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fairytales-and-folklore · 2 months ago

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What To Do When Your Emotionally Constipated Werewolf Boyfriend Gets Cursed By A Witch: A Guide

Teen Wolf » Sterek

Title: What To Do When Your Emotionally Constipated Werewolf Boyfriend Gets Cursed By A Witch: A Guide

Author: fairytalesandfolklore

Fandom: Teen Wolf (Masterlist)

Relationship: Derek Hale x Stiles Stilinski

AO3 Rating: Teen & Up (a complete collection of author's notes, inspiration credits, content warnings and tags can be found on AO3)

Summary: Derek gets cursed by a coven of witches with an inability to lie and a compulsion to blurt out whatever he's thinking and feeling at any given moment. The ironic thing is, everything he says is incredibly nice, heartfelt, and affectionate, leaving his packmates wondering: who are you and what have you done with our emotionally constipated surly alpha?

"Hey, maybe true love's kiss will break your curse," Stiles jokes one night when they're all crowded around the dinner table sharing Italian takeaway. Derek practically shoves his entire fist into his mouth to stop himself from blurting out, maybe you should give it a try. Luckily, Stiles is too busy screeching about burning his tongue on a scalding mouthful of mozzarella to notice.

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Derek heaves a long-suffering sigh as he approaches the clearing along the mountainside, home to one of the most powerful covens Beacon Hills has ever seen, swathed in protection spells so thick it's a wonder he'd been able to track them down at all. He hopes like hell they'll be able to fix this, because otherwise, he is so, so screwed.

Mother.

Fucking.

Witches.

• • •

It starts at a pack meeting late one night in mid-October, all twelve of them crowded around the living room of the reconstructed Hale house in varying states of worry and boredom, half-empty pizza boxes scattered across coffee tables and couch cushions, trying to figure out how to solve the recent problem of witches in Beacon Hills.

According to Derek, a powerful coven has encroached upon their territory, stirring up mayhem all over town — people disappearing and reappearing at random, animals transfigured into objects and vice versa (that was a wild day at the cat café), townsfolk spontaneously sprouting mythical appendages (unicorn horns, fairy wings, mermaid scales, the works) and not taking any notice until they pass by a shop window and everyone rushes out to compliment them on their SFX skills, and, of course, the occasional body-swap. All in all, it's been relatively harmless, more like practical jokes in the spirit of the season than anything truly nefarious, but Scott figures it's best they put a stop to it before someone gets hurt.

Derek and Scott had been reluctant when Stiles first pitched the idea of a co-alpha blended pack dynamic, but so far, it's been working out surprisingly well. They've been seeing eye to eye on things a lot more lately, the pack growing stronger, learning to trust and rely on one another, now that they're one united front. And on the days where they clash, Stiles, self-appointed emissary, is quick to jump in and mediate. Derek had always assumed that Stiles would be biased and favor Scott, but he's actually quite good at balancing between the two of them, seeing the merit of both of their sides, translating miscommunications in a way both Derek and Scott can understand.

Today, however, is not one of those days. Scott's arguing for one plan of attack, Derek for another — one of them says something monumentally stupid just to bruise the other's ego, and just like that, all hell breaks loose, tempers flaring, insults flying. Stiles, bless him, makes a valiant attempt to intervene, but he's so overwhelmed by the looming threat of mercurial magic-wielders that he ends up interjecting his own panic into the situation, and suddenly it's the lacrosse locker room all over again, pacing back and forth until he's just an anxiety-ridden blur, freaking out over what horrible thing the witches might be planning.

"The full moon falls on Halloween this year, and a whole-ass coven of powerful witches just happens to show up in Beacon Hills?" he frets, words tumbling out of his mouth so fast it's a wonder he doesn't run out of breath. "You can't tell me that's just a coincidence. What if they're planning some kind of ritualistic sacrifice?"

"Stiles, I highly doubt that could happen twice in the same—" Allison interjects in an attempt to soothe his nerves, but Stiles just barrels on like he hadn't heard her.

"I've seen Hocus Pocus! I know what they're after!" he practically shouts. "It's the virgin thing all over again, and in case it isn't obvious, I still haven't fixed that particular problem. Seriously, how many times is my life going to become a fuck or die trope?"

Derek blinks a couple of times, lips parting slightly as he watches Stiles's frantic pacing come to a sudden halt.

"That settles it," Stiles declares with a decisive nod. "I need to have sex. Right now. Someone needs to sex me right fucking now."

There's a scuffle of laughter from the far side of the room, and then Erica's shouting, "Derek will do it!" at the same time Jackson snickers, "Derek, that's your cue."

Derek closes his eyes and lets out a weary sigh. Of course they'd jump all over that. Of course. Because somehow, over the span of the past couple of years, nearly everyone in the pack has gotten it into their heads that Stiles and Derek have got a thing for each other, and apparently, they're feeling particularly cocky today.

He supposes he should be used to it by now. Derek has lost count of the amount of times he's caught them all muttering things like Jesus Christ, just fuck each other already and get a goddamn room under their breath every time the two of them start going at it, throwing empty threats and half-hearted insults at each other in the weirdest brand of flirting anyone has ever seen, or the way they all make gagging noises claiming they're choking on the thick layer of sexual tension permeating the air every time Stiles and Derek so much as glance in each other's direction.

Or the way Erica had full-on cackled that one time she'd caught Derek burying his face into a pillow that Stiles had spent the entire pack meeting holding, fidgeting with it until he'd unraveled the threading in one of the corners.

It's fine, Derek thinks. He's got a sewing kit around here somewhere, he can mend it later. He is a little concerned, though. He thinks maybe Stiles had just been nervous about the topics addressed during the meeting, scared for his father's safety at the idea of yet another potential threat, but he doesn't smell any hint of fear on the fabric. It just smells good. Like Stiles. Like pack. Like home.

And— there's a hint of something else there too, something that Derek can't quite place, but it's making his heart do this funny flipping thing inside his chest.

"Oh my god, you guys are so stupid for each other, it's sickening," Erica says, but her tone is playful, almost fond.

"What?" Derek says distractedly, like he's genuinely surprised to find himself with company.

Erica rolls her eyes.

"The pillow, Derek," she says, pointing at it like it's incriminating evidence. Derek wraps his arms around it and pulls it closer to his chest, tucking it under his chin.

"The fucking pillow Stiles used as a goddamn boner shield all meeting," Erica smirks. "You do know why he had it, don't you? Come on, you can't tell me you didn't do it on purpose."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Derek snaps, but it's less heated and more defensive than anything else, and suddenly he won't look her in the eye.

Erica heaves a theatrical sigh.

"Next time you show up for a pack meeting straight after a workout, make sure you remember to put on a fucking shirt so Stiles doesn't have a heart attack, will you?"

And then she's laughing again, whipping around the corner and strolling up the stairs to her and Boyd's room, before Derek can do more than splutter.

Derek pushes the memory out of his mind, filing it away under things we refuse to talk about, along with the rest of the ever-growing mountain of Stiles-related incidents.

He's about to laugh it off, roll his eyes and tell them all to shut the fuck up as usual, but instead, what comes out of his mouth is—

"Okay."

Spoken in the softest fucking cadence he didn't even know he possessed.

The room falls dead silent. Everyone stops what they're doing and just stares at him. Derek's heart picks up speed as his brain catches up with his stupid, stupid mouth. His eyes widen like he can't believe he just said that out loud, like he had absolutely no control over it. Because truthfully, he hadn't. He chances a look over at Stiles, and— if he wasn't so shocked and terrified by what had just happened, he'd have laughed, because Stiles has got his mouth hanging open comically wide, eyebrows practically disappearing into his hairline as he fixes Derek with an incredulous stare.

And then Stiles bursts out laughing.

"Oh my god," he says, practically wheezing, hand clutched over his heart. "You really had me going there for a minute. You're messing with me, just like Danny. I've never heard you joke like that before."

And then everyone else starts laughing, and Derek forces himself to join in, pointedly avoiding the looks of what the fuck plastered all over Boyd, Isaac, and Erica's faces, internally screaming his own chorus of what the ever-loving fuck because that definitely hadn't been a joke and Derek definitely hadn't mean to say that out loud.

Amidst his panic, the query who the fuck is Danny? nettles at the back of his mind, and he can't decide if he's more offended by the fact that someone else propositioned Stiles for sex, or that the fact that they weren't actually serious about it.

• • •

At first, Stiles assumes it's a practical joke, or some kind of bizarre six-months-late April Fool's prank. It has to be, because over the course of the week that follows, Derek stops being a sarcastic asshole toward Stiles, and instead, starts showering him in compliments. Stiles is just going about his life, cracking self-deprecating jokes, but instead of smirking and adding an insulting quip of his own, Derek has started to become like, aggressively nice, getting almost angry whenever Stiles insults himself.

"God, I'm so stupid," Stiles sighs as he crosses out the wrong answer to a math problem he'd been working on at Derek's kitchen table.

"Hey, don't talk about yourself like that," Derek growls, brow furrowed like he's genuinely offended by Stiles's offhand remark. "You're one of the smartest people I've ever met."

Stiles stares at him, highlighter cap falling out of his open mouth.

Derek blinks a few times in rapid succession, dropping the stack of playing cards he'd been shuffling for their upcoming game night onto the kitchen counter with a deafening clatter. He looks just as surprised as Stiles feels.

"Uh…thanks, man," Stiles manages, a tell-tale blush prickling the back of his neck as he buries his nose in his textbook and doesn't resurface for several minutes straight, having retained absolutely nothing on the page.

A few days later finds Lydia, Cora, and Malia all roaring with laughter as Stiles walks them through his intricate twenty-five step plan to get someone to want to sleep with him before the next full moon. Mock-insulted and mostly joking, he says, "What, you don't think there's at least one person out there who wants to get with all of this? I'm a goddamn snack, I'll have you know."

"Shut up. No you're not," Derek snaps, glancing up from the book he'd been pretending to read in the far corner of the living room. And then, like he just can't help himself, immediately follows it up with, "You're a full course meal."

Stiles pauses, staring at him in disbelief.

Derek suddenly goes very rigid, eyes widening ever so slightly in alarm. He slaps a hand over his mouth, like he's physically restraining himself from saying anything more.

And then Stiles bursts out laughing.

"Dude, that's funny. I'm gonna have to start using that," he says, penciling in the pick-up line as step twenty-six.

The thing is, it isn't just compliments. Derek has also started to become, like, weirdly affectionate, in his own gruff, sourwolf way. He's started talking more — Stiles is fairly certain Derek has spoken more over the past week than he has in the past two years — his expressions becoming softer, a wider range of emotions smoothing away the frown lines as he opens up about his past, sharing pieces of family history, little anecdotes and personal stories and random facts about himself.

Stiles collects them like a memory magpie.

Derek prefers pancakes over waffles.

Derek likes the color red.

Derek has the entire Harry Potter series in pristine hardcover.

Derek used to sit at his grandmother's feet and untangle yarn for her while she knitted him and his siblings cozy winter hats and sweaters.

And it'd be really endearing if it didn't make Stiles wildly uncomfortable, because this is Derek we're talking about — a guy so emotionally constipated, it looks like it's causing him physical pain. Over the years, Stiles has come to expect a certain dynamic between the two of them, one that straddles the line between half-hearted insults and playful banter, and this whole weird new nice guy routine that Derek has suddenly got going on is starting to make Stiles suspicious.

He starts to get really paranoid, thinking Derek must have somehow found out about his — well, he wouldn't call it a crush, exactly — and is just fucking with him, just to be a dick. Like, maybe he caught Stiles staring at him during pack meetings one too many times, or— oh god, what if he can smell the arousal coming off of him in waves whenever they lock eyes, and he's finally put two and two together after all these years and figured out that the reason Stiles's heartbeat goes haywire every time Derek so much as glances in his direction isn't because he's scared of him, or because he's had too much caffeine.

Or— oh fuck. Maybe Derek had heard him that one time he'd jerked off in the shower to the thought of Derek pressing him up against his bedroom wall, and gasped out Derek's name as he'd, uh, crescendoed, before strolling back into his room wearing nothing but a sated, shit-eating grin and a towel wrapped around his waist, only to find the real Derek sitting on the edge of his bed, waiting for him.

Stiles nearly jumps out of his skin and drops the towel, shouting all manner of colorful obscenities. The look on Derek's face is…interesting. Stiles can practically feel Derek's eyes boring into him, trailing over every inch of him, lingering on the border where his towel meets his hipbones and swallowing thickly, and Stiles can't help but follow the movements, entranced, watching his Adam's apple bob up and down and wondering how it would taste under his tongue, and oh god, now his body thinks it's time for round two and he's tenting his towel and fuck fuck fuck oh no—

And then Derek clears his throat a little louder and more aggressively than normal, and they both avert their eyes, and Stiles controls himself long enough to ask why Derek is here, and then Derek slowly turns his back so that Stiles can hastily get dressed, handing him a slip of paper with a weird symbol on it that he's hoping Stiles can decipher for him.

"So, uh…out of curiosity…exactly how long were you here before I stepped out of the shower?" Stiles asks as Derek grips the frame of his bedroom window, one foot already out on the roof. The crack in his voice is hard to miss.

"Long enough," Derek says cryptically, which could either mean "I heard you" or "you kept me waiting," and Stiles is honestly not sure which one is worse.

A loud crash snaps Stiles back to the present and he looks up to find Erica climbing through his bedroom window, followed swiftly by Boyd and Isaac, tumbling into a heap onto his bedroom floor. Try as they might, the leather-clad trio have never quite managed to replicate Derek's finesse when it comes to breaking and entering.

Before Stiles can get out even so much as a what the fuck, they're rounding on him, talking over each other in a worried frenzy, insisting that there's something very very wrong with Derek. Stiles's heart starts to race, mouth going dry, and he's already going through his mental rolodex of potential cures and fix-its, when they say the most ludicrous thing he's ever heard in his life.

"We think that Derek's been cursed," Erica says.

"By a witch," Isaac clarifies.

"And now he can only say really nice things," Boyd finishes.

"What," Stiles says flatly, and then he's snorting with incredulous laughter.

"I'm sorry, run that by me again. You think Derek's been hit with a…what, a nice guy curse?" he snickers. "Do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds?"

"You don't understand," Erica says seriously, bracing her hands on either side of Stiles's shoulders. "Tonight, he told us that he's proud of us and that he loves us."

Stiles's mouth drops open in shock.

"And that's not all," Isaac chimes in. "We tested it out. Asked him to tell us how he really feels about Scott, and do you know what he said?"

"What?" Stiles eyes him warily, preparing to launch into a one-man Scott McCall defense party.

"That Scott's a good kid with a heart of gold," Erica scoffs, like it's physically painful for her to recall. "Can you believe that?"

"Holy shit," Stiles says, genuinely stunned.

And suddenly it all clicks into place, the reason Derek has been so unnervingly kind to him these past few days. He's been cursed. Stupid as it sounds, there's no other explanation for it.

"Yeah, so…as you can see, Derek needs help," Erica says, like being nice is some kind of terminal illness.

"And what makes you think I can fix this?" Stiles asks.

"Duh, you're the brains of the pack," Erica grins at him, like it's obvious.

"Derek said that if anyone is clever enough to find the answer, it's you," Boyd tells him. And that's…well, weirdly nice.

• • •

So he researches, and he researches, and he researches, and he doesn't come up with a single damn thing, because never, in the history of witchcraft and wizarding lore, has there ever been a curse that made someone say nice things.

Still, it keeps happening. Derek keeps dropping nice bombs fucking everywhere, every single time he opens his mouth. And it sucks, because it's really starting to have an effect on Stiles. Derek will say something really sweet to him, and he'll find himself starting to give in to that hope he's been harboring for years, and then he has to shake himself really hard and remind himself that it's just the curse talking, that Derek doesn't actually mean anything he's saying.

Except—

Well…lately, it's like all of their interactions have this weird sort of romantic, sexually charged undercurrent to them, and Stiles can't help but notice that Derek doesn't act like that with anyone else but him.

He'll compliment Lydia on her intellect. Kira on her katana wielding skills. Allison on her archery. He'll tell Cora and Malia how grateful he is to call them family, how brave and strong and resilient they are. He'll tell Isaac, Erica, and Boyd how proud he is that they've come so far and learned so much, not just from him, but from Scott as well, who makes a great leader. He even tells Jackson that he thinks he could go pro in lacrosse, if he wanted to.

But with Stiles, it's much more frequent, much more specific. Little details he shouldn't notice about him. If Stiles didn't know any better, he'd think Derek was flirting with him.

"Red is a great color on you."

"You smell like the forest after it rains."

"Your moles and freckles remind me of star maps."

"I like the way your smile lights up your eyes."

"You have really soft hands."

One time, he literally just said the word, "forearms," with a wide-eyed expression on his face before bolting out of the room, leaving Stiles standing alone in the middle of the living room with his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a paintbrush held aloft in one hand.

And it all just keeps tumbling out of his mouth like dulcet word vomit, like he's physically incapable of restraining himself.

Not only that, but Stiles could almost swear he keeps catching Derek just staring at him at random intervals, but whenever he looks up, Derek's gaze quickly shifts away and the tips of his ears redden a little bit like he's embarrassed at having been caught looking at Stiles, and it's like they've switched places, because out of the two of them, Stiles is supposed to be the blushing idiot, the one saying all of these stupidly candid schmaltzy things. Stiles is the one who notices all of Derek's little details, not the other way around.

It's so unnerving that Stiles starts to wonder whether Derek has been spiked with something even worse, like a love potion. Stiles buckles down and hits the books even harder, losing sleep as he continues to search for a cure.

• • •

They're crowded around the kitchen table one afternoon after classes let out, shooting the shit about what they think the coven could possibly be up to, when talk turns to childhood nostalgia and they all start arguing over which Hogwarts house they'd each get sorted into if they were witches.

Scott gets a unanimous vote for Gryffindor, but his triumphant smile fades when Erica insists that Stiles belongs in Slytherin with her and Lydia, and that Derek is some kind of Gryffindor/Slytherin hybrid. Isaac thinks they're all squibs. Boyd says that Stiles would get eaten by the giant squid before he even had a chance to be sorted. Stiles gets heated, slapping the table and arguing that Derek is obviously a Hufflepuff.

"Think about it," he says. "He's all about family, incredibly loyal, selfless to a fault, patient to a fault when it comes to that creepy uncle of his, believes in hard work and fair play, strong sense of upholding justice. Case in point, Derek is the perfect Hufflepuff."

"What the hell is a Hufflepuff?" Derek's sudden interjection makes them all jump, and Stiles chokes on air because there's no way in hell Derek just quoted A Very Potter Musical. Eleven pairs of eyes whip to the doorframe where Derek is standing, balancing half a dozen pizza boxes in one hand, one eyebrow arched like he's seriously reconsidering his choice in packmates. And then his entire frame relaxes, broad smile spreading across his face as he strides toward the kitchen table and sets the stack of boxes down.

"Just kidding. I've got a prefect badge with a black and yellow badger crest on it hidden in my sock drawer," he says, and Stiles doesn't miss the way the tips of his ears burn scarlet after he drops that little anecdote.

"You're all wrong, by the way," he adds, almost as if compelled to keep talking. "If anything, Stiles is a Ravenclaw. Naturally curious, avid learner and researcher, creative and clever. And I mean, sure, he's got some positive Gryffindor and Slytherin qualities, too. We all do. Bravery and cunning kind of comes with the territory. But Stiles is a textbook Ravenclaw. Plus, he looks good in blue."

Derek pauses for a moment, wide-eyed expression fixed to the kitchen floor as he sucks in a steady breath and then very slowly releases it back out through his nostrils. He shakes his head as if to clear it, and then promptly walks out of the kitchen at a quick stride, leaving Stiles staring after him, open-mouthed.

(And if Stiles winds up at the local craft store the following morning, picking out the softest black and yellow yarn he can find and cramming a copy of Knitting For Dummies under his arm so that he can maybe learn how to knit Derek a Hufflepuff scarf for his birthday this year…well, what of it?)

• • •

"Hey, maybe true love's kiss will break your curse," Stiles jokes one night when they're all crowded around the dinner table sharing Italian takeaway.

Derek practically shoves his entire fist into his mouth to stop himself from blurting out, maybe you should give it a try.

Luckily, Stiles is too busy screeching about burning his tongue on a scalding mouthful of mozzarella to notice.

• • •

They're in Derek's living room late one evening, nearly a fortnight after the initial incident. Everyone else has gone home, or gone up to their respective rooms. Everyone except for Stiles, who had opted to stay behind to do a bit more reading in an effort to find a way to cure Derek of what Stiles has been affectionately referring to as the curse of the compliments, tucked away into a leather armchair in the far corner of the room, while Derek sprawls out on the couch, exhausted after a run through the woods.

He doesn't know when he had gotten so comfortable around Stiles, allowed himself to become so vulnerable and unguarded, but he ends up falling asleep, lulled by the sound of Stiles's steady scribbling as he takes notes and hums thoughtfully to himself, altogether missing the affectionate smile that spreads across Stiles's face as he glances up in Derek's direction and falters mid-sentence around a half-formed question. A little shiver winds its way down Derek's spine, and Stiles immediately bolts upright, scattering notes and highlighters everywhere as he moves to wrap Derek in a patchwork quilt draped over the back of the couch.

As Derek drifts into an easy slumber, he dreams about Stiles. It's that same dream he's had countless times before, only this time, there's no impending danger, no kanima stalking around the edges of the swimming pool — just the two of them, clutching one another, breath coming out in heated gusts that spiral over the top of their heads.

It's all so vivid, like he's reliving it, only through a different lens. He can feel the bruising grip of Stiles's arms as they wind around his torso, the way Stiles's heartbeat crashes against his ribcage, reverberating against his back. In this memory, Stiles isn't holding him up because he has to — because this time, Derek has full control over his body. He twists around in Stiles's arms until they're facing one another, breath ghosting over each other's lips, and then he's backing him up against the edge of the pool, fingertips tracing the curves of his reddened lips before surging forward and capturing him in a kiss.

He can feel everything, the press of Stiles's body against his own as Stiles arches into him, writhes against him, like he can't get close enough. The feel of Stiles's lips and teeth and tongue against his throat as he buries his face into the curve of Derek's shoulder. The way Stiles whispers his name against Derek's ear, desperate and longing, with a soft affection that makes him want to weep.

And it's all too much, too much, too cruel because it isn't real.

Derek wakes with a gasp and Stiles's name on the tip of his tongue, only to find the real Stiles hovering over him with a blanket grasped in his outstretched hands, staring down at him with wide eyes, mouth hanging open.

"Sorry, I was just—" Stiles falters, taking a cautionary step backward and averting his eyes. "You were shivering. I thought you were cold."

He holds out the blanket like it's a peace offering.

"Oh…uh…thank you," Derek says softly, reaching out to take it and tampering down the electric shock that jolts through his chest as his hand brushes against Stiles's fingertips.

"And um…you were kind of talking in your sleep?" Stiles poses this next statement as a question, like he's giving Derek an out, eyes cast toward the ceiling as he attacks a phantom itch on the back of his neck.

Derek bolts upright, alarmed.

"What did I say?" he asks, fully aware of how frantic he sounds.

"You, uh…well, you sort of said my name. And you were kind of like, breathing really heavily," Stiles offers, chancing a glance over at Derek.

"Is everything okay?" he asks, shifting into concerned pack dad mode, leaning in closer and placing a comforting hand on Derek's shoulder.

"Whoah, your heart's beating really fast," he breathes, brows narrowed in concern as he searches Derek's face for a fault line, no doubt feeling the erratic thrumming as he presses his fingertips against Derek's collarbone. "You okay? Nervous about something?"

Without missing a beat, and absolutely hating it, Derek says, "Yes."

"You want to talk about it?" Stiles asks softly. "What's got you so worked up?"

You, Derek muses with something caught between a smirk and a grimace. Seconds pass before he comes to the horrifying realization that he's just said that out loud. Stiles pales, absentmindedly digging his fingertips into Derek's shoulder, where he seems to be fused.

"I make you nervous?" he asks, his voice soft, disbelieving.

"Yes," Derek grits out against his will.

"Why—" Stiles pauses, swallowing thickly. "Why do I make you nervous?"

Derek stares at him, eyes wide, wondering how in the hell he's going to get himself out of this one without revealing too much.

"I was dreaming about that night at the pool," he says slowly, choosing his words very carefully. "That's why I said your name."

And technically, technically, it's the truth. Just not all of it.

"Oh," Stiles visibly deflates, a gust of breath he didn't realize he'd been holding rushing out of him. He quickly shakes it off. "Yeah, that's gotta leave you with some pretty heavy PTSD, huh?"

Derek nods, pressing his lips together to keep the truth from spilling out.

"Hey, Derek?" Stiles says suddenly, a heart-clenching combination of guilt, sadness, and determination in his eyes. "You know I wouldn't have just left you there, right? Despite what you might think, I wasn't just looking out for myself that night. Literally the only reason I let you go was because I thought if I could get a hold of Scott, we'd both have more of a fighting chance. And if Scott hadn't showed— I would've held you up all night, if I had to. After everything we've been through, I just…I hope you know that by now."

And honestly, Derek might as well be back at the bottom of that pool, because right now, he feels like he's drowning. He just stares up at Stiles, not trusting himself to speak, his throat uncomfortably tight, the corners of his eyes prickling.

"And I'm not just saying that to be nice," Stiles continues, cutting through the tension just as easily as he'd created it. "I'm not the one who's under some weird kind of nice guy curse, or anything. Which I know must be an absolute pain in the ass for you, but don't worry, I'm doing everything I can to find a cure, and then you'll be back to the surly, grumpy Sourwolf we all know and love."

Stiles gives Derek's shoulder a reassuring little squeeze, fixing him with an affectionate half-smile before slinging his backpack over his shoulder and slipping out the front door. Derek stares at the leather armchair scattered with books and leaflets and highlighters until the Stiles-shaped imprint in its cushions fades away, and then he's stalking up to his bedroom, dragging the quilt and the pillow that always smells like Stiles with him and wrapping himself up in it like a burrito.

• • •

Stiles nearly has a heart attack when his bedroom window slides open at a quarter to midnight on the full moon, and Derek comes tumbling inside, a little breathless, but looking determined and resolute. He squares his shoulders, looks Stiles directly in the eye, and says, "Now that I'm no longer cursed and can say this without being compelled to, I've got something I need to tell you."

Stiles prepares for an onslaught of…well, something bad, because that's just his life now, isn't it? That's just been his life for the past several years, ever since the night he decided, hey, looking for half a dead body in the woods sounds like fun and next thing he knows, his best friend is a werewolf, and then everyone around him is a werewolf, or a kanima, or a kitsune, or a banshee, or a darach, or—

What he isn't prepared for is for Derek to start waxing poetic about all the things he likes about Stiles. Because oh right, on top of everything else, there's also witches and Derek has been cursed. Only it's weird, because it's not quite as nice as it has been over the past couple of weeks — in fact, he's pretty sure there's a couple of insults disguised as compliments thrown in there that Stiles doesn't even have time to register because he's just so shocked by what Derek says next.

And I think I might be in love with you.

I think I have been for a while now, I just didn't realize it.

Or maybe I just wasn't willing to admit it.

I guess it took being cursed to finally admit the truth.

And that nervous little laugh he huffs out afterward. Sweet Jesus.

Every inch of Stiles is on fire.

"Oh fuck," he says, a surge of adrenaline burning through his veins like the world's worst shot of fireball whiskey. Derek's smile withers, because yeah, oh fuck isn't exactly at the top of the list of things you want to hear after you've just poured your heart out, and the look Stiles gives him is nothing short of devastating.

"Oh fuck, I was right," Stiles groans, burying his face into the palms of his hands like he's about to cry. "It's gotten so much worse. You're not just cursed, you're delusional."

It hits Derek like a punch to the gut. He barely registers the blur of red and blue as Stiles bounds off the bed and bolts to his desk, rummaging through haphazard stacks of journals and leather-bound books with spiderwebbed spines. Derek watches him with a kind of cautious curiosity, trying to figure out what the fuck is going on.

"Don't worry, Derek," Stiles reassures him in a tone that's anything but, shoving the cap of a highlighter off with his teeth and circling a passage in one of the many, many pages of his chicken-scratch notes. "I promise we'll fix this. There's got to be something in here about love potions, because it's clear to me now that you've been spiked with one. We'll catch the witch that did this to you and make them pay."

And just like that, it all clicks into place. The knot coiling in Derek's stomach unclenches, and then he's laughing unabashedly.

"You're such a fucking dumbass sometimes, you know that?" Derek says as his laughter subsides, the gentle fondness of his tone clashing with the bite of his words. "I haven't been spiked with love potion, Stiles. And I told you, I'm not cursed anymore."

Stiles freezes, caught off guard, because it's the first time he's heard Derek's sarcasm in over two weeks, and he kind of hates how much he'd missed it.

"Are…are you sure?" he asks, wincing at how small he sounds.

"Dead certain," Derek replies with a shit-eating grin that shows all of his teeth, looking for all the world like he's physically struggling to hold back his amusement.

And that's when it hits him. If Derek was still cursed, if he'd been poisoned with some kind of love potion, he wouldn't be able to throw insults and sarcastic quips at Stiles. It would go against the very nature of the spell.

Which can only mean one thing: Derek isn't cursed. He's perfectly fine, and he's fucking with him.

Stiles can't believe he learned two-color brioche for this asshole.

"Fuck you," Stiles says harshly, watching with a sick sort of satisfaction as it wipes the smirk right off of Derek's stupidly handsome face.

"Wait, what?" Derek balks, blinking rapidly like he'd just been struck over the head.

"Fuck you for thinking it's funny to mess with a guy's feelings like this," Stiles spits, hating the pathetic tremor in his voice.

"Stiles, what are you talking about?" Derek asks, eyes wide with worry, like Stiles is the one who's delusional.

"The way I see it, there's only two options here," Stiles barrels on in spite of the anxiety-fueled adrenaline twisting through his veins, heat rising in his cheeks. "Either you've been cursed or spiked with amortentia or — I don't fucking know, some kind of spell that makes you think you have feelings for me, or you were never actually cursed at all, you've figured out that I'm the one who's in love with you, and you've just been saying all of this nice shit to me to…I don't know, wind me up? Make me look like a jackass? Or maybe you just like hurting people."

That last one stings, lends venom to the bite in Derek's voice.

"Option C," Derek grits out, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "Fucking Peter got involved with not one, not two, but seven witches from the same coven, and started a civil war — which explains all of the weird shit that's been happening around town lately, apparently they've been trying to curse him and each other — got caught in his own web of lies and fled the scene, but not before hitting my house to pack supplies so he could skip town. The coven tracked him down, but couldn't follow him inside because of Deaton's protection spells, so they just assumed he was hiding out in there, and placed a curse on the sole proprietor. Little did they know, the house is in my name. So, lucky me, I got the full blast of it."

Stiles gapes at him for a few moments, eyes trained on the rapid rise and fall of Derek's chest as he struggles to recompose himself. Anything involving his creepy, murderous, and now apparently two-timing (seven-timing?) uncle always gets him so riled up.

"So, what? You actually were cursed and that's the reason you've been saying nice shit for the past two weeks?" Stiles asks with crossed arms and narrowed eyes, but his tone is several shades softer than it had been a few moments ago, curiosity piqued.

Derek heaves a long-suffering sigh, but he can't help the small smile that tugs at the corner of his lips.

"You still don't get it, do you?" he says with the tone of someone trying to explain something obvious to someone who's very, very stupid. "It didn't make me say nice shit, Stiles. It made me incapable of lying, like Peter lied to all of them. It made me more open and vulnerable and vocal about the things I already felt, stuff I tried to keep hidden. And it made me realize just how much I hated doing that. Because yeah, it was definitely embarrassing at times, but it was also kind of nice, not having to keep it in anymore. And I realized that everyone around me seemed happier for it, that I was able to make the people I care about feel good, just by being honest with them about how I really felt about them."

"Which is why," Derek sighs, pausing to glance up from the floor and lock eyes with Stiles. "As soon as they broke the curse, I came here…to see you…to tell you that I— what I told you."

All of the air rushes out of Stiles's lungs.

"So everything…" he manages, just barely, to keep the choked disbelief out of his voice. "Everything you've been saying to me these past few weeks…and everything you said to me just now…that was real?"

Derek offers him a small, affectionate smile that nearly breaks him in two.

"Yeah, dumbass. I meant every word."

Stiles stares at him for a moment, rooted to the spot, and Derek can practically hear the cogs turning inside his head as he processes it all and plays catch-up. And then he's smiling, this big, goofy grin spreading across his face as he bounds across the room and throws his arms around Derek's neck with such gusto that he knocks them both backward onto Stiles's bed, swallowing Derek's surprised huff of laughter in a kiss.

#teen wolf #sterek #derek hale #stiles stilinski #teen wolf fanfiction #sterek fanfiction #what to do when your emotionally constipated werewolf boyfriend gets cursed by a witch: a guide #fairytalesandfolklore #fairytales-and-folklore #fairytalesandfolklore fanfiction #fairytalesandfolklore teen wolf #fairytalesandfolklore sterek

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the-winter-spider · 27 days ago

Text

Yours, Always | Part Nineteen

Steve x reader, Bucky x reader AU

Word Count: 6.7k

Warnings: angst, violence, mentions of su!cide

A/N: OOOOOOOOOOOOO

Masterpost

---

The city buzzed around them, a steady hum of car horns and distant chatter, but inside the little café on the corner, it was quiet enough for a decent conversation. Sam took a slow sip of his iced tea, watching as Steve stirred his coffee absentmindedly, barely taking a sip.

“You good, man?” Sam asked, raising an eyebrow.

Steve blinked, like he was shaking himself out of a daze, and nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, just, long day.”

Sam smirked. “Tell me about it. My morning was filled with paperwork and a dude who thinks ‘emotional support alligator’ is a legitimate request for housing accommodations.”

Steve huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “Bet that one was fun.”

“Oh, the best,” Sam said, grinning before grabbing a fry off his plate. “Anyway, my sister’s been on my ass about coming down to Louisiana soon. Says I don’t visit enough.” He gestured with the fry. “You should bring Lily and Y/N down sometime take her out on the boat. I’ll even let Lily think she might see a mermaid.”

Steve smiled at that, a real, genuine smile. “Oh, she’d love that.” He shook his head slightly, amused. “But only if she actually sees one. Kid’s getting too smart for the whole imagination thing.”

Sam set his drink down and leaned back slightly. “What about Y/N? She wouldn’t be into it?”

Steve’s fingers tightened slightly around his coffee cup. He hesitated, then exhaled, shaking his head. “I don’t know, man.”

Sam frowned. “What do you mean?”

Another pause. A longer one.

Steve sighed, rubbing the back of his neck before finally admitting, “Things have been tense.”

Sam didn’t say anything. He just let him talk.

Steve hesitated, then leaned forward slightly, voice quieter. “Back home, before I left, we had a fight. A big one.” He swallowed, rolling his shoulders, like the weight of it was still there. “I told her I wouldn’t move back there, their hometown. She told me she wanted to. It just… spiraled from there.”

Sam nodded slowly. “And Bucky?”

Steve huffed out a breath. “You already know.”

Sam just watched him for a moment. “So what now?”

Steve hesitated. His jaw clenched. His gaze flickered down to his coffee, to his hands wrapped around it, to anything but Sam’s knowing stare.

“I think I’m losing her, man,” Steve admitted, his voice quieter now, rawer. “And… I think I’m ready to let her go.”

The words hung between them, heavy, undeniable.

Sam leaned forward, his voice softer now. “Are you sure?”

Steve let out a slow breath, his fingers drumming against the table. “I love her. I do. But I think I’ve been holding onto something that was never really mine to begin with.”

Sam studied him for a long moment before nodding. “That’s a hard thing to admit, man.”

Steve sighed. “Yeah.”

For a while, they just sat there, the weight of the confession settling in.

And then Sam picked up another fry, pointed it at Steve, and said, “So when I take Lily on that boat, you're telling me I gotta convince a whole mermaid to show up, or what?”

Steve let out a breath of laughter, shaking his head. “At least a tail. You got your work cut out for you, Sam.”

---

Wanda watched as you walked back toward Steve, your posture tense, your expression carefully neutral. She knew that look. The one you wore when you were trying to swallow something down, bury it deep enough that no one could see the way it cut you.

She turned sharply, glaring at Clint. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Clint shrugged, arms crossed over his chest. “What?”

“You know what,” she shot back. “Why are you such an asshole to her? Every time you see her, you—” She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “I just don’t get it. What did she ever do to you?”

Clint scoffed, looking away. “I just don’t like her.”

Wanda narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

Clint’s jaw clenched. He wasn’t answering her.

Wanda stepped closer, her voice dropping to something softer, but firm. “Because she makes Steve happy? Because she’s wonderful with Lily? Because she’s kind, and patient, and doesn’t deserve the way you treat her?”

Clint exhaled through his nose, his fingers tapping against his bicep impatiently. He wasn’t looking at her.

“Y’know,” he said finally, his voice tight, “Steve wants to propose to her.”

Wanda stilled.

Her breath caught in her throat, her heart skipping a beat. “What?”

Clint nodded, his lips pressing together. “Yeah. He’s been sitting on the damn ring for months. Waiting for the right time.” His voice turned sharp, bitter. “So there you go. You’ll never get your chance. First, you let Nat take it, and now her.”

Silence.

Wanda inhaled deeply, willing her pulse to slow, to steady.

When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet but sure. “You’re an asshole.”

Clint didn’t react.

“No one took anything from me,” she continued. “It wasn’t mine to have. If it was meant to be, it would be.”

Clint scoffed, rolling his eyes. “There you go again with that fate shit.”

Wanda shook her head. “No, Clint. That’s just reality.”

For a moment, they just stared at each other.

Then Wanda sighed, her expression softening just slightly but only slightly. “You know Natasha would’ve been so disappointed in how you’re acting.”

That one hit its mark.

Clint’s jaw tightened. His gaze flickered, something guarded flashing in his eyes.

But he didn’t say a word.

He just turned and walked away.

---

Like clockwork, Bucky calls every night.

Sometimes, you call him first, but most nights, it’s the other way around. His name flashes across your screen just as you’re settling into bed, the apartment quiet except for the faint hum of the city outside. You answer every time. You don’t even hesitate.

It feels effortless, the way you fall into conversation, like all those years apart never happened. Like there isn’t an ocean of unspoken things between you.

Some nights, you talk for hours.

Bucky tells you about the land, the house, the way Sam has been giving him endless shit about his lack of interior design skills. “He says I have the aesthetic of a gas station parking lot,” Bucky grumbles one night, and you laugh so hard you nearly drop your phone.

“I mean,” you tease, biting your lip. “He’s not entirely wrong, Buck.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Bucky groans, but you can hear the smile in his voice.

You tell him about the city, about Lily, about the new book you picked up, the latest movie you watched. Everything except Steve. Everything except what actually matters.

Neither of you bring it up.

The truck. The love confession. The way he looked at you that night, like you hung the damn stars.

Maybe it’s because you’re both too afraid. Maybe it’s because if you say it out loud, it’ll make things too real.

So, instead, you let it hang there, an unspoken thing between you, simmering beneath the surface.

Some nights, there are silences that stretch too long, where the weight of what you’re not saying fills the space between words.

You wonder if Bucky hears your heart pounding through the phone.

You wonder if he lies awake after you hang up, staring at the ceiling, wondering how the hell you got here.

One night, as you’re lying on your side, the glow of the bedside lamp casting soft shadows across the room, Bucky exhales through the phone.

“I’ll be in the city soon.”

Your stomach flips. Your fingers tighten around the blanket. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says. His voice is quieter now, softer, like he’s feeling something he’s not ready to name. “I’ll let you know when I figure out the exact date.”

You swallow, your throat tight. “Please do.”

For a moment, neither of you say anything.

You think about the last time you saw him, the way his hands felt on you, the way he whispered your name like it meant something.

You think about Steve, the way his voice wavered when he told you he loved you, the hesitation before you didn’t say it back.

You think about everything and nothing, and it all feels too heavy.

So, you clear your throat, forcing yourself to keep it light. “You, uh…you gonna let me help decorate this place, or are you actually going with the gas station parking lot vibe?”

Bucky snorts. “You can help. As long as you don’t pick any weird stuff.”

You gasp dramatically. “Weird stuff? I have impeccable taste, Buck.”

“Yeah I know.” He hums. “You still into those pink doors?”

Your chest tightens. You close your eyes. “Always.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Softly, Bucky says, “Yeah. Thought so.”

And just like that, the conversation shifts again.

You talk about something else, anything else, and eventually, the call ends, leaving you staring at the ceiling, phone pressed against your chest, wondering what the hell you’re supposed to do with all of this.

The morning is quiet. The kind of soft, hazy quiet that lingers in the air before the city fully wakes up.

You’re in the kitchen, pouring yourself a cup of coffee, still shaking off the last remnants of sleep. The apartment is cool, the faint scent of rain drifting in through the open window. It’s peaceful. Almost normal. Almost.

Steve clears his throat. “Oh, by the way, I invited Sam and Bucky to the party.”

Your hand falters, the coffee pot hovering just above your mug. For a second, you think you misheard him.

“Sam?” you echo, your voice carefully even, measured.

“Yeah.” Steve shrugs, stirring a packet of sugar into his own cup. “We’ve run into each other a couple of times. Figured I’d invite them both.”

You stare at him, your fingers tightening around the handle of your mug. He says it so casually, like it’s nothing, like it’s just another thing to add to the list of party details, balloons, beer, food, oh, and Bucky.

You don’t know what to say.

You don’t know how to say anything.

The weight of what happened in that truck, of the words Bucky spilled into the night air, of the way he looked at you presses against your ribs.

Steve invited him.

Steve, who had spent the last few days holding you at arm’s length, careful, careful, like he knew something was slipping through his fingers but was too afraid to grasp it too hard.

Steve, who hasn’t brought up the fight. Hasn’t brought up Bucky. Hasn’t asked you where your heart has been these last few weeks, maybe these last few years, maybe your whole god damn life.

Steve, who has always known you better than you know yourself.

You swallow. Force a small nod. “I’m glad you have another friend.”

It’s a deflection. A quiet, meaningless response. But it’s all you can manage.

Steve looks up at you then, his blue eyes unreadable, a small, almost knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Me too.”

The moment passes. You sip your coffee. He finishes his. The city hums outside, alive and oblivious to the storm brewing beneath your skin.

The countdown to the party begins.

---

Bucky had been here for two years.

Two years of filth and damp walls and the stench of unwashed bodies. Two years of bruises that never fully healed before new ones bloomed over them. Two years of endless questions, fists against flesh, the sharp bite of metal against skin.

Two years of nothing.

No light. No seasons. No way to mark time except by the way his body wasted away, by the way his mind started to slip, pieces of himself breaking off and drifting somewhere beyond his reach.

They had forgotten him. He’d known it for a while now. There was no rescue coming. No cavalry.

And it wasn’t like they were wrong to forget him. He was dead to them. The military had to have already folded his file away, marked his unit as MIA presumed KIA.

His mother had grieved him. You had grieved him.

His stomach twisted.

You.

You had probably moved on.

He hoped you had moved on.

He hoped you’d found someone who made you laugh, someone who held your hand when you walked down the street. Someone who touched you gently, reverently, like you deserved.

And if you had?

Then there was nothing left for him here.

Nothing left at all. He never got the chance he wanted with you and he knew it was his own damn fault and he hated himself for it.

Bucky lay on the cold, hard ground of his cell, staring up at the cracked ceiling. His fingers curled around the blade he’d found. Just a jagged piece of metal, rusted at the edges, but it would do the job.

It wouldn’t be hard.

One sharp swipe, one deep cut…It would be over.

His breathing was slow, measured, controlled and then he turned his head slightly, pressing his temple against the stone wall separating his cell from Sam’s.

“Wilson,” he rasped. His voice was barely more than a whisper, but Sam stirred anyway.

“Buck?”

Bucky swallowed.

He let himself say something that wasn’t just about survival. “You’re a good friend.”

Silence.

Carefully Sam spoke, “Alright, what the fuck was that?”

Bucky let out a soft, humorless laugh. He closed his eyes. “I just… I’m glad I met you.”

Sam was fully awake now, shifting against the wall. Bucky could hear him, could picture him pressing closer to the stone like he could reach him.

“Barnes,” Sam’s voice was sharper now, urgent. “No. You don’t get to do this, man.”

Bucky’s grip tightened on the blade. His other hand lifted, fingers pressing against the inside of his wrist, mapping out the vein beneath his skin.

One cut.

That’s all it would take.

“Bucky, stop,” Sam pleaded. “You hear me? Stop.”

Bucky exhaled, slow and steady, blade biting into his skin

“Y/N.”

The blade slipped.

Bucky’s body froze.

Sam’s voice came through the wall, softer now, insistent. “She’s waiting for you.”

A sharp, broken breath tore from Bucky’s throat. His chest ached.

“She’s not,” Bucky choked out. “She’s gone, Sam. She moved on.”

“You don’t know that,” Sam shot back. “You think that, but you don’t know that.”

Bucky’s breath was uneven now, shallow and ragged.

Sam pressed his palm flat against the stone wall. “Listen to me, man. If I know anything from all the shit you’ve told me about her, she loves you, Buck. She’s missing her best friend so fucking much. She’s hurting without you.”

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut, fingers trembling where they still gripped the blade.

“She needs you to make it home,” Sam whispered. “So make it home.”

Bucky sobbed.

He dropped the blade. It clattered against the stone floor and Sam just stayed with him, his voice steady, grounding him. “We’re coming home, man,” he promised. “We’re going home.”

Bucky curled into himself, his chest heaving, his body shaking so hard he thought he might break apart completely. “Were going home.”

---

The summer heat was relentless, clinging to Bucky’s skin as he wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist. The sound of the nail gun echoed across the open land, sharp bursts of air punctuating the steady rhythm of construction.

The house was finally starting to take shape. The walls were up, the bones of the place standing strong, and if he squinted, he could almost see it, your dream home. The one he’d build with his own two hands. The one you dreamt about for years.

Sam leaned against one of the wooden beams, surveying the progress with a nod of approval. “Man, I gotta say, I didn’t think you’d get this much done so fast.”

Bucky smirked, setting the nail gun down for a second. “What, think I lost my touch?”

“Nah,” Sam chuckled, grabbing his water bottle. “Just figured you’d be dragging ass by now, but you’ve been on this house like it’s a goddamn mission.”

Bucky didn’t respond, just exhaled, stretching his shoulder. He had been working non-stop, sunrise to sunset, barely stopping to eat, throwing himself into every nail, every board, every fucking detail. Building kept him moving. Kept him from thinking too much.

Soon, the electrician would come in, then the plumber, then the flooring guys. One step closer.

Sam took a sip of his water, shifting on his feet. “Ran into Steve the other day.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed slightly, but he kept his focus on securing another panel. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Sam scratched at his jaw. “He does some damn good work with veterans, you know. Runs programs, gets people the help they need.”

Bucky grunted, kept doing what he was doing.

“His dad and grandpa were both military I guess.” Sam continued.

“He didn’t want to follow in their footsteps?”

“Steve wanted to enlist too, but…” Sam trailed off, watching as Bucky carefully aligned a beam. “Didn’t pass the tests.”

That made Bucky pause. He glanced at Sam. “Health issues?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah. Asthma, some other stuff. Didn’t make the cut. Got healthy later, met the girl of his dreams, had a kid… well, you know the rest.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, setting another nail in place. He knew. He knew it all too well.

A silence stretched between them, the only sound the rustling of the trees and the distant hum of cicadas. Then Sam shifted again, something hesitant in his voice.

“Steve invited us to his party in a few days.”

Bucky’s hands paused, then he scoffed. “You mean you.”

“No, I mean both of us.”

Bucky turned his head slightly, raising a skeptical brow. “His birthday party?”

“Yeah. It’s on the fourth, so he celebrate’s both,” Sam said, watching Bucky carefully.

Bucky gruffed, turning back to his work. “That’s real nice for him.”

Sam sighed. “Look, man. I know what you’re thinking, and I get it. But listen, Steve’s struggling. She’s pulling away, and he’s trying to navigate all of it without losing his mind, he’s a good man Buck.” He hesitated. “You gotta come for her.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched.

“I know you miss her,” Sam continued. “And she misses you. So just… show up. You don’t gotta stay long. Just be there.”

Bucky exhaled slowly, fingers tightening around the nail gun.

“Of couse, I’ll be there.” he whispered. “Y’know I’d go anywhere for her.”

Sam nodded, grabbing another plank of wood. “Good.”

---

Bucky didn’t want to go.

He really didn’t want to go.

But you had asked, and Bucky would follow you anywhere.

Which is how he ended up here, chasing after you as you dragged him toward whatever harebrained adventure you had set your sights on this time.

“I hate this idea,” Bucky muttered, his sneakers crunching against gravel. “I hate this plan. I hate—”

“Oh, stop being dramatic.” You rolled your eyes, grinning as you pulled him along.

Bucky huffed. “Dramatic is you thinking this is gonna go well.”

You smirked over your shoulder. “Where’s your sense of adventure, Barnes?”

“Dead and buried.”

But still, he went.

Because it was you and he'd follow you anywhere.

He really wished he hadn’t.

One second, everything was fine. The next, Bucky was airborne.

CRACK.

Pain exploded up his arm, a sharp, searing agony that made his vision go white for a second. He hit the ground hard, groaning as he rolled onto his back, the sky spinning above him.

“Bucky!” Your voice was frantic, your hands grabbing at him, touching his face, his shoulders. “Oh my god, are you okay?”

“Never better,” he gritted out, cradling his arm against his chest.

Your eyes flickered down, widening in horror. “Oh my god, oh my god, Buck, your arm—”

Yeah. It was not supposed to look like that.

Tears welled in your eyes, and Bucky swore the pain in his chest from seeing you cry was worse than the pain in his arm. “I—I knew this was a stupid idea. I should’ve—you shouldn’t have—this is my fault, Buck. This is all my fault.”

He groaned, shifting slightly, trying to sit up. “Nah, I’d say gravity’s at fault here.”

You let out a choked laugh that turned into a sob, burying your face in your hands.

Bucky sighed, resting his head back against the ground. “C’mon, don’t cry. You did me a favor.”

Your head snapped up, eyes red-rimmed. “Bucky, you broke your arm.”

He grinned, even though his whole body hurt. “Yeah, and now I don’t have to play football this season.”

Your face crumpled again. “Stop trying to make me feel better. You got hurt because of me, my stupidity. This is my fault.”

Bucky shook his head, voice softer now. “No, beautiful. It’s my fault.”

Your brows furrowed. “What? How?”

His throat bobbed. “Because I’d follow you anywhere.” His eyes locked onto yours, something deeper in them, something you weren’t ready to name. “I’d follow you into the burning gates of hell. I’d follow you if you were to jump off a moving train in Austria.”

Your breath hitched.

Bucky exhaled slowly, blinking up at the sky. “I’m gonna be okay. It’s just a broken arm.”

That only made you cry harder.

His lips twitched, and he nudged you lightly with his good hand. “You wanna make it up to me?”

You sniffled. “Anything, Buck.”

He smirked. “You gotta be the first to sign my cast.”

You blinked at him. “That’s it?”

“And no drawing penises.”

That startled a laugh out of you, watery and shaky but real, and it sent warmth flooding through Bucky’s chest, easing the pain just a little.

“There’s my girl,” he murmured.

You wiped at your cheeks, rolling your eyes. “You’re an idiot, you know that?”

Bucky grinned, wincing as he adjusted his arm. “Yeah. But I’m your idiot. Now help me up, we gotta brainstorm what color I should get while we walk back.”

You carefully slipped an arm around his waist, helping him to his feet. He cradled his broken arm against his chest, hissing through his teeth as the movement sent a sharp pang through his bones.

“Blue,” you said, steadying him.

“Mmm?” Bucky hummed, squinting at you through the pain.

“For your cast. Your eyes.” You glanced up at him, voice quieter now. “Blue.”

Something flickered in his expression, something warm and unreadable.

He smiled. “Okay. Blue.”

It was quiet for a moment, just the sound of your sneakers crunching against the gravel as you walked, his weight pressed slightly against your side.

You groaned. “Winnie’s gonna kill me.”

Bucky snorted, his laughter short but genuine. “Probably.”

You sighed dramatically, already dreading the conversation that awaited you back home. “What do I even say? ‘Hey, sorry I broke your kid, my bad?’”

Bucky chuckled. “Nah, just tell her I finally got my battle scars. Chicks dig scars.”

You rolled your eyes, tightening your grip around his waist. “You are the chick in this scenario, Buck.”

“Damn right I am,” he teased, nudging you lightly with his good shoulder.

Despite the pain, despite the impending wrath of his mother, despite everything he’d still follow you anywhere. .

---

The apartment is buzzing with movement. The scent of fresh flowers and warm vanilla candles fills the air, mingling with the faintest traces of the city outside. You move through the space with careful precision, making sure everything is perfect setting out drinks, fluffing pillows, triple-checking that Steve’s birthday present is wrapped just right.

The dining table was covered in ribbons, wrapping paper, and a mess of tape dispensers, an absolute disaster zone. But in the center of it all, cradled carefully in a velvet-lined box, was Steve’s gift.

His father’s watch. Restored.

You ran your fingers over the polished metal, tracing the familiar curve of the casing. It had taken months to find the right parts, to track down a seller on eBay who had a near-identical mechanism from the same decade. You had nearly lost the final bid, heart pounding as you refreshed the page over and over until the last second. But you won.

And now, after so many years of sitting broken and forgotten in a drawer, it ticked again.

Steve never talked much about his dad, but you knew. You had caught the way his fingers would brush over the old watch whenever he stumbled upon it. The way he’d turn it over in his palm, lost in thought, before tucking it away again, like the weight of it was too much to carry.

But now, he wouldn’t have to tuck it away. Now, it worked.

You gently closed the box and reached for the wrapping paper. Dark blue, with tiny silver stars.

From Lily, the gift is even more personal something you knew would mean the world to him. A portrait, hand-painted, of Natasha and Lily together, side by side, like Natasha had been here all along. You had worked with the artist for weeks, going over every tiny detail, making sure it was perfect. The curls in Lily’s hair, the softness in Natasha’s eyes. When it had finally arrived, you had cried.

You run a gentle hand over the ribbon on the box, exhaling slowly. He’s going to love this.

Just as you’re about to step back and take in everything one last time, your phone rings.

Bucky.

Your stomach flips.

You swipe to answer. “Hey.”

“Hey.” His voice is warm, familiar. The kind of sound that makes your heart ache in a way you don’t want to examine too closely. “I’m in the city.”

You pause, your fingers tightening around the phone. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, and there’s something different in his voice, something tentative. “Gonna join the support group today.”

Your breath catches. Your ears perk up because he's doing it, he’s actually going.

“Bucky,” you whisper, “that’s… that’s amazing.”

“Don’t make a big deal out of it.” His voice is gruff, but you can hear the tiniest trace of something softer beneath it. “Just… trying, I guess.”

You press your lips together, trying to keep your emotions in check. “I’m proud of you.”

“I know.”

You blink, swallowing past the sudden lump in your throat.

“I was thinking,” he says, clearing his throat. “You wanna meet me here? We can grab a coffee after or something. Show me that café you always talk about before the party tonight? It’ll uh give me some time to wind down.”

A slow smile tugs at your lips. “I’ll be there in thirty.”

“I’ll be done in forty-five.”

“Then I’ll just have to wait.”

He huffs out a small laugh, and you can hear the smile in it.

“See you soon.”

The call ends, and you stand there for a moment, phone pressed to your chest, heart hammering against your ribs.

---

The night was loud, alive with the crackling energy of fireworks and laughter. The air smelled like cheap beer, barbecue, and summer heat. Someone had rigged up shitty string lights around the backyard, the bulbs flickering unevenly, but it didn’t matter. The entire graduating class was packed into some guy’s house, one of Bucky’s football buddies with music shaking the walls and people spilling onto the lawn.

You were tipsy. Not drunk, but tipsy enough that everything was just a little funnier, a little warmer. Your cheeks ached from smiling, your skin buzzing from the remnants of your last drink.

Bucky was beside you, his hand wrapped loosely around a bottle of beer he’d barely touched, his other hand stuffed into his pocket. You could feel him more than see him, the way he always took up space in a way that never felt overwhelming, just… there.

Some girl from your grade, Heather? Hannah? sidled up to him, laughing a little too loudly at something he hadn’t even said.

“I don’t think we’ve seen you all night, Bucky,” she drawled, twirling a piece of hair around her finger. “Thought maybe you forgot how to have fun.”

Bucky huffed a short laugh, barely sparing her a glance. “Nah, just been busy.”

Her gaze flickered toward you, her lips curling slightly. “Busy, huh?”

You fought the urge to roll your eyes, taking a sip of your drink instead. You were used to this. Girls had been throwing themselves at Bucky for years, but he never really gave them the time of day and yet, they never seemed to get it.

Bucky didn’t respond, just nudged your elbow, like the two of you shared some secret joke. He leaned in, his breath warm against your temple. “You wanna get outta here for a bit?”

You nodded, already slipping your fingers around his wrist, pulling him toward the backyard. You swore you heard Hannah-Heather scoff behind you.

Outside, the sky was a swirl of deep purples and indigos, the air thick with summer humidity. People were scattered across the lawn, sitting on blankets, perched on porch railings, waiting for the fireworks.

You and Bucky found a spot a little farther from the crowd, away from the noise. The grass was cool beneath you as you flopped down, lying flat on your back. Bucky sat beside you, one knee bent, his arm slung lazily over it.

The first firework exploded overhead, brilliant and loud, the colors streaking across the sky in sharp, fleeting bursts.

You sighed, stretching your arms above your head. “God, I love this.”

Bucky hummed. “Yeah?”

You turned to him, grinning. “Yeah.”

But he wasn’t looking at the sky. “Me too.”

He was looking at you.

His expression was unreadable, something soft and achingly familiar flickering behind his eyes.

“You’re missing the show, Buck.”

He smirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Nah,” he murmured. “Not missing a thing.”

You swallowed. Your heart stuttered against your ribs.

The fireworks kept exploding, painting the night in reds, blues, golds. But Bucky never looked away.

---

You don’t mean to overhear.

But when you arrive at the building, an unassuming community center tucked between a laundromat and a bakery you hesitate. Through the open door of the meeting room, you hear his voice and the way he says your name stops you cold.

So you stay. You stand just out of sight, heart hammering in your chest, and you listen.

Bucky shifts in his chair, hands clasped together so tightly that his knuckles turn white. He’s barely spoken all session, just sat there while the others talked, his knee bouncing, his jaw clenched. But now, he exhales shakily and lifts his head.

“There’s this girl,” he says, his voice low, hoarse, like it physically pains him to say it out loud. “She wants me to get help.”

A couple of the other vets nod, encouraging, but they don’t interrupt.

“And I want to get better for her, for me” he admits, running a hand through his hair, shaking his head. “But in order to do that, I’m supposed to talk about it.”

He lets out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “So, yeah. Here I am. Talking about it.”

Silence.

“I remember the night I almost did it.”

A shift in the room. Everyone knows what it means.

“I’d been in that fucking hole for years. No light, no sound except for the guards when they came in, except for the screams from the others.” He swallows hard, rubs at his chest like it aches. “I don’t even know how long we’d been there. Time didn’t exist in that place. All I know is that one night, I couldn’t take it anymore. I thought, if I just do it, it’ll finally be over.”

His voice cracks.

He clears his throat, fists clenching against his jeans. “I was ready. I had it planned. I was going to—” He stops himself, exhales hard through his nose. “But then Sam—”

His lips press together. His throat bobs.

“All Sam had to do was say her name.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

“He said her name,” Bucky continues, his voice barely above a whisper now. “That was all it took. Just… her name.” He lets out a shaky breath. “And suddenly, I couldn’t do it.”

The room is silent. No one breathes.

“I’d spent so long convincing myself I was already dead, but then he said her name, and I realized, I wasn’t dead. Not yet.”

He drags a hand down his face, letting out a shuddering breath.

“I told myself if I made it out, I’d tell her.” He shakes his head, lets out a quiet laugh. “I’d tell her that she was the reason I was still breathing.”

A long pause.

“I never told her.”

A voice from across the room, careful, hesitant. “Do you still talk to her?”

Bucky swallows. “Yeah.”

Another pause.

“Does she know?”

Bucky stares at his hands, the tendons taut, the veins beneath his skin stark against his knuckles.

“No,” he whispers. And then, quieter, so quiet you barely hear it, a confession meant for no one. “And I don’t even have her.”

A hollow laugh, sharp and self-deprecating. “I made it out and I still don’t have her.”

Your chest tightens, breath catching in your throat. You turn away, walking fast away from the door back towards where you entered.

You’re still standing in the hallway when the meeting ends.

Your stomach is in knots, your hands trembling at your sides. You don’t even know what you’d say if you walked in there right now, if you had to look at him.

---

The distant sound of fireworks crackled somewhere beyond your dorm room window, muffled by the thick summer air. You didn’t turn to look. Didn’t care to watch the way the sky lit up in bursts of color, didn’t care to hear the excited shouts of people celebrating in the streets below.

Instead, you sat cross-legged on your bed, the dim glow of your bedside lamp casting soft, golden light across the room.

In your hands, a letter.

The envelope was slightly crumpled at the edges, the ink of your name smudged just a little. You had run your fingers over it too many times, tracing the loops and curves of his handwriting.

You swallowed, exhaling sharply through your nose. Then, with slightly trembling fingers, you tore the top of the envelope, carefully pulling out the folded pages inside.

His handwriting was the same as always, quick, slightly messy, but undeniably him.

You took a deep breath and began to read.

Y/N,

Happy Fourth of July.

I don’t even know what day it is where I am, but I know it’s today for you. I hope it is, I used my barely there math skills to try and time this letter for you. I know if I was home, we’d be doing something stupid right now. Probably sneaking beers from the fridge, watching the fireworks from the field, you rambling about how pretty they are while I pretend to care but really just care about you.

Instead, I’m here.

We didn’t do much today, just some downtime with the unit. Sam swears up and down he can grill, but I wouldn’t let him near the food. We all sat around, ate, laughed, just tried to feel normal for a little while. It was nice. I needed it.

I needed tonight.

I needed something that felt even a little like home.

I miss it. I miss you. I miss your voice. I miss the way you say my name. I miss the way you call me an idiot when I do something stupid and the way you hug me even when I don’t deserve it.

I miss everything.

I don’t know when this will get to you, but I hope you’re celebrating. Hope you’re watching the fireworks. Hope you’re happy. I wish I could see you. I wish I could talk to you. Just for a second. Just long enough to hear you say my name.

You always told me that watching the fireworks made you feel small in the best way, like we were all just tiny pieces of something bigger. I don’t know if I ever told you, but that’s how I feel about you. Like I’m just a tiny piece of something bigger, something better, because I have you.

Yours Always,

Bucky

Your breath hitched.

You sat there, fingers clutching the letter so tightly the paper nearly crinkled.

For a long time, you didn’t move. Your mind at war, it had been almost a year since he left, you knew you should finally write back so before you had a second thought you reached for your notebook.

You clicked your pen, the tip hovering over the blank page. You started to write.

Then stopped.

Started again.

Stopped again.

The words wouldn’t come.

Not because you didn’t have them. You had too many. Too many things to say, too many things you couldn’t explain.

So, after several long minutes, you let out a slow, shaky breath and then you closed the notebook.

You folded the letter carefully, tucking it back into the envelope.

You decided, you weren’t going to write back, again.

---

The house was alive. The air thick with laughter, music weaving between conversations, the city skyline glowing through the windows. It was the same as it always was, the annual Fourth of July party, Steve’s birthday celebration. A tradition.

Steve was in his element, a drink in hand, effortlessly moving through the crowd, smiling, laughing. Like everything was fine. Like nothing had cracked, like nothing was unraveling right beneath the surface.

Bucky stood near the entryway, a beer dangling from his fingers, his sharp blue eyes scanning the crowd. He was different in this setting, out of place amongst the pressed shirts and city-polished smiles. But then his gaze found yours, and the noise of the party dulled for a moment.

You didn’t have time to cross the room, didn’t have time to get to him before something else cut through the atmosphere like a blade.

“Man, I just don’t get it.”

You turned at the voice.

Clint.

He was nursing a drink, his stance looser than usual, the tension he always carried around you now sharpened into something hateful.

Your brows furrowed. “Clint—”

“No, seriously.” He scoffed, shaking his head, his voice thick with resentment. “You just get everything, don’t you?”

A few heads turned. The air in the room shifted, attention sliding toward the unfolding scene.

Your stomach twisted. “That’s not—”

Clint let out a bitter laugh, his jaw clenching. “You get everything. You get your friend back. You get him.” He gestured vaguely toward Steve, swaying he was far gone. “You get it all.”

Your pulse thrummed in your ears. The weight of eyes on you, the heat of Bucky’s stare burning into the side of your face.

Clint took a step closer, his voice dropping into something quieter, crueler. “Meanwhile, Natasha is gone. I lost my best friend. And you? You just keep winning.”

The words slammed into you. It hurt more than it should have.

Your throat went dry. “That’s not fair.”

Clint laughed again, but this time, it was hollow, empty. “Fair?” His hands tightened around his glass. “Life isn’t fair, hunny. If it was, she’d still be here. But instead—” he gestured around the room, his voice dipping into something venomous. “Instead, you get everything, and she gets nothing.”

The silence in the room was suffocating. Your chest tightened, words caught somewhere between your ribs, stuck.

“That’s enough.”

Bucky’s voice cut through the air like steel.

Clint snorted, shaking his head. “Of course. Here comes the knight in shining armor.”

Bucky clenched his jaw. “I mean it.”

Clint took a step closer. “Or what?”

Bucky’s shoulders squared. “Or you’re gonna want to shut the fuck up before I make you.”

It happened fast. Clint’s fist swung.

Before you even thought about it, before your body even registered the movement, you stepped forward.

Clint’s fist connected with you.

A sharp crack of knuckles against skin.

Everything stopped.

The music, the voices, the movement of the party.

Silence.

The sting spread across your cheek, your head jerking slightly from the impact, the room swaying in a way that made your stomach lurch as the cool liquid ran down from your nose.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x y/n #sebastian stan x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes angst #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes au #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes ff #fluffy bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x reader angst #steve rogers x y/n #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x reader

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bunnelbaby · 3 months ago

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Here’s a list of children’s shows for girl regressors/girl dreamers to enjoy!

(Disclaimer: Much like my list of recommendations for boy(d)res, anyone is welcome to enjoy these shows regardless of how they identify! This is simply a list of series I sense that girl(d)res would like to check out.)

𐐪𐑂 Gabby’s Dollhouse

𐐪𐑂 Jessica’s Big Little World

𐐪𐑂 Elena of Avalor

𐐪𐑂 Sofia the First

𐐪𐑂 Nella the Princess Knight

𐐪𐑂 Ariel

𐐪𐑂 Molly of Denali

𐐪𐑂 Alma’s Way

𐐪𐑂 Rosie’s Rules

𐐪𐑂 Mia and Me

𐐪𐑂 Rainbow Bubblegem

𐐪𐑂 Moon Girl and Devil Dinosaur

𐐪𐑂 Rapunzel’s Tangled Adventure

𐐪𐑂 Miraculous Ladybug

𐐪𐑂 Kipo and the Age of Wonderbeasts

𐐪𐑂 Hilda

𐐪𐑂 Jentry Chau Vs. The Underworld

𐐪𐑂 Dee & Friends in Oz

𐐪𐑂 Dew Drop Diaries

𐐪𐑂 Ada Twist, Scientist

𐐪𐑂 Monster High

𐐪𐑂 Rainbow High

𐐪𐑂 Ever After High

𐐪𐑂 Mermaid High

𐐪𐑂 Supernatural Academy

𐐪𐑂 Unicorn Academy

𐐪𐑂 Lalaloopsy

𐐪𐑂 Barbie

𐐪𐑂 Bratz

𐐪𐑂 Enchantimals

𐐪𐑂 Mira, Royal Detective

𐐪𐑂 Alice’s Wonderland Bakery

𐐪𐑂 Kiya & the Kimoja Heroes

𐐪𐑂 Minnie’s Bow-Toons

𐐪𐑂 Butterbean’s Café

𐐪𐑂 Zoobles!

𐐪𐑂 DC Super Hero Girls

𐐪𐑂 Carmen Sandiego

𐐪𐑂 Star Darlings

𐐪𐑂 Princess Starla and the Jewel Riders

𐐪𐑂 Jem and the Holograms

𐐪𐑂 Angel’s Friends

𐐪𐑂 Rainbow Rangers

𐐪𐑂 Charlie and Lola

𐐪𐑂 Sunny Day

𐐪𐑂 Polly Pocket

𐐪𐑂 Puppy in My Pocket: Adventures in Pocketville

𐐪𐑂 Abby Hatcher

𐐪𐑂 Angelina Ballerina

𐐪𐑂 PopPixie

𐐪𐑂 Mermaid Magic

𐐪𐑂 Princess Tutu

𐐪𐑂 Tokyo Mew Mew

𐐪𐑂 Catch! Teenieping

𐐪𐑂 Flowering Heart

𐐪𐑂 Komi Witch Lara

𐐪𐑂 Tea Tea Cherry

𐐪𐑂 Rainbow Ruby

𐐪𐑂 Littlest Pet Shop: A World of Our Own

𐐪𐑂 Whisker Haven: Tales with the Palace Pets

𐐪𐑂 Wild Manes

𐐪𐑂 Ridley Jones

𐐪𐑂 Harvey Street Kids

𐐪𐑂 Luna Petunia

𐐪𐑂 Vida the Vet

𐐪𐑂 Fancy Nancy

𐐪𐑂 Esme & Roy

𐐪𐑂 Doc McStuffins

𐐪𐑂 Pinkalicious & Peteriffic

𐐪𐑂 W.I.T.C.H.

𐐪𐑂 Winx Club

𐐪𐑂 Cardcaptor Sakura

𐐪𐑂 Jewelpet

𐐪𐑂 Ojamajo Doremi

𐐪𐑂 Revolutionary Girl Utena

𐐪𐑂 Precure

𐐪𐑂 Sailor Moon

𐐪𐑂 Hi Hi Puffy Amiyumi

𐐪𐑂 Strawberry Shortcake

𐐪𐑂 My Little Pony

𐐪𐑂 Care Bears

𐐪𐑂 Fantasy Patrol

𐐪𐑂 Kindi Kids

𐐪𐑂 Sadie Sparks

𐐪𐑂 Magic Mixies

𐐪𐑂 Chip and Potato

𐐪𐑂 Shopkins

𐐪𐑂 She-Ra and the Princesses of Power

𐐪𐑂 RWBY

𐐪𐑂 Princess Power

𐐪𐑂 Kitti Katz

𐐪𐑂 LEGO Elves: Secrets of Elvendale

𐐪𐑂 LEGO Friends

𐐪𐑂 Shimmer and Shine

𐐪𐑂 Little Charmers

𐐪𐑂 True and the Rainbow Kingdom

(Divider Credit)

#agere #sfw agere #age regression #agere resources #girl regression #girlreg

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mi-co-uk · 1 month ago

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ᴬᴺᵀᴵᴰᴼᵀᴱ

ᴄʀɪᴍɪɴᴀʟ!ᴍᴀᴛᴛ x ᴘʀɪɴᴄᴇꜱꜱ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᵂᴬᴿᴺᴵᴺᴳˢ: language, suggestive, intoxication, implications of stalking - obsessive behaviour.

ᵗʰᵉ ˢᵉʳⁱᵉˢ ⁱᵗˢᵉˡᶠ ʷⁱˡˡ ᶜᵒⁿᵗᵃⁱⁿ ˡᵒᵗˢ ᵒᶠ ˢᵐᵘᵗ,ᶠˡᵘᶠᶠ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵃⁿᵍˢᵗ ⋆𐙚

ᵖ.ˢ ᵗʰᵉ ᵍʳᵃᵐᵐᵃʳ ⁱˢ ʷʳᵒⁿᵍ ᶜᵒᶻ ᴵ'ᵐ ᵈʸˢˡᵉˣⁱᶜ ᵃⁿᵈ ˡᵃᶻʸ <3

ᵖˡˢ ᵉⁿʲᵒʸ <3

ᴹᴬˢᵀᴱᴿᴸᴵˢᵀ

INTRO

of course he'd heard of you before. every sick fuck that had ever come to one of your brother's frat parties had unsuccessfully made a move on you, an unspoken battle that you were blissfully unaware of.

but being remotely close to your effortless and genuine presence was a new experience for matt, just when he'd started to be convinced you were some sort of shared hallucation.

matt trailed behind his brother, tuning out the overwhelming chatter to focus on the thumping of the bass that echoed through the house, until he was met with the sight of you. pretty, pink, perfect and off limits.

your eyes were tinted red around the edges, a pink wrapped joint between your fingertips as he watched you nibble on your bottom lip, entertaining a couple of drunk assholes just to pass the time - they muttered unoriginal passes at you, which even matt deemed pathetic despite knowing he wasn't one to talk.

matt wasn't the type to care. he would've never usually make a mental note on someone's beverage of choice or signature lipgloss just because he'd watched them apply it one time. this didn't apply to you - because he knew everything - or at least he wanted to.

he also knew the path you walked going home, how your hair framed your face and how if shifts as you turn your head, checking both directions before crossing the street, not noticing matt trailing a few metres behind.

he knew your dress size, your favourite café, animal, song, fragrance, movie, childhood memory - all these to matt were precious fragments he'd ingrained in his memory, alongside speculative ideas of who you really were;

could you get flustered if he concocted the right phrases to knock down your dumb girl facade? was it even a facade?

how soft would you feel? would you take matt seriously? - or would he go down as another pitiful idiot whose mind you'd effortlessly corrupted? how did you sound when you let someone get that close? did you want him to whisper how perfect you are? how much he needed you? or was it better for him to tell you how much of a tease and a slut you were, letting every guy who had the courage to approach you believe that they had a chance with you.

matt would kill any amount of people just to know, let alone experience it.

every thought of you that matt had whirling around his fucked up head was one he had to remind himself was an impossible fantasy. he sipped on his drink, trying to take the edge of after unashamedly staring at you since the moment he arrived.

matt was no match for you. and he knew that. despite the obvious fact he'd been done for fighting and being drunk or high by the cops, (each on numerous occasions) your brother was the main barrier. it's simplest to say that matt wasn't his favourite person, and this party made that all the more evident.

｡𖦹°‧

ᵃ/ⁿ , this is lowkey ass but whatever lmao , all support is appreciated <3

ᵈⁱᵛⁱᵈᵉʳˢ: @bernardsbendystraws + @anitalenia !!

ᵗᵃᵍˡⁱˢᵗ: @pair-of-pantaloons @oopsiedaisydeer @corspebridedelrey @faiyaz555 @izzylovesmatt @sturniolosrtewsexy @courta13 @sturns-mermaid

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱ - ᵐⁱ

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g1rlsp1ckins · 2 months ago

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𝓣HE 𝓢LYTHERIN ✶ 𝓓ORM

𝕴𝖙'𝖘 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖒𝖞 𝖋𝖆𝖚𝖑𝖙 𝕴'𝖒 𝖇𝖊𝖙𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖓 𝖞𝖔𝖚.

Hidden beneath the castle, deep under the Black Lake, the Slytherin dormitories have shed their old, dreary reputation and transformed into a sleek, modern sanctuary. No longer cold and ominous, the space now radiates a refined elegance, blending old-world charm with contemporary luxury. It’s a haven for ambitious minds, a place where intelligence, creativity, and camaraderie thrive.

The Entrance:

Unlike the other houses, whose common rooms are hidden behind paintings or riddles, the Slytherin entrance remains a well-kept secret, embedded into the stone walls of the dungeons. The door is a seamless, enchanted slab of black marble veined with silver, appearing only when approached by a Slytherin. With a simple touch or a murmured password, it slides open silently, revealing the breathtaking space beyond.

The foyer is a quiet antechamber before the main common room, designed for those who need a brief moment of solitude before entering the lively hub of the house. Plush emerald benches line the walls, and soft overhead lighting casts a gentle glow over the polished black tile floor. A house crest, made of enchanted silver, shimmers on the wall, subtly shifting between different designs over the years—sometimes reflecting the faces of past Slytherin legends, sometimes morphing into a snake that slithers lazily across the surface.

──────────── · · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · · ────────────

The Common Room:

Stepping into the common room is like entering a high-end lounge designed for scholars and socialites alike. The Black Lake Viewing Windows stretch from floor to ceiling, offering an uninterrupted, spellbinding view of the water beyond. Sunlight filters through in dappled beams during the day, creating a serene, ever-moving pattern across the walls. At night, the lake turns dark and mysterious, with occasional flashes of silver from passing mermaids, darting grindylows, or schools of luminescent fish.

The central seating area is designed for both comfort and conversation. Instead of rigid wooden chairs, plush velvet sectionals in deep green and charcoal gray create cozy clusters, each accompanied by polished oak coffee tables that hold floating candle sconces and stacks of books left behind by students. A massive fireplace, enchanted with cool green and blue flames, sits as the focal point of the room, casting flickering reflections across the glass windows and silver-trimmed walls.

A study alcove on the far side of the room is quieter, tucked away for those who need focus. A long, sleek ebony table runs along the wall, lined with ergonomic chairs that adjust themselves to each student’s preferred posture. Floating glass orbs provide customizable lighting, glowing softly for those pulling late-night study sessions. The surrounding bookshelves are filled with both classic wizarding texts and modern literature, spanning everything from magical law to wizarding fashion trends.

For relaxation, a leisure lounge sits opposite the study alcove, featuring an enchanted chess table, a moving dartboard that playfully dodges poor shots, and a Wizarding Wireless system that plays curated playlists based on the collective mood of the room—whether it’s instrumental music for studying or lively jazz for social evenings.

In one corner, a self-serve café station offers an array of beverages, from classic teas and butterbeer to cold brew coffee and specially crafted wizarding drinks. The station is magically replenished, ensuring that no student ever suffers through an early morning class without caffeine. Seasonal drinks rotate throughout the year—pumpkin spice brews in autumn, peppermint hot chocolate in winter, honey-infused teas in spring, and iced berry potions in summer.

Additional Exclusive Spaces:

Beyond the common room and dorms, the Slytherin quarters feature several hidden areas, reserved for house members only:

The Greenhouse Atrium – A hidden indoor garden filled with exotic plants from all over the wizarding world. Ivy-covered archways lead to a peaceful retreat where students can read, meditate, or study potions in a natural setting. Twinkling fairy lights overhead create a serene, dreamlike atmosphere.

The Lounge Bar – A sophisticated space for unwinding after classes. While it doesn’t serve alcohol, handcrafted butterbeer mocktails, chilled pumpkin juice, and sparkling potions are always on tap. Elegant yet comfortable, it’s the perfect place for deep conversations or celebratory evenings after exams.

The Duelling Room – A state-of-the-art training space for combat practice, fitness, and spellwork. Enchanted dummies, moving obstacle courses, and sparring rings allow students to refine their magical skills in a controlled environment.

The Music & Arts Studio – A soundproofed creative space equipped with enchanted instruments, a recording charm, and a small stage for performances. Whether students want to compose music, paint, or practice dramatic readings, this room is a hub for artistic expression.

──────────── · · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · · ────────────

The Dormitories:

Unlike the cramped and uniform dorms of the past, the modern Slytherin dormitories have been reimagined for comfort, privacy, and personal expression. Instead of only shared rooms, students now have access to private quarters apon request.

Each student, even in shared dorms have their own rooms with beds that are king-sized, dressed in deep emerald or obsidian bedding, embroidered with silver accents. Some students prefer a sleek, minimalistic look with crisp linens and dark wood, while others decorate their spaces with fairy lights, houseplants, and velvet throws. The ceilings can be enchanted to reflect a starry night sky, rainstorms, or even the movement of the Black Lake above.

Each room features a customizable study nook, complete with a polished oak desk, floating bookshelves, and a smart magical mirror that doubles as a daily planner. A window—enchanted to show either the outside world or calming landscapes—can be adjusted depending on the student’s mood.

The wardrobes are another innovation—walk-in closets that magically organize outfits based on the day’s schedule, weather, or personal preference. The enchanted mirror inside offers styling advice and, when in a playful mood, delivers sassy commentary about outfit choices.

1. The Beds

Slytherins value both comfort and aesthetics, and their beds are a reflection of that.

Four-Poster or Canopy Options: Some students keep the traditional regal look, while others enchant their beds to hover slightly above the floor.

Self-Regulating Bedding: Enchanted to adjust to your body temperature for the perfect sleep.

Silk, velvet, or Egyptian cotton sheets, depending on personal preference.

Hidden Storage: Drawers that magically organize clothes, with an enchanted shoe rack that cleans and repairs itself overnight.

Dream Projection Feature: Some beds allow students to replay memories or visualize their dreams before sleeping.

2. Work & Study Spaces

Slytherins are strategic thinkers, so their rooms have top-tier workstations to match their ambitions.

Floating Desks that adjust to standing or sitting mode.

Spell-Proof Study Nooks for students who need to concentrate without distractions.

Holographic Notes & Book Summaries – Simply tap a book, and a glowing summary appears in the air.

Auto-Writing Quills that take dictated notes or transcribe ideas.

3. Personal Wardrobes & Vanity Areas

Walk-in Closets, with sections sorted by magical occasion (formal robes, casual wear, dueling gear, etc.).

Vanity Mirrors with Enchantment Features:

Offer styling advice and hair-styling charms.

Can alter appearances temporarily to test different looks before committing.

Self-Organizing Laundry Baskets: Clothes fold themselves and freshen up overnight.

4. Personalization & Enchanted Features

Slytherins don’t do boring. Their dorms have the coolest magical modifications, including:

Mood Lighting Charms: Adjust the lighting’s warmth and color depending on the vibe.

Personal Sound Systems: Students can play enchanted records, ambient sounds, or Muggle music through magical speakers.

Moving Artwork: Family portraits, classic wizarding art, or animated abstract designs. Some paintings even interact with students, offering advice or sarcasm depending on their enchantment.

Miniature Greenhouses: For students interested in herbology or potion ingredients, a small terrarium-style setup is available in some rooms.

5. Secret Features & Custom Spells

Because Slytherins always have a trick up their sleeve, many students add hidden elements to their rooms.

Hidden Compartment Drawers – Perfect for stashing notes, valuables, or contraband.

Private Entrance Charms – Some students enchant their doors to only open with a personalized spell or phrase.

Soundproofing Charms – For privacy, late-night study sessions, or secret conversations.

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The Bathrooms:

Stepping into the Slytherin bathrooms feels like entering a high-end wizarding spa. The air is lightly scented with enchanted eucalyptus and lavender, keeping the space feeling fresh and calming. The walls are lined with dark green marble, veined with silver, and the floor tiles are temperature-controlled, ensuring that even on the coldest winter mornings, they remain warm underfoot.

Showers & Bathtubs:

Walk-in Rainfall Showers – Spacious, sleek, and enclosed in frosted glass, the showers are charmed to provide a perfect water temperature every time. Some even have illusion charms, allowing students to bathe under a "rainforest canopy" or "waterfall lagoon."

Deep Soaking Bathtubs – Large enough for full-body relaxation, these clawfoot tubs come with a variety of magical bath oils and bubbles that change scents based on mood. Some students opt for self-heating bath stones, turning their baths into a personal hot spring.

Vanity & Grooming Area

Fog-Resistant Mirrors – These enchanted mirrors provide morning affirmations or style advice, adjusting to each student’s needs.

Grooming Stations – Individual vanities stocked with self-cleaning towels, wizarding hair-care tools, and potions for styling or skincare.

Personalized Magic Lockers – Each student has a small enchanted locker where they can store toiletries programmed to open only at their touch.

Additional Features

Soft Lighting Charms – Adjustable based on mood or time of day, ensuring no harsh glares during early morning routines.

Music Charms – Optional, allowing students to play soft instrumentals, classic wizarding tunes, or even Muggle music while getting ready.

Aromatherapy Spells – Cast over the space, keeping it fresh and infused with soothing scents.

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