#I do think it is interesting to go back to where all of it started and to write it

[marvelwitchergilmore]

Hey, Sergeant

Summary: Bucky Barnes x fe!Reader -> Yelena offers you a job, but you want to meet your new boss before you agree.

Disclaimer: Mentions of guns, fighting, swearing. Reader is trained as a Widow, Bucky has a massive crush. Not Proof Read.

He’d had a long day. Between training, meetings, mentoring and dealing with rush-hour traffic in New York; all Bucky wanted to do was get home, cook a decent meal, watch some TV and go to bed. 

But, instead, he was forced to fight. 

He knew something was off the minute he walked inside. There was a new smell. Not the perfume Natasha wore, or even whatever sage stick Wanda was burning. Something that he didn’t recognise. 

But no one was inside. 

There was a cup in the sink, still half filled with coffee. Someone was still drinking it. Leaving his groceries on the kitchen island, he touched the mug. It was still warm. Someone was definitely inside. But they hadn’t come out yet. They were hiding. 

Bucky looked around, reaching for the weapon locked under the kitchen island. “I know you’re still here.”

Bucky listened out. A noise came from the pantry. As he moved over, he made sure he was still covered before opening it up. No one. 

Kate had just left the crackers balancing on one of the baskets, again. 

Slowly, Bucky moved around the room. Making sure to check every hiding spot, he kept his eye out in case someone snuck up on him. 

And they did. 

From round a corner, you and Bucky came face to face. Your eyes, length of your hair, shape of your lips; each part of your face imprinted itself on his mind. If you got away, he’d still remember you. 

“Who are you?”

“What is it to you?”

“You’re in my home.” Bucky told you. 

“I’m here on invite,” you told him before reaching for his gun. 

“What-” Bucky reached for yours. 

You’d both switched positions. Bucky was against the wall. You started moving backwards as he walked forward. 

“Who invited you?”

You smiled, your hand unwavering. “You seem pretty interested. Why don’t you guess?”

Bucky was stunned. Who the hell were you? 

“Guess?”

You nodded. “Isn’t there something on your schedule for today, Sergeant Barnes?”

Bucky just stared at you. “Okay. Quit messing around. Who the fuck are you and why are you in my home?”

Rather than answering, you reached for your gun again. Before you knew it, you and Bucky were against the floor. He was above you. 

He shook his head. “Not Hydra. Too eager. Hacker? Friday never signalled-”

You hit him just hard enough to roll yourself, trapping him under you. “Nice guess, but no.”

“You know, when I said you could meet him first, I didn’t mean like this.”

You both turned and looked at the door where Yelena was standing. “Are you done?”

You looked back at Bucky with a smile before standing up and getting off him, swiping your gun back as you did so. You checked the clip before making sure the safety was on and clipping it back to your side. 

“Yelena, what the hell-” 

“Before you yell, I brought her here.”

“Who is she?” Bucky asked, standing to his full height. 

“She is your new assistant.”

“Assistant?”

Bucky turned and looked at you. You stood at ease. Like everything that had just happened…didn’t. 

“I thought I told you I don’t-”

“Yes, you do. And there’s no point arguing with me, Bucky, because your scheduling is awful. You need help. And since you wouldn’t accept a Shield recruit, I brought Y/n.”

Bucky turned and looked at you. “You’re Red Room?”

You shook your head. “Red Room adjacent.”

Bucky closed his eyes for a split second and shook his head. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means I found her and she’s your new assistant. I trust her, Bucky.”

Bucky just looked away from Yelena and back at you, needing more than just one sentence. 

“I was trained like I came from the Red Room. Secret files and footage my aunt got a hold of. Trained me up. Sent me to work. Few years later, Yelena found me thinking I was one of the brainwashed trainees.”

“And you’re, what? A secretary now?”

You chuckled and sat down. “I worked in an office through high school. It’s been a while but,” you looked around Bucky to Yelena and back to him. “It seems like I might be the only viable candidate.”

Bucky glared at Yelena, but she wasn’t accepting any excuse. 

“You need someone, Bucky. And it’s either Y/n or Hill comes down here with a Shield Rookie.”

Bucky sighed. He couldn’t take another Shield Rookie. 

“Monday.”

You smiled up at him. “Great.”

Nearly a year later, it was still the best job you’d ever taken. Well paid – Yelena made sure of that. Lots of work – Shield made sure of that, for both you and Bucky. And just…fun. 

“James Buchanan Barnes!” You stood at the top of the hallway, your arms folded. Your voice was firm but not too mad. “So help me, God, if you don’t get your arse back here I will agree to Sam’s plan to set you up on a dating app.”

You and Joaquin watched as Bucky stopped walking. Despite his back being to both of you, you saw him take a big breath. You smiled and looked at Joaquin. 

He turned around and walked back up the hallway to both of you. “Fine. I’ll do it. But I’m not gonna enjoy it.”

“That’s what you think,” you mumbled loud enough for him to hear. He shot you a glare, but you weren’t so easily withered. 

Joaquin practically bounced on his feet. “Thank you. Seriously, Bucky.”

As he ran off in the other direction, pulling his phone out to make a call, Bucky turned to you. “I hate when you use my full name.”

“But I love your full name,” you smiled. Bucky just grunted and turned down the hall. 

“Thank you,” you called after him, your voice a little softer. He just waved you a hand. 

A week later, you were with Bucky in a tailor's shop. He was, yet again, messing with his collar. 

You tapped his hand away and stood in front of him. “You need to quit it. Everything will be fine.”

“I can’t breathe in this thing.”

“Be glad you’re not in a corset.”

He just gave you a look. 

You looked under the bow tie and fiddled with the buttons until they were undone. Pulling the bow tie from his collar, you looked around and judged different ties before picking one. You helped him tie it around his neck. 

“You should come with me.”

You laughed. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m being serious. Joaquin said I should bring someone. And you’re my assistant. Technically you have to do what I say.”

You just gave a half smirk to Bucky. “What do you think the likelihood will be for me to say yes?���

He chuckled. “I know, but…please?”

You looked at him, his blue gaze locking on yours. His voice was soft. “I’m gonna need someone with me. And, as much as I appreciate people wanting to talk, I don’t think I can take an entire night of small talk. Please?”

A soft smile broke out on your face. “Okay. But only if you stop fidgeting with your collar.”

Bucky nodded. “I think I can do that.”

A week later, Bucky was watching you descend the stairs of the gala making him instantly regret his decision on asking you to be his date. 

You looked…incredible. 

To him, you outshone everyone in the room. A floor length gown that made you look like nothing less than a Greek Goddess. And that smile of yours…

He was weak at the knees. His heart was practically leaping out of his chest and his fingers itched to hold you close to him and never let you go. 

Of course he knew you were beautiful. He didn’t spend practically every day with you and not notice. But that had been in a setting where he could set aside his most inner thoughts. He was your boss, technically. And you were his assistant. And also Yelena’s friend. 

But in front of him at that moment…

His thoughts couldn’t be shut off. Everything seemed heightened. The setting, the idea that you were his date, that dress…

“You’re staring.”

Bucky broke out of his trace for a moment and smiled. “Sorry. Can’t help it. You look stunning.”

You felt your cheeks heat and you looked away from him to gather yourself together. You looked down at the dress. “Thanks.” You looked back at him. “Yelena helped me pick it out.”

Bucky nodded. “She’s got good taste.”

You smiled. “Ready for the wolves?”

He turned a little and held his arm out to you silently. “You might not have let me pick you up, but you’re gonna have to let me be a gentleman at some point.”

You let out a soft chuckle and took his arm. “Okay, Sergeant.”

The entire night was…something else. Something fun and…a memory you’d cherish forever. 

Maybe he hated the fancy galas, but there was no denying Bucky Barnes looked good in a suit and tie. There was also no denying that he was a good dancer and you trusted him entirely. He was also nothing less than a gentleman. 

You even got him to talk to a few people outside of his normal social circle. And each time you did, he just held you a little tighter, practically anchoring you to him. Not that you minded. You didn’t plan on running. 

Maybe finding him a few more people to talk to just to extend the time you spent in his arms, sure. But not running. 

By the time you got back, he dropped you back home. 

“Thank you for coming with me tonight.”

You shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. It was fun.”

Bucky shrugged himself. “You still could have ditched it before. I wouldn’t have blamed you. But I’m glad you came.”

You looked at him and smiled. “So am I.”

Bucky waited until you turned a lamp on inside your home before he got back in his car and drove away, his mind wandering back to you each time the lights turned red. 

[haywirecompass]

also something i haven't noticed being talked about - THE TEACHERS ARE USING IT TOO!!!

rarely, obviously, and not to the same extent but still. i was at a workshop and the teacher handed out these quotes with reflective prompts, and admitted proudly that she'd asked ChatGPT for them. she talked about easy it was to get teaching materials. this was a workshop aimed at PhD students! and it was about teaching! we were recommended to use AI to help us teach! i lost all interest in the workshop after that - if they don't respect me enough to put the effort in to create teaching materials, why should i respect them enough to put any effort in?

in that same vein, it helps me have some understanding for why students use it so much, or at least for why it is so tempting.

at my uni, the biology campus is really far away from the chemistry campus, and biochem students would often have to be late for lectures because a lecture on the biology campus would be straight after one on the chemistry campus or vice versa. if the uni couldn't respect these students' time enough to avoid that simple issue, why should they respect the uni and give it their time? why should they be expected to put extra work in to catch up on what was lost because of the uni's error? i can fully understand how that becomes "let the computer do it".

also at my uni (at least in the stem department), anyone wanting to so research at the university must also do some form of teaching as part of their contract. so you get these academics who haven't had any training in teaching at all, reading out dull, convoluted slides word for word, not being able to properly answer questions (not the academics' fault tbf but i know some that have been teaching for years and never bothered to do actual training). you also get TAs not even bothering to read the guidance, simply writing "good job" when they're meant to be providing actual constructive feedback. i can fully understand thinking "well ive put all this effort in and get nothing good back, so why keep putting the effort in?"

and in my first year, there was an absolutely brutal timetable of lectures and practical labs, each of the latyer with a lab report due 3 working days later. i know i personally have agreed with posts like "you should do all your assignments in a caffeine-fuelled haze at 3am", but in reality, i really can't see myself blaming anyone in that same spot for using a tool to help with that immense workload so that they can actually take care of their health and get the right amount of sleep. especially in that first year where maybe 20% is anywhere near to what they're interested in, but they're expected to be equally good at all of it. i'd rather kids resort to ChatGPT than study drugs, ya know?

like do i agree that there is this very concerning growing lack of critical thinking? absolutely. do i think there is truth to the merit of pushing through those intense workloads? yeah at least somewhat. do i despair for the students who are refusing to grow their critical thinking skills and are relying on AI to do it for them? of course!!!

but i just think a lot of people are ignoring that it is starting to go both ways.

at the same workshop, we were asked to research a concept, and 3 out of the 5 in the group immediately went to ChatGPT. and like, INSISTED we just use that summary. these are postgrads doing masters and PhDs. we were given post it notes to write something very simple and i had to remind people like 7-8 times that the colours of the post-its meant nothing and what the task actually was. now that is what truly scares me. these people assumingly got their undergrad degree before ChatGPT was a thing, but as soon as it became available, they gave up all that knowledge and critical thinking to make the machine do it for them. same goes for the academics encouraging people to use AI the same way.

Generative AI has destroyed academia.

In the next few decades we’re going to have thousands of people who don’t really know anything, and can’t do any critical thinking.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

even more tlm references

Part 1 (Episodes 1 + 2) / Part 2 (Episode 3) / This post covers Episodes 4 + 5, as well as references from the event boys' voice lines and vignettes (since those have also been unlocked now)!

OH MY GOD. Rook says he enjoyed a bath in the hotel's bathhouse. He and Malleus comment on the beautiful interior of it, mentioning a shell-themed bathtub and a carving of a fish. THEY'RE LITERALLY DESCRIBING THE BATHHOUSE THAT ARIEL WASHED IN???

While at an outdoor market, we spot a lady in a white dress secured with a rope. Jade explains that it is a fashion style unique to the Sunshine Lands. By simply changing the way you wrap the cloth and rope, you can make many different looks! This fashion originated from repurposing the cloth used to make sails and rope.

This might just be me buggin’ but 😳 Jade says the Coral Sea has high biodiversity, meaning when those animals and plants decay, they add a lot of minerals and nutrients that enrich the water. This makes rich, imami sea salt. I wonder if this is a reference to??? How the sea Ariel comes from is also very colorful and biodiverse, as we see in Under the Sea.

At the outdoor market, Malleus spots forks of a strange shape. These, Jade explains, are actually combs in the shape of forks. There is a legend about a mermaid that combed her hair with a fork because she had recently come to land, and at a time when her people and humans knew little of each other. She would go on to have a happy marriage. This is of course a reference to Ariel using a fork to comb her hair at dinner🍴(Jade also mentions the Atlantics Memorial Museum from book 3!! They have a replica of the fork the mermaid used on display.)

The market also has stuff salvaged from sunken ships! There’s precious antiques and things of value, but also tons of junk that can be refurbished or polished back up and made reusable again. This has to be a reference to Ariel’s grotto full of items collected from sunken ships!!! She has many things here, some useful, some not, but all interesting to her.

The people of the Sunshine Lands love song and music! An example, Jade gives is playing the flute on ships and the coast. You know who plays a flute??? ERIC. We see him playing one when Ariel sees him for the first time, as well as right before he spots Vanessa on the beach.

There are lots of clothes hung up to dry in the strong sun. There’s a scene in TLM where the maids of Eric’s castle are doing laundry!! Sebastian gets caught up in it.

The groom apparently works on ships and is quite familiar with the sea… LIKE ERIC.

The cove is the same as the one Eric and Ariel went in for Kiss the Girl!! Look at this neat new background and how they’ve nicely decorated it!!

The Eternity Float starts off with the groom gushing about the “first time [he] heard [the bride’s] name”. Definitely a callback to Eric guessing Ariel’s name on the rowboat 😭

Rook makes a thick fog by firing fire at water. Fog??? Like… THE FOG ON THE BEACH WHEN VANESSA APPEARS AND ENCHANTS ERIC?!!!!!?!?!

Riddle thinks to launch barrels at the bride and groom! This makes me think of when Ariel used a barrel to help herself catch up with the wedding ship departing with Eric on it.

Jade and Riddle get into a magic fight that produces fireworks. The couple reminiscence on the time they saw fireworks together. Fireworks appear over Eric’s ship on the night Ariel sees Eric for the first time!!

Malleus creates a mighty tornado with his wind magic. Is this maybe a reference to the powerful storm Ursula summons when she has all the powers of the sea at her disposal?!

THE BRiDE AND GRoOM ARE LITERALLY ArIEL AND ERiCCCCC (Side note: Jade leaping in his merform fr reminds me of that fucking leaping dolphin meme 🐬 which is funny because his fandom emoji IS the dolphin!)

The bride saves the groom by swimming with him to safety…! Like how Ariel rescued Eric after the storm at the start of the film!

Jade successfully capsizes their rowboat!! Similar shot to what appears in the film.

The event ends on a similar shot as the film too!!! 😭 The sea… the ship drifting out on it… the rainbow appearing… Even the font they use to write “The End” is similar to the font used for TLM title. This is setting off all kinds of nostalgia alarms for meeeeeeee 🌈

In Rook’s vignette, he and Malleus go fishing but catch nothing. Right as they’re about to leave, something snags on the line—and they fish up a fragment of a statue. They hear from a local that there is a sunken ship nearby, so it’s common to catch stuff from it. Rook is amused and wonders if the fragment once used to be part of a man with a strong will. This has GOTTA be talking about the statue of Eric that got busted up.

In Malleus’s vignettes, he practices maintaining balance while rowing. I don't think this refers to anything specific in TLM, but I'm thinking maybe it could refer to the scene where Eric's men are in those lifeboats during the storm and trying to keep afloat in the rough waves??

He has a voice line saying he would like to play violin at a wedding (and in the Sunshine Lands, they often take place on boats). We can see one of Eric's crewmates playing a fiddle on the night Ariel sees him for the first time!

Malleus also has a voice line about how they are many sunken ships at the bottom of the sea. This is pretty non-specific, but I'm sure all of us remember the film opening scene with Ariel exploring a sunken ship.

In Riddle’s vignettes, he mentions that a horse's demeanor can change depending on the handler. Then an incident occurs in which a horse gets spooked and runs off without anyone in its carriage; Riddle and Rook chase after it and are able to get in the carriage. With Riddle at the helm, they're able to get the horse to leap over a valley. THIS A NOD TO HOW WHEN ARIEL TOOK THE REINS TO THE CARRIAGE... and then she and Eric bolted off... AND THEN SHE GOT THE HORSE TO LEAP OVER A GAP.

In one of Jade's voice lines, he talks about how he used to look at the city longingly from the waters. JUST LIKE ARIEL... JUST LIKE ARIEL AS SHE SINGS PART OF YOUR WORLD REPRISE ON THAT ROCK AND THE WATER GOES SPLASH!!!!!!!

Finally!! In Jade’s vignettes, a storefront sells items imported from merfolk. Items include seaweed for fortune telling, musical instruments, and accessory cases made from shells, and seahorses with anemones on their heads. This calls to mind the general seashell accessories of the merfolk, musical instruments used in Under the Sea and the concert scenes, and Ursula's little potion ingredients cabinet + skrungly clients/prisoners.

He tells a tale of how he got caught in a whirlpool while chasing after something shiny that had fallen into the sea. Could this be a reference to Eric using glowing under the water to try and attack Ursula?? asjdhasdsalid I MIGHT BE OVERTHINKING THIS ONE AND IT'S NOTHING

Jade ends his vignettes by mentioning there may come a day where he “returns to the sea”… THE LITTLE MERMAID 2: RETURN TO THE SEA?!?!!

[baby-yongbok]

Could you pleaseeeee keep doing ASD based stuff? 🥹 Maybe a fluff where Fem!reader receives something she has a hyper fixation for from chan and he stands and admires here as she stims and lightly jumps in circles 🙏🏻❤️

A little something

Bang Chan x Autistic!reader

⤷ Fluff ⤷ WC - 0.6k ⤷ a/n - this took me forever but let's pretend it didn't... I'm sorry. It's hard for me to write ASD stuff despite being on the spectrum myself but I finally did it. I used my own special interest for this & this is based off of my experience with autism and not to meant to reflect how every person with ASD may operate. I hope that you enjoy! ♡ ⋆｡‧˚ʚ Masterlist ɞ˚‧｡⋆

You found Chan by the window, sleeves shoved up, wrestling with something in his hands — a tangled mess of clear plastic and suction cups. He muttered under his breath, so focused he didn't notice you come in until you leaned your shoulder against the doorframe with a small, curious hum.

He glanced up, sheepish, and immediately tried to hide the mess behind his back. Which was pointless, because a second later a suction cup popped loose and fell to the floor with a sad little thunk.

You blinked at him, heart already starting to race the way it did when you could feel something good was about to happen. Chan smiled — a real one, the kind that crinkled his eyes, the kind he didn’t use for anyone else.

"I, uh..." He toed the suction cup across the floor with the side of his sock. "Had an idea. For you. For, y'know, spring and stuff."

He crouched down to pick it up, grumbling to himself, before straightening up and holding the whole thing out toward you. Finally letting you see it properly.

A bird feeder.

Clear plastic, simple design, with little perches and trays. Small enough to stick directly onto the glass of your bedroom window.

“So you can see them whenever you want,” he said, voice soft, almost shy. “You shouldn’t have to go looking for them.”

For a second, you just stared. Not because you didn’t get it — no, you got it too much. The thought behind it hit you straight in the chest, so much louder than any words could’ve been. 

Your hands twitched before you could even think. You squeezed them into fists, You rocked on your heels in what slowly progressed into a small bounce, and then you burst — your hands fluttered up, half-formed movements in the air, your feet carried you in excited circles as you tried to get the fuzzy feeling out. A high, shaky noise slipped out of your throat, this bright, raw little laugh you couldn't even contain.

And Chan... God, Chan just looked so stupidly proud. Like he'd just handed you the entire sun.

You didn’t know what to do first — say thank you? set it up? hug him? cry a little because someone thought of you like this?

You did a messy mix of all of it — Chan set the feeder down carefully to catch you when you fling your arms around his waist, laughing and half-crying into his hoodie.

"I love it," you mumbled against him, voice muffled. "I love you." 

He chuckled low against the top of your head, squeezing you so tightly it felt like he was trying to put all the unspoken things into his arms instead.

"Let's stick it up now," he said, pulling back just enough to wipe your cheek with his thumb, grinning like you personally kept the stars lit.

The two of you ended up perched on the windowsill, crammed side by side, sticking the feeder to the glass with too much excitement and not nearly enough coordination. Your hands kept fluttering every time you touched the feeder — tap, tap, tap — a little dance of your fingers against the window, almost like you were coaxing the birds to come faster.

Chan caught you doing it once, and instead of saying anything, he just bumped his knee against yours, soft and understanding.

It didn’t even take an hour. A tiny, brave sparrow fluttered down, landing on one of the perches like it had been waiting for the invitation. You gasped so sharply you clapped your hands over your mouth, then started bouncing where you sat, fists clenching and unclenching in wild, giddy excitement.

Chan watched the bird for maybe two seconds — then he turned to watch you instead. Like he couldn’t imagine a view better than the way you lit up.

And honestly, maybe he was right.

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[acosmicbee]

I think I’m cooking rn … so Yk how there’s all the discourse online abt child influencers?? So the Yandere in this situation is a “commentary” “video essay” YouTuber and one day they get an announcement suggesting to look into reader. See reader is a child influencer, trapped under their bad parents and forced to make videos for them and yan is immediately interested in making a video about them so he does and he notices it gets success so he continues to make videos about reader and it’s to the point where it’s low-key an obsession

do whatever u want with that au heheh 

Poison Words

500 Follower Celebration - Day 4

TWS: Mentions of creepy/implied inappropriate comments towards a minor (Y/N), Parental Neglect

"It's just some stupid kid who has nothing better to do than be jealous of others' success! Honestly, why can't he go play some video games or stick his nose into someone else's business?" You peeked out of the basement door, watching your mother pace the newly renovated modern kitchen.

Apparently, someone had been saying some lies online about your family. Not that you knew what was said, you weren’t allowed online. You were hardly allowed out of the house other than for filming videos or school.

"Honestly, this wouldn't have happened if Y/N would just behave instead of being a whiney crybaby on camera! Is it really that hard to just be quiet and smile?!" She continued. Her phone was pressed to her ear as she rhythmically paced back and forth. Her words stung, but you brushed them off. This was normal, hearing her talk about you like that.

"Y/N!" She suddenly noticed you, all her anger suddenly directed at you. "We raised you better than to eavesdrop on conversations that clearly aren't meant for you! Go back to your room right now!"

You could only nod, slinking back down the basement stairs. You had just wanted a snack, she'd forgotten to give you breakfast and lunch. Although, maybe it was less forgetfulness and more apathy towards you.

You only got fed when your parents randomly remembered you, or you were filming a video. You didn't mind filming the videos because your parents were always nicer when the camera was on. You wished the camera stayed on all the time sometimes, just so they'd hug you and tell you they loved you.

The room shown in your videos, the one that was colorful and full of toys and blankets and pillows, was merely a set you weren't allowed to actually sleep in. Your actual bedroom was a small room in the basement with a basic wooden bed frame, mattress and sheets.

You curled up on your bed, holding your pillow close as you thought about your mother's words. Someone posted a video about you...? It didn't sound positive from what your mother had said and you wondered what he had said. But there was no way for you to know... right?

. ₊ ⊹ . ���.ᐟ

You glanced around the library nervously as you crept towards the computers. At school your class got 30 minutes of library time every day, but you had never dared to touch the computers before, always picking up a book.

You felt sick with anxiety as the search bar popped up and you typed in YouTube. Everything felt overstimulating on the homepage and you quickly located the search bar, typing in your channel name. Among the most recent videos from your own channel was one with a guy on the thumbnail next to a picture of your family with your face blurred out. Gingerly, you clicked on the video.

The video started with a man, maybe in his 20s staring into the camera. He looked serious, like something bad was happening. His hair was black but had some blue highlights in it which you found super cool.

"Todays video is going to be serious. We're going to be talking about the exploitation of children and family vlogging channels. Recently, a viewer brought a channel rising in popularity to my attention. This channel is run by a mother and father and mainly features their young child."

A few video clips were shown from your channel and in every one your face had been blurred. In any clips where your name was said a beep was played over it. It was strange to you, and almost made you close out the tab when he started to talk again.

"As you know, I don't believe children should have their faces and names on the internet. It's dangerous and you never know who could be using that to their advantage behind the scenes. Even though their parents lack the care to do so, I will be blurring their face and censoring their name during this video."

It was dangerous for your name and face to be out there? The concept was so foreign to you, your entire short life was practically on the internet. Nothing bad had happened to you so far.

You spent the rest of your library time watching the video. It made that sick anxiety feeling in your stomach even worse. Was it really that strange to be posted on the internet, for your name and face to be out there?

By the time your teacher called you all to be rounded back up you pushed down the feeling, vowing to never look him up again.

. ₊ ⊹ . 📽.ᐟ

Sky had expected the copyright striking and takedown requests on his last video. The parents from that family channel seemed like the controlling type who couldn't stand having valid criticism lobbied against them.

It didn't change anything, all the clips he had in his video were covered under fair use. Now he just had more fuel for the fire. He just felt bad for you. You were such a cute kid who didn't deserve what your parents had put you through.

He decided to look a little more into you, just to make sure you were in a safe situation, while he worked on filming his next video. After all, it would be horrible if his videos were leading to backlash towards you or a worsening of your situation.

. ₊ ⊹ . 📽.ᐟ

You lasted a week and a half before you went on the computer again. Your father and mother had been arguing over another video made about them. There had been multiple similar arguments but your mother had called this person in particular a 'blue headed freak' so you guessed who it was.

You made your way to his page, finding his newest video easily. It was similar to his last one in title and thumbnail, and you forced yourself to click on it. You had been thinking about some of the stuff he'd said in his last video and wanted to see what else he'd say.

"It seems some people are unable to learn a lesson or accept that they are wrong about certain things. Your child's personal information should not be accessible on the internet. Your child's location should not be accessible on the internet. Have you even read some of your comments?! Have you read the things creeps say about your child?!"

Your eyes widen at some of the comments that flash up on screen. You feel confused, anxious and sick. You shut the computer to head to the bathroom where your teacher later finds you sobbing and throwing up. Maybe... he was right. If people were saying those weird things about you, you didn't want to be filmed anymore.

Your mother took a long time to come get you and the second you got in the car the camera was already rolling. She was playing up the worried mother as she drove you home, talking into the camera about tucking you in and making you some soup.

Of course, none of that happened. You were sent down to your room as she talked to the camera about how she'd left you some soup and you didn't want to be filmed. She was a good liar, especially if that side of her was the only side you knew.

You curled up in your bed, closed your eyes and tried not to think too hard about the disgusting things people apparently said about you.

. ₊ ⊹ . 📽.ᐟ

It was surprisingly easy to find where you lived. Sky had already mapped out your neighborhood, which was easy considering your parents had carelessly shown your school's full name to the camera before.

They were lucky Sky was just looking out for you instead of looking to harm you.

He couldn't see anything from the outside, but that was fine. He wouldn't give up until you were safe. It was a good thing he'd booked a hotel for a while. He refused to give up on you, not when he knew he could be the savior you needed.

. ₊ ⊹ . 📽.ᐟ

You had overheard your mom talking the other night about some prank they wanted to pull. It was supposed to be a kidnapping prank, one where they'd send you out to run errands only to have some paid actor drag you into a car.

You didn't see how it was supposed to be funny, but at least you were aware. When you were told to go run to the store, you didn't protest, noticing the camera your mom had tried to hide quite easily.

The walk was peaceful, but even when you were expecting it, you still jumped when your arm was suddenly grabbed and you were pulled into a car. It wasn't until your fake kidnapper pulled out an actual syringe filled with something did you realize that maybe this was going a little off script.

The substance was injected into your neck before the person started to drive. As your vision went spotty you saw the person reach up, tugging off their hair to reveal... blue hair. Oh... so this was a real kidnapping then...

. ₊ ⊹ . 📽.ᐟ

"The search for missing child Y/N L/N is still ongoing. The child was taken while out running an errand for their parents in a situation many are calling barbaric. Allegedly, their parents paid someone to pretend to kidnap the child for a YouTube video only for the man to actually take the child away." A reporter said on the TV. Sky hummed as he sliced some strawberries.

"Y/N is 6 years old and was last seen wearing a white shirt and black bicycle shorts. They are about 3 and a half feet tall." The reporter continued as a picture of your face flashed on screen. "This disappearance has raised new scrutiny into the life of family vloggers and the potentially dangerous outcomes."

Sky placed down the knife, rummaging around in his fridge looking for some blueberries. The TV continued, "The argument is a long standing one in online spaces and has come up again and again. In fact, some people were trying to raise awareness about this family in particular before the kidnapping happened. I'd like to welcome Skylar Peyton, also known online as BlueHairedSky."

Sky grinned, pulling out a carton of blueberries. He poured some into a bowl to be washed as he turned up the TV. "Thank you for having me." His own voice said from the TV. "I really appreciate being given this kind of recognition to talk about such an important issue."

From upstairs he heard a dull thud. He frowned, setting down the bowl and making his way up, the TV still echoing through the house. "Many children are being exploited for personal gain instead of loved and treated like people. I made my first video because I felt that if no one was going to speak up for them and help them, then I would. Someone should."

Sky carefully unlocked the door to the first room beside his own with a smile. "Good morning, honey! You're already awake. Here, let me help you with that." He hummed as he carefully unlocked the padded handcuffs securing you to the bed.

"I was just making breakfast! Come on, lets get you some food." He said, ignoring the way you cowered from his touch. It was because of your old parents, not because you were scared of him. He was protecting you.

"While I hope Y/N turns up alive and well, I also hope that they'll be taken away and given to someone who will actually care for their wellbeing. This entire tragedy could've been avoided if their parents cared about anything besides money."

"Any last things you want the people watching to know?" The reporter asked. Sky set you down in a chair, placing the cut strawberries in front of you as he went back to washing the blueberries.

"I hope wherever they are... they're safe and happy."

Sky smiled. Of course you were safe and happy, you were with him of course! It had been a pleasure to be interviewed like that, even if he did have to sedate you so you didn't make noise while he was live with the reporter.

They wouldn't find you. Not now, not ever. Because Sky would never let anyone take you away from him. He had saved you, so you were his.

[gourmetpunk]

This is all very well and good if you either:

a) exist within some sort of community in which people will engage with anything creative others post in it or

b) have a pre-established following on the internet.

However, it doesn't really capture why someone like me would want to take the traditional publishing route (and to be fair to nostalgebraist, I know that wasn't necessarily their aim here, this is a perfectly good explanation of why it doesn't make sense to them - I just want to provide an argument for my side here).

Unlike people of the above categories, I don't exist within any such community online and I am basically an internet nobody. I'm mostly fine with both of these things - being in such communities generally means putting in the effort to engage in a lot of amateurish work yourself, which I simply don't feel is worth my time (sorry if that sounds snobby - if it's any consolation, this mostly only applies to writing, I don't have the same kind of standards for music). And I've seen the headaches that "internet famous" people have to put up with to know better than to want that.

However, unfortunately, these two things are the main factors for getting your writing exposure on the internet in any meaningful way. Take my example: I have about 50 followers here, most of whom are probably long inactive. Of the remaining ones, most probably do not follow me with the intent to engage in any creative product I throw at them. If I started posting my fiction here, quite likely the only people who would actually read it are the 3-4 mutuals who are people I also know in real life - and even then, they probably won't read it because sitting down to read an entire novel (or even several-thousand word short story) is a big time commitment! (And for the record, I'm not blaming them - I would also be unlikely to just sit down and read through whatever fiction they threw at me here too!)

So for people like me, traditional publishing is pretty much the only way we'll get any kind of exposure whatsoever. Plus it might even help open doors on the online exposure side - I'm not saying it's likely, but I do know that if I posted a story of mine here, it would probably go almost completely unread, whereas if I posted that story linked from a site for a Real Magazine where it had been traditionally published accompanied by a note that my store was recently published in Real Magazine, someone's curiosity might actually be piqued enough for them to click through to it and read some of it.

Another factor that I feel especially applies to my writing: it is weird. It's niche. It's not the kind of thing most casual internet readers will pick up to read on a whim. And this even applies to my friends online - again, this is not an accusation because I completely understand where they're coming from, but I have sent one of my stories to friends who are curious about it only to have them come back saying they found it interesting but couldn't get through the first section or so because it was not a style they were interested in. That's fine! But I think there might be a real audience for this kind of stuff out there that is not "my immediate friends" and it's possible that a publisher could actually help me find that audience.

Finally, a factor that applies to me pretty personally but I'm sure at least a few others share: I'm not 100% confident in my craft. I am like 90% sure that the way I'm doing what I'm doing is in line with the creative vision I have for it, but that doesn't mean there isn't potential room for improvement. I would gladly accept feedback from editors, even if I'm not going to agree with all or even most of it - it could help me re-shape what I've started with into something better simply by having outside eyes on it. And the easiest way to get someone to do this without accosting my friends again or paying someone else is...well, I don't really need to say it, do I?

Imagine that you can still draw, or paint, if you feel like it, and have the tools. That hasn't changed.

And (no, this post isn't about AI, there we go, where was I) all the other newer tools still exist too: Wacom tablets exist, and Adobe Photoshop, and every sort of camera, and so forth. If you have these tools ready at hand, you can just pick them up, and make pictures with them.

And tumblr still exists, and all the rest of the internet with it. And so – if you like – you can use these venues to share the pictures you make with others, easily and immediately, for free.

However, there is also another venue, for sharing pictures.

That is the only thing that is different.

The other venue is... let's say it's a magazine that only prints visual art, and which has an extremely large number of subscribers.

Everyone knows about The Magazine. Most people you know are subscribers.

Before the internet, The Magazine was the main way that visual art got into people's homes (if it wasn't created there in the first place). Your parents speak of The Magazine as though it's just where art lives, as though the notion that there might be art somewhere else has never really crossed their minds.

Much of what appears in The Magazine is, in fact, pretty good. Conversely, much of the truly great art of the recent past made an appearance in The Magazine, at some point, before or after appearing in galleries and/or being reproduced in other ways.

But a lot of it is just... fine. Trendy, competent, workmanlike.

You flip through the pages and mostly you think, yeah, this sure is the sort of thing that gets printed in The Magazine, in the current year. Occasionally you're impressed by something you see there, and even more rarely something moves you, transfixes you.

Much the same could be said of your tumblr dash, of course.

It must be noted, however, that The Magazine has a higher quality floor than your tumblr dash. Everything that appears there looks polished, professional, carefully worked-over. This counts for less than one might think; that professional gloss can do nothing to elevate ill-conceived or simply dull work (and The Magazine does print such things fairly often).

In a gallery, you might encounter mere sketches, or blatantly unfinished paintings (Leonardo left behind plenty of both, after all). But you will never find such things in The Magazine.

The Magazine's cultural and psychological prestige is immense. It holds the popular conception of "art" in its tight, totalizing grip. If you ever pick up a pencil and draw, it will be assumed – by default – that you aspire to eventual publication in The Magazine. If you are not very good, people will tell you to keep at it; maybe someday you will make the grade. If you are good, people will tell you so, and ask you whether you've prepared anything for submission, whether you've sent it, whether you heard back.

It is tremendously inconvenient to appear in The Magazine.

After all, anyone can pick up paper and pencil, but The Magazine only has so many pages per month. So, The Magazine has standards. It is persnickety. It couldn't afford to behave differently.

But even if it could afford to behave differently, it would not want to. For it so happens that The Magazine prides itself on its active role in the production of "art" (meaning, "that which has appeared in The Magazine").

Even if you are one of the "lucky" few who does not receive a simple rejection letter from The Magazine, you will not simply be allowed to put your drawing or painting or what-have-you into The Magazine as it is.

Unmediated transmission of art, straight from artist to viewer, is for lower-class venues ("tumblr.com," "physical reality and its tendency to project images of nearby objects onto the retina," etc). The Magazine has standards, and they have a full staff of not-quite-artist, not-quite-art-critic people who are employed to impose them. If you do not get a rejection letter, what happens instead is that you begin a long and laborious transaction with one or more of these strange middlemen. They will tell you that your work is a good start, but that you really should have put this part over there, or made the symbolism more obvious or less obvious, or "applied your evident talent" to a more socially relevant choice of subject matter, or something of this nature.

Eventually, after a protracted interaction like this, you might succeed! A new, different, quite possibly worse picture – produced by laboriously adjusting your original one (which, being original/unmediated, is of course unprintable by definition) until The Magazine's staff feel satisfied in the relative scope of their role versus yours in the collaborative act that is "art" production – will end up on a page somewhere in the next issue of The Magazine.

And, finally: real art has been produced! You've made it!

You're in The Magazine. And your work ("your"? you don't feel so sure anymore) does look nice, sitting there on one of those oh-so-glossy pages.

It is nice enough that you spend nearly a minute lingering over it, before you go back to tumblr.com, where all the rest of the pictures are.

(And then, on the weekend, you go to a museum, and look at pictures which were being lauded as masterworks centuries before The Magazine was even founded. You could never produce anything like them, you know – and you feel envious of their creators, not so much because of their greater talents, but because no one ever praised them by saying, hey, this stuff is good enough to be in The Magazine!)

But at least your mom and dad will look at your drawings, now, and think: my child is an artist. You were an artist before, too, but it was just amateur stuff. Now it's for real. Professional. In The Magazine.

Professional? Well, The Magazine did pay you a little in the end, as a prize. And there are some people who make their livings this way. They have good, longstanding, hard-won relationships with The Magazine's staff of intermediaries. They are unusual; by sheer force of numbers, only a select few can make a decent and reliable living in this manner.

(Indeed, The Magazine's insistence on imposing its standards is essentially inimical to steady, reproducible money-making for individual artists. You shouldn't feel secure already that they'll print your next picture without delay, before you've even sent it in for assessment – that would mean they are not keeping standards at all, wouldn't it? And so, cultural forces within The Magazine conspire to degrade its value as a potential source of one's livelihood.)

Those who appear regularly in The Magazine have unparalleled reach. As a child, perhaps, they shaped your notion of what an "artist" was; as a child, maybe you wanted to be just like them, when you grew up.

But then you did grow up – and so, you realized that they were employing the tools at hand (pencil, paper) to a very unusual end. Anyone can pick up the tools and draw. But few can make it into The Magazine, and perhaps even fewer than that should want to appear there.

After all, there is something almost shameful about the exercise, isn't it?

The Magazine says: I am the means by art is produced and disseminated. And many people, passively following the ambient culture, unconsciously nod along.

But in fact, The Magazine has no potency in it whatsoever. It is you, and the viewer, who create the work of art and create the experience of experiencing art. You can just draw things. You can just show your drawings to people.

And The Magazine cannot turn an uninspired artist into a genius, or an unskilled artist into a master; it can only trim perceived fat, arrange perceived rough edges into a more agreeable shape, apply gloss and trendiness and "professionalism." But those were never what anyone liked about art to begin with. You don't need them – unless you do, for your own artistic reasons (and your viewers'), and in that case home-made versions will probably do the job well enough.

There is, in fact, not much reason at all to want to appear in The Magazine.

And that, in itself, is a strong argument against the idea.

You ought not to play along in the charade, pretending that the whole laborious exercise has a point after all, if you know that it is in fact pointless. This is a matter of integrity, if nothing else.

Anyway, that's how I feel whenever anyone's like, "so are you gonna try to get this stuff published or what"

[distressednoise]

Trying to articulate why I'm so not on board with the "it was his destiny all along" element introduced in the latest Andor arc, and I think it's partly because so much of what was moving about Rogue One was that it was about a group of people who thought they'd missed their chance at making a difference, at doing something they could be proud of, before realising it's never too late. It's a choice. It's a choice you can make at any time.

But another part of it is because "I need to start making my own decisions" was always such a twisty part of Cassian's psyche, and this has radically simplified it in a way I don't like.

In Rogue One he's clearly someone who can be trusted with orders, even if they're secretive or underhanded. When he says, "I had orders that I disobeyed," the implication is that this is a rare occurrence. But he actually makes his own decisions all the time, they're just not ones he likes. His orders weren't "kill an informant on Kafrene" or "keep Jyn Erso alive" or "rescue the pilot from jail" or - well, most of what he did in Rogue One. It's all improvisation, and we see this in Andor as well - he's spent most of s2 turning down work, going to Mina Rau when he's not meant to, running away from Luthen and toward Draven.

But he still tells himself he's not making his own choices, and that's such an interesting flaw. Jyn Erso won't look up; Cassian Andor can't lower his gaze lest he notice what his own hands are doing. He's spent his whole life spying and sabotaging and manipulating and he can do that because he's able to delude himself first - just orders! Not my choice! - and it's only when he reaches his limits for self-delusion and realises how much agency he has, has always had, that we get the Scarif rebels and that "welcome home" that cuts both ways. (Edit: He's coming home to himself! You understood this in 2x01, Andor. What happened?)

But now it's fate. It's fucking fate and he's a chosen one with a magic destiny that everyone can feel and he's never making his own choices at all. Maybe that's meant to make Scarif more tragic, but I think it makes it cheaper. It's not that he grew. It's not that he went through nihlism and came out the other side. It's not that he finally faces the reality of himself and his choices and changes. It's that he's the universe's special boy, and he'd have ended up there regardless. Those really weren't his choices. In some ways they weren't choices at all. It makes his arc in Rogue One feel so cheap and... I don't know where I'm going with this, except a persistent delusion that s2 was six episodes long, but I think it's a shame we're back to a chosen one narrative when Rogue One's great strength was that it focused on the ones who chose.

[ollyissleepy]

heyyyy don’t mind if I slip in here … is that hxh I see…….. would you perchance write an platonic yandere Illumi with a child mc? Please and thank you 😊🙏

𝐭𝐡𝐞 (𝐮𝐧)𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝

pairings: platonic yandere!illumi zoldyck x child!reader summary: Illumi takes his precious child home, away from all the people that might hurt them. He also makes sure to take revenge on the ones that already did. cw: yandere behaviours, stalking, murder, child abuse, mentions of torture a/n: sorry it took a while, had to take care of some stuff

Illumi scans the room he was just brought to by one of the servants. A man sitting on one of the couches, staring directly at him. A woman sitting on an armchair, mindlessly stirring the drink in her hand. And a child, no older than five, staring at their feet.

He steps towards the couch across from where the child's father is sitting. Illumi watches the child closely, looking for any sort of movement. The curious eyes didn't go unnoticed by the father.

"No need to worry. I'll make sure they won't say a thing," the man reassures Illumi.

He shifts the conversation for Illumi really was here for the man his clients wanted out of their way. He listens to the man in front of him going on and on about the wrongdoings of his enemy. Illumi nods along, not really caring about the reasons the man might have had to hire an assassin on someone. Bored, his eyes roam the room, trying to find something more interesting. Illumi looks over at the wife, who's not sipping slowly out of her cup. Illumi's eyes then dart towards the child. He takes note of how they haven't moved from their spot. It catches his attention, trying to understand why they won't dare to move a muscle.

Then, he spots it. A bruise decorating the child's left arm. It's faint, barely visible to a normal eye. But Illumi still sees it. It's right there. He wonders what such an obedient child could've done to earn a beating.

Illumi's staring doesn't go unnoticed by the parents of said child. Next thing he knows, the child is being dragged away by their mother, disappearing behind a door. Illumi now had an idea of what type of parents he was dealing with.

The child's father cleared his throat, bringing Illumi's attention back to himself. Illumi sits through the rest of the meeting, barely listening to the man in front of him. He lies about needing to feel the situation to find the right time to get rid of the target. In reality, he wants to be sure about the people he's about to kill for.

Illumi starts observing the family from afar. Quickly noticing that the child seemed to not leave the house. Not with their parents, at least.

He sees the way the parents seem to ignore the existence of their child until they find it doing something that doesn't please them. He sees the way the child tries to make themself as small as possible, trying not to take up too much space.

He saw the child's bedroom, which was more suitable as a guest bedroom. The empty walls and lifeless decorations were not ones a child would enjoy having in their room. He also takes notice of the lack of toys anywhere in the house.

The first time Illumi sees one of the parents getting physical with the child, he's taken aback. He saw how the child tripped while walking up to the couch, causing the coffee table to shake. Illumi's brows furrow more with each hit landing on the child.

With each beating he sees (name), as he learnt was the child's name, he grew more and more angry. Angry for the child who has to live in such conditions.

Back in his hideout, Illumi catches himself thinking about what it would be like to take in the small child. Subconsciously he started changing things around the place, trying to make it more suitable for (name). He buys toys, interactive puzzles, and books. Anything they could want. He smiles at the finished room. It had everything he believed (name) would need: a mountain of toys and books, soft bedding, and small pictures with cartoon characters on them. Illumi also made sure to plant a few cameras. Anything to ensure his baby's safety.

With everything ready for (name)'s moving into the hideout, Illumi finally decides to kill the man the child's father asked him to.

The dead man's head wrapped in cloth is placed in front of (name)'s father. They're back in the same room they met in the first time. The child's father, looking a little sick from the head in front of him, gives a bag of money to Illumi.

He opens the bag, checking if it's the amount they agreed on. He sighs, placing the bag next to the corpse.

"It's not enough." Illumi stretches, pointing at the bag.

"What? That's what you agreed on?" (Name)'s father asked, confused.

"Yeah, well, the target put up a fight," Illumi lies. The target didn't even know he was dead before it was too late.

"We can't give you more…" the mother starts, not wanting to upset an assassin.

"I don't want more money," Illumi states, staring directly into the father's eyes. "I want them." He points towards the child in the corner.

The parents look at each other, trying to decide what their next move should be. The mother calls (name) over. She pushes the child towards Illumi, telling him to take them.

Illumi kneels in front of the child, checking them over. He doesn't comment on the black eye nor on the bruise on their cheek.

That day, his baby finally came home.

The first few days are rough. (Name) didn't seem to know how to act the way a normal child would. They didn't touch any of the toys, not even with Illumi's encouragement. The child also didn't sleep much. Illumi saw the way they just lay in their bed, their eyes wide open. He also hasn't heard a sound coming out of (name)'s mouth.

A small shift happened on the third day. Illumi was sitting at a desk, filling out a few papers with a monitor showing the insides of his baby's room. He glanced over at it. He couldn't believe his eyes at first. His lips curled into a small smile, seeing (name) pick up one of the many toys, holding it at arm's length and staring at it. In Illumi's mind it meant progress; his baby was finally feeling at home.

The next change appeared a few days later. Illumi noticed that the child seemed to be following him around the hideout, always a few steps behind him. He started inviting the child to come closer to him, softly calling out their name. He started reading to them every night, as he noticed that it helped them sleep.

One of those nights, Illumi sneaked away from the hideout. He felt horrible leaving his baby alone, but he had a business to attend to.

Illumi walked through (name)'s old home like a ghost. He only had one goal that night: to avenge his baby.

He finds the child's parents sleeping soundly in their room. For a moment he wonders if he should wake them up, making them suffer the same way they made his baby suffer. He would start with the father, slowly cutting all of his limbs off, letting him bleed till death. Then, he would move to the mother, doing the same.

He snaps out of it, remembering that his baby is at home alone. He would hate for them to wake up in an empty house. He kills the parents in their sleep, not interested in wasting any more time on such scum.

The first thing he does after returning to the hideout is to check on his baby. Illumi opens the door, making (name) stir awake. He coos at them, stepping closer. The child moves over, patting the space on their bed.

Illumi smiles, lying down beside his child. He carefully wraps his arms around them, whispering:

"It's alright, little one. You're home now."

[mountttmase]

When You Know - Part 3

Note - I think I’m starting to blur the lines between fic and blurb as these are getting longer each time 😭 please don’t hate our baby too much even though he deserves it 😭 feedback is appreciated as always 🩷

Pairing - Mason Mount x Reader

Word count - 3.6k

Warnings - Angst

If there was one thing you wished you hadn't done that first night you were home with Freddie was sit on your phone and look through instagram for a bit once Freddie had been fed and you’d caught up with everything you needed to.

Ignorance is bliss they always say.

He’d told you he was going to an event. That Benny had set it up and he couldn’t back out but as you flicked through everyone’s stories from the day you felt your heart stop as you clicked on ones from a girl you used to work with.

It was fairly obvious to you it was him, the same t-shirt he’d come to pick you up in and those shorts were a Christmas present you’d gifted him just nine months ago when everything seemed so different.

You weren’t really friends with the girl anymore, losing contact after you quit your job for a better opportunity but you’d seen her on nights out before and she had always seemed interested about yours and Mason’s relationship. Now you probably knew why as she’d had the eyes for him but you never figured he’d want the same.

The thought of looking at another man was not something that was in the agenda for you right now and if you were being honest with yourself you weren’t sure if ever would be. You were still unbelievably hurt by everything that had gone down between you and Mason, living in denial for the most part and believing that this would all be over soon and he’d come back to you but this was a kick in the teeth. Seeing him with other girls wasn’t something you’d thought about happening as everything still felt so fresh but there he was and you didn’t know what to do about it.

You knew it was him before you opened it, this weird feeling in your gut whenever he messaged and whilst the sight of his name lighting up your phone used to fill you with butterflies, now it was only dread.

His wording frustrated you, knowing It’s not that he didn’t want to cause a bother, he just didn’t want to be there if either yours or his families were around as he knew both sets of parents were mad at him and it would be easier for him to just avoid everyone.

Thankfully, you had the morning to yourself as everyone was planning on coming over in the afternoon to give you some time to settle in and whilst you were looking forward to some alone time with your little squish, Mason was Freddie’s father and you weren’t about to deny him time with his son.

So you told him you were free until two and he promised he’d be over shortly. You didn’t bother tidying up or making yourself look presentable as you knew it didn’t matter and when there was a knock on your door 15 minutes later, you let him in with a stoic look.

‘Hey’ he smiled, clearly not picking up on any awkwardness on your end so you just nodded him in and shut the door behind him. Leading him into the living room where he was straight over to Freddie so he could pick him up and hold him to his chest.

You wanted to scream your lungs out. To cuss him out for not caring about Freddie at all last night and putting his own needs over his two day old sons but you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. Instead taking a different route to let him know you knew what he’d been up to and to hopefully make him sweat a bit.

‘So how was your event last night?’ You asked him after you’d gotten him some water and set it down on the coffee table.

‘Oh yeah, it was good thanks’ he smiled, his face not giving anything away as he lied through his teeth and you knew you’d have to keep pushing him.

‘Yeah? What was it for again?’

‘Some new game that’s coming out’

‘Oh really? Sounds like a big deal’ you nodded as he shrugged but you didn’t give him the satisfaction of telling you anymore lies. ‘Not something I would have worn shorts to but hey, that’s your decision. The pizza looked good though’ you nodded and you saw his face drop instantly as he clocked on that you’d figured him out. ‘I can’t believe they’d hold a gaming event at Maya’s house too, that seems super impractical’

‘Y/n I can explain-’

‘What’s to explain? You lied and spent the first night your first child was at home with another woman’ you shrugged sarcastically, getting more and more agitated as he tried to argue with you about it.

‘But-’

‘The first night, your first child was home, Mason’ you practically growled at him through gritted teeth as your eyes filled with tears, no longer willing to hide how you were feeling behind jokes. ‘How could you do that to him?’

‘Oh give over, it’s not like he even knows what planet he’s on right now let alone if I was here or not’ he scoffed and you couldn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth.

‘But you did know, that’s the point. Things are different now, you can’t just do what you want all the time you need to have different priorities’

‘I didn’t come here for a lecture on how to live my life. You don’t get to decide that anymore’

‘I never did! You’ve always done things your way, that’s why we’re in this mess right now’

‘I think you need to calm down’

‘Yeah well I think you need to leave’ you told him, standing up so you could walk him out be he still sat there with Freddie asleep on him. ‘I’ll sort a schedule out and and we’ll go from there’

‘No, I won’t-‘

You cut Mason off with a loud gasp. Your hands flying to your tummy as a large shooting pain traveled through you and knocked the wind out of you and you didn’t know what to do next. Turning away from him so he didn’t get the satisfaction of looking at you in pain but the words that came out of his mouth sounded soft and sincere.

‘Are you okay? What’s wrong?’

‘Oh like you give a shit’ you spoke through gritted teeth, not in the mood for him suddenly to be a nice person. ‘I’m fine, just go’ you whimpered.

‘No, I’m here now and I want to see my boy. You’re obviously in pain so why don’t you go and lay down and I’ll look after him for a bit’ he offered and you knew you needed to say yes. You were exhausted and even though you were furious you didn't want to stop Mason from seeing his son, so without another word to him you left the room and popped upstairs to have a lie down.

You obviously needed a nap as you were practically asleep as soon as your head touched the pillow for well over an hour. Waking up to a cold bottle of water and a packet of your favourite biscuits on your bedside table as well as some painkillers but there was no time to sit and think about any nice gestures as the noise from downstairs had your attention straight away.

The sound of Freddie’s cries always made your tummy twist, but you also knew it was a sound you would have to get used to. His wailes echoing through the house and you got up as quickly as your body would let you to make your way downstairs, finding Mason doing laps of your living room as he tried to comfort Freddie who was balled up on his chest.

‘He won’t stop’ he gulped as his eyes caught yours. ‘I’ve changed his nappy so it’s definitely not that, I don’t know what else-’

‘He’s probably hungry’ you told him flatly. ‘I’ll go and grab his bottle’

Mason nodded to the sofa as you came back in and you could see he was getting ready to transfer Freddie over to you so you got comfortable before taking him in your arms. Settling him down so he was nice and comfy before you popped the lid to feed him. His cries stopped instantly and you could feel Mason relax as well as he hovered next to you just by the arm of the chair. Eventually kneeling next to the sofa so he could look at Freddie but you could see there was still a cloud of worry all over his face.

‘I didn’t think about him being hungry, how stupid am I?’ He chuckled, eventually leaning his elbow on the arm so he could get a better look at him and for the next five minutes you sat in a slightly uncomfortable silence as you watched him feed.

‘I’ll get out of your hair now, if you want’ he told you quietly but all you could do was shrug. Not liking the way he would constantly use the excuse of being in the way as a reason to be apart from the pair of you but you needed to get used to figuring out how to do things on your own so you just nodded and kept your eyes on Freddie.

You almost let out a smile when Mason pressed his lips to the crown of Freddie’s head, but when he did the same to you, you froze in shock. Your tear filled eyes following him out the room and only when you heard the door shut behind him did you take a shaky breath out.

This was proving to be a lot harder than you anticipated and it was only the first day. Your expectations that Mason might pull himself together for his son were out the window and as the months dragged on he only got worse.

You had Freddie every night and that’s how you’d agreed for it to go from the start with his job, but Freddie was three months old the first time he took him for a few hours on his own. You wondered if he was just nervous and unsure of how to look after him but you had been the same in the beginning and you’d powered through it.

The fact he did so little made you appreciate the things he did do but when you finally cottoned on to the way he wasn’t putting effort in you felt that same resentment return. Thankfully both sets of grandparents were angels and as the weeks went by you saw more of Debbie than you ever did of Mason. You didn’t mind though as she seemed to be the only person you could really speak to about your frustrations with him as she had the exact same ones and it felt good to be heard and understood.

As the weeks went on you felt more and more like a single parent. Freddie’s big milestones you celebrated just the two of you and as he grew before your eyes you revelled in the fact you really did have a little best friend for life and no matter what the future held.

It was in the rare occasions that Mason did have Freddie you felt the worst. You never wanted this and you most definitely never wanted this for Freddie either as your dream was always to have him grow up in a happy and stable home with both parents who loved him and each other more than anything. But when he was gone you felt like you were missing a part of yourself and you spent your time going through the motions until he was back to give your life purpose.

In all the years you’d known Mason, you’d never known him to be as flakey as he was starting to be. Plans made to look after Freddie fell through more times than they happened and you were just thankful Freddie didn’t understand how much his dad was letting him down.

Freddie was nine months old when it came to a head. It was the morning the first time Mason was going to take him for a few days back home to Portsmouth and you were sat in the living room with his little bag packed alongside yours as you’d booked yourself a little staycation as a distraction from being away from him.

Mason should have been arriving in just under an hour and you were sat in the sofa having a nonsensical chat with Freddie when you felt your phone buzz.

‘I’m so sorry, baby’ you whispered as you picked Freddie back up and held him to your chest. ‘It doesn’t matter though, you can come with me on my trip, okay? We’ll go to the seaside and play on the beach and I’ll win you a toy on the pier’ you giggled, trying to laugh through your tears as you were so upset for him. ‘It doesn’t matter that he can’t have you cause I’ll give you everything you need, poppet. I always will’

The good thing was he was all packed already so you got everything in the car and got on the road. It took a little longer now Freddie was with you as you had to make extra stops but you made it to your little home for the week in good time and after a quick run to do the food shop you were eating dinner with him on your lap as you watched the sun set into the sea.

You didn’t hear from Mason at all during your week and you weren’t sure if you were happy or annoyed about it, but in the moment you didn’t didn’t let it bring you down. Doing everything you told Freddie you would do by spending your days on the beach and taking him for a swim before playing on the sand. Thinking Mason going away was actually a blessing in disguise as you knew you were having way more fun with Freddie here than you ever would have had alone and and after a few days you felt even more energised.

The last full day of your trip the pair of you decided on a lie in. Freddie was curled up in a ball with his head on your shoulder as you flicked through the usual apps on your phone but as you made it to instagram you noticed you had way more messages than usual.

You didn’t know what it was, but you knew in soul that something wasn’t right and you’d felt it all morning so when you noticed al the messages in your inbox you knew it wasn’t something good.

It was a regular thing when you and Mason were together for people to send you articles about him and even more so when you’d split up and it wasn’t public yet but it had been a few months since the last one. Mason was always out on the weekends and linked with different people but you’d become numb to the whole situation and didn’t want to read them anymore.

This morning was different though and as you clicked through the random messages you saw they were all sending you the same link. Eventually clicking on one to see what the fuss was all about but once you had you wished you had the power to go back in time and delete it from your memory.

That same sticky uncomfortable feeling washed over you like it always did when you had to read something like this. Waves of heat rippling through you as your heart thudded uncontrollably and you wished you’d just ignored your phone completely today.

You didn’t know what to think, he wasn’t your problem anymore but the fact he’d skipped out on a week with his son for a week in Italy to seemily shag every girl in sight made your heart break for your son. You would drop any plans and do whatever you needed to do to be there for him but his dad didn’t play by the same rules.

As much as you told yourself it didn’t matter and he was free to see who he wanted it still stung. The thought of even looking at another man was off the cards for you but clearly the same didn’t apply to him and it seemed to be the final nail in the coffin for you. You had way more respect for yourself than he clearly did and if this is how he wanted to play it then you’d finally wash your hands with him.

So you did what you always did. Dragged yourself out of your pit of misery and poured your focus into your boy in hopes he’d never feel an ounce of hurt like you currently were.

The salty sea air felt warm as it brushed against your skin, making the hairs on your arms stand up on end as the sun bore down on you and as you felt yourself begin to warm up, you covered Freddie up a little more so he was shielded from the light.

He was currently sat on your lap with his head on your chest, his little arms and legs either side of you with his front pressed to yours as he snoozed away peacefully and your need to protect him from everyone and everything was swimming through your veins as you thought over everything that had happened this morning.

When your phone started buzzing you knew it was him without even looking. Your eyes glancing down to see his name filling your screen as he tried to call you but you just let it ring off as you were in no mood to talk to him. That didn’t stop him though and you sat for a good 20 minutes as he called and called and called but you held your ground and ignored him even though you wanted to answer and tear him a new one.

He eventually stopped, a brief 20 minutes of relief as your phone remained silent but when it went off again you couldn’t help but look to see if it was him. You were met with something different this time though, a sweet picture of Freddie as a tiny baby laid in Debbie’s arms with her name flashing above it and even though you really weren’t in the mood to talk to anyone you knew you couldn’t ignore her.

‘Hiya love, everything okay?’ She asked, her voice just as warm and comforting as usual and as far as you could tell she didn’t sound off at all making you think she had no idea about your whole morning's ordeal.

‘Hey Debbie, yeah fine thanks. You?’

‘Yeah all good here’ she grinned but the beat of silence just after made you stiffen in worry. ‘Listen, Mason just called me. He’s been trying to get a hold of you all morning but he can’t get through?’

‘Oh yeah… um’ you croaked. Rolling your eyes just after as you were so annoyed with yourself for not holding together for longer but she’d heard you upset now and there was nothing you could do about it.

‘Y/n? What’s wrong hun?’

‘Sorry’ you blubbed, no longer caring about holding it together. ‘Mason was meant to have Freddie for a few days and I booked myself a little get away but he cancelled the morning he was meant to pick him up and I’ve brought Freddie with me. I guess just after that article this morning I-‘

‘What article?’ She questioned and you almost laughed that he’s obviously forgotten to tell her that crucial but of information when he’s called her up just before.

‘Just search his name, you’ll see’ it you laughed and you could just about hear her sigh on the other end.

‘Where are you?’

‘Isle of wight’ you laughed. ‘Sorry I know it’s super close, I was actually planning on dropping in with Freddie on the way home tomorrow if you were around?’

‘Of course I am, just get here whenever you like okay? I’ll make lunch for you both’

‘Thank you’ you whispered, thankful that you had someone like her in your life and after a quick chat she let you go. Clearly eager to call Mason back after she’d looked him up and you felt a slight sense of achievement knowing he was about to get told off.

You had a quiet night in for your last night. Packing up all your things after you’d put Freddie down for the night with his little stuffed crab you’d won him on the claw machine and even though this week hadn't been what you’d planned you wouldn’t change it for the world. There was the small issue of Mason but you decided to put that to the back of your mind until you pulled up outside his parents house around 11am the next day.

Tony was first to greet you and after a quick hug he’d taken Freddie off and inside for some playtime but as soon as you clocked eyes with Debbie your felt your walls crumble.

‘You’re okay’ she whispered into your hair as she held you. Her sympathetic voice only upset you more and as your quiet sobs shook through your whole body it hit you that this was Mason's mum and you know you should be putting on a brave face for her. She had always treated you like her own though and you knew she cared for you so as she pulled you inside you forgot everything and let yourself finally feel everything you’d been holding on for months.

y/n

liked by masonmount, lulu546, ellie_xo and others

y/n When life gives you lemons 🍋

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lulu546 the sweetest lemon I ever did see 🥹 I just wanna eat him up

y/n how I haven’t taken a bite out of him yet I’ll never know

debbiemount60 what a gorgeous little man 🥺 can’t wait to see you both tomorrow!

y/n us too! Freddie is so excited to see everyone 🩷

lew.mount I hope he’s in the mood for uncle cuddles 🥰

y/n he always is! But I’ll take one too if you’re offering 😂

[kandyscorner]

Do I Know You? Part 25

Synopsis: You’re honest with Jason about some things, and your mimosas catch up to you.

Note: Still in the midst of the brunch. It’s a few more chapters than I thought, but I think I’ll wrap it up in the next chapter. Thank you for all the lovely comments on the last chapter. I know that Dick being Nightwing was like a big reveal moment, but miss girl is drunk and that is not a priority. Also, I don’t drink alcohol, so if my descriptions of drunkenness have been inaccurate, I apologize.

Little warning: she does throw up in this chapter.

Masterlist

Jason was jealous, that green-eyed monster sitting on his shoulder ragged him about how now that you’d meet the likes of Dick Grayson, why would you ever want Jason Todd. The way you stared at Dick was what bothered him the most, it was like you were in a trance. He gets it, Dick is a good-looking man. That doesn’t mean he felt good about it.

But then you had turned towards him, reached for him without thinking, and it was like the sun shining on a wilted sunflower. Even though Dick was standing there, off to the side with that stupid smile, you openly told Jason you would rather have him. Dick left and the way you clambered to hold Jason had his heart soaring.

“I get it, you like me,” he had said, mostly to get you to lay off. He still felt a tad bit jealous, and he didn’t need you forcing anything else out of him.

“Duh,” you had said, like it was the easiest and most obvious thing in the world.

Duh, like you wouldn’t want to like anyone else in the world. it made that little monster disappear because why would you say something like that if you could choose Dick Grayson. It also helped that he thinks you're just a tad tipsy, and drunk lips usually equal honest lips.

Jason has a list of things that make him think you’re on the way to being drunk. You had been swaying when Selina brought you over, and you had a certain exuberance to your features when you saw him, like it was the happiest day of your life. You were talkative, repeating the same words as you rushed to tell the story of where you disappeared. Even as you two walked into the woods, your eyes would wander, and the rest of your body would try to follow.

When he was doing your dress, your swaying got worse. You almost fell as you leaned back, had he not been there to stop you. Your cheeks were flushed, which he wasn’t too sure about because you seemed a little flustered about the whole situation anyway. He wonders if your straying has anything to do with your tipsy state. You were entirely uncoordinated and lost, hands missing where you tried to grab and leading him in the wrong direction of the brunch.

Yeah, Jason was sure you were tipsy, although not entirely drunk. You still seemed somewhat conscious of your surroundings, although you were starting to get clingy, holding onto his arm as he led to where he saw Steph sitting at a table with Damian and Cass.

If you were tipsy, it had to have been his fault. He gave you two mimosas, and you still hadn’t eaten anything. He had to rectify that. He shuffled you into a seat next to Steph with a mild giggle from you. He couldn’t help but smile at the fit you fall into, laughing at something only known to you.

“You seem to be in a mood,” Cass says to you with a smile.

“It’s been a really interesting day,” you lean forward, arms stretched like you're trying to reach Cass, but you get distracted by Steph’s kaleidoscope purple nails.  She lets you pull her hands closer to your face with a grin.

“I’m going to get her some much-needed food. Do not let her leave this table, understand?” He directs the words most at Steph, whom he had left you with last time, and Damian, who had pulled you away from the crowd. You don’t even move from where you stare at Steph’s nails, he doubts you even hear him. Which is fine, maybe that’ll keep you distracted until he gets back. He doesn’t want to leave you here if you're going to get weepy again.

Damian seems to be the only one who took his demand seriously, a curt nod in Jason’s direction. The girls seem like they want to tease. Cass with a more pleased look, likely because she knows the truth, but Steph is what he worries about. That mischievous grin makes him a little antsy to leave you there, but you need food. Hopefully, the other two will keep her in line.

****

Steph’s nails were pretty, a shimmery purple that changed as you twisted her hand this way and that. You could hear talking, but your ears were stuffy to the noise, and Steph’s nails were just so pretty. Her hands wiggle in yours, and you look up to meet her face.

“How are you feeling?” She’s got an earnest look in her pretty green eyes.

“You have pretty eyes,” you pause, “but I think I like Jason’s better.” Steph grins at you.

“I’m sure you do. How’s your head?”

You squint at her, “My head's fine, it's not like I hit it or anything. Although I might be getting sick like a head cold? I’m a little dizzy and things are a little fuzzy, but I think maybe I need food. Jason said we were going to get food, but now we're here. Hey, jay-” you turn around looking for him.

“Where’d he go?” you blink, suddenly aware of his missing presence. Steph’s hands curl around yours and pull a little, drawing your attention back to her.

“He went to get you food. Don’t worry, he’ll be back soon. Your stomach isn’t bothering you?”

“Brown, what are you doing?”

“Oh, Hey, Damian.” You say, having not noticed him before. He nods at you before turning his attention back to Steph. She waves him off.

“I’m going to win a bet. How is your stomach?” she asks again.

“My stomach feels fine.” Her eyes are glimmering again, but you don’t really have in you to question it. She stands for a second, and then there’s another mimosa glass in front of you.

“Just one more and we should play some truth or dare.” You stare at the glass, then shrug. You pick up the glass, and then Cass stops you.

“This is a bad idea, Steph. She’s already tipsy, and you heard Jason. She hasn’t eaten anything. We don’t want to give her alcohol poisoning.”

“We are not giving her alcohol poisoning. Four mimosas won't do that. I'm just trying to loosen her up so she’ll tell Jason the truth about how she feels.” Steph argues. You only catch the first part.

“Yeah,” You pry Cass’s hand from the glass, “besides, how would I get alcohol poisoning from Orange juice?” You drink half the glass in one go. As you set the glass down, you meet the surprised faces of the girls.

“You think that’s orange juice?” Steph nearly shouts, and Cass slaps a hand over her mouth. You make a face at them.

“It is orange juice,” you say, confused why they were reacting like that. You bring the glass to your lips, and they’re both yanking the glass from your hands.

“You're done,” Steph says as she sets the glass on a tray to be taken away from you.

“Has your plan to win the bet backfired yet?” Damian asks in a snobbish tone.

“What bet?” you question, and Steph waves you off.

“Don’t worry about it. How many of those did you drink?” Both she and Cass stare at you in worry.

“I don’t know,” You shrug, still unsure what they were so alarmed about.

“Jason’s going to kill me,” you giggle at what Steph words.

“No, he won't. I’ll make sure he won't.”

“You might want to kill me tomorrow.” She adds, and you frown. An uncomfortable feeling crawls up your throat, and you wipe your hands on your dress, an unwanted phantom texture showing itself between your fingers.

“Can we talk about something else?” As the words leave your mouth, a plate of food is set in front of you. You tip your head back to see the face connected to the hand. With the back of your head pressed to his stomach, you get a view of an upside-down Jason. His hand comes up to press a finger between your brows, your body relaxes, and you forget about any uncomfortable feeling and what it could be connected to.

“What happened?” you hear him ask as you close your eyes. You don’t know if he’s talking to you or someone else, but you're far too comfortable to care.

You blink your eyes as he disappears, your head shifts back with the sudden missing support. His hand, which was on your forehead, appears on the nape of your neck. You turn your head to follow him as he sits next to you, pulling his chair close so his knee is pushing into your thigh.  Your hand settles on top of his thigh as you stare at him.

“Why did you leave me?” you ask, a strange, tearful ache emerges in your chest, and despite those words leaving your lips, your face pouts and scrunches in confusion. The words make you think of Red Hood because it's what you want to say to him. You don’t know why you're saying it to Jason. You're even more confused because Jason looks guilty, more than just someone who left to bring you food. His thumb rubs affectionately under your ear.

“Eat something, honey, or you're gonna start to feel sick soon.” He insists, holding a croissant up for you to see. Your hands leave him as you take the bread and start to slowly peel the layers and eat them, focusing solely on the task.

****

Jason needed a break. It was rare that you stressed him out, but you were kind of stressing him out. Although maybe it wasn't just you. Maybe it was all of this. The brunch, his family, you meeting his family, and then you apparently being a lightweight?  He hadn’t really thought about it before, but Jason’s never seen you drink, much less talk about drinking.

It's like you couldn’t decide what type of drunk you were. You were overly talkative, then you were quiet and secretive. You were happy and giggly, and then you were sad. Overall, it seemed the only consistency was that you were clingy, body tipping towards him at any given chance.

He didn’t like the way you spoke when he came back with food. Why did you leave me?  There was heaviness in it, and it reminded him of the warehouse all those months ago, the way you had begged and pleaded with him not to leave you. He didn’t like it, no, he much preferred the sober you. So, he distracted you with bread instead of answering the question. He watched you for a moment as you tried to methodically peel the layers of the croissant before eating it. You probably weren’t going to sober up soon at this rate.

When he looked, he found his siblings staring. Even Damian has a questioning tilt to his head. There's no doubt in Jason’s mind that they heard the emotion in your voice; he wanted to brush them off. It wasn’t any of their business.

“She’s not allowed to drink anymore, just water. I need a minute.”

“Jason-” He hears Cass call out. He already had one heart-to-heart with Cass; he didn’t need any more. He didn’t need any more questions, he didn’t need anyone telling him how much he cared about you, he didn’t need anyone else saying he was a mess just for you.

No more teasing. No more heaviness.

Just a minute to breathe. And a cigarette.

Jason didn’t smoke often unless he was truly wound up. An old habit from living on the streets, he had worked hard to get rid of it. He knew what drugs could do to people.  But sometimes, like now, he needed it.

He could only hope Alfred hadn’t ever found his stash or that they hadn’t rebricked the side of the house. He could go inside and find a stash there, but he still wanted to keep an eye on you. He tapped along the bricks of the house, trying to remember where it was. He was shorter, much shorter, when he hid them. He crouched just a little and…

Bingo.

The hodgepodge caulking job he did to try and hide it was atrocious. He can’t believe no one found it. Jason pulls his pocketknife out and starts carving out the shitty seal before shimmying the brick. There it was, a little tin box, to save it from the weather, he had reasoned at the time.

Jason pulled it and replaced the brick. Popping open the tin, he checked over the cigarettes inside. No mold? That’s pretty good, all things considered. Was he really about to smoke 8-year-old cigarettes? Yes, he was. He could regret it later.

Jason meandered back to the back of the building and settled on the corner where he could still see you. He placed the cigarettes in his mouth and tried the lighter. It took a few times, but a flame finally sputtered to life, and he lit the cigarette. The first inhale was a little rough; it had been a while since he’d smoked, but the second drag went in easier.

He watched you as he smoked. You were back to giggling again as you slowly ate… the croissant? How are you still eating the croissant? He shakes his head. He should’ve known. You could be a pretty slow eater when you wanted to be, but he just wished you wouldn’t do it now.

He probably shouldn't have left you again. The way you had asked that question bothered him. There was that sadness, but there was a simmering anger behind it. For some reason, he doesn’t think you're talking about today, but he doesn’t know when else you could be talking about.  Unless you know he was Red Hood.

No, you couldn’t possibly, you would’ve said something. Jason hisses at the sudden burning sensation on his fingers, dropping the cigarette bud. He hadn’t realized he had already burned through it. He didn’t feel much better, but they were old. Just one more and he’d throw away the tin and go back to you. Hopefully, his family didn’t do anything else.

Once the next cigarette was lit, he looked up to watch you again, but you were gone. The three still at the table looked like they were arguing about something. He gave them one job, but clearly, he didn’t give enough instructions.

He stands straight and looks around. You had just been there less than a minute ago. You couldn’t have gone far. All he finds is the rich of Gotham trying to outdo each other and oncoming rain clouds. Good, maybe this whole thing will be over sooner. Where were you?

“I didn’t know you smoked.” Your soft voice suddenly echoes in his ear.

He turns to find you leaning on a tree close to the edge of the house. You’re a dream in your dress, flushed skin, and a dopey smile. You’ve lost your shoes somehow, probably under the table. You wring your hands together in an odd nervous twinge that he’s not expecting from a less-than-sober you.

“I don’t,” he says as he tosses the cigarette away. You squint at him, an accusation without words. Jason takes a few steps closer but doesn’t invade your space. He’s sure he smells like cigarette smoke, and he knows it doesn’t smell all that good.

“I missed you, Jay,” you pout, glancing down at the space between you two.

“Just needed a minute, sweetheart.” He tells you, and you get a bashful grin on your lips, head ducking like you're trying to hide without really hiding.

“Like it when you call me that,” You mutter. He can barely hear you over the chatter of the party, but he does hear it. He takes another step closer to you, the urge to be near you, to be touching you, grows in his chest.

“Yeah, that the only thing you like?” he asks. Okay, you can sue him. You weren’t stopping your thoughts as easily as you usually do, and he wanted to know.

You manage to push yourself off the tree with only mild stumbling. He takes a half step forward, arms ready if you were to fall. You manage to get close enough to steady yourself with a hand on his arm. You blink at him like you're trying to remember something.

“I like Red.” You pause, brows pinching. Jason’s breath catches for a moment. Did you know?

“I like you more.” You declare as you watch your own hands leave his arm to smooth up his chest before settling on the sides of his neck. He waits for you to say something else, anything else. It’s quiet for a moment, and he finally sets one of his hands on your arm as you sway where you stand.

Your nose crinkles for a moment before settling down again. You're staring, not into his eyes or roving across his face as you so often do. No, you're staring at his lips, a hard lock on them, unmoving.

“Honey-”

“I want to kiss you, Jason,” you mumble, still staring. Your breathing has gotten short, nearing a pant, “I want to kiss you all the time.”

“All the time?” he asks quietly as you tip forward slightly, he lets you lean against him, his other hand settling on your back. Your nose scrunches again, settles, and then you're pushing up on your toes slightly.

Are you actually going to do it this time?  He hopes you will follow through, which he feels wrong about. You're still drunk, and he should stop you. What’s one kiss, though?

Your nose crinkles again, and your flushed skin suddenly pales. One of your hands leaves his neck to press to your mouth.

“Shit, you gonna be sick?” he asks, and all you can do is nod. Jason is quick to move, pushing you to the entrance of the kitchen. There was a bathroom just around the corner of the kitchen, but if you couldn’t make it that far, then the trash can would do. You whimper as he moves you, and he can see you pressing your hand to your mouth harder, like that would stop it.

You two get some stares from the wait staff, but Jason doesn’t so much as glare because he’s sure you're about to lose it. Jasons barely got the door open before your knees hit the ground hard and you're puking into the toilet. Jason’s quick to gather what hairs fall into your face and tries to rub at your shoulder soothingly as you throw up half-digested mimosa and the croissant you barely got into your stomach.

It takes a minute, and soon you’ve emptied your gut, body dry heaving with the gagged urges. Your shaking hands curled into the seat of the toilet. You stay there for a moment, waiting to see if there’s more or just catching your breath, Jason's not sure.

You finally sit back on your ankles. He finds your eyes closed as you take shaky breaths. His hands leave you to pull some toilet paper. He pries one of your hands from the toilet and presses the toilet paper into your hand.

“I’m gonna get you a glass of water, okay?” he asks. You nod a slow thing and he’s sure you’re trying to stop yourself from getting sick again. Jason stands and shuts the bathroom door behind him before walking into the kitchen, where he’s greeted with Alfred already holding a glass of water, along with a toothbrush and toothpaste.

“I hear your friend may have drunk too much.” He says as he offers the items to Jason. Jason can’t help but smile.

“Thanks, Alfie. I should’ve kept a closer eye on her.” He says as he takes the items.

“On the contrary, Miss. Brown seems keen on blaming herself. Something about a bet backfiring.”

Jason’s hand tightens on the glass. He was going to murder them. A bet, and the plan was to get you drunk. You probably drank more than the two glasses he gave you. No wonder you threw up.

“Interesting,” Jason grits through his teeth.

“Indeed,” Alfred says, and he wonders if Alfred shared that information with a purpose, “You should return to her. If you need anything else, my boy, I’ll stay close.” He turns and begins ordering some of the wait staff. Jason takes that as his cue to return to you.

Additional Notes: Alfred appearance! Although not meeting, he is near. I’m about halfway through the next chapter, and I think it’s kind of a filler chapter. Not intentionally but her and Jason do talk about some stuff, so we’ll see. As always, thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think!

Tag List: @little-miss-naill, @nikilolo787, @joonunivrs, @uzxotic, @qardasngan, @stormz369,  @g4bbi3xx, @iwatobiswimbros, @the-lonely-flute, @elz-xo, @gone-batty-fics, @princessesgarden, @notfckincreative, @love-theangel, @feyres-fireheart, @penguimlover23, @herodedicatedblog, @dearghostling, @automaticplant, @alma-ru3, @13fresh, @anuttellaa, @nekotaetae, @redsakura101, @sleepy-head1, @aejabba

[pokemonshelterstories]

You’ve mentioned roaring moon a few times- can I ask why you were looking after it to begin with? Was it a research thing, rehabilitation, or something else entirely? When skimming it seemed interesting but with recent comments about paradox Mon it just gives me more questions

i've talked about my experience with RM a lot, but since my work has started getting published, i can talk a bit more about the actual process of the kind of work i was doing.

RM was an escapee from the great crater a couple of years ago, back before security was ramped up. this was shortly after the incident in which it was discovered that professors sada and turo had passed away. up to that point, the great crater was basically left to its own devices under the assumption that there were people down there monitoring it. escapee paradox pokemon were rare but not unheard of. nowadays, there are so many researchers and rangers keeping an eye on it that it would be hard for a pokemon to break out, but it definitely happened a few times in the past. RM was heavily injured and seemed emaciated based on our limited understanding of the species, so it was decided to have somebody rehabilitate it.

the reason why that person was me is several-fold. i have been a certified pokemon rehabilitator for many years and and had recently obtained my licensure to work with inherently dangerous species. i also was, at this point, a certified dragon-type specialist (one of my more recent rehab patients at the time was an aggressive dragonair). as a volunteer ranger, i had access to a capture styler. the cherry on top was that i live in artazon and thus could work closely with hassel, a highly-experienced dragon-type specialist who lives here.

that being said, i was simply the primary caretaker for RM. fairly early on, i was asked if i would be willing to continue housing RM instead of releasing it so that it could be researched. as part of both the rehab and research process, i had access to an entire team of researchers and pokemon care experts to help me. all of RM's care was paid for by naranja-uva academy in exchange for research access, and i worked regularly with a professor who hails from a dragon clan. i had an elite four member ready to jump in at any point. it's in spite of all of the resources i had access to that i felt that RM needed to be rereleased into the wild instead of continuing to serve as a captive research specimen.

taking care of RM was like having another job. almost all of the time i wasn't at the shelter or at school went to training RM, taking it out for flights, planning for its enrichment, and organizing various tests. the times i took it to the academy to be researched were actually a reprieve, since it meant i had a few hours where i could focus on myself. although i'm grateful for the opportunity, and i'm glad that i had what i needed to make it work, it was not a pleasant experience for me. in addition, i could tell that RM was starting to get stressed by its captivity in spite of all of the work i and my team were doing. releasing it was for both of our good. if i had thought RM could thrive in captivity, i would have found somebody else to take over its care; the way i feel about captive paradox pokemon comes from the experiences i had and what i saw. i don't blame myself or anyone else for how it went, because we really didn't know how it would go. but i couldn't in good conscience recommend that it happen again.

i think if they found the right individual pokemon, it might be possible for a paradox pokemon to live comfortably in captivity. but i will always hold that it's something that needs to be handled in the way that a zoo or research lab handles potentially dangerous pokemon- not just one person trying to care for it.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I don’t think this is a hot-take, but I really wish Book 7 didn’t explore the other dorm’s dreams. Or at least they should have limited it to the other overblotters and maybe Ace and Deuce because of HeartShackle trio. Not only did it drag out Book 7 horrendously long, but I think it was detrimental to the book in general. Not only did most of the dreams have no impact on the overall narrative, it shafted the actual Diasomnia member’s screentime (Namely Lilia and Malleus) to only being there at the very beginning and the end. Sebek and Silver were there the whole time, but they kind of were pushed to the background as the other dorms were explored (School bus Silver). Maybe if some of the dreams were shorter then maybe it would have been ok, but I also think that throwing in what was essentially very in your face examples of the students’ character development just wasn’t necessary—at least not for each character.

If Book 8 has the same pacing as Book 7 I’m actually going to lose it. Following previous patterns, Diasomnia will play a role since the past dorm always ties in with the plot of the next book, but I fear the game is going to drag out the plot again. I would have less of an issue if the plot was longer with actual meaningful substance to move the plot along, but twst isn’t known for having decent pacing so I have little hope.

To quote Vil:

Book 7’s took a nosedive as soon as we hit the party recruitment section 💀 I’ve made no secret that I have numerous issues with the execution of every character’s dream, so I won’t repeat them here. (You can see me airing out my frustrations with the dreams here and here if you're interested!)

adibaiofaefas The ironic thing is that I remember being asked if I think we'll see everyone's dreams a few years ago and I had basically said "No way, it'd be so distracting and drag the story out for so long!" ... Well, guess what? That's exactly what happened...

While I do agree that Lilia and Malleus were only relevant at the beginning and end of the book, I'd actually say Silver gets similar treatment. Sure, he's technically present to be our Magic School Bus, but he does not actively contribute to most dreams. His character development starts in the start and ends at the end; there's nothing happening in the middle portion where they're going around waking up their peers. The ONLY Diasomnia character that consistently gets development in book 7 is Sebek, due to him getting unique interactions with the first years and consistently having his internalized racism challenged beginning all the way back in LILIA'S dream. (I speak more at length about Sebek's consistent growth here!)

Another huge issue I have with the dreams is that we don’t learn anything new about the characters. We’re just being told or reminded more directly about how these characters have developed since our first introduction to them. It lacks subtlety and it is especially the worst with the OB boys, who stare down their darkest selves and announce (literally announce) to them how they see their inner-evil, how they’re above them, how they resolve to be better from now on, etc. etc. etc. It’s a shame too, because Twst has proven to us they can have nuanced interactions that demonstrate character development back in book 6. They were not able to replicate that magic for book 7 😔

GOD. I don’t even want to think about book 8 and how bad the pacing might be for it… Is book 8 going to be even LONGER than 7??? Are we going to have every character with a needlessly long, time wasting segment where they recap their growth to the audience? Is Diasomnia going to get shafted again even though we REALLY need more time in the kitchen to cook with Malleus in the aftermath of his OB??? 😭

[tiedyeflannels]

I Could Get Used to That

Kim Seokjin x reader

Word Count: 1.6k

Masterlist

Tw: Kidnapping, fighting

A/N: Hey! This most recent "Run Jin" episode made me feral over actor Jin, so here's a little blurb! It's technically my first time writing an action scene, so please bear with me! Anyway, enjoy!

“How are you doing so far,” you asked Jin as he came to sit by you during a break while filming “Run Jin”.

“I’m so tired,” he huffed, taking the water bottle you offered to him.

“Well, there’s only the final clock out scene left. You’re going to do great,” you tried to encourage him.

He gulped down the water before looking at you.

“How am I looking,” he asked, as sly smirk started to make it’s way onto his lips.

You smiled and rolled your eyes, “You actually look pretty cool. I haven’t gotten to see a lot of ‘Actor Jin’ much these days.”

He smiled as the director called for break to be over. You both got up and started walking over to where Jin was supposed be to watch what he had to do for the final scene.

“Why don’t you try your hand at the final scene with me,” he asked, glancing at me with his arms crossed as he stood in position.

“You act,” Doohong asked as he walked over. 

You shook your head and hands, “No.”

“We were technically in the same acting major when we went to college,” Jin chimed in, peeking Doohong’s interest.

“I haven’t acted since then and that was what… almost ten years ago?”

Jin nodded, but Doohong was still creating an idea in his head. 

“How about we incorporate you in the scene,” he thought aloud.

You furrowed your eyebrows in slight confusion which made him explain a little more.

“It wouldn’t be anything big, and you wouldn’t have to do any of the stunts Jin’s doing.”

Jin chuckled at that statement thinking about how hard this scene is going to be. 

“We can just have you pretend to be kidnapped and Jin’s going to save you. No fighting or major stunts involved. What do you think?”

Wait, I'm the damsel in distress?

You looked between Jin, Doohong, and the set before shrugging. “I guess…”

Doohong clapped his hands in excitement, “Great! Let me talk with the team to set up the scene and then we’ll get started!”

He walked away, calling the actors for a huddle to talk about whats going to change. You sighed, shaking your head, then looking at Jin.

“Do you see what you did?”

He smiled at you, “Now you know my pain.”

You grumbled.

~

You and Jin were in the middle of going through the scene with the actors so when the time came to film, you nothing knew what to do. Your part was pretty easy compared to Jin's: hands held behind your back, being shoved, taking some (fake) punches before being led to a chair and being tied and blindfolded, all while Jin's fighting the “bad guys”. In the end, Jin finally finds, unties, and hugs you, happy that you're now safe and he got you in time.

It took a while to learn the sequence. They taught you how to make it look convincing when taking the punches a few more times and then you were done with practicing. Jin still wanted a couple more run-throughs to make sure he got it down, so while he did that, the hair and make-up team pulled you aside to fix your hair and add a couple of scratches and bruises to your face.

The director asked if everyone was ready to go. You and Jin nodded and he was led to climb a ladder onto the high wall-sill. You were led outside and got into position with the rest of the actors as you waited for the crew to say ‘action’.

One guy on your right side took your right arm, bringing it behind you, and bent it up so your hand was up on your back near your shoulder blades, then place his free hand on your shoulder.

Another guy on your left just held your left arm down and with his free hand, mirrored the other’s action and placed it on your shoulder. You shook your head a bit to mess up your hair, then you were all set when they called, “Action!”

The men who were holding your arms shoved you roughly though the entrance into a large garage. You tried jerking out of the grasp, but the action just made them hold on tighter as to not let you go.

“Let me go,” you exclaimed, trying your best to break free, but the man holding your arm behind your back pushed it up farther, sending a sharp pain up through your shoulder, making you wince.

“Get! Off of me!”

You struggled for a moment before Jin jumped off the ledge, rolling off some mats before making it to the ground. He looked around at the men before his eye landed on you.

“Jin,” you called out as he started to fight some of the gang members.

 One of the men from your group moved in front of you.

“Shut up already,” he said, frustratedly before throwing a punch. You quickly moved your head to the side (pretending to get hit).

You jerked forward, trying to break their hold on you, but unfortunately, it happened at the same time as he threw another punch, making it land on the apple of your cheek which sent a rush of pain to your face, making you cry out from the accidental impact. 

Tears started involuntarily pooling in your eyes as you were being dragged away. You looked at Jin just as he threw a glance over to you during a short break in fighting.

His brows furrowed in concern when he saw the tears in your eyes before you were led behind the curtain which made this situation much more real to him.

You were taken behind the first curtain and then through the second one that was behind the “boss” before you were forcefully placed in a chair.

Three men worked fast to restrain your legs and arms to the chair, all while putting a blindfold on you. You struggled trying to get out of the restraints, but it was no use. 

Your breathing quicken as you listened to what was happening beyond the curtain in front of you. Jin grunted as the boss threw him on top of the car, creating a metallic thud sound. There was some shifting that could be heard, another thud and a pause.

The curtain opened and some yelling ensued, along with some pained grunts, stating that Jin was here. One of the three men stood behind you while the others were fighting, grabbed your chin and forcefully lift your head, exposing your neck as he placed the (plastic) knife against it.

You tried moving your head, but stayed in that position for a moment longer until your chin was let go and a soft thud could be heard behind you.

The feeling of hands on your shoulders and the pain that was spreading across your face made you a bit more paranoid than you should’ve been, so you started jerking to try and get out of their grasp.

“Get away from me! Get-”

Jin took off the blindfold and you immediately looked eyes. You quietly searched his eyes and then his face as he did a once over before moving to untie your arms and legs. 

Once you were free, we threw yourself at him, wrapping your arm tight around his neck in desperate hug. He graciously returned it and slowly stood up before breaking the hug, gently placing his hands on either side of your face. He looked at you intently.

“Are you okay,” he whispered, looking at the made-up bruises and scratches and the not-so-fake bruise that was starting to form. 

You nodded, looking into his eyes. You watched as his eyes scanned your face again, but stayed a bit longer on your lips, then met your eyes again. You unconsciously tilted your head slightly to the side and before the director could shout “cut”, Jin placed his lips on yours. 

You melted into the kiss, which weirdly made the throbbing on you cheek go away, and placed one hand on the side of his head where his jaw and neck met and combed your fingers into the hair on the back of his head, hoping to make it last a little longer.

You both broke apart, basking in what just happened as the director yelled, “Cut!”

Clapping and whistling made its way around the room, making you and Jin come back to reality and the pain rush to your face once again.

“Ugh… ow,” you groaned, holding your cheek.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Y/n/n,” Jin asked, motioning for the on-site medic to come over.

He did, handing you an ice pack. You nodded in thanks and to answer Jin’s question as you placed the cold material on your cheek.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Don’t worry,” you smiled.

“I am so sorry,” the guy who accidentally hit you exclaimed, bowing in apology.

You shook your head, “No, no! It’s my fault! I got a little carried away and didn’t stick with what we rehearsed! It’s all on me!”

Jin snaked his arm around your waist as you tried downplaying the situation so the actor wouldn’t feel too bad about accidentally punching you. Doohong came over to where you both were standing, clapping excitedly at the scene that just unfolded.

“Wow! I couldn’t have written a scene like that if I tried! That was amazing!”

You and Jin wore a relieved smile at the complement. 

“That was something out of an action-romance drama! You both would be great leads if you ever wanted to get into acting,” Doohong said.

Jin hummed, making you look at him, “Us in an action-romance…”

“Doesn’t sound too bad, huh,” you asked.

He shook his head, looking at you with a loving smile, “Me as the lead. You as my love interest. I think I could get used to that.”

You chuckled and placed your head on his shoulder, “Me too.”

[rafeygirly]

coke (not the kind you drink) - rafe cameron au

After dating for almost 5 months, being freshly moved into Tannyhill with Rafe, you still didn't know about Rafe's addiction to cocaine. Sure, you knew he smoked weed at parties or even sometimes with friends but to you, that wasn't the biggest deal in the world. You accepted that. Cocaine was on a whole other level.

There were times where, at parties, he'd come back from "getting something" in a different mood but you figured maybe that was the weed or alcohol. There was also times he'd say he was going out to grab something real quick and he'd say it's for his family's company but you rarely ever believed him. How could you when he was doing so at odd times of the day and in casual clothes at that.

The whole time, you hadn't thought of it as him cheating. You knew he wouldn't cheat on you, you think. You weren't exactly sure what it could be though.

You had grabbed his phone to scroll through social media since you'd left yours all the way downstairs in the kitchen. You didn't really like his For You Page since it was nothing like yours but you wanted some entertainment while he showered.

You were watching some video about hunting that was entertaining for you, despite your lack of actual interest in that stuff, when a notification popped up on his screen. You simply glanced up at it, it was a text from someone named "Barry" and the text read; "When you coming to pick up your stuff?"

Your eyebrows furrowed after reading that and so you clicked on the text message to see the what this guy you'd never once heard about was talking about. 

When their text conversation opened, there were a bunch of messages and it didn't take you long to figure out what was going on. There were several texts from Barry asking when Rafe was coming to pick things up or telling him when he could come around. You'd thought it was just his weed at first until you noticed several of Rafe's messages mentioning coke, and not the kind you drink. 

Your minds racing as you're taking all of this information in. You'd never seen him do coke before but suddenly, the way he acted at times at parties or even at home started to make sense. You were upset and genuinely worried.

You got out of bed and decided to look around for the cocaine because it obviously had to be somewhere. You looked in his nightstand, nothing. You then went to look in his dresser drawers and you would've missed it if it weren't for the fact the little plastic baggy in a pair of pants in his drawer he'd never touched was slightly sticking out. You pulled the baggy out and sure enough, there was the white powder you'd only ever seen in movies and tv shows.

Suddenly, you felt hyperaware of the sounds from the bathroom. You knew he'd be mad when he saw you found his secret coke stash. Also, he'd probably get mad and think you were snooping on his phone when you weren't meaning to. You take the baggy and go back to the bed, shutting his phone off and putting the baggy in your hand.

A few moments after, Rafe walks out of the bathroom that's connected to your guys' bedroom and he looks over at you, the towel wrapped around his waist as he gets into pajamas. After he's done, he goes and grabs his phone and when he unlocks it, it immediately opens to his conversation with Barry he knew he hadn't opened.

When Rafe looks up from his phone, a stern look on his face as he looks at you, he glances down and notices the baggy in your hand.

"You were snoopin' through my shit?" He asks in an accusatory tone, obviously upset.

"No.. I didn't mean to. But Barry texted you and you've never talked abou-" You're cut off.

"Maybe I didn't for a fuckin' reason." Rafe raises his voice, making you flinch, as he leans forward and grabs your wrist roughly, forcing the baggy out of your hand.

"Why would not tell me about this?" You ask, on the verge of tears.

"Probably 'cause I knew you'd make a big fuckin' deal like you are now." Rafe retorts in an annoyed manner as he puts the baggy on the dresser, or rather, he slams it down on the dresser.

"Because it's fucking cocaine, Rafe!" You say like it was the most obvious thing in the world because it was.

"Hey!" Rafe raises his voice more than you. "Don't raise your goddamn voice at me and don't curse either, you know I don't like that shit." He scolds you. You huff as you go quiet. "It was completely fine without you knowin' about it. You didn't need to go snoopin' through my shit." Rafe then says.

"I wasn't snooping." You mutter.

"Yeah, whatever." Rafe says as he gets in bed with you.

"Don't you have drugs to pick up?" You ask in a spiteful manner.

"Nah, he can wait 'til tomorrow." Rafe murmurs. "I don't like that you went through my shit secretly, princess."

"I don't like that you do coke." You retort.

"Well, I don't give a fuck. I'm not stoppin'. I won't do it around you, but I'm not stoppin'." Rafe then firmly says.

You look into his eyes, wanting to argue because you cared about him but you didn't want to lose him by making him upset and bothering him more about the cocaine right now so you don't continue with that for now.

"Whatever." You mutter before laying down fully in bed and turning your back to him. Rafe groans as he turns the light off and the two of you fall asleep like that. 

You slept terribly that night because you were so upset and worried and Rafe was mad about you going through his stuff but he still went to get the drugs in the morning and you didn't say a thing but you made it clear you didn't approve by having a huffy and bratty attitude the whole day. Maybe you'd get used to it eventually.

𓇼 rafe cameron au masterlist

[typingtess]

Kensi found Nell alone in Ops. "Hey, I wanted to apologize. You and Eric shouldn't have had to do couples therapy with me and Deeks. Not that we're a couple or anything."

"You're living together in a high risk undercover operation. I'm sure everything was all amped up."

"Like Deeks's neat-freakery."

"Neat-freakery?"

"He was dusting the bedroom ceiling with a microfiber cloth on the top of a broom. Said he wanted a clean sleeping space. I mean, who dusts their ceiling?"

Nell dusted her ceilings once or twice a year and anytime there were fires near her place but she let Kensi continue her solo end of couples therapy. It was endlessly interesting.

"But I don't want to talk about Deeks and his issues," Kensi said, still wanting to talk about Deeks's need for clean. "Your dating profile…"

"Yeah, I don't want to talk about that."

"I had one."

"You're a field agent, an undercover operator. How…"

"Fake name. Didn't work, Deeks found it. It was about when you joined the team."

"It's just hard to meet people here. My work legend says I'm in television news. But in LA, if you work in television, you're not a prospective date, you're a contact in getting someone their dream news job."

"Yeah, Hetty made me a studio publicist. I was getting asked to pass along headshots on second dates."

"It's not just wanting to date – though I'd like to meet someone nice. I'd just like to meet people. I've been here over six months but outside of the people here at the office, I know my neighbor to say hello and the guy at the Mini dealership who sold me my car."

"I know the feeling. When I moved here a couple of years ago, I'd drive down on the weekends to Pendleton and visit my friends. Some of my college friends wound up in LA over the last two years but I just started doing things."

"Like what?"

"I found a hiking group. We go someplace one a month. A few people go every month, most people are in and out. We're going week after next if you're looking to meet some different people. School teachers, accountants, lawyers, the woman who runs it is a nurse so there is always someone who knows what to do if there is a medical issue."

"Have there been medical issues?"

"Trip and falls, poison oak – nothing major but nice to know if you get a scratch, she has some stuff in her fanny pack."

"Bro bag."

"Yeah, let's not ever use that term again." Kensi chuckled. "Come hiking. Because a lot of the people are the hike are busy professional types, we start around 8:30AM Saturday morning. We'll be done around noon."

"That's a quick hike."

"Sharon, the lady who started the group, had teenagers when she started this. She needed a few hours of 'Sharon-time' while her husband drove them to different sporting events. 8:30AM seemed like a good way for a big fancy law firm lawyer or television executive to get some of their own time and then go back to their busy life."

"Or a busy NCIS Agent."

"Or a busy NCIS Agent. I take my phone with me – I'm one of the few actually – but so far we've never been called in. It's just a nice way to clear my mind after being undercover or giving a deposition for case."

"Sounds nice."

"If I'm not to sweaty, I find someplace to have a nice sit-down lunch. More head clearing. I throw a book in my car so I'll read a little while the food is being made. You and I can grab a bite after the hike. Just talk about silly stuff."

"Sounds really nice but I don't know."

"It is fun. We're going through the old LA Zoo at Bee Rock. If have a decent camera, there are some really scenic views. Nice people on the trail – Sharon has a strict no-assholes policy."

"And most dating sites don't have a strict no-assholes policy."

"True."

"Let me think about it. No, you know what, I'll be there. Do I need to sign up or anything?"

"I'll send you the link. Just first names so you don't have to worry and I ran a background check on Sharon, she's legit – pediatric nurse at UCLA."

"Some world live in where we're running background checks on women tending to sick children."

"I'm coming off a case where the cranky old guy across the street was a decades old Russian deep cover spy. Trust but verify."

Eric walked into Ops. "Hi, do we have a case?"

"No, just talking about the cranky old Russian spy next door," Nell said to Kensi with a smile.

"You never know," Kensi stood and made her way to the door. "And for the record, Deeks is a total neat freak."

NCIS Los Angeles

S03 ep22 Neighborhood Watch

Poor Nell...

[intrepidacious]

time after time [7]

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: 11.1k

chapter warnings: self-deprecation, negative self-talk and canon-typical violence. this one's heavy on the angst. it's also my favourite so far. please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: i return with a semblance of a posting schedule and a chapter that i'm well aware is absolutely insane. but that was always gonna be the case. enjoy my loves 💚

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

seven: spellbound

The slamming door made you flinch awake from where you’d fallen asleep on the couch, still wearing your extravagant jumpsuit. Bucky’s hands were clenched into fists, the frown on his face familiar and deep. He’d lost his tie somewhere on the way back.

"You alright?" you mumbled, getting up on one elbow.

He ignored you, facing Sam, who had his hands folded in his lap, back still hunched forward in thought or worry.

"You alright?" Sam repeated.

Bucky gave a short nod. "Can I talk to you?"

"Talk."

He did look at you, then, his gaze slowly and irritably dripping down your body. "I meant alone," he said pointedly.

"This is my home," you protested, sitting up properly.

"You’re a squatter."

"What do you want to talk about?" Sam interjected before you could snap back.

Bucky crossed his arms in front of his chest. "I want her out."

Your mouth dropped open. "What the fuck?"

"Tonight wasn’t ideal, I’ll give you that," Sam said tiredly. "But we got what we went in for and we didn’t cast any unwanted suspicion."

"Didn’t we?" Bucky said. "Because I feel like some of us remember tonight differently."

People murmuring in confusion as you blinked in and out of existence, knowing that something was off, even though they couldn’t put a finger on it. Agitated comm chatter throughout the corridors.

"Excuse me for saving your ass," you said hotly. Maybe it would have had the intended effect if you’d properly wiped the dried blood from your face.

"I didn’t ask you to do that," he pressed out.

"If it pissed you off so much, I’ll just let you get shot next time, then, see how that feels."

"Okay, I think we can all just calm down and continue this conversation tomorrow," Sam boomed.

Bucky gritted his teeth and turned his back on you, but you jumped up from the couch, your anger giving you enough energy to follow him to the stairs.

"No! He’s having a go at me for no reason at all and I would like to hear the rest of it. Tell me where I made a single fucking mistake. Because I can tell you when you did."

"I am sick of you pretending to fix stuff—"

"Pretending?!"

"Guys—" Sam called from the living room.

"—when we don’t even know what it is you’re changing!"

"How about you actually just trust me for once, like you said you would?"

"I said I trust Sam’s decision to take you on, and that I trusted Steve’s judgment. There’s a difference."

You threw up your hands. "You wanna know what I changed? Your fucking arm almost got both of us caught, tin man, that’s what I changed."

"Do you know what it feels like," Bucky said, voice shaking with barely restrained rage, "when people tell you things about yourself that you don’t remember choosing to do?"

"Must be nice to get to forget things."

Your fingers twitched at the same time as his, metal and flesh curling like you both wanted to clutch at something you couldn’t reach. In another universe, he might have turned on you, slammed you into the wall with his hand around your neck.

Do it, then.

But no. In this one, he just went very, very still. Like he’d simply turned to stone under your gaze.

"Stay out of my fucking head," he pressed out under his breath, so low you barely caught it at all.

"I have no interest in your fucking head," you said, rage and frustration blazing in your eyes. "You want me to be honest with you? Fine. I’m sorry about what happened to you and I get why my powers are touchy for you because of it, but you gotta stop telling yourself that I’m holding out on purpose or that I have any control over anyone but myself when I go back. I didn’t ask for this shit, so get off my damn back."

"Who did, then?"

You stumbled a half-step backwards involuntarily. "What?"

Bucky’s jaw was set so tight his teeth audibly ground. "How did you get your powers?"

You blinked several times, your nails digging into your palms again. "I don’t know."

He huffed, turning away with a shake of his head. "You gotta be shitting me."

"I don’t know, okay? I don’t remember. I have to remember every single reset I’ve ever made, but I don’t know when it started, or how, or why. It’s just always been a part of me."

"Then why don’t you try to find out?"

"Oh, because you’ve got me all figured out, haven’t you? Clearly, I have no interest in understanding the thing that’s ruined my fucking life. I’ve tried. I’ve tried everything I could think of, and none of it’s done me any good."

"And you’re just fine with that, and so we’re supposed to be fine with it as well. Not knowing what the extent of your powers is, or why you got them in the first place. Sounds like a great idea."

"It was enough for Steve." You laughed mirthlessly. "He told me once that we would’ve gotten along, can you imagine that?"

"Well, maybe he was wrong about both of us, then, but why don’t you do your thing and we can ask him ourselves."

"Because for the millionth time, it doesn’t work like that! Don’t you think I’d like that, too? To go back and undo all of this damage that happened over the past couple of years? But I can’t, I can’t do it, I can’t change anything that’s farther back than eleven fucking minutes, and that was when I still had a family."

The word fell apart on the way out of your mouth, breaking into pieces just like the actual thing. You pressed your shaking palms against your eyes.

"So. I’m sorry, Barnes, that I’m not good enough for anything like that. I know that. I know that my powers are essentially useless, and I don’t need you to remind me all the time, okay. I’m already very aware."

* * * * *

.

.

.

.

.

.

Darkness.

.

Darkness and pain.

.

.

The sound of dripping, ticking, tilting.

.

Something like a bright light.

.

.

And then—

* * *

Bucky comes to in the middle of the crossing between Lexington and East 55th, right as he’s about to turn his back on the brownstone front of the Central Synagogue. There is a strange itch on his left arm that almost feels human.

He blinks, disoriented, unsure how he got here. The last thing he remembers is—

A car honks and he staggers to the sidewalk, head still pounding, and his good hand flies to the side of it, as if checking for blood.

He doesn’t find any.

Another nightmare, then. Disturbingly vivid, though. He’s concerned that his only memory of getting up and going on his usual run has the tinge of the dream to it, like he hasn’t actually woken up yet.

And neither the memory nor the nightmare carries the usual haze.

Bucky grits his teeth and tries blocking the whole thing from his mind. His thoughts keep returning to your scream, instead, which might be worse.

He notices he keeps rereading the sign in the window in front of him, and when he realizes that it’s yet another fucking Starbucks, he’s about to cut his route short and just go home, like there’s something there that could fix this bad feeling curdling in his stomach.

Instead, he takes a few shallow breaths, pulls his cap more deeply into his face, and then he continues.

When he was younger, he took up running to keep him quick on his feet during a fight. These days, he probably doesn’t have to keep on it quite so regularly, but there’s something about the rhythmic, constant movement that usually does help clear his mind.

Damn, he hates when his shrink is right.

Today, his run takes Bucky eight minutes longer than average, but he can wholeheartedly blame that on his almost-incident with the car. His thoughts are still stuck on what he remembers from the dream, spinning around and around in a loop until the elevator dings and he has to shake himself because he’s already here.

Maybe a shower will help.

It does, a little, because he turns the hot water to cold several times until he thinks, of course he’s awake. It seems so obvious now.

This is real.

The water turns off with that little squeaking sound that he keeps forgetting to fix. He doubts that anyone but him can even hear it; one of the uncountable inconveniences of enhanced senses is the ability to find some of the tiniest noises insufferable.

He shrugs a new shirt on and hangs his towel up on the only free hook, grabbing a fresh cloth from the closet. There’s not many left; neither of you has gotten around to doing laundry post-mission yet.

His heart is still beating a little harder than usual when he cracks open the door to the gym, peering inside right when Sam hits the mat.

"Geez, what’s gotten into you?"

You shrug and roll your shoulders, pulling him back to his feet. "I’ll dignify that with an answer when I see you kick above your waistline, Sammy."

Bucky can’t help but smile a little at the smugness in your voice. No matter what that terrible voice at the back of his mind is still whispering, you’re fine. It was all a strange, bad dream; end of story.

He watches the two of you circle around each other for a moment longer. There’s a grace to your movements as your eyes stay focused on Sam, calm and unwavering, like you’re anticipating the right moment to pounce on him. It’s mesmerizing.

Then again, you usually have that effect on him.

Bucky quietly slips away when you’re about to call it a day. Normally, he’d probably sit in your company to dry off his prosthetic, listening to your heartbeat return to normal levels and then watch you trot off to the showers with that little indignant shake of your head. In fact, there’s a significant part of him that wants to do just that; maybe he’ll catch a glance of that annoyed glimmer in your eyes that seems to be reserved solely for him.

It’s the one thing he gets.

He tries not to read too much into the fact that Sam gets things like an affectionate little suffix to his name when you tease him, even though that fact haunts him more than he’d care to admit. You probably don’t even notice you’re doing it, but it’s because you actually like Sam. Have learned to care about him over the past few months. And why wouldn’t you?

Bucky, on the other hand, is just Barnes more often than not. Which is fine; he’s used to it by now.

He opens the door to his room and a waft of stiff air hits him, familiar and suffocating all at once. For the first couple of months, he hesitated to even call it his room, even though he always picked the same one when it was easier than traveling all the way back to Brooklyn; the one upstairs with the large corner windows facing east and south.

It still doesn’t feel much like his out of anything other than habit. Blank, off-white walls, a half empty dresser, bed always made, the only source of disorder a couple of cat toys cluttered in the far corner. The only thing that reminds him of home is stowed in the drawer next to his bed.

He doesn’t open it now, instead reaching for the journal on the bedside table, flicking through until he reaches the latest entry.

But it’s strange.

Not the content itself, but the fact that Bucky could’ve sworn that he’d written it yesterday. He stares at it for a moment, flips the page over and back again, frowns slightly.

This nightmare is truly fucking with his head if he wasn’t even in a clear enough space of mind to jot down a couple of notes before his run.

He does it now, in as few words as he’s comfortable with, because something about all of this still doesn’t sit right with him but he can’t quite put his finger on it yet.

Out of some deep, dark instinct, his hand slips underneath his pillow, and he hates that his heart beats a little more calmly when he feels the cool metal of his gun right where he left it, where he always leaves it.

This is real.

Something nudges his side softly and when he turns, Alpine is nuzzling her head into the crook of his arm, mewling discontentedly. The sound melts a little more of his trepidation away.

"What’s wrong, sweetie?" he says with a quiet smile.

The cat observes him unblinkingly as he puts his journal down again and reaches out to pet her head, but she jumps off the bed before he can make contact, looking back at him in anticipation and, he’s pretty sure, annoyance.

She’s hungry, then.

Bucky sighs and follows her out of the room only for you to almost barrel into him. You’re sweaty and breathless, and he refuses to notice the way your training gear sticks to your body. In fact, he refuses to look anywhere but your face.

There’s an odd look on it, just as odd as the tone of your voice when you gasp, "Bucky!"

"Y/N!" he says, mimicking it. Adrenaline is still coursing through you, your heart beating so erratically he can almost feel it pulsating in his own skin. "What’s wrong with you?"

"Nothing," you answer quickly enough for him to know something is definitely wrong. "You look … normal."

"Thanks," he says dryly. "You don’t."

The nervous twitch of your ear is back, the soft tapping of your fingers against your thigh. At least he’s seen you like this enough times to know how to deal with it.

"You remember what showering is, right?" A tilt of the head, a hint of a scoff in his tone; you respond best to him pretending not to give a damn, and so he’s gotten quite good at it.

Predictably, your shoulders lose a little of their tension, even though your eyes don’t. "Fuck you, Barnes."

Really; he’s used to it by now.

Alpine meows again, like a reminder not to get hung up on things he has no control over, and it finally lets him look away from you. That’s always the hardest part, somehow, even though that makes him feel ridiculous.

Downstairs, he can’t keep his mind from wandering as he scrapes the contents of a tin can into Alpine’s bowl only for her to fall asleep in a spot of sunlight on the kitchen floor.

It’s then that he realizes the odd thing about you was that it almost, unexplicably, looked like relief.

* * *

Bucky’s been on enough missions with you and Sam by now to know you both use mindless chatter to calm yourselves in tense situations, and so he doesn’t mind forming the rear. Even if he doesn’t listen in on every word, he can easily tell if something about your situation changes while he’s covering your six.

There’s at least two guards patroling the grounds, according to Sam’s funny little computer bracelet, and so it’s no surprise that he asks Bucky to keep an eye on them while the two of you head up to find the entrance to the lab. You keep your hands raised halfway up, but Bucky can tell by your empty gaze that you’re tired. His grip on his gun tightens.

He nods to Sam once he’s in position, perched up on the roof just out of sight from any unsuspecting anarchists. Then, he watches you slip through the entrance of the barn-like building and lets out a deep, slow breath.

It’s been a weird day.

That gnawing feeling of déjà-vu has settled deep into his bones, like a pesky thought he can’t quite let go of. This, though? He can manage this.

The strange truth is—and frankly, this is something he’s looking forward to never disclosing to his therapist—that being on a mission like this one, having a specific set of tasks he can concentrate on, being keenly aware of all his surroundings … it has a calming effect on his brain. He’s not sure what to make of that fact, but it’s true.

He’s sick of the fighting, but he can’t let go of it, either.

Instead, he squints at the two white dots in the distance meeting on the other side of the block, gesturing for a while, and then slowly creeping closer.

Without taking his eyes off his targets, he tunes into your conversation again.

"—only scream when there’s good reason."

"I don’t wanna interrupt," Bucky murmurs, fiercely ignoring the untimely lurch his heart makes, "but they’re heading your way now, so get a move on."

"You’re no fun, Bucky."

He would love to roll his eyes, but he’s a professional. That’s also why he swallows his remark when you make a comment about your resets; it not like it’s surprising, anyway. You haven’t been sleeping well these past couple of weeks. Breakfasts have been particularly grumpy affairs since Marylebone.

The guards creep closer, and even though their faces are covered by the white masks, Bucky can tell they’re bored. Shoulders slumping, grip on their weapons loose, boots shuffling on the gravel. One of them has a pack of cards in her breast pocket.

If either of them were smart enough to look up, they’d spot him within a second. But since nothing unusual has ever happened during their shifts, it doesn’t even occur to them to do so.

Look at them, a voice inside him says. They don’t notice anything, do they?

Bucky’s jaw clenches, his finger tightening on the trigger. Breathe in. Breathe out.

"Reminds me of old times," Sam says.

"Can’t say that, bud," Bucky murmurs. The guards are only a couple of yards away now. "Twenty seconds."

Take them out now.

"—makes Barnes cranky."

"You forget he’s always cranky."

This is what he’s good at, what he’s always been good at. Being the lookout. The Howlies’ best sharpshooter. His aim is perfect. His mind is clear.

They might be dangerous.

He swallows.

One of the guards trips over his own feet, almost losing the rifle he’s holding. They’re both amateurs; it’s clear from their posture, the way their jackets aren’t quite crisply ironed, even the way they walk. Neither of them pose any real threat.

Still, the voice says. Why not make sure?

It’s easy, so easy, to aim at the center of their white jackets. To imagine them soaking red on the ground while he barely moves more than a single finger. Just a flash of a second.

So easy.

"Any time, Buck."

Breathe out.

The taller one gets a bullet in her right shoulder, just underneath the joint, missing her subclavian artery; the shorter one gets hit in the kneepit as he turns, his rifle skittering away as he falls, safety still engaged. Clean and quick.

With one last glance around, Bucky jumps to the ground right as the explosion sounds inside. No one is coming. Yet.

He knocks the guards out with two quick blows to their temples. Their wounds aren’t bad, of course; just enough to keep them out of the way and hurt a bunch later.

Сбой.

No, but it’s all too simple. Too obvious. This, he remembers from his nightmare as well; the lab with the hidden staircase, the metallic stench coming from the leaking containers, the data stick and then …

Another fight.

The voice leaves him alone when there’s no time to think, and so Bucky trusts his instincts for this one. It’s despicable, really, how much the rush of adrenaline makes his blood boil in the best possible way, blocking out all other thought, leaving nothing but the cacophony of noises and the flurry of movement surrounding him.

This is what he was made for.

His breath hitches when a memory catches him, and he steps out of the way of a shot aimed for his head like it was in the dream, just in case.

It fires into thin air, instead.

The fact that it does fire, exactly like he remembers, takes him a fraction of a second to process.

Talk of a lucky coincidence, he thinks, knocking another agent out cold. Breathe in. Breathe out.

"We better get moving," Sam shouts, and Bucky nods.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see you throwing another punch; you barely seem to have broken a sweat.

There’s something off about the way you move. It seems controlled, almost rehearsed in a way; as if your body knows exactly where to land your next attack without even thinking about it.

A little too perfect.

There’s a beat before you turn around to face him, and your eyes widen at the same time as Sam’s voice explodes in his ear, "Bucky!"

There’s a flash of pain and a burst of green light, and then he comes to in the middle of the crossing between Lexington and East 55th, and it’s like you’re still shouting his name, the sound echoing through his mind so clear and sharp it’s like you’re standing right behind him.

There’s something wrong with him.

Something wrong with his brain, something terribly wrong, because this—

He stumbles to the sidewalk when the same car as yesterday honks at him, comes to a halt next to the same street lamp, sweat beading on his temples in the exact same way while his bad arm itches and his head aches.

Bucky’s hand flies to his chest, pressing, feeling his heart beat erratically. There aren’t any holes. No broken ribs, no scars he doesn’t already know, every new trace of violence vanished like it had never brushed his skin.

Even though he just got shot.

Again.

He’s drawing attention now; he can feel the stares in his neck. It’s not going to take long for someone to recognize his face as well.

So he forces his breaths to slow, straightening his shoulders and tilting his head in the most unassuming way he’s taught himself. After a while, his thoughts start to clear.

There’s something wrong with his timeline. You told him once that going back felt a little like the moment before freefalling, and the bile in his mouth might just be proof for that hypothesis.

But how on earth would he have gone back, and why?

Maybe it’s his perception of time that’s warped.

He remembers the stories about people seeing their whole lives flash before their eyes before they die; and he remembers almost dying.

This feels like much more than a flash, though, and he’s not quite dead yet. This is real.

Right?

"This is impossible," he whispers.

His reflection in the Starbucks window does the same.

* * *

One more, he thinks as the shower washes away the cold sweat sticking to his skin. He’ll give this one more try before accepting that he’s either finally losing his marbles or that there’s something else going on.

His life’s been an assembly of unexplainable things. Twice might still be a coincidence.

Third time’s a pattern.

The shower squeaks off and he steps out in a cloud of steam, the cold tiles underneath his feet grounding, in a way. He wipes a streak of condensation off the mirror, staring at his own face for a moment, trying to find any signs of his mind starting to crack. His hair is long enough to stick to his forehead again, eyes tired as always.

Everything feels the same.

No one’s done laundry.

It’s like his feet automatically follow the same path they’d gone yesterday, turning left, waiting for him to push the door open, hesitating.

"What’s gotten into you?" Sam asks you again, and you shrug, again, neither of you noticing that you’re all retracing steps you’ve taken before.

Bucky thinks about the journal on his bedside table, and his fingers curl more tightly around the rag in his hand because he already knows, he knows it’s going to be incomplete again. The heavy feeling in his stomach settles as he sits down on the wooden bench, the sun hitting his arm at the exact same angle again. For a moment, golden spots dance around the room before he twists his torso just enough to make them disappear again.

He thinks about the journal, and he doesn’t want to have to look at it quite yet.

You flop down on the mat when Sam calls it a day, and Bucky nods back at him as he heads outside, rubbing a spot between his shoulderblades. Your face is still tense, even with your eyes closed, your heartbeat fast enough to make him tilt his head.

You’re so pretty. It’s not making the confusion boiling inside of him any easier to deal with.

The words are at the tip of his tongue without him having to think about them.

"You look like shit."

You blink at him in a peculiar way, like you’re just waking up from a dream yourself, and you let out a long, shaking breath.

"Oh, fuck you, Barnes."

It’s so normal for you to say it like that it almost puts him at ease. Almost.

"I think you nearly broke his nose, there." He presses the rag into another one of the crevices in his arm.

You hum noncommitantly. "Didn’t, though."

You haven’t put your rings back on, but your knuckles look fine, so you’ve probably managed to not do it in one try as well. Bucky’s gaze wanders up your arms again, slowly; your heart hasn’t calmed yet, and you continue to stare at the ceiling like you’re waiting for something.

Probably his leave, he realizes, standing up. He’s had his indulgence. "Take the towel on the right," he tells you again. "I already used the other one."

He doesn’t miss the shaky little exhale you let out as he turns his back on you, and his left fist clenches involuntarily.

One more.

He’s probably just going to have to take his mind off it all.

The air outside is sticky with heat; like the skies are supposed to break open but refuse to. Even when he squints, he can’t make out a single cloud in all that endless blue.

He keeps his head down even as his eyes scan his surroundings. It’s a little like being part of a movie he’s seen before.

There’s the woman with the two dogs, one of them barking at a garbage truck across the street. The banker on a phone call with his pregnant fiancée. The tired violin player busking near the subway station, playing the same song he did yesterday, something Bucky recognizes but still can’t name.

Everything is exactly the same.

He shoves his hands deeper into his pockets to fish for his ticket, joining the other people lining up to board the subway, their faces too familiar to distract him. He keeps expecting one of them to break, to call him out on doubling back every day, but none of them do. They don’t seem to notice.

He almost hesitates before he knocks on Sam’s door that afternoon, but the knot in his stomach hasn’t loosened. If anything, it’s gotten worse.

I thought you’d be there, he texts the number that never responds. He waits for a minute, two minutes, but of course there’s no answer.

There never is.

Just another thing to take his mind off of. Let his mind settle on something concrete that’s right in front of him. That he has complete control over.

Besides, maybe there’s something he’s supposed to get right here.

But when Sam calls, "We need to get moving," Bucky already knows, deep down, how this is going to end. His heart is beating frantically as the situation stays out of control, even though this should be easy. He’s seen this before. What is he missing?

The voice at the back of his mind hums dangerously, and he ignores it, punching out the agent in front of him and then whipping his head around to find you already staring at him with your eyes wide and for a moment, the world freezes because you look at him like … well, fuck.

Like he’s usually looking at you.

Desperate.

It’s his last thought before something right next to him explodes and there is nothing but pain.

And then he comes to in the middle of the crossing between Lexington and East 55th, and this time, this third time, he feels like he’s earned the right to be considerably less calm about the whole thing.

The car honks and the people stare and Bucky throws up on the sidewalk next to Starbucks because the world is still hung up on Friday and he’s died three days in a row. When he rummages through the pockets of his slacks for a tissue, his hand grazes something cool.

It’s a small, coal black ring that he’s seen many times before, and his stomach churns again as his hand closes around it so tightly it must leave an imprint. Of course, there are no coincidences in his life.

He really should’ve known better from the start.

* * *

He needs to talk to you.

He thinks it when he puts the ring back into his pocket and he’s still thinking it when he bursts into the Tower, doors slamming loud enough to startle Alpine awake from her spot on the couch. He needs to talk to you, and you’re going to figure this out together, because that’s what you do. It’s what you always do.

But she’s got time powers.

He presses his lips together tightly as he jogs up the stairs two at a time, ignoring the thought. Then again, there’s the piece of soap on the tiles next to the sink that he’s picked up three days in a row now, and his hand reaches for the same towel automatically, and how the hell does one get stuck in a time loop in the first place?

Месть.

Bucky turns the shower off so resolutely part of it dents. No, he thinks. If you knew, you’d get him out of this. He knows that you wouldn’t wish him harm.

Then how?

"You’re dead," he says out loud, staring at his own steamed up reflection. "You’re not real."

Neither of us is.

His heart beating out of his chest would disagree.

When he sits down next to you today, he watches you apprehensively. You still ignore him, but it seems to come so natural to you. As if all of this is normal, as if you don’t even notice something is wrong, even though you have to, right, you have to.

"You look like shit," he says out loud, but he feels like he’s still talking to himself.

Fuck you, Barnes.

And then it happens again.

Clearly, he’s losing his mind.

It’s the only explanation that’s left. He’s already been to hell and back and now he’s going mad, he’s finally going mad, he’s going insane—

No, you’re not.

His own heartbeat sounds so loud in his ears as the shower screeches off and something settles in his stomach like a stone, something as sure and familiar and uncomfortable as that voice that’s been getting louder each day.

You’re as clear-headed as you’ve ever been.

Which means that once again, someone or something else is trying to mess with his head, only this time, it’s already been screwed with enough for him to tell.

Here’s the thing about all this that keeps rubbing him the wrong way, keeps scratching at the very back of his mind just like the parts of him he’d rather keep buried for the rest of his days: If you truly don’t know this is happening, then why are you the only one doing something different every time?

Bucky’s spent the better part of his life honing in his perception skills, and he’s seen everyone else behave in the precise same manner four, five, six days in a row, but you … you’ll leave a room a few minutes earlier than the day before, or order a different lunch, or wear a different shirt.

It’s not easy to miss in the slightest and it makes him doubt you’re as clueless to this as you pretend to be.

Which leaves him with the version of events he hates the most, and which is therefore the most likely: If you do know this is happening, then why do you keep up this charade? Is it because you’re responsible for all this somehow? And if you are, is it on purpose?

That’s too many ifs for his liking. It all makes him think back to the Westview Anomaly, so he reads up on it.

And then he decides that he’d rather know whether the sinking feeling in his gut is right.

You’re staring up at the ceiling like you want to pretend he’s not even there, and his good hand is shaking too much to be of much use in drying the arm.

"Take the towel on the left," he makes himself say. "I already used the other one."

There’s a shuffling as you sit up, but he can’t bear to turn around. "Sorry, what did you say?"

"I said use the one on the left, because I took the other towel," he repeats.

"Right," you say, and then he can hear your rings clink against each other as you collect them from their dish.

Maybe he should return the one he found in his pocket. Maybe you just haven’t realized it’s missing yet, because this is your first time living through this day and you don’t know to ask for inconsistencies yet.

You shuffle towards the showers, and he’s startled to realize how relieved he feels. Strange, really, to put that much weight on a towel; but at least it means you don’t—

"Hey, Bucky," you say, hesitating at the door, and his stomach drops a little. "What day’s today?"

"Friday," he answers, his voice surprisingly level. "Why." It’s not really a question.

"No reason," you say, and the door clicks shut behind you. The sound seems to echo in the empty gym.

"Something weird is happening," he tells Sam as soon as he can hear him approach the kitchen.

He hates that he’s doing this, but it’s not like there’s a roster of people he could talk to. His shrink would probably just prescribe him some pills that won’t work again—that is, if Bucky could get a hold of him on a national holiday in the first place—, and even though Sam is going to laugh in his face about this whole thing, he at least has to try. Right?

"You sound like Y/N," Sam says, pouring himself a bowl of cornflakes.

Bucky grimaces, which earns him a concerned head tilt. Sometimes, Sam reminds him of all the best parts of Steve, and he doesn’t know whether that makes him calmer or furious.

"Talk to me, Buck."

He stares at the milk carton like it’s holding the solution to his problem. "I think she’s doing something to me."

Sam snorts. "Thank you, Captain Obvious."

He says it so lightly, almost jovially, and Bucky’s nails dig so hard into his palms one hand draws blood. "You know?" he says tonelessly.

"Are you kidding me?" Like he’s tickled. Like he’s been in on the joke for a while. "You two have been doing this dance for months."

Despite it all, his heart cracks a little more. "What?"

Sam hesitates for a moment before squinting at him. "We’re not talking about the same thing, are we?"

And Bucky supposes they’re not, they’re really not, so he says, "Today should be Tuesday."

A frown. "What do you mean?"

"What day is it?"

"Friday," Sam says.

"Wrong," Bucky tells him. "Yesterday was Friday. And so was the day before, and the one before."

He finally puts his bowl down on the counter. "Are you having a stroke?"

"Sam, listen to me. Today keeps repeating."

He frowns. "You mean like a time loop? Like you’re in Groundhog Day?"

"I don’t know what that is." A fun little name for his personal Gehinnom.

Just deserts, don’t you think?

"Have you talked to Y/N about this?" Sam asks. "I mean, that’s kind of her thing. I’m sure whatever this is, she can help you out." He still sounds a little incredulous, but he knows Bucky well enough to recognize when he’s not joking.

He’s never felt less like joking.

"There’s also this." He pulls out the ring. "I found this in my pocket. Why would it be in my pocket?"

Sam leans against the counter. "You tell me, man."

"I think she knows something."

"But that’s a good thing, right?"

Theoretically. Not when he’s died for a week straight, though.

"Then why didn’t she tell us?" He hates the despair in his words, the paranoia seeping through. He hates that Sam catches it, and that his features morph into something that’s supposed to look understanding, even though he doesn’t get what this is about.

"Maybe you’re wrong," Sam says gently. "Are you sure she’s not just as oblivious to this as everyone else?"

Bucky drags a hand through his hair. His left shoulder aches. "I don’t know."

Yes. You do.

"I’m telling you, there’s something going on."

Sam stares at him for a long, hard moment, and then he nods. "Okay. What do you want to do?"

He wants to sleep in on Saturday. He wants to stop feeling so confused. He wants the words in his throat to stop choking him.

But what he wants hasn’t mattered in eighty years.

And so he doesn’t say, I’m scared.

He doesn’t say, I feel so alone.

He doesn’t say, I don’t want to die.

And the only one who hears those things swallows them up whole until there’s nothing left.

"I’ll tell you when I find out," he says, because that’s the only thing that will leave his mouth. And if Sam looks at him doubtfully, well, maybe he knows him a little too well.

* * *

"I’m gonna go get some coffee. Do you want something?"

Bucky can hear your keys clattering as you pull on your shoes in the hallway, but he doesn’t move from his spot on the couch. He has to think.

"I’m good," he says blankly.

Are you?

Even Alpine looks at him doubtfully. He leans back a little until a spot of sunlight reflects from his watch, making her pounce at it playfully. Normally, it’d make him smile.

She jumps up on the coffee table and sniffs at the shreds of cardboard someone’s left behind. They weren’t there yesterday.

On the muted television, Sam enters the stage with his signature cap grin. Presumably, there’s thunderous applause, because it takes him a while to actually step up to the podium and begin his speech.

In the background, dozens of important-looking people gaze at him expectantly, with the exception of a woman with short blonde hair who’s turned away from the stage, holding both hands to her ears like she’s trying to understand a person on the phone. Bucky squints.

"You sure?"

Reflexively, he looks up at the sound of your voice, only to see you leaning in the doorway with a cautious expression that doesn’t help his muddled thoughts in the slightest.

Talk to me.

"Why are you wearing a jacket?" he asks.

You tug at the sleeves, not meeting his eye. It’s become a habit he doesn’t care for. "To be more like you," you deadpan.

It would feel so normal if only he could shake the feeling that something is wrong. Something is off.

He catches a glimpse of your hands just before they vanish into the pockets of your jacket. Not long enough to clearly see what color your rings are, but enough to notice one’s missing.

It’s flitting through his own fingers instead, and you would notice, too, if you would just look at him.

"You sure you alright?" he asks, and for a split second there’s something like a flicker on your face, but it washes away immediately, replaced by the usual unbothered exterior you’ve been wearing.

"Just fine," you say, voice even, face neutral.

And the problem is that he’s not sure if you’re lying. Normally, it’s so easy to tell, but right now …

Alpine rubs her head against his palm, your ring pressing into it like a reminder, and it sends a chill down his spine.

Bucky waits for the door to click shut behind you before slipping into his shoes and quietly following after you. He takes three steps at a time to keep up with the elevator, and in his rush he ends up having to wait for it to arrive in the lobby, glancing surreptitiously through the small window in the fire door.

A change has gone through you while you were out of his sight. The mask you’ve been wearing whenever you know he’s around has vanished, dropped like your shoulders. When you cross the entrace hall, the usual bounce in your step is gone and you just look tired.

The frown on his face deepens. He makes himself count to ten before following you.

Stepping outside at this time of the day always feels like getting slapped across the face by the noise and the heat. The sun is relentless today, and he can feel sweat beading on his neck, but you don’t so much as readjust your jacket as you make your way across the street, slowly, like you’re letting yourself be carried by the crowds.

Bucky keeps enough of a distance so even you won’t get a second chance to become aware of him. Just before you enter the Starbucks, your chin raises up again, your spine straightening.

It’s uncanny to witness your defenses going up as clearly as this, and it makes him stop in his tracks so abruptly someone almost bumps into him.

"Hey, I was just—oh, sorry, Sergeant Barnes."

"It was my fault," he mutters. The guy strolls towards a delivery bike, stealing a cautious look over his shoulder. Something about the way he moves feels oddly familiar.

There’s no time for Bucky to entertain the thought much longer, because a couple of minutes later you step out onto the sidewalk again, drink in hand, and he retreats a bit further into the alley, expecting you to pass him on your way back. You don’t, though. Instead, you look up at the sky and let out a sigh before turning and strolling down Lex.

You didn’t do that yesterday, either.

Bucky hesitates for a moment. He doesn’t want to outright follow you around for the rest of the day; he only wanted to see … what, exactly?

He groans quietly and then walks into the Starbucks himself. Maybe coffee isn’t such a bad idea after all.

Besides … it’s not like she’s that fast.

How strange to know that if he really wanted to, he could probably track your steps without much of a problem, even on a day as busy as today. It unsettles him more than he would like to admit.

The AC blasts a little bit of common sense back into him, even though the volume inside the store immediately makes him want to tear his ears out. It’s not that busy at the moment, but the amount of noise of the chattering people and the coffee grinders and the milk steamers is close to unbearable as usual.

The barista who has a crush on Sam is working the register again, fanning herself with a playbill. There are red, white and blue stripes running down her forehead, and Bucky briefly wonders how she keeps it from getting into her eyes.

"Hi there," she says with a knowing grin as soon as she recognizes him. "You just missed Y/N."

"I saw." Bucky shifts his weight. "Did she seem weird to you?"

She chuckles. "Apart from the fact that she ordered decaf?"

He frowns. "Something like that."

She shrugs and redjusts her cap. "Just the usual amount," she says in a way that would make him smile on any other day. The tag on her apron has the name Nora on it, but he feels like that’s not right. "Do you want to order something? I can put it on her card."

Normally, he’d refuse out of principle, but it’s not like anything he does today matters.

"Thanks," he says. "I’ll have a coffee, then."

He doesn’t even particularly like coffee, but it does help when he hasn’t slept a lot. And, truth be told, he’s not sure when the last time he slept was. He’s been awake for a week, but without feeling any of the usual side effects of insomnia.

Or the numerous head wounds.

"Mhm," Not-Nora says. "Little more specific?"

Well, shit. "Not decaf?" he tries.

"You’re useless," she smiles and then taps her screen a bunch of times. "Alright, move along. Tell cap good luck from me."

He almost smirks. "Why not tell him yourself?"

She huffs, blushing ever so slightly. "I’m not getting out of here ’til one and I’m already a sweaty mess."

And maybe it’s because his day has been nothing but a shitshow over the past week. Maybe it’s because Sam hasn’t talked about Leila in over three weeks even before Friday started, and Bucky doesn’t like his friends being quietly miserable. Maybe he just wants to see something work out for a change.

It’s been a while since he’s played matchmaker. His sisters would’ve laughed about this for weeks; maybe he does it for that thought.

"How about you put down your number and I’ll pass it on?"

Not-Nora perks up even as her flush deepens. "Are you serious?"

"Deadly."

When he leaves five minutes later, her phone number is scrawled along one side of his paper cup, and even though the coffee tastes just as disgusting as usual, he can’t help but feel like maybe he can do one tiny thing right. At least for a moment.

His feet carry him down Lexington Avenue without him even consciously thinking about it, and he gets as far as three blocks before he remembers that Sam’s speech started at 14:00. He jerks up his watch so quickly the coffee spills on his shirt, but he barely hisses at the burn.

14:47.

What’s the point? he thinks as he throws the empty cup into the closest trash. Or maybe he does.

* * *

He throws his punches a little harder each day.

It takes all of his might not to lose himself completely in the fight to come, not to unleash his full serum-powered strength on a couple of faceless fanatics who would be fine again in a couple of minutes, anyway, depending on how long he’ll make it today. Still, there’s a certain mindlessness to it as he repeats his own steps, ribs cracking and wrists twisting as he strikes again and again and again.

"I think I’m losing it," he tells Sam about a week in.

"Like a bad day or you’re about to go Shining on me?"

So far, there hasn’t been any shining, but it wouldn’t make a difference.

"Two o’clock."

He’s already half-turning when you say it, already pulling the trigger as the words leave your mouth, moving on muscle memory alone at this point. And you still don’t notice.

A single bead of sweat runs down the side of your neck as you kick another one of your assailants in the groin, and even though your eyes are focused, you’re not in it.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d say you were just concentrating; but he knows you can be in the moment and quip freely at the same time. He’s seen you do it countless times before today.

But it’s Friday, endless, sweltering, blood-stained Friday, and it’s like you’ve turned into a robot version of yourself, every move premeditated and precise, every look and word and nod planned and practiced just enough not to arouse suspicion in anyone who doesn’t look as closely as he’s had time to. It’s a game of pretend, and you’re almost winning. You’re almost perfect.

No. You’re too perfect.

Perfect in your display of almost-shock, of almost-pain as the knife cuts through Bucky’s kevlar vest like butter and lodges right above his heart. At first, he barely feels it; he only tastes the blood bubbling up his throat when his mouth drops open.

His eyes stay on you as he thuds to his knees, bones crunching, eyes watering. You catch him, barely, supporting his shoulders to keep him steady.

Your silence is deafening.

"What’s wrong with you?" he murmurs as the ringing in his ears gets louder, barely audible enough for you to hear, but clearly you do, because something shifts in your eyes, and oh.

There’s that glimmer in your eye he loves looking at so much, the one he only gets to see when he teases it out of you. That spark of mischief he’s missed during all this, like your fire has burned out.

He’s never hated it more.

And then he comes to in the middle of the crossing between Lexington and East 55th, and once again, he feels like a decision’s been made for him already.

He makes it to the side of the road and sits down on the boardwalk, ignoring the bustle of curious people around him. Instead, he stares directly at the synagogue on the other side of the street, and he doesn’t ask why.

He asks, Like this?

And just like he expected, there’s no answer. Not even from within.

He presses both of his hands to his heart to feel it beat against his palm, more steady than his thoughts and still there. He’s still there.

It’s Friday again.

Bucky thought, not too long ago, that with everything he’s come to know and … like about you, you were someone he could let in. That someday, he could let you see him, with everything he’s used to hiding away underneath all of the protective layers he’s built around his heart.

Maybe he was wrong.

He should confront you. No, he should just ask. Why can’t he bring himself to ask?

Сбой, the voice in his head reminds him again and he presses it down, down between his torn open ribs, shoves it underneath the wounds that keep reopening anyway because he’s sick of having to listen to it all the time, sick of never being alone in his own damn head anymore, of not being able to leave a single day behind, let alone anything else.

Something tugs at him from deep within, and it’s enough to make him get up, rub his palms against his pants, and then take out his phone as he starts walking again. He knows the number by heart, but he’s never been able to actually hit the call button before, even though he’s tried. He’s tried countless times.

His speed picks up with every ring of the phone because something about this makes him feel like running away. Like maybe he gets it now. Like—

There’s a click, and then the sound of the voicemail recording. Of course.

Bucky groans. "Damnit, I know you’re never gonna listen to this, but there’s something really fucked up going on and I don’t—I don’t know what to do, man."

He keeps walking, keeps his head up even when he bumps into people, because what does it matter, right now? He ignores the red light at the next crossing, mostly because he needs to move.

"It’d be real fuckin’ decent of you to just pick up the goddamn phone every once in a while, you know, because that’s what—"

"Buck?"

For a second, everything screeches to a halt.

He’s not sure what comes first, him dropping his phone or the car hitting him from out of nowhere, but the next thing he knows is he comes to in the middle of the crossing between Lexington and East 55th, right as he’s about to turn his back on the brownstone front of the Central Synagogue, and it feels like someone just ripped his heart open all over again.

He flips the car off when it honks, not even caring about the ache in his limbs. His phone is safely tucked away in his pocket, and when he pulls it out again, there’s not so much as a scratch on the screen, but right now, it’s not like he would have cared.

The next five times he tries, the call doesn’t even go through.

He knows that voice. He knows it just as well as his own, just as well as the one hiding inside some dark corner of his mind, and it shouldn’t sound like that anymore.

The thing inside stirs again, that other, softer voice, that part of him he hates just as much.

Keep trying, it says.

It’s the part of him that told him to jump from the helicarrier. The part of him that still refuses to believe he was past redemption despite all the evidence pointing to the contrary; the part of him that’s too damn hopeful for its own good, and somehow still persists.

Talk to her, it says.

He can’t go on listening to ghosts for the rest of his days.

Or day, rather.

His thumb hovers over the call button one last time, and then he shuts his phone off.

* * *

"You look like shit."

"Oh, fuck you, Barnes."

He scoffs, but his mind is still hurling with anger and pain and confusion, and it comes out like a growl. He’s vigorously scrubbing at the crevices in his arm. Maybe the inside is still stained with his blood; maybe that’s why it feels so heavy.

"Are you alright?" you ask and his head snaps up.

You look so innocent, almost concerned. Normally, he would enjoy it for the second it would last, but today, it sticks. Everything sticks today.

"What do you think?"

Your eyes widen just a little bit, but you don’t say anything. You still don’t fucking say anything, and that’s more telling than anything else in this endless nightmare so far.

You’re not asking what’s wrong with him, because you know. You know.

"How many times are we gonna go through this before we’re done?"

You bite your cheek, your fingers twitch. "I don’t know," you say, and your voice sounds so far removed it barely sounds like yours anymore.

Fine, he thinks. If you’re not telling him, then it really is some elaborate scheme to punish him. To make him think he’s lost his mind again, make him see that free will is nothing but an illusion, that things will always, always stay the same no matter what he does. He gets the point.

Then why does it hurt so much to know? Why does it hurt to know you?

Maybe because none of this, as terribly, horribly real as it’s been, has felt like it was true at all. He’s still missing a piece of the puzzle, and you’re refusing to give it to him. If he only knew what went wrong between the two of you—no.

You’re clearly done with him, and he’s not going to beg for answers he’s not going to get. People he cares for usually made a point of leaving him; why should it have been any different with you?

By the time Sam enters the kitchen, Bucky’s been glaring at the fridge for a while already. There’s a magnet in the shape of a blue alien with six arms holding up your shopping list; a couple of sticky notes with passive-agressive messages on them, most of them about the cat litter; a postcard from the exhibit at the National Air and Space Museum. Trivial bits and pieces.

He wants to set all of it on fire, starting with the postcard.

"She knows," he says without turning when he hears Sam’s steps behind him. They halt on the other side of the kitchen island.

"Knows what?" He doesn’t even ask who, and it fuels the anger.

"That I’m stuck in a time loop."

A choking sound, too short to be worrisome. "Come again?"

Bucky glowers at him over his shoulder, even though none of this is Sam’s fault. He gets a concerned stare in return, which cools his temper somewhat; he lets out a sigh. "What day do you think it is?"

"Are you feeling alright?"

No. "Humor me."

He grabs a mug from the drying rack, just to have something to do with his hands. It’s the one with cat ears that showed up outside his room on his birthday, wrapped in cheap brown packing paper.

How long ago was March?

"Friday," Sam says, and he sounds so sure about it. Bucky desperately wants to believe it’s that easy.

"It’s been Friday for a while," he says instead, his voice cracking.

To go through everything like this is both easier and worse than he expected.

"I don’t get it." Sam pinches the bridge of his nose. "I’ve seen you fight before. Hell, I’ve fought you before. You’re near impossible to hurt, let alone kill."

Bucky huffs. "I heal fast, I’m not invincible."

"Then how does it keep happening when you know it’s coming?"

Unbidden, the glimmer in your eye comes to mind again. The line of your back turned towards him, the complete abandon of self-preservation in your fighting style, however streamlined it may be. Even through all this, you expect him to watch your six.

And why wouldn’t you? His eyes are continually drawn to you, anyway.

He knows that just as well as you do, and there’s nothing he can do about it. He can just go and be slaughtered instead.

Bucky swallows. His throat feels very dry.

"I told you we shouldn’t have brought her on," he finally says, even though it’s not really an answer. Or maybe it is. You were always going to be the knife that cut the deepest, and maybe he’s known from the start. "Reckless idiot."

"Yeah, you said that. Almost a year ago. Hasn’t that changed?"

"Everything’s changed," he snaps, and the mug slips from his fingers. It shatters on the tiles, small shards flying off in all directions, and it hurts.

It’s just a mug. It shouldn’t twist his stomach, not like this. He keeps staring at the pieces.

"And why do you think that is?" Such a soft question.

Bucky’s hands clench into fists.

That other voice inside knows the answer, is desperate to scream it out, to share the burden and the weightlessness of it, but he can’t let it. He squashes it down, forces it back into its dark, hopeless corner. It has no place here. It can’t.

Somehow, Sam seems to hear it anyway.

"Have you talked to her?" He chooses his words carefully.

Bucky’s heart is racing like he’s dying, but he knows what that feels like now and it’s not this. This is worse.

Сбой, he thinks again, and this time, it echoes in his mind loud enough to drown out anything else. The shards on the floor are blurring. He has a sudden urge to spit or vomit, but he half-expects words to come out if he should. Of all things.

Can we leave before I do something he’ll regret?

His left hand makes a grating sound as his right palm opens underneath his fingernails, blood slowly dripping from one wrist. It brings him back into the kitchen, Sam’s gaze still heavy on him. He doesn’t want to meet his eyes.

"She’s not coming."

There’s something cold in Bucky’s voice he’s too fed up to care he recognizes.

It’s his own fault. He’s let his guard down around you, let you in, and it’s been a mistake. Of course it was. You’re the one who led him here, and he doesn’t want to follow your orders any longer.

"Let’s go on the mission without her. If she isn’t there, maybe I won’t …" He doesn’t have to say it out loud. He’s still bleeding, after all.

"Are you sure?" Sam says.

No. "I’m asking as a friend."

As expected, that’s enough.

He doesn’t feel bad leaving you behind without a single word, without looking back over his shoulder as he quietly drags the door shut behind him. He doesn’t feel bad sitting on the quinjet in silence, staring daggers at the wall. He doesn’t feel bad as he climbs out and soaks up the last few rays of sunshine, his focus unbroken for once.

He’s not haunted by you here; only by his own ghost.

Bucky’s been through this enough times to recall more than the broad strokes of it; he slips this mission on like a second skin, breathing through the absence of you with more calm than he’s thought possible. Then again: this is what he’s good at.

There’s a goal, and there’s a catch; but no more distractions. This will be a breeze.

.

…

That night, he dreams of you. If you could call it a dream, the few strange, hazy moments after he dies and before he gets put together again.

You look at him, almost reaching out but never quite touching, your eyes gleaming green.

His name still echoes in your voice when he comes to.

* * * * *

From his perspective, it made sense, of course, so really there was no point in going over it again.

And yet you did. Over and over.

I want her out.

It was quite simple, really. Bucky hated your guts because of something you couldn’t control, you were still seething because of it, and you were both perfectly fine with avoiding each other for the rest of your days.

You took an extra shift at the store the next day, just so you wouldn’t have to run into the two of them any more than necessary. You couldn’t wait until Sam jumped back on his flight to D.C. and Bucky fucked off to do whatever he did all day; the most important part was that they’d both be far, far away from you.

"Fucking Steve," you mumbled as you violently scrubbed the counters. Come to think of it, all of this was entirely his fault. No one would even know you existed without him blabbering on about you. And what you wouldn’t give to live in a world without being judged for your very existence by a bionic ex-assassin.

On top of everything else, some moron decided to steal the tip jar while you were distracted getting some ice, and by the time you made it home, it was nearing midnight, you’d had way too many espresso shots for a single human being, and you just wanted to cry in the silence of your own four walls. It was probably the single most terrible day you’d had since the first couple of weeks in the Tower.

Unfortunately, when you unlocked the front door, you immediately realized that your terrible day wasn’t over yet. There were too many pairs of shoes sitting in the hallway, and voices coming from the kitchen area.

You quietly pulled off your sneakers in the semi-darkness of the hallway. You were way too exhausted to attempt to use your powers, but maybe you could tiptoe past them to take a quick shower and then fall into bed without having to talk to anyone.

Slowly, you crept closer to the stairwell, keeping one eye on the shadows dancing across the wall to your left. Snippets of conversation got clearer.

"—not saying that, but whether you want to admit it or not, she’s good." Sam sounded annoyed.

"It’s not about that and you know it."

"Yeah, I do. You know what else I know? You need to go back to therapy."

You froze, shrinking back into the darkness of the hallway. You could hear Bucky huff an incredulous laugh.

"I made—"

"Amends, I’m aware. And was that your idea, or was that the assigned homework from your court mandated army doctor?" Silence. "You can’t just work through a list and at the end of it decide you’re done and everything’s magically alright again."

"'Course not. I don’t get to do that."

There was something about his tone that made your anger sink down slowly, heavily, until you swallowed it down entirely and you just felt wretched.

You weren’t supposed to listen to any of this. This was way out of your depth, and you had no idea how to get out of it. Their voices blurred into each other as your pulse was rushing through your head loud enough to make you dizzy, and you reached for your necklace in an attempt to ground yourself, to calm your breaths and reach out to something that could get you away from this moment in time.

It was useless.

"Like I said," Sam continued calmly. "You don’t have to work together ever again. But the two of you should talk it out first."

"Or how about this," you whispered, not loud enough for any but superhuman ears to pick up on, "should we ever get to the point again where I reset something around you and it’s important, I will let you know."

You barely knew why you offered, with your back pressed against the wall, not even standing in the same room as Bucky. But you didn’t want to fight.

There was a beat of hesitation, and then he said, "Promise?"

"Sure," Sam said.

You held up your pinkie finger in front of your heart, even though no one could see. "On the nine lives of the cat I will own one day."

You counted your breaths up to twenty before you heard one of them shift their weight, bare feet shuffling over your tiles.

"Fine," Bucky said finally. "She can stay for now. But I’m keeping an eye on her."

A familiar hitch went through you all on its own and you opened your eyes to find the world standing still. You took a couple of hesitant steps towards the stairs again, your head turning when you passed the kitchen area.

Sam had his back turned to you, stretching to reach something on the shelf next to the fridge, but Bucky’s frozen gaze was fixed on the wall you’d been leaning against, his arms crossed in front of his chest. Determination was a good look on him, you decided. It left a certain shine in his eyes that was hard to look away from.

That night, you dreamt of drowning at sea, and somehow you didn’t want to call it a nightmare.

chapter eight

thank you for reading!! you can follow my library blog @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications 💚

this chapter was my best kept secret and i'm forever grateful to @marvelettesassemblenow for reading ages ago 🫶🏼 also no one talk to me about thunderbolts bc i still haven't watched it but it seemed like a good time for a comeback