#I feel like I missed a few people but if I did

[jaylaxies]

TEASER: YOURS (MAYBE?)

PAIRING: jake x fem!reader x jay

GENRE: enemies to lovers, strangers to lovers, smut, fluff, humour, angst.

TEASER WC: 1988 words! (est. 33k words)

SYNOPSIs: Your best friend’s wedding was supposed to be the well-earned vacation you’d been dreaming of, the perfect escape and much needed breather. Instead, you’re stuck sharing a room with your ex-rival, and the previously quiet, enigmatic boy from university, both seemingly perfectly poised to turn this trip into a carefully orchestrated plan to woo you.  Alternatively: Challengers, but your playground isn’t a tennis court, it is the bedroom which you share with Jay and Jake.

WARNING: the fic will contain 18+ content, minors dni.

A/N: hihi loves <3 sorry for the delay but the fic got way longer than intended! so i’ll just leave a little teaser as something to compensate while i finish editing. <3

taglist is open! comment/send an ask to be added <3 (make sure to have your age visible on your blog!)

Chapter 1: The boy I forgot Vs. The boy I can’t. 

Being late to your best friend’s wedding trip was the lowest you could have sunk down, and you did. 

Well, granted, it was courtesy of your work which never gave you holidays, but alas, you managed to get a week off, now rushing out of the airport with your two heavy luggage bags, not to mention the backpack and purse you managed to carry along, trying to spot the bride, Karina, who still proceeded to pick you up in the midst of all the wedding preparation chaos. 

She launches herself at you even before you had the time to react, engulfing you in a hug so tight as if you hadn’t met her over dinner just the week prior. 

“You’re so fucking late,” she screamed, shaking you as you finally elicited a laugh, waving back at her fiancé, Jeno, who was smiling like a puppy seeing his fiancée so joyous. 

“Blame my boss, he fucking made me work overtime to the point I had to cancel my flight and take the ticket for the next one,” you groaned, letting the couple help you with your luggage and share everything you’ve missed so far—which somehow didn’t include the room assortment, yet. 

Karina chats your ear off the entire ride to the Airbnb villa booked especially for the friends, other families and guests having different villas all to themselves, her voice practically vibrating with sheer excitement, but it’s not until the car takes a sharp turn into a winding hill that your stomach twists with something else—anticipation.

“You’ll love the place,” she says, “and the people—well, mostly.”

You shoot her a look. “Mostly? You let me take care of everything, from helping with your wedding dress to finalizing the flowers and arrangements, but didn’t let me take a single look at the guest list, should I be worried?” 

“Let’s just say, there are a few strong personalities. You’ll see.”

You narrow your eyes but let it slide, muttering, “yeah I’m worried.” She’s already looking smug, and you had a bad feeling about it now that your car neared the villa for the next few days, and you did have a slight hint about what was to come, to which you simply prayed for it to be wrong. 

It was something straight out of a pinterest board, cream coloured walls, string lights adorning it, the faint scent of gardenia drifting through the slight breeze, cooling down the otherwise warm atmosphere. You’re still staring at the view as you get another hug attack from Winter, who was more than excited to see you after the few weeks you spent away, because you still met up after subsequently completing the university. 

A small genuine smile graced your face as you started catching up, “god—wait. I need Karina to finalize the aisle placements, I’m sorry, Y/N, we’ll be back in a second.” She says, rushing away, seeming more bothered than the bride to be herself, who was enjoying every second of it. 

You weren’t sure what you expected when you stepped into the villa, but it definitely wasn’t this.

The place looked like something out of a design magazine—open plan with warm wooden floors, arched doorways, and morning light spilling across the ceilings. Plants dangled beautifully from the pots, and a soft ocean breeze danced through linen curtains like the house was exhaling out elegance.

It was like a perfect Pinterest wedding destination, almost like a spot where people would fall in love seamlessly. 

Unfortunately, you were not here for love.

You were here for Karina’s wedding, and most importantly, you were especially not here to run into—

“Well, if it isn’t the prodigy herself.”

That voice—you froze mid-step, every muscle in your spine stiffening like instinct. No. Absolutely not, that could not be him, could he? 

You turned slowly, already preparing your sigh, and found yourself face to face with none other than Park Jongseong. 

Great.

Same perfect posture, same cocky half-smile. Tall, annoyingly handsome, and dressed like the poster boy for a casual rich man at a coastal wedding—open shirt, silver chain, jaw sharp enough to cut glass, eyes dark enough to drown someone, and his heart shaped birthmark on the neck still standing out. 

Jay.

Your academic nemesis, your eternal debate partner. The guy who turned every university presentation into a showdown and somehow made you want to win even harder, the guy you swore you hated all three years of your undergrad uni. 

You hadn’t seen him since graduation. You’d hoped that would be the end of it, but of fucking course, fate hated you.

“Well, I see you’re still as stiff as ever,” you said, looking bored, hoisting your backpack bag higher on your shoulder, “still studying like a madman, huh?”

Jay gave a lazy smile, eyes flicking over you with the practiced indifference of someone used to winning, his eyes still wandering around your figure before he clicked his tongue, “you’re late.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, already irritated, “I’m fashionably late, there’s a difference, you wouldn’t understand, of fucking course.” You said, pointing at your amazing airport fit. 

“I’m sure there’s a spreadsheet in your bag that proves that, you always came over prepared anyway.”

You opened your mouth to deliver a killer comeback—and were immediately interrupted by another voice.

“Woah—woah, I’ve only been here ten minutes and there’s already fights unleashing, huh?”

You turned again, this time finding yourself staring into a face you hadn’t expected at all.

Jake.

Sim Jaeyun, you recognized him immediately—your old batchmate, the quiet one from your year, you remembered him as soft spoken, always with a shy smile, never really one to speak unless called on, only if you omit out recalling that one night when he did talk to you, just one night. 

Except now—now he stood beside Jay, lean and sun-kissed, wearing a faded tee that clung just right and black sweatpants that made him look nothing like the awkward boy you remembered. There was a warmth in his eyes, sure—but also something new, a flicker of playfulness, of newfound confidence.

His hair fluffier than ever, lips still pouty but in a teasing manner, and his aura now strong and warm, as if he had a halo around his head. 

“Jake?” you said, unsure, but you did remember him, not just the newly transformed version of him.

His grin was unnaturally attractive as he replied, “you remember.”

Barely, you thought, but said instead, “wow, you were—uh quiet.”

Jake chuckled, and the sound was different than you remembered too, richer, more teasing, accent evident in his voice, “yeah. Not so much anymore, I guess.”

Jay scoffed from beside him, “he still is when he loses. Don’t let him fool you.”

Jake rolled his eyes, “ignore him. He gets cranky when he’s not the smartest in the room, Mr. Know it all.”

You raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “Is that why he always sulked during academic week?”

Jay turned to you with a sarcastic smile. “You were the one who stole my thesis idea in senior year.”

“I didn’t steal it, I simply executed it better.”

“Debatable.”

“Oh my god,” Jake said with a laugh, looking between the two of you, “this is amazing. It’s like watching the academic war off, but, well, this is actually interesting.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you, but you quickly caught yourself. No, absolutely no humanizing your rival, not when he was right in front of you. 

Jay leaned against the entryway wall, clearly amused, “didn’t expect to see you here, honestly.”

“I’m Karina’s best friend,” you replied with an eye roll as if he was dumb, “of course I’m here.”

Jay’s expression didn’t shift, but something in his gaze sharpened slightly. “Right. Makes sense.”

Jake tilted his head as if he didn’t know, “you and Karina were close in uni?”

“We roomed together all four years,” you said, lips curving, “she’s like my sister.”

Jay gave a half, sarcastic smile that didn’t reach his eyes, “hm, that does explain the pity invite.”

You scoffed as you stepped closer, gaze daring, “are you always this good at projecting?”

“I’m always this good at reading people.”

“Then read this and stay away,” you said sweetly, flipping him off.

Jake blinked, then burst out laughing, leaning forward like the moment was a personal win, genuinely amused, “I’m sorry, that was iconic, never gets old.”

Jay shrugged, shaking his head at you, “she always had a flair for the dramatics, I wonder why she didn’t join the drama society.”

“You’re one to talk,” you muttered, but before Jay could respond, the front door opened again and Isa rushed in, grinning.

“There you are!” She said, grabbing your arm. “Come on, Karina’s doing the room assignments!”

You let yourself be dragged back inside, throwing one last glance at the boys—Jay smirking like he’d already won something, and Jake watching you with a curiosity that sent a shiver up your spine.

Room assignments, right. You could handle that, or so you thought. 

The rest of the house was gathered in the living room, lounging on floor cushions and sipping iced drinks and vodka? Well, afternoon drinking is fun, meanwhile, Karina stood in the center, a clipboard in hand and a wicked glint in her eye, that was reserved for you, apparently.

“Okay,” she announced. “Here’s how it’s going to work. We’ve got three rooms for guests. Each one has its own fun layout.”

You narrowed your eyes. That tone was never good, not when she used it looking your way, and you simply hoped that your gut feeling wasn’t right this once. 

“Room One, Isa, Winter, Yunjin.”

The girls high-fived and squealed, already plotting aesthetic corners and matching pajamas, and you stood there, knowing what was to happen when you weren’t put up with the girls. 

“Room Two, Yeonjun, Heeseung, Beomgyu, Jaemin, and Hyuck.”

Someone groaned in the back, definitely Hyuck, “why do we get the bunk beds?”

Karina grinned, “because you snore, Hyuck.”

Then she paused, flipping the page. “Room three—hm, this one’s interesting.”

Your stomach dropped when it was finally the time to say it out loud. 

“No,” you said immediately, “whatever it is you’re about to say, no.”

Karina ignored you, “room three has one double bed and one single, and it goes to—Y/N, Jay, and Jake.”

Silence.

Then the crowd erupted into laughter, Beomgyu complaining about how it should be him with you instead, meanwhile, the girls wondering who’s gonna make it out of the room alive, because with that pairing, someone was bound to murder the other.

“You’re fucking kidding,” you whispered, horrified, already reaching out to Karina who was on the verge of running away, laughing hard at your expressions, “what? No. Are you serious?”

Jay looked up from his drink with mock surprise, as if Jeno had already told him what was to happen, “Huh? That’s unfortunate.”

Jake’s eyes went wide, almost comical, “wait—what? All three of us?” He asked, pointing at himself. 

Karina nodded, grinning too wide, still rushing around trying to not get caught by you, “unless someone wants to sleep on the couch?” She asked, chuckling as she hid behind Jeno for shield. 

“I’ll sleep in the ocean,” you said flatly, moving back now that you knew Karina was safe and hiding behind a tall, muscular man. 

Jake scratched the back of his neck. “I mean, I don’t mind the single bed—unless you want to share.”

Jay choked, not expecting that kind of reaction from Jake, “she’d rather sleep with a thesis on stem cell regeneration.”

“Oh my god, this can’t be happening,” you muttered.

Karina clapped her hands. “Settled! Take your bags upstairs. Good luck.”

You stood frozen as the group dissolved into laughter and chatter, your fate sealed, this trip was going to kill you.

And it hadn’t even begun yet.

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[luckiestboy]

too many people are too focused on punishment/revenge on the perpetrator... while we've had studies that show prevention helps way more, and it's always been such a puzzling thing, i've questioned the way people care about CSA, with;

"why do you need a child to be abused before you care?" (you as in general, not you as in op)

fairly related additions under the cut

i think more people who are focused on punishment, need to watch the skip intro video about TCAP, since it seems like an easily available way to absorb information both about CSA abuse statistics, and how "revenge fantasies" don't help in the long run. i say this because many many people will likely be disinterested in reading articles or statistics, as bad as that mindset is, i would like to at least get them to think about the topic to begin with. as much as i hate the fact youtube essays about this include sponsors/patreon plugs, i get why it's done, it's a job that's besides the point though.

to summarize: He outlined how TCAP is more of a "revenge fantasy" and makes content out of reality of many people, majority of which were abused by those they knew (he also mentions that aspect.) instead of a possibly educational show, it was the same as current-day youtube "predator catchers" who were fueled by it, and yes the show ended, though it's impact remains.

the video is technically about how they "kinda killed a guy" which people argue "the guy shot himself, nobody but him pulled the trigger" but i feel like those people are missing the point. the criticism stems from how the "Education" chris hansen did, how he rushed to a swat raid for content, putting other people in danger, considering the man had a gun, what if he shot someone else?

again, i ask them, why do we wait untill a child's been abused and traumatized for life, when we have evidence teaching kids these things, helps them more, and avoids trauma.

or teaching them, if there were no signs, if the perpetrator was a child too, that it's okay to speak out, to seek help, comfort and guidance.

I'm someone who was SA'd by a classmate, a "friend", i have spent a decade repressing the memory, and when it surfaced, i denied it was SA because it wasn't what i considered to be SA, because "well... he didn't grope me, it was just a kiss, i wasnt traumatized", ignoring how i cried recounting it to my psychologist when being interviewed during the process of diagnosing gender dysphoria, as when i was put in a situation to recount memories or experiences, it was one of the few things i remembered, before coming out.

i never even got justice, because another child did that to me, i was never apologized to, even. because nobody ever said to speak up.

if i were taught to speak up when someone did this to me, i wouldn't be met with the horrified look my mother gave me, when i shared the story around the winter holidays, deeming it a "funny" thing from my childhood. and her question.

"why didn't you tell me?"

i was 7, maybe 8, there weren't any signs for my autistic little brain to pick up, and even then i was never taught about signs, only to never go with strangers.

i was told being taunted or teased by a boy meant he liked me, i was supposed to be happy, right? someone liked me, that means what they did was good. it didnt matter i ran from him before i was trapped.

the fact im so fucked up mentally, and hesitant of affection horrifies me, because those who endured worse? what about them? the mistreatment i went through were isolated incidents, and they still left a big impact, those incidents, caused me to subconciously try and present myself in a "tempting" way to one of the few male middle school teachers i had, in hopes of being abused more.

and i think about others who've gone through worse, the mental strain, and how people seem to be so focused on punishing the abuser, instead of helping the abused.

yes an abuser should be punished, but involvement shouldnt end there...

Speaking as a survivor of child sex abuse: the world would be a lot better if yall spent less time talking about the ways in which pedophiles should be punished and more time supporting survivors and preventing abuse

I get it, punishment can feel cathartic. I’ve certainly spent time imagining all the ways in which my own abuser might be punished. But ultimately, him dying, or being jailed, or publicly shamed, isn’t actually going to help me nor will it stop more kids from getting hurt in the future.

I don’t want more prisoners. I want free therapy with trauma informed counselors. I want better sex education for young children that teaches them about consent and body autonomy. And I want a society in which I can openly discuss my trauma, or at least as openly as yall discuss the evils of pedophiles

[buttercandy16]

UNTIL YOU'RE MINE

PAIRING: Teacher!Agatha Harkness x Student! Reader

SUMMARY: When your teacher becomes your nightmare.

WARNING(s): Dark Themes, Yandere, Kidnapping, Blood and Murder, Stockholm Syndrome

A/N: Been a while 😚🔪

You were sixteen the first time you saw her.

It was the start of the second semester, and you were assigned to a new English class—Advanced Literature. Room 207. A class meant for seniors and the academically gifted. You didn’t feel like either. You’d only gotten in because of your high reading scores and a transfer from your last school. A quiet, bookish girl who kept her head down, who blended in easily. You’d always preferred the silence of pages over people.

The bell rang as you stepped through the threshold. That’s when you saw her.

Ms. Harkness.

She stood at the front of the room, chalk in hand, already halfway through writing a quote on the board:

“We are all fools in love.” —Jane Austen

The first thing you noticed was how still she was—like a painting. She held herself with a kind of effortless elegance, tall and commanding in a dark plum blouse that hugged her figure, her black slacks sleek, polished boots clicking softly against the floor as she turned.

And then she looked at you.

A subtle flicker of her violet eyes over her shoulder, and the second her gaze met yours, your breath caught. There was something unreadable in her expression—something sharp and silent, like the moment just before lightning strikes.

Her stare wasn’t just a glance—it was assessing you, stripping you down to your bones and memorizing each one.

You froze in place.

She smiled.

“New student?” she asked. Her voice was smooth, honeyed, but there was something underneath it—a weight that felt too intense for a simple greeting.

You nodded. “Y-Yes.”

“Name?”

You told her, feeling like the sound of it no longer belonged to you.

“Lovely,” she murmured. “Why don’t you sit here?” She gestured to the front row, third seat from the left. Right in the center of her field of view.

It wasn’t a request.

You obeyed without question, feeling her eyes on your back the entire walk there. The other students were chatting, oblivious, but something inside you had already shifted. There was a tremble in your chest you couldn’t name.

You sat down, took out your notebook, and tried to focus. Tried to steady your breathing.

But Ms. Harkness didn’t look away.

The lesson that day was on Pride and Prejudice. You’d read it before. Knew all the characters. But the way she spoke about it made the book feel entirely new. Her voice was slow, deliberate, and she never once glanced at her notes. Every word she spoke felt chosen. Purposeful.

“Love,” she said, strolling between the desks with her hands clasped behind her back, “is often mistaken for admiration. Or obsession. Or control. But real love… it transforms you. It consumes you.”

She paused by your desk.

Her hand rested lightly on your shoulder. You froze again.

“Sometimes,” she continued, looking down at you with eyes like wine, “you don’t even realize you’re falling until it’s far too late.”

A few students chuckled. You didn’t. Your skin was burning under her touch, but her grip didn’t move. Not until you shifted uncomfortably in your chair.

Only then did she withdraw.

At the end of class, you were the last to leave. Your pencil case had spilled open, and you were scrambling to gather everything when her shadow loomed over your desk.

“You’re quite bright,” she said, crouching to help you collect your pens. “Your analysis earlier on Elizabeth Bennet’s pride… It was insightful. Very mature for someone your age.”

You gave her a quiet “thank you,” cheeks flushing. She was too close. You could smell her perfume—something floral, but dark, like night-blooming jasmine.

She handed you a pink gel pen you hadn’t noticed was missing.

“Don’t be afraid to speak more in class,” she said gently, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “I want to hear what’s in that pretty little head of yours.”

You nodded, almost dizzy from the attention.

She smiled.

You left the classroom feeling… strange. Not quite flattered. Not quite afraid.

Just noticed in a way you’d never been before.

That night, as you sat on your bed journaling, your thoughts drifted back to her. The way she looked at you. The way her fingers had lingered too long. You tried to tell yourself it was nothing—that you were being silly.

But deep down, something about that first glance stuck with you.

What you didn’t know was that hours later, Ms. Harkness was still in her classroom—alone, the lights dimmed, your name written over and over again in the margins of her notebook like a chant.

She didn’t go home.

She stayed there long into the night, whispering your name under her breath with a smile so soft it could be mistaken for love… if not for the madness shimmering beneath it.

The days passed quietly at first.

Ms. Harkness kept her distance, at least in the way most teachers did. No inappropriate comments. No touchy-feely gestures like that first day. But her attention never strayed far from you. She called on you often—always asking the most difficult questions. She said it was because you were “capable,” “gifted.” But her gaze never felt like it belonged to a teacher admiring talent.

It felt like a secret. A claim.

Every time you looked up, she was watching you. Not always directly. Sometimes through the reflection of the window. Sometimes from behind a book, her violet eyes just barely visible. But it was constant.

And soon, subtle things began to change.

Your essays always received glowing praise, even when you knew they weren’t your best. She began to write notes in the margins—not just about the text, but about you.

“You have such a sensitive soul.”

“Your mind is beautiful. I hope others recognize that.”

“This reminds me of a line I once underlined when I was your age—‘She walked through life as if the stars were her only companions.’ That’s you.”

You showed one of the notes to a friend once, laughing it off. But even as you smiled, something inside you twisted.

Then came the gifts.

Small things at first. A new journal left on your desk. A ribbon tied around it in your favorite color. A paperback book—The Bell Jar—with a note tucked inside the front cover:

“For when the world feels heavy. You’re not alone.” — A.H.

You never told her your favorite color. Or that you suffered from the occasional panic attack. But somehow, she knew.

When you brought it up after class—trying to politely return the journal—she merely smiled and said, “A teacher’s job is to nurture their brightest. I see you, sweetheart.”

She said it like a blessing. Like a vow.

You started to dread English class.

But skipping wasn’t an option. She always noticed. And the one time you were late because you had a nosebleed in the hallway, she showed up at the nurse’s office ten minutes later, eyes blazing with concern.

“She’s mine,” she hissed at the nurse when she tried to escort you. You saw it. Heard it. A quiet, deadly whisper she thought no one else caught.

You pretended not to.

Later that day, you found a packet of tissues and a bottle of herbal tea left inside your locker. No note. But it didn’t need one. You knew it was from her.

You started double-checking that your bedroom blinds were drawn at night. You couldn't explain why. It was just a feeling.

And then came the dream.

You were walking through a library alone. Shelves stretched up into the darkness like pillars in a cathedral. Every book you touched had your name on the cover.

And then she appeared behind you.

Her hand slid down your back—slow, warm, possessive. Her voice against your neck.

"Do you know how many versions of you I’ve read? How many I’ve rewritten in my head?"

You woke up sweating. Shaking.

Something was wrong.

The final straw was the email.

It came late—well past midnight. You checked it while lying in bed, groggy and half-asleep. The subject line read:

“My Dear Girl.”

Your heart thudded before you even opened it.

I know it’s not appropriate to write this. But I can’t help myself anymore.

You’re in my mind constantly. Every word I speak in class is for you. Every book I assign is because I want you to feel seen. Heard. Loved.

When I look at you, I don’t see a student. I see a soulmate who hasn’t yet remembered me.

Please don’t be afraid.

This is destiny.

Yours, always.

Agatha

You stared at the screen for what felt like hours. You didn’t breathe. You didn’t move.

The next morning, you didn’t go to school.

Your parents noticed your silence. You brushed them off. Said you were tired. That it was just “school stress.” But your hands kept shaking.

When you finally worked up the courage to show them the email, they both went pale. Your father called the school. Your mother held you tightly as you cried, whispering, “It’s okay now. We’ll protect you.”

The school promised action.

And for once… they followed through.

Within a week, Agatha Harkness was fired.

The official story was “boundary violations.” No charges filed. No police involved. The school didn’t want a scandal. They swept it under the rug with the efficiency of a place terrified of lawsuits.

But the day she was dismissed, she stood in the hallway outside your class.

She was wearing the same plum blouse from the first day you met her.

And she was smiling.

You stayed inside, heart pounding as you watched from the window. She didn’t yell. Didn’t weep. She simply placed a small envelope on the floor outside your door, turned slowly, and walked out of the building.

You never opened the envelope.

Your father burned it in the fireplace that night.

But even as the flames consumed the paper, and your parents held you in their arms, something inside you whispered:

It’s not over.

_-_-_

You didn’t sleep much after she was fired.

Even with the locks changed, even with your father installing motion-activated floodlights outside the house and your mother insisting you carry pepper spray, you couldn’t shake the feeling that she was close. Watching.

You’d flinch at the sound of tires on gravel. You started checking behind you in hallways, in parking lots, in the mirror. Every shadow stretched too long. Every stranger in the corner of your eye became her.

You kept telling yourself it was over.

But you knew better.

And so did your parents.

Because two weeks after she was fired, you found a bouquet on the front porch. Black dahlias. Tied with the same ribbon she once wrapped around the journal she gave you.

No card. No name. But you knew.

Your mother screamed when she saw them. Your father threw them in the garbage with shaking hands. That night, he filed for a restraining order.

The hearing was short.

You didn’t have to attend in person—just a signed statement. Your parents sat before the judge and presented the emails, the gifts, the testimony. The envelope. The flowers. It wasn’t hard to prove inappropriate conduct.

Agatha didn’t fight it.

In fact, she didn’t show up at all.

But as you would soon learn, that wasn’t mercy.

It was calm before the storm.

The order was granted. Agatha Harkness was forbidden to come within 500 feet of you or your home. She was not allowed to contact you in any form.

But that didn’t stop her.

It began subtly again.

You started seeing your name carved into things.

A bench at your bus stop, freshly etched with careful script: Y/N + A.H.

Your Instagram account—private—somehow had a new follower with no posts, no icon. The account’s name? ForeverHarkness.

Blocked.

Then came the voicemails.

The first was just breathing. A soft, almost lullaby-like hum in the background. You deleted it, hands trembling.

The second was worse.

“You’re confused right now. I understand. But I forgive you. I forgive your parents too… even though they’re trying to poison you against me. They don’t see you the way I do. They never did. You’re mine, little one. And I’ll wait. As long as I have to.”

You never gave her your number.

Your mother found you sobbing in your closet that night, curled into yourself like a frightened animal.

The next morning, you transferred schools again.

But it wasn’t far enough.

Agatha sent letters. Somehow she found your new campus. She started leaving gifts in your locker—no longer with love notes, but with old poetry torn from books:

“I cannot live without my soul.” – Wuthering Heights

“She is all things holy and unholy, and I will drink her like sin.” – Scribbled over in red ink

At this point, police were called. But the letters stopped before they could catch her. No fingerprints. No footage.

She was careful.

Too careful.

Your parents considered moving out of state. You begged them to. You begged.

But your dad insisted, “We can’t let her drive us out of our lives.” He stood firm.

You wanted to believe him.

But deep down, you felt it coming.

The night it happened, it rained.

You remember that detail more than anything. The sky split open like it was mourning before you even knew why.

You were in your room, headphones in, buried beneath a blanket, trying to disappear into music that didn’t remind you of her. Your parents were downstairs. Your little brother was watching cartoons in the living room.

Then—

A bang.

Not thunder.

A scream.

Then another.

You ripped off your headphones and bolted upright just as the lights went out. The entire house plunged into darkness.

You called for your dad.

No answer.

Called for your mom.

Nothing.

Then—footsteps.

Not heavy like your father’s.

Heels. Sharp and slow.

You panicked and ran—not outside. There wasn’t time. You ran into your closet and pulled the door almost closed, holding your breath.

And through the crack, you saw her.

Agatha.

Drenched from the rain, hair clinging to her face in wild strands. She wore black leather gloves and carried something long and gleaming—a knife. Her face was calm. Serene.

Like she was finally home.

She stepped over your father’s body first.

His blood stained the carpet. His eyes were still open.

You didn’t scream.

You couldn’t.

Your entire body had gone cold.

Your mother’s sobs came from the kitchen. Pleading. You heard a single word: “Please.”

Then—silence.

Followed by the sound of slicing.

Wet. Slow.

You wanted to close your eyes, but you couldn’t. You were frozen in a nightmare where you had to keep watching.

Your brother never even screamed. He was the last. You watched Agatha cradle his head like a mother might soothe a sleeping child.

When she finished, she stood in the center of your living room, slick with blood, and smiled.

“I told you,” she whispered to the dark. “They were in the way.”

You bit into your sleeve to keep from making a sound. You tasted blood—your own—where your teeth broke skin.

Then, suddenly, she stopped.

She tilted her head… as if listening.

Her gaze turned toward your room.

Your closet.

And she started walking toward it.

You never remembered how you escaped.

Not really.

The trauma split your memory in half, like a photograph soaked in bleach—faces smeared, sounds muffled, colors all turned gray. But pieces of it stayed with you. Forever.

The smell of blood.

The sound of wet footsteps squelching across your bedroom carpet.

The closet door cracking open just a few inches…

And her face.

Agatha's eyes had been wild with something almost… joyful. Like she’d finally peeled back the last page of a long-awaited story. There you were. Huddled inside the closet like a trembling paragraph she’d always known was hiding between the lines.

But something stopped her.

Maybe the distant echo of sirens. Maybe the sight of your tear-streaked face, paralyzed and bloodied from biting your own sleeve. Maybe it was enough, for now, just to see you watch her.

She didn’t pull you out. Didn’t speak.

She knelt slowly.

Placed her gloved hand on the closet door, just above your head.

And whispered.

“You’ll understand someday. I did this for you.”

Then she stood, turned—and vanished into the house.

By the time the police arrived, she was already gone.

You were the only one left alive.

The only one who saw everything.

Your parents.

Your little brother.

Slaughtered.

And you—

The hidden, haunted witness.

The courtroom was cold.

Almost too clean. Too bright. As if no evil could possibly exist in such a sterile space.

But when they brought her in—hands cuffed, orange jumpsuit too neat on her body—you felt the oxygen drain from your lungs.

She looked beautiful.

Not bloodstained. Not mad.

Beautiful.

Her hair was neatly pinned back. Her makeup light, tasteful. She looked like a version of herself you hadn’t seen in a year. The composed teacher. The poised intellectual.

But when she saw you…

Her lips parted into a soft, delighted smile.

Like you were a long-lost lover walking down the aisle.

You couldn’t look away.

You wanted to, but your body didn’t obey you anymore.

She mouthed two words across the courtroom.

Deliberate. Slow.

“My darling.”

Your hands trembled. A court officer touched your shoulder gently and whispered, “You don’t have to look at her.” But it was too late. Her image was already burned behind your eyes like a flashbulb.

You testified.

Through a locked jaw and a throat full of knives, you told them what happened. You told them everything.

The emails. The stalking. The flowers.

The night you saw her kill your entire family.

The jury never even debated for long. The evidence was overwhelming. The restraining order violation. The blood on her gloves. The flowers matched to the same rare nursery where she bought the black dahlias. Everything lined up.

She was sentenced to life in prison with no chance of parole.

And yet…

That final moment—before the guards dragged her away—unraveled everything.

She leaned forward as the verdict was read, her hands trembling with something between ecstasy and rage.

And she stared right at you.

“This isn’t over,” she said aloud.

“You’re mine. One way or another, I’ll have you.”

Court officers restrained her. The judge slammed the gavel. Your therapist cried. The newspapers printed your face under headlines like “Teen Survives Family Massacre” and “Killer Teacher Obsessed with Student.”

But none of that mattered.

Because her words stayed with you.

They grew roots in your chest. Coiled around your spine.

You weren’t just a survivor.

You were a promise.

Years passed.

You tried to move on.

You changed your name. You changed schools. You changed cities.

You stopped writing. You stopped reading. You stopped anything that made you remember her, which meant almost everything. You drifted through therapy like a ghost. Some days, you felt human again. Other days, you weren’t so sure.

And then… finally…

You met someone.

A girl named Elara.

She was everything Agatha wasn’t—soft-spoken, gentle, uncertain in her own way. She kissed you like you were made of glass, and you kissed her like you were trying not to shatter.

She never asked about the past.

Only the future.

You smiled when she called you hers.

You believed her when she said you were safe now.

You even agreed to go on that vacation with her and your friends. A quiet cabin, upstate. No signal. No noise. Just trees, water, sky.

You almost felt alive again.

You never expected the nightmare to crawl back from the grave.

The cabin was supposed to be an escape.

Nestled beside a glimmering lake in the woods, hours from any major city, it had no reception, no internet, and no past. Your friends insisted it would be healing. A clean slate. A few days with people who made you laugh, drink, dance, and forget.

And for a time, it worked.

Elara held your hand without expecting you to explain why your grip trembled. She knew enough to understand your ghosts had teeth. The others—Mika, Jules, and Aaron—respected the space around your silence.

There were s’mores. Laughter. Music that filled the trees.

The stars looked like diamonds that had forgiven the night sky.

You let yourself believe it was over.

You let yourself breathe.

Until the first night.

The first sign was the carving.

Aaron found it etched into a tree near the dock while looking for firewood. Letters carefully gouged into bark.

Y/N + A.H.

Forever. Even Death Can't Stop Me.

At first, they laughed. Said it must’ve been someone messing around. A coincidence. A joke.

But you froze.

Because you’d seen that same phrasing before. In a letter. In her voice.

And the carving was fresh.

Elara noticed your stillness and led you inside. “It’s nothing,” she whispered. “It’s someone else. It has to be.”

But that night, you barely slept.

The woods felt too quiet. Too aware.

The second sign was the phone.

Your old phone—the one you’d discarded years ago—was sitting on the windowsill the next morning when you woke up.

Dead. Cracked screen.

The wallpaper still the same: a photo of your family. From before.

And taped across it was a single line:

"You changed your name, but not your soul. I still know where you live."

You dropped it. Screamed. The others came running.

Jules wanted to call the police, but there was no service. Mika searched the woods. Found nothing. No footprints. No sign of entry.

“We’re miles from anything,” Aaron argued. “No way someone just walked up here in the middle of the night.”

But you knew better.

This wasn’t someone.

This was her.

That night, Mika didn’t come back.

She said she was going to the car for extra blankets. She didn’t answer when you called. The guys searched until dawn—up and down the dirt road, into the tree line, calling her name.

At sunrise, they found her.

Or what was left of her.

Face down by the lake. Throat slit. A flower in her mouth—black dahlia.

Just like before.

The rest of the day was a blur.

Jules vomited. Aaron wept. Elara held you like you were breaking in slow motion.

You wanted to believe this was a nightmare. You wanted to believe it was anyone else.

But you knew it was her.

Even after prison. Even after life without parole.

She had escaped.

She had found you.

And she was taking everything back.

You wanted to leave. But the car keys were gone. So was the gas can. Someone had sabotaged the tires—sliced clean through. And with no service, no signal, the woods may as well have been the moon.

Jules didn’t want to split up. Neither did Elara. But Aaron insisted they had to try hiking to the nearest ranger station—six miles through dense forest.

They left.

Only one of them returned.

Jules burst through the front door just before dusk, screaming, soaked in blood.

Not hers.

He collapsed in the living room, babbling nonsense, face pale, mouth open wide in a soundless scream.

Aaron, he said, had been hung like a puppet between two trees, his stomach carved open. Above his corpse, written in his blood:

“Tell them to stop taking what’s mine.”

You didn’t sleep that night. No one did.

You locked the doors. Nailed boards across the windows. Sat in the dark with a kitchen knife in your trembling hands.

Elara didn’t speak much. Her eyes kept flicking toward the window, as if she could feel her out there. Watching. Waiting.

When she did speak, it was a whisper against your skin.

“We should have stayed home.”

The next to die was Jules.

It was quick.

A scream from the bathroom. Then silence.

You and Elara ran in.

And all you saw was blood.

Every wall sprayed red. His body hanging over the tub, mouth full of teeth that weren’t his.

Your knees gave out.

You couldn’t scream anymore. Your throat was raw.

Elara pulled you away. Clutched you tight.

“We have to run,” she said. “Now. Before she gets you.”

You tried.

Together, you ran through the woods barefoot, clothes soaked from the storm, rain blinding your vision. Every snapping twig felt like a gunshot. Every rustle a whisper in her voice.

You didn’t know how long you ran. Minutes. Hours. Time unraveled.

And then, without warning—

Elara’s hand was ripped from yours.

You turned.

And saw her.

Agatha.

Drenched in mud, eyes glowing with madness, arms outstretched as she dragged Elara back by her hair, knife glinting between her fingers.

Elara screamed your name once—just once.

And then there was only silence.

You collapsed.

There was no fight left in you.

No running.

And that’s when she found you.

Agatha stepped into the clearing like a storm finally making landfall. Calm. Controlled.

Her hair was matted with rain. Her shirt soaked red. But her smile…

That smile had never changed.

“I told you,” she whispered, kneeling before you.

“One way or another, I’d have you.”

You sobbed. Not because of fear. Not anymore.

Because there was no one left to save you.

And she knew that.

You stopped counting the days.

After the fiftieth mark on the bedpost, it felt pointless. Time had lost shape. There was only before her… and after.

She was still careful with you. Still patient. Still obsessed.

But the madness had softened its claws. She no longer chained you with violence or threats. She didn’t have to.

Because your world was her now.

Each day followed the same pattern.

A soft knock. Breakfast. Books. Talks. Walks around the tiny greenhouse she’d grown just for you.

She sang sometimes. Old songs, lullabies, things you recognized from your childhood—though you never told her that.

Because the way she looked at you when you smiled…

It was terrifying.

But also… safe.

The outside world began to feel like a dream. A cruel one. Where your family died. Where your friends screamed. Where love was sharp and always out of reach.

Here, at least, you were wanted.

Here, you were the center of someone’s universe.

Even if that someone was deranged.

Even if it meant your past had to rot quietly in your mind.

It started with letting her touch your hair.

She asked, always. Gently. As though even now, she wanted your trust more than your submission.

And after so long in silence, so long buried in the cold tomb of your own isolation… you whispered, “Okay.”

She wept when you let her braid it.

Kissed your forehead.

Called you her girl.

The locket stayed around your neck.

You stopped trying to tear it off. Stopped staring at it with disgust. It became another part of the world you now lived in—just like the clean sheets, the soft music, and the quiet meals where she held your hand across the table.

One night, you whispered, “I don’t want to feel like this anymore.”

And she pulled you into her lap like a child.

Held you. Rocked you.

“Then don’t,” she said. “Let me do it for you. Let me be your anchor. Your only thing. You don’t have to remember pain anymore. Only me.”

And in that moment, something broke.

But something else… settled.

Months passed.

You laughed once.

A real laugh.

She was so stunned she nearly cried.

You read books out loud to her. You started sleeping beside her without needing her to ask. You dressed in the things she picked out for you. Let her call you sweetheart without flinching.

You never forgot what she did.

You never truly forgave.

But slowly, gently, the horror dulled. The grief hollowed into numbness. And her voice—always soft, always praising—became the one constant you could rely on.

One morning, she woke to find you standing over her.

Not in defiance.

Not in fear.

But with a question:

“Do you love me?”

Agatha sat up slowly. Studied you like you were something divine. Something she never deserved.

“More than my soul,” she said.

And when you crawled into her arms and whispered, “Then don’t let me go,”

she broke.

Cried into your skin.

Promised you would never be alone again.

Years passed.

The cabin became a home.

No one ever found you. She made sure of that.

And even if they had—you wouldn’t have left.

You didn’t know how to exist beyond her anymore.

The girl who once screamed in the dark was gone.

Replaced by someone who wore white for her.

Smiled for her.

Loved her the way she always wanted to be loved:

Completely.

Unquestioningly.

Forever.

In the end, she didn’t have to take you.

You gave yourself to her.

And that was all she ever needed.

_-_-_-_

Please don't forget to like, follow, reblog, and comment! 💜

[mrs-delaney]

2 AM Confessions

🍻📱 Request: joe drunk texting at 2am—wyd? u up?—she ignores it… so he shows up anyway 🥴💌

🏈 Joe Burrow x Reader | 2k words

💬🔞 warning: flirty 2am texts, unresolved feelings, and sex that might ruin your life a little (in a good way)

author’s note: i’m deep in the next chapter of hide (and joe’s pov for behind the lens is coming along too 👀), but i’m still making time to work through the requests in my inbox. love y’all, mean it 💛

📚 read my masterlist

🎤🏈 read Hide — two people, two careers, and one very complicated kind of love

💌 want to be the first to know when new stories drop? join the taglist for updates, previews, and more. ✨

The buzzing of your phone on the nightstand cuts through the quiet of your apartment. You glance at the clock—2:17 AM—then at the screen lighting up with Joe's name.

You up?

You stare at the message, your heart doing that stupid flutter thing it always does when his name appears. You've been avoiding this. Avoiding him. The silence after he left your place Thursday night wasn't an accident—it was self-preservation.

Your phone buzzes again.

Miss you

Then again.

Why didn't you text me back the other night?

And again.

Coming over. Need to see you.

Panic floods your system. You scramble out of bed, rushing to the bathroom mirror. Your hair is a mess from lying down, and you're wearing an old, oversized, grungy t-shirt. You try to fix your hair without making it obvious that you've fixed it, then quickly change into a cute, matching set—soft cotton shorts and a fitted tank top. You grab your perfume and spray it on your wrists and neck, then pause, realizing you're putting in effort you said you wouldn't, but there's no time to second-guess yourself now.

The knock on your door comes twenty minutes later.

You take a breath, wait a few seconds so you don't seem too eager, then open the door to find Joe leaning against the frame. He's not stumbling drunk, just looser than usual—hair slightly messed up, eyes a little unfocused but still very much him.

"You can't just show up here, Joe."

"You weren't answering." Matter-of-fact, like this explains everything.

"I was asleep." The lie comes easily.

"No, you weren't. Your light was on." He looks past you into the apartment.

You both know he's right.

"Can I come in?"

You don't respond verbally, just step back and open the door wider. He walks past you, and you close the door carefully, buying yourself a second to breathe. The space suddenly feels smaller with him in it.

He turns to look at you once he's inside, taking in the apartment like he's cataloging details. Neither of you moves to sit down. The silence stretches, awkward and charged.

"Why didn't you text me back?"

He's not bothering with small talk.

"You're drunk, Joe. I don't want to do this with you right now."

"I'm not that drunk."

"I left your place Thursday night and haven't heard from you since," he continues, not letting you deflect. "That's not... that's not how this usually goes."

"I needed space."

"Space from me?" His voice goes quieter, more vulnerable.

You cross your arms defensively. "It's getting complicated, Joe. This was supposed to be easy."

"So you need space because you caught feelings?" His tone is slightly challenging, a little harsh.

The question hangs in the air like an accusation. Your heart pounds because he just said what you've been trying not to admit.

"What if I did?" you ask, turning it back on him, making him answer first.

Joe runs his hand through his hair, the alcohol making him bold enough to ask, but your response puts him on the spot. A beat of silence as he processes, then:

"I didn't ask you to."

The words hit harder than he meant them to. You feel your face change instantly—hurt, then anger.

"You know what? This is done."

You're already moving toward the door, done with this conversation after he just shut you down when you were finally being honest.

"Wait, don't... can we just..." He takes a step toward you, panic creeping into his voice as he realizes he's about to lose something important. "I fucked that up."

You stop, but don't turn around; your hand is still on the door handle. "Yeah, you did. And I don't want to be on the roster anymore."

The word choice—"roster"—cuts deep because it's exactly right. You're calling out the casual rotation, the lack of commitment, and Joe feels like you punched him.

"You're not on the roster. You ARE the roster," he says, his voice rough with honesty. "There hasn't been anyone else in weeks."

You freeze with your hand still on the door. That's not what you expected him to say. It changes everything and nothing all at once.

"For weeks," you say slowly, finally turning to look at him. "What about tomorrow? Next month?"

You're asking for commitment he might not be ready to give, asking him to define what you are, what this means beyond just being the only one right now.

"I don't know." His voice is quieter now, more vulnerable. "It's been a long time since I've done this."

He's not just talking about relationships, but about caring this much. About having something to lose. About being out of his depth, because this actually means something.

"I get that," you say, and you do. "But I can't be in limbo while you figure it out."

The clarity of that statement hits him. You're not being unreasonable—you're protecting yourself. You understand why he's uncertain, but you won't sacrifice yourself for it.

"I know I don't want to lose you," he says finally. "But I don't know what that means yet."

"That's still not enough, Joe." You're exhausted by this whole conversation. "I need more than 'I don't want to lose you.' I need to know this isn't just you telling me what you think I want to hear because it's 2 AM and you want a quick fuck."

The brutal honesty of that accusation makes him feel like you slapped him. You're calling out exactly what you're afraid this is—manipulation for sex.

"That's not what this is," he says, defensive but hurt. "If I just wanted a quick and easy fuck I wouldn't be having this conversation. If that's what this was, I wouldn't have dropped the roster weeks ago."

"So what happens now?" you ask, putting the ball back in his court. He's made his defense, now what's he actually going to do about it?

"I don't know," he admits, the fight going out of him. "Can we just... take it one day at a time?"

He steps closer to you, reaching for you. "Can I stay? We can figure the rest out tomorrow."

"This is exactly what I'm talking about, Joe. You can't just—"

"I came here because I couldn't sleep thinking about you," he interrupts, his voice raw with exhaustion and honesty. "I don't have the right words to say right now, but that's the truth."

The simplicity of it hits harder than any flowery speech. He's not trying to charm his way out, just telling you the truth. He reaches for you again, more tentatively this time. "Please let me stay."

The vulnerability in that "please" cracks something open in you. Joe doesn't beg, but this feels like begging. After the emotional back-and-forth, after his raw honesty, you can't find words.

So you close the distance between you, stepping into his reach.

Your actions give him the answer your words couldn't. His arms wrap around you immediately, and the relief in both your bodies is palpable. All that tension finally breaking.

"You smell good," he murmurs into your hair, taking you in after holding you close.

After a few moments of just breathing together, of small touches and the shift from comfort to awareness of each other's bodies, he pulls back slightly to look at your face.

"Come on," he says softly, taking your hand and tugging gently toward the hallway.

You follow without question the unspoken agreement that this is what you both want. The walk to your bedroom is quiet, just the sound of your footsteps and the anticipation building between you.

Once you reach the bedroom, there's a beat of uncertainty. The emotional vulnerability you just shared hangs in the air, making this feel different than your usual hookups. More meaningful.

You reach for him first, your hands sliding up under his t-shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin. He's still for a second, then helps you pull the shirt over his head.

Your fingers trace along his chest, and he lets out a quiet breath. His hands find your waist, thumbs brushing against the soft cotton of your tank top.

"This okay?" he asks, voice low.

You nod, reaching for the hem of your own shirt. He watches as you pull it off, his eyes taking you in like he's memorizing this moment. When his hands finally touch your bare skin, you both exhale at the same time.

The kissing starts slow, tentative, almost careful, but builds quickly. His mouth moves to your neck, finding that spot that makes you gasp, and your fingers tangle in his hair.

"Missed this," he murmurs against your throat. "Missed you."

Your response gets lost in a soft moan as he guides you back toward the bed. The mattress hits the back of your knees, and you sit down, pulling him with you.

He settles between your legs, hands skimming up your sides, relearning your body like it's been months instead of days. When you arch into his touch, he groans low in his chest.

"Fuck, baby."

His hands are everywhere—your ribs, your back, tangling in your hair as he kisses you deeper. You can taste the alcohol on his tongue, feel the slight tremor in his hands that gives away how much he wants this.

You hook your fingers in the waistband of his sweats, tugging them down along with his boxers. He kicks them off impatiently, then reaches for your shorts.

"These too," he says, voice rough.

You lift your hips so he can slide them off, and when you're both finally naked, he pauses to look at you. His chest is rising and falling heavily.

"Come here," you whisper, pulling him down to you.

The first touch of skin against skin makes you both gasp. He settles his weight on you carefully, like he's afraid you might disappear.

He reaches between you, fingers sliding through your wetness, and curses under his breath. "Fuck."

You're about to respond when he pushes one finger inside you, then two, stretching you slowly. Your back arches off the bed, a soft whimper escaping your lips.

"That's it," he murmurs, thumb circling your clit as his fingers work. "Just like that, baby."

The tension builds quickly, your body responding to his touch like it always does. But when you're close, he pulls his hand away, ignoring your frustrated whine.

"Want to be inside you when you come," he says, positioning himself at your entrance.

He pushes in slowly, both of you breathing hard as he fills you completely.

"Shit," he groans, forehead dropping to your shoulder. "You feel fucking good."

He starts moving, deep and slow, each thrust deliberate. Your nails dig into his back as you meet his rhythm, the friction building between you.

"Harder," you gasp, and he complies immediately, his hips snapping against yours with more force.

"Look at me," he says, voice strained. When your eyes meet his, something shifts. This isn't just sex anymore. It's something else entirely.

You feel yourself getting close, that familiar heat building low in your belly. "Joe, I'm—"

"I know," he cuts you off, reaching between you to rub tight circles over your clit. "Come for me, baby. Let me feel it."

The orgasm hits you hard, your body clenching around him as pleasure washes over you. He follows seconds later, his rhythm faltering as he spills inside you with a low groan.

You both lie there afterward, breathing heavily, his weight comforting against you. After a moment, he shifts to pull out, then collapses beside you, pulling you against his chest.

"We're gonna have to talk about this tomorrow," he says quietly, his voice still rough from exertion.

You laugh softly against his chest. "You're right."

Neither of you says anything else for a while, just lie there in the quiet darkness, both knowing that something has shifted between you. Maybe you still don't have all the answers, but this—whatever this is—feels like a beginning.

[dontpulloutman]

we did the thing!

singer!yn x lewis pullman a/n: the semester is DONE i have roughly a month to completely brainrot over lew (and co.)

(masterlist)

liked by pascalispunk, marvelstudios, and 2,843,838 others

yourinstagram we did the thing!🤵‍♂️💍👰‍♀️

a few weeks ago, i gained the privilege to say that i married my best friend. (guys!!! that's my husband in the fourth pic!! isn't he so dreamy 😍) surrounded by family and our closest friends, we shared our vows.

my publicity team told me to write a meaningful message about how i'm overjoyed and thrilled, and don't get me wrong, i AM but MY HUSBAND is currently cooking breakfast shirtless and he's distracting me so like...

brb,

Mrs. LJ Pullman

View 27,244 comments

anniehoax GIRL.....

florencepugh congrats again you two! 😂❤️ tell Lewis to take it easy on you 😂😂

l0vedstory ON MAIN??? ON YOUR MAIN ACCOUNT?!1??1!

dannyramirez Already preparing for future godfather duties! 😂🍼🍼

sunriseblvd a few weeks ago??? how long is their honeymoon??? a whole year????

yourinstagram yep sunriseblvd WHAT THE FUCK babieonboard YN???????? yourinstagram im just kidding

yoyogeraldine CONGRATS TO MY PARENTS I LOVE YOU GUYS!! 💘🎉🎉

ynmom Welcome to the family (forever and officially) Lew! ❤️

yourinstagram we love you momma! xx sentryybob "we" as in ... yn and lewis? MY HEART

ynsister ugh ure so cringe pls delete (i am SO ready to be an aunt ty ily)

yourinstagram 😜 (you would be the best aunt ever!! i love you too)

floydwso ITS SO OFFICIAL YN'S FAM AND FRIENDS ARE POSTING ABT THE WEDDING TOO

liked by yourinstagram, and 12,849 others

ynsister so... they did it! they finally got married! (yn don't cancel me for this) ten years ago, i remember waking up at 2am because my sister wont stop calling me. i was half-dead/half-asleep from college but that would never stop me from picking up one of her calls. i REALLY thought there was an emergency.....

she's calling because she met a guy. "super cute. in a nerdy way you know i can't resist" IN VERBATIM BTW ... the way she gushed about him.. you would think they've known each other for 20 years (she literally just got home from the party they met at) imagine my surprise when they take YEARS to finally get together!! these jackasses!! THEY PISSED ME OFF SO MUCH THEY GOT ME SO STRESSED med school who???? (naturally, in the same call, she plays the song she's writing about him) anyway...

yn, you're the best sister anybody could ever have. you're the smartest, funniest, most annoying person in my life and i love you everyday. i'll really miss sharing the same last name with you.

to my older brother lew, i know that there's nobody in this world that can love her the way you do. please take care of her. she's my sister, and one of the people i love most in the world. you said it yourself, "happy wife, happy life"... have those fruit snacks ready at all times HAHAHAH here's to more memories! :)

Comments are limited

yourinstagram STOP YOURE GONNA MAKE ME CRY i love you so much, lil sis <33 see you soon

ynmom Are these the 'outtakes' of your maid of honor speech?

ynsister yes :(

taglist: — feel free to comment or send an ask to be added! :) @pearlstiare @yesshewrites1 @secretkittydreamland @greengoldhorns @menrsluts @fandom-geek17 @ashaluuler @homiesexual-or-homosexual @naushtheaspiringauthor @lizzie8878 @ae-aeitch

[lucy-literates]

Well, Lewis would be possessive of his girl 🤭

Next idea is again with a younger reader (28 years old) and she is Roscoes nanny and they fall in love :)

Greetings :)

A/N: I'm glad you enjoyed it! Hopefully, you enjoy this one too! Ibox is open :)

The Heart He Didn't See Coming

You were hired to take care of Roscoe. That was it.

Just a temporary gig—two months, max—while Lewis figured out travel schedules and recovered from back-to-back races. You’d been recommended by a friend of his physio, and your background in animal behavior and gentle energy made the decision easy.

Still, Lewis hadn’t expected you.

He hadn’t expected the way Roscoe took to you almost immediately, curling at your feet within twenty minutes of meeting you, snorting contentedly as you scratched the perfect spot behind his ear like you'd known him for years.

And he definitely hadn’t expected the sound of your laughter in his kitchen to feel like something he’d been missing.

“You sure you’re not feeding him treats under the table?” Lewis asked one morning, as Roscoe followed you around with that adoring, bulldog loyalty that had taken even him months to earn.

“I only give him carrots,” you replied, turning to him with a grin. “You’re the one sneaking him bites of your toast, champion.”

His smirk deepened. “Can’t help it. He looks at me like I hung the moon.”

You tilted your head. “So do you, sometimes.”

Lewis blinked. You didn’t even realize what you’d said—or maybe you did, because you turned away quickly to refill Roscoe’s water bowl, humming like it hadn’t just made his chest go tight.

That was the beginning of the ache.

It wasn’t supposed to be romantic.

He was older. Busier. Constantly surrounded by people and noise and cameras. You were quieter. Sunshine and calm. Someone who moved through life like it didn’t owe you anything, and still, you chose joy.

But when you walked Roscoe through the paddock at Silverstone—laughing as he tried to chase a golf cart—and handed Lewis a little cloth-wrapped lunch you’d packed for him, just in case the catering was late, he’d stood there for a moment too long, something warm rising in his throat.

“You’re ridiculous,” he’d said softly.

“Is that your way of saying thank you?”

He smiled. “Maybe.”

After that, things got blurry around the edges.

One evening in Monaco, the sky cracked open unexpectedly.

You and Roscoe had gone for your usual walk along the waterfront, but the rain hit faster than forecast. By the time you got home, soaked and laughing, Roscoe was a damp loaf of contentment at your side.

Lewis opened the door before you even knocked.

“Jesus, you’re drenched—get in, quick.” He grabbed a towel and gently rubbed Roscoe down while you toed off your wet sneakers.

You were dripping in the hallway, mascara smudged slightly, Lewis’s hoodie shoved into your arms without him thinking twice.

It was warm. Soft. Smelled like cedarwood and whatever expensive cologne he wore sparingly but perfectly.

“Go change,” he said, “you’ll catch a cold.”

You returned a few minutes later, barefoot and wearing the hoodie over your leggings. Roscoe was curled in his usual spot by the couch, and Lewis looked up at you with something unreadable in his eyes.

“You should’ve called me,” he said. “I would’ve picked you up.”

You blinked. “You were busy. Besides, it’s just rain.”

He shook his head, then patted the spot next to him on the couch. “Come sit. You’re always running around after my wellbeing. Let me return the favour for once.”

You hesitated—but then sat.

You didn’t mean to fall asleep. Not really. But the hoodie was warm and Roscoe was snoring and Lewis’s hand moved gently over your shoulder while you listened to him talk about his next race strategy in that low, rhythmic tone.

When you woke up, your head was on his chest.

And his arm was around you.

Things changed after that.

Not drastically. Just... quietly.

Lingering glances. Soft touches. A new depth to your late-night conversations. He started asking you questions that had nothing to do with Roscoe: What did you want from life? Had you ever been in love? What scared you?

You didn’t ask him the same things out loud. You didn’t need to. You watched the way he talked to his team, how gently he moved around people, how he stood on the edge of the ocean sometimes like he was still searching for something.

One night, as you handed him a mug of peppermint tea, he said it—so softly you nearly missed it:

“You make this place feel like home.”

Your breath caught.

“It’s because you finally stopped running,” you whispered.

There was a pause. Then his hand found yours.

“No,” he said. “It’s because I found something worth staying for.”

You kissed him a few seconds later.

It wasn’t rushed. It was the kind of kiss that built over weeks. Careful. Reverent. Your fingers slipped into his curls, and he hummed softly against your mouth like the moment had been waiting for you both.

Roscoe snorted in his sleep. You both laughed.

The next few weeks were a blur of quiet touches and shared mornings.

He kissed your shoulder while you prepped Roscoe’s meals. You slid handwritten notes into his travel bags. You didn’t go public—not right away—but his team knew. And they all smiled when you were around, like you were exactly what he needed.

But then the press found out.

Photos. Speculation. Headlines: “Roscoe’s Nanny, Hamilton’s New Flame?”

It wasn’t cruel—but it was invasive. You panicked. You didn’t want to be seen as a trophy, or someone temporary.

“I never wanted to be a scandal,” you said one night, eyes shiny. “I didn’t want to be a story someone clicks on.”

Lewis shook his head and crossed the room to hold you.

“You’re not a scandal,” he said firmly. “You’re not a story. You’re the person who brings Roscoe his toy at bedtime and sings along to my awful shower playlists. You’re the one thing in my life that feels real.”

You blinked. He tucked a hand beneath your chin.

“And if the world can’t see that… then I’ll show them.”

Three days later, he posted a photo.

No caption. Just you, Roscoe, and him on a balcony, wrapped in blankets, sipping tea. Your head on his shoulder. Roscoe snoozing across both your laps.

It went viral in seconds.

But the response shocked you.

“This is the softest thing I’ve ever seen.” “I want what they have.” “Protect this trio at all costs.”

Your inbox flooded with kindness. People saw you. And more importantly—they saw the love.

A few months later, Lewis took you to a beach on your day off. It was quiet. Peaceful. Roscoe ran in wide circles, barking happily at the waves.

You sat on a blanket, his arm around you, sun low in the sky.

Then he called Roscoe over.

There was a velvet box tied to Roscoe’s collar.

Your heart skipped.

“It’s not a ring,” Lewis said quickly. “Not yet. I just... wanted to ask if we can keep doing this. You. Me. Roscoe. All of it.”

You opened the box. Inside was a small gold charm: a tiny dog paw next to a heart.

“Yes,” you said, instantly.

He kissed you again, deeper this time.

Roscoe barked once. Loudly. Offended at being ignored.

You both laughed against each other’s mouths.

And maybe love hadn’t come in the way you expected. But it arrived exactly when it was meant to.

With muddy pawprints, fresh tea, and the softest man you’d ever known.

[demie90s]

WAIT CAUSE NOW I NEED MORE OF CLINGY MEANCE READER

ᴜᴄᴏɴɴ ᴛᴇᴀᴍ x ᴄʟɪɴɢʏ!ꜰᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

All She’s Got

MASTERLIST | MORE

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ:You’re the clingy one. The one always riding shotgun, always hugging someone, always showing up early just to be around them. It’s never been a big deal—until a joke hits too deep. And Geno reminds the team exactly what you don’t have.

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ:angst with comfort, team bonding, found family

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:emotional sensitivity, light teasing gone wrong, offhand joke triggers emotional reaction, subtle abandonment themes, Geno being dad-coded, crying, reconciliation

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: ~1k

ᴠɪʙᴇ:clingy but pure, soft heartbreak, Geno with that “get it together” bark but “I see you” energy, team realizing they are your family even if you never said it out loud

“Please don’t start today.”

That was the first thing Inês said when you wrapped both arms around her from behind, chin resting on her shoulder like a clingy toddler in sweats.

You grinned. “Start what?”

“This codependent circus act,” she deadpanned, trying not to smile. “It’s 8 a.m., bro.”

“It’s called affection,” you replied, nuzzling your face into her hoodie. “Sorry you hate joy.”

KK passed by, shaking her head. “You don’t even have boundaries. You just show up.”

You shrugged dramatically. “That’s what sisters are for.”

“I’m not your sister, girl.”

“Sure you are.”

She gave you a look, one of those “you’re so unserious” faces before tossing her bag into the bleachers and pulling her hoodie off. Practice hadn’t even started yet, and already the gym was filled with noise, water bottle clunks, the screech of sneakers. Normal stuff.

You were always attached to someone—KK, Paige, Nika, Ice, even Ayanna when she let you. If someone sat, you sat on them. If someone filmed a TikTok, you were in the back doing something chaotic. It was known. You weren’t shy about it either.

“God, you really don’t get tired of hugging on people?” KK muttered as she unwrapped tape from her fingers.

You didn’t hear the edge in her voice until she added, “You act like you don’t have anyone else.”

You laughed at first, just instinct. So did a few others. Even she smiled—barely.

But your laugh was thin. Because something about the way she said it—joking, but not—made your chest feel tight. Your hands dropped from Inês’s waist. You walked off without saying anything, grabbing a ball like you suddenly remembered you had a reason to be here besides annoying people.

And that’s when the silence started.

Not loud. Just quiet.

You went through warmups fine. Played like normal. You weren’t sulking or anything—God, that’d be dramatic. You just… didn’t do you. Didn’t yell. Didn’t lean into anyone. Didn’t giggle when Paige airballed or call KK “baby blue” for the color of her sleeves.

No one fully noticed at first. Not until you skipped high-fives after layups and sat by yourself during water break. Paige furrowed her brows. Ice nudged Nika. Even Ayanna mouthed, “She good?”

Geno noticed before anyone.

“Hey,” he called across the gym. “You sick or something?”

You looked up fast. “No, Coach.”

“You sure? You’re moving like somebody stole your dog.”

A few laughs. You smiled too—fake.

“I’m good.”

He stared at you for a beat, then let it go. “Then stop sulking and run it back. Let’s go.”

The gym filled with squeaks again. The usual grind.

But something stayed off.

You weren’t just quiet. You were careful. Like you didn’t wanna be too much. Like you didn’t wanna take up space.

⸻

After practice, while people changed and Geno hounded someone about missing a screen, you were already packed. Bag slung over one shoulder, hoodie up, eyes kind of empty.

“Hey,” Paige called. “You heading out?”

“Yeah,” you said, too soft. “Just tired.”

Nika stood up. “You want—”

“Nah, I’m good.”

You walked out before anyone could stop you.

⸻

An hour later, the locker room was mostly cleared. Geno leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed. The girls were mid-convo, tossing jokes around, arguing over who left a banana peel in someone’s shoe, when he cut through all of it.

“Next time one of you decides to joke about her being clingy, maybe ask why she is first.”

Silence.

Nika sat up straighter. “Coach?”

“You ever hear her talk about her siblings?” he asked.

They shook their heads.

“She doesn’t have any,” he said flatly. “No siblings. No cousins around here. Her parents don’t come to games. She’s got no one on campus. No one but you. And the second she acts like she needs you a little too much, somebody makes a joke.”

KK looked like she’d just been hit.

“She didn’t say anything—” Inês tried.

“Because she’s used to not being said anything to.”

Geno’s voice wasn’t loud. But it landed.

“She shows up every day trying to feel close to somebody, and you’re all she’s got. So maybe the next time she’s hanging on your arm or sitting too close or texting too much? Maybe say thank you. You’ve got sisters. She doesn’t. But she thinks you’re hers.”

And then, just like that, he stepped out, muttering something about film edits.

KK sat frozen.

Paige rubbed her hand down her face. “God.”

“She said I was her sister this morning,” KK whispered. “I told her I wasn’t.”

⸻

The group chat started blowing up two hours later.

P Buckets : dude we messed up

HEY ARNOLD: she didn’t even look mad bro

Portugal Baddie: she always says we’re her people

Croatian Baddie: because we are

Brady Baby: i feel like shit

Yanna Banana: i’ll cook for her

P Buckets: just say sorry before geno rips us again

HEY ARNOLD: fr she can have all my hoodies

Croatian Baddie: she’s our sister. period.

⸻

You didn’t respond that night. But the next morning, you showed up like normal. Bag on your shoulder. Hoodie too big. Slight limp in your step because your legs were still dead from suicides.

As soon as you stepped into the gym, KK ran over and threw her arms around you, almost knocking you back.

“Good morning to you too,” you mumbled into her shoulder.

She hugged you tighter. “You are my sister. Don’t listen to dumbass KK from yesterday. She’s a liar.”

You chuckled. Barely.

Then Paige pulled you into a hug from behind. Then Nika hooked her arm around your neck. Then Ayanna handed you a granola bar with a deadpan, “For emotional support.”

And when Geno walked in and saw you sitting dead center, surrounded by the team, he just nodded.

“You better run faster today,” he grunted.

“Love you too, Coach.”

[sevsevteen]

Can u write about y/n (reader hehe), where she passed out after their performance because fatigue or stress. About how the 13 guys reacts and took care of her until she wakes up! I'm so sorry if it feels too long haha, I just really want to feed my delusions haha🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 (if you ever reply to this, THANK YOU!!🫶🫶)

hell yes!! i love this prompt ㅠㅠ all my hurt/comfort people RISE . this one's a little lengthy because of a few details i wanted to add in, enjoy ;)

-- જ⁀➴°⋆

The mirrors were fogged, the floor slick with sweat. It was the third time you'd run the choreo from the top, and your shirt clung to your back like a second skin. Your limbs trembled more than they should’ve - but you kept pushing.

You had to. It was comeback season. Mistakes were magnified. Camera angles unforgiving.

But when you missed a beat during the transition into the bridge, the music halted sharply.

“Again?” Hoshi, exhaled in frustration. “It’s literally the same step you’ve done all week.”

“I know,” you panted, wiping her forehead. “I’m sorry, I just-”

“We’re all tired, okay?” he snapped. “But no one else is messing it up this much.”

That did it.

Your fists clenched at her sides. Her voice, raw from exhaustion, rose before she could stop it.

“Do you think I want to mess up? I’ve barely slept because I’m reviewing the choreo every night-”

“And yet you’re still the one making us do it over,” he shot back, voice colder now. “We’re not asking for perfect. Just for you to try like the rest of us.”

That was the part that broke you.

Because you’ve been trying. Trying so hard your muscles ached before even warming up. Trying so hard you hadn’t eaten a full meal in days. Trying so hard you’d forgotten what it felt like not to have a headache.

You opened your mouth to respond - but your vision swam.

Colors flickered at the edges of your sight. The mirror blurred. Your throat tightened.

And instead of arguing back… you fell silent.

Turned.

Started walking.

“Wow,” Hoshi scoffed. “Just gonna walk out now?”

“Hyung, stop-” Minghao’s voice cut in, low and warning.

But you didnt’t hear the rest. Couldn't.

You made it halfway down the hall, palm flat on the wall as the last thing that was supporting your figure. The air was cold, sharp - but not enough.

Not enough to clear the fog. Not enough to stop the sudden spinning in your head, the crushing in your chest, the pins and needles in your fingers.

And then: a thud that echoed louder than the music ever had.

Loud. Sickening. Final.

The door swung open behind you, slammed by the wind of sudden footsteps.

“Guys!” Jeonghan’s voice cracked the air, the first to sprint down the hall where you collapsed, your body crumpled against the cool floor. Your limbs twitched slightly - not from movement, but from exhaustion that had long past healthy.

Seungkwan dropped down beside you, shaking your shoulder gently. “Hey - it’s us. Wake up, yeah? Come on, open your eyes.”

“She’s burning up,” Joshua murmured, crouched behind them, checking your forehead with the back of his hand.

“What do we do-” Dino asked, voice panicked, barely holding it together.

“Call the nurse. Now,” Seungcheol snapped, already sliding his hands under your legs and back to lift you back into the practice room.

Mingyu rushed back with a towel, dabbing the sweat on your forehead away. “She was fine a minute ago. She said she was fine.”

“She wasn’t,” Jeonghan muttered bitterly. “We didn’t see it.”

“Or we ignored it,” Wonwoo said quietly, placing a cold compress gently on her forehead.

Hoshi stood in the doorway, frozen, guilt thick in his throat when they lied you down on the couch. “I didn’t know it was that bad.”

“No one did,” Dokyeom said, softly. “But you were hard on her.”

“She looked tired all week,” Minghao said, adjusting the towel on your neck. “I should’ve asked earlier.”

The nurse arrived minutes later, checking your vitals and confirming it was a mix of heat exhaustion, dehydration, and overexertion.

“She’s stable now,” the nurse assured them, “but she needs rest. Real rest.”

They carried you back to the dorm together - heads low, hearts heavy. Hoshi insisted on carrying you himself on his back, despite being drenched in sweat and shaking with nerves. Jeonghan held the elevator doors. Woozi opened your bedroom.

You didn’t stir.

.

For the next two hours, they stayed close. No one moved far from your side.

Joshua carefully wiped down your arms with a damp cloth, whispering under his breath, “You did well. You always do.”

Seungkwan paced at the edge of your bed, phone in hand, searching articles about how to quickly replenish electrolytes.

Jun sat in the corner with a blanket over his knees, watching your chest rise and fall, counting the seconds between each breath. “I can’t believe we let it get this far.”

Mingyu, curled up by the door like a guard dog, looked up only to ask, “Will she hate us when she wakes up?”

“She won’t,” Seungcheol said quietly. “But maybe she should.”

They dimmed the lights. Kept the room quiet. Brought water, set aside fresh clothes, even placed one of your favorite snacks on the nightstand - just in case you felt well enough to eat later.

When your fingers twitched under the covers hours later, it was Vernon who noticed first. He had been sitting cross-legged by your bed, silently guarding, music low in his earbuds.

“Are you awake?” he whispered.

Your eyes fluttered open. Groggy. Disoriented.

“Hey, hey - don’t move too fast.” Jeonghan was beside her in an instant, gently smoothing her hair back.

You blinked, throat dry. “What… happened?”

“You fainted,” Wonwoo said softly, from the foot of the bed. “You pushed too hard.”

“I didn’t mean to…”

“We know,” Hoshi said, eyes red. Hands clenched. A quiet apology waiting on his tongue.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t know. I should’ve - I didn’t mean to say those things.”

You looked around, eyes wide - all thirteen of them in your room, packed shoulder-to-shoulder.

“You all stayed?” you croaked.

“Of course,” Dokyeom said. “We’re not leaving you alone again.”

Your eyes landed right on Hoshi, voice quiet but steady.

“It’s okay. I didn’t listen to myself either.”

Silence fell for a moment.

Then Seungcheol sat down on the edge of her bed, speaking for them all.

“You’re our teammate. We practice together, win together, and if one of us breaks…we all should’ve noticed.”

You felt her eyes sting again - but this time, not from pain.

“You’re not alone,” Seungkwan said, slipping his hand into your. “So don’t act like you are anymore, okay?”

You nodded, finally letting yourself give into the exhuastion.

Not because you were weak.

But because you were loved.

--

[belli5]

⌗ . ᵎᵎ ⸝⸝ So Close, Yet So Far Away .ᐟ ೀ W.S²

After all the time you spent missing Will, feeling guilty leading on someone else, when your heart isn’t there fully, can a simple message from Will can change everything?

˚₊· ᥫ᭡ Will Smith x fem!reader ➜ Angst, Fluff at the end(?). Note: didn’t know how to end this really, so kept it short and sweet. 🥰 masterlist. Part1.

Your friend had the idea.

“Come on, it’s been ages. And besides, you said you missed watching hockey live.”

You hesitated, chewing on your bottom lip like the motion might hide the sudden ache crawling up your throat. The Sharks were playing the Hurricanes—a big game.

And Will would be on the ice.

Still, you agreed. Because some part of you wanted to suffer. Because you were tired of pretending his name didn’t still rattle around your ribcage like a ghost trying to find a way out.

You didn’t have to wear his jersey. You made sure of that.

Instead, you pulled on a plain teal Sharks jersey, the back left intentionally blank. No number. No name. You couldn’t stomach the weight of it. You didn’t want to be noticed. And just to make yourself feel more like a new person, someone entirely different from the version of you who used to scream Will’s name from the stands, you tied a black SJ Sharks scarf around your hips, knotting it right where the button of your jeans was.

The game was electric. The tank rumbled with noise—fans banging on the glass, people waving signs, old couples clapping politely in coordinated Sharks beanies. The lights hit the ice just right. The cold air curled into your lungs like a familiar friend.

Will skated out second in the line up.

God, he looked.. taller. Stronger. His face was locked in that same pre-game focus you’d seen a hundred times before, that quiet storm expression that made your stomach twist back then. Your heart betrayed you—it skipped a beat. Maybe two.

You friend elbowed you lightly, smirking. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you lied. “Just cold.”

By the second period, the score was 1-1, William Eklund being the one who scored in first period. Will on the other hand played, just as easy to watch as he used to be.

He never looked your way. Not once.

Or maybe he did. A few times he’d glance toward your section after a whistle, his eyes dragging slowly over the crowd like he was trying to find something. Or someone. But it didn’t matter. Because his gaze never stopped on you. Never lingered. And you were wearing that damn blank jersey, anyway. Just a shadow now.

And still, everytime he skated past the glass, your knees went weak.

Every time you heard his name over the intercom, your throat tightened like the syllables were wrapped in barbed wire.

It was during intermission when your friend turned to you again, eyes softening. She’d seen enough. “Y’know,” she said slowly, “you never really told me much about what happened with him.”

You shrugged, eyes glued to the ice as the zamboni did slow laps. “There’s not much to say.”

“Bullshit.” She paused. “I mean.. I didn’t mean to push,” she added gently. “I get it. But I’ve known you a long time, and I’ve never seen you look at someone the way you looked at him. You used to light up just saying his name.”

You wanted to say something back. Something witty. Maybe sarcastic.

Instead, your thoughts wandered to him again. His birthday, what was 3 days ago.

You didn’t text him. You didn’t dare. But that day you barely spoke to anyone. You told your boyfriend you need to catch up with some things.

But the truth was, you spent half the day scrolling through your phone. Digging through the messages, just to hear him laugh again. Just to find one voice message where he said your name. Or told you something dumb. Or whispered goodnight.

You didn’t even know why you still had them. You told yourself you’d delete them tomorrow. Always tomorrow.

Now your friend was looking at you with something that felt close to pity.

“You have a new boyfriend,” she reminded you. “One who treats you really well. Who doesn’t make you cry. Who brings your mom flowers and lets you sleep in his hoodie.”

You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes.

“I know.”

“But?”

You sighed. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to keep doing this,” you admitted quietly. “With someone who’s perfect.. but not him.”

There it was. The truth. You stomach twisted with guilt, your fingers curling in your lap. “He’s so good to me,” you said, looking down at your lap. “And I feel like a fraud everytime I hold his hand. Like I’m leading him on because I’m still haunted by someone who doesn’t even see me anymore.”

Your friend leaned in closer. “Then why do it?”

“I don’t know,” you said again. “Maybe I keep hoping I’ll stop seeing Will in other people. That if I try hard enough, this new love will overwrite the old one.”

“And has it?”

You looked back down at the black scarf tied around your hips. “No.”

The final score was 3-1, hurricanes had won.

The crowd started thinning, people shuffling toward the exits. Your friend grabbed your hand and tugged you up gently, and you followed her in a daze, your body moving automatically through the warm chaos of post-game chatter and concession stand lines.

But just before you turned the corner out of the section, you glanced back.

Will was by the glass where he’d skate off the ice, and this time he was looking right where you’d been sitting.

Right where you stood now, frozen mid-step, the crowd slipping past you like waves. For a moment, you locked eyes. Or atleast you thought you did.

But then he blinked, ducked his head, and disappeared down the tunnel like you were just another fan. Like the years you spent loving each other were someone else’s story.

The city lights blurred behind the car windows as you and your friend drove in silence, the soft hum of music barely filling the space between you.

Neither of you spoke much after the game. There wasn’t much to say. The Sharks lost. Will played well. And somewhere between the second and third period, your heart had cracked open again like it always did when he was near.

You had hoped this game would be harmless. Just something fun. A distraction. But it wasn’t. How could it be a distraction anyway?

You were still thinking about that final glance he gave. The way he looked right at your section after the buzzer. Like he knew. Like for one second he saw past the crowd and spotted you.

And now you were back in your apartment, flopped on the couch with your legs tucked beneath you, wearing that same jersey and a tired look in your eyes.

Your friend emerged from the kitchen with two mugs of tea, handing one to you before sitting cross-legged on the opposite end of the couch.

“You haven’t said much,” she murmured.”

You shrugged. “Neither have you.”

“I was giving you space.”

“I didn’t ask for space.”

“You never do. That’s the problem.”

You looked up, blinking. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She took a sip from her mug before answering. “It means you’re holding in a category-five emotional hurricane, and eventually it’s gonna tear someone else apart.”

You looked at you hands, suddenly unsure how to respond.

She waited a beat, then added softly. “It’s going to be Luca.”

That stung.

“I don’t mean that in a cruel way,” she said quickly. “I like him. He’s sweet. He’s stable. And he clearly like you—a lot.”

You nodded, fingers tightening around the mug.

“But if you don’t feel the same,” she continued gently, “be deserves to know.”

“I do like him,” you said. “I just..” you trailed off. The sentence hung there.

She tilted her head. “But you don’t love him.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. Your friend sighed, setting her tea down. “Look. I get it. You’re trying to move on. To do the healthy thing. But pretending with Luca is hurting you both.”

“I’m not pretending,” you mumbled, though even you weren’t convinced.

She looked at you sadly. “Y/n.. you wore a nameless Sharks jersey to avoid being obvious, but you still tied that scarf around you hips the same way you used to when he liked it. You still sat low in your seat, but leaned just enough for him to see you. And when he looked up after the game? You froze like your lungs had forgotten how to work.”

Your chest ached. The truth has never been gentle. “I’m trying,” you whispered. “I’m trying to let go of Will. But it’s like.. even when I don’t say his name, he’s still everywhere. In the stupid way I butter toast or the song that played in the car or the way Luca holds my hand, and all I can think is: Will did that too.”

Tears brimmed in your eyes before you could stop them.

Your friends voice softened. “I know. But if Will is still the person you’re comparing everyone to, then you’re not ready to be with someone else.”

A long silence passed. Finally, you asked, “What am I supposed to do? Break Lucas heart?”

“No,” she said. “You’re supposed to be honest. That’s the only way to stop dragging it out. If you keep faking it, trying to force something that isn’t real, then you’ll break his heart.”

You stared at the floor. “I don’t want to hurt him,” you said.

“I know.”

“But I also don’t want to stay just because I’m afraid to be alone again.” Your voice cracked as you admitted, the weight of everything finally catching up to you. Your friend scooted closer, placing a hand over yours.

“Then don’t,” she said. “Be brave. Say what you need to say. Because the longer you wait, the worse it’ll be. For him. For you. For everyone.”

You nodded slowly, tears slipping down your cheeks. “I feel like such a bad person.”

“You’re not,” she said immediately. “You’re just heartbroken.”

That night, after your friend left and the apartment had gone quiet, you stood in front of the bathroom mirror.

The jersey was wrinkled now. Your hair was a mess. Your eyes puffy. You looked like someone who still loved a boy who wasn’t hers. And maybe that’s exactly who you were.

Your phone buzzed on the counter.

Luca 😚 Hope you had fun at the game. Call me when you’re home safe?

You stared at the message, fingers trembling. You didn’t reply right away. But when you did, you sent a simple message.

Me Hey. I’m home. Can you come over? I need to talk.

You didn’t say more. Didn’t try to soften it with a heart or a “miss you” you just hit send, then tossed your phone onto the bed and sat quietly in the low glow of your lamp.

Your apartment felt too quiet. Too still.

Fifteen minutes later, there was a knock at your door. You opened it to find Luca standing there in a hoodie and joggers. “Hey,” he said, stepping in.

“Hi.”

You shut the door behind him, the silence between you already too heavy. He sat in the couch, not leaning in for a hug or a kiss, just.. waiting. Like he already knew something was coming.

You sat beside him, not too close, hands clasped tightly in your lap. For a while, neither of you spoke. Finally, you said quietly, “Thank you for coming.”

“Of course.”

“I..” you paused, trying to gather the words that wouldn’t destroy him. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while. And I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure.”

He nodded, eyes fixed on the floor.

“I care about you,” you said. “you’re kind, and patient, and everything I told myself I needed. But I don’t think it’s fair to keep being with you when.. when my hearts not fully here.”

His jaw tensed slightly, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I thought I could grow into this,” you continued. “That if I just gave it time, the feelings would catch up. But they haven’t. And today, at the game.. I realised I can’t keep lying to myself.”

You didn’t say Will’s name. You didn’t have to.

Luca let out a soft breath, still looking down. “I figured.”

You blinked. “You did?”

“I mean,” he gave a faint, bitter smile. “You went to your ex’s game.” You stayed quiet. “I told myself it didn’t matter,” he went on. “that it was just hockey, just a night out with your friend. But the second I saw the story you posted, the jersey. And the scarf.. I knew.”

Your mouth felt dry. “I didn’t wear his jersey—”

“I know,” he cut in gently. “But you didn’t need to to. You wore something he’d recognise. Something he’d notice. And I guess that’s when I realised.. maybe part of you was still hoping he would.”

You closed your eyes. “I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“I know.” Another silence stretched between you. Luca finally looked up. “Did you talk to him?”

“No,” you shook your head. “He looked. Just once. “I don’t even know if he saw me.”

Luca studied your face, like he was trying to figure out whether that hurt you more than it should. And It did. But you didn’t say that out loud.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” you said. “You don’t deserve this.”

“No, I don’t,” he replied softly. “But I think I knew from the beginning that part of you wasn’t ready. I just hoped.. maybe if I was good enough, patient enough, you’d get there.”

“I wanted to,” you said honestly. “I really, really did.”

“But you didn’t.”

You shook your head. “No.”

Luca leaned back on the couch, exhaling through his nose. “You know the worst part?” He murmured. “You never even talked about him. Never said how you ended. But he was always there..”

You stared at your hands.

“I don’t blame you,” he added. “I mean, how could anyone walk away from a love that big without scars?”

That made the tears rise fast. You blinked them back.

“I just..” He turned to face you. “I wish I wasn’t the one you used to figure that out. And I guess you were never really mine, it was just my turn..”

You reached out instinctively, but he didn’t take your hand. Not out of cruelty—just because it was over. And you both knew it.

“I’ll give you space,” he said rising to his feet. “I’ll come by for my stuff another time.”

You nodded. “Okay.”

He lingered by the door for a second. “I hope he was worth it,” he said softly. “Or at least.. I hope you find peace, with or without him.”

You swallowed. “Thank you. For everything.”

He didn’t answer. He just left. The door closed behind him with a quiet finality that echoed through the apartment, leaving you sitting there on the couch—wrapped in the kind of silence that only comes when something real ends.

You didn’t move for a long time. And when you finally did, it was to curl up in bed, face buried in your pillow, tears soaking the fabric.

Few days went past. The world kept moving. Even if yours hadn’t. Outside your window, it was raining—soft and steady, the kind of gray that blurred everything.

You stayed curled up under a blanket on the couch, eyes fixed on the television that you weren’t really watching. Your phone sat untouched beside you, screen dark.

You hadn’t told anyone yet. Not even your closest friends. You needed just a few days—few days to breathe, or cry, or not feel anything at all.

But then, your phone buzzed. You didn’t expect the name. You didn’t expect him.

Smitty 🩷 Hey.

You stared at the screen for a long moment, unsure whether you were dreaming. Whether this was your brain making something up just to feel something again.

You unlocked your phone with shaky fingers.

Smitty 🩷 I had the weirdest dream.

That was it. Just that one sentence—open, unfinished, and impossibly him. You hesitated. Then you typed back.

Me What kind of dream?

Three dots. Then a pause. Then they disappeared. Then came the message.

Smitty 🩷 That we were still together. That you weren’t gone.

Your breath caught in your throat. The blanket suddenly felt too heavy.

Smitty 🩷 We were at the beach you used to love. The one with the rocks and the ice cream truck that always played the same song.

You closed your eyes, and you could almost smell the salt in the air. Almost feel the weight of his hoodie draped over your shoulders.

Smitty 🩷 I swear it felt real

You didn’t know what to say. The words stayed stuck somewhere deep in your chest, choking you quietly.

Smitty 🩷 You’re still mine, aren’t you?

Your lungs forgot how to breathe. Your heart ached—the worst kind of ache, the kind that remembered every version oh him: the messy hair in the mornings, the way his voice dropped when he whispered your name, the laugh that came from his chest when you wore his jersey and pretended to know hockey stats better than him.

For a second, just a second, you wanted to type yes.

Because the words felt real. Too raw. Like the world had paused and spun backward—just to let you step into that dream for one more second.

Just to let you be his again.

But you blinked, and reality crashed back in.

Lucas voice rang faintly in your memory. “He was always there.”

The pain you left behind. The guilt still clinging to your ribs. The truth. You stared at the screen. But you didn’t know what to say. You didn’t say yes. You didn’t say no.

Your mom had always told you sometimes, silence is the only answer you have left. But not this time. Not when it was him. Not when it was that message.

You say there for what felt like hours—when in reality it was just a few minutes—your pulse loud in your ears. You’d imagined a thousand ways he might reach out. A late night “hey”, a picture from a memory, but never this.

Never you’re still mine, aren’t you?

You chest ached. Not from pain, not anymore. From want. From the almost.

The screen lit up. His name still stared back at you. He was still waiting. And suddenly, all of your pretending cracked open.

Me You’re really gonna drop that on me like that?

You stared at it. Hovered over the send button. The tapped it.

Delivered. Immediately, those little dots appeared.

Smitty 🩷 I don’t know what I expected. But I had to say it.

Me Why now?

Another pause. Longer this time.

Smitty 🩷 Because you were in the crowd that night.

You sat up straighter. You didn’t think he saw you. You thought you’d imagined that moment—the way his eyes scanned the stands, the split second you swore they met yours. You’d told yourself it was wishful thinking. Nothing more.

Smitty 🩷 I don’t know why I looked. But I just knew you were there.

You bit your lip. Everything inside you swirled—the storm, the guilt, the want. You remembered what Luca had said. The way he looked at you when he left. “You were never really mine, it was just my turn..”

And maybe he wasn’t wrong. Because right now, texting Will, it felt like breathing again after being underwater for too long.

Me I dreamed about you too.

Even the night before your birthday

But it was never weird..

He didn’t reply immediately.

Smitty 🩷 I kept looking at my phone that whole day.

Me I wanted to text you. I really did.

Smitty 🩷 Why didn’t you?

You hesitated.

Me Because it still hurts

No reply. Not for a minute. Not for two.

Smitty 🩷 Me too

It was quiet again. No questions. No begging. Just that quiet little confession, tucked into the glow of your screen like it still meant something.

And even though you were still on opposite sides of whatever this was now—heartbreak, healing, hope—it was enough.

Just to hear his voice in your head again. Just to know he still dreamed of you. You didn’t know if this would fix anything. But for the first time in a long time, your chest didn’t feel so heavy. Because he wrote first. And you answered.

Your phone buzzed again later that night. You were still curled up on the couch, half-watching the end of some movie you’d seen a hundred times, when his name lit up your screen.

Smitty 🩷 Let me take you out to dinner.

Just like that. Like he hadn’t cracked your entire chest open a few hours ago. Like he hadn’t been silent for months. Like he hadn’t let you go without a fight.

You stared at the words. You read them once. Twice. A third time. You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you sat up, the blanket falling off your shoulders as the weight of his message settled over you.

Dinner. It was everything you used to hope for.

The time your birthday went past and he didn’t text. Everytime you drove past a rink and thought of his laugh echoing through the concrete tunnels.

You used to dream of this. Of him showing up. Of him trying.

Your thumb hovered over the keyboard. Then you typed.

Me Why now, Will?

The dots popped up immediately.

Smitty 🩷 Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you after the game. Because when I saw you in the crowd, it hit me how long it’s been. How far away you feel. And how badly I want to fix that.

You blinked hard. Your throat tightened. It was everything you wanted to hear.

Me You could’ve tried to fix things before.

You didn’t mean for it to sound bitter, but it did. You weren’t sorry.

Smitty 🩷 I know.

I thought I was doing the right thing by letting you go.

But I was wrong.

You swallowed. You remembered every night you cried into your pillow, wondering if he even missed you. You remembered dating Luca and feeling like a fraud every time you reached for someone who wasn’t Will. You remembered telling yourself to let go—and never quite managing it.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to cry. You wanted to go.

Me When?

Smitty 🩷 This Saturday? Somewhere quiet. Just us.

You could still say no. You could still protect yourself. But you didn’t. Because later you would regret it, if you said no.

Me Sure.

[thunderbolt-ing]

"I Can't Do It Alone." — 4

PART ONE PART TWO PART THREE Pairing: Congressman!Bucky x Fem!Reader Summary: The reader is having a very, very bad day and cannot catch a break. Being a girl's girl has consequences, apparently. Valentina's gone rogue, and just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse... it did. Warnings/Tags: use of y/n, very canon divergent, emotional manipulation/coercion (not sexual), enemies to allies, chaotic 'team' dynamics, hurt/comfort, the slow burn is finally burning, mild swearing, mild physical violence/injury, reader really needs a hug. (pls let me know if I missed anything) A/N: I truly put you through hell in this one, my bad. Also, Im so sorry for the wait!! it took me a little while to put everything together and have my ideas connect lmao i did not know how to get from point a to point b. this is barely proofread and i wrote some of this at like three in the morning, so i do apologize in advance for any silly mistakes Word Count: 9.1K sorry i spiraled

Hours Later Brooklyn, New York

The outreach went on in full swing, but you were gently nudged aside by a chorus of concerned interns insisting, “You look exhausted, we’ve got this.” You protested and refused, out of habit mostly, but their faces were earnest and their confidence left little room for argument. Truthfully, the exhaustion you’d been fighting off was finally catching up to you. For once, you took a step back and let them take the reins. You watched as they took over with ease, coordinating logistics, managing guest interactions, and handling the press like seasoned pros. They were young, most were barely out of university, but there was nothing inexperienced about how they carried themselves today. You’d handpicked each one, carefully vetting them like Bucky once did to you. A full circle kind of gesture, a way to pay it forward and say thank you to the universe for the life you’ve built for yourself. 

“I’ll be in the breakroom if you guys need anything,” you said to one of the senior interns, giving them a grateful pat on the back, “Just a few minutes.” “Take as much time as you need,” she replied with a reassuring smile, already turning back to her clipboard and radio.

In the breakroom, you poured yourself yet another cup of coffee, you’ve lost count at this point, and settled into one of the chairs. The bitter heat kept the exhaustion at bay once again as you settled into one of the worn chairs. You pulled out your personal phone almost on instinct, thumb hovering over the screen as you checked for any sign of Bucky. 

Nothing. No texts. No missed calls. Radio silence. 

You knew he was fine, you hoped he was fine, though you couldn’t help but feel a pit of concern in your stomach. It didn’t help knowing that he was out there apprehending potentially dangerous people. 

To distract yourself, you switched on the small TV mounted in front of you. It was background noise, you were more focused on enjoying the stillness you’ve allowed yourself for the day than actually listening, but that was until the anchor’s voice sliced through the calm like a blade. 

“Congressman Douglas Gary has called for an emergency impeachment trial, citing new and compelling evidence that directly implicates Contessa Valentina Allegra de Fontaine in multiple federal crimes…” 

You let out a low, humorless laugh and shook your head. 

“Finally, he listens,” You muttered into the cup in your hand before changing the channel. You didn’t need to hear the rest, you already knew everything Gary was only now bringing to light. It was typical to take the evidence you and Bucky practically gift-wrapped during the gala, parade it like its his own discovery, and not even spare a damn thank you. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t sting a little, not for yourself, but for Bucky most of all. 

Even so, with Bucky out there tying up loose ends and Gary finally moving to reopen Valetina’s trial, you finally felt like you could have some closure. Maybe, just maybe, the chaos was winding down, and you could perhaps—

BREAKING: Mysterious Explosion Reported in Utah Desert Near Secured Vault. Sources Say Blast May Be Linked to Illegal…

The TV screen flashed red with CNN’s breaking banner, the anchor’s voice sharp and urgent. You didn’t wait for the rest as you shut the TV off and leaned back on your seat, the beginnings of a headache were starting to curl behind your eyes. You wanted peace, just five minutes of it. You wanted background noise, something mindless, something…

Buzz. Buzz. 

Your work phone vibrated softly in your blazer pocket. You sighed and picked it up unceremoniously, cradling it between your shoulder and ear as you reached for your coffee again. 

“Office of Congressman Barnes, this is Y/N speaking,” you answered, your voice laced with practiced professionalism and a hint of exhaustion. 

“Hi…Y/N?” a voice replied, uncertain and breathless. “I spoke to Congressman Barnes yesterday about some… matters. He mentioned his partner, and I was wondering… would that be you? I’m sorry if this is the wrong number, public records aren’t that accurate.”

Your brow furrowed, the voice was familiar, but shaken. Then it clicked. 

“Mel?” you asked, startled. “Is that you? Are you okay? You don’t sound—”

“Yes, it's me. I’m sorry,” she interrupted, her words coming out rapidly. “I’m using a pay phone. I can’t talk long. Can you meet me? The shawarma place near the Watchtower. Please. I think Valentina knows. I can’t risk calling Bucky. It’s urgent.” 

You were already standing. 

“Watchtower?” You echoed, grabbing your keys from the pocket of your blazer. 

“The old Avengers tower in Manhattan,” she clarified, her voice trembling, “Valentina owns it now.”

“Got it. I’m on my way. Stay put, I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” 

“Thank you,” Mel whispered, and the line went dead. 

‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

Manhattan, New York

You drove like a woman possessed, weaving through traffic with the urgency of an F1 driver in the final lap. Red lights blurred past you, more than a few if you were being honest, and you were certain that at least three traffic cameras had captured your plates, but none of it mattered. Not the tickets, not the chaos, and not the consequences

All you could think about was Mel, her shaky voice, and the fear within each word she uttered. If Valentina was truly on to her, then every second counted. You could hear it in her hushed tone, in the way she could barely even utter Bucky’s name out loud on the phone. You knew she was in more danger than she was letting on. 

This wasn’t just about helping Bucky anymore, this was about Mel, a young woman’s safety. A young woman who was putting everything on the line just to feed scraps of truth behind enemy lines. The least you could do was be there, show up, and prove she wasn’t alone.

You tore through the streets, barely registering the blaring honks and the startled pedestrians who leapt out of your path. By the time you parked—if you could call abandoning your car half a block away ‘parking’—you were already sprinting and dodging commuters while muttering breathless “excuse me”s. 

You stopped at a corner, chest rising and falling as your gaze swept across the street. The Avengers Tower loomed in the distance, surrounded by cranes and partially wrapped in scaffolding. They called it the Watchtower now. You thought it was ridiculous. The distinguished Manhattan staple was now lifeless, sterile, and stripped of the charm and grandeur that Tony Stark once breathed into it. It stood like a husk on the skyline, iconic but wrong. A monument to how much everything had changed

And then your eyes found it: Shawarma Palace. It was an older space, clearly having been there for the many changes Manhattan went through. It was tucked between a laundromat and a smoke shop, its red sign standing out more than the others. You made a beeline for the door.

Your eyes scanned across the bustling establishment, heart pounding loudly in your chest. The scent of grilled meat and spices filled the air, but your senses were set on one task: finding Mel. Your eyes swept each table anxiously, trying to match faces to the blurry memory of her from the gala. You barely knew her, you’ve only heard her talk on the phone, but you remembered the way she looked that night with her dark blazer, and the way her eyes never quite settled.

Your breaths came unevenly, caught between exertion and panic as you pushed past a woman carrying a tray of shawarma wraps and sodas. Murmured conversations and the crinkle of paper faded into static, and just as anxiety threatened to rise in your throat, your gaze landed on her. Mel was tucked away in the back corner of the restaurant, half shadowed by a hanging plant and the flickering neon sign in the window.

She looked smaller than you remembered, more exhausted, too. Her shoulders were hunched, her fingers anxiously tapping the table as her eyes darted across the room, scanning the entrance every few seconds. Then they landed on you.

For a second, her whole body stilled, relief softening the tension in her brow, and you mirrored it with a quiet, shaky breath of your own. Without wasting another moment, you made your way to her, weaving past tables with urgent strides. As you slid into the seat across from her, your muscles finally began to loosen.

“I’m here,” you said softly, not realizing until that moment how badly you needed to say it. “You’re okay. I got here in time.”

Mel gave a faint nod, but the tightness in her jaw and the white-knuckled grip she had on her iced tea told you clearly that something was very, very wrong. 

“You know about The Sentry Project, right?” Mel asked abruptly, getting straight to the point, her voice low and urgent as her leg bounced anxiously under the table. 

“Somewhat,” you replied, quickly combing through your memory for the key details from the hearing. “O.X.E.’s initiative to engineer god-like beings… sort of like biological weapons wrapped in patriotism, right?”

“Exactly.” She nodded fast, relief flickering across her face for just a moment. “The project was deemed a failure. It was shut down and buried. Everyone assumed the final test subject, Bob Reynolds, died during the last trial. But he didn’t.”

You blinked, processing her words, your brows knitting in concern. Mel could see your confusion and pressed on.

“Bob turned out to be alive, and he escaped along with Val’s liabilities that I was supposed to get rid of inside that vault. I’m sure you’ve seen the headlines. That explosion in Utah? That was him.”

Your stomach dropped as your mind snapped back to the breaking news headline from earlier. The secured vault. The blast. The missing piece slid into place with a sickening click.

“And now,” she continued, her voice tightening, “Val’s got hold of him. She’s planning to parade him around as a one-man replacement for the Avengers.” Mel rubbed her temples, visibly disturbed, 

Your heart began to race. “But he’s unstable, is that right? He was never expected to survive given that—“

“He is very unstable.” Mel cut in, shaking her head. “They never should’ve experimented on him in the first place. He has… issues, serious psychological issues. Then they pumped him full of some twisted version of the super-soldier serum. No structure, no anchor. Just raw, unchecked power sitting on top of a fractured mind. He’s a ticking time bomb, and god knows what’s going to happen.”

“Fuck,” you muttered, already digging into your blazer for your phone. Without hesitation, you dialed Bucky. The phone barely rang once before he picked up.

“Y/N—hey, I’m so sorry,” he said quickly, voice soft with guilt. “I know I said I’d call and—”

“It’s fine,” you cut in, heart squeezing at the sound of him. “But I need your help. Like, we need your help. Now.”

“What’s going on?” His tone shifted instantly, gentle but alert. “What do you mean we? Are you safe?”

“I’m okay. I’m with Mel. But you need to get to New York. Immediately. Val is off her fucking rocker, the Sentry Project is way worse than anyone thought, and there’s a guy named Bob—”

“BOB! YES! THAT’S WHAT WE JUST SAID—” A chorus of voices erupted from the background on his end, followed by the sound of Bucky irritably shushing whoever was with him.

You blinked. “What the hell?”

“Sorry, ignore them,” he said quickly. “Keep going.”

“Right. So Bob is basically a human WMD with major issues, and Val is planning to show him off to the press. All I’m saying is that he should not be field-tested. Please, Bucky. We need you here, now.”

“I’m coming, I promise. Just stay where you are—”

Bucky’s voice faded into the background as your attention snapped to Mel. One look at her face sent a chill down your spine. She looked worse than when you’d first walked in. She was completely pale now, and her eyes locked on something behind you, wide and unblinking. 

You turned around instinctively, already knowing something was wrong.

There she was. 

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine stood in the doorway of Shawarma Palace like a gathering storm. She didn’t look angry, she didn’t need to be when her gaze was enough to send a chill straight through you. The stillness in her expression was unsettling; the quiet calculation in her eyes said enough. She was irritated but not furious, and somehow that made her even more terrifying. 

You understood, in that moment, exactly why Mel looked and sounded the way she did. 

“Y/N? Hello? Can you at least give me an ‘okay’? Hello—”

“Val found us,” you mumbled into the phone, “Come find me.” 

You hung up and slipped the phone back into your blazer, just as Valentina began to make her way toward the booth. Her steps were deliberate, and her lips curled into a smile that felt anything but kind. 

You held your breath as Valentina slid smoothly into the booth beside you, her tailored coat folding perfectly with the motion. She let out a slow exhale as her eyes drifted between you and Mel.

“I was beginning to wonder what was taking you so long,” she said, her voice laced with quiet disappointment. Her gaze settled on Mel with a subtle shake of her head, “I asked for my usual shawarma combo, not the whistleblower special.”

“I… I’m sorry, I didn’t—” Mel started, her voice barely above a whisper. 

“I already know everything, so just—” Valentina raised a hand, silencing her without saying another word. The gesture wasn’t loud or dramatic, but it landed like a slap. 

Then her attention turned to you. 

“And you,” she said, placing a perfectly manicured hand on your shoulder in a gesture that felt more like a warning than comfort, “you’re diving headfirst into things you don’t even begin to understand. And for what?” She tilted her head, her voice soft but sharp enough to draw blood. “For the congressman? You’re smarter than that. You can do better than being someone else’s mouthpiece.” 

“Yes, yes, save the ‘I can do better’ speech,” You said dryly, brushing her hand off your shoulder like it was a piece of lint. “I’m not the one that’s about to host a show and tell for a weaponized science experiment, but sure, let’s pretend this is about me making poor choices.” 

Valentina let out a soft, humorless laugh. “I would’ve liked you,” she said, though her tone suggested otherwise. “But unfortunately… you’ve become a problem.” 

She stood from the booth, smoothing down her coat.

“Come on, girls, and don’t try anything clever.” She said, her voice low and her threat mostly aimed towards you, “I’ve got this place on lockdown, so let’s not make this messy. I’d hate for someone to get hurt over a misunderstanding.” 

Valentina guided you and Mel out of the door, her hands resting lightly on your arms in a gesture that read more like camaraderie than coercion, or at least to any bystanders watching. You stole a glance at Mel, whose face had gone ghostly pale, and all you could think about was how to get her out of this unscathed. As expected, Shawarma Palace was surrounded from the outside. Undercover agents lingered nearby, casually falling into step behind you like shadows. Valentina didn’t need to issue a single command, they moved with precision as she ushered you both toward a sleek black SUV parked at the curb. 

You climbed into the SUV first, followed closely by Mel and then Valentina. The door clicked shut behind you, and the driver didn’t waste a second before pulling away from the curb, merging smoothly into traffic and driving towards the looming Watchtower.

“It’s such a shame we had to meet under these circumstances,” Valentina said with a theatrical sigh, turning toward you with a casual shrug. Then she looked at Mel. “I'd really hate to replace you, Mel. You’re the only one who knows how to spell 'classified' without help. So here’s your chance,” Valentina exhaled slowly, her eyes boring into Mel, “Sort out where your loyalties lie.”

You turned to Mel, who was seated beside you, and gave a small, subtle shake of your head that said ‘don’t fold, not now’. But it was already too late.

“Yes, Val. It won’t happen again,” Mel said, her voice flat, her shoulders heavy with defeat. She couldn’t even look you in the eye.

“Let’s hope not,” Val said, flashing Mel a sharp smile. Then, she turned her attention back to you. “As for you... Well, I’m not feeling quite as generous. How about a little meet-and-greet with my science experiment? I think you’d make a better target practice for him. He needs more of a challenge than tin cans and glassware.”

“Well, you’re in for a letdown,” You shrugged, though a flicker of fear settled deep in your bones. “I bruise like a peach and running? Yeah, not really my thing.” 

“Oh, do shut up,” Valentina snapped, her patience evaporating. 

Before you could even register what was happening, Valentina fished something out from inside her blazer. You barely caught a glimpse of it before a sharp, searing pain shot through your thigh. 

Your breath hitched, and then you were out like a light.

‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ The Watchtower Manhattan, New York

Your eyes fluttered open, temporarily blinded by a flood of sterile white light that made your vision swim. You blinked hard, trying to focus, but the brightness seared your retinas and left behind a dull ache behind your eyes. The air around you was cold and filled with the smell of antiseptic and metal. Each breath you took tasted sterile, like you’d been breathing recycled air for too long. 

Your body felt impossibly heavy, like someone had poured molten lead into your veins. Panic bloomed in your chest as you tried to shift, only to realize your limbs wouldn’t budge. Metal restraints dug into your wrists and ankles, cutting into your skin with every slight movement. You were strapped down, seated upright in a cold metal chair. 

When your vision cleared slightly, your gaze swept across your surroundings. The room was stark and lifeless, every surface a blinding shade of white that made it feel less like a lab and more like a morgue. Then, your gaze settled on a man standing a few feet away. He had shaggy brown hair, plain clothes, and he was holding one hand out toward you like he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to be doing this. You blinked, trying to reconcile the image in front of you with the warning Mel had given. 

This was him? The test subject? The biological weapon? 

You’d expected someone monstrous, intimidating even. Not someone who looked hesitant and heartbreakingly human. His brow was furrowed, his eyes uncertain, and despite the circumstances, he looked more lost than lethal. 

“What is it? Performance anxiety?” Valentina’s voice cut through the silence behind him, smooth but fraying at the edges with impatience. She didn’t seem to notice that your fingers had started to twitch, and that your eyes were fluttering weakly open.

“Come on, this isn’t any different from the glassware you’ve shattered.” She added, heels clicking as he stepped closer to him. “This one just happens to be a bit more… fleshy.” 

“I… I can’t. I can’t do it,” Bob stammered, his voice strained and cracking under pressure. His hand dropped to his side, trembling. His eyes met yours briefly, but instead of alerting Valentina, he looked away. He was protecting you.

“She’s a person,” he said firmly. “I can’t do that to her or anyone.”

“Robert.” Val’s tone sharpened, “You have the power of a million exploding suns. This? This is nothing. This is a warm-up, just target practice.” 

“I-I’m serious, Val, I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.” Val pushed relentlessly, “The only thing in your way is you. You want to prove yourself? You want them to stop seeing you as ‘just Bob’? Then do it. Make them see what you’re capable of.” 

“I said no!” Bob raised his voice, now visibly angry that Valentina wouldn’t stop insisting. The room shuddered beneath the weight of his anger. The overhead light flickered violently, casting warped shadows across the white walls. “I’m not doing it, give me something else. Not a person, not her.” He asserted, gesturing with his outstretched hand towards you. 

The metal restraints around your wrists and ankles began to tremble, a low, metallic hum rising in your ears as Bob kept his hand outstretched in your direction. You barely registered the heated argument brewing between him and Valentina, your focus pinned to the vibration crawling along the cuffs. Your chest rose and fell in shallow gasps, bracing for pain, for impact, for the worst. 

Then, you heard a soft and almost imperceptible click. 

You didn’t move, you couldn’t. You sat frozen in the chair, every muscle locked with tension. The silence that followed felt louder than the chaos. Your limbs were leaden, your body too numb or too scared to risk standing. 

“Alright, alright, let’s bring it down a notch, Bob,” Valentina said smoothly. She barely acknowledged the tremor in the floor, her attention fixed on Bob entirely. You got the sense that she was purposefully prodding at his temper just to see where the cracks would form.

Bob’s shoulders rose and fell with every heavy breath, the fury draining from him slowly. “I’ll do anything else,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the ground. “But I don’t think I can hurt people…”

“You will,” Valentina said gently, like a mother reassuring a child, but the undertone was ice. “You have to, if you’re going to be Earth’s next great hope. Heroes aren’t just made in labs, Bob. They’re made in moments like this.”

“I don’t… I don’t know if I should be doing this,” he said, backing toward the corner of the room.

You tracked his retreat while Valentina followed close behind him like a shadow. Your heart pounded as your eyes scanned the space looking for an exit. Then you saw it: a door across the room, slightly ajar. Your breath caught.

It was now or never.

“Robert,” Valentina cooed, her voice laced with something more dangerous than threat—belief. “You don’t have to think right now. That’s what I’m here for. I see your potential, even when you don’t. I chose you for a reason. The world’s going to know your name… if you let them.”

You rose slowly from the chair, knees trembling but steady enough. You willed yourself to move one foot after the other with your eyes on the door. You held your breath and moved.

“This is your moment to show the world who you really are,” Valentina said, her voice velvet over steel. “The press is on their way, and those idiots will be here any minute now.”

“They’re coming here?” Bob asked, his eyes darting toward Valentina. “Them?” 

“Yes, Bob. Them.” She stepped closer, her words slow and deliberate. “They’re coming to shut this down, to erase everything we’ve built. But they can’t. They don’t understand the kind of power you hold. It’s time to show them.”

You moved along the wall, one cautious step at a time, trying to stay within Valentina’s blind spot. Every movement felt like it echoed too loudly in the silence. 

“They underestimated you,” Valentina continued, weaving poison into every word. “Left you behind. Let you take the fall.” 

Bob’s expression wavered, uncertainty flashing across his features like a storm cloud. He was teetering on the edge of a cliff, pulled between guilt and the intoxicating promise of purpose. You crept around a nearby table, eyes locked on him, watching the flicker of conflict in his gaze. Something in him was unraveling, you just didn’t know which way he’d fall. 

“They’re a threat,” Valentina said softly, each word curling around Bob like a leash. “A threat to you, and you need to eliminate threats before they eliminate you.” 

Her voice was almost hypnotic, like she was casting a spell with every syllable. You felt a subtle shift in the air, as if the pressure had changed. Something was happening to Bob, something within him, you didn’t know, but you could feel him slipping. 

“Let’s start with this one,” Valentina said suddenly, turning around as her gaze snapped to you like a trigger being pulled. Her lips curved into something cold and cruel. 

You froze on the spot, and time seemed to fracture. 

Bob turned to face you, but it wasn’t the same man. His soft, uncertain expression was gone and replaced by something hollow… something frightening. His eyes flickered, his brown irises shifting into something that held power that didn’t belong in a human. 

You barely had time to process the change before the force hit. 

It was as if you were struck by a tidal wave of pressure, an invisible blast threw you off your feet and into the air. Pain exploded through your body as you slammed into the wall behind you, then crumpled to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. 

Your vision fractured at the edges, and sounds dulled around you like you were being swallowed by cotton. The last thing you saw was Bob walking towards you, then everything went dark. 

‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

Something bright flickered behind your eyelids. 

You groaned quietly, willing your eyes to open. The light hit your eyes harshly, its brightness sharp, white, and disorienting. You squinted against it, your vision swimming. 

Great. I’m dead. That was your first thought, dry and detached. This is it, the light at the end of the damn tunnel. 

But then you noticed how your body wasn’t weightless. It was light, but not gone. You were moving or being moved. Carried maybe.

Your limbs dangled with barely any strength in them, and warmth radiated beneath you. Someone’s arms held you carefully, feeling solid and real. 

Bucky? You thought to yourself as you processed the feeling of their hold. No, it can’t be. Both arms feel warm. 

You tilted your head, just enough to glimpse a blur of motion and shape. A figure. Someone was carrying you. You couldn’t make out their face, smudged by the fog of your fading consciousness. 

Okay… so I’m not dead. Not yet. I think…? The thought drifted sluggishly across your mind as your eyes threatened to close again, dragging you back under. 

Then you heard voices, muffled at first, but rising in urgency from the next room. Your eyes fluttered open again, just in time to realize you were still being carried. 

The figure moved steadily toward the source of the noise, footsteps echoing in the short hallway. You forced your heavy head to lift, blinking against the blur. 

At first, you weren’t sure who it was. The man looked just like Bob, but something about him looked wrong. His once shaggy brown hair was now neatly combed and dyed golden blonde, and he wore a fitted yellow-gold suit. He looked pristine, manicured, and too theatrical. It was Bob’s frame and face, but too polished, too out of character. 

“Stay still,” he said quietly, his voice gentle. 

“'Where is she?!” a voice demanded that was strikingly Bucky’s. You could hear the panic and fury burning beneath his words. “What the hell did you do to her?!” 

A loud crash rang out, something metal falling, or being thrown. Then silence. 

Your eyes flickered toward Bob’s hand, fingers splayed ever so slightly. The sound had stopped as suddenly as it began. Whatever it was, he had frozen it. 

“I wouldn’t do that, I didn’t come alone.” Valentina’s voice replied, cold and smug. 

Bob moved again as he carried you down a stairwell that curved into a brightly lit room. Your vision blurred in and out as the world pulsed with waves of light, muffled voices, and disjointed sounds. Your consciousness slipped from your grasp like water through fingers. 

As you were brought into the space, you could feel the air thickening slightly into something charged with tension. You heard gasps echoing through the room, everyone seemed to stop breathing when Bob emerged with you in his arms. 

“Robert, I said bring her after,” Valentina muttered, her tone clipped as if she was holding back the urge to snap. 

“Sorry, I thought you said to bring her as soon as they get here,” Bob said quickly, his tone unsure. “She’s not looking too good, and she was, um, she kept mumbling someone’s name. ‘Bucky,’ I think—”

Well, that’s embarrassing, you thought hazily, the fog in your mind unable to recall saying his name out loud.

“It’s fine. Whatever.” Valentina snapped, cutting him off sharply. She exhaled a slow, performative sigh, “Doesn’t matter. Thank you, Robert.” 

Then you heard the unmistakable thud of boots pounding against concrete. 

“Let her go!” Bucky commanded, his voice echoing sharply in the room. It was the voice he used when he was done asking nicely. 

Bob splayed his fingers again, clearly following orders from Valentina. Bucky’s footsteps seemed to freeze mid-stride, like he was locked in place by an unseen force. 

“No. Not yet,” Valentina said, letting out another sigh as her irritation slowly bubbled up. “Ugh,” she groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I was just about to tell you what my plans were. I had this whole thing organized with a speech and everything.” 

“Yeah? How’s that working out for you?” A woman’s voice drawled from somewhere in the room, her tone dry and unmistakably Russian.

Valentina ignored the jab, waving her hand like she was swatting a fly. “Oh, this is a mess,” she muttered, exasperated by the lack of ceremony, “Sentry, your first mission? Get rid of them.” Valentina commanded as she stepped aside.

You looked up just as Bob glanced down at you, his face flickered with guilt. Without a word, he walked to the side and gently lowered you to the ground. “I’m sorry about earlier… I hope your head’s okay,” he whispered, barely audible, then stepped away without waiting for a response. 

“Huh…?” You mumbled to yourself, unable to recall what happened prior to you waking up. All you could remember was being in a lab before waking up in Bob’s arms.

Your arms trembled as you pushed yourself upright, bracing against the smooth surface of the glass behind you. Your vision was still swimming, and you blinked rapidly to clear it, your heart pounding like a war drum. Not far from you, you saw Bucky still rooted in place, his muscles straining as he fought against the invisible force that kept him frozen.

Your eyes focused, scanning the rest of the room. Besides Valentina and Bob, there were four others, figures you didn’t recognize that were armed and alert. One stood in a black tactical suit, face completely hidden behind a white mask. Another looked absurdly out of place, like a Soviet version of Santa Claus—thick with fat and muscle, bearded, and draped in red. A woman with platinum blonde hair stood poised beside him as she observed the scene with unnerving calmness. Then, there was the man with the shield, and for one breathless second, you thought it was Steve Rogers. 

No, can’t be him, you told yourself, blinking rapidly and trying to clear the haze from your vision. That’s not Steve because if that’s Steve, then I really am dead. 

“I don’t want to hurt you guys,” Bob’s voice broke through your thoughts. He stood just a few feet away, his tone almost pleading like he was bargaining with a friend before a bar fight. “How about you just… turn yourselves in?”

“You don’t want to do this, Bobby,” the man with the shield warned, stepping into position, his grip tightening on the circular steel. His tone was steady, yet there was an undercurrent of mocking in the way he referred to Bob with another name.

Bob’s eyes flickered for a split second, his brown eyes bleeding into gold before flickering back, “You can call me ‘The Sentry’,” he said as he stood straighter, his voice now stripped of its uncertainty. 

“Don’t do this,” the blonde Russian woman said gently, stepping toward him like she was approaching a wounded animal. “You don’t have to listen to her.”

Valentina’s voice cut in sharply, “Robert, they never believed in you. They don’t think you’re good enough—”

“That’s not true,” the woman interjected quickly, her tone pleading. “You can trust me. I know you.” 

Your brows furrowed as you felt a cold feeling crawling up your spine. You recognized the shift in his behavior, and the memory flickered in your mind. It was the same one you’d seen back in the lab. When the kindness in Bob drained away and something else took its place. 

Bob shook his head slowly, “I don’t think that you do.” 

Without warning, a guttural roar exploded from Soviet Santa.

“Don’t mess with the West Chesapeake Valley Thunderbolts!” he bellowed, barreling toward Bob like a freight train. His outburst set off a domino effect with the others, except for the blonde woman.

“No, no! Don’t!” she called after them, frustration rising in her voice. “Suka,” she muttered under her breath before rushing in behind them. 

Chaos ensued. 

The masked figure shot forward like a bullet, their weapon drawn and aimed with precision. The platinum-haired girl swept behind Bob and attempted to strike from his blind spot. The shield-bearer launched forward with his attack, the steel disc slicing through the air and aimed towards Bob. 

Yet, Bob didn’t flinch. There was something deeply reluctant in his posture, like a child being asked to swat a bug, but unable to bring himself to do it. Still, Bob raised his hand, and a small shockwave rippled through, catching the four of them mid-strike and throwing them back like ragdolls. You could tell he was holding back, almost apologetic as he fended them off with strength he clearly didn’t want to use. 

Amidst the fight, Bucky finally broke free from the invisible force that surrounded him. He moved in a blur, not caring about the chaos as he threw himself towards you. 

“Y/N!” He shouted, your name leaving his lips like an answered prayer. He skidded across the floor to your side, dropping to his knees fast. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Bucky whispered breathlessly, his arms locking around you tightly as if he needed to prove to himself that you were real and alive. “I thought I was too late, I never should’ve gotten you involved—God, I’m so sorry.” His voice cracked, the weight of his guilt evident in his embrace.

You melted into him, your trembling limbs sinking deeper into the shelter of his arms. You felt the tension leave his body, his grip shifting from desperation to comfort. One hand, warm and human, cradled the back of your head, while the cold weight of his vibranium arm wrapped protectively around your torso like armor. 

“You’re here,” you rasped, your voice hoarse but full of stunned relief. You pressed your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in his familiar smell, like the scent of something that felt like home. The chaos remained in the background, the shouts, the grunts, but in Bucky’s embrace, all of it faded into static. 

“Of course,” he murmured, leaning back just enough to see your face. His brow furrowed deeply as he scanned you, his eyes wide with concern and heartbreak. “You call, I come. Always.” 

You reached up tentatively at first, then steadier as your fingers brushed his cheek. His skin was warm under the pads of your fingers, the stubble rough against your touch. His blue eyes were rimmed with unfallen tears, hovering and waiting to fall. When he smiled, one of those tears slipped down his cheek. 

“You’re crying,” you murmured, your voice merely a croak, though a wisp of amusement threaded through your words as your thumb gently wiped the tear away. 

Bucky let out a quiet laugh, catching your wrist in his hand like he wasn’t ready to pull away, “No, I’m not,” he replied, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly as two more droplets fell. “You have a concussion. You’re just seeing things.” 

You smiled just a little, too exhausted to hide the warmth rising in your chest. There was comfort in the way he touched your hand, like it meant something. 

Like you meant something. 

“You’re a shit liar,” you whispered. 

“Yeah?” he said, brushing a strand of your hair off your forehead as he scanned the extent of your injuries, his fingers lingering longer than necessary, “You think you’ve got me all figured out, huh?”

“I do,” you replied, more quietly than before, your words like a silent confession. “I see right through you.” 

Something shifted in Bucky’s expression, a small flicker of change that made your heart stutter. Your breath was caught somewhere in your throat as you looked at him. 

You’d buried your feelings deep, convinced they didn’t matter because you knew better. You’d convinced yourself for too long that they couldn’t matter, but now, with the weight of him next to you, with the way his touch steadied you, it felt impossible to push it away. 

He didn’t say anything for a moment, but his thumb brushed your knuckles gently, like a silent confirmation. As if he had noticed the change in you—the change in your heart—and he had been waiting for it. 

Your gaze dropped, your heartbeat thrumming too loudly in your ears for your own comfort. Gently, Bucky reached for your chin, his fingers brushing against your skin to tilt your face back up to face him. You met his eyes again, and this time, you didn’t look away. 

His touch moved with careful intensity, trailing from your chin to cup your cheek. There was something reverent in the way he touched and looked at you, as if he was afraid you would vanish if he blinked too long. Slowly, he began to lean in, and something unspoken began to unravel at last. 

“Hey, Romeo,” a voice called out, their accent distinctively British and feminine, “a little help would be nice?” 

The moment shattered as quickly as it began. 

You both flinched at the sound, you looked behind Bucky to see the masked figure phasing around Bob, her attacks ineffective against Bob’s defense. Eventually, she pulled back and retracted her mask to reveal a brunette with striking green eyes. Her gaze flitted between the two of you, one brow raised in amused disbelief. 

“Time and place,” she added, gesturing around the chaos. “Kind of bad timing for a bloody reunion kiss, don’t you think, Barnes?” 

Bucky let out a sigh that was half a groan, his forehead briefly resting against yours before he pulled away with a reluctant smile. “Rain check?” he murmured under his breath.

Your lips curved into a tired smile. “You owe me,” You croaked before letting him go to join the others. 

He placed a chaste kiss on your knuckles before turning to face the rest of the fight, the warmth of his kiss lingering on your skin. 

You watched the five of them engage Bob, their movements swift and coordinated, but it didn’t take long before dread began to creep in. Despite their skill, their numbers, and their sheer determination, something inside you knew that they were no match for him.

Valentina hadn’t been bluffing. She hadn’t been exaggerating when she said Bob was powerful. She had created something terrifying, an indestructible force wrapped in a kind and uncertain man. Now, that very same creation stood in front of them like a god among mere mortals.

You flinched as Bucky fired round after round, only to see the bullets crumple midair and never even touch Bob. The man with the shield hurled it with force that could’ve taken down a wall, and Bob caught it like it was nothing, casually bending the reinforced steel with one hand in the way someone might snap a stick.

It wasn’t just his strength, it was how calm and detached he was. Bob wasn’t even fighting, he was just moving.

And the others? They were giving it everything they had.

Sweat dripped from their brows, breath ragged, muscles straining. Bob didn’t even look winded, and that made your stomach twist with something close to fear.

Eventually, the Russian woman, with her chest heaving, lifted her hand and shouted, “Let’s go!”  

The others listened. There was no pride left to protect, just survival.

She broke into a sprint toward the elevator, punching the call button repeatedly with desperation. Bucky and Soviet Santa ran to your aid and flanked you, urgency etched into their faces.

“Come on, we’ve got you,” Bucky said, sliding his arm around your waist and hoisting you upright with practiced ease.

You stumbled to your feet, legs weak and heavy, but the group closed in around you with their defenses up, weapons drawn, and shoulders squared, forming a makeshift wall of protection. 

The elevator doors dinged open. Bucky and Soviet Santa half-dragged and half-carried you inside, while the rest of the group piled in quickly as the doors began to close. Just before they sealed shut, you looked up one last time.

Bob stood just beyond them, his brown eyes rimmed with gold. He stood rooted in his spot while Valentina stood beside him, Bob looked at all of you with an expression you couldn’t quite read. Was it anger? Sadness? Guilt? 

Then the doors shut, and he was gone. 

‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

Silence settled heavily over the group as you all staggered out of the Watchtower. No one said anything at first as all were too winded, too bruised, and too weighed down by what had just occurred. The fight had ended, but the feeling of unease lingered like smoke. Bob had changed; you’d all felt his shift from someone so gentle and uncertain to someone colder, detached, and far more dangerous. 

“We need to regroup and think,” Soviet Santa said at last, breaking the silence with urgency in his voice. “There has to be a way to stop him.” 

“We’re not regrouping, Alexei. We’re not even a team,” the shield-bearing man said flatly, holding out his dented shield with a scowl. Then he pulled off his helmet, revealing none other than John Walker, the very briefly crowned Captain America.

“Of course we are! We are the Thunderbolts!” Alexei boomed, puffing out his chest as if that alone would summon unity within the group.

You and Bucky exchanged an equally baffled look. “I don’t even know what that means,” Bucky muttered, his words voicing both your thoughts. 

“It’s her little peewee soccer team,” the British woman said with a scoff, nodding toward Yelena, who stood stiffly off to the side. Her silence was telling more than anything she could’ve said. Yelena wasn’t just quiet, she was stunned as if her thoughts were still catching up to what had just happened. Out of everyone in the group, she had been the closest to him, maybe not openly, but it was evident in the way she spoke and pleaded with him. Bob’s drastic change clearly unsettled her more than she let on. 

“We need to go somewhere to discuss this and come up with a plan,” Alexei said, now actively arguing with John, who refused to back down. 

“Discuss what?!” John barked. “He turned my shield into a taco!” He waved the bent metal in the air for emphasis.

“It really does look like a taco,” you mumbled quietly, but apparently not quietly enough because John shot you a look. 

“Oh my god, will you all shut up?!” Yelena snapped, her fists were clenched at her sides, and she looked like she might explode. “There is no us, there is no we. Bob changed into that thing, and there’s nothing any of you can do about it!”

“What did you do exactly?” The British woman retorted defensively, “Because if I remember correctly, you got your arse handed to you harder than anyone else.”

“Yeah! I suck! I’m terrible! We’re all terrible!” Yelena shouted, throwing her arms in the air. “And you, Ava? You’re not a hero. You’re not even a good person!” 

“Bitch.” Ava muttered under her breath. 

You blinked, stunned at how quickly they jumped into an explosive verbal warfare. You glanced up at Bucky, concern and confusion evident on your face. He simply held you closer, guiding your head to rest against his chest. 

“This is just how they talk,” he murmured in your ear, sounding apologetic. 

“They seem like good people.” You deadpanned.

Alexei moved toward Yelena, trying to placate her with his paternal bravado. “Hey, hey, hey,” he said softly, placing his hand on her arm gently, “It’s okay, malyshka. I know you’re upset—”

“I’m not your malyshka!” Yelena snapped, shoving him off. “You don’t get to call me that when you don’t even bother to call me!”

“Alright, take it easy,” John cut in to de-escalate. 

“Oh, so you’re nice now?” Yelena spun toward him, her fury redirecting like a missile lock. 

“What? It’s my turn?” John asked, already exasperated. 

“No,” Yelena said flatly, “You know you’re a piece of trash, Walker, so does your whole family.” 

“Jesus…” John mumbled, throwing his hands up in mock surrender and staring dumbfoundedly at Yelena.

Bucky exhaled slowly, his chin resting lightly on the crown of your head, careful not to put too much weight there. He stood still and silent on purpose, his posture making it clear that he wasn’t eager to be caught in Yelena’s line of fire. Unfortunately for the two of you, Yelena didn’t share the same courtesy. 

Yelena turned toward both of you, her eyes narrowing, though the sharp gaze that she gave everyone else had softened slightly. 

“I would say something to you, Barnes,” she said dryly, “but you’re in this weird situationship with your coworker and that’s tragic enough as it is.” 

“You don’t hold back, do you?” you muttered, letting out a sigh. Your voice wasn’t bitter, just entirely exhausted to argue your way out. You thought you would get a pass since you were mildly concussed, but you learned quickly that no one was safe from Yelena. 

“Situationship?” Bucky repeated with a frown. “What does that even mean?” 

Ava sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose like she couldn’t believe this was an actual topic they were discussing. “It’s when you’re not technically dating, but you do all these couple things—”

“What? That’s not—” Bucky interrupted, his voice rising defensively as if preparing to argue. Then, without warning, he suddenly blurted, “It’s not a situationship if I’m in love with her!” 

Silence fell within the group as Bucky went rigid beside you. It was as if his brain had just now realized what his mouth had done, and by the time he fully processed his words, it was too late to take them back. Everyone’s eyes were on Bucky, and even Yelena was caught off-guard mid-tirade. 

John let out a low whistle. He was about to open his mouth to make a comment, but Bucky shot him a glare that immediately shut him up. 

“Oops,” said Yelena, fully devoid of remorse, “Didn’t mean to trigger a love confession.” 

You blinked, your heartbeat thudding too loudly for your ears. “You’re in love with me?” You asked, your voice quieter than intended. Your eyes found his, and the corners of your mouth twitched up, caught somewhere between surprise and disbelief. 

Bucky’s eyes flicked away, his mouth opening and closing once before he found the words. “I… no—I mean, yeah. Yes.” His voice cracked slightly, and he cleared his throat, gaze dropping to the pavement. 

You didn’t say anything, but instead you reached for his hand, fingers intertwining with his without hesitation. The gesture was simple, but the way it made Bucky’s head snap back up told you how much weight it held for him. You gave his hand a squeeze and he looked at you, his panic melting into something softer. 

Yelena rolled her eyes, but there was no real bite behind it. “We’re fucked. We are so unbelievably fucked,” she muttered with a dramatic sigh before turning on her heel and crossing the street. 

“Lena, come back,” Alexei called after her, jogging to catch up like a parent reeling in their child. 

One by one, the rest peeled away. John grumbled something under his breath and stalked off in the opposite direction. Ava retracted her mask with a quiet hiss and phased effortlessly out of sight. Then, it was just you and Bucky, standing alone in the aftermath. 

“At least they didn’t kill each other,” Bucky muttered as he guided you away from the Watchtower. His warm hand dropped yours, shifting to your waist for support. You let out a quiet chuckle, your ribs still aching and your mind spinning, but for an entirely different reason. 

“Let’s not breeze past the part where you said you’re in love with me,” you teased, nudging his side lightly, your voice casual or at least trying very hard to sound casual. 

Bucky raised a brow at you, casting a sideways glance that was more vulnerable than smirking. “Again… you’re concussed and possibly even hallucinating. I’m taking you to get your head checked.” 

You raised an eyebrow. “James, don’t try to gaslight your way out of this one. I’m serious.” You chided, half sincere and half teasing.

He stopped walking, slowly turning to face you with a quiet exhale. His hand at your waist tightened ever so slightly. You turned to him fully, still clutching your side where it hurt. “Did you mean it?” you asked, quieter now, your words fragile like glass. “What you said, did you really mean it?” 

He hesitated just for a second, but it was enough. You felt a shift in him, subtle and unmistakable. When his eyes met yours, you recognized the look right away. It was the same one he’d worn from the very beginning: the day you stood up in that crowded town hall, all fire and conviction. The same look he gave you when you cradled Alpine like she was yours. The very same one that lingered every time you stepped in without being asked, simply because you knew he needed you. It was always there, you just didn’t want to name it.

“Every word,” he said simply. “I just didn’t plan on saying it like that, but I’m not taking it back. I don’t want to.” 

You exhaled, shoulders sagging slightly as the tension began to slip from your body. For a moment, neither of you spoke. 

“I knew I was screwed when I first saw you during that town hall meeting,” Bucky said finally, his voice low and rough as he dropped his gaze to the pavement. His thumbs brushed over your knuckles like he was grounding himself, “I’ve felt it for a while, I didn’t exactly hide it well either.” 

You swallowed the lump in your throat as you gazed at him, holding onto his hand tighter, “I noticed,” you admitted quietly. “I just… wasn’t sure what to do with it. I’ve been trying so hard not to notice because this—us—it was never supposed to be more than a job, and I didn’t think we could be anything else.” 

You looked away, your laugh bitter. “We’d be breaking so many rules. At least, like, more than a handful.” 

Bucky let out a small, breathy laugh. “No, no. I looked it up. Thoroughly, actually.” 

Your eyebrows shot up. “Are you serious right now?” 

“I dug up the actual HR handbook and I read through all the clauses that had to do with personal relationships.” He confessed with a shrug, “So yes, I’m pretty serious.” 

“You’re unbelievable.” 

“So, turns out, it’s not illegal,” Bucky said matter-of-factly, “It’s just ethically frowned upon, but it's not like I’ve ever let ethics stop me before.” 

That drew a real laugh from you, soft and surprised. Your throat was still tight, but the way he said it, so casual and full of affection, made it easier to breathe. “So you had time to research Federal workplace dating policies,” you said, half-teasing, “but you can’t sit through the two dockets I gave you last week?” 

“Are you really going to bring that up right now?” 

“Force of habit,” you replied, smirking. 

He shook his head with a laugh that softened into something more tender. “You don’t have to say anything,” Bucky murmured, his voice softer now. “Not right now. I just wanted you to know how I feel and just have everything out in the open.”

You looked at him, taking in the subtle way he braced himself for rejection even after everything. The way his eyes held deep vulnerability and sincere truth. 

Suddenly, the weight of everything you’d held back started to loosen. You reached up, brushing your finger against his cheek, watching the way his breath hitched at the contact. 

“What?” He asked, cautious but pulling away 

“I’m screwed too.” You whispered, the weight on your shoulders dissipating as soon as your words left your mouth. 

Just as your hand reached up to cup Bucky’s cheek, his eyes flicked skyward, narrowing at the low, mechanical whir overhead. It was the sound of helicopter blades spinning too loudly and too close. You followed his gaze just in time to see a helicopter spinning out of control, and veering dangerously toward one of the massive cranes still attached to the upper levels of the unfinished Watchtower.

Then, a sickening crunch followed, the noise echoing through the air as metal collided with metal. The crane groaned under the force, twisting like a snapped limb before beginning its collapse. The helicopter continued spiraling, its tail aflame, drawing a fiery arc as it plummeted toward the street below.

Bucky moved instantly. His vibranium arm came up, shielding your head as he pushed you back, his body curling protectively around yours as he guided you away from the tower.

“Move! Let’s go!” he barked, his voice barely audible above the rising chaos.

Around you, people screamed. The sidewalk turned into a wave of bodies fleeing in every direction. You stumbled backward as a deafening crash shook the ground. The crane, now detached, slammed into a row of buildings with explosive force, sending debris and glass ricocheting across the block.

Car alarms wailed and sirens screamed. Then, through the smoke and spiraling ash, your eyes caught a shape in the sky just hovering above the wreckage.

It was a silhouette that was vaguely human, pitch black, and impossibly dark. So dark that it seemed to drain the color from everything around it. 

You squinted, your heart crawling into your throat as realization settled like lead in your stomach.

“No… it can’t…” You whispered, your voice hollow.

Bucky turned as he followed your gaze, jaw tightening at the figure hovering high above the city.

It was Bob, but not the Bob you knew. 

Not anymore.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------ taglist: @seraphine-ann @cyberjawz @serumandsteel @hiraethmae @yesiamthatwierd @shortandb1tchy @yiiiikesmish @theendofthematerialgworl @cherrypieyourface @trashbin-nie @daydreamgoddess14 @dollface619 @tessastarfire @stell404 @nameless-ken @tshuuls @aiyaiy @caffeinatedavenger i probably missed some people, I need to start a spreadsheet for these things. anyway pls let me know if you want to be added! End Notes: me, writing: omg they keep getting interrupted also me: i keep interrupting them, i did that.

hes so down bad in this one its kind of ridiculous like please stand up!!!! (also dont)

the next one is probably going to take just as long as this one but i do have another fic that im writing and will post soon!!! <3

[crystallizedday]

SO

I NEED TO TALK ABOUT THE NEW DELTARUNE CHAPTERS OR I WILL EXPLODE

I wanna primarily talk about my take on the knight’s identity, but I’ll sprinkle a few other thoughts of mine in if I can, cause HOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Anyway

MASSIVE spoilers for Deltarune chapters 3 & 4.

DO NOT CLICK READ MORE IF YOU DO NOT WANNA GET SPOILED!!

YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!

So

To me, it’s down to Dess & Carol Holiday.

Like

Look at this design.

Those are DEFINITELY antlers.

Toby knows his audience.

He’s poked fun of it in the game before (ie the theorist rant about Mike)

To me, he wouldn’t just include a design detail like that & NOT expect us all to think about the Holiday’s

So either he intentionally made them look like horns

Or it’s a red herring

& I highly doubt it’s the latter.

I DO think there’s a potential red herring, but it’s not in the knight’s design.

SPEAKING OF TOBY KNOWING HIS AUDIENCE & LIKELY HAVING THESE SPRITES HAVE SPECIFIC DETAILS

THOSE HAND HOLES ARE NOT A COINCIDENCE, & I WILL DIE ON THIS HILL!!

However, I don’t think it’s as mind blowing as it may seem at first.

Most of the fandom already agrees that Gaster has SOMETHING to do with the plot of Deltarune.

The hand holes don’t feel like something that indicates that Gaster is the knight.

Instead, it feels like it merely connects the knight TO Gaster.

Either the knight serves the former scientist (since there is no knight without a leader they follow)

OR

They BOTH are of equal power, people who were once of the light now prisoners of the dark.

Whether they have the same goal is… not clear.

However, the very fact that we now have solid (even if unspoken & rather interpretive) confirmation that the knight and Gaster ARE related

Is a big deal

Even if we all kinda knew that already.

NOW

Back to the Holiday’s.

I actually played through chapter 3 & 4 myself without looking anything up beforehand.

Yes, I missed some things, but from what I DID see, I first came to the conclusion that Carol, Noelle’s mother, was the knight.

In chapter 4, Kris talks to someone on the phone.

Kris seems to be working with someone who wants the dark worlds to spread & grow, hence why they stop the player from reading the bunker code written inside Dess’ guitar (keep that last fact in mind).

We don’t know for certain who this voice belongs to.

Is it the knight?

Gaster?

The same person Spamton spoke with back before his fall from fame?

It all seemed ambiguous

Until this happened.

Kris tells the person on the phone that they failed to stop Susie from getting the guitar.

The person then says they’ll be “right there…”

Which leads to

You cannot tell me with a straight face that this is a coincidence.

Noelle KNOWS her mom’s work hours.

Why would Carol suddenly come home so early?

If Carol was not the one on the phone, then someone or something HAD to come over to Noelle’s.

The voice specifically says “I’ll be right there.”

Not “I’ll stop her”

Or “I’ll send someone.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Carol is the ONLY person who arrives at the house before Susie’s kicked out & Kris follows her.

Not to mention

Like

Toby didn’t highlight “you” in RED merely to create emphasis.

He doesn’t do that.

We see him highlight stuff in YELLOW in this chapter

But NOT red.

I highly doubt Carol’s talking to Kris, or at least, not JUST Kris.

I think she’s talking to the player.

The “you.”

We know from chapter 2’s Snowgrave route (specifically when you are about to defeat Spamton) that “you” refers to the player, not Kris.

Carol’s line here feels intentional.

ANOTHER INTERESTING THING

This COULD be seen as like

A metaphorical thing

(ie to show how “cold” Carol is toward others)

But considering Noelle’s whole thing in chapter 2

& the background ambiance when she arrives

& how Susie comments on FEELING the ACTUAL temperature drop…

It just feels

Too odd to be purely metaphorical.

Do I think this confirms she is the knight?

No.

To me, it merely shows that Carol is a PART of whatever this whole thing is.

Carol COULD be the knight

But to me, it doesn’t feel as thematically fitting as Dess being the knight.

Cause like

Dess is MISSING.

We don’t know HOW she went missing.

No one hasn’t seen her in quite a long time.

It makes sense that Dess, either willingly or forcefully, became the knight.

& when I say “became”

I mean like

MORPHED into it.

She IS the knight.

It is no suit of armor she can take off.

It is no dark world form she can shed if she were to enter the light world (assuming she ever could).

She IS the knight, & the knight is HER.

She is forever warped by a past event we have yet to see.

Plus

Carol feels like she has a few intentional red herrings that would make fans point to HER as the knight

Mainly the kitchen katana that she apparently uses to cut fruitcake with.

THAT feels like a straightforward red herring

Cause it’s TOO obvious.

Besides

The knight doesn’t wield a katana.

If Carol were the knight, I feel like the knight’s sword would be a lot more elegant looking, more katana-like.

It wouldn’t surprise me to see Carol KNOW about her eldest daughter’s fate & actively be working with her.

…

Also WHY IS THERE A NOTE IN DESS’ GUITAR??

Who put that there?

WHEN did they put that there?

I doubt it was Carol. That feels like a weird place to put a code. She feels like the character to have the code on HER at all times.

The code was likely from Dess herself.

Why was it put there?

To remind Dess how to open it (likely causing her to explore the shelter & later go “missing)?

Or perhaps

Somehow

It was written after her disappearance

As a quiet call for help

For SOMEONE to open the bunker & end the nightmare.

Carol could still know about the code without being the one to write it.

If Kris can spot the note so easily after only looking through the guitar ONCE

We can wager that Dess’ MOTHER, who LIVES in that house, likely found out about it at some point, ESPECIALLY if she truly is a part of the madness somehow.

Assuming this is all true, I wonder if Carol never plucked the note out because doing that would require breaking the guitar in some way, & she does not have the heart to do it.

That idea’s more headcanon-y than anything

Cause I’d just love to have a scene like that play out

Where she mumbled to herself about just getting rid of the damn note

But can’t without hurting the strings

Showing that she DOES still care. She DOES have humanity.

It’s just buried in the freezing cold.

…

… so while this seems like a good ending spot

I wanna say one last thing.

Fellas.

F e l l a s.

The later chapters don’t HAVE to abide by a set formula.

I keep seeing people argue whether this or that was the secret boss

& I’m just like

Fellas

It doesn’t have to match chapter 1 & 2’s format.

Hell, chapter 2 diverted from chapter 1’s format by making IT’s secret boss someone you encounter in game no matter how you play, a stark contrast from Jevil, who you can play the entire game without ever seeing a LICK of dialogue about him.

I think, out of everything, we shouldn’t worry about “who the secret boss is.”

No.

We should be more concerned about the shadow crystals & where they end up.

Cause APPARENTLY

DEFEATING THE KNIGHT IN CHAPTER 3 LEADS TO SUSIE CHIPPING OFF A PIECE OF THEIR SWORD

& WHEN YOU GO TO PICK UP THE SHARD

YOU ADDITIONALLY GET A SHADOW CRYSTAL!!

At first, I assumed the shadow crystal came FROM the sword, but that may not be entirely right.

Even still, I think the crystals either come FROM the knight

Or the knight & the crystals come from the same place.

Now, how specific characters get a hold of it

Is… up in the air.

We see Gerson hand one to Susie in chapter 4.

He tells her that someone likely wanted him to use it, but he didn’t find it interesting, so he never really did anything with it.

Perhaps someone (the knight, Carol, Gaster, who knows) is giving certain Darkeners shadow crystals for some unknown reason.

Whatever the reason is, considering the bosses to get these shadow crystals all tie to EXTREMELY hard boss fights, it’s likely a source of power the corrupts the user, just as it did with Jevil & Spamton.

So

By that logic

I suppose the knight IS the secret boss

But more so that the secret to the boss is that it’s winnable

Which feels

Very hilarious & overall Toby-ish to me, not gonna lie. IWNWODMWOCKSOMXOSMXODCM

But uh

Seriously.

We gotta look at how these bosses connect on a far less shallow level. We can’t be too occupied with interpretive patterns in the chapters’ varying story beats

Cause those story beats aren’t always gonna be repeated.

After all, repeating story beats make the rest of the potential chapters predictable

& I doubt Toby’s gonna be doing that…

Anyway uh

That’s all for now.

…

Ya know

Aside from how we finally got concrete confirmation that monsters bleed (so the whole “when you kill sans, you cut through some ketchup he had hidden away to make it look like blood” debate no longer matters)

Ralsai directly addressing how there MUST be another ending to their story (& suggesting that Toby’s “one ending” claim may be tied to the prophecy specifically)

Dead monsters having the capacity to be “revived” in the dark world, even if we can never be sure if it’s really “them”

THE FUCKING SNOWGRAVE CONTINUATION SCENE IN CHAPTER 4

LIKE HOLY SHIT

But that last one’s for another time

… probably.

For now, imma just

Close off my ramblings here before I spend another 2 hours of my day talking about how these two chapters absolutely DESTROYED my brain.

[godricgryffinsnore]

So......tadaaaa, just when you thought you have striked off another request from the list, you have another.

(because I need some good Harry Potte/reader stuff, even if it takes weeks)

He was in a pretty bad mood, he had been stood up on a first date. He slumped on his way back when a girl came and sat beside him on the train, crying.

[slow burn please. Like the slowest slow burn. I am looking for a long slow burn...And Sirius is alive.]

All the Quiet Things ♡ : A Harry Potter Fan Fiction.

pairing : Harry Potter x fem!reader

summary : When a chance meeting on a train changes the course of two very different lives, what begins as quiet companionship turns into something deeper—something far more difficult to ignore. Amid shared silences, buried feelings, and a few missteps along the way, two souls learn what it means to heal, to choose, and to love without fear.

warnings : Emotional distress, crying, and healing, Jealousy, arguments, and dramatic love confession, Strong language and romantic angst, Explicit sexual content (18+): oral (both), unprotected sex, praise/dirty talk, slow to rough progression, Embarrassing moment (others overhear them), Canon divergence (Sirius, Remus & Cedric alive), Comfort, fluff, and aftercare. Please let me know if I missed any.

author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3. THIS IS AN 18+ FAN FICTION. PLEASE DO NOT ENTER IF YOU ARE UNCOMFORTABLE OR IF YOU ARE A MINOR!!!

della's note : Ya, so it happened... I don't know how, where or when I got the urge to write a smut scene, but I did. But don't worry, if you want this fic in a free-smut type of way, you can read it without the smut too. Smut is at the very end of the fan fic... and I will let you know when it starts. I REALLY HOPE YOU LIKE IT <333

word count : 4.8k

main master list <3

banners : @uzmacchiato and @cafekitsune

He had never liked dates.

He didn't know why he’d even said yes. Lavender had cornered him with her glittering eyes and her sugar-slick voice, and something about the way Ron had elbowed him had made Harry nod before his brain could catch up.

Now, it was raining. Of course it was raining.

The coffee shop had smelled too sweet, and the date never showed. Harry had sat at the window, watching the clouds gather like an omen. He didn’t even like coffee. He’d stared at his reflection in the glass—scar, glasses, eyes too tired for eighteen—and had wondered what he looked like to the rest of the world.

The train back to Grimmauld Place was nearly empty. The wet streets had scared the tourists off, and he was grateful for the silence.

He slumped into the seat by the window, coat damp, hair clinging to his forehead. His jaw was tight. The overhead lights buzzed.

Then—

A soft sound. A sniffle.

He turned, and there she was.

A girl. His age. Book pressed tight to her chest, sleeves too long, eyes swollen and red.

She sat across from him, not noticing him at all, crumpling into the corner like she was trying to disappear.

Harry should have looked away.

But she was crying. Not loud, not the kind of crying that begged attention—no. This was the silent kind. The lonely kind.

The kind he knew well.

“Are you alright?” he asked before he could stop himself.

She startled, blinking up at him like she'd only just realized he was there. Her lashes were soaked, and there was a smudge of ink on her cheek.

“I’m fine,” she whispered. It was the automatic kind of lie.

He didn’t believe her.

But he didn’t press.

The train groaned into motion, and the city lights outside blurred into gold.

She turned her face to the window, but not before he saw it—that broken sort of look, the kind people wore when they’d held on too tightly to something that slipped right through their fingers.

He wanted to ask. Who hurt you? Why are you crying? What book is that?

But instead, he sat in silence. Watching the rain. Listening to her breathe.

They didn’t speak again that night.

When the train stopped, she stood and disappeared into the dark, and he didn’t even know her name.

── .✦

They saw each other again.

Weeks later, in the library at Grimmauld Place.

It was Sirius who called her in. “Harry! This is the one I told you about—she’s working with the new historical records team from the Ministry. She’s got the brains of a Ravenclaw and the patience of a saint.”

Harry turned, and there she was.

She didn’t look surprised to see him. But she did smile—a small, knowing thing that twisted something deep in his chest.

“You’re the girl from the train,” he said, before he could stop himself.

Her eyes flickered. “And you’re the boy who stared at me like I was made of glass.”

Sirius looked between them, brows raised.

Neither of them explained.

── .✦

Weeks became months.

She started showing up more.

She was clever. Quiet. Laughed softly at Sirius’s ridiculous stories, asked sharp questions during Order meetings, and always smelled faintly like old parchment and stormy nights.

Harry liked talking to her. He liked the way her mind worked—how she made him feel like he wasn’t just the Boy Who Lived but a person with questions and dreams and wounds that didn’t need to be hidden.

But it wasn’t easy. Nothing ever was.

There were arguments. Disagreements. He didn’t like how she looked at Malfoy when he visited to give intel, didn’t like how she smiled when she spoke to Cedric Diggory at the Ministry.

She didn’t like how he shut down when he was hurting. How he’d go quiet and cold and pretend like nothing ever touched him.

“Harry,” she said one night, voice sharp with something unnameable, “You don't get to decide who I talk to.”

“I’m not deciding,” he snapped. “I’m just saying—Diggory? Really?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

And that’s when it began.

The bitterness. The bite. The awkward silences at meetings. The thunder in his chest when she smiled at someone else. The way she flinched when he ignored her in front of Ron and Hermione.

They became enemies in the way only people who used to care could be.

But oh—he still watched her.

He knew how she took her tea. Knew she cried when she read tragic poetry. Knew she kept a picture of her little sister in her notebook and touched it when she thought no one was looking.

She knew him too.

She knew how he clenched his fist when he lied. Knew when his nightmares came back, even when he didn’t say a word.

But they were silent. Too prideful. Too afraid.

Until the night everything broke.

── .✦

It was a storm.

It always had to be a storm.

Grimmauld Place, the attic, papers flying, windows rattling. The Order had had a terrible night, and Sirius had been nearly killed, and Harry found her pacing, wild-eyed, her hands shaking.

“You could’ve died!” she shouted at him. “You just ran in! No plan—no—nothing! What if—what if I never saw you again, you bloody stupid boy?!”

“I didn’t need a plan!” he yelled back. “I needed to save him!”

“You’re reckless! Arrogant! Self-sacrificing and completely idiotic—!”

“And you’re impossible!” he roared. “You smile at Cedric like I don’t exist, then act like you care—!”

“Because I do care, you great big idiot! I always did!”

Silence.

Breathing.

The storm howled outside, but inside—utter stillness.

“I always did,” she whispered again. “From the moment you asked if I was okay on that train.”

Harry stared.

She looked like everything he’d ever wanted and been too scared to ask for.

“I love you,” he said, voice hoarse, cracking. “I love you and it’s miserable. You make me feel like I’m worth something and I hate it because I’m terrified of losing you.”

And then—

They kissed.

Like a war ending. Like peace being signed on trembling lips. Like two storms learning how to hold hands without turning to thunder.

── .✦

They didn’t speak about the kiss.

Not the next day. Not the day after that.

She went back to the library. Harry helped Molly with dinner. They exchanged glances like secret letters—quiet, cautious, trembling with things unsaid.

Sirius noticed, of course.

“Why are you walking like you’re being haunted by your own hormones?” he muttered to Harry in the hallway, raising a brow. “Did something happen or not?”

Harry flushed so deeply he might’ve been hexed.

But no answer came.

Because the truth was this: kissing her had felt like magic, real magic—the kind Hogwarts never taught. And now, he was afraid that if he said it aloud, it would vanish into smoke.

── .✦

A week later, she packed her bag.

The Ministry needed her in Bulgaria for a temporary assignment. Three months. Maybe four. She didn’t tell Harry until the morning she was leaving.

“I didn’t think you’d care,” she said quietly, her fingers knotting in the strap of her satchel.

Harry stared at her.

“I care too much,” he replied. “That’s the whole problem.”

She smiled sadly. “You’re not the problem, Harry. You never were.”

And before he could say something—anything—she was gone.

── .✦

He wrote to her.

Every week.

He never sent them.

They were scrawled on napkins, the corners of maps, the back of old Order memos. He’d fold them, unfold them. Sometimes burn them in the fireplace, watching the words curl into ash.

I miss the way you whisper when you read aloud. I miss your damn tea order. I miss your stupid bookmark collection and the way you smell like lavender and rain. I miss you like a wound. Like air.

She wrote too.

But never to him.

She wrote poetry. Scribbled it between research notes. Tiny verses that felt like bleeding.

He looks at me like I’m holy and runs from me like I’m fire.

── .✦

When she came back, it was snowing.

December wrapped London in white lace, and the streets were muffled with softness. She arrived at Grimmauld Place with wind-blushed cheeks and frozen fingers.

Harry didn’t know she was coming.

He opened the door and nearly dropped his wand.

She looked... different. Softer, maybe. A little older. But the second their eyes met, something in his chest cracked wide open.

“You’re back,” he said dumbly.

“Apparently,” she whispered.

And then—

He stepped aside, and she walked back into the house. Into his world. Into the place that always felt like it had been waiting for her.

── .✦

It wasn’t easy.

They were awkward. Stilted. She would laugh too loud around others, and he would grow quiet again, like a tide retreating. He was still jealous. She still didn’t explain the way she’d touched Cedric’s arm at the last Order meeting. The tension curled between them like smoke—every conversation a slow unravelling.

Then one night—it broke.

A Christmas party. Too much firewhisky. A hallway. A sideways glance.

He snapped.

“You still love him, don’t you?” he said, sharp as glass. “You talk to me like I matter, and then you run to him every time he walks into a room.”

She turned slowly. Her eyes were on fire.

“How dare you,” she hissed. “You don’t get to dictate who I speak to, Potter. You don’t even speak to me unless it’s convenient for your bruised ego!”

His breath hitched.

“You kissed me,” he said.

“You kissed me,” she snapped. “And then you disappeared.”

“I was scared!”

“So was I!”

A pause.

A breath.

Her eyes glistened. “You think you’re the only one who’s been broken? You think you’re the only one who’s terrified of being loved just to be left?”

Harry’s hands shook. “I’m not good at this.”

“Neither am I,” she whispered. “But I’m still here. I’m trying.”

And then—softly.

“I love you,” she breathed, voice raw. “I’ve loved you since the train. Since the moment you looked at me like I wasn’t invisible.”

His chest cracked. Splintered.

“I love you,” he said back. “I love you so much it hurts.”

And this time, when they kissed—it wasn’t fireworks.

It was home.

── .✦

“You’re an idiot.”

Harry turned, startled. Sirius was leaning in the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed, an infuriating grin on his face.

“I haven’t said anything yet.”

“You don’t have to. You’ve got that guilty ‘I kissed her again and now I don’t know if it meant everything or nothing’ look.”

Harry groaned and dropped his head to the table.

Sirius chuckled. “Relax, Prongslet. I’m proud of you. Took you what—two years and a raging argument to finally confess?”

“I hate you.”

“No, you hate how much you care. You hate that she makes you nervous. You hate that you want forever and don’t know if she does.”

Harry looked up. “Do you think she does?”

Sirius tilted his head, suddenly serious. “She looks at you like you hung the stars, Harry. That kind of love doesn’t fade.”

── .✦

Meanwhile, upstairs, she stood in front of the mirror, still trembling from that kiss.

She touched her lips, blinking at herself like she wasn’t sure she was real. There was something quiet blooming in her chest—hope, maybe. Or peace. Or the terrifying beginnings of both.

And then—

“Mistletoe,” Sirius announced, bursting into the room.

She screamed and spun, nearly throwing her hairbrush.

“What the hell—?!”

He grinned. “I need your help with some holiday decorations.”

“Sirius Black, if you ever want to live to see another Christmas—”

“Don’t worry,” he interrupted with a wink. “The mistletoe’s not for me.”

He disappeared before she could hex him.

── .✦

The next few weeks were... soft.

Not perfect. But gentle.

She and Harry spoke more. Laughed more. There were long walks in the snow. Quiet tea in the library. Glances that lingered like poetry.

And the touches—

A hand brushing hers when passing her a quill. A shoulder leaning too close while reading by the fireplace. A pinky that hooked hers under the dinner table.

They didn’t talk about labels. Or plans. Or the future.

They just were.

And it was enough—for now.

── .✦

New Year’s Eve.

The entire house was glowing—candles floating in the air, laughter echoing through the halls, the scent of cinnamon and firewhisky thick in the air.

At 11:59, Sirius shouted, “Make a wish!”

Harry didn’t need to.

He was already standing beside her.

And when the clock struck twelve—

He kissed her. Quietly. Reverently. Like a prayer.

Not because he had to.

But because he could.

Because she was real. And here. And his.

And when she smiled against his lips, he felt like maybe, just maybe, all the quiet things were the most beautiful.

── .✦

It was late January when they went back to Hogwarts.

Not as students, no—not anymore.

McGonagall had invited them to speak to the sixth-years about magical ethics and wartime resilience. (Sirius joked that his own speech would be titled “Don’t Trust the Government, or Your Mother.”)

But really, it was just an excuse. An excuse to go back. To remember. To stand in those halls again and feel, for a moment, seventeen.

They walked through the front doors together, their fingers brushing but not quite intertwining, boots crunching on the snow-slicked stone.

The castle was quiet, blanketed in soft winter. Icicles like crystal daggers hung from the towers. Somewhere, faintly, a choir of enchanted birds sang from the rafters.

She looked up at the ceiling of the Great Hall and whispered, “It still feels like home.”

Harry looked at her.

So do you.

But he didn’t say it.

── .✦

Later that night, she found a small box on her pillow in the guest quarters.

Wrapped in dark green ribbon.

No note.

She opened it carefully—and gasped.

A charm bracelet.

Delicate. Golden. With three tiny charms already affixed.

A lightning bolt.

A teacup.

A moon.

When she touched them, they shimmered with warmth—enchanted.

The lightning bolt whispered, I’ll protect you.

The teacup murmured, I remember.

And the moon breathed, Even when we’re apart, you’re never alone.

She covered her mouth with her hand, eyes burning.

He hadn’t said a word.

But it was the most beautiful confession she’d ever heard.

── .✦

They went into Hogsmeade the next day.

It was bright with winter sunlight, the sky a sheet of silver-blue. They laughed together in the snow, tried butterbeer with cinnamon, got caught in a tangle of enchanted scarves at Gladrags.

And then—

He saw it.

A man. Laughing with her near Honeydukes. Brushing snowflakes from her cheek.

Cedric.

Harry froze.

He knew they were friends. He knew.

But still.

His blood went hot.

Jealousy curled through him like smoke. He stood, fists clenched, eyes locked on the soft, lingering way she looked at Cedric as he handed her a sugar quill.

Later, she found Harry sitting alone by the Shrieking Shack.

“What’s wrong?”

He didn’t look at her.

“Nothing.”

“You’re lying.”

A pause.

He exhaled sharply. “You smiled at him like I wasn’t even there.”

She blinked. “Harry—”

“You still like him, don’t you?”

Now she was angry.

“Are you serious? Cedric is my friend. He’s been there since before you even looked my way!”

“I’ve always looked at you,” he snapped. “You just never saw me.”

“Oh, I saw you. I saw you when you ignored me. When you let me walk away. When you kissed me and vanished.”

“I was scared!”

“I wasn’t,” she hissed, eyes glistening. “And I still showed up. I still loved you. Even when you gave me nothing.”

His breath caught.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

She turned away. “Maybe sorry isn’t enough anymore.”

── .✦

She didn’t speak to him for three days.

Not in the corridors, not in the common areas, not even during the goodbye dinner in the Great Hall.

Harry felt like the walls were closing in.

Everywhere he went, he looked for her. Every empty chair she used to occupy, every ghost of her laugh echoing down the halls—it all clawed at him.

And yet, he said nothing.

Until Sirius—who’d had quite enough—shoved him up the Astronomy Tower steps one evening, locked the door behind him with a muttered, “For Merlin’s sake, fix it,” and vanished.

She was there.

Of course she was.

The stars tangled in her hair, her arms wrapped around her knees, staring out at the frost-glittered grounds below. She didn’t look up when he entered.

“I thought you’d given up,” she said softly.

He stepped closer. “Never. Not on you.”

She still wouldn’t look at him. “Then why did you keep leaving?”

Harry’s voice cracked. “Because I didn’t think I deserved you.”

Her breath caught.

“Because I was terrified that the second I touched something good, it would disappear. Like everything else.”

She turned then. Slowly. Her eyes—shining, tired, beautiful.

“And what changed?”

He stepped forward, close enough to brush her cheek with his breath.

“You didn’t disappear,” he whispered. “You stayed. Even when I didn’t deserve it. Even when I was a coward.”

A beat passed.

Then another.

And then—quietly, trembling—he dropped to his knees before her.

“I love you.”

She stared.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out another charm for the bracelet.

A star.

“Every time I lost my way, I followed you,” he murmured. “You were the light.”

Her lips parted. Her heart pounded.

He took her hand. “Let me try. Let me show you that I can be soft. That I can be better. That I can love you the way you deserve—without fear, without running.”

The silence cracked wide open.

And she kissed him.

Not in a storm of fire—but in a hush of stars. Slow. Gentle. Forgiving.

Her fingers trembled against his jaw.

“I love you,” she breathed back. “I think I always did.”

── .✦

Years later, Harry would still remember that night.

The soft rustle of her laughter, the way her fingers laced through his. The first time he felt like the world had stopped spinning just so they could finally begin.

They’d return to Grimmauld Place, hand in hand.

She’d read to him by the fireplace.

He’d cook (badly) and she’d pretend to love it.

Sirius would roll his eyes and tell Remus that finally, the idiots had figured it out.

And Harry—

Harry would never forget what she said to him one night, curled against his chest beneath a sea of blankets.

“You don’t have to fight for me anymore,” she whispered.

And he’d kiss the top of her head and murmur,

“No. But I’ll love you like I still have to.”

Grimmauld Place, the night they moved in.

The house was quiet. For once. Sirius and Remus had left for an Order errand, something vague and dangerous-sounding that neither Harry nor she had pressed too hard about. The silence that followed their departure was warm—not heavy. Not haunted. Just theirs.

And then Harry walked out of the kitchen with two mugs of tea—shirtless.

Shirtless.

With the waistband of his grey sweatpants slung far too low on his hips, hair still damp from a rushed shower.

She was curled up on the sofa, blanket around her legs and a book balanced lazily in her lap, but when she looked up and saw him standing there, her Harry, in their house—something shifted.

She grinned. “You’re not even trying to be subtle, are you?”

Harry raised a brow and handed her the mug. “Subtle?”

She gestured lazily to his very bare chest. “You’re practically begging to be devoured.”

His smirk curled up devilishly. “You offering?”

She blinked. “Oh, I’m more than offering.”

And just like that—air crackled.

Harry set his mug down slowly. Purposefully. Then crawled onto the couch, straddling her legs with a wicked look in his eye. “You think I planned this? That I came out here thinking, ‘Let’s seduce her tonight’?”

She leaned back, smirking. “Did you?”

“No,” he murmured, mouth brushing her jaw, “but now that we’re here... I’m thinking about a lot of things.”

His lips were hot as they kissed down her neck, teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp. He chuckled against her skin.

“Sensitive, aren’t we?”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

So he did.

── .✦

They kissed like the air between them had finally caught fire. Slow at first, teasing, his tongue coaxing hers into a rhythm that made her toes curl under the blanket. His hands found her thighs, pushing the fabric aside, letting his fingers trail up and up until they ghosted over the soft cotton between her legs.

“You’re already wet,” he whispered against her lips, voice low and wrecked. “Is this all for me?”

“All of it,” she breathed. “Always for you.”

He groaned, deep and desperate, and kissed her again before sliding down the couch and settling between her legs.

“Let me taste you.”

She nodded, eyes wide, heart racing.

He tugged her panties off slowly, dragging the damp fabric down her legs like it was a gift he’d been aching to unwrap. And then he licked a stripe up her slit—slow, reverent—before moaning like he’d been starving for her.

“Fuck, sweetheart… you taste so good.”

His tongue was sinful. Deliberate. He licked, sucked, and circled her clit with slow precision, using his fingers to tease her open. She arched, hips rocking toward his mouth, gasping his name.

“Harry—oh, God—”

“That’s it, baby,” he murmured, voice thick, lips wet. “Let me hear you. Let me make you come.”

He slipped a finger inside her. Then another. Curling them just right while his tongue stayed locked on her clit, flicking harder, faster.

She cried out—sharp, broken—and came with a full-body tremble, hand tangled in his hair.

But he wasn’t done.

He kissed his way up her body, letting her feel every inch of his weight as he pressed her into the couch. Her fingers found the waistband of his pants and shoved them down, gasping when his cock sprang free, hot and heavy against her thigh.

She flipped them suddenly, pushing him back onto the cushions.

“My turn.”

He stared up at her, dazed. “Are you—”

But she was already sinking down between his legs, tongue darting out to lick the tip of his cock. He groaned, head tipping back, one hand gripping the couch while the other threaded into her hair.

“Shit—fuck, baby…”

She took him deep, slow at first, letting her tongue swirl as she hollowed her cheeks, moaning around him. He bucked instinctively, hips twitching, then stilled.

“Merlin, you’re gonna ruin me.”

She looked up at him with tear-filled eyes, mouth full of him, and smiled.

That did it.

He pulled her up, breathless. “I need to be inside you.”

“Then take me.”

And he did.

── .✦

He lined himself up and pushed in slowly—so slowly—watching her eyes flutter shut, her mouth fall open in a silent moan.

“Fucking hell,” he whispered, burying himself to the hilt. “You feel perfect. So fucking tight, sweetheart…”

She gasped, clinging to his shoulders. “Move, Harry, please—”

He pulled out almost completely, then thrust back in hard. She cried out.

And he talked her through every second.

“Just like that.” “Taking me so well.” “You were made for me, weren’t you?” “Look at me. I want to see your face when you fall apart.”

Their rhythm built—slow and deep, then faster, harder. Their bodies tangled, sweat-slicked and desperate, Harry’s name falling from her lips like a prayer.

He kissed her through her next orgasm—held her as she shook around him, tightening impossibly—and then buried his face in her neck as he followed, moaning into her skin.

They collapsed in a tangle of limbs and breath and love.

── .✦

Later, when the sweat cooled and the stars were peeking through the curtains, he pulled the blanket over them and kissed her temple.

“You okay?”

She smiled sleepily. “I’m perfect.”

He looked down at her, wonder in his eyes.

“We live here now,” he whispered.

“We love here now,” she corrected.

And Harry Potter—her best friend, her storm, her home—held her tighter and said,

“Only you. Always you.”

── .✦

The first morning in their home.

The sunlight spilled in warm and golden. It bathed their skin in honey, lit her collarbones, kissed the curve of her thigh where Harry’s hand had curled all night long.

He was awake before her.

Still naked, hair a disaster, the sheet barely covering his lower half, and his eyes were locked on her. Soft. Mesmerized.

She stirred, blinking against the morning light.

“Harry?” her voice was hoarse, sleep-heavy.

He smiled. “Morning, sweetheart.”

“Mmm… I’m sore.” She winced as she stretched, then gasped when she felt it—the dull ache of being loved properly.

Harry leaned over, kissing her bare shoulder. “Good sore?”

She glanced at him and raised a brow. “Smug much?”

He kissed her again. “You were perfect. You always are.”

Her fingers found his curls and tugged him in. “Then do something perfect again, Potter.”

He smirked—slow, sinful—and slid the sheet down, exposing her breasts to the cool morning air.

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

── .✦

It wasn’t fast this time.

It was slow.

He worshipped her.

Kissed his way down her body like every inch of her was sacred. Bit at her hips. Licked at her inner thighs. Suckled her clit with aching tenderness that turned quickly filthy, his tongue moving in perfect circles while his fingers dipped into her soaked heat.

She gasped, cried out, her hand over her mouth to keep quiet—but he pulled it away.

“Don’t,” he whispered, voice dark. “Let them hear. Let the whole bloody house know who you belong to.”

She came with a strangled moan.

But he didn’t stop.

He flipped her over and took her from behind, her chest pressed to their pillows while his hands gripped her hips, fucking her slow and deep.

“You feel that?” he panted, voice rough. “That’s mine. All of this—yours and mine.”

She clawed at the sheets. “Yes, Harry, oh fuck—”

He reached around to rub her clit in fast circles, hips slamming into her harder now, all rhythm lost in raw need.

“Come on, baby,” he whispered. “Come for me again. Let me feel you fall apart.”

And she did. Shaking. Crying his name.

He followed a second later with a broken, “Fuck—yes—”, spilling inside her as he buried himself one last time.

── .✦

Later, when they finally dragged themselves to the bathroom, still shaky-legged and flushed, she tried to brush her teeth.

Tried.

Harry stood behind her in nothing but boxers, arms wrapped around her waist, his face in her neck.

“Stop,” she giggled through a mouth full of toothpaste. “Let me brush.”

“I like watching you,” he said, voice gravelly. “You’re too pretty to ignore.”

“You’re a menace.”

“I’m your menace.”

She spat, wiped her mouth, and turned around to face him—only to find herself lifted onto the sink, Harry between her legs again.

“Again?” she laughed, arms around his neck.

He kissed her, slow and deep. “Always.”

── .✦

Bonus :

Grimmauld Place, still warm from last night’s sins.

The kitchen smelled like toast. And sin. Mostly sin.

She was perched on the counter in one of Harry’s oversized T-shirts, her legs swinging lazily while Harry hovered at the stove, flipping eggs with the focus of a man who was absolutely trying to avoid a conversation.

Not with her.

No, she was grinning like the cat who’d eaten the canary. It was the other two occupants of the house they were both actively ignoring.

Because Sirius and Remus were seated at the kitchen table. And they were smirking.

“Well,” Sirius said, dramatically stirring his tea, “someone had a very active morning.”

Harry’s shoulders tensed. “Do we need to do this?”

Remus tried to keep a straight face. Failed. “You moaned her name like it was your Patronus.”

“Loudly,” Sirius added. “Repeatedly.”

“Honestly, I thought it was a murder.”

“A very sexy murder.”

Harry turned around slowly, face beet red, spatula still in hand. “You two have no boundaries.”

Remus lifted his mug. “We raised you. There’s nothing left to protect.”

Sirius leaned forward, chin in hand. “Though I have to say, I’m deeply offended you didn’t use a Silencing Charm. I live here, Harry. I live here.”

Harry turned to her, horrified. “Why didn’t we use a—”

She just beamed. “Because I like making you moan.”

Sirius choked on his tea. Remus actually blushed.

Harry groaned and buried his face in the kitchen towel. “I’m moving out.”

“You just moved in,” Sirius grinned. “And now you’ve christened the whole damn house.”

Remus chuckled. “Honestly, we’re just happy for you both.”

Sirius grinned, eyes sparkling. “Disgusted. Traumatized. But happy.”

Harry handed her a plate, still scarlet. “You’re evil.”

She kissed his cheek sweetly. “You moaned my name first, Potter.”

Sirius and Remus both groaned.

Harry hid his face in her neck.

The kitchen was filled with laughter, toast, and a love that was far too loud to be ashamed of.

[musette22]

One common thing people who support Steve's endgame ending claim is that Steve was always miserable in the future. He never adjusted or felt at home in the future, so of course when he got the chance to go back to the past he took it.

However the only proof of this is at the start of catws (and that deleted avengers scene). Yes he was feeling lost and adrift but he didn't stay that way. He made friends with Sam and Natasha and Wanda and Thor and he got Bucky back. He found a purpose and became confident in who he was and what he believed in. Steve may have moments of feeling sad, but if you think he stayed that way for 12+ years you're not giving him enough credit.

And the claim that he was always miserable isn't true either. He joked with his friends on several occasions, and I mentioned how much better he was when he became nomad. And sorry to steggy or staron shippers, but Bucky made Steve happier than anyone else did. Look at the museum footage of them, or them looking at each other in infinity war. He was happy without Peggy.

Also I think fans forget the scene in catws where Sam asks him if he misses the past. And what does Steve say in response? He lists things he likes about the future and makes a point of not romanticising the past. It's especially important that he was talking to a black man while saying this. We rightly talk about how awful Bucky would feel about Steve leaving to live a life without him, but also imagine being Sam and hearing that your friend wants to go life in a time when someone like you had less rights than you do now.

And you know the line about shared life experience? It applies to Bucky of course but in endgame you could also apply it in a non romantic way. Because you say Steve was out of place in the future? Well in endgame he was surrounded by people in the same situation. Countless people were forced to adjust to a time they didn't know. Steve is uniquely qualified to bond with these people. And choosing to go back to the past puts him right back where he was when he first went to the future. He again has to adjust to a time he's not familiar with.

Funny how in order to justify his ending you have to ignore what his story has previously shown us.

THANK YOU! This is so very true, all of it. Completely agree, you make so many excellent points.

Of course Steve felt lost and adrift at first: he was. He was all alone in a foreign time, he lost everyone, he had ptsd because of the war he fought in and everything that had happened to him etc. etc. It would've been strange if he hadn't been depressed in those first years.

But you're right, he was already making significant steps towards being more settled in the new century by the time Bucky returned, and then when he did, I would argue he became a sort of anchor for Steve in the new time. And from that moment on, Steve really started to belong, and realize that he didn't want to go back, but forward. Like, Nomad Steve was NOT dreaming about going back to the 40s, there is no way. That man belonged right where he was, with Bucky by his side, and he knew it.

Home. And he did not mean bloody 1945.

(Gif credit @/dailystevegifs from this gifset)

Also, can I just say that Steve never seemed particularly happy or settled in the 30s/40s? Yes, he had his mother and he had Bucky, and yes, it was "his" time and Brooklyn and I'm sure he came to miss it once he couldn't go back to it anymore, but he was often sick and he was poor and he was frustrated with the world around him and his own body's limitations, and he always wanted sometimes else, something more.

And sure, one could argue that he finally found his calling once he was given the serum and became Cap (and got a healthy body that fit his spirit), but we know he was still miserable at first, as a dancing monkey. I do think the period of time after he'd rescued Bucky, when the Howling Commandos worked closely together for a few years, must've been a special time for Steve, which he will have missed later on for sure. But it was still wartime. Wartime, and being in a war zone, is miserable, and far from a dream life for Steve. So like... what exactly was he supposedly longing for in the past so much that it would've been impossible for him to ever settle in the present? The thing he most clearly missed from his past was Bucky, and he got him back.

So yeah, I think Steve was just fine where he was eventually, and he would have never, ever thrown everything he’d built, the life that had become his, and everyone he'd come to care about and who cared about him, casually out of the window in order to go back to a past he never gave any indication of actively wanting to go back to.

Funny how in order to justify his ending you have to ignore what his story previously showed us.

Exactly that. That's precisely what Endgame did: it ignored Steve's previous story and his character development over several movies in order to shoehorn in the heteronormative ending the studio execs apparently demanded. Spineless, inane bullshit, if you ask me.

[beomev]

𝗳𝗶𝗿𝘀𝘁 𝗯𝗶𝗿𝘁𝗵𝗱𝗮𝘆, lee seokmin

석민────𝗂'𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗵𝗮𝗽𝗽𝘆 𝘃𝗶𝗿𝘂𝘀

𝘀𝗲𝗼𝗸𝗺𝗶𝗻 x reader ⠀⠀⠀⠀─── ⠀⠀⠀⠀𝘄𝗰 0.7k ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀𝗴𝗲𝗻𝗿𝗲 fluff, established relationship ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀𝗶𝗻𝗰𝗹𝘂𝗱𝗲𝘀 nicknames, reader is called 'love', self indulgent, subtle mentions of parental neglect and personal struggle, reader is in their mid twenties, reader has a job, mentions of food ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 happy virus by dk ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲𝘀 just a short little self indulgent drabble ⠀⠀⠀⠀𓂋 ⠀⠀⠀⠀❛ 𝗮𝗿𝗰𝗵𝗶𝘃𝗲

You were never the kind of person to go all out for birthdays, hell, even celebrate them. It wasn’t a tradition your family abided by, so you grew up considering them as normal days, nothing too special. 

You’d always feel envious, though, looking at your friends’ extravagant birthday parties — their fancy clothes, huge hall decorated with every corner, and overflowing with people and their chatter. You’ve always wished you had a party, not anything too special – just a small cake with a candle, that was more than enough.

You groaned as you looked past the small digital clock on your table – 11:49 pm. It was just horrible how they made you work overtime, and a day before your birthday. Well, a few hours.

You stand upright, stretching your hands and forcibly yawning. You look around to see nothing but the dim lights – the room was empty. It was only you, only the clicks of your keyboard were heard. Additionally, a few yawns and sighs here and there. You grab your bag after grabbing your coat, which was hanging on your seat. You make your way towards the exit, scanning your ID on the way out.

“Overtime again, miss?” you hear the security guard speak.

“You know it,” you chuckle in response as you make your way towards the front gate.

You hear your phone chime as you leave the area. 

“Sorry, love, I can’t pick you up today. My car broke down :(“ you read.

You reply, assuring him that you had already gotten on the bus. You lied. You were still about 7 minutes away from the bus stop.

After around 15 cold minutes, you get on the bus that had arrived and take a seat in the back. You noticed that the bus was rather empty. Well, you’d assume it to be at midnight. You rest your head on the window, glancing at the changing scenery as the pace of the vehicle changes. You suddenly feel at peace as the rain slowly drenches the houses outside.

You loved the rain. You loved to fall asleep to the sweet lullaby of the rain. The rain kept you company when no one else did; it felt more like a sense of security to you. Maybe it was because of how it remained a barrier, a wall between you and your struggles, any pain you felt.

You get off the bus as you see familiar sights, thanking the driver on your way out. You walk towards your appointment, feeling relieved to have survived yet another day. 

You make your way towards the front door, shoving your keys into the lock with one hand as you stumble trying to take off your shoes with the other.

Pop!

You almost flinch at the sudden noise and action as if an intruder had taken control of your now not-so-calm home.

“Seokmin..?” you gasp as you eye the confetti all over your clothes. “What is this..?”

“Oh! I wanted to celebrate your birthday with you,” he replies, flustered as he rubs his nape. “Look! I’ve got a cake – your favourite too!” he rushed as he pushes you back, leading you to the birthday set up he had made himself.

Colourful streamers, balloons with confetti inside, a huge “Happy 26th Birthday!” sign, and a cake.

A red velvet one, your favourite.

You kneel in front of the table with your cake on show and pat the space next to you. Seokmin takes it as a sign and takes a seat next to you. He opens the packet of candles and positions them on the cake, trying not to ruin the writing. 

“I’ll be right back,” he chimes as he practically sprints to grab the lighter.

He lights the candle and keeps a knife on the table.

“Make sure to make a wish!” you nod. After you do, you blow out the candles.

“What did you wish for?” he asks as he provides you with his undivided attention.

“I can’t tell you! Or else, it won’t come true,” you tease.

“I can make it come true!” he sulks as he scoots closer to you.

“No, you can’t!”

You’re grateful to say the least. Your first birthday party with decorations, cake, and the idiot you love.

ㅤ⠀ㅤ ིྀㅤtaglist: @daydreamnet @blossomnet @k-films

ㅤ⠀ㅤㅤ⠀ㅤㅤ⠀ㅤ﹔℘๋࣭ ⭑ send an ask or just comment to get added

[hischiershoe]

ooooo 02. "actually, we're leaving early, we have something to get to." "no we don't- oh, okay fine i'll call you guys later." + clayton keller please 💗

tysm for sending in!! i’m a little nervous for this since i’ve never written for him before but i hope you like it <3

warnings: i changed the prompt up a teeny bit and just a bit of jealousy but that’s it!!

Clayton was trying to not to let it get to him. Really, he was, but the longer he had to watch your new coworker inch closer and closer to you until he couldn’t even see space between you, the more frustrated he got. Of course he trusted you and he knew you would never knowingly put him in the position he’s in now, but he also knew you had a habit of mistaking blatant flirting for friendliness. It was something he never faulted you for, he never would, and he tried to keep his cool when it came up.

However, it was only a matter of time until his resolve had dissolved entirely.

When you walked into the bar with Clayton and a few of his teammates, you hadn’t expected to run into a few of your coworkers. The two of you had gone to the bar a dozen times before and you’d never seen anyone you knew, so of course you jumped at the opportunity to briefly infiltrate their group before you went back to your boyfriend. You had no intention of spending too much time with them because while you did like the ones who were there, you already spent 40 hours a week with them and you would much rather be with Clayton.

“You should come out with us more often,” Cameron, one of your newer coworkers, suggests as he leans against the table and looks down at you with a friendly smile.

“Maybe,” You lightly chuckle, your gaze sliding across the sea of people until you find Clayton.

He’s already looking at you, though you know he probably hasn’t looked away from you since you broke away from him, and he looks… Not mad, necessarily, but he doesn’t look happy, either. The expression etched on his face is something you rarely saw, but it made heat crawl up your spine and to your cheeks all the same. You only break away from his stare when he starts walking towards you, and you shift your focus back the people in front of you.

“At least hang out with us now,” Cameron gleefully calls out, “You’re already here, may as well stay a while.”

“Actually,” Clayton’s voice smothers your own, placing a protective hand on your hip and tugging you into his side, “We’re actually leaving. We’ve got somewhere else to be.”

“What? No we don’t—,” You feel him gently pull on your body and your feet are moving away from your coworkers, “Okay, well, I’ll see you guys at work!”

Clayton’s hand moves from your hip to grasp your hand in his own as he guides you out of the bar, not even sparing a fleeting look in the direction of his teammates. Though you do, and you don’t miss the amused and smug looks a few of them toss in your direction. You wordlessly follow him out to his car, only casting a curious glance at him when he holds the passenger door open for you. He slips into the drivers seat and leans over the center console to place a small kiss to your lips before he’s reversing out of the parking spot.

“So,” You draw out, lip pulled between your teeth and eyes trained on Clayton’s face, “What was that about?”

“What was what about,” He mumbles, though you both know he’s playing dumb.

“We weren’t even there for thirty minutes,” You point out, “Why didn’t we just go back to the guys?”

Clayton takes a deep breath before his focus briefly shifts towards you, “Didn’t want to have to look at whatever-his-name-is all night, or him to look at you.”

“Who,” Your brows furrow in confusion, your hand moving to grasp his that was placed on your thigh, “Cameron? Why would he look at me?”

“He was flirting with you the whole time you were over there,” He groans, like speaking the words make him physically nauseous, “Even Kess said something about it. Didn’t like it.”

You purse your lips as you think about what to say next because you didn’t think he was flirting, but you’d never been the best at picking up on things like that. Even when you had first met Clayton, he had to drop the act of subtly and be upfront with how he liked you because you always mistook him for just being friendly.

“Well,” You start, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze, “Even if he was, it doesn’t matter to me. I’ve already got the guy I want and I don’t intend on getting rid of him anytime soon, even if he gets a little jealous every once in a while.”

“I was not jealous.”

[moonlit-imagines]

Headcanons for being on the Team and dating Wally

Wally West x reader

warnings:

a/n: this reminded me of the fic of wally dating a civilian and i totally forgot to follow up on that!! since it was just one scenario i thought i'd add it to the whole hc set!! and im so good fox i hope u are too!!! (i miss yj) also i assigned reader a random JL mentor whoop whoop (tried to incorporate training into this as best as i could but if you want more the training scenario would be great for a gif imagine!!)

prompt: anonymous: "Hiii dear! How are you? I saw your requests are open so I'd like to ask about Wally West x gn!reader training together headcanons (they are both in the team). Take care and thank you! - 🦊 anon"

wally and you had been familiar with each ofther for a good couple of years, but most interactions had been very formal before “the day”

you were black canary’s protege, partner, whatever you’d call it—just not sidekick

dinah and you carried yourselves with a lot of care to balance out ollie and roy’s more uh…chaotic sides, but you were still fun when you wanted to be

and that pressure really released when you joined the team

“you seem…happier. like this is what you’d been needing all along” -dinah

“i am! i think that being around people my age who are like me is what’s been missing” -you

“people like…wally?” -dinah, immediately clocking your feelings

“ugh! why do you have to be so good at that?” -you

“im a licensed therapist, it’s just apart of the job. don’t worry, it stays between us” -dinah

“when did this become a therapy session?” -you

“impromptu. just wanted to check in” -dinah

“…i appreciate it” -you

you and wally were getting on great, actually

despite his ill manners and his tendency to run circles around you without realizing it, you’d found him quite intriguing

and in training, you wiped the floor with him

“no fair! your mentor is our trainer!” -wally “she probably showed you a bunch of secret moves to take us all down”

“oh, please. you were just distracted…i think its time to go again” -you, winking

wally scrambled to his feet to spar once more

“this is pathetic, wally’s gonna wear himself out if he doesn’t just ask y/n out soon” -dick

“i don’t know, he seems…up to it?” -conner

“i think he just likes getting pushed around” -dick

“oh, that’s not—nevermind” -artemis

missions were a different story. i mean, at first you were all business, but kaldur, dick, wally, m’gann, artemis, and conner (yes the whole darn crew) just brought something out in you

your powers were seismic, they paired well with dinah and her sonic screams—but a new team meant a delicate hand

like, the first time you caused a small seismic event you knocked wally straight down on his face

“do i still look handsome?” -wally, with grass on his teeth

“i am soooo sorry” -you

“it’s okay. you still look showstopping even when i have dirt in my eyes” -wally

“i can’t bare to watch this anymore” -artemis

“well if you talk to y/n, i’ll talk to wally” -dick

“deal” -artemis

don’t get me wrong, dinah was grilling you about not doing anything concrete about wally, but being a kid hero was very complicated

“it’s just been busy, you know? i’ve been finding my footing here and focusing on the work rather than…” -you

“rather than your personal life? y/n, i know just as well how much this job takes and the balance it requires, but you’re allowed to have a personal life. and you’re still a kid, it’s important that you can still act like it. when i met ollie, it wasn’t exactly a walk in the park—we worried about each other and we got busy but we made it work. you can, too” -dinah

“i know. i know. i’m just handling the fallout with roy now, too. i’ve gotten ahold of him a few times and he’s just so stubborn. the team even found him and tried to get him on board but he’s not budging” -you

“roy isn’t your responsibility, y/n. if he comes around, great. if he doesn’t, you tried. right now i need you to focus on what’s best for you” -dinah

and she was right

and after another training day, she paired you and wally up again

maybe dinah was a sucker for good love stories who knows

but what better way to flirt with the guy you like than to knock him on his back over and over

“have you talked to y/n yet?” -dick

“sort of, but apparently dinah got to them first” -artemis, chuckling as wally got knocked down yet again

“what are they trying to do, beat him into submission?” -robin, cackling

“that’s…one way to get a guy?” -m’gann

once the sparring session was over, wally was quick to run after you to praise your moves

“babe, i don’t think these bruises are ever gonna go away” -wally “something to remember you by, of course”

“i do my best” -you

“if we were allowed to use our powers in training maybe i’d stand a chance” -wally

“against earthquakes? i don’t think so!” -you, shoving him playfully

“hey hey! training’s over, no more hitting me!” -wally

next time you tried to make contact he sped around you and dipped you so low you thought your head was about to touch the floor (it wasn’t you just felt like you could float awayyy)

your fingers were entwined with his and his arm supported your back as you leaned back, you looked up at his green eyes and let out a small breath

“gotcha” -wally

“and now what?” -you

“well, i was thinking about kissing you, but i feel like a date would be the better first move” -wally

and he delivered on that (finally), barry gave him some tips on how to be a nice date

and so did iris

which ended in some side eyes since they didn’t agree on everything said

“i think im gonna stick with iris on this one. us speedsters dont always have the best judgment” -wally “plus, she’s a west—and west is the best”

*eye rolls*

you and wally’s date went as well as a date with two metahumans could go

slippage of powers (wally bouncing his leg at record speed, you accidentally causing a low seismic event, him eating too fast, the whole table shaking until your water spilled)

you wondered if anything similar ever happened to dinah or barry

but by the end of the night you’d both cooled off a bit and as wally took you home (carried you at super speed) you managed to share a very quick and awkward first kiss

his cheeks were VERY red. a few shade off from his hair

“am i vibrating or are you?” -wally, realizing your powers were just a tad similar

“i have no idea. both?” -you

“makes sense” -wally

after that date you guys pretty much agreed you were dating

and your mentors were sooo ecstatic

dinah because she wanted you to at least try to be normal, barry because wally was being really obnoxious and he thought you’d straighten him out

little did barry know you liked wally for how obnoxious he was

missions became far more bearable with him at your side

and maybe, definitely, kaldur had to keep wally on task when you were on missions but what can he say! you were his one and only <3

“i can’t believe it took him that long, he’s like, the most impatient guy on the planet” -artemis

“i think he just liked the rush” -you

“you gonna start taking it easy on him during training now?” -artemis

“absolutely not, gotta show him who’s in charge” -you

wally would pout if dinah paired you up with someone else during training

once she paired you with conner and wally had a whole fit about it and requested to fight conner next (he kept winking at you while he was sparring and kept ending up on the floor)

(you were a bit embarrassed)

dinah and you would go to coffee shops with ollie in tow to gossip about the flash family

and wally would get some goid gossip about the arrow fam as well lol

when roy found out you and wally were dating he went big brother on you

“that kid is obnoxious and only after one thing. i don’t think he’s the right one for you. you should just end it now to spare any more pain or heartbreak” -roy

“at least wally’s only concern isn’t to join the justice league, roy. i’ve seen you like twice in the past six months, i don’t think you have much of a say in my love life right now” -you

“ugh! next time i see that kid, i’m shooting him” -roy

“what?! that’s like, really harsh, roy. can you tone it down to a stern talking to or something, jesus” -you

“…bust his kneecaps?” -roy

“can’t tell if that’s better or worse. actually, yeah i can. it’s worse. his whole hero career is running. what has gotten into you?” -you

wally was a little scared of roy after you told him all of this

he was actually very scared of roy after this he just pretended he wasn’t

“dude, he’s probably just joking. im fine, really! roy’s a friend, he’d never hurt me” -wally, sweating intensely

wally hid behind you next time he saw roy

wally and you spent a lot of hours trying to test combos with your powers combined

it tested your limits, helped you discover new things you could do with your powers

like blow up rocks from long distances

and shift the ground to give wally a better path upwards

he was sooo psyched and super proud of you

“babe, that was insane. what else can you do?” -wally

“didn’t even know i could do that” -you

your BIGGEST hype man right here he loveeeess seeing you kick ass

ESPECIALLY when its a big baddie

ollie funded your junior prom excursion

“you deserve the most perfect [suit/dress] you can find, you deserve a limo ride, you deserve the best flowers money can buy—” -ollie

“ollie, this is a prom at a public school. i think all of that’s gonna make me stand out” -you

“that’s the point!” -ollie

he wouldn’t budge

“roy’s not gonna be here, right?” -wally, pulling om his shirt collar

“let it go, wally” -you

wally and you honestly had a great night—he slowed down for once and you didn’t cause any terrestrial tremors

so perfect night!

you danced, you took awesome pictures, you couldn’t wait to brag to the team about your normal kid night

until you got called in for a mission </3

“wouldn’t be a date night without a supervillain killing the mood” -wally

“my mood’s not killed yet” -you, kissing wally on the cheek

wally was ready to fight in your honor (despite you also being there)

and youuuu were fuming

especially after having to control your powers all night, you were ready to let loose

you opened up a crater so big this guy couldn’t escape if you gave him a week’s headstart

“babe, you rock my world. get it?” -wally, going in for a kiss

you almost pushed him away the pun was so bad!!!

double dates with m’gann and conner could get interesting

“so is canary telling you everything i tell her in our sessions?” -conner

“conner, stop being so paranoid!” -m’gann

“nope! believe it or not, dinah’s actually a professional who doesn’t run to her protege to gossip about her clients. especially when that protege is friends with the client” -you

“heyyy, let’s all cool down here. we’re having a good time as friends, not talking about work right now” -wally, always good at de-escalating any situation you were involved in when it was starting to turn on the heat

you appreciated it as you could get a little ill tempered with all the pressure on you to perform satisfactory to canary and batman

you couldn’t tell who was harder to please in this situation, but it seemed like dinah was proud of you for reasons beside kicking ass on this not-so-covert team

“you guys aren’t blowing missions on purpose to try to gain screentime and force yourself out of the ‘covert’ rule, are you?” -dinah

“hate to break this to you dinah, but we are that bad at the quick and quiet route. someone always messes it up for everyone” -you

“you caused an earthquake in a small city far from any tectonic plates on your last mission” -dinah

“didn’t say i was perfect, did i?” -you

wally was never mad when you made the wrong move unless it puts you in immediate danger

like once you purposely split the ground in an attempt to flee a most likely fatal blow and he thought you would fall into like. lava or something he was freaking out

“wally i only dropped like twenty feet, im fine” -you

“twenty feet?! you could have broken a leg or something!!” -wally

“i don’t need you telling me the risks, i’ve been at this a lot longer than you!” -you

but you always made up

(wally couldn’t go more than 5 minutes being mad at you)

you were getting cheek kisses and apologies before you knew it

and honestly, you could get on him for dumb stuff about a million times more but you dont so he knows better

and through your teenage years you supported each other in every aspect—mask or no mask

taglist: @summersimmerus // @azazel-nyx // @ravenstrueluv // @captainshazamerica // @deanzboyfriend // @mr-mxyzptlk-1940 // @stilestotherescue //