary, but not fearful. Maybe these humans didn't have the same fears of his kind like the others?

168 notes · View notes

writingsoftarnishedsilver · 2 days ago

Note

I know this has been done before but I’d love to see your take on what actually should’ve happened when MC takes crucio for Seb (because his in game reaction nearly had ME thrown in Azkaban for murdering his ass)

You’re a creative GENIUS as always 🤍

Crucio | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

Hello Anon! Thank you for the request. I am HAPPY to rewrite this scene, it drives me absolutely nuts as well that there is not more emotional fall out in the game. Fair warning, this is (in my opinion) a more realistic version of events for what I think the trio would have actually done in this situation, so... it's not really a happy ending. But for your sake, Anon, I hope this rewritten version gives you some well-deserved closure for what (I think) should have happened!

Words: ~7,100

Tags: Violence, Trauma, Reader Insert, Female MC, No Y/N, No Hogwarts House, Fix-It, Hurt/No Comfort, Angst, NOT A Happy Ending

The room was suffocating.

Ancient stone faces pressed in from all sides, lined with deep cracks as if the very foundation of the room had suffered beneath centuries of agony. The torches, dim and flickering, cast long, restless shadows that along the walls, twisting and contorting into unnatural shapes. It was cold here—not the damp chill of the underground, but something deeper, something that settled into your bones and refused to let go.

The door had sealed shut behind you the moment the three of you had stepped inside. There was no way back. You, Ominis, and Sebastian stood motionless in the torchlight, your breaths shallow, hearts hammering as the silence stretched.

Then you saw them. The faces on the door.

Twisted, frozen in silent screams, their tortured expressions were carved into iron. Eyes hollowed out, mouths gaping wide, they loomed like grotesque sentinels guarding whatever lay beyond. At your feet, the word Crucio was etched into the dust-covered stone, and beside them, bones. Brittle, fragile, the remains of someone who had come here before you and never left.

Your stomach lurched as you backed away, your boots scuffing against the uneven floor. The realization hit you like a blow to the ribs.

Noctua Gaunt.

Ominis exhaled sharply behind you as he came to the same realization, his fists clenched so tightly around his wand that his knuckles had turned white. His entire body was wound with tension, as if every muscle was screaming at him to run, but there was nowhere to go.

Sebastian was the first to move, stepping forward, brows furrowed as he scanned the door. His hand hovered over the carved faces, fingertips tracing the deep grooves in the iron.

The silence stretched, pressing in from all sides. The flickering torchlight cast deep hollows beneath Sebastian’s eyes as he turned, gaze flicking toward Ominis.

“...I’m truly sorry about your Aunt,” he said.

Sebastian's voice carried the right cadence of sympathy, but there was no real grief there. No hesitation, no sorrow laced beneath the syllables. His focus wasn’t on Ominis, not really. It was still fixed on the door, on the grotesque, gaping mouths carved into its surface, on the single word etched at their feet.

You knew that look.

The familiar set of his jaw, the way his fingers twitched slightly at his sides as he worked through the problem, calculating his next move. The stubborn, single-minded focus that made Sebastian Sebastian.

You stood between them, between Ominis, who was trembling in the torchlight, his breath growing more unsteady with every passing second, and Sebastian, who was already moving past the horror of what needed to be done and instead working through how to do it. You could see it, his mind racing and breaking it down piece by piece.

“There's only way to get out of here,” Sebastian murmured at length. "...Someone has to cast the curse."

Your stomach twisted. Ominis said nothing.

Sebastian exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders back. “Ominis—”

“No,” The other boy cut him off immediately, voice tight, frayed at the edges. He took a step back, as if putting distance between himself and the door would somehow make it all go away. “No, don’t even—don’t even start, Sebastian.”

“You have the most experience,” Sebastian pressed. “You've cast it before—"

Ominis flinched so violently that, for a moment, you thought he might be sick.

“Do you think I wanted to learn it?” His voice was raw, shaking with something you had never heard from him before, something that sent ice crawling up your spine. “Do you think I practiced it, like some dueling spell?” His breathing hitched. “It was done to me. Over and over and over again, until I couldn’t scream anymore.”

Sebastian swallowed, his throat bobbing. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he said finally, softer this time. “I just—”

“I know exactly what you meant.” Ominis took another step back, his breath sharp and shallow. “And I told you, I won’t do it. That curse is the reason I have no family left, Sebastian. Surely you haven't forgotten."

Sebastian’s jaw tightened. His grip on his wand twitched at his side. That flicker of hesitation—of understanding—vanished beneath the weight of frustration as his patience snapped.

"We don't have a choice," he hissed, stepping forward. “What do you want me to say, Ominis? That it’s unfair? That it’s horrible? Fine. It is. But if we don’t do this, we’ll die in here, just like Noctua. Do you really want that?”

Ominis’ face twisted. “Of course not—” His voice wavered, then steadied, the defiance in him refusing to bend. “But this can't be the answer. There must be another way—"

“There isn’t another way!” Sebastian snapped, voice echoing off the stone walls. “Or do you think Noctua just missed something? She searched this place for days and still died down here! How long do you think we’ll last before the torches burn out? Before we starve? Before we—” He cut himself off, shaking his head sharply. “No. I’m not dying in here. I refuse to die in here.”

Ominis’ lips pressed together in a thin line. A nerve had been struck.

The weight of that word—dying—hung heavy in the room. It was an unspoken thing, but you could feel it crackling in the space between them, between the two boys who had already lost so much, who had lost the people they loved.

Sebastian exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders back like he was shaking something off. His next words were quieter, but no less sharp.

"If you won’t do what needs to be done," he said, turning toward you, "maybe she will."

Your heart stopped as Sebastian’s gaze settled on you, dark and unreadable, the torchlight casting deep shadows beneath his eyes.

“You’re the best duelist, after all,” he continued. “You know how to control your magic. So go on. Cast it.”

Your mouth went dry.

It wasn’t just that he was asking you. It was that he believed you could, like it was as simple as lifting your wand. Like it was another spell to master.

You took a step back before you even realized it, your fingers tightening around your wand, not in preparation to cast, but in some futile attempt to steady yourself.

“No.” Your voice was firm, immediate.

Sebastian’s lips pressed together. “You’re saying you’d rather die down here?”

“I’m saying that there are some things worse than dying,” you snapped.

Sebastian’s expression darkened. He took a step forward.

“You act like it’s some great moral failing, but it’s just magic—”

“It’s not just magic,” you snapped, the words laced with something close to desperation. “It’s torture, Sebastian.”

Silence.

Sebastian let out a slow breath, eyes narrowing slightly, voice dropping to something lower. "Surely you’re not delusional enough to think there’s another way."

You bristled.

The way he said it like it was obvious, like you were stupid for resisting, made something coil, hot and bitter, in your chest.

He was still staring at you, waiting for you to see reason, waiting for you to fold under the weight of his words like you always had before. And in that moment—somewhere in the tangled mess of fear and panic and exhaustion—you saw it: The way he looked at you, not like an equal, not like a friend, but like a piece in a game he was playing.

How many times had he used that silver tongue of his to get what he wanted? How many times had he framed things in just the right way, said just the right words to nudge you toward whatever goal he had in mind?

A well-placed compliment, a carefully chosen phrase, a flicker of vulnerability—all of it calculated, all of it deliberate. He knew how to shape his words like a blade and slip them between ribs without the other person even realizing they were bleeding.

And now, as he stood before you, gaze burning, frustration curling tight in his voice as he realized that you weren’t bending this time, you saw him for what he was.

Manipulative. Cunning. Dangerous.

Because Sebastian wasn’t asking. Sebastian never asked. He persuaded. He convinced. He pushed and prodded and coaxed until you thought it was your own idea to follow him. And when that didn’t work, when you refused, he snapped.

He was snapping now.

You took another unintentional step back.

It was small—barely more than a shift of your weight—but Sebastian caught it instantly. His sharp expression flickered, something shifting behind his eyes, something assessing. And then, just as quickly as his frustration had sparked, it was gone.

His entire posture softened. His brows knitted together in something almost apologetic, and when he spoke, his voice was lower, gentler, softer in a way that had worked on you a hundred times before.

“Hey,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Your stomach twisted violently.

There it was. The shift. The recalculation. The sheer audacity of it sent something cold running through your veins.

“I know this is hard,” he continued, his voice measured. “I know it is. But you have to understand, we have to do this. You know that, don’t you?”

Your fingers curled into fists.

Sebastian took a slow step forward, careful, controlled, like you were something fragile he needed to reel back in.

“I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t think you could handle it,” he murmured.

You could feel it now. The pull of it. The way he was weaving his words around you, drawing you into the rhythm of his logic, making it sound easy, manageable, as if it wouldn’t be you casting a spell designed to make another person writhe in agony.

It would be so easy to let yourself believe him. To let yourself fall into his words and let him make the decision for you. But you weren’t stupid, and you weren’t delusional.

You clenched your jaw, feeling something hot and furious simmering beneath the fear.

“No.”

Sebastian’s expression flickered, just briefly. Then his mouth pressed into a thin line.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

You sucked in a breath, trying to push it down, to keep yourself together. “I’m being ridiculous?” you echoed, voice shaking with something you weren’t sure was fear or anger.

Sebastian let out an exasperated breath, fixing you with an impatient look. “Yes. You are. You’re acting like there’s a choice here.”

“There’s always a choice,” you snapped.

Sebastian scoffed. “Not this time.”

Something inside you cracked. You had followed him down here. You had trusted him. You had stood by him through everything, defended him, helped him, even when you shouldn’t have. And now? Now he expected you to just bend for him. He expected you to do what he wanted, because that was how it always went. Because that was what he had always been able to do—convince, persuade, push. And you realized, with a sick, shattering certainty that Sebastian had never expected you to say no. He had counted on you saying yes. You weren’t supposed to fight him on this. And that made you furious.

“Then you do it,” you bit out.

Sebastian stilled.

For a brief, flickering moment, his face remained unreadable. Then his expression twisted, frustration pulling his features taut, dark eyes flashing as his jaw tensed.

You watched him process it, watched as the words settled. You saw the flicker of hesitation. The barest sliver of doubt. But before you could grasp it—before it could unravel into something real, something human—Ominis stepped forward.

“He doesn't want to either,” He said, voice shaking with fury, his entire body vibrating with barely-contained rage. “Because then he’d have to live with it.”

Sebastian’s jaw clenched.

Ominis pressed on. “You forced us down here,” he snapped. “This was your idea, and now you’re trying to push the responsibility onto someone else so your hands stay clean.”

Sebastian inhaled sharply through his nose, lips parting, but Ominis didn’t let him speak.

“No.” His voice came out raw, his breathing heavy. “Don't pretend you’re some kind of martyr for this. You dragged us into the depths of Salazar Slytherin’s twisted legacy, knowing what might be down here, knowing the kind of magic that could be waiting. And now that the moment has come, now that it requires something real, you don’t want to be the one to do it.”

Sebastian’s fingers twitched around his wand, his whole body rigid. His face was locked in something taut, something unreadable, but there was a crack forming.

And Ominis wasn’t finished.

“You say there’s no choice?” His voice cracked. “There was a choice, Sebastian. There was a choice when you decided you had to see this place for yourself. There was a choice when you dragged us—” he gestured toward you with a trembling hand “— into this and put us in danger, and now you want one of us to cast the curse? You want me to do it?”

Sebastian exhaled sharply, looking away. “Ominis—”

“No.” He said again, and Ominis’ voice was suddenly quieter. More lethal. “The Cruciatus Curse requires intent, Sebastian. It requires desire. Do you really think either of us could mean it?”

Sebastian’s breath hitched. For the first time since this conversation started, since he started pushing, since he started convincing, he faltered.

You have to want it. Not just speak it. Not just mimic the words. You had to mean it.

Did Sebastian really think you could do that? Could he really stand there and expect you to?

Sebastian’s lips parted slightly, his brow furrowing, and you could see the warring thoughts in his head. The quiet realization, the creeping horror at the truth of it.

Neither of you could do it because neither of you would ever want to.

Ominis inhaled sharply through his nose, his hands still trembling. “If you truly believe this is the only way,” he said, voice hoarse, “if you’re so convinced there’s no other choice, then do it yourself.”

Silence.

Sebastian's throat bobbed as he swallowed. His grip on his wand flexed, knuckles going white. His breath came in slow, steady drags, like he was forcing himself to keep his composure, to keep himself together.

You waited. Waited for the moment he would finally see. For the moment his stubbornness would crack, and he would realize how far he had gone, how wrong this had become.

You waited for the Sebastian you loved.

The one who would close his eyes, take a breath, and step back. The one who would finally whisper an apology, an I’m sorry, a we shouldn’t have come here.

But that Sebastian was nowhere to be found.

The seconds stretched, suffocating. The air was thick, dense with tension, waiting, waiting—

And then Sebastian exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders back, and you saw the moment his pride won. His expression hardened, and his gaze, dark and unreadable, steeled with a determination that swallowed everything else.

Sebastian Sallow had never been good at backing down. And right now, all that mattered to him—all that had ever mattered to him since the moment you stepped into this godforsaken place—was getting into the Scriptorium.

“Fine,” he said. "I’ll do it"

The question now was to who.

You realized it the moment the words left his mouth, the moment the silence stretched and Sebastian’s gaze flicked between you and Ominis, considering. Deciding.

And Ominis... Ominis was falling apart.

He was shaking, his fingers flexing uselessly around his wand like he could barely keep hold of it. You had never seen him like this before, not once.

His face had gone pale—too pale, the color draining from his cheeks so quickly he looked like he might collapse. His breathing wasn’t right, too erratic, too shallow, and his lips had parted just slightly, like he was seconds away from losing it completely.

This wasn’t just fear. This wasn’t the kind of fear that made you wary, or made you hesitate, or made you second-guess.

This was trauma.

A deep, gut-wrenching, unshakable terror that had wrapped its claws around him and would not let go. And you knew Ominis could not handle this. Not this curse. Not again. It would destroy him. So you didn’t think, you couldn’t think. You stepped forward before Sebastian could so much as lift his wand.

“You have to cast it on me."

Ominis turned toward you so fast that he nearly stumbled. “No,” he rasped. “No, you don’t—you can’t—”

“I can,” you said, voice shaking but firm. “And I will. If this is the only way, it will be me."

Ominis let out a sharp, strangled noise. “Absolutely not—”

“Ominis, listen to me.” You reached for him, squeezing his wrist, and his skin was cold, his pulse pounding beneath your fingers. “I will not let you do this,” you whispered. “I won’t. You've been through enough."

“I can’t let you,” he shot back, voice low, desperate. His chest heaved as he shook his head. “Don’t you understand what this will do to you?”

No. You didn’t understand. Not really.

You could guess, of course. You could try to conjure the worst pain you had ever felt, try to imagine it magnified a thousand times over, twisting into something unbearable. You could picture it—what it might be like to have every nerve in your body set ablaze, your muscles locking, seizing, screaming as if your own skin was trying to peel away from your bones. You had read about it. Heard about it.

But knowing of pain and experiencing it were two very different things.

And yet, it didn’t matter how much it would hurt. It didn’t matter what it would do to you. It didn’t matter that the very idea of it sent ice curling down your spine, cold sweat prickling at the back of your neck.

If it had to be someone, it would not be Ominis. That was the one thing you knew for certain. So you lifted your chin, forced down the tremor in your breath, and turned back to Sebastian.

Your best friend.

He was your best friend. The person you always put first. So even now, even standing before him with the weight of this decision pressing down on your chest, with the cold sweat prickling at the back of your neck, with the torchlight flickering against the stone walls like a living thing, you hoped.

It was foolish. Stupid, even. But you hoped.

Hoped that the weight of your choice would be enough to break through the madness that had overtaken him. Hoped that the sight of you standing still, standing ready, would shake something loose in him, something buried beneath the reckless determination, beneath the single-minded obsession, beneath the sharp, hungry desperation in his eyes. You hoped that he would finally see you, see what he was about to do and who he was about to do it to.

Because whatever else had happened, however far he had fallen, this was still Sebastian.

Your Sebastian.

The boy who had stood at your side, who had laughed with you, fought with you, bled with you. The one who had pressed the heel of his palm against a cut on your arm after a particularly brutal duel, rolling his eyes but murmuring, honestly, you’re going to get yourself killed one of these days. The one who had snuck food out of the Great Hall for you after long nights of studying. The one who had always made sure you were safe.

He cared about you. Maybe not in the way you wanted him to, but he cared. And if there was even a fraction of the boy you knew left inside him, then surely he wouldn’t do this so heartlessly. Surely this would be the moment he stopped, when he would look at you, at you, and realize what he was about to do.

But he didn’t.

Sebastian just exhaled slowly, like he was centering himself for a duel, like this was just another fight.

His dark eyes met yours. There was no hesitation. No flicker of doubt. No last-second wavering. Because Sebastian had already made his choice.

And then, finally, he spoke.

“I shan’t forget this.”

That was all. Just four meaningless words.

No I’m sorry. No I don’t want to do this. No I shouldn’t be doing this to you.

And then his wand flicked.

"Crucio."

Pain.

It hit all at once, slamming through your body like a bolt of lightning, sharp and all-consuming. It tore through you, igniting every nerve, every muscle, everything—a searing, unbearable agony that swallowed you whole.

You barely registered the moment your legs gave out. Your knees struck the cold, unforgiving stone, but the impact was nothing, nothing, compared to the pain coursing through you. Every muscle locked, seized, burned. Your fingers twitched, spasming against the ground. Your back arched violently, your body rebelling against itself, trying to escape something it could not escape.

A scream tore from your throat.

It wasn’t intentional, wasn’t anything but instinct—your body crying out, desperate, frantic, like a wounded animal caught in a hunter’s trap. It wasn’t a sound you had ever made before. It wasn’t a sound you should have been able to make. It was raw. Guttural. And it did not stop. Because the pain did not stop.

It was endless. Infinite. Forever.

Like molten steel being poured into your veins, like your skin was being peeled away layer by layer, like your bones were breaking themselves apart over and over and over again.

The torches blurred. The walls twisted. Your vision swam with flashes of white, red, darkness, and still, still, still the agony tore through you, as if it had always been there, as if this was the only thing you had ever known, as if your body had never been whole before this.

You couldn't breathe. You couldn't move. There was only this.

And then, as suddenly as it had started, it stopped.

Your head struck the stone floor, your limbs sprawling uselessly at your sides. Your entire body was trembling, wracked with violent shudders, the phantom pain still crawling over your skin like it didn’t know it was over yet.

You sucked in a breath, then another, your entire frame shaking with the effort. But it wasn’t relief, it wasn’t anything close to relief.

The pain was still there. Something duller, deeper, an ache so profound you could feel it in your bones, like you had run for miles, like you had been held underwater until your body started shutting down.

You couldn’t move. You could barely even breathe.

A sharp sound cut through the haze. Someone shouting.

Ominis.

"Fuck, fuck are you alright?!"

Footsteps—Ominis moving fast, then a sudden, violent shove, the unmistakable sound of Sebastian stumbling back, his breath catching.

You couldn’t lift your head. Couldn’t see. Could barely even process what was happening.

You just breathed sharp, uneven breaths that sent fresh waves of pain rolling through your ribs, through your limbs, through every aching, trembling part of you.

Ominis's hand gripped your arm, fingers digging into you. His breath was rapid, panicked. "Are you alright? Say something—"

You tried. Tried to speak, tried to move, tried to do something to let him know you were still here, but all you could do was shudder.

Ominis’ breath hitched. He rounded on Sebastian.

The crack of his fist against Sebastian's jaw echoed through the chamber, a sharp, brutal sound that sent Sebastian stumbling back, colliding against the wall. For a moment, there was just a stunned silence, a breathless, frozen second in time where neither of them moved, neither of them breathed.

Ominis's breath came in sharp, ragged gasps, his entire frame shaking with fury so raw it was nearly tangible. His voice, when it came, was a low, vicious snarl, barely more than a growl between clenched teeth.

“You fucking bastard.”

Sebastian didn't move. He didn't react. He just stood there, his hand pressed against his face where Ominis had struck him, eyes locked on where you lay crumpled, trembling and barely breathing.

Ominis grabbed him by the robes and shook him violently. “What the fuck is wrong with you?! Do you even realize what you just did?! Do you even fucking care?!”

Sebastian's lips parted, but no words came out. His throat worked as if he were trying to speak, trying to form some kind of explanation, some kind of excuse, some kind of anything—but there was nothing. Nothing but the heavy silence of his own horror, his own realization sinking in too late.

Ominis shook him again, harder this time, nearly throwing him off balance. “Look at her! Look at what you did! You did this, Sebastian! You!"

Still, Sebastian said nothing. He just stood there, silent, frozen, his wide, dark eyes glued to you.

Ominis’ grip tightened, his knuckles white. “You were supposed to protect her, you fucking—”

“...Ominis?"

Your voice was barely more than a whisper, but it cut through the rage like a blade. Ominis let go of Sebastian with a shove and dropped back to your side, his hands finding your shoulders, your face, shaking with urgency.

“You’re alright,” he murmured, his voice raw. “You’re alright, you’re alright.”

You weren’t sure if he was saying it for you or for himself.

You blinked. You could barely lift your head, barely force your lips to part, but somehow you managed to rasp out, “I… I'm okay."

Ominis exhaled sharply, like the words alone had taken the weight of the world off his chest. “We’re getting out of here,” he said, firm and absolute. “I’m getting you out of here.”

Behind him, Sebastian took a step forward.

Ominis's head snapped back toward him, his entire body bristling with something vicious. “If you so much as breathe towards her, I swear on Merlin’s grave, I will kill you.”

Sebastian stiffened. His face was pale, his hands limp at his sides, his mouth slightly open like he wanted to say something but no words would come. His eyes never left you.

The look on his face was something you had never seen on him before.

Horror. Guilt. Something deeper, something broken.

Ominis carefully slid an arm under you, trying to pull you up, supporting your weight as best as he could. “Can you walk?”

You swallowed against the raw, aching burn in your throat. “No,” you croaked.

Ominis didn’t hesitate. “Then I’ll carry you.”

He lifted you with ease, cradling you against his chest. His arms were steady, his grip unyielding, but you could feel the tension in him,the realization that he could only do this—only carry you, only leave this nightmarish place, because of what you had done. Because you had taken the curse. Because the door was open, because you had provided the chance to get out of here at all.

Ominis’ breath came out uneven, his arms tightening around you as if he could hold onto the last few moments before reality caught up, before the guilt swallowed him whole.

But there was no time. No time to think, no time to break. Only time to move, to get you out, to make sure your sacrifice wasn’t for nothing.

Without another glance at Sebastian, without another word, he carried you out of the chamber.

You didn’t remember the journey back.

One moment, Ominis was carrying you, his heart hammering against your temple. The next, everything blurred, and time slipped through your fingers like grains of sand. The cold stone of the Scriptorium melted away into nothingness, the flickering torchlight dissolving into darkness.

When you woke, the world was softer.

Your body still ached, heavy and sore, but there was warmth around you—blankets cocooning your trembling frame, shielding you from the lingering chill of the curse. The scent of parchment, old stone, and something faintly herbal filled the air. The Undercrcoft.

You blinked slowly, disoriented, your vision swimming before settling on the dimly lit space. You were on the couch, the dim glow of torches casting a golden hue over the stone walls. A small table sat beside you, holding a glass of water and an empty bottle of Wiggenweld. The sight of it alone made your stomach twist, both with gratitude and the lingering sickness of pain.

Then you noticed him.

Sebastian.

He was sitting in the chair beside you, his elbows resting on his knees, fingers laced together, his dark eyes locked on you. He looked... wrecked. Hollowed out. There were bruises forming along his jaw, his bottom lip split, and you knew exactly how he had gotten them. But it was his eyes that struck you the hardest: wide, dark, and so desperately, crushingly lost.

And when he lifed his gaze and met yours, something in you recoiled.

It was instinctive, immediate, your body flinching away before your mind could catch up. The moment you realized, you forced yourself still, but you could see the way his face shifted, something stricken flashing in his expression.

You ignored the guilt curling low in your stomach and forced your voice out. “Where is Ominis?”

Sebastian winced. It was a tiny thing, just a flicker in his eyes, but you saw it. And you hated that you saw it, hated that you recognized the way it cut him that your first thought was about Ominis.

“...He went to find Garreth,” Sebastian explained, his voice low, rough. “To ask for another wiggenweld.”

You nodded, or at least, you tried to.

Sebastian didn’t look away from you. Didn’t move.

You weren’t sure what you expected from him—an apology? An excuse? You knew there had been no other way out. The curse had to be cast. You understood that. But the way Sebastian had done it, so calculated, so cold, so utterly without hesitation, was what lingered.

“Are you…” he hesitated, voice catching on something too fragile to name. “Are you in pain?”

It was such a stupid question. Of course you were. You should have snapped at him, should have spat something sharp and venomous in response, should have reminded him exactly whose fault it was that you were in this position. But you didn’t.

Instead, you closed your eyes and swallowed back the bitterness coating your tongue.

“Go away, Sebastian.”

You didn’t open your eyes to see his reaction. Didn’t let yourself look at the way his expression might break.

You didn’t want to see it. You didn’t want to feel anything for him right now. Because you knew seeing his face would undo you, make you want to comfort him, to ease the weight of his guilt, to reach for him even though he didn’t deserve it.

But Sebastian didn’t leave.

He lingered, rooted in place, and then he started talking. The words tumbled from his lips in a frantic, unsteady rush, breaking apart at the edges, spilling into the heavy silence between you.

“I—I didn’t want to—” He shook his head, fingers twitching at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. “I swear I didn’t want to hurt you. I just, I didn’t know what else to do.”

It sounded like the truth. The words were thin, shaking, breaking apart like glass under too much pressure. But you also knew this: the curse wouldn’t have worked if he hadn’t meant it.

And that knowledge sat like lead in your chest.

On some level, whether he admitted it or not, he had wanted to hurt you. Maybe only for a second. Maybe in the heat of the moment. But it had still happened. He had still tortured you.

Sebastian tried again, his voice rough. “You know me,” he pleaded, words thick with something dangerously close to panic. “You know I wouldn’t—” His voice caught, and he sucked in a breath. It was a mess of static, of raw edges and swallowed sobs.

You did know him. At least, you thought you did.

The Sebastian you had known, the Sebastian you had loved, had always protected you, stood by your side, made you laugh when the world felt unbearably heavy. You had trusted him with every piece of yourself.

But that hadn’t been the Sebastian in the Scriptorium, had it?

And now here he was, sitting before you, looking like a child watching the embers of a fire he had lit himself, too late to smother the flames, too horrified to turn away from the wreckage.

His hands lifted, just slightly, like he wanted to reach for you. But when you flinched, stiff and bracing, he stopped short. His fingers curled into a fist and he pulled away.

“I—I didn’t mean it,” he tried again, but the words sounded weak. “Not like that, not like you think. You have to believe me.” His breathing shuddered again. “I would never— I would never want to hurt you. Not you. Please, please believe me."

You wanted to. But you could still feel it: magic like jagged glass slicing through you, nerves alight with fire, the agony ripping through every inch of your body while Sebastian stood there with his wand aimed at you.

You turned your face away. “You should go,” you murmured.

“No.”

The word came sharp, immediate.

You stiffened.

Sebastian leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. His expression was desperate, like a man teetering on the edge of a precipice, terrified of the fall.

“I can’t leave things like this,” he rasped. “I won’t.”

You inhaled slowly, forcing yourself to stay steady. “And what exactly do you think is going to happen, Sebastian? Do you think if you just talk enough, if you say the right words, I’ll suddenly forget what happened? That I’ll forgive you?”

Sebastian's jaw tightened. “That’s not— I'm not trying to just say the right words, I'm telling you the truth."

And maybe he believed that, but you weren’t so sure anymore. Because the truth was a slippery thing in his hands. A tool. A weapon. Something he wielded with precision, shaping it to fit whatever would serve him best in the moment. And what did the truth matter, really, when he could bend it like that? When he could make you question your own thoughts, your own memories, your own instincts?

Back in the Scriptorium, you had seen it clearly.

The way he had looked at you like a player moving a piece across a chessboard. The way he shaped his words into something pliable, something that felt real, even when it wasn’t.

You shook your head. “I don’t think you even realize you’re doing it. At least... I hope you don't."

Sebastian blinked. “What?”

You inhaled sharply, gathering yourself. “This. The way you talk, the way you twist things. You’re always convincing someone of something, aren’t you?”

His brow furrowed, frustration flickering to life behind his eyes. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?”

Sebastian’s throat worked. “I was just trying to save Anne.”

There it was.

The excuse. The justification. The thing he would always come back to, the thing that would always make everything worth it in his eyes.

You snorted. “At any cost, right?”

His breath hitched, and you knew you had struck something deep. He looked away for a moment, jaw flexing, like he could keep himself together if he just didn’t meet your gaze. “That’s not—”

"You keep telling yourself you didn’t mean to hurt me. But the truth is, Sebastian, we both know you did.” You let the silence stretch, let the words settle in the space between you. “All so you could get into that fucking room."

He exhaled sharply, fingers tightening against his knees. “That’s not fair,” he said again, voice low, strained. “You know I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Then why did it work?”

That stopped him cold.

His lips parted, but no sound came. His breathing was shallow, unsteady, his fingers curling in and out of fists. And for a fleeting second, you saw it: the crack in his carefully constructed logic, the moment where the weight of his actions caught up to him.

But then, just as quickly, it was gone.

Sebastian shook his head, his breath hitching. “I—I was desperate. I wasn’t thinking. It wasn’t—it isn’t who I am.”

You swallowed against the sharp sting in your throat.

“I think it is.”

His whole body went still. For a long moment, neither of you spoke, and Sebastian looked at you like you had just torn him apart from the inside out.

And maybe you had.

Maybe that was what this was. Not just the end of a friendship, not just the unraveling of trust, but the quiet, gut-wrenching moment where he realized you saw him for exactly what he was.

“I can fix this,” he said, the words spilling out fast and frantic. His hands lifted, palms open, like he was reaching for something already slipping through his fingers. “Tell me how to fix this.”

“You can’t.”

“Yes, I can,” he insisted. “You know I can. I just—” He swallowed hard, his fingers curling into fists. “I just need to know what you want me to do.”

There was a plea in his voice, something fractured, something that scraped against your ribs and made your chest tighten.

You wanted to tell him it was okay. You wanted to take away the anguish twisting his features, the way his hands shook in his lap like he could barely hold himself together. You wanted to do what you had always done—ease his burden, tell him what he needed to hear, stand by his side no matter what.

But you couldn’t. Not this time.

“Some things can’t be fixed."

Sebastian flinched like you had struck him.

“No.” He shook his head violently. “No, that’s not—there has to be a way.” He let out a shuddering exhale, fingers tangling in his hair. “I love you.”

The words shattered between you like glass. Your stomach twisted, your heart lurching violently against your ribs.

Sebastian surged forward, not touching you but close, so close that you could feel the heat radiating from him, could see the storm behind his dark eyes. “You have to know that,” he said, his voice breaking on the edges. “You—god, you mean everything to me. I—I would die for you, I would—I would undo it if I could.”

“Sebastian—”

“Please,” he whispered, eyes wide, wild. “Please, I need you.”

You stared at him, at the way his eyes burned with desperation, at the way his body trembled with barely restrained panic. He meant it. You knew he did. He wasn’t lying, not about this.

But love wasn’t just a feeling. It was a choice. And Sebastian had already made his.

Anne. A cure. The Scriptorium. Even when Anne herself was begging him to stop.

And you had been the price.

Your breath shook as you exhaled. “You can’t fix this, Sebastian.”

““Please,” he tried one last time, voice so quiet it barely reached you. “Please, I—I didn’t have a choice.”

Except he did.

"You did," you replied, turning your head away. "It was you who went looking for Salazar Slytherin's Scriptorium."

Sebastian stilled, his eyes dark and unreadable.

“You always had a choice.” The words felt final as they left your lips. “And you made the wrong one.”

Banner Credit

112 notes · View notes

cosmowgyral · 1 day ago

Text

The Lying Fox is filled with a Love free of Lies

▪︎ Harrison's 3rd Birthday

This is a fan translation so please don't expect it to be 100% accurate. Creative liberties have been taken. All content belongs to Cybird. Reblogs are appreciated but do not repost. Hope you enjoy!

Chapter 3

The day of Harry’s birthday—

(Alright!)

I was alone in his room, getting ready to decorate.

It was just past 1 a.m., and he still hadn’t returned from his mission.

(He told me it’d be a long one and that I could go ahead and sleep…)

(But I want to be the first one to welcome him home and celebrate, so I have to stay up!)

Just as I approached the bed to open a bag full of garlands and paper flowers—

(…A ribbon?)

A long ribbon, almost like a tail, was peeking out from beneath the bed.

Curious, I knelt down and looked underneath… only to find several stacked boxes.

(Wait—these are the boxes from the presents I gave him…)

Unable to resist, I reached for one and opened it.

Inside were neatly folded wrappings and small paper bags—all of which I instantly recognized.

(No way… he kept all of them?)

Tucked beneath the bed were the empty packaging and wrappings from every gift I had given him over the past week.

They were just boxes, brown bags, unadorned wrapping paper—no real use now that the gifts were gone.

And yet he had kept everything, carefully... as if they were treasures.

Kate: Ah…!

The surge of affection tightened in my chest, and I dropped to my knees without thinking.

(I want to see him… right now.)

I wanted to leap into his arms right now, to feel his warmth.

But Harry was still out on duty.

Kate: …Harry, come home soon.

Lifting my head, I rested my chin on the edge of the bed, and spotted something mint-colored on the pure white sheets: his shirt.

He must’ve left in a hurry when the mission call came, tossing it aside as he rushed out.

Instinctively, my hand reached out and grabbed it.

Kate: Harry’s shirts are so big…

I unfolded it, surprised at its size.

(…What would it feel like to wear it?)

Glancing around the room, I hesitantly slipped my arms into the sleeves.

Kate: …It’s huge.

The hem reached my thighs, the sleeves dangled past my hands, and the shoulders were so wide it would slip off unless I buttoned it up.

His scent still clung faintly to the fabric, and as it wrapped around me, it felt like I was being completely enveloped in him.

It made my heart feel calm.

Kate: Hehe… it’s so big.

I wrapped my arms around myself in his oversized shirt and spun around in circles, when suddenly—

Harrison: Huh..?

Kate: Ah!

The door creaked open.

I froze as my eyes met Harry’s.

Kate: Ah, wait, this isn’t what it looks like, I mean—!

Panicking, I rushed to take the shirt off, but before I could, Harry silently stepped forward and grabbed my shoulders.

Kate: I-I’m sorry—

Harrison: Keep it on.

Kate: …Huh?

He stared straight at me, voice hurried but his eyes dead serious.

Harrison: Actually, don’t wear anything else. I’m gonna go wash my face—be changed by the time I’m back.

Kate: Huh—o-okay…?

Harrison: Good.

Releasing my shoulders, he quickly disappeared into the bathroom.

(W-What just happened…?)

I stared blankly at the door he’d vanished behind.

Then the sound of running water brought me back to my senses.

(U-Underwear is fine… right?)

It was rare for Harry to ask for something so directly.

Embarrassed but wanting to meet his expectations, I hurried to change.

(Maybe the mission really tired him out…)

Worried, I slipped into just his shirt, then grabbed the present I’d planned to give him and sat on the bed.

When he returned and saw me, he froze in place.

(Did I get it wrong…?)

A wave of anxiety washed over me—but it disappeared the moment he rushed over and hugged me tight.

Harrison: …Perfect.

He whispered the word as he buried his face in my shoulder, and I felt myself relax with relief.

Kate: Welcome back. You’re not hurt, are you?

Harrison: Nah… I’m fine. This is the best birthday ever.

As I wrapped my arms around his tired frame in return, Harry suddenly noticed the box by our feet.

Harrison: …You saw that?

He pulled away a little, picked up the box, and set it on the bed.

Kate: This one’s from the clothes, this one had the biscuits, and this…

As I lined them up one by one, he looked a bit sheepish.

Harrison: I hid them under the bed… how did you even notice?

I reached down and tugged the ribbon that had been sticking out like a tail, smiling slyly.

Kate: There was a very familiar ribbon peeking out.

Harry averted his gaze and let out a sigh, but I couldn’t hide the joy bubbling up inside me.

Kate: Happy birthday, Harry.

Harrison: …Thanks.

He wrapped his arms around my waist from behind.

Kate: And this is the last present.

Lifting my face, I handed over the final gift.

Harry untied the ribbon and opened the box, taking out a small glass jar.

Harrison: Candy?

Inside were colorful, sparkling candies that looked like little jewels.

Kate: I found these at that shop where you always buy your mint candy.

Kate: They say it changes color as you eat it!

These so-called "magic candies" shimmered like gems, and Harry gazed at them curiously.

I opened the lid and picked out a milk-tea-colored one.

Kate: The shopkeeper recommended this flavor.

Harrison: What’s the taste?

Kate: …I don’t know.

Harrison: So it’s a surprise until you eat it, huh.

When I popped the candy into his mouth, I could see the color slowly changing between his lips—

(It’s the color of his eyes...)

Watching the candy turn from milk tea to the exact shade of Harry’s eyes, I couldn’t look away.

Kate: Nn—!

Suddenly, he kissed me—slipping the candy into my mouth.

Harrison: It’s the same color as my eyes.

He smiled sweetly, then tied a ribbon gently around my neck, tilting my face upward.

Harrison: Ever since I met you, my birthdays have been full of surprises I never could’ve imagined.

Harrison: Even though I can see through lies, you still manage to surprise and delight me every time.

Harrison: I know how hard you try to make me happy.

With those kind, heartfelt words, his lips slowly drew near.

Harrison: But to me—

Kate: "Just having you by my side makes it the best birthday ever", right?

The words Harry always said every year left my lips instead, and he blinked in surprise—before bursting into a smile.

Harrison: Exactly. Just having you here makes it the best birthday.

Harrison: And I hope that never changes.

The candy between our mouths slowly melted from the warmth we shared.

[Chapter 2]

#ikemen villains #ikemen series #cybird ikemen #ikevil #ikevil jp #ikevil harrison translations #harrison gray #ikevil harrison #ikevil translations #ikemen villains translations #ikemen villains harrison #イケメンヴィラン #d: omiresources

69 notes · View notes

revelboo · 1 day ago

Note

I miss my hot bastard Prowl 😔🥀💔 hes a grumpy menace just like me fr. Hope ur doing well btw <3 don't forget to take care of urself u crank these out so fast its crazy

Prowl’s just struggling a bit right now. 🔞 Mass displaced mech 🌶️

Stand Too Close Pt 21

Prowl x Reader

• Sliding the end of a servo from the tip of your nose up between your eyes, he smoothes out the crease that appears when you frown up at him. “I don’t know what to do with you when you’re nice,” you’d whispered to him before and he can’t get those vulnerable, hurt sounding words out of his processor. Right now you’re lying with your head in his lap, eyes looking everywhere but at him to avoid meeting his optics. Making him realize how awful he is at this. You’d both made it a joke when he’d said he loved you, both so uncomfortable with anything real, that you’d played it off. And he can’t stand it.

• Glancing up at him as he frowns down at you like you’re a puzzle he needs to solve, it’s almost funny. In a wanting to also cry about it kind of way, but still. Both of you so awful at this. The real stuff. Feelings and emotions and all that stuff you try to avoid like the plague. “I like it better when we’re fighting,” you mutter, because it’s easier. You know how to react and don’t feel like you’re being cornered. Like the ground under you is going to give way any second and you have no idea how deep that void beneath you is. “I like it when you’re an asshole.”

• And you roll over on your side, staring at the wall. Door wings flicking as he sits leaning forward slightly, he combs your damp hair with his servos. Wondering how much of this is his fault and how much is just you. Little teeth bared and defensive at the world. So unlike most of the other humans in the Ark. Angry all the time. “Then I’ll be awful,” he mutters, a servo ghosting against your cheek. What made you this way? “Torment you mercilessly.”

• Hate that when he teases like that it shivers through you with heat and need. That you want to shove him down and straddle him. Fuck that fake niceness out of him until he goes back to normal. And you’re rolling, hands on his chassis. Hating that smile when he lets you push him and eases back, because you both know you’re not budging him unless he allows it. Still naked and damp from the shower, you straddle him. Move against his modesty plating and he grabs your hips, shifting you. Arching when he releases his spike under you, feeling it pressurize inside you to stretch you. “Don’t touch me,” you whisper and something flickers from his face so fast you nearly miss it. Was that anger or pain? His hands slowly lift away from you, though. Because this is what you understand. Taking care of yourself, taking what you want or need, not trusting kindness.

• Watching you ride him, it’s so hard to not touch you when he wants to. Hurts to. You’re all slick heat wrapped around his spike, lifting and dropping to take him deep, hips rolling. You’re beautiful riding him. Defiant and angry as your lips part and you move faster on him. Using his body. But not wanting anything more. And maybe he doesn’t deserve more. Maybe this is the culmination of all of his sins, to be in love with someone who wants nothing to with his love. Just after the interfacing, chasing pleasure. And it’s not nearly enough for him. Not anymore. Sitting up under you, he hooks an arm around you trapping you against him with his spike buried deep. “For what it’s worth, I do love you,” he growls and he shifts his plating. Hears your startled cry when the connection is made and you fist his spike as he overloads hard inside you. Shuddering as he feels your light tangle in his spark. And needing it, needing all of you.

#transformers x reader #prowl x reader #tf prowl #valveplug

143 notes · View notes

rosesnr0t · 1 day ago

Note

If you’re taking requests, what about Dark Cacao Cookie and Dark Choco Cookie - both platonic yanderes - with a reader who is Dark Choco Cookie’s child. Like Dark Choco decides to bite the bullet and reunite with his father, and that’s when Dark Cacao learns that he’s also now a granddad.

I’m okay with both adopted reader and biological child reader, but I have a preference towards the latter(no focus on any particular ship)

Room for Two More

Platonic Yandere Dark Cacao Cookie + Dark Choco Cookie x GN!Reader (Dark Choco’s child)

Snow cracked beneath your boots.

You held tightly onto your father's cloak as the wind whipped around you, a relentless howl echoing through the mountains. He hadn't said much the whole climb, just the occasional "Keep close," or "Don’t look down." His gloved hand had remained firm on your shoulder, but his eyes were distant. You knew this wasn’t easy for him.

You’d asked him once, long ago, why you didn’t have grandparents. He’d gone quiet. Too quiet. You were small then — you didn’t understand the bitterness that twisted in his brow or the silence that followed like a funeral procession. But now, older, with years spent wandering burnt-out ruins and frozen caverns, you understood that your father carried scars far deeper than the ones across his armor.

And yet, here you were. At the gates of the Black Citadel.

Your father finally spoke.

“…Stay behind me. No matter what.”

You nodded. Even if your legs trembled.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The doors were opened by guards, snow dusting their shoulders, and you stepped into the grand hall of obsidian stone and frozen breath.

And there he stood.

Dark Cacao Cookie.

Taller than stories made him seem. Broader. Like the very mountain had sprouted legs and stepped down to greet you. His sword rested beside his throne, but he didn’t need it. His presence alone was a weapon.

His gaze locked onto your father first. No words. Just… stillness.

Then those deep purple eyes shifted.

To you.

“…And who is this?”

Your father stiffened. His voice low.

“…My child.”

The words cracked through the silence like thunder.

You thought you saw the Old King falter. Just a flicker — like frost melting for half a second. His brows rose, his lips parted, and then he was moving. Down the steps. Toward you.

You took a nervous half-step back, bumping into your father. But he didn’t stop Dark Cacao.

“Come closer,” the king said, voice gravel and snow.

You didn’t know why, but your heart sped up. You glanced at your dad, unsure. His eyes flicked down to you and softened — just a bit. “It’s alright,” he murmured.

So you stepped forward.

Dark Cacao knelt before you. Huge hands, worn and calloused, reached out but didn’t touch. He studied you like a relic from a dream. Then, voice quiet:

“You look like him.”

Your father shifted.

“Do they have a name?”

You told him. And for the first time, the great king smiled.

Not wide. Not warm. But real. And that was terrifying in its own right.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

That night, you were given a room of your own. Fire-lit, velvet-draped, heavy with luxury and warmth. You’d never had anything like this. There was a meal waiting — real food. Soft bedsheets. Pajamas tailored to your size.

But your father lingered in the doorway, helmet off, hair brushing his shoulders.

“You’ll stay here from now on,” he said. “With me. With… him.”

You blinked. “You’re not leaving?”

His jaw clenched. “No.”

A pause.

“He wants to train you. Teach you how to use a sword.”

You glanced down at your hands. You’d always wanted to learn.

“…You okay with that?” you asked.

He didn’t answer right away. But then he knelt and pressed his forehead to yours.

“I’ll never let anyone hurt you. Not even him.”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Over the next weeks, life changed.

You were treated like royalty.

Guards bowed to you. Servants asked if you were warm enough. Dark Cacao personally oversaw your training and never missed a lesson. He was strict but… proud. Every time you landed a blow, his lips twitched into that same almost-smile. He never raised his voice to you.

But gods help anyone else who did.

And your father — he stayed close. Always just outside your door. Always watching when others spoke to you. His hands, never far from his sword. He didn’t trust the world, didn’t even trust the Citadel, but he trusted himself. And so he stayed.

And over time… so did the walls.

Your world shrank.

You weren’t allowed outside alone anymore. Too dangerous. The mountain was cold, the cliffs sharp. “You could slip,” your father warned.

Letters from penpals never reached you. “Intercepted,” Dark Cacao muttered, frowning. “There are enemies who would use you to hurt him.”

Friends were invited… and politely sent away. “This place isn’t safe for outsiders,” the king declared. “They wouldn’t understand our legacy.”

And your training got longer. Stricter. You couldn’t afford to be weak. You had to be strong. Strong like your father. Like your grandfather.

You once overheard a soldier ask Dark Cacao, “Will they ever leave the Citadel?”

He just said:

“Why would they?”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

One night, you asked your dad, “Do you regret it? Coming back here?”

He was silent a long time. Then he knelt again — like he had that first night.

He took your hands in his. His gauntlets were cold, but his grip was firm.

“I regret a lot of things,” he said. “But not you. Never you.”

“Even if I’m stuck here?”

“You’re not stuck.” His voice was sharper. “You’re protected.”

You tried to argue — but his eyes flared with something dangerous. Something you knew better than to challenge. The same look he wore when cutting down monsters in your path.

Then he softened. Just slightly.

“You’re all I have,” he whispered. “And now… I have him too. We’re a family. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

You didn’t answer.

He leaned in and kissed your forehead.

And behind you, you swore you heard the quiet thud of Dark Cacao’s boots — standing at your door, silent, listening.

Always listening.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

You never left the Black Citadel.

But they gave you everything.

Food. Warmth. A family.

You belonged to them now.

And they made sure the rest of the world would never take you away.

#yandere #crk #cookie run kingdom #yandere x reader #platonic yandere #yandere crk #yandere dark cacao cookie #yandere dark choco cookie #I saw what you forgot to mention in your first request #I made sure to add it — don’t worry!

78 notes · View notes

intrepidacious · 1 day ago

Text

time after time [9]

series summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 12.9k

chapter warnings: suicidal ideation in a time loop context; general angst; in many ways, this is a callback chapter but also a step forward; is exposition a warning? please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: i wasn't sure i was gonna post tonight until like an hour ago but hey, it's friday 13th and i'm feeling lucky 🫶🏼 we're in the home stretch now folks

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

nine: out of the past

Home smelled like dish soap and warm cookies.

From your childhood, you remembered that sweet scent wafting from the kitchen to every adjourning room until it knocked on the front door from the inside, welcoming you in its embrace. You never appreciated it as much as you should have, then; maybe children never did. But when the bad days found you, later, you recalled that smell, and it offered a bit of comfort to you, no matter how dismal your surroundings actually were.

At the Compound, smells didn’t linger. No matter how many trays were left out to cool, the air purifier kicked in way too soon and got rid of all sugary traces that tried to stick. It did break your heart a little, but you didn’t know enough about vents to try to mess with them.

The Tower was different, though; a lot of its functions hadn’t been overhauled since 2016, and because all FRIDAY systems were still getting regular service updates, it was simple enough to make minor adjustments to the rest of the set-up. Not that you were baking a lot these days. It was nice to think about it, though. To return from a grueling closing shift and let your nose guide your way home.

Today, it guided your way towards disaster, instead.

"Why are you trying to burn down my kitchen?"

"I got bored," Bucky said, reaching into the oven with his bare hand. You flung up your arms automatically before you realized it was the left one.

You quickly crossed them in front of your chest instead, squinting at the smoking tray. "What are you doing?"

"Making an offering," he muttered distractedly, slapping the crisp pastries with your only good dish towel. "What’s it look like."

You were going to kill him.

"Did your landlord take away your oven for safety reasons or why exactly aren’t these charcoals Made in Brooklyn?" You still hadn't changed the door codes, so you couldn't exactly accuse him of breaking in. It was deeply annoying. "Do you know what time it is?" you said instead.

"Twenty-two forty-five," he said, completely ignoring your first question and not really answering the second. "So you don’t want rugelach?"

"Love rugelach. Prefer them edible."

Maybe you could salvage this. It’d been a long day already, but you’d had quite a lot of coffee and a few minutes should suffice to stop most of the smoke, right?

Otherwise, it’d just linger.

You let out a sigh. "Gimme a sec."

"Could you not—"

With one swift, practiced move, you reached behind and pulled on the thread, teasing time backwards little by little. You watched Bucky return the cursed tray to the oven, his motions jerking, like an old tape that’d been rewound too many times. You found yourself moving into the hallway again, backwards, your shoes returning to your feet, your bag—

Your grip slipped, and you tumbled straight into the coatrack, pulling several hangers noisily down with you. Your ankle twisted with a cracking noise that made tears well up in your eyes.

Great. Just great. Exactly how you’d wanted your evening to go.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Grimacing, you glanced at the time on your phone. You’d barely made it back four minutes. You’d been aiming for six.

"Just take your damn rugelach out of the oven, idiot," you called out sharply.

They still smelled kind of burnt, but not as bad as before. Wincing, you threw your sneaker at the wall to gently roll your foot. It had already started swelling, but at least it didn’t seem broken.

With a relieved sigh, you wiped your cheeks and leaned against the wall to catch your breath. When you opened your eyes again, you flinched backwards, bumping your head.

Today was a dumpster fire.

"What?" you said through gritted teeth when Bucky kept staring at you with raised eyebrows. "This was your fault."

"I magically pushed you into the wall?"

"You just demonstrated your impeccable baking skills. Ow, fuck." Maybe you should just spend the night on the floor. It seemed like the best idea right now. "Why are you bored?"

You didn’t really expect him to answer, but it was the most interesting tidbit of your reset conversation, and you’d promised to share those things.

"Did I say that?" he asked, squatting in front of you. He looked tired as well. There was a long tear through his shirt that you hadn’t noticed earlier. "Why’d you keep your fall?"

"I didn’t keep it," you said disdainfully. "That was a one-time occasion. I overestimated how much energy I had left for my reset."

His frown deepened. "Does that happen a lot?"

"Sometimes," you shrugged. "It’s not like I have a floating health bar I can check every time, you know."

"Sounds impractical."

You huffed. "For once, I agree with you."

He had a pensive look on his face, and you didn’t know what to make of it. Finally, he blinked back into the present and held out his hand. "Come on, Twelve. You should go to bed."

You were too exhausted and aching to question any of it, then. The fact that in all this time since you were introduced, he’d never offered to help you before; or that this was the first time he’d given you that nickname. You didn’t want to ask when you did notice, afterwards, and you couldn’t come up with an explanation on your own until you got a little more used to his military speak, and you remembered what he’d said to Sam.

I’m keeping an eye on her.

You were the danger that was standing right in front of him, and he knew it. He made sure to keep reminding you of the fact that you weren’t to be trusted; that he was watching you.

Then, you remembered telling him about your longest jump backwards being eleven minutes, and you started resenting the nickname a little more. Because no matter which reason was the right one, deep down, you couldn’t fault him for thinking that you weren’t, could never, be good enough.

That was later, though. Right then, you just took his hand.

* * * * *

It doesn’t make any sense.

His hands are still wrapped around your wrists, a light pressure on your pulse. His touch is the only thing tethering you here, cold and warm fingers, and that look of his that you can’t even begin to describe.

I never hit the ground.

"What do you mean," you say quietly, barely a question. "I saw you fall. The loop reset."

That’s how it goes, no matter what else happens. No matter what you do.

"But it reset before I hit the ground," he interrupts your looping thoughts, and there it is again. That awful, useless hope in his eyes. "I don’t remember dying. It didn’t hurt."

You freeze, unable to look away from it. From him. "So, this past week, you always …"

Up until this moment, it hadn’t truly sunk in that Bucky becoming aware of the loops would also mean he’d recall dying; every aspect of it. The pain, the frenzy, the desperation.

Your unwillingness to witness his last moments any longer.

"Doesn’t matter now," you hear him say through a layer of fog and nausea, and how the fuck does he keep doing this? You crave getting that glimmer of optimism back, the sense that there’s another option to explore, a new angle to twist things around in your favor. "We found our loophole."

You blink several times. "What do you mean?"

"Think about it." His thumb swipes across your wrist, gently, and the band tingles. "No more pointless missions that put you and Sam in danger. No more wasting time on trying to save me when it never works out. I can reset us on my own terms."

It’s like something cracks inside you, releasing a cold rush of dread into your bloodstream. "No," you say, "no, that could’ve just been a glitch, we don’t know what’s going on. We have no control over any of this."

Bucky’s face hardens, the triumph that split his mouth into a grin only moments ago a distant memory. "You mean, you don’t."

"Didn’t you just tell me that suicidal behavior can’t be our solution?" you say, unable to hide the bitter edge in your voice.

"That’s different." He drops your hands, finally, as if he’s just noticing he’s been holding onto them this whole time. "You know it’s different."

You can recognize the self-loathing radiating off him all too easily. Useless.

"Forget it," you say, shaking your head. "I won’t let you."

"You won’t let me?" Somehow, he still sounds vaguely amused, and it’s making your blood boil. "Then what’s the alternative, we keep meandering around while I continue to get myself shot every day?"

"I don’t know! Let’s think about this for, like, five seconds."

"I’ve thought about it. And if my options both lead to the same result, anyways, I’d rather choose the one where I at least get somewhat of a say."

Your nails dig into your palms, a sharp, familiar pain. "So you want to, what, pick a time of day where you’re just calling it quits and you plummet to your death?"

"And why not?"

You let out a shrill sort of laugh. "What if it doesn’t work more than once?"

"And what if it does?"

Again, again, he looks at you and something in his gaze shatters. You hate this, and you hate yourself, but you’ve been here before. Hope is the thing that kills him.

"Right," he continues. "You’d rather we keep pretending that nothing’s wrong, like we don’t already know how this day is going to end."

"That’s not fair."

"Nothing about this is fair."

You notice it, then: the fury quietly burning behind his eyes; not with you, necessarily, though you wouldn’t blame him for that, either. No, this is a different kind of rage, one that simmers in the background and hides in the darkest corners, constantly rattling to be let out of its cage. His hands are balled into tight fists now, a single concession to this emotion. It doesn’t seem enough.

Now that you think about it, you wonder if you’ve ever actually seen Bucky Barnes angry.

Annoyed, yes. Frustrated. Pissed off. But those are surface feelings, bubbling up quickly, comparatively easy to live with; nothing like the raw anger that you’ve just caught a glimpse of.

That’s the kind of feeling that, when continually swallowed down, eats you up alive.

So you raise your chin, and you say, "Fight me."

He reflexively moves backwards. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." You get up slowly, wiping some more blood from your nose. The band around your wrist is still tingling. "Or are you scared?"

In all those months you’ve known him, Bucky’s refused to spar with either of you, even though you know for a fact that Sam’s asked several times. He’s not even bothered to come up with a flimsy excuse, just stared blankly and said, "Nope."

"He knows I’d wipe the floor with him again," Sam’s told you in a whisper loud enough to be heard across the living room. If you recall correctly, that was the same night he found white cat hairs all over his bed and had to do laundry at midnight.

Now, Bucky watches you stretch, his gaze intense, calculating. "I don’t want to fight you," he says, but there’s some leftover edge to his voice; more than that, there’s curiosity.

"Bullshit," you reply lowly, tilting your head.

He unlaces his shoes and you smirk.

"Fine." He climbs into the ring, rolling his neck. "What do I get when I win?"

You circle each other on the mat, eyes never leaving each other’s faces. Bucky’s eyebrow is still raised in amusement, a silent challenge for you to make the first move.

"In your dreams, Barnes," you say, and then you do.

He sidesteps your first kicks as easily as a gust of wind, a grin twitching in the corner of his mouth when you follow them with a punch that’s aimed at his stomach but lands on his right arm without much force. The next one doesn’t even graze him, his movements too quick for you to do any damage.

Despite that, he lets you herd him to the other side of the ring, even though you feel it’s more him leading you. Like he’s waiting to see what you’re going to do and is left continually unsurprised. No matter the swirl of confused feelings in your gut, you want to wipe the increasingly smug look off his face.

"Come on, wolf boy," you huff as your foot hits empty space once more. "You’re not gonna hurt me."

His stance changes in a split second, and you barely manage to duck away from his first swing. He’s still holding himself back, you can tell, but the way he holds himself changes from casual defense to downright predatory. You swallow heavily.

"I wouldn’t be so sure about that," he says.

In one quick move he slaps your fist to the side again before his vibranium fingers curl around your neck. He doesn’t put any pressure on it, but your spine still goes rigid as he holds you there for a moment, his gaze slowly dropping down every inch of your body in a way that feels familiar. His thumb twitches with a flutter of your pulse.

He leans in until he hovers right next to your ear and your breath hitches. "And it’s White Wolf."

With a twist, you move out of his hold and aim another kick behind you. It’s not hard enough to hurt—honestly, you’re a little too distracted to put much force into it right now—but he does let go of you with a low chuckle.

Even after that, it’s useless. Every single move you try, Bucky seems to anticipate. It’s like he’s able to tell where you’re about to try to hit him before you even know it yourself.

"Your posture’s terrible," he remarks, blocking your foot again. It sends a jolt of a memory through you.

With the right training, you can use your own weight to your advantage in a fight.

You don’t think you’ve had the right training, exactly, but you’ve certainly never been in better physical shape in your life.

"Thanks," you say, and you think, what the hell.

You feign a punch down, and when he lowers his torso to follow your movement, you turn it into a wonky handstand, yelping as your momentum sends your legs flying forward quicker than anticipated. You feel one of them collide with Bucky’s back, and he huffs in surprise as he staggers, his arms wrapping around you like he’s not sure whether to stop your fall or get you off him. Either way, you both plummet over and into the mat.

There’s a groan from underneath you. "Y’alright, doll?"

"Great," you pant, untangling your legs from his neck but not moving off him quite yet. Instead, you lean forward and press his shoulders to the ground. "One—two—three, yay, I win!"

He gives a short, disbelieving snort of a laugh, and something hot rushes through you again.

The next moment, he flips you both over, catching one of your hands and pinning it to the mat while the other is pressed down by his elbow. Your head is spinning, Bucky’s grin wicked and so close to your face you can feel his breaths fan over your mouth.

"You were saying?"

Your brain short-circuits.

He seems to recognize something is off, because the naked glee in his eyes is slowly, gradually replaced with something else, something you can’t quite name because there’s not a single coherent thought left in your head. You’re acutely aware of the dried blood under your nose. Of a freckle next to his upper lip.

Inhale. Exhale.

And then—

"Am I interrupting something?"

Another rush of heat washes down your body as Bucky takes another couple of seconds to look at you, frowning, like he’s just remembering that you were fighting before all this. Then, he rolls off to the side.

"Go shower, Twelve."

And just like that, the moment has passed.

You push up to your elbows and watch as he ducks out of the ring without so much as another glance at you, an avalanche of your thoughts returning all at once. When you turn to look at Sam, his arms are crossed and his expression seems way too stern and cap-like for this time of day.

"A word?" he says when Bucky shoulders past him, and for some reason you feel like you’re in trouble.

* * *

You stay in the shower until the mirrors fog up and your fingers turn wrinkly, trying and failing to scrub away whatever just happened. It’s like you can still feel him only inches away from your face, hovering, searching. Almost as if he’s waiting for something.

I’m guessing you’ve tried the Groundhog Day option?

Fucking hell, you need to get a hold of yourself right now.

This … training session was a mistake, a miscalculation on your part. Maybe you’ve started losing your mind a little bit after the first couple dozen loops. Lesson learned: find another way to get Bucky to let out his well-earned ire.

One that doesn’t involve him on top of you.

Think you could handle my charm, Y/L/N?

You let the water hit that tense knot at the back of your neck and let out a long sigh. This iteration of today has barely even started and you’re ready to delete it from existence.

Of course, you realize, then, that won’t be quite so easy this time around.

There’s a certain numbness that, according to the heaps of time loop media you’ve consumed early on during all this, seems inevitable when you’re always, always the only person in the world to continually remember the things that happen. Maybe it’s even worse for you, since there once was a time where reversing uncomfortable situations was something you did on the regular. Looking back, those little corrections seem like a preamble for what you’re going through now. Today is a video tape that keeps skipping on the rewind, reliable only in its endless monotony.

It makes you stop considering the long-term consequences of your actions, since there never are any; everything is bound to repeat, with no regard to what you may have done or said that one time during loop number eighty-whatever. Who would remember, except you?

Or so you’ve thought.

The green band around your wrist catches the light and you stare at it for a long time. It shimmers in the steam of the shower, an almost beautiful sort of gleam to it, like it’s gleeful in reminding you of your latest disastrous mistake.

I’m getting Bucky out of this.

As usual, you didn’t do your job as well as you should’ve, and now you’re having to face the consequences of that.

Real stubborn fucking consequences with distractingly blue eyes, that are apparently intent on driving you batshit—

"What was that?"

"Nothing," you mumble, crossing your arms in front of your chest, tapping your fingers one by one. Bucky rolls his eyes for the twenty-eighth time in as many minutes.

Which you know for a fact, since you’ve not let him out of your sight once. Not as he’s rummaged through the fridge with his usual scowl, not as he’s channel-hopped through a couple of lackluster morning shows, not as he’s spent a couple of minutes playing with Alpine before she hopped off his lap to go do whatever cats do. You don’t particularly care today.

If he's so keen on dying, fine, that's his prerogative; but not yet. Not on your watch.

You just need to come up with another solution before he can do anything stupid.

"Are you gonna spend your whole day like this?" he asks, irritated. Good. He doesn’t have a monopoly on staring.

"Depends," you reply. "Got any plans this morning?"

Twenty-nine. That has to be some sort of record.

"Not if I'm gonna be trailed by an overeager barn owl."

"How dare you. And that's Miss Barn Owl to you." You're aiming for lucky number thirty, but no luck. Instead, he lets out a huff.

"I'm not gonna change my mind just because you're annoying, you know."

"When have you ever," you mumble. If only your useless mind could draw anything but a blank.

Endless loop. Saving each other. Threaten Loki. Blow yourselves up. Upon the wielder’s death, the timeline will—

"Twelve …"

You shake your head, your nails biting into your skin, and Bucky cuts himself off, a muscle in his jaw feathering.

Your gaze wanders. He's all sharp angles this morning in his gloves and the leather jacket, like he’s dressed in black armor concealing all the parts that should be gone, bruised, bloodied, broken. A mundane shield anyone else wouldn't even take conscious notice of, because this is just what he does.

Not lately, though. Not at home, not on Friday.

So how many weapons is he hiding right now?

"Okay, we are getting into Annabelle territory."

Out of the corner of your eye, it looks like Sam’s lost some of the ramrod Captain America energy he was radiating earlier. Bucky’s not told you what kind of words were exchanged, so you’re left to chalk it up to another TAG.

That doesn’t calm you even a little bit.

"How's your nose?" Sam asks, leaning against the back of Bucky’s couch.

"Mostly in shape, I think." You dab at your nostrils and it still hurts a little, but there’s no more blood. "How’s your speech?"

"Mostly in shape, I think," he echoes with a lopsided grin that unexpectedly stings.

Again, you can’t help but yearn for a timeline more permanent than this one. Every day Sam writes that speech, and every day he frets about the details for hours and you can’t tell him that he’s always going to end up smashing it. That’s not how this is supposed to go.

"Have I told you lately that I really appreciate you?" you tell him instead.

His eyebrows raise in mild amusement. "Did you take the good painkillers?"

"I’m serious," you protest, even though you may have. "You’re a good friend and a good cap, and you should be told more often."

Sam blinks, glancing at Bucky as if he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"Don’t look at me, bud," he replies. "She’s right."

There’s a couple of moments before Sam shakes his head. "Y’all are Looney Tunes today and I think it’s some sorta ploy, so I’m gonna finish this speech and you’re gonna leave."

"Are you kicking us out?" you ask.

"Yup."

"It’s our apartment," Bucky says.

"I don’t care. Shoo. Come back when you’re normal."

Bucky doesn’t move an inch, even as he has to hide a grin when Sam keeps shoving his shoulder, mumbling to himself about needing room to think, and you have an idea. A bad one, perhaps, but it might just work for your purposes.

"I know what we’re gonna do," you tell Bucky and get up from your couch and grabbing your bag.

"That so?"

You hum, pressing the button for the elevator. "But first, we’ll have to steal a car."

* * *

It’s odd to be back.

Everything about it feels wrong.

You used to know this place like the back of your hand and now it’s like you’re looking at it through fun mirrors, making the image all twisted. The Compound is both bigger and smaller than you remember, and the reality of it makes your heart twinge.

Rubble lines the driveway. You’re both silent as the borrowed car shakily bumps around the curve leading up to where the main building used to be. Your fingers drum a nervous rhythm against the dashboard as you look outside. The branches that used to hang low and cast a soft shade over your head now litter the ground.

New ones are already sprouting, though.

Time hasn’t stopped, not even for this battlefield, and that fact makes you feel better and worse at the same time.

Through the open window, the air smells like hot grass and cement. No one’s working today, of course, but the repair work’s been going slow, anyway. There are no new Avengers to house, and Pepper Potts has had more pressing things to do. You wonder if Morgan’s old enough to be in kindergarten yet.

The car slows until Bucky turns the engine off, parked next to a particularly large piece of debris. You take a deep breath before you trust your legs not to buckle underneath you when you climb outside.

The one and only other time you were here after it all happened, you were still amped up on morphine and grief and you barely felt anything at all at the sight of your home of almost five years lying in ruins. Now, you have to grind your teeth, hugging your arms around yourself in a sorry attempt at comfort.

You used to spend hours reading underneath that tree that’s been cleaved in half. If you squint, you could still point your gaze to where your windows would have been.

Yours.

"This feels strange."

You turn to look at Bucky and find him staring at a spot near the tree line, looking out at the lake.

"Yeah," you say, clearing your throat. "Me too."

The look that passes his face is one you haven’t seen in a while, oddly similar to the one you recall him giving you on your bathroom floor. It’s gone within seconds, but it leaves its trace.

The big hall that had housed the time machine is still mostly rubble, and you’re glad for it. You don’t know how Bruce ever managed to get the pieces out and make them work again; you don’t like thinking about it and you would bet Bucky doesn’t either.

You inhale your grief once more and let it out in one long, shaky exhale. Then, you roll your aching shoulders. "Alright," you tell yourself, lifting your chin up to blink against the bright July sun.

It should be autumn by now.

Every step towards the Campus ruins makes something coil inside your chest, something painful and hot and angry. Good, you think. That’s why you’ve come, after all.

"Remember that game Sam used to play?" you ask and your voice comes out both sharper and softer than you expect. "If you could go any place, any time?"

Bucky doesn’t answer immediately, and for one shocking moment you wonder whether you’d jumped away all of Sam’s terrible attempts of camaraderie.

"My ma used to say that home’s not really a place."

It’s a peace offering, you think, or maybe just his way of showing that he understands what you’re trying to say. Of course he does.

You bite the inside of your cheek harder. "Smart woman."

The site in the center of the former entry hall seems as good as any. No reinstalled roof that could cave your heads in, no loose cables lying around to fry certain jinxed super-soldiers to death.

"She was." Bucky stops a couple of steps behind you as you scan your surroundings for what you’re going to need. Luckily, whoever’s responsible for this part of the site isn’t as cleanly as the ULTIMATUM lab guys; everything’s been left right where someone was using it on Thursday. "So, what are we doing here, exactly?"

You blow the cement dust off a pair of slightly singed safety glasses and hand them to him. "Fuck shit up."

He stares at you. "Sorry?"

"Nope." You continue rummaging through the work tools that are lying about. "No more apologizing. That’s the point. We’re stuck in a damn time loop and absolutely nothing we do matters, so we’re going to fuck some shit up."

"Is this you telling me you’ve finally lost your marbles?"

You pull out a crowbar. "I’m telling you I’m furious and I need to break something, and I think you do, too."

He crosses his arms in front of his chest. "Yeah, I don’t think so."

"Come on, Barnes. You must’ve had the urge to just destroy something before." You swing your lever around for emphasis. "What’s the worst that could happen?"

You wince right after you say it, recalling the last time someone’s said that to the both of you. Bucky’s face stays blank, unreadable.

"Someone gets hurt," he says quietly, making it sound like a prediction. Haunted.

"No one’s gonna get hurt," you say, putting on a second pair of glasses. "Look around! No one here except us. And you know what—helmet." You adjust your hair and plop it onto your head. "See?"

"You look ridiculous," he says dryly.

"Thank you." Perhaps your appeal would be more effective if you weren’t already struggling to close the damn latch of your helmet. Unfortunately, your safety glasses are making everything fit a little funky, and you can’t seem to find the right—

"Geez, let me—just hold still for a sec."

You swallow and tilt your head up, trying not to look at his face when Bucky takes a step closer. His fingers brush the tips of your ears as he readjusts the damn goggles, trailing down to your chin. You suppress the urge to shiver when you realize he’s finally taken his gloves off again.

His touch is rough and light and way too close to your pulse point.

The helmet clicks into place and you shake yourself out of your stupor. You hold up your crowbar like a challenge.

"How about we make a game out of it?"

He deliberates, his mouth set in a thin line, slightly blurred by the polycarbonate. "What do you have in mind?"

"Pry of truth," you say. "You name the thing that gets your hackles up, you get to smash something. And you’re not allowed to say me."

"I don’t like that rule."

"That’s a shame. I’ll go first, then."

You narrow your eyes at an old glass bottle sitting on a bench next to the site. "I’ll never be able to listen to any song by the fucking All-American Rejects ever again."

The bottle smashes beautifully and a rush of adrenaline charges through your veins.

"Your turn, Buck."

You look over your shoulder and freeze for a moment, because he’s shrugged off his jacket, putting it on a work table nearby. Smart, you belatedly think, giving himself a bigger range of movement and you the opportunity to ignore his bare arms.

Get a damn grip.

You hold out the crowbar. "Time to get angry."

"You won’t like me angry." He takes it anyway, and you huff.

"Whether I like you or not has never stopped you before."

His jaw twitches. He mutters something to himself before the pry lightly hits the bench and the whole thing flies away. A startled laugh escapes you.

"Out loud, next time."

"My bad," Bucky says, throwing you the crowbar.

"You’re a cheat," you shake your head, pulling back for another swing. "I’m fucking sick of this weather."

More glass shatters when a bunch of tools and containers go flying off the work table with a couple of strikes.

"I already knew that."

"My bad."

There’s a moment where Bucky flashes a quick grin at you, but you recognize something ignite in him. He slams his vibranium fist into some of the brick stones piled up nearby and they fly into little pieces.

He flexes his fingers slowly, a lost look on his face. "Sometimes I can almost forget that this isn’t …"

You swallow, gripping your crowbar more tightly. "I want nothing more than to stop this loop for good, but it also terrifies me."

Crash. Tools and parts and leftover items smash on the rubble ground as you strike them over and over again, splinters flying off in all directions. You ignore the pain when they hit you, and the sounds of more things breaking behind your back, focused only on the next thing in front of you. Each small destruction that’s under your control.

When you’re done, your breaths come out fast and shallow, your anger at yourself, at your situation, escaping you in desperate pants. Because this is your worst secret yet, isn’t it? More terrible than any growing feelings and long-forgotten truths, this nagging fear of what’s next.

As terrible as the loop has been, it’s at least predictable. Who’s to say that what’s after isn’t worse than this one day? What of every other way the future could break your heart, kill those you care about, burn this world to the ground? If nothing else, Friday is the devil you know.

But you can’t stay; and you wouldn’t want to, anyway. That’s the contradiction you’re stuck in.

Your fingers are wrapped around the pry so tightly it hurts, and you force yourself to take a deep, shuddering breath. Then, you turn around, and your eyes widen.

Bucky’s moved farther away from you, as if to make sure not to put you in his path of destruction. In it, no stone’s been left unturned. Work tables are flipped, machines dented and cracked; the newly put-up drywall a couple of yards ahead has several cracks and holes running through it.

He’s a swirling storm of piled up fury and anguish, and you’re the sole witness to his wreckage. It’s quiet, in a way, with a finality to the brunt of each throw, each hit. Like he’s been waiting for this implicit permission to let go a very long time.

Slowly, the dust settles, leaving him alone at the center of it all, the only thing still standing among broken pieces.

"I keep—" he starts, his head still lowered, shaking. "I keep telling myself that I’m no longer the Winter Soldier, but I don’t think it’s true."

You don’t respond immediately; you’re not sure he’d want you to. Taking off your protective gear is a lot easier than putting it on, and you blink against the sun behind him. It leaves his face in shadows.

"What do you mean?"

"Look at me," he spits, every syllable ringing with despair.

"I am," you say quietly, and you are, you are, you are.

And right then, you feel yourself slip, because the truth is that seeing him like this doesn’t make you like him any less than you do seeing him with relaxed shoulders and sun spots across his chest. It’s just a moment or two before you catch yourself, but you’re sure that if he’d looked at you right then, he’d know.

He hesitates, his jaw tight. "I still hear his voice. I keep thinking like him, wanting to act like he would. What if I do? What if one day, I can’t control it?"

You clear your throat. "Can I say something?"

He nods.

"Of course you still have parts of him in you. It’s your past. You can’t get rid of that. That’s, unfortunately, not how it works." You take a couple of steps closer, your shoes dragging on the rubble. "But it doesn’t make you a bad person, either. It wasn’t your fault."

"I’m supposed to stay in control."

"Aren’t you?" you ask. "I mean, you hear the voice, but do you ever act on it?"

He meets your eyes, then, vehemently. "I would never do that."

You nod, not surprised in the slightest. "What does your therapist think?"

He scoffs. "Not much. He called it intrusive thoughts."

"Hm. That’s really concerning," you say, tilting your head. "You’re being a normal human."

Bucky frowns when you come to a stop in front of him, his eyes swimming with confusion.

"Everyone has those thoughts sometimes," you continue, holding up the crowbar again. "Like, I could hit myself with this. Or you. That doesn’t mean I’m gonna do it. Your thoughts just happen to have a particular flavor to them."

He grinds his teeth. "What if I like being him? When I have these thoughts, my mind is clear. Quiet. Focused. That’s why—"

"What?"

He shakes his head, looking behind you at the rubble surrounding you both. His shoulders deflate at the wasteland before him, and you desperately want to reach for him.

"You’re one of the good ones, Buck," you say, not moving an inch. "Despite your past. Because of your past. It doesn’t make you any less …" Loveable. "You know that, right?"

A beat passes.

"Keep remindin’ me and I might." He clears his throat. "Your turn, Twelve."

It still stings, unexpectedly so. You half-heartedly throw the pry at a couple of bricks, missing by a mile and not caring one bit. You’re out of anger for now.

"I really hate it when you call me that," you admit.

"Why?" he asks, the surprise in his voice genuine.

"Because it makes me … you know how I feel about my powers. It’s like you’re reminding me how I’m not good enough, every time you say that."

Bucky’s gaze on you burns in your neck. "That’s what you think?"

"What else am I supposed to think?" you ask, rolling your eyes. "You said you wanted to keep an eye on me, back when—”

"I think you’re better than you’re telling yourself."

You twist your rings around your fingers, one by one. The space on your pinky is still empty. "No, I’m not."

"Yes. You are." His boots crunch as he takes a step closer. "You told me eleven minutes on your best days? That’s bullshit."

"It’s not," you huff.

"Remember Marylebone? How much did you jump then?"

London seems like years ago, with July getting stuck. It was another extraction mission, and it went well enough—if you ignored Redwing getting shot to bits, that is. Which you usually did.

"Maybe three minutes," you mumble. Not exactly a span of time to write home about.

"But how many times did you do that?" Bucky insists. "How many times did you hold time still during that?"

Your skin prickles. "That’s different—”

"Not really. Not according to your rings, it’s not. They’re just different aspects of your powers. Also, you made a fucking time loop out of nothing."

"One that I have no control over, remember?"

"Not yet."

You shake your head, pulling your arms around yourself. "How did this turn into you giving me a pep talk?"

"You’re …" He sighs and drags a hand through his hair. Little pieces of dust get stuck in it, and you find yourself wanting to brush them out.

"Likewise." How could he be so positive about all the things you disliked about yourself most while not doing the same for himself?

Bucky picks up another brick from the pile next to you, weighing it in his hand, and something about the movement catches your eye, the sunlight just so that …

"Wait!" you say.

He freezes.

You drop to your knees and start digging through the rubble, pushing the bricks aside and ignoring the cuts you get on your hands until—

"Holy shit," you whisper.

"What’s that?"

It’s stuck underneath a pile of debris, the accumulation of nearly two years of being stuck and forgotten, but somehow, it’s still here. Covered in dirt and a little tattered at the edges when you finally manage to pull it out, but still.

"That’s my invisibility cape."

"You have an invisibility cape?"

"Had," you correct, inspecting it more closely. "I didn’t know it survived."

"For the love of—d’you think you might’ve mentioned this before?"

"I didn’t think it was important."

"Twe—" He pinches his nose with two fingers and lets out a long, slow breath. "Does it still work?"

"I don’t know."

"Well, go on then."

You flap it a few times to get the worst of the dust off, then pull it over your head and watch your body disappear. It’s as much of a journey to the past as you’ve managed throughout this loop, and an incredulous giggle escapes you.

Bucky has a peculiar look on his face as he looks just to the right of where you are.

"You trust me, right?" he says pensively.

It occurs to you that he’s never asked you that before, and so you nod even though he can’t see. "I trust you."

"I have an idea."

* * *

"For the record, I hate your ideas."

"Noted," Bucky replies out of the corner of his mouth, tucking his cap deeper into his face.

You nervously tap your foot, peering at the building on the other side of the street. Bleecker Street isn’t all that busy at this time of day, and even though you're fully hidden by your cape, you can’t help but wish for more of a crowd to hide in. You reach for the amulet around your neck.

"What if something goes wrong?" you murmur.

"It won’t," he says calmly. "You said Sam’s already tried and no one’s there today. Plus, we have more or less infinite tries for this, remember?"

You do, unfortunately. Even though you’d really prefer a better, more elaborate plan to break into the New York Sanctum in much the same way as you did the public library, you don’t think they have a Supreme burglar alarm or anything of the sort. Picking the front door lock, it is.

Annoyingly, Bucky even knows you well enough to understand you don’t want to be seen within a hundred yards of any time wizard territory; hence, the game-changing cape.

You wish you’d kept the damn thing in the dirt.

"You don’t know what they’re capable of," you say quietly.

"True, I don’t. But you do." He waits for a couple of people to pass by before risking a glance in your general direction. "Come on. I would never let anything happen to you in there."

You hate these sunglasses. They make it impossible to tell how he means that.

Before you can voice another reason why you should better head back and go get ice cream somewhere, Bucky’s already moving across the street. Cursing under your breath, you rush to follow him, bumping against his arm to make your presence known.

The tiniest grin flickers in the corner of his mouth, and for a moment you enjoy getting to stare at it without him noticing. Then, you take another step and the air around you changes.

If there was any kind of active warning system, you can pinpoint the exact moment it would have alerted. It’s like you’re entering an invisible bubble that surrounds the building, the air growing just a fraction colder. It’s not the temperature that makes you shiver, though.

Magic hums within the very walls of the house. This energy is different to what you remember, but still similar enough you have to bite your cheek hard to keep concentrating on the task at hand.

You swallow down the bile in your mouth and turn your back on the heavy oak door to make sure no one notices that Bucky isn’t, in fact, struggling with a key but instead breaking and entering in broad daylight.

I knew you’d be back, a voice just behind your shoulder seems to whisper, and you flinch. All those years, and still …

Finally, you hear a quiet click and the door creaks open.

"You with me?" Bucky mutters.

Your nails dig into the palms of your hands. "Let’s do this."

177A Bleecker Street is quite a lot bigger on the inside. In many ways, it looks just as you expected, solemn and intricate, all wooden paneling and marble floors that block the sounds from the street outside. Heavy couches sit along the far walls, framed by doorways. A gigantic staircase leads to the upper floors, spreading out into a gallery.

However, something about it feels … unexpected. The energy you’ve already noticed outside is sparkling like electricity, like a fuse ready to be lit, like fireworks waiting to explode, unprecedented and ever changing. Alive.

For some reason, it’s not all that scary.

Pure magic fills your lungs with every breath, and yet it’s just a house. Dust particles are dancing in the blurry light. Your shoes squeak a little on the stone floors.

Bucky takes off his sunglasses, blinking to readjust to the dim light in here. He takes stock of his surroundings much more quickly than you do, zeroing in on the upper levels.

You hold your hood with one hand as you crane your neck. From your position hovering just behind him in the entrance, you can make out the shapes of a few large shelves.

Bingo.

You’ve agreed that despite Strange’s flakiness, he’s already shown you the books most relevant to your situation that the Sanctum library has to offer. Therefore, if not a reading room, you’re looking for any other magical items that might give you a helping hand, maybe some sort of power boost.

To be honest, you’re hoping for a portal to simply step through and finally leave this day behind for good, but you’d settle for a clue.

Bucky’s fingers twitch ever so slightly by his side. Without thinking, you reach out and wrap your pinkie around his. He doesn’t look at you, but he gently squeezes your finger before pulling away, putting his hands back into his jacket pockets.

He left his gloves in the stolen car.

The stairs creak when you sneak up behind him, but the house remains silent. There’s only the omnipresent hum of electric magic, which gets even stronger when you get closer to the shelves you’ve spotted. It’s calling out to you, but not in the way it did outside; this is a softer whisper, more alluring, more curious. Could it be? it says. I’ve waited so long.

You find yourself trailing off, moving a few paces towards the far wall, your heart pounding a wild rhythm. The shelves are made of glass-paneled dark wood, arranged in a spiral pattern. Their contents look rather unassuming in the pale sunlight falling in from the large circular window, museum-like if not for the absence of proper labeling: a couple of old daggers and wands, dull gemstones, shards of pottery, all carefully bedded on crimson velvet and then left for dust.

None of it screams Gateway Out of Here.

Maybe, you think, you could try to hold a few of these gems in your hand and see what happens, do a couple of gestures to coax your powers back. If only there was one of those rings that—

Behind you, shots are fired, and then something heavy crashes to the floor with a resounding shatter. The thrall breaks.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, to think you’d be safe just because you couldn’t be seen. To think that Bucky would be fine waltzing into a place like this without any real protection, just because you’ve been led to assume it’d be abandoned. You’ve stepped right into the trap, and it’s snapped shut immediately.

You spin around, your hands flying up automatically as if there’s a damn thing you can do.

Time doesn’t freeze, but you wish it would.

Bucky’s tangled in a web of rust-colored twines that curl around his arms, his torso, his neck, cutting off his air flow. His gaze is wild, flitting around the room, searching for you even in your invisibility, a silent command in his eyes: Run.

His gun’s dropped to the floor at his feet, right underneath the tendrils winding their way up his struggling legs. You fall towards it, reaching out right as you’re yanked backwards and the eldritch magic catches hold of you, too. Their otherworldly glow makes shadows dance across the dark shelves, ghostly and distorted.

"I suggest you show your face now," a voice says right behind you.

You can tell the hood is ripped off your head because Bucky throws himself against his bindings again. They tighten even more around him, and he chokes, his eyes still glued to you.

He does it again.

"Please don’t," you cry, "not like this, please stop it!" You’re not even sure who you’re pleading to, your fingers twitching, but there’s nothing you can reach out to, the magic in this place forsaking you again.

"You," the voice behind you says sharply.

Any moment, you should wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

You’re slung backwards and you scream because you can’t see Bucky anymore, can’t do anything except hang there, helpless, eye to eye with the Sorcerer Supreme.

"Zealot," he says, venom in every syllable. "I thought you’d died."

"I’m not," you gasp, the very word stinging. "Please, you need to let go of him."

"I don’t think so. I ought to banish you to the Dark Dimension like the rest of you."

The magic around you starts spinning, surrounding you in a dizzying blur of orange and gold. Your blood rushes in your ears as you feel something pull at your very consciousness, harsh and terrifying, and you’re not waking up, you have to wake up, you—

"We’re facing an Incursion!" you shout, hoping anyone can hear you over the mad cacophony of energy. "Please, there’s no time, call Stephen Strange!"

And then, with a final sputter of color, everything goes black.

* * *

The last time you woke with the smell of Sanctum magic in your lungs was the day Thanos snapped.

Wait. Rewind for context.

Your mother used to call it a gift, but for most of your life, your powers had felt more like a curse.

Sure, they had their uses, sometimes, but at what cost? Most of the time, you couldn’t control them, so when you got older, you tried to hide them instead, as best as you could, to pretend they weren’t there at all. You just wanted to be normal.

But your powers didn’t like that.

Ignorance was a vicious circle: The more you tried to suppress the magic coursing through your blood, the more unpredictable it became, flinging you through the timeline without any regard to your sanity. It was a struggle to control even a fraction of what was happening to you.

You knew you needed help.

The London Sanctum was the only one you were aware of, then, the one safe haven for people who were struggling with things beyond their control. Your mother had told you about it many times.

One can never be too wary of their promises, though, honey, she’d close the story every time. They like to forget them when it’s more convenient.

You never asked how she knew so much about the Sanctum and its inhabitants. Mothers just know things when you’re a child.

Maybe you should’ve listened to her warning more closely, but you were young and overwhelmed and out of options, and so you left familiar faces behind and traded them for a silver lining. For the hope of finally controlling this power that was set on destroying your life.

Time itself.

That first day, you were sitting in the Sanctum's courtyard, looking at the other recruits with wide eyes, to the glimmering portals that, they told you, could bring you to the other side of the world in a single step. For the first time in your life, you were surrounded by magic; it wasn't just your secret burden to bear, it was all around you.

Like an offering, they brought the stone to you that day, suspicion clear in their eyes, and you trembled in your bones knowing that everything would finally be fixed, now. Surely, everything would be fixed. You could feel the energies pulsating from that unassuming little gem, mixing with your own powers, sending apprehensive shivers down your spine.

Yes, you thought, stepping closer to it with your hand outstretched. You can fix this.

It was the one and only time you could recall not remembering anything at all.

You'd lost a few seconds at most, but when you blinked back into consciousness, your head was pounding and the time stone had been snatched away from you once again, safe in its golden cage. You'd never see it again.

How peculiar, you caught a whisper, then another, like voices born out of every nightmare you'd ever had, and you tried jumping back to find out what you'd missed, but your powers didn't obey you.

You let yourself get soothed by the empty promises you'd been warned of, but magic would never seem that light or gentle to you again as it did during that first afternoon.

For a while, things got better anyway.

You studied with the Masters of the Mystic Arts while they studied you. They provided you with all sorts of amulets and cuffs that kept the random jumps under control, but they either couldn’t figure out how your powers came to possess you, of all people, or they just didn’t want to tell you.

Time is sacred, they used to teach, and your very existence went against that premise. You were unpredictable, a variable that could never fit into their precious calculations and theories of the grand, sacred timeline, no matter how hard they tried. You found yourself using your powers even less than before, just to stop them from talking over you.

Impossible girl, the Ancient One used to call you, and you hated it.

Of course, she wasn’t making a reference. She just thought you impossible, along with everyone else.

You went along with it for a couple of months or so before you got tired of trying to do something, anything, and you wanted to go home. That was when things shifted.

You’re not a prisoner, they kept telling you, and it was true, in a way. The doors were always open, and your cuffs weren’t shackles. There were just certain rules to learning, particularly in these important early stages of the process. Rules to who goes where, and what to do, and what to wear at every hour of every day, and also the food all tasted the same, like sad mash of whatever vegetables they were able to find that week, but no. You weren’t a prisoner.

That was just life, here, and everyone else seemed fine with it, so what was your problem, exactly?

You were tired and terrified, and everyone told you that there was something about you that just didn’t make sense, which you could’ve told them from the start if only someone listened to you. Everything seemed pointless.

It was no wonder, then, that when Kaecilius and his band of lunatics offered to take you under their wing, to give you a cause and a reason to use your powers, you thought your luck might finally turn.

You’re such a special girl, they’d tell you. Such a special, clever girl. This is a great thing, you know. It’s your talent to make things right, make them the way they should be. You, my dear, are invaluable.

If it sounded too good to be true, that’s because it was.

Kaecililus’ definition of help, it turned out, meant subjugation; or at least the attempt of it. Do as I tell you. For once, your strangling limits turned out to be a blessing in disguise.

What a disappointment you are.

There were no grand speeches. No fanfare, no declaring you a nuisance; you felt the sentiment, anyway. The special, clever girl was a useless waste of time, after all, and was left behind as such. Never good enough. Not deserving of everlasting life.

Not that you wanted any part of that.

You faded back into oblivion again, unable to leave and unable to stay, stuck somewhere in between in the background where you were met with endless whispers and suspicion, doing your part and eating your mush without complaint. What else were you to do? People didn’t leave this place, after all, not before they understood what they came here to find.

Unless they suddenly started applying to your situation, you were fantastically uninterested in any more lectures.

It took a very long time for you to figure out that you could limit the random time jumps by using your powers as much as you could, small skips and halts to the point of exhaustion. If there was nothing left to use, you reasoned, your body couldn’t act without permission. Slowly, you were able to return their trinkets one by one until the only piece you had left was the one you’d brought from home; silver and black tourmaline. Putting it on again was a small relief.

You were still in London when the world was decimated.

The air was heavy and burnt with dust. It was all that was left of so many. The cries of those left behind dried up quickly, leaving a deafening silence in their wake. That was the part you most remembered in years to come: the smell, and the silence.

You were ready to disappear, too, and when whatever fate there was decided to spare you, you took matters into your own hands. The confusion and panic had raised your adrenaline, and the world stopped easily at your command.

It didn’t take you long to grab the few belongings you had left, to shove them into the wooden box every room was outfitted with, and to turn your back on your prison. You found the portal that would take you closest to home, and you stepped through.

You’d never been lucky for long, though. When you arrived, the front door was locked from the inside, and the television was still running, day and night, with no one left to turn it off. You shouted and knocked and rang the doorbell anyway, until your knuckles hurt and your voice got hoarse, and then you noticed that the name above the door was wrong. Time had once again passed unexpectedly, and this place you'd once called home did not belong to you anymore.

You were a nobody now, just like you’d wanted.

Right?

Right.

…

Anyway.

The first time you met Natasha Romanoff in person, a few weeks after the Snap, she only had to look at you for a couple of seconds to be able to read you like a book.

* * *

When you’re finally done, your voice is hoarse and your palms are bloody. You can tell both Wong and Strange are staring at you, but the only person you look at is Bucky.

He’s leaning against the invisible wall of his cell in the Sanctum’s undercroft, meeting your gaze in grim, unreadable silence. He hasn’t looked away from you once during your whole monologue.

You feel drained, turned completely inside out, presenting your most vulnerable parts for everyone to see; and yet, you keep looking at the one person in this room who’s going to remember any of it, calmly and unwaveringly. It makes your head swim, but you can’t keep looking away.

That me then, you think, your hands tapping a quiet rhythm on the cool stone floor. Disappointed?

A pity, you suppose, that you never did get an answer to that particular question.

To your surprise, Strange is the first to break the silence. "Well, then. You think that’s enough to let them out of there?"

Wong mutters a response you don’t understand, but something flickers in front of you for just a moment, and one blink later, Bucky’s in front of you. He wordlessly holds out his hand.

You don’t hesitate before you take it.

Time slows in a way that’s entirely imaginary as he pulls you back to your feet. Every inch of your skin that’s touching him turns hot and cold at the same time.

If it had been his right hand, you wouldn’t have dared to gently squeeze it before finally letting go.

Bucky looks like he wants to say something, but before he gets a chance to even open his mouth, Strange clears his throat. Not for the first time, you want to set his cloak on fire.

"It’s a good thing you came here."

"Oh, yes," you say. "Thanks again for the warm welcome. What fun we’ve had."

"You did break in," Wong says. "Over the past couple of months, we’ve had to be particularly careful when it comes to unexpected visitors. For what it’s worth, though," he adds, "I am sorry."

There’s an honesty to his voice that you appreciate, though not as much as Bucky staying a half-step in front of you during this whole conversation.

Strange claps his hands. Out of the corner of your eye, you see a tea set appear on the sad old desk that’s been pushed against one of the dungeon walls. "Best not to dwell on it," he says, his cloak gently flapping at you. "May we take a look at your necklace?"

You hesitate. You’ve not taken it off in years, not even to sleep or train. It’s been what’s successfully hidden you away from anyone trying to find you or your powers.

Now that you’ve revealed all of yourself, though, you suppose there’s no point in denying him.

You place the necklace in his palm and he murmurs something. It starts glowing in gentle amber colors.

"It should do," he says to Wong. "Do you want the honors?"

"Here’s what I don’t understand," Wong says, ignoring him. "All of this could’ve been avoided with a few controlled time slips."

"A few what now?" you say.

"It’s the act of reversing time not for the whole universe, but for one small part of it. Even he could do it after just a few months," he says, nodding his head at Strange, who lifts an eyebrow.

"Look at you condoning going against the laws of nature."

"Shut up and do your job. Away from my carpets, this time."

"Your carpets, is it?" Strange says, his cloak flapping impatiently. His gray eyes bore into you one final time, assessing you, you think, or maybe silently telling you something you don’t understand. Then he turns and starts ascending the stairs again.

You wrap your arms around yourself. "I’ve not had months of training," you remind Wong.

"Not that first time," he replies. "From what you’ve told us, though, your training in the astral plane has progressed immensely. You should have much more control over your powers than you ever have before."

"So you’re saying I could do it now?"

"I’m saying there’s at least a chance. May I?"

You fiercely ignore Bucky glancing at you, holding out your arm. The symbols around your wrist buzz and glimmer when Wong murmurs something, his hands hovering over your skin. The smell of magic grows more potent as gentle wisps of light travel along your arm, poking at the loop.

Warm fingers wrap around your other hand this time, and you realize you’ve been shaking.

"With the time anomaly persisting, it will continue getting stronger with every repeat of this day," Wong continues out loud as he’s working. "It will eat away at the fabric between realities until things start to slip through, and then it’s only a matter of time until this one collapses entirely."

You swallow. "What things?"

"People. Places. Memories meant for other timelines. Playing with the fabric of everything is a dangerous pastime."

"It’s not like we’re doing it on purpose," Bucky speaks up for the first time. Your hold on his hand tightens.

Wong glances up at him. "Unfortunately, Sergeant Barnes, there are some rules that don’t care about intent."

"So what if it does?" you say. "Collapse, I mean. You know about me now, can you not portal or time slip us to another reality, let this one disintegrate? It’s cursed, anyway."

"Apart from the fact that that’s not how portals work," Wong says dryly, "that’s a reckless idea. All realities are connected in one way or another. One imploding like this might have disastrous consequences on the entire multiverse."

"This is about the whole sacred timeline thing again, isn’t it?" You roll your eyes. "Who came up with that, anyway? What makes our existence so damn special? I mean, there are endless possibilities out there, aren’t there? An infinite number of realities. Who’s to say we’re more real than the rest of them?"

"Magic, as a whole, is always a balancing act." The symbols return to their place just above your skin, tingling. Wong rubs his hands, looking at you. "Ask your actual question."

"I’m not supposed to exist here, am I?" You’re grateful for the fact that Bucky is still holding your hand, even though you don’t know why he would. It anchors you. "I switch between realities every time I jump back in time, right? So this one isn’t actually mine at all."

"Has anyone ever taught you about the Infinity Stones?"

Had they? You’d learned more about the stones at Campus than you ever had during your time at the Sanctum, but even then—knowing how to find a thing and understanding it aren’t the same thing.

You shake your head.

"The powers held by the stones are interconnected. You don’t just control time, your powers have an influence on space and reality by their very nature as well. You can’t just separate one from the other. Tea?"

You stay silent as he pours it into several mugs and offers you one. It’s steaming hot, and it smells almost exactly like the one you were offered in the astral plane; only with a dash of cinnamon.

"The thing is," Wong continues, blowing on his tea, "in a way, we all hold the same kind of power. These other worlds, they exist alongside this one, all the time, and each time we make a decision, our consciousness merely slips between them. That doesn’t make the ones we left behind more or less ours."

"But the stones got destroyed in our reality," Bucky says.

"There’s that thing called the first law of thermodynamics."

Bucky’s thumb traces an absentminded line along the back of your hand, and you have to hide a shiver. "Energy can’t be created or destroyed, it can only change its form."

"That’s exactly right. So you see, even though the stones may be turned to dust, they’re not gone. Otherwise, our reality—or any like it, in fact—wouldn’t continue to exist."

"That wasn’t my question, though," you argue. "The power of the stones still exists, whatever that means. That’s great. What does that have to do with me? Or with this loop, for that matter."

"You draw from the time stone’s energy more than the other’s," Wong replies. "Since the stones don’t exist in their physical form anymore in our reality, you are pulling the necessary energy from others in which they are still intact, at the moment of using your powers. You’ve been able to jump greater temporal distances more easily before, am I right? Before the stone was crushed into pieces?"

You’re about to deny it, but then he adds, gently, "When you were a child, maybe?"

Memories of repeated accidental time jumps rush through your mind. Memories of getting stuck in the same couple of minutes for hours on end, finally getting out of it after what had felt like years and yet not feeling any different at all.

It’d never made you feel so exhausted, then.

You’d never put it together consciously because the first time you tried using your powers after the Snap, you you’d already been exhausted for so long. You’d blame a lack of practice, of proper technique or attention or adequateness; a lack of freedom to use them however you wanted without feeling prying eyes watch your every move.

Later, you’d mostly blame yourself.

Bucky’s hand slips out of yours and you are brought back to the present again. The tea has gone tepid in your cup when you take a sip; it makes your eyes water with its bitter sting.

"What I’m trying to say is this," Wong continues. "There’s no right or wrong answer to whether you actually belong in this reality, because we all shift between related realities constantly. What you’re doing is unusual, yes, but not unheard of. And it certainly doesn’t mean you shouldn’t exist. Quite the contrary. I’ve found that everything and everyone of us has a purpose here."

You nod, your throat still clogged up.

"The loop," Bucky says. "How do we go about undoing it?"

We.

"It comes back to how it was created in the first place. With internalized magic like yours, the kind used on yourself instead of externally, it comes back to the emotions we feel when we reach out to the stones. They’re essential in what they help create."

Your mind replays the first time you’ve watched Bucky die in front of you. To that desperation, the guilt, the shame. And hidden underneath, still unnoticed, still pushed down, perhaps …

"Here you go," Strange says, returning your necklace. The tourmaline is warm to the touch, humming with newly imbued magic. "Whenever you’re ready, this should do the trick. You might get a bit light-headed."

You both stare at him. "This gets us out?" you ask, your voice cracking.

Strange frowns. "What? No."

"I told you," Wong says with an edge of impatience, "that’s not how portals work."

"Technically not a portal," you mumble, putting the pendant on again, feeling it pulsate warmly against your chest.

True to Strange’s words, you immediately feel a little dizzy with a rush of concentrated magic that has nowhere to go. Even though you’re seated, you have to grasp for Bucky’s arm to keep your balance.

"I’ve imbued the necklace with some of my own powers and linked it more closely to your person," Strange continues, and you dig the nails of your unoccupied hand into your palm to pay attention. "It should help you focus your powers more directly once you’re back in the astral plane and allow you to break the loop in time. Mind you, it’s merely an amplifier, not a quick fix. It might still take a while."

"How much time do we still have before the loop starts to disintegrate?" Bucky asks. Smart question. He’s so smart.

"You’re already past that point, Sergeant Barnes," Wong says, and it sends a chill through you. "But we’ll do our best to help as much as we can. I will set up some wards that should bypass my own consciousness and buy you some more time."

"Thank you," you say quietly, blinking quite a lot. "For all of this."

He nods, slowly, measuring you up, but not in the way you’re used to; for once, you appear to meet expectations. "Good luck, Miss Y/L/N. Let us know how these matters resolve."

"You doing okay, doll?" Bucky chuckles on your way up the stairs. It’s the first time he’s smiled even a little bit all afternoon. He should do it more. Why doesn’t he do it more?

It takes you a bit to notice you’re still holding onto his sleeve. "I’m great," you say. "Superb, really. Did the floor sway like that earlier? Seems like a safety issue. What time is it? I hope Sam’s alright."

"Maybe you should take that thing off again, hm?"

"No no no," you say quickly, immediately tripping over your own feet. Before you plant on your face in the middle of the entrance hall, Bucky manages to hold out his other arm to catch you. "Whoops."

"Very convincing," he says dryly, but there’s something akin to fondness in his eyes when he looks at you.

"You have the prettiest eyes," you tell him with a sigh, "did you know?"

"And you are quite literally drunk on power." A fascinating shadow falls over his face as he steadies you; it mostly reaches his cheeks. "Let’s hope that’ll fade once you get back to the astral plane or else you might just as well kill me yourself."

"I never want to do that. I don’t want that. Do you think I want to kill you?"

"If you did, now’s your chance." He huffs. "Wouldn’t blame ya."

You stare at him, at his oddly bright blue eyes and his self-deprecating scowl and at the way he’s still holding you upright, and then your lightheadedness makes you do something very, incredibly, outrageously stupid.

You kiss him.

It barely takes a moment to make you realize, like a shock of cold water, what it is you’re doing. Bucky freezes when your lips brush against his. They’re so soft.

You immediately jolt your head back, your heartbeat loud enough to reverberate in your ears, "Fuck!"

His eyes are so wide and so blue and he’s still holding your elbow, and so you yank your arms away and tumble backwards just as he says, "You’re not—"

But you’re still falling.

And then, with a start, you wake up.

* * * * *

"You have a lot of empty rooms," Sam said when he found you on one of the couches in the living room area, curled up to watch some Netflix.

You shrugged. "Guess Stark anticipated more people’d be left to use them after … everything."

"And it’s just you?"

You let the question sit for a moment, for some reason looking at your dish towel. "Yup," you replied finally. "Just me."

Sam nodded, apparently lost in thought.

"So yeah," you continued for some reason, "if you’re in the city and need a place, feel free, I guess."

You didn’t expect much to come of it. After all, Sam had his own apartment all the way over in D.C., and you honestly didn’t expect to see him much once this mission was over.

You told yourself that for the first five missions before you accepted that maybe he’d continue asking you to tag along.

In the end, it hadn’t been him who needed a place, anyway. It was Bucky.

He didn’t tell you the particulars about why he had to leave his Brooklyn apartment; you assumed he’d had to leave, because there was truly no other explanation why he’d choose to move in with you, of all people.

Then again, you hardly ever saw him, and if you hadn’t seen him bring an overnight bag and a withering houseplant on the weekend he’d settled in one of the upstairs bedrooms, you wouldn’t have known another person was living in the Tower at all.

Well, that and the food mysteriously disappearing from your fridge now.

Sam was the one most weirded out by your living situation, even though you were absolutely positive it’d been his idea in the first place.

"What did you expect?" you asked, handing him his usual coffee cup. "That we’d immediately become besties just because we share a kitchen?"

"It’s unnatural," he shook his head. "Do you communicate with each other at all?"

"Sure. Sometimes I leave post-its on the fridge and when I come back, they’re in the trash."

"One day, one of you is gonna outweird the other. I just hope I’m out of town." He bit into a rugelach and started coughing. "Jesus, what did you put in these?"

"Ask Bucky. He’s doing a whole midnight baking thing at the moment. I think he’s trying to take the Tower for himself by smoking me out."

Sam decidedly pushes the cookie tin farther away from him. "You’ve not asked him, then?"

"Again, he doesn’t respond to my post-its."

Truthfully, you were still mad at him. How were you supposed to wallow in peace if someone was constantly ignoring your personal space? There were only so many times you could flee into the blissful loneliness of the void.

In other words, you didn’t notice for a very long time that you didn’t seek out the quiet nearly as much anymore these days.

"Hey, Ratatouille," Sam said. "I was gonna tell you both, actually."

It was good progress that made you not flinch quite as much anymore when a cupboard opened just behind you. In fact, you didn’t even move a muscle.

On your second try.

"I was gonna tell you both, actually," Sam said again, taking a sip of coffee. "CIA wants us to quit the ULTIMATUM case."

"What?" you both said at the same time.

"Why?" Bucky asked irritably. "Sharon already sick of your face again?"

Sam throws a piece of rugelach at him. "I don’t think it was her call. But it means I gotta head to Virginia for a while and give them a full debrief so they can do their own 'internal investigation', whatever that’s supposed to mean. After that, we’re on our own."

"I don’t like this," Bucky said.

"Neither do I," Sam replied. "But I’m hoping to get some information out of them while I’m down there."

"So that’s just it?" you said. "They tell us to stop and we just have to drop everything?"

"Officially, yes."

Bucky crossed his arms. "When you say 'we’re on our own' …"

"I don’t trust these people," Sam said. "I want to know what they’re trying to keep hush. But you," he nods at Bucky, "have been pardoned for less than a year, and you," he nods at you, "don’t officially exist. I can’t guarantee either of these things will stay that way if we go against official government orders. So if you want an out, this is it."

You looked at Bucky, and for the first time, you didn’t find any challenge in his eyes. He simply looked at you, letting you make the call first.

Maybe it was a dare in and of itself, but you couldn’t help yourself. Your curiosity had been sparked.

"If you’re waiting for me to chicken out …"

For a fraction of a second, something like a smile made his mouth twitch. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

chapter ten

thank you for reading!! you can follow my library blog @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications 💚 also please consider leaving a comment, it literally helps my motivation so much to hear from you!!

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes x you #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes series #marvel fanfic #mcu fanfic #time after time

65 notes · View notes

sosa2imagines · 2 days ago

Note

Hiya! I have a Steve Rogers fic request! So, reader and Steve are together for about a year now. Reader is sick and not feeling particularly well. One day, reader falls with morning sickness and she takes a pregnancy test to check before hand. It comes back positive, however she panics because she knows it's not Steve's. She confesses to Steve. However, instead of breaking the relationship, he helps her and guides her through maternity, together.

Hope you have fun writing! 😊💕

Warning- Angst, fluff, unexpected pregnancy.

You wake with a heaviness in your chest, not the emotional kind, not yet. Your stomach churns violently, and the instant you lift your head from the pillow, you know what’s coming.

The bathroom tiles are cold against your knees as you throw up for the second time that morning.

Its been happening for ten days straight now.

Your fingers tremble when you reach for the sink, trying to steady yourself. You’ve told yourself it’s probably the flu, maybe some bad takeout. But deep down you know.

You grab your phone, check the calendar. One week late.

The test burns a hole in your drawer. You bought it days ago, just in case. You never thought you'd actually have to use it.

And now, you stare at the little window, eyes fixed, heartbeat pounding louder than your thoughts.

Two lines.

Positive.

You sit on the bathroom floor for a long time, unable to move. You want to scream. Cry. Run. But none of those things would change the truth you already knew before the test confirmed it.

It's not Steve’s.

Your boyfriend of nearly a year. The man who holds your hand like it's precious, who never forgets how you take your coffee, who stays up with you on your worst days and kisses your forehead like it’s sacred. The man who would have done anything for you. Who uses protection, because he does not want you to deal with anything, you both may or may not be ready for.

But this?

This is your fault.

And you have to tell him.

He's in the kitchen when you walk out. The morning sun filters through the window, casting a soft glow over his messy hair and tired smile. He turns to you, apron tied haphazardly over his sweatpants, flipping pancakes.

“Morning, sweetheart. Feeling any better?” His voice is laced with worry. Ever since the sickness started, Steve has been constantly worried about you.

You don't answer right away. You just watch him, memorizing the way he looks at you like you’re his world.

Your chest tightens. This might be the last time, so with a deep breath you decide to tell him, “I need to talk to you...” you say quietly.

He sets the spatula down, turning to face you fully. “What’s wrong?”

You hold the test in your hand, but your fingers refuse to let it go. “I’m… pregnant…”

His eyes widen, just slightly. He doesn’t speak. He waits, the way he always does, patient, calm, steady.

And it shatters you.

“It’s not yours…” you whisper. “It… it was a mistake. A stupid, selfish, one-time mistake before us. I thought it was over. I didn’t even think about it again until now. But, this happened. And I didn’t want to lie to you...and I can understand if you want to end things…I…I promise I won’t blame you…”

He says nothing for a beat. You wait for the sharp breath. The anger. The betrayal. Waiting for him to say “pack your bags and get the hell lost!”

But none of that comes.

Instead, Steve steps forward, gently takes the test from your hand, and sets it on the counter. He cups your cheek like you're made of glass.

“Hey,” he says softly, “Thank you for telling me…”

You blink, tears stinging, “Aren’t you mad?”

He smiles sadly, but full of love, “Yeah. A little. But more than that… I’m scared that you’re scared. And I’m not going to leave you to do this alone.”

“You shouldn’t have to stay.”

“I want to stay.”

He wraps his arms around you like an anchor, grounding you. Your body shakes with silent sobs, pressed against his chest.

You don’t deserve this. But he’s here. Still here.

And when he pulls away just enough to rest his hand on your stomach, his eyes glisten.

“We’ll get through this. Together.”

You never meant for it to be this complicated.

You never meant to sleep with Clark Kent again, not after he broke your heart for her. Not after all those tear-stained nights and the way your chest ached every time you saw him and Lois in a photo, smiling like they hadn’t left wreckage behind.

But one night, grief blurred the lines. One night, he showed up at your door with an apology and a broken look. One night, you let yourself believe he meant it.

And then, nothing. Silence. No follow-up. Just another goodbye, without any words.

You had no idea that night would leave you with something that would change the course of your life.

And now, Steve holds your hand with gentle strength as you whisper the truth.

“It’s… Clark’s.”

His thumb stills its rhythmic stroke on your knuckles. His jaw tightens, just slightly. But he doesn’t let go.

He never does.

“That was before us,” he says quietly, as if reminding himself too. “You didn’t cheat on me. And he left you. That’s not your fault.”

You stare down at the floor, words tangling in your throat. “I didn’t want to ruin what we have. I thought I’d never see Clark again. He made it clear that Lois was his future...”

Steve nods slowly, “You still should tell him.”

“I could try…but…” you admit, biting your lip. “he’s… blocked me. Everywhere. I guess he thought I might get in the way of their perfect life.”

There’s a flash of something in Steve’s eyes, anger, towards Superman. But it’s quickly swallowed by calm resolve.

“I’ll find him…” he says.

You blink, startled. “Steve…you don’t…”

“I don’t care if I have to fly across the damn globe. He should know. But more importantly…” he pauses, cupping your cheek, “you deserve peace.”

You nod, swallowing back tears. “What if he doesn’t want the baby?”

He holds your gaze. “Then he’s a fool. But either way, I do want the baby. And I want you.”

The tears come freely now. You fall into his arms, and for the first time since the test turned positive, you feel like maybe… just maybe… this won’t break you.

Truth to be told, Steve with the help from Tony, did contact Clark, but Clark dismissed him, telling him to do whatever he wishes to do, cause you are no longer his problem.

That was the last, Steve ever talked about him.

Then came the first ultrasound.

The examination room is quiet except for the steady hum of the machine and the soft static that preludes something life-changing.

You lie on the table, gown draped over your belly, Steve seated beside you, your fingers intertwined so tightly they’ve gone numb.

The technician smiles at you both, friendly and warm. “You two ready to see your little one?”

Steve squeezes your hand. “We’re ready.”

The gel is cold. You flinch. The wand glides across your skin, and you hold your breath. And then a sound is heard.

Rhythmic. Soft. Then louder.

Your breath catches. Steve’s hand tightens around yours.

“There’s the heartbeat,” the technician beams. “Strong and steady.”

You blink hard, trying not to cry. But Steve’s thumb brushes the tears off your cheek anyway.

The monitor displays a tiny blob, your baby. Clark’s baby. But it doesn’t feel like his right now. It feels like yours. Like Steve’s, even. Because he’s here. Because he cares. Because he’s already giving more than the biological father ever did.

The tech continues. “Looks like you’re around ten weeks. Everything’s measuring just right. Dad, want to see?”

You glance at Steve instinctively.

He leans forward, eyes glued to the screen, voice rough. “Yeah… yeah, I do.”

He doesn’t correct them.

He doesn’t say, I’m not the father.

Instead, he asks, “Can we get a picture of the heartbeat?”

The technician prints it out without question.

You don’t speak until you’re back in the car, the ultrasound photo trembling in your hands, “Why didn’t you tell her?”

Steve starts the engine but doesn’t pull away, “Because I am the one who’s here. I’m the one who’s going to help you through every kick and craving and sleepless night. And when that baby comes into the world, I’m going to be the one holding them, whispering that it’s going to be okay.”

You look at him, this man who chose to stay, who chose you, who is choosing this baby even though he doesn’t have to.

Your voice is a whisper, “You don’t have to do this...”

“I want to,” he says with a smile, “Let me love both of you.”

You cry harder than you have since that first test.

And in your heart, you already know, this child may not be Steve’s by blood, but they will be his in every way that matters.

The bump starts to show around week sixteen. It’s small at first. A soft curve beneath your sweaters. But Steve notices immediately.

He stares at it sometimes when you’re asleep, his palm hovering just above like he’s afraid to wake the baby or you. He whispers to your belly when you’re not listening, voice full of wonder and low chuckles. You once caught him doing it and he flushed tomato-red.

“She kicked when I said her name,” he murmured like it was classified intel. “I think she likes me.”

You laugh. “That’s because she does…”

Your hormones are a menace. You cry over everything. A broken shoelace. A commercial with a puppy. One time Steve came home with the wrong kind of ice cream and you wept like he’d murdered someone. He apologized for an hour and drove twenty-five minutes back to get the right one.

You called yourself insane.

He only kissed your forehead. “You’re growing a human, sweetheart. You can set the apartment on fire and I’ll still think you’re amazing.”

You reply through sniffles, “I was actually considering arson, so thank you…”

You craved pineapple, pickles, peanut butter, and pepperoni all at once. Steve doesn’t flinch. He goes to four stores to find the right brand of pickles at 11 PM on a Tuesday.

Once, you cried when he brought you a warm grilled cheese just the way you liked it, cut diagonally, not horizontally and whispered, “You remembered.”

He blushed. “Course I did, doll. That’s my job now.”

“You’re too good.”

“Nah,” he smiled. “Just madly in love with you and slightly terrified of you.”

You laughed and cried at the same time.

The baby shower was a literal war for Steve.

Tony insists on throwing you a baby shower, and Steve agrees reluctantly. You have a vision board, a color theme, and approximately seventeen pages of Pinterest inspiration.

Steve has a nervous breakdown over centerpieces.

“I don’t know what the hell a ‘woodland chic’ aesthetic is…” he panics to Natasha on the phone. “Are mushrooms cute now? Why are we decorating with moss?!”

Natasha shows up just to babysit him.

Despite the chaos, it turns out beautifully. You cry again when Steve gives a heartfelt toast about how this baby might not be his by blood, but they're his in every way that matters. He thanks everyone for accepting your baby and him with open arms.

Even Bucky’s tearing up.

He later tells Steve, “You sap.” But he claps him on the back and adds, “You’re gonna be a damn good dad.”

The night your water broke, it happens at 3:47 AM.

You jolt upright in bed, gasping, “Steve!!!”

“Mmh?” he groans, groggy and tangled in blankets.

“My water just broke...”

He sits up like he’s been shot, “WHAT?! Okay…okay! Grab the bag, wait, I grab the bag! Do we have socks? You need socks. Is it too late for socks?! Okay…okay”

You groan in pain. “Steve, if you don’t get me to the hospital right now, I swear I will light this whole damn apartment on fire and use Clark’s ashes as fuel! And stop saying OKAY!!!”

He scrambles like his life depends on it. “Socks later, fire now, got it! Okay!”

He helps you into the car, holding your hand the entire time, whispering sweet nothings, “You’re doing amazing, doll.” “You can crush my hand if you need to. I don’t even need fingers.” “You definitely don’t look like a demon right now. No, you’re glowing. Glowing with… strength.”

You glare at him mid-contraction. “I want to kill Clark.”

Steve kisses your knuckles. “I support you. Just maybe after we get the baby out?”

At the hospital, he never lets go of your hand, not once. Not when you scream. Not when you curse. Not when you cry, beg for it to be over, or threaten violence on multiple innocent bystanders.

When your baby finally arrives, red-faced, crying, tiny fists curled against their chest, Steve is the one who cuts the cord.

The nurse turns to him with a bright smile. “Congratulations, Dad.”

And again, he doesn’t correct her.

He holds your baby like they’re the most sacred thing he’s ever touched. And when he finally places them into your arms, his eyes are full of unshed tears.

“You did so good, doll. Look at our little miracle.”

You rest your head on his shoulder, baby curled against your chest, and whisper, “Thank you for staying.”

He kisses your temple, voice thick. “I didn’t stay. I chose this. I chose you. And I’ll keep choosing you both, every day.”

You wait until everyone’s gathered in the hospital room.

Natasha bouncing on the balls of her feet, Pepper filming with teary eyes, Sam cracking jokes, and Bucky in the corner pretending not to care, but clearly wiping at his eyes every five seconds.

Steve stands beside you, cradling the baby, a sleepy grin tugging at his lips. Your head rests against his bicep, exhaustion still clinging to your bones, but you feel lighter than you’ve felt in months.

“Have you decided on a name yet?” Pepper asks, camera zoomed in.

You exchange a glance with Steve. He nods, a silent encouragement.

You turn to everyone, voice soft but steady. “We wanted to wait until he was born to be sure. But now that he’s here, it just… fits.”

Everyone leans in.

“His name is Jamie Steven Rogers.”

The room goes still.

Bucky blinks. “I…what?”

Steve's eyes widen, completely stunned, he knew you wanted to name the child after Bucky, but adding his name that was a surprise for him.

“You named him after me?” Bucky croaks, looking at you like you just threw a brick at his heart in the best way possible.

You laugh, a little breathless. “You’ve always had my back. You’ve been my brother before I even knew I needed one. You’re going to be the best uncle. And Steve… well.” You look at the man holding your son. “He’s already the best dad.”

Bucky exhales hard and runs a hand through his hair.

“Damn it,” he mutters. “I was supposed to be the emotionally unavailable, grumpy uncle who makes inappropriate jokes and teaches the kid to swear. Now I’m crying like a Disney princess.”

You smirk. “You can still be the grumpy uncle. Just a very loved one.”

He groans but pulls you into a hug anyway. “I swear, if this baby’s first word is ‘punk’ it’s going on the birth certificate.”

Everyone laughs, the tension melting into joy.

Later that night, the room has long since quieted. Visitors have gone home. Nurses come and go softly, but it’s just you and Steve now. Jamie sleeps peacefully between the two of you, a little burrito of blankets and soft snores.

Steve brushes a finger down Jamie’s chubby cheek. “He’s perfect.”

“You are…” you say, eyes fixed on him. “You didn’t have to do this. But you chose it all. You chose us.”

He looks at you like he’s still trying to believe this is real. “I’ll never stop choosing you.”

You lean over and kiss him soft, slow, grateful. His hand cups your jaw, deepening it just enough to make your heart thrum all over again.

“Thank you, Steve,” you whisper.

“For what?”

“For loving a baby that wasn’t yours. For making him yours. For being ours.”

He only smiles, kissing your forehead. “There was never a choice for me. You’re my whole world.”

As you fall asleep, Steve promises to protect you and his baby. Because you don’t know about the storm taking place and Steve will make sure you don’t get to know about it.

Earlier with Bucky, he had a private conversation.

Hours ago, while you were asleep and Steve had stepped out for a coffee run, Bucky cornered him just outside the nursery window.

“Hey,” Bucky said, voice lower than usual. “We’ve got a problem.”

Steve stiffened. “What kind of problem?”

“Clark.” Bucky glanced over his shoulder, then back at Steve. “I’ve seen him hanging around. Not close enough to make a scene, but… he’s lurking. Watching.”

Steve’s jaw tightened, the shadows under his eyes sharpening. “He’s not setting one foot near her. Or my baby.”

“I figured you’d say that.”

“If he even looks at them…” Steve’s voice dropped to a dangerous growl, “I’ll end him.”

“I’m in,” Bucky said without missing a beat. “We’ll make it look like an accident.”

Steve smirked, dark and knowing. “Appreciate it.”

Bucky’s tone sobered. “Just… keep her safe. Keep Jamie safe.”

Steve nodded. “With my life.”

They didn’t tell you. Not that night. Not then. Because that moment belonged to peace.

Back in the Room

Jamie stirs slightly in his bassinet. You and Steve both move at the same time, instinctively in sync, soothing him with whispered hushes and gentle touches.

You rest your head against Steve’s shoulder again, feeling his warmth, his steady breath, the beating of his heart.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you…” you whisper.

He kisses the top of your head. “Whatever it was, I’m glad you did it.”

The room goes quiet again.

You both fall asleep like that, your hand on Jamie’s back, Steve’s arm around you, wrapped up in a family that wasn’t planned but was meant to be.

Taglist- @blackhawkfanatic @ordelixx @sapphirebarnes @ilovetaquitosmmmm

@differenttyphoonwerewolf @vicmc624 @thezombieprostitute @nekoannie-chan

@mrvl-addict @mercurial-chuckles

@emerald-writes @castielscaplan

@redbloodedgurl @cjand10 @chemtrails-club @slutforchrisjamalevans @gracescor3

@ghostlythinggoingaround @princezzjasmine @3xclusivemariii @ephemeral-oasis @zuri-767-666

@geeky-politics-46 @dexter99 @calwitch

@caplanreblogsfics @winterslove1917

@pono-pura-vida @renegadesgirl1991 @iwudbutnah @ghalouha @sebastians-love @saranghaey @greatmistakes @baw1066

@bucks-babe @lolzies123r @kandis-mom @purplecolordeer @avioletkurt

@pattiemac1 @peaches1958 @hzdhrtss @kpopgirlbtssvt

#chris evans #chris evans characters #steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers angst #steve rogers fluff #steve rogers x reader angst #steve rogers x reader fluff #steve rogers x you #dad steve rogers #steve rogers one shot #steve rogers fic #steve rogers imagine #clark kent #clark kent x reader #clark kent x you #clark kent x reader angst #henry cavill #henry cavill characters

76 notes · View notes