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the-witty-pen-name · 2 days ago

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The Love Triangle From Hell (3)

Steve Harrington x F!Reader / Eddie Munson x F!Reader

Synopsis: Following PART TWO, Steve feels even more distant from his friends- especially you; Eddie reflects on memories he has of you two; Nancy and Jonathan work together for the paper; Robin does her best to navigate what being friends with you and Steve looks like; you seek comfort in one of the only ways you know how- calling Eddie

Series Masterlist

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings: messy messy feelings; unrequited love; cursing; arguments; crying; angst angst angsty angst; allusions to violence; miscommunication; jealousy; kissing; implications of smut; horniness

A/N: You guys are literally the absolute best. I am having the best time writing this- I'm so inspired by all of you. The love you have shown this fic so far has me overwhelmed. Thank you for your kind words, you have helped me work through some serious writer's block. Your comments and reblogs are keeping me going fr

This is unedited; please let me know what you think and if I missed anything I should include as a warning.

This series with be 18+ in later chapters MINORS DNI

His hands are tangled in your hair and he’s pulling you in close for another searing kiss. He can’t catch his breath, but he’s just so desperate to stay close to you like this. Your lips are so soft against his and your mouth is so inviting as you yank him closer. You whimper against his lips and it makes him shiver. He feels weak in the knees as you feel so pliable to his touch. You melt into his embrace and sigh happily as his lips trail down your neck.

“Want you,” you moan softly, tugging his hair. He groans at the sensation. “Need you so bad.”

“‘M gonna take care of you,” he promises, bringing his lips back to yours.

“Love you,” you moan.

Before he finds out if he says it back, his alarm goes off and he’s brought back to his reality. He groans disappointedly, covering his ears with his pillow- desperate for a couple more minutes with dream you. There’s a bang at his door.

“Steve! Turn that shit off!” Eddie calls from the other side of the door. He’s yelling but his tone is playful. Steve hits his alarm off and drudges out of bed finally. Eddie has coffee made and Steve forgets anything is wrong at the moment.

“Did she say anything last night?” Steve asks groggily as he pours himself a cup.

“Um, not really,” Eddie replies, taking a moment to think about it. “I mean, yes but not about anything that we don’t know already. She’s conflicted, she doesn’t know what to think or feel. She just wants time.”

“Okay,” Steve replies, leaning up against the counter. He takes a sip of his coffee. He needs to get to work. He can talk about this with Robin when he gets there.

When you called Eddie, you didn’t expect Steve to answer. You thought maybe he’d say something- you wanted him too. But he didn’t. You couldn’t read him anymore.

Eddie was thrilled to hear your voice. He’d missed you, and he’d missed talking to you. He wanted that piece back as soon as he could get it. He reveled in the way his name sounded coming from you.

“I’m so sorry,” you apologize, “I didn’t mean to upset Steve- I heard the way he dropped the phone down…”

“It’s okay sweetheart,” he says compassionately. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He’s met with a sad feeling of silence.

“I’m happy you called,” he says gently. He hopes the sentiment makes you feel better.

“I’ve missed you,” you admit, and Eddie feels like his heart might swell out of his chest.

“It’s hard when the two people who you talk about everything with are the people you want to talk about,” you joke, and he laughs with you.

“You can talk shit about me,” he teases and he hears you groan. He bites his lip, holding back a smile.

“How are you doing?” You ask, changing the subject.

“Much better now,” he flirts.

“How are you doing, really?” You ask again, your voice sounding more fragile.

“I meant, honestly- not great. But not worse than anyone else is doing right now.”

“Yeah…”

“I miss you a lot too,” he admits. He runs a hand through his hair, and it reminds him of how amazing it felt the last time you played with his hair. He’s craving that touch so badly.

When you both were in high school, Eddie went out of his way to make sure you always had a seat at the table. He’d notice as you stood with your cafeteria tray, waiting for Steve to realize there was no open seat for you at his table. He’d wave obnoxiously to catch your eye and he’d smile at the way you’d get shy from the attention. He’d point at the empty seat next to him, and he’d grin as your eyes light up in realization you had a spot. You’d shuffle through the crowd and take your seat next to him. You’d take a seat and ruffle his hair in your hands.

Eddie was always a creature of habit. As much as he exudes chaos, he actually thrives in having a routine. Don’t get him wrong- it’s never been a good routine… but it’s routine nonetheless. In high school it was a lot of the same. Tuesdays, Corroded Coffin played at The Hideout. He would get home way too late and never get in bed until close to 3am. Wednesday mornings, he’d sleep through his alarm and stroll into first period consistently 10ish minutes late. Thursdays he prepped for Hellfire, and then of course, the piece the resistance was Friday. Hellfire. An epic campaign that would run several hours and ensure the most recent shit week had been worth it to make it to that moment.

He remembers that he was paralyzed when the group proposed to postpone Hellfire one time his first senior year. It snaps him out of his thoughts, as he was so wrapped up in you- and how close you were sitting. Eddie knew that hypothetically, it shouldn’t matter if the date changes. However, he couldn’t wrap his head around change. He hated it- still does. A disruption from his status quo throws off his entire week and it will take him too long to mentally recover. He knew that he came off as a hard ass, but he prefers it than trying to explain his mind to his friends. He had felt his jaw tighten as he tried to rationalize with himself that it can be okay to switch it up. He unclenched his fists once he realized that he was making his knuckles white unintentionally.

“Uh yeah, no problem. Saturday’s fine,” he was able to manage through gritted teeth. He relaxed when he could look past himself and see his friends smile, thanking him and happily chatting about the campaign. He smiled when he observed that his decision made everyone happy. That for him outweighed the internal struggle.

He didn’t really listen to the reason everyone wanted to reschedule, but he picked up on after the fact that everyone is talking about the Snow Ball. He couldn’t help but recoil back into himself as his friends talked about their plans to go- who they’re asking, what suit they’re getting, what songs would play, and whatever. He couldn’t have cared less. Unless…

His eyes wandered to sneak a glance at you. He wondered if you had plans- maybe you're hoping someone asks you. Maybe, he’s lucky and you were hoping that someone would be him. He wondered if you had a date. Maybe you already had been asked. It’s not like you had been aware of the way Eddie’s felt about you- unrequited feelings that tugged on his focus constantly since he’s known you. You caught his eye and offered him a shy smile and he could crumble.

Eddie immediately averted his gaze, and focused his attention back on his friends. He ignored the way his face suddenly became so warm and he ignored the butterflies that were swarming around in his stomach. He couldn’t allow himself to dwell on these feelings- he knew that there’s no way you feel the same. Who could possibly like him?

He felt a pressure when the freshman looked at him, one of them having asked Eddie about his own plans. Eddie sees the way the kids look up to him, they idolize him. He knows they think he’s cool. He can’t let that go just yet, he loved it too much. He needed it. He wanted to have them hang on to this version of him for as long as they’d believe in it.

So, despite his usual distaste in school sanctioned functions, he did not want to allow the kids to think he couldn’t score a date. He could only blame society so much before they realized it’s actually his own fear of putting himself out there that cramped his dating life more than anything else. He then resolves that he needs a date to this dance. He tells himself that it’s for the freshman, to keep up the cool facade or whatever. But in actuality, he just wanted to ask you because he wants to ask you out. It’s his perfect window of opportunity.

“Oh, I hadn’t thought about it, honestly,” you said, when one of the freshmen asked you if you had plans. “I’d been so busy with the play, I haven’t had a chance.” Eddie watched as you glanced over to Steve’s table. “Steve and I usually would go to this kinda thing,” you said quickly, and Eddie could see your apprehension despite your best attempt to hide it. “We’ll probably go as friends again.”

He said nothing.

A few days later, you called Eddie and he could immediately tell you’re upset. You’re doing your best to hold it together but he can tell you’re almost at your breaking point.

“Hey,” you say, your voice straining as you try not to cry. “I know this is totally not your thing, but I’m kind of in a bind.”

“What can I do?” He asked, sitting up straight on his bed. He was getting ready to locate his shoes or his keys- thinking you’re in trouble somewhere. He’ddrop anything to come get you.

“I know you’d probably rather do literally anything else, but um, I have two tickets to the Snow Ball and I already bought a dress…”

“I thought you’d be going with Steve?” He asked. You sniffled.

“Um, yeah I kind of just assumed he’d take me. I didn’t realize that he asked out Nancy Wheeler,” you choked back tears. “I mean it’s not like that,” you lied, maybe not to Eddie but more to yourself, “we’re just friends. But I still thought He and I would be going together like as friends again- you know? But, uh, yeah- he is taking like a real date.”

“I know you’d hate it, and I will make it up to you. But, I already bought the tickets and I can’t get my money back. It’s like not a date or anything, just like a friend thing…”

“I’d be happy to take you,” he replied, sincerely. He can tell you were expecting him to fight you on it. When would you catch on that he’s willing to do anything for you?

“Eddie, thank you so much,” you sniffled, still trying your best to keep it cool. “I owe you one,” your voice cracks and you hang up quickly before he gets a chance to say anything.

Eddie didn’t really understand back then why you were even friends with Steve to begin with. Eddie thought Steve, frankly, was a total douchebag. However, once he actually got to know Steve- it was a different story. He couldn’t resent Steve. He loved him like a brother now. And once Eddie got to know the Steve you’ve always known, your feelings for him made sense. But at the same time, Eddie held his tongue for all the things Steve did or didn’t do for so long. Steve was good guy at his core, Eddie understood. But his actions didn’t reflect that in Eddie’s eyes. But it wasn’t his place to tell you that. It didn’t seem right. You’d known Steve so much longer than him.

Nancy and Jonathan invited you and Robin to go with them to watch Lucas’ basketball game. You were excited to get out of your little apartment and support Lucas. Jonathan was photographing it for The Hawkins Post. Jonathan paced up and down the court side to get photos, and you sat up in the bleachers with Nancy and Robin. You were never one to go to school things really, but it was Lucas’s senior year and it was a big game- of course you were going to be there.

“It feels weird, Steve not being here,” Nancy whispers to you and you nod in agreement.

“Yeah, everything just feels weird right now,” you agree. “You and Jonathan are okay?”

“We’re good. We’re doing good, um, still working through stuff but we’re going to just work through it.”

“That’s good.”

“Robin?” Nancy asks, and Robin turns her head to pay attention. “How’s things with Vicky?”

Robin’s face turns tomato red. “Fine,” she mumbles, happily. “I’m gonna hang out with her tomorrow.” You elbow her teasingly, making her blush redden.

“How’s it feeling? Being the best at all of this out of us?” You tease.

“I don’t know,” she’s so embarrassed, it’s so sweet. “We both just like each other- it’s not that complicated. She’s so great.”

The three of you turn your attention back to the game at the sound of the whistle. You clapped and cheered the loudest whenever Lucas had the ball. He tried to plead with the lot of you to tone it down, casting weary looks in your direction. You couldn’t help yourselves. You felt so proud of him.

You decide to take a walk to the concession stands and get some snacks for everyone. You order four sodas and two large popcorns- one for Jonathan and Nancy and one for you and Robin. You fish the cash out of the front pocket of your jeans, and hand it to the kid working the window. You thank him, and balance it all in your hands to navigate carefully back to the stands.

You see a familiar face coming down the hallway, sprinting. For a moment, you can’t help the smile that forms across the expanse of your face until you remember what’s been going on. Your face falls, and you feel so stupid for being excited to see him when it hits you again all at once.

You don’t think Steve knew you’d all be here, because he looks just as surprised to see you. He stops and his sneakers squeak across the polished gym floor. He looks at you with an expression of pure panic. He totally didn’t think you’d be here. And you’re surprised he came alone- but of course he did, he’s Steve. Of course, he’s going to show up to every game for Lucas. You shouldn’t expect any less. It still takes you back.

“Can I help with those?” he asked, gesturing for you to pass some stuff to him. You nod, and tilt so he can take some of the things from your grasp.

“Where are you sitting?” He asks, and you nod your head towards Robin and Nancy. His face deflates. “Ah, okay.” He walks over with you, and he passes the items in his hand off to Robin. He moves aside so you can walk back into your spot.

“Thanks, Steve,” you offer him a soft smile, appreciating the effort despite the circumstances.

“Yeah of course,” he mutters, backing away, lingering for a moment because the seat that’s usually there for him between you and Robin isn’t there. He quickly pulls himself out of his thoughts and just heads over to the next row of bleachers, finding a seat next to a couple of his old basketball teammates that are here for their little brothers.

Steve can’t even focus on the game, he keeps trying to steal glances of you from his peripheral vision. He wants to know what Robin said that made you laugh like that, and he wished he could have heard your laugh- but you’re too far away from him. He watches as your jaw drops at something Nancy tells you, and he watches how you cheer so happily for Lucas. He wants to know if this is bothering you the way it’s bothering him. You look like you’re keeping it together and he wants to know if that could truly be the case.

Even when you’re carrying so much hurt, you give off such a radiance that Steve and he’s sure everyone else is just drawn into. Your pretty smile and your bright eyes are all he can think about- he only knows when to cheer when he feels the people around him move. He smiles when you stand up and pose, pointing to Lucas- then Lucas matches it, giving it back to you. He watches as you both share that moment of just pure joy, and his heart aches. He doesn’t know if he could ever make you that happy.

When the game was over, you looked to see if you could find Steve but there was no sign of him. You all invited Lucas to go out for celebratory pizza for his big win, but he wanted to go with his teammates. The plan fizzled pretty much after that. Robin wanted to get home so she could call Vicky and Jonathan and Nancy wanted to head home so Jonathan could start developing his photos. When you and Robin are walking out, you see a familiar van.

“I’ll bum a ride from Nancy,” Robin assures you, pushing you in Eddie’s direction. She waves to Eddie from a distance and then jogs to catch up with Nancy and Jonathan.

“What are you doing here?” you ask with a smile. He pushes himself off of the hood of his van and walks over to you, his hands in the back pockets of his jeans.

“I thought you might be here,” he quips. “Plus, I had to poke my head in- Sinclair is some big shot apparently?” he jokes, “I had to check out for a few minutes.”

“He’s really great,” you agree.

“Was Steve here?” Eddie asks.

“Yeah I saw him. He didn’t really stay either- I mean he stayed for the game, but we didn’t talk really.” You shrug.

“Well,” he says, trying to optimistically change the subject, “Do you wanna get out of here? I could give you a ride home or we could get food or something- or even just drive around and not talk. I’m not picky.”

He looks so beautiful like this, you observe. The sky is pitch black but the lights in the parking lot illuminate him perfectly with a soft glow. His hair is wonderfully messy and his smile is making it hard for you to breathe. Has he always looked like this? You wonder, astonished as it hits you all at once. He’s gorgeous. Your eyes linger, taking in every little detail you’ve overlooked before. He waves his hand in front of your face to snap you out of your trance.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he tisks.

“Looking at you like what?”

“Like you’re trying to jump my bones,” he chuckles. Your face warms, and suddenly you realize how long you must have been staring.

“Ha, right,” you joke sarcastically, or at least, trying to joke sarcastically. You walk past him and get into the passenger side of the van and try your best to compose yourself in the few seconds it takes for him to follow suit.

“Okay, sweetheart,” he says, turning over the ignition, “where to?”

“Can we just drive around like we used to?” you ask- the circumstances of tonight making you feel so nostalgic.

“Of course we can,” he hums, passing you the case of his cassettes- a familiar and welcomed sight for your tired eyes.

You watch Eddie as he drives, and observe the way the muscles in his arms flex ever so subtly as he turns the wheel. You watch his ringed fingers tap across the top of the steering wheel and you can’t help it the way your mind wanders. You’re so wrapped up in the way his hair sways so effortlessly and the movement of his jaw as he sings, you don’t even notice that Steve was leaving the gym just in time to see you both drive away.

After a little while of aimless driving, and hitting up the drive thru, Eddie ends up parking at Lover’s Lake when neither of you are ready to go home just yet.

“Eddie?” You ask absentmindedly, finishing off the milkshake he got you. “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot,” he replies, also finishing his, but with an obnoxiously loud suck of his straw- determined to get every last sip.

“Why do you like me?” you ask, cringing almost immediately. You think you sound like a middle schooler or something- you’re so embarrassed. His eyes widen for a brief second, contemplating his answer. He tosses the empty cup into the back.

“First off,” he criticizes teasingly, “I did not say I liked you- I’m in love with you. Get your facts straight, ma’am.”

“My apologies,” you giggle, holding your hands up in defeat.

“I mean- I love everything about you; always have,” he starts. “You’re sweet and kind. I think you’re beautiful. I think you’re incredible, and sometimes I can’t figure out why you wanted to ever be friends with me in the first place.”

“Eddie?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Would you kiss me?”

Eddie’s a goner when you’re looking at him with those doe eyes. More than anything he wants to lunge across and close the space between you. It’s everything he’s ever wanted. It takes every fiber of his being to hold himself back..

“I don’t know if I can kiss you without knowing if I could ever kiss you again,” He whispers, but it doesn’t stop him from leaning in towards you. His hand lifts to hold your cheek and suddenly he’s so close. Closer than the two of you have ever been. His lips are tantalizingly close to yours when his forehead touches yours. A huge bang on the side of the van scares you both away from each other.

“Give her time, my ass, Munson! Get the fuck out here! Get your fucking hands off my girl!”

Taglist:

@sunshinepeachx @downbear @fanlifeaamt @exploding-bonbon @losingmygrasponreality @skiddypiddy @andvys @djodirt @moonlightsolo @kyga01 @sheisjoeschateau @melaninjhs

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k1mbe3rly · 2 days ago

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toxic myung-gi head cannons?🙏 luv me some toxicness

Myung-gi toxic head cannon

warnings: extreme toxic behavior, obsessive behavior, mean myung gi, edging, overstimulation.

(sorry if it’s bad😓😓)

• Myung-gi is the type to most likely go thru your phone when you leave it behind and check everything, photos, recently deleted, and socials

• once he automatically finds something he doesn’t like he goes beyond, he confronts you and makes you explain and if he doesn’t like your explanation he gets a bit aggressive

• Once you pull out “Why are you even going thru my phone without my consent?!” card, he’ll make everything seem like he didn’t do nothing wrong, he accuses you of cheating or hiding something from him

• He would probably bend you over and shove his full length into you as a “punishment” but probably just wants to fuck you.

• He’ll overstimulate as a punishment as well, trying to get every last orgasm out of you at least 5, his thrust are really sloppy since it’s mixed with your juices and cum and his cum.

• If yall are in public and notices your catching up with an “old male friend” he automatically gets so possessive and jealous, he literally stares into the poor guys soul not caring about anything. He even tries to include himself in the conversation. the second he notices him or you being too friendly, he’s quick to drag you away.

• he takes you somewhere private and yells at you, maybe a slight degrading, “You little slut! you just wanted to catch my attention huh? you just wanted to make me jealous!”, and with that your pressed against a wall getting fucked, plunging his cock deep inside you while whispering dirty things into your ear “Is this what you wanted huh? to get me all worked up hm? c’mon. you can tell me the truth.” he says as he keeps thrusting in and out with one hand slightly gripping onto your hips and the other on the wall

• He likes to take control of the relationship and make everything go his way, he wants to make all the decision like what you wear and what you do, and if you don’t listen he starts crashing out, he makes you feel bad and sometimes, RARELY blackmails you and eventually you give in and follow what he wants

• Once he saw you wearing a revealing outfit, he got so pissed and let’s just say you were not able to cum for at least that afternoon, he spends the whole night or day teasing you and fingering you but not once letting you cum at all, which makes you whine and cry out as he gives you a slight slap on the face. “Be grateful i’m even giving you anything. Stop whining or else i’m not gonna let you cum.” he says while pushing your hips down back onto the mattress as he was eating you out.

• But overall he is a good boyfriend just very toxic when he gets jealous and possessive, He does love you a lot and admires you, one of his excuses of being so controlling is, “I’m just worried about you! i really do love you, im looking after you! what don’t you understand about that!”

#squid game #squid game smut #myung gi #lee myung gi #squid game season 2 #squid game s2 #squid game x reader

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enderlovez · 3 days ago

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On Thin Ice

Spencer Reid x Chubby Reader WORD COUNT: 1300+

Summary: After a particularly grueling case, the weight of your insecurities catches up with you. Despite years of toughening yourself against judgment, an unexpected moment of self-doubt has you questioning everything—until Spencer reminds you of your worth.

Content Warning: body image issues, insecurity and self doubt, emotional vulnerability, mentions of childhood bullying, Spencer is a sweetheart, metaphors about falling through ice

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

You've always been the fat kid.

The one picked last for teams in gym class. The one who endured sidelong glances at lunch when you grabbed a second slice of pizza, even though everyone else was already on their third. The one people were dared to ask out during games of truth or dare.

The one whose confidence had to be built like a fortress over the years of relentless judgement, brick by painstaking brick. You'd grown used to the torment over the years—or so you thought.

The things you've seen in this job are enough to shatter most people—dead bodies and grieving familiar and the kind of darkness that crawls under your skin and refuses to leave.

You've stood on the edge of danger more times than you care to count, facing down killers without so much as flinching, literally been stabbed and shot. None of it breaks you. But tonight, staring at your reflection in the BAU bathroom mirror, you feel like you're crumbling.

Your blouse, which you'd liked when you put it on this morning, now feels all wrong. The fabric stretches across your chest and stomach in ways that make your skin crawl.

It fits—technically—but your brain won't let you believe it. The logical part of you knows it's fine—it fits and it looks good, no one cares. But the voice in your head, the one you've spent years trying to quiet, whispers, Isn't it a little snug?

You press your palms flat against the sink, trying to steady your breathing. Why does this matter? you ask yourself. Why do I care?

You see the worst humanity has to offer every day. You quite literally deal with life and death and unimaginable grief. Your body—how it looks, how it fits into societal expectations—should be the least of your concerns.

And yet, here you are.

Maybe part of the reason everything feels to terrible tonight is because of him—Spencer. He's been talking to you heaps more lately, and though it really should make you feel better, it only deepens whatever this insecure feeling inside you is.

The way he moves, the way he talks, the way his beautiful mind works—everything about him fascinates you, and you've been harboring this ridiculous, all-consuming crush for months.

But no matter how much you try to push it down, it always creeps back in, and with it comes the certainty that you're not his type. How could you be? He's brilliant and kind and effortlessly charming in his own unique way, and you're... you. Soft in all the undesirable places, sometimes a little too loud for even yourself.

It's not that you don't think you're worth something, but when you're next to him, it's hard not to feel like you fade into the background. And you've been next to him a lot more than usual.

The mirror reflects your frown back at you, the tightness in your chest growing until it feels like you might snap. You splash cold water on your face, hoping the shock will pull you out of your spiral.

It doesn't, but you can pretend it does.

The bullpen is quiet when you step back into it, the hum of computers and the rustle of papers the only sounds. Most of the team has gone home for the night, except for Spencer.

You find him in the kitchenette, his tall frame bent awkwardly as he wrestles with the ancient coffee maker.

He glances up as you walk in, his expression softening when he sees you. "Couldn't sleep?"

Right—you were going to nap somewhere before getting back to work before you detoured to the bathroom.

You shrug, leaning against the counter. "Something like that."

Spencer nods, his focus shifting back to the coffee pot. "I think this machine predates the invention of modern technology," he mutters, earning a faint smile from you. He pours two mugs of coffee and hands one to you, his finger brushing your briefly.

"Thanks," you say, your voice quieter than you intended.

For a while, the two of you drink in silence, no words shared. None are needed. It's comforting, standing next to him in the soft glow of the kitchenette light. For a moment, you almost almost feel normal in your own skin. Like everyone else.

Except Spencer has always been too perceptive (especially when it comes to you, but you don't need to know that), and you can feel his gaze periodically flicking toward you, studying your face.

"You know," he says eventually, "it's okay to feel overwhelmed. You don't have to hold it together all the time, not when you're... in this particular profession."

The comment catches you off guard, and you look at him sharply. His expression is calm, his tone heartbreakingly gentle, but the words hit a nerve. You force a laugh, trying to deflect. "I'm fine, Spencer. Just tired is all."

He doesn't buy it. Of course, he doesn't. This is Spencer Reid, profiler extraordinaire, the man who can read you like an open book even when you think you're being subtle.

"Are you?" he asks, tilting his head slightly. His voice is soft, but there's an unfamiliar firmness to it that makes you pause.

You want to brush him off, to keep the walls you've built around yourself firmly in place. But the words slip out before you can stop them—apparently your subconscious is desperate to get it out.

"I don't know," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. "It's just that sometimes I feel like... I don't know, like I don't belong here. Like I'm walking on thin ice, and any second it's going to crack, and I'm going to fall through."

Spencer's brows knit together, and he sets his mug down on the counter. "Why would you feel like that?"

You hesitate, the familiar shame and embarrassment bubbling up in your chest. "Because I've always been the... the fat one, okay? The one people look at and judge before they even know my name. I should be used to it by now. I am used to it, but sometimes..."

You trail off, swallowing hard.

"Sometimes it just gets to me, and I hate that it does, because it's so stupid. There are so many bigger things to worry about than how I look. People are actually dying out there, and I'm sitting here worried about my stupid blouse being too tight..."

Spencer step closer, his expression unreadable. For a moment, you wonder if you've said too much, if he thinks you're being ridiculous. But then he speaks, and his voice is steady, full of quiet conviction.

"It's not stupid. What you're feeling is valid," he says. "And you're not 'the fat one.' You're you—intelligent and compassionate and one of the strongest people I've ever met. The way you connect with people and make them feel seen, even in the darkest moments of their life—that's not something everyone can do. That's you."

The words hit you like a wave, the sincerity in his tone making your throat tighten. You look down at your coffee, unable to meet his eyes.

"You don't have to say that just to make me feel better," you mumble.

"I'm not just saying it to make you feel better," he replies. "I mean it."

He hesitates for a moment before reaching out, his hand hovering near yours. When you don't pull away—you don't think you could ever make yourself pull away from Spencer—he rests it gently on top of yours. The warmth of his touch is grounding, and for the first time all night, you feel like you can breathe again.

"Thin ice can hold more weight than you think," he says quietly. "And even if it does crack, you won't fall. I'll make sure of it."

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, and you think them away quickly. "Thank you, Spencer," you say, your voice thick with emotion.

"Anytime." He smiles, the kind of smile that feels like sunlight breaking through the clouds. "And for the record, I think you're beautiful."

Your heart does a little flip, your face warming. Maybe one day you can tell him how you feel, how desperately in love you are with him.

Baby steps.

#spencer reid x bau reader #spencer reid oneshot #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x female reader #spencer reid #spencer reid x chubby reader #spencer reid x plus size reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #enderlovez

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the-ace-with-spades · 3 days ago

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(sorry this got longer than I thought)

You know what fic I'd love to read?

One where Carole dies but doesn't get anything in order before her death (as is many times the case) and Mav is installed as Bradley's temporary guardian after her death but everything goes wrong very fast

Due to Mav's less than heterosexuals tendencies, Bradley ends up in the foster system. One day a social worker with a police officer just shows up and takes him away from school and he doesn't know what's going on. He ends up in his first not so good foster family the same evening. Mav can't even visit as he is deemed a bad influence and has an ongoing investigation if he is 'fit' to be Bradley's guardian.

He doesn't stop asking about Mav for months. Keeps trying to run away to him (he's about 50 miles away because foster homes are sparse so no dice) and finally his foster 'mom' is fed up with the constant asks to at least try and call Mav so she tells him Mav didn't want him and doesn't want Bradley to contact him.

And because Bradley is twelve, he believes it.

(It's not that Mav didn't try. There was a whole appeal process but Mav had a deployment right after and he couldn't explain to the social workers that no, Bradley would stay with someone trusted while he was gone, because that someone was Ice, the source of his suspected homosexual tendencies. They literally told him he's not allowed to contact Bradley and once he came back from deployment, Bradley was already in a different foster home, a few counties over and lost in the system.)

Bradley spends the rest of his childhood in the system. His first family is dubious and the following ones are a mix of constant hope and disappointment. He has at least two different families foster him every year, until he is sixteen and ends up in a group home. There are only two families that he actually comes close to calling family - a young married couple that stops fostering when the wife is diagnosed with chronic autoimmune disorder, and a couple of teachers that have to drop one of the two kids they foster when the financial requirements to foster raise and decide that Bradley is going to be that kid.

No one ever even thinks about adopting him. He's got good grades and stays on top of school, but that's about what is going well in his life. Some families he's with are average - they let him be and maybe don't care as much for anything that involves him as long it doesn't stir trouble at the fostering agency and Bradley is healthy and safe. Some families are worse - sometimes he is one of the five kids and is expected to stay and be a live-in nanny, sometimes they're only doing it for the money and he has barely anything, barely any food, barely any attention, barely any clothes, barely any school supplies, just so he doesn't cost too much. Sometimes, things get physical - it happens less, the taller he gets and by the time he starts fighting back, he has enough reputation that no one believes it and no one wants to foster him anymore. And group home it is.

By the time he's seventeen, he's enlisted. Just so he leaves the system as fast as he can. It all works out because the Navy fits the bill for his university and NROTC when the time comes - even if he's told he's not a good candidate for the USNA, even if he was told his grades and his achievements should be more than enough, even if despite the circumstances, he managed to meet the same requirements.

Finding out that it was Pete 'Maverick' Mitchell who protested his application and pulled the plug on it is Bradley's second heartbreak.

Bradley bites down any complaints he has about life and enters UVA at 21, with a military scholarship and NROTC bursary. At that point, he doesn't even know if he still wants to go into aviation, it brings so much bitterness in him. But then his grades and his overall achievement are so good, everyone says it'd be a waste if he didn't go to one of the most competitive pipelines. The Navy pays for his private pilot licence when he hesitates, and sure enough, it does feel good.

The pipeline is where he meets Jake Seresin. Jake Seresin, who has two brothers and two sisters and who has jars of homemade jam and chocolate-covered plums sent in a little package from his mom at least once a month. Jake Seresin, who uses all his leave to attend weddings, holiday parties, birthday parties, even a dog's funeral. Jake Seresin, who comes from every Thanksgiving with spare pumpkin pie, who has a new handmade Christmas sweater every year.

Jake Seresin, who, for some reason not known to Bradley, is impressed with how effortless learning to fly is for Bradley, with how much Bradley knows, with how much he leads in the lectures and the flight lessons - most guys find Bradley annoying and cold and Bradley would've agreed with them if any said it to his face. The Navy is the only good thing Bradley's had since his mom died, he has much more time to focus on being good at whatever Navy throws at him and maybe that makes him strange and aloof. But not Jake.

Jake Seresin, who is a competitive asshole that can't shut his mouth for his own good. Who has no idea of personal space, who fills the silence better than a jukebox, who will drill and drill the topic until he gets an answer he can comprehend, who doesn't care what people think of him as long as he knows his worth.

Bradley might have a bit of a crush on him, but it's an annoying crush kind of crush - one he doesn't really want to have, one he doesn't really know what to do with. Jake Seresin, who probably would never look at Bradley twice, especially in that way.

They get separate F-18 training bases and Bradley forgets for a moment Jake Seresin ever existed.

Then, summer of 2011, Jake Seresin gets restationed, right into Bradley's squadron. And he's still his annoying self, inserting himself into Bradley's private space, private time, and doesn't let Bradley have a say in it, at all.

Maybe Bradley doesn't want to have any say in it, deep down.

A few months later, DADT gets repealed. It doesn't change much for Bradley, he's not going to talk to anyone about his personal life. But it seems it changes something for Jake.

Because he asks Bradley out on a date.

Bradley's never really dated. Didn't really have the time to when he was a teenager, moved so many times, and then he enlisted, and then he was in college and NROTC. He slept with people, but he's never dated anyone.

So he gets to know Jake Seresin. Jake Seresin, who despite bringing all that food back with him any time he visits his parents, can't cook at all and who would hang onto Bradley's arm or shoulders whenever Bradley cooked. Who can sew so well that he saves all of Bradley's old shirts. Who can't keep his mouth shut, no matter the circumstances - not in the theatre, not when they eat, not when they just watch a movie at home, not even in bed. Who seems to know every single tune under the sun but can't play a single instrument. Who has elaborate, detailed plans for his life - an admiral by forty, two kids by thirty-five, a nice little house in driving distance to some body of water, a German shepherd or a border collie for a family dog once the house is there, a personal two or maybe four-person plane by the time he's forty-five, maybe co-owning aeroclub by fifty.

Bradley's never before thought about the future.

He never tells Jake even half of the things he's seen and lived through when he was in foster care, never tells him about his pulled application from USNA, never tells him about Mav. He doesn't think Jake would be able to understand, the way his family seems perfect and loving and caring. He doesn't want him to know how many things is wrong with him.

But Jake knows he's got no family, that his dad died in the Navy, his mom when he started middle school, that he's been in foster care for all his teenage years. Knows that Bradley has no one to come back home.

"Don't be a fool, sweetheart," is what Jake tells him. "You've got me."

For the first time in his life at the age of 29, Bradley requests Christmas leave.

Bradley's never had a big family, but there was a time he once had a family - or so he thought, when he was twelve and the illusion shattered - so he thought he'd be okay.

And at first, he is fine. Jake rotates him around like a prize piece, introducing him to his siblings, parents, aunts, uncles, nephews, cousins, grandparents, but it's just two or three people at once. Whenever it seems like too much, Bradley drifts away to the kitchen where he can just stay silent and listen to Jake's mom talk to the various people that come by while he slices homemade ham or he steps out onto the backyard and talks to the kids of all the ages gathered around the makeshift playground.

But then they're right before dinner starts - there are over thirty people in the open space of the house, now that everyone arrived, and Bradley feels hot, suffocating in the crowded space, in the clutter of gifts and food and colorful Christmas sweaters.

And then, before he can take any of it in, he hears Jake, saying in his typical loud and teasing tone, that Bradley can play the piano, and look at that, he could play something Christmas-y before the turkey is done, and next thing he knows, there's over thirty pairs of eyes on him and plenty of people asking questions and making teasing remarks and it all seems so tricky--

He can't imagine himself, in that room, with all those people, feeling comfortable. So he walks out.

Bradley doesn't know how to be a part of a family. There's no reason to try and lie to himself and everyone else.

They don't see each other for years after. The next time they do, it's only the eight weeks at Top Gun. The Jake that Bradley knew isn't there - this Jake is bitter and sarcastic and sharp with his tongue. This Jake wins Top Gun and never looks back at Bradley when he returns to his station base.

The next time they see each other is at the Top Gun recall when Bradley is going through a life roller coaster.

Not only is Jake being the biggest ass not just to him but to everyone, for the first time in twenty years, Bradley sees Mav. Sure, maybe he's not moved on from Jake - he still remains the only person Bradley ever dated - but he's managed to dodge Maverick, and Iceman by association, in all those years he's been in the Navy and now he's forced to pretend all is fine.

And Maverick doesn't make it easier.

He tries to approach Bradley like they're long-lost friends, saying all those things about how he missed him and how Bradley looks so much like his dad. Like he didn't leave him in the foster system when he was a kid and didn't fuck up his application for USNA.

So he pretends he doesn't remember Maverick because that's the easiest given that Maverick is supposed to train him.

On top of that, Jake mixes himself up into Bradley's shit life situation when he overhears Mav trying to get Bradley to 'remember' and 'renew their relationship' and keeps pestering Bradley. Maybe he can tell you more about your childhood, why the hell are you so rude to him, he wouldn't make up knowing you, you know, maybe he's got some of your parents' stuff and can share---

And hearing the love of his life that he let get away because Bradley didn't know how to be part of his family side with the first person that told Bradley he's not enough to be someone's family - well, it's not exactly helping the state of Bradley'e mental being.

So maybe he explodes at Jake, a little bit, in the end. You want to talk to the man who left me behind when I was twelve and the only time he looked back was to tell me he didn't think I was good enough? Then so be fucking it.

Instead of butting into Bradley's life, Jake shuts up and starts avoiding him. Bradley supposes he has what he wanted.

Bradley doesn't care what Maverick thinks or if he changed or if he wants something from Bradley.

He still turns around when he's shot down. It's not like he's got someone to come back to anyway. Not because he cares about Maverick.

"I'm not you," Bradley tells Mav. "I don't leave people behind."

The admittance - that he knows and remembers Mav and wants nothing to do with him, wants to be nothing like him - works. They survive and Bradley doesn't see Maverick again, not when they're in the med bay, not when they're in the hospital in San Diego, not when he gets discharged.

He sees Jake instead, waiting on him at the reception of the unit he had been on, patiently waiting for Bradley to sign his discharge papers without using his broken wrist.

"What, do you have someone else to take your broken ass home?"

In truth, Bradley was just going to take a taxi. Instead, Jake takes the plastic bag with Bradley's clothes and silently leads them to his truck before he asks for Bradley's address.

And in all this mess, the first thing Jake asks him is, "Are you going to stay in San Diego?" because they have the offer to stay there and make their place in Top Gun-adjacent brand new squadron.

"No, I'm going to go back to my base," Bradley tells him. There's nothing for him San Diego, but there's plenty for Jake and he doesn't want to be a barrier.

"I think you should stay in San Diego. With me."

He wishes it was that simple but the truth is, Bradley is still the same.

"I can't be the person you want to have in your life."

"But you already are the person I want in my life."

"I think this is going to end up badly."

"Only if you let it."

Bradley's never really could say no to Jake.

It all seems so easy, when he falls asleep on Jake's shoulder watching Top Gear, but at some point, Bradley knows, they will get to the point when it'll all crush again.

There is also the whole thing with Maverick, their now CO, who appears to be some kind of ashamed now that he finally knows that Bradley remembers what he did - or rather what he didn't do. He avoids Bradley like the plague and it seems to be affecting the squad - because they all love Maverick and Bradley is the weirdo who can't have fun or be friendly. He's just waiting on someone to call him out as the party pooper contrasting to their fun CO and deem the problem, as always, just because he can't pretend to be happy to be around him.

Jake hasn't said anything about the Maverick thing explicitly but he gives Bradley those looks whenever Maverick is nearby and sometimes he makes those quips

#dunno how that would resolve #probably ice would intervene at some point #just to clarify mav is feeling extremely guilty #hangster #bradley rooster bradshaw #tgm #i wish my mind could just transfer this idea into like a movie montage #but instead id have to spend hours of writing to bring it to life 😭

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wheels-of-despair · 3 days ago

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I'm Gonna Love You Forever Pairing: Eddie Munson x You Summary: Eddie gets some upsetting news and has to hide out at Evil Woman's house for a little while… it's an angsty one, kids. Contains: Fear and nightmares, bed-wetting and blood, childhood trauma and abuse, comfort and reassurance, a declaration of love. Words: 3.7k

A thwap comes from your right.

You glance over and chuckle. Eddie is lying next to you on your bed, on his stomach, and his face is planted in the middle of the history textbook he's supposed to be reading.

"Are you absorbing the necessary information better that way?" you ask, turning your attention back to a battered classroom-issued paperback.

"No," he grunts. "Need a break."

"I understand. You've been reading for a whole," you check your watch, "three minutes."

He groans.

"Finish this chapter and we'll take a break."

He groans louder, head still in his book. And then the phone rings. His head pops up. "It's Wayne, he says I gotta come home right now, can't study any more."

"Shut up," you laugh, smacking his denim-clad ass with your book as you get up and go to answer the phone.

Your brother already has it. You stand in the hallway with your arms crossed, waiting for either a hand-off or a dismissal. He covers the mouthpiece with his hand.

"Eddie's uncle wants to talk to him," he says lowly. You nod, hold up a finger, and return to your room.

"You're in luck, Munson; it really is Wayne."

Instead of looking relieved, Eddie looks concerned. It's understandable; Wayne never calls here. Eddie scrambles out of bed and skids into the hallway on his socked feet.

You sit on the bed and open your book, but don't absorb a single word... because you can hear Eddie's side of the conversation.

"What? Why? No. No. I can't. I'll stay at Rick's or something. I'll let you know. Bye."

It's tense. It's rushed. Something is definitely wrong. You toss your book aside when he hurries back into your bedroom. He closes your door and leans against it, face even paler than usual.

"You okay?" you ask, knowing the answer.

His lip begins to tremble. His eyes start to well. You're off the bed and wrapping your arms are around him in an instant. He squeezes you and buries his face in your neck.

"What happened? Is Wayne okay?"

Eddie sounds like he's starting to hyperventilate, so you guide him toward the bed. You get him to sit, then kneel on the floor in front of him and hold his hands in yours. He's hunched over; his eyes are scrunched tight, his face looking a little green.

"Breathe, baby. It's gonna be okay. Just breathe."

He squeezes your hands until you begin losing feeling in your fingers, but you don't let go. You couldn't, even if you wanted to. Eventually, his breathing slows and he releases his death grip on your hands.

"My dad's out."

You've been dating Eddie Munson for more than six months, and he's barely mentioned his father. You never asked about his parents; you figured if he wanted you to know, he'd tell you. And he did, occasionally. You'd gathered that neither of them were the nurturing type. You knew they were alcoholics. You knew Eddie's mother died when he was 7, and that he came to live with Wayne when he was 8. Everything else was something of a mystery that you figured he'd reveal in time, when he was ready.

Eddie takes a shuddering breath and begins: "He was supposed to be doing 15 years. It's only been 12. He showed up at the trailer a little while ago. Wayne says he wants to see me." Tears fall when he shakes his head. "I can't."

"Baby, you don't have to," you tell him softly. He closes his eyes. "Eddie, you don't have to see him if you don't want to. You're a grown-up. He can't make you do anything." He covers his face with his hands, and you move upward to wrap your arms around him again.

"I don't want to go home," he whimpers.

"So stay with me."

"Yeah, I bet your mom would love that," he says sarcastically, pulling back and swiping at his eyes.

"She literally went to court to fight my dad when we said we didn't want to see him anymore. She'll understand."

"I don't know how long it'll be 'til he fucks off."

"That's okay."

"What if she says no?"

"She won't," you say confidently.

You don't know what his father did to him, or why he was locked up, or why Eddie is so scared, but you know one thing: if that old man comes near the boy you love, it'll be the last thing he ever does.

You move your books to the floor and lie down on the bed together. Eddie buries his face in your chest and lets you hold him tight. You lie there in silence, gently playing with his hair, until you hear your mom come home from work.

"Be right back," you whisper with a kiss to the top of his head.

When you return to your room, Eddie is curled into a ball on his side, hugging your pillow. He looks up at you with fearful, red-rimmed eyes. You ease back onto the bed, lying down to face him, and reach out to tuck his shaggy hair behind his ear.

"Mom talked to Wayne," you tell him quietly. "He thinks staying here for a few days is a good idea, too. Said he'd bring you some stuff on his way to work. Is that okay? Will you stay?"

"Do you really want me?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper.

"Of course I do," you smile. You gaze into his big brown eyes and feel your heart swell. "I'd keep you with me all the time if I could." You kiss his the tip of his nose. "Oh, and Mom says she's making lasagna for dinner, in honor of getting our very own Garfield."

He snorts.

Eddie follows you into the kitchen when it's time for dinner like he usually does. He stays to eat with you several times a week anyway, so nothing feels at all out of the ordinary.

Until he nearly jumps out of his skin when someone knocks at the door. You place a hand on his leg under the table when your mom goes to answer it.

You both let out a quiet sigh of relief when you see Wayne step inside. He follows your mom into the kitchen, carrying a brown grocery bag and Eddie's Sweetheart.

"Can you spare a few minutes for dinner, Wayne?" your mom asks.

"No, ma'am, just came to drop off some stuff for the boy on my way to work."

Eddie gets up to take his things from his uncle.

"Talk to you outside for a minute?" Wayne asks.

"Yeah." Eddie sets his bag and other lover aside and follows Wayne outside. You stare at the door nervously while your mom packs a meal in Tupperware for Wayne to take with him.

When they return, Eddie looks shy, like a kid who's been coached on how to thank relatives for a gift he didn't really want. He takes his seat, and Wayne hovers in the doorway.

"Thank you again for takin' him in, ma'am. He gives you any trouble, you give me a call."

You smirk. Eddie blushes furiously and refuses to look in your direction.

Your mom laughs warmly. "Please. Eddie's never any trouble. We're always happy to have him." She hands the Tupperware container to Wayne. "Take this."

"Ma'am, I--"

"Take it." You're pleased to see that the Don't Argue With Me Voice works on grown-ups too.

"Thank you, ma'am."

Now Eddie's the one smirking, and Wayne's the one blushing.

"Alright," Wayne rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, "I gotta get goin'. Thank you again, ma'am. Call if you need anything. And you?" Eddie looks up to see his uncle pointing at him. "Be good."

Eddie nods, and Wayne leaves with his Tupperware meal.

The rest of dinner passes uneventfully, and afterwards, you and Eddie pick up the Wayne-delivered goods and return to your room to pretend to finish your homework.

"Where can I…?" Eddie spins around in the middle of your room, looking for a safe place to stash Sweetheart.

"Anywhere you want," you smile, placing his bag of clothes in your desk chair and dropping onto the bed. "Mi casa es… Sweetheart's casa?"

He settles her in a corner, then comes to join you on the edge of the bed. He lets out a sigh that it seems like he's been holding for hours. You wrap an arm around his back and rest your chin on his shoulder.

"You okay?"

"Yeah." He leans against you. "Wayne thinks he'll fuck off in a few days. Most of his old buddies are either dead or locked up. He's staying at the shitty motel by the laundromat. Wayne says he'll probably go back to my grandma's when he runs out of money."

"You have a grandma?" you ask.

Eddie waits a beat.

"That's what you got out of that?"

"You've never mentioned her."

He shrugs, making your head bob with his shoulder. "Didn't like my mom. Didn't like me. Don't know much about her."

"What's Wayne think about him being back?"

"Same thing I do. Wish he'd get hit by a fuckin' truck."

You're rubbing your hand up and down his back when a voice calls from the hall.

"I'm watching Dawn of the Dead, if you losers wanna quit sucking face long enough to enjoy some real entertainment."

You lift your head from Eddie's shoulder. "Wanna?"

"Does it mean I don't have to finish my history homework?" he asks hopefully.

"I was gonna skim the chapter and summarize for you anyway."

"Fuck yeah," he grins.

You head to the living room, get comfortable on the couch, and lose yourselves in zombieland for the next two hours. Not what you would've picked for a soothing distraction from a horrifying reality, but it seems to work for Eddie.

He seems calmer as you get ready for bed. You stand together at the bathroom sink to brush your teeth, letting the toothpaste dribble out of your mouths and growling like zombies at each other in the mirror.

This is, of course, when your mother walks by to say goodnight: When you've both got toothpaste dripping off your chins.

"I don't even want to know," she shakes her head, trying and failing to conceal her smile. "Everything's locked up, I'm going to bed." She doesn't usually announce that everything's locked up, but you appreciate her trying to pass it off as normal for Eddie's benefit.

"G'night," you both gurgle through your foam-filled mouths. She lightly smacks her own forehead with her palm and walks away laughing. You lean forward to spit and grin at each other in the mirror.

Once the lights are off and you're in bed, Eddie practically crawls on top of you. You hold him tight and stroke his hair, finding that one spot on his scalp that's been known to knock him out. It works. You hope his dreams are much happier than his reality as you begin to drift off to the sound of his steady breathing.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, shit, fuck."

You open your eyes to a strange chant and suddenly remember that Eddie is supposed to be with you. You can't feel him. You roll out of bed and turn on the lamp. He's kneeling on the mattress, hair a mess.

"Turn around," he orders. "Don't look."

"Eddie, what's going on?"

"Turn around!"

You're in such a panic, you can't just turn your back on him. Your eyes drift from his frantic eyes to the wet spot he's trying to shield with his body. When your eyes meet his again, he crumbles.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry," he cries.

"Babe, it's okay," you begin.

"I'm so fucking sorry, just let me get my shit and I'll go," he continues.

"Eddie, would you stop?"

"I wish I was fucking dead, I'm so fuc--"

"Eddie! Stop!" Your sharp tone scares him enough to make him stop rambling.

You step toward a corner of the bed and pull the sheet back to reveal what's underneath.

"Look. Mattress pad. Easy fix. By morning, we can pretend it never happened."

He looks from the white corner of the fabric to you, and then back again. His mouth opens and closes several times.

You lean against your dresser and speak softly, resisting the urge to close the distance and embarrass him further. "You're aware that I hemorrhage for a significant amount of time every month, right?"

He nods.

"Sometimes I bleed through. My last mattress looked like such a murder scene, Mom was afraid to transport it across state lines. It's not a big deal. I go through this all the time."

He sniffs.

"Why don't you go hop in the shower? Just put your clothes in the hamper, and I'll throw a load of laundry in."

He starts to protest.

"Nobody'll suspect a thing," you cut him off before he can even begin. "I go through this at least once a month. It's practically expected of me. Nobody'll know."

He looks downward, and you let him consider his options.

"Can you turn around?" he asks quietly.

"Yep."

You turn your back and hear him rustling through his paper bag, and then hear the door open and close. You strip the sheets - only the bottom sheet had any traces of his shame - and ball them up.

You weren't lying; this does happen occasionally. Perhaps not as often as you implied, but enough that nobody would raise an eyebrow at the washing machine going at 3 am. You clean the spot on the mattress pad, change the sheets, re-make the bed, and grab clean pajamas. You'll throw your current ones in with the load, to support your 'It Was Me' story, should anyone question it. (They won't, but it would probably make Eddie feel better.)

"Did any get on you?" He'd crept back into your room so quietly, you hadn't even noticed him. He's eyeing the fresh stack of pajamas you've placed on top of the dresser.

"Nope," you smile, turning around. "Figured we could do with a complete re-set. I'll be right back."

You grab the sheets in one hand and your pajamas in the other, and head to the bathroom to collect Eddie's clothes.

Four minutes later, you return to your room. Eddie is sitting on the floor, leaning against your dresser, his knees to his chest. You sit next to him, but not close enough to touch him. Not yet.

"Please don't beat yourself up over this," you beg. "It's not a big deal."

"Fucking embarrassing."

"Eddie?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

He doesn't respond. You stretch your legs out in front of you, cross your ankles, and get comfortable.

"You know I'm gonna marry you one of these days, right?"

Still nothing.

"What do you reckon our life expectancy is? I figure we've got what, maybe 50 years ahead of us? That's a lot of time."

You place your hand on the floor between you, palm up, to see if he'll take it. He doesn't.

"I'm gonna love you forever," you inform him. "Sickness, health, weird haircuts, awful tattoos, all that jazz. I will love you if you suddenly develop a fondness for Madonna or disco dancing. I'll even love you if you become that guy who brings an acoustic guitar to parties and expects everyone to sit around and listen to him. Actually, maybe not with that one. Please don't be that guy." You pause, hoping for a laugh. When it doesn't come, you clear your throat and continue. "Point is, there's almost nothing that could make me stop loving you. This, right here? Doesn't change a thing. I fucking love you. Get used to it."

He lets it sink in, and then he sighs. Finally, he reaches for your hand. Your fingers lace together. You look over at him, and he slowly meets your eye.

"I fucking love you too."

"You better, Munson," you wink.

He smiles a tiny smile.

"Ready to go back to bed?"

He hesitates and asks, "Can I go out and smoke first?"

"Baby, you're a refugee, not a prisoner. You don't have to ask permission to leave."

"Right," he groans, hauling himself off the floor. He holds out his hands to help you up, and you take them.

"Do you want company, or do you need a minute?" you ask once you're standing.

He shrugs, looking at the floor.

"Because that's okay," you smile, reaching up to brush his hair out of his face.

"What's okay?"

"Needing a minute," you explain. "I just announced my intention to lock you down forever. We're probably gonna occasionally need a minute to ourselves."

"You can come with me," he whispers, kissing your forehead.

You follow him to the back door, put on your jackets and shove your feet into your shoes, and step out into the darkness. You sit next to each other on the porch steps, resting your head on his shoulder and huddling together for warmth as Eddie smokes in silence. It's pretty peaceful out tonight. The black sky is cloudless and dotted with stars. The air feels clean and crisp. Eddie's body provides just enough heat that you're not too bothered by the cold.

He seems calmer after he smokes his cigarette down to the butt, but he uses the tip to light another. It's going to be a long night. You press your fingers between your thighs, starting to feel the chill set in.

"You know the Speedway just this side of the county line?"

A run-down gas station with a cracked parking lot and a flickering neon sign comes to mind. Yeah. You know of it, but you've never been in. Gareth had suggested dropping in for snacks once when you passed by, but Eddie had said everything in there was overpriced and kept driving. You hadn't thought anything of it at the time; you and Eddie are 7-Eleven people, after all.

"Yeah," you whisper.

Eddie pauses so long, you wonder if he's reconsidering telling you whatever he was about to reveal.

"We were on a beer run," he says eventually. "Dad was already hammered. Ran over our mailbox and took out the neighbor's trash can on the way out. Swerved all over the road. I used to think it was fun, riding like that, but looking back I'm surprised nobody died." Eddie stops to take a long drag. "I stuck a pack of Sno-Balls under my shirt while Dad was paying for his beer. You know, those pink coconut cakes?" He glances at you for confirmation, and you nod. "The thought of those things makes me sick now. But when you're that hungry, they look fuckin' amazing. Anyway, the cashier spotted me and said something. Dad's face… I mean, it was already red from the drinking. But it looked like his head was going to explode. Eyes poppin' out of his head, vein throbbing in his neck. He grabbed me by the hair and just started whalin' on me, right there in the middle of the store. I heard people yelling, but I… I kinda just scrunched my eyes shut and waited for it to be over, like I always did. And then when I opened them again, Hop had the old man pinned to the floor."

Eddie sniffles and drags his sleeve across his face.

"I know you've never seen my dad, but he's not a big guy. Hopper could've fucking demolished him. But Hop had a busted lip. Blood just dripping out of his mouth and onto the old man. Sometimes I wonder… if maybe Hop let him get a swing in just 'cause he knew that's what it would take to finally put him away. And it did. He got 15 years for assaulting a cop."

A tear streaks down your cheek, and a smile tugs at your lips.

"Took three guys to haul Dad off. Still kicking and screaming. At me, at Hop, I dunno. But Hopper's the one who took me to Wayne's. Bought me a hot dog to eat on the way, and I think it might've been the best fucking thing I've ever eaten. Even with the sore jaw the old man gave me for getting caught. He always said to never trust a cop, but Hop… he's saved my ass more than once. I guess…" Eddie stubs out cigarette #2 and chuckles. "I guess if you have to leave me for somebody, Hop's a decent choice."

You knock your knee against his, lifting your head off his shoulder to look at him. His eyes are shiny and tear-filled in the moonlight. Is it a crime to think he's beautiful like this?

"What can I say?" you grin. "I've got great taste in men."

Eddie snorts, shakes his head, and stands. He offers you his hands, and you take them and let him help you off the steps. When you stand, he pulls you in for a hug.

"Thanks," he mumbles into your hair. "For tonight. For everything."

You feel like something needs to be said, but you can't find the right words. Instead, you hold him tight and kiss the side of his neck. He melts into you. You stand there, stuck together on your back porch, until a shiver rips through your body.

"Jeez, make us stand outside in the cold all night and get sick, why don't ya," Eddie grumbles, pulling away and putting his hands on your shoulders. He turns you around and pushes you toward the door. "Get inside where it's warm, you crazy woman. You've gotta take care of me for the next 50 years, you don't get to check out early."

You laugh quietly and let him push you inside. You silently shed your jackets and shoes and return to your bedroom, snuggling into your clean sheets and holding onto each other for warmth.

Four days later, Wayne stopped by to tell Eddie that his old man was back in jail where he belonged. Unable to resist the sight of the bar across the street from the shitty motel he was staying in, he'd wandered over, drank too much, and picked a fight with the guy on the stool next to him...

Who happened to be an off-duty Indiana State Trooper, visiting Hawkins to have a drink with an old friend named Jim Hopper.

#writings of despair #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x evil woman

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deeplyshalllow · 1 day ago

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Glinda gets what she deserves at the end of Wicked

I don’t necessarily mean this in an all negative light either, Glinda’s ending is bittersweet – sad, but hopeful. But she does not deserve an all out happy ending at the end of the musical.

I don’t know if I’m gonna be crucified for this, but here goes.

Glinda in Act 2 is a key part of a fascist regime. She doesn’t just live in it, she isn’t forced to take part in it and she’s not working as a double agent (like Fiyero). She knows what they are doing to the Animals (which includes separating infants from their mothers and putting them in cages, and making Animals so afraid they literally forget how to speak), she knows and loves people it is hurting and yet she continues to actively promote it.

(I won’t point out the connections to real world situations, but I’m sure you guys can all think of examples and think of how you feel about people who are active participants in helping such regimes.)

We see she knows all this too. We see she excuses it for her ego and the power:

Glinda: Do you think I like to hear them say those awful things about her? I hate it!

Fiyero: Then what are we doing here? Let's go, let's get out of here!

Glinda: We can't leave now, not when people are looking to us to raise their spirits.

Fiyero: You can't leave, because you can't resist this. And that is the truth.

Glinda: Maybe I can't. Is that so wrong? Who could?

Elphaba: No, of course you never! You're too busy telling everyone how wonderful everything is!

Glinda: I'm a public figure, now. People expect me to...

Elphaba: Lie?

Glinda: Be encouraging!

And if one could possibly argue (weakly) that, given she’s not actually doing any of the regime’s actual violence, just keeping people’s hopes up she’s not as bad as those who are, she gets worse:

Morrible: Well, we'll just flush her out and force her to show herself.

Wizard: But how?

Glinda: Her sister

Morrible: What? What did she say?

Glinda: Use her sister. Spread a rumour. Make her think her sister is in trouble and she will fly to her side... and you'll have her.

Even if one argues that Glinda is somehow not clever enough to realise that they’ll end up killing Nessa, she sure as hell knows it will get Elphaba captured. And there’s no way that Elphaba being captured won’t lead to the execution of her best friend. Yes, she’s heartbroken, yes, she might not have said this when emotions weren’t running high, but it doesn’t make her terrible words less deadly (and bear in mind Elphaba hadn’t even done anything to hurt Glinda! It was Fiyero who chose to go with her).

Glinda only really starts realising what she has done in March of the Witch hunters, when Nessa is dead, Fiyero is tortured and presumed dead and Elphaba has descended into madness – all because of her own action. And, kudos to her, this is when she decides to change, she immediately goes to Elphaba and tries to warn her about the Witch Hunters, apologises and ultimately Elphaba trusts her with the Grimmorie and to continue her legacy (which she immediately does by overthrowing the Wizard). She has started down the track to good but she still has a long way to go.

I am not the first, nor will I be the last to point this out but “Goodness knows the wicked’s lives are lonely, goodness knows the wicked die alone”, sung by Glinda,is clearly not about Elphaba. Elphaba was not wicked, nor did she die alone (literally Dorothy was in the room and metaphorically Glinda supported and loved her). Glinda is singing about herself, Glinda knows she has been wicked, Glinda knows that it is her own actions that have lead to the “death” of her friends.

So what Glinda is left with is a chance to do good. A chance to live up to her name and make up for what she’s done. A chance to use what she’s most talented at, making people like her, to continue the legacy of her best friend. Despite everything, Elphaba does trust her, if she didn’t she wouldn’t have left her with this responsibility.

Glinda: Fellow Ozians, friends, we have been through a frightening time. There will be other times and other things that frighten us. But if you let me, I'd like to try to help. I'd like to try to be... Glinda the Good.

This is why she is going to “try” to be Glinda the Good, because she hasn’t been good yet. She has learnt a lot of very hard lessons through the narrative, been dragged kicking and screaming out of her selfishness, ego and giving into her worst impulses and is grateful for a chance to repent. And honestly, I’m sure she will suceed.

And one last thing:

Elphaba: I only wish...

Fiyero: What?

Elphaba: Glinda could know that we're alive.

Fiyero: She can't know, not if we want to be safe. No one can ever know.

I know a lot of people take ire with this line. But Fiyero, always the best strategist of the group, is right. The last time Glinda was trusted with important information it led to a death and two more people nearly dying. She has not earned that trust yet.

But, remember, Glinda isn’t stupid, Glinda is in a position where she’s going to have to think more and more. Glinda has presumably seen her roommate get wet before, she saw Fiyero’s reaction to the rumour, no matter how much searching happens Fiyero’s body never turns up, how long is it really going to take for her to connect the dots? Sure “Glinda can never know” for sure, but she sure as hell can be comforted by the fact she’s almost certain her best friend did not melt from a bucket of water.

#wicked #wicked meta #Glinda #wicked movie #wicked musical #I feel like Gelphie shippers might be mad #but it's not that I don't like her character #she's a facinating and deep character #she's just a pretty bad person for a lot of the show #but not irredeemable #Fiyero in contrast makes decisions to be on the right side once he has the chance #Fiyeraba works because Fiyero supports Elphaba and cares for the same cause #galinda

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cometblaster2070 · 24 hours ago

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ranting for a bit because the entire scene where elphaba tells glinda her secret makes me go rabid and actually makes me want to chew concrete because not only is it actually absolutely heartbreaking to see just how deeply elphaba believes all the horrible things her father reinforces; how she thinks she's responsible for her mother's death and is the reason for nessarose's disability even when it's literally not her fault in any way and is actually DIRECTLY her father's fault.

and just the fact that elphaba tells glinda all this and tells glinda her father hates her and that everything's her fault and glinda looks at her and she's absolutely heartbroken to hear elphaba saying all these things and she becomes the first person in elphaba's life to look her in the eyes and tell her that none of that is true and that it is NOT her fault, it was NEVER her fault despite whatever anyone said.

ik a lot of ppl see glinda's "it was the milkflower's fault" line as a very sort of shallow take by glinda (I'm explaining it poorly but ik some ppl wonder why she didn't just call out governor thropp directly) but I've got to disagree with that take because personally I think glinda heard elphaba talking, heard her describe her secret and heard how her father forced her mother to chew milkflowers constantly during her pregnancy all because he was afraid the baby would come out green like elphaba and she heard all this and she hears how elphaba thinks this is all her fault.

and yk they're roommates. glinda sees the way elphaba talks about her father and how even though she says that he hates her in an almost casual manner despite how she says he's justified for hating her, elphaba still loves her father and she still wants to do right by him and she still wants him to love her.

so glinda knows that elphaba will not listen to her if she straight up tells her that her father's fucking mental and completely wrong and that it was all his fault and that she's probably going to bludgeon him to death. she knows that elphaba will never accept this and she knows that right now it won't do any good for anyone.

so instead she tells elphaba it was the milkflower's fault. and she looks her in the eyes and she tells her this was never your fault you shouldn't think this was ever your fault and anyone who ever told you that it was your fault was completely and totally wrong and I need you to know this.

because the primary concern isn't about telling elphaba she's got a shitty dad the primary concern is telling elphaba that it is not her fault for simply existing. and to let her know that there is nothing wrong with her and that there is someone here, right now, who loves and cares for her so so much and wants her to know that. that there is someone who will hold her hand and who will tell her that they are there for her and that she is fine the way she is. that she is loved.

#wicked 2024 #wicked #CHOWDAH THINKING ABOUT GLINDA AND ELPHABA FOR TOO LONG GOT ME FEELIN UNWISE #honestly without kidding #major props to ariana grande and cynthia erivo's acting #the tiny details make everything honestly #like the changes in facial expression and the way their voices change and all #10/10 we love to see it #makes me go feral #i will actually never stop thinking about it #and will just go analyze this shit for the rest of my life #but it's fine it's fine #dw about it ill be fine #i have to go to bed #but what about my 40000 page essay on them yk #glinda upland #elphaba thropp #gelphie #i despise the thought that glinda's vapid and stupid honestly #because we are consistently shown that that is not the case #she may be airheaded at times and she is extremely privileged which leads to her being shallow at times #but she is NOT stupid or unaware #we are clearly shown how she notices things and picks up on things #and IK she very clearly sees the complicated relationship elphaba has with her father #and she sees how vulnerable elphaba is being with her #and she decides to reassure her #because that's what she NEEDS rn #but she is going to sneak out later and kill governor thropp #that is a side quest for later yk

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treatbuckywkisses · 17 hours ago

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HI I STAYED UP WAY TOO LATE TO READ THIS PART !!!! :))

(also this might be my longest rb so far)

SIX UPON A TIME

"You weren’t sure what you wanted him to do, but it was fun to watch the time bomb tick." - let's kiss him on the mouth 🫶🏻

"A reason to get up in the morning." - SHUT. YOUR. MOUTH.

"But then you blink back into reality again when Bucky sits you down on the closed lid of your toilet and slowly makes you let go of his shirt, kneeling down in front of you. The blue of his eyes is devastating, even though you have to keep blinking to keep him in focus." - No I can't do this

"Maybe that’s the most terrifying thought of them all. You would die for him. Once, twice, however many times are necessary if that meant that he’s safe. " - Nika I'm fucking crying. I wish I was exaggerating but I'm actually fucking crying before 10pm.

"But it seems like you haven’t known it at all, because right now, you feel the knowledge of it, of him, surge through you with all its facets. You can’t even begin to put it into words, because where would you start? How do you explain what he makes you feel when he hasn’t been there himself, not in any way that matters or sticks? And if it’s never happened at all, if time keeps unraveling like this, how can it even be real? " - the woman that you are. Oh. My. God. You are completely unreal this is phenomenal.

"His breath hitches when they dip lower, almost reaching the place you’ve watched dimple when he laughs, but he doesn’t move away. He doesn’t laugh, either." - I have actual tears in my eyes you are so evil

"That day, he dies with your stupid nickname on his lips, twisted into something that looks strangely close to that earlier smile. This one doesn’t have time to reach his eyes, though." - Nika I'm fucking sick to my stomach what the fuck is wrong with you

Brief intermission bc I got too into it and read the rest twice before coming back to make notes (I was too immersed)

A crack in the sky you are insane I would FREAK

Where TF does bucky go during the day. As a naturally nosy gal the unknowns in this story make me ITCH I can't wait for everything to be revealed

"Why won’t you look at me? " - this is so hurtful why are you being so mean to me

HOW IS THE DELIVERY MAN EARLY IM LITERALLY IN SHOCK AND WE MOVED ON FROM THIS TOO FAST????????

"You take a sip of your tea and some feeling returns to your translucent fingers. Strange’s cloak draws itself around your shoulders." - hehe we have the cloak 🫶🏻

""I came to you," you realize. "Or, I will, once I get out of this." The relief that washes over you makes you want to sob. "So there is a way out?"" - why did this make ME relieved like I'm stuck in the loop too 😭 I literally have felt anxious for our dear reader like I'm sick and this has soothed my heart the smallest bit (I'm still scared of you)

"You can’t help but wonder when he’s last tried the bed." - Frick you for putting him in the floor what has my baby done to you let him be comfortable 😭😭

"No," Strange answers. "This is just when he wakes up." - this made me LAUGH I needed that

CAPS BDAY IM CRACKING UP THATS SUCH A FUN SILLY MOMENT

"He might has well have doused you in a bucket of ice water. You’re suddenly very aware of every single cell in your body, and you don’t like the challenge sparkling in his eyes." - THEY ARE SO IN LOVE MY GOD IM SICK

Why are we waking up to silence I'm gonna throw up Nika

What did the powers do

Alpine can see us that is both cute and scary 😅

"You lose a few hours here and there, time seemingly speeding up at random sometimes now. One morning, Bucky isn’t in the gym like he usually is, and you work yourself up over it so much you nearly have a panic attack. In the end, you almost crash into him outside of his room, and a rush of reassurance floods through you with such force you can’t even look at him." - what is wrong with you

"That time, Sam is there when Bucky gets shot, and it’s his cry that follows you into the next day. Your hands are clean this time, and somehow that feels worse." - how dare you write these 2 paragraphs and also put them so close together????????

"And then it’s you who’s speechless, because the shock on Peter Parker’s face is more than you bargained for." - FULL. BODY. CHILLS. WHAT A MIND YOU HAVE NIKA. I WILL NEVER GET OVER THIS.

"Sweat pearled on your forehead as you and the universe held your breath again. You could feel your hold slipping with every second that wasn’t allowed to pass. Time was impatient with you." - THE LAST LINE ?????? I'm speechless

"And with time stumbling and flailing around in confusion, you made it out of the building and into the waiting cab." - ok chapter 7 pls 🫶🏻

I'm kidding you are PERFECT I can't believe I missed out on this for as long as I did?!!!!!!! Thank you so much for sharing your incredible brain with me I want to kiss you on the mouth I love you!!!!!!!

time after time [6]

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

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 12.8k

chapter warnings: maybe reacquaint yourselves with the story premise, it's been a hot minute; characters refusing to be honest with themselves and each other; violence against side characters, minor injury descriptions; strange is still annoying

a/n: this is quite possibly the scariest fic update i've ever made. a lot has happened since the last chapter was posted, and i won't bore you with all of it. suffice it to say, i missed sharing this story. thank you for being patient with me.

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

six: butterfly effect

Working with Sam and Bucky was different than working with Natasha and Steve had been.

At the Compound, it had felt terrifyingly easy to find your place, to slip into the new role they granted you as if you were always meant to fill it. You’d felt that way before, and it hadn’t turned out quite so well. Maybe that was why you used to dread the end.

Now, however, for the first time in a while, you constantly had to prove yourself in order to not be left back in that dark place they’d found you in, alone and trying to make sense of any of it. And you liked that. The challenge was something you could live with, something you could enjoy more than the ever chilling anxiousness that things were simply too good to be true.

So when Sam called you on for a follow-up mission shortly after the first one, you jumped at the chance.

It didn’t matter that you barely talked about anything but work, even when you were hanging out in your spare time; in fact, you much preferred that to digging up the past. You even learned to find a wicked sort of enjoyment in provoking Bucky’s initial dislike of you to the point of where he would barely speak to you at all unless it was to snap at you.

You weren’t sure what you wanted him to do, but it was fun to watch the time bomb tick.

It wasn’t as easy to get under the new cap’s skin.

"You’re making us sound like we’re partners in a law firm," Sam said, a smile clearly audible in his voice even though his eyes didn’t betray it. Bucky didn’t even dignify you with a clench of his jaw.

"What?" you said, crossing your legs. "Every newspaper in the city calls you 'Wilson and Barnes'. Don’t you ever read the articles about yourselves?"

"Unlike some people, I don’t have all the time in the world," Sam said, leaning back on the couch with his eyes closed.

"Pity. The Bulletin called you the 'nation’s new dynamic duo' last week." You looked at Bucky, your eyebrows raised in amusement. "You’ve officially been downgraded to a sidekick, Barnes."

He answered with an empty glare of his own. "And what does that make you?" he said, but not like a question.

"Nothing at all," you still grinned. "Everything is right in the universe."

The reporters had yet to pick up on your addition to the team, which was proof enough that your powers still sufficed to fly under the radar. Combined with the fact that you were actually regularly talking to people again—and people who weren’t your therapist or your customers no less—, things almost felt like they were settling into a new kind of normal. Still somewhat weird, and still a struggle each day, but somewhat hopeful, nevertheless.

You’d almost forgotten what that could feel like.

“Right. You’d prefer people not knowing about your creepy powers.”

"Aww." You tilted your head to the side happily. "You think I’m creepy."

Bucky scoffed into his mug, refusing to look at you like he always did, and then he strolled off again.

In truth, you couldn’t blame him all that much. You’d lived with your powers all your life and still found them unsettling sometimes, particularly when they got away from you and left you trapped in a universe that refused to move.

That was none of his business, though.

Besides, Bucky had taken to moving around so quietly you could never tell he was there until he’d cough and you’d flinch, usually dropping whatever you were holding in your hands. You’d already cracked your phone screen twice.

Not that he’d know, or care if he did. It gave you great satisfaction to erase his amused smirk from existence.

"Give it time," Sam said without moving. "He doesn’t like new people."

"Neither do I," you murmured, and he snorted. "What?"

"Pretend with me all you want, but maybe do a bit of introspection there."

You crossed your arms with a pout. "You sound like my therapist."

"Mhm," Sam hummed, opening one eye to look at you. "You owe me fifty bucks for that."

"Fuck you."

"Oh, would you look at that, the price just went up."

He chuckled as you flipped him off and went to look for the coffee pot.

Of course, your way got blocked. The downsides of not hating having people around.

Bucky was leaning against the counter, considering you. "You go to therapy?"

"You should try it some time," you said distractedly, reaching around him to get your favorite mug. Bucky recoiled like he was afraid you’d burn him. You shook your head in annoyance. "Helps with the stink eye."

"Is that what they told you?"

"They told me I needed to process my grief, but I decided to focus on some more achievable goals." You took a sip of your coffee, sighing in comfort. "We came up with a compromise."

Bucky scoffed, pushing his hands into the pockets of his jacket. He still hadn’t taken his gloves off around you.

"Sounds like a way to drag it out," he said.

You frowned into your cup. "It’s not a race, Barnes. There’s no finish line for this shit."

Something odd went over his face, but he went back to avoiding your gaze when you tried to make it out. You knew him well enough by then to get the hint, and so you left him alone.

What was it to you if he didn’t want to warm up to you. That had no bearing on the fact that overall, your situation wasn’t all too bad anymore.

It was something, you supposed as you curled up in your spot on the couch with your book later that day, slipping in and out of time to keep your company a little longer because deep down, you knew you were sick of being alone.

It was weird and different, yes, but it was still something anyway. Something to do with your afternoons again.

A reason to get up in the morning.

*****

"What are you talking about?" Bucky asks quietly, carefully, but he makes no attempt to pull back from your embrace. It allows you to take another shuddering breath, inhaling his scent until it makes you dizzy.

The fact that you probably won’t be this close to him again any time soon makes you press into his chest even harder, hard enough to feel his heart flutter against your forehead, the shock of the situation making it pick up speed.

For a split second, you slip into a sort of vacuum, your thoughts quieting as he keeps mumbling to you, and in that blissful moment, your situation doesn’t seem quite so dire anymore, more like a bad dream. You’re safe now, aren’t you? How could you not be?

But then you blink back into reality again when Bucky sits you down on the closed lid of your toilet and slowly makes you let go of his shirt, kneeling down in front of you. The blue of his eyes is devastating, even though you have to keep blinking to keep him in focus.

You don’t want to have to do this, you realize once your gasps for air start calming again. You’re not sure if you can bear it.

But nothing in this loop has been about what you wanted.

And so your resolve is made, with your heart sinking until it’s hidden away deep, deep inside of your chest. You ball your hands into fists to keep your fingers from twitching.

Two or three times he watches you inhale, start to say something, halt before you can, almost choking on it. Like your body is refusing to go through with it.

"How do you know when I’m lying?" you finally ask, and your voice sounds oddly clear in your small bathroom.

Bucky’s face goes from concern to confusion, his frown deepening. You want to smoothe it away with your thumb.

You close your eyes so maybe the temptation goes away.

"What?" he asks, and he still sounds so damn gentle.

"I’ve never been able to lie to you," you say. "What’s my tell?"

You can feel him move away from you and the ache of it makes you look again. His shirt and his hands are covered in his own blood, and you’re sure there’s some fucking metaphor in the way it stains the golden inlets of his vibranium arm crimson but for the most part, you can’t unsee the damn irony of it all.

Because you’ve pissed him off now.

"You scared the shit out of me, Y/N. And Sam, too." There’s the sharpness in his voice you know all too well. You haven’t heard it in a while. "What the hell is going on?"

"I’m trapped in a time loop," you say, squeezing your fists more tightly. "I’ve been reliving this day for weeks, my powers aren’t working, I’m the only one who can stop time from completely collapsing, I can’t do that without my powers, and you’re gonna die later today. Am I lying?"

It’s maybe the worst way you’ve ever told him, because watching Bucky’s face change is almost too much. This is exactly why you’re doing it, though; as long as you’re going through this loop with a giant guilty knot in your stomach, you’re not going to make any progress. And you need to put an end to all of it.

So you meet his gaze, almost unwavering, and you don’t blink.

His shock bursts free as an incredulous laugh. "What?"

"I’m stuck," you say again, slower, nodding at his hands, his blood, continuing to push, "and you keep dying."

Bucky looks down, then, before his gaze falls back onto you and he sits back on his heels. The pause lasts for way too long, heavy and smelling of iron, and you’re pretty sure you’re suffocating. He only says one word, and it sounds so defeated. "How?"

You swallow heavily. "You got shot on a mission," you say, but he shakes his head, the fire returning to his eyes.

"No. How did you get stuck?"

"I …" You blink, because you’re not prepared for this question, because you can never predict what he’s going to say, because he keeps doing that to you, because somehow, and not like you’ve expected, you feel like you’ve been here before.

How did it happen? That’s not … Okay.

"It was an accident," you finally say, helplessly, defensively.

There’s a flicker of something in Bucky’s eyes. "What happened?"

"You died. You died that first time and I didn’t—I couldn’t …" You swallow the sob that threatens to shake your voice again. Damnit, you’re supposed to push him away.

He moves his arm, then hesitates, as if he wants to reach out to you but changes his mind at the very last moment.

Right. He doesn’t normally do that.

Except he has.

He has held your hand and pulled you closer and written on your arm and let you lean on him with the full weight of your body, as if to him, you weighed nothing at all. He’s been offering to carry your load so many times, and he doesn’t remember a single one of them.

"Please don’t look at me like that," you say tonelessly, watching Bucky retreat.

"Like what?"

"Like I’m gonna fall apart at any moment. And yes," you add when his mouth opens, "I—I know I just did, I’m aware of the irony, but this is exactly why I can’t keep telling you, I don’t—I can’t stand it." You press your wrists against your temples, ignoring the buzz of the whirling time symbols against your skin, the stinging in your eyes. "You shouldn’t even—I mean, are you even the slightest bit worried about yourself? Because I feel like I’m the only one here, and I should’ve just—"

You stop yourself, shaking your head. Your hands are very clammy all of a sudden, and when you tug at your rings just to do something, one of them slips off your finger and clangs against the tiles as if to punctuate the silence.

When you reach down, you move your wrist in a way that makes you hiss in pain and flinch back. Bucky’s eyes flit between your own and your hand, his frown deepening in a strangely soft way. "Did you break it?" he asks quietly.

"I’m fine," you mumble, and he looks at you disapprovingly. "You’d grabbed my hand just before …"

His jaw twitches as the blame settles in again, and you would do fucking anything to finally make him understand that none of this is his fault. That you should be in pain for what you’re putting him through.

"It should’ve been me," you tell him, because it’s true.

Even earlier in the week, you would’ve taken great delight in seeing Bucky Barnes’ face fall at something you’d said. Hell, you’d have probably enjoyed it on Thursday, because there used to be this easy sort of gratification that came from riling him up, from catching him off guard.

Seeing it now, though?

It makes your fingers twitch.

"Don’t say that. Not even as a joke."

"I’m not joking." You can feel your pulse in your ears. "They aimed a shot at me, and you pushed me out of the way, and you died. So by all accounts, if your instincts weren’t so damn noble all the time, it should’ve been me, and if I weren’t such a fucking coward, I’d have gone back and switched places with you weeks ago."

The thought terrifies you, even though it’s true. No part of you wants to go through the things Bucky is, but if someone gave you the choice between either one of you right now, you wouldn’t even have to think about it.

Maybe that’s the most terrifying thought of them all. You would die for him. Once, twice, however many times are necessary if that meant that he’s safe.

"I’d like to see you try," Bucky says, and something slams into your chest as an old familiar shiver runs down your spine.

There’s a pained edge to his gaze, contemplative and heartbreaking and …

"You’re doing it again," you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

"What am I doing?" His hand brushes your knee, and your skin is left searing.

You swallow heavily. "Being noble."

Bucky chuckles softly, and his eyes leave yours for just a moment. "Don’t exactly feel like that."

He’s beautiful.

It’s a new thought, despite everything. Even when you’ve noticed it before, you’d roll your eyes at the fact and move on, because this was Bucky. So what if his face was delectably handsome?

But it seems like you haven’t known it at all, because right now, you feel the knowledge of it, of him, surge through you with all its facets. You can’t even begin to put it into words, because where would you start? How do you explain what he makes you feel when he hasn’t been there himself, not in any way that matters or sticks? And if it’s never happened at all, if time keeps unraveling like this, how can it even be real?

So it’s pure instinct that makes you move, like someone would pinch themselves to ensure they’re not asleep, even though you’re very aware that this isn’t just a dream. You need to confirm that Bucky is real, though.

The air stands still when your fingertips trace along his cheekbone, leaving a delicate flush behind in their trail, barely touching and yet …

And yet.

His breath hitches when they dip lower, almost reaching the place you’ve watched dimple when he laughs, but he doesn’t move away. He doesn’t laugh, either.

There’s a scraping sound at the closed bathroom door, followed by a short knock. You flinch backwards.

"I’m leaving the first aid kit on the bed," Sam calls from the other side. "Just … holler if you need me."

"Thanks, Sam," Bucky says coarsely, and you can hear steps receding. The scratching continues, though. That damn cat.

Finally, he breaks eye contact, clearing his throat.

"Do you want me to help you clean up?"

You shake your head. You’re not sure you could stomach more of this. "I’m good, don’t … Don’t worry about it."

Bucky drags a hand through his hair, muttering something to himself you can’t quite make out. Slowly, he gets to his feet again.

"We need to come up with a plan," he says, and you want to cry except … you’re tired. Tired and sick of this.

"I need to come up with a plan," you correct him. "We have been trying to do this as a team for weeks, and it doesn’t change anything except waste time and …" And hurt. "I can’t do it anymore, Buck."

There must be something in your voice that thaws his defiant glare a little. "So what’s the plan?"

And with a sigh, you fill him in on everything that’s been going on with Strange and your powers. Again. One last time.

You have to do this alone.

Bucky ignores your insistence that you can manage just fine and sets your wrist while you talk. Alpine, now free to roam wherever she pleases again, has decided the bathroom isn’t quite that interesting after a short look inside, and is now taking a nap in the spot of sunshine next to your bed.

"New deal," he says once you’re done, once he’s thought about it all, and you raise your eyebrows. "Don’t do anything stupid."

"You know me," you smile, checking the makeshift dressing around your hand. The green symbols are hidden by the layers of gauze.

Bucky doesn’t bite. "I’m serious, just—don’t."

"How would you know?"

"I wouldn’t," he says, snapping the first aid kit shut so vehemently Alpine’s tail twitches. "But I trust you."

Your head whips up at his words, even though his back is still turned to you. He doesn’t see your face as your heart is jostled into a new rhythm, so violently and unexpectedly that you lift your hand without thinking, pinkie outstretched.

"Promise."

He smiles when he notices, and you wish you could take a picture to carry with you through the rest of this nightmare.

That day, he dies with your stupid nickname on his lips, twisted into something that looks strangely close to that earlier smile. This one doesn’t have time to reach his eyes, though.

***

There’s been a change in the weather.

Not literally, no; of course not literally. Fuck, you long for a single cloud, a raindrop, a damn hailstorm to break the streak of endless perfectly sunny days that don’t fit your mood in the slightest.

But there’s a tinge to the sky that makes your stomach turn. It’s not very obvious to anyone who hasn’t looked at the exact same sunset for weeks on end, just a single strip of color across a storybook horizon. It looks like a crack.

"Do you see that?" you ask warily when you notice it for the first time, ominous and yet almost completely hidden by the trees and the buildings. Just dancing around the edge of your vision like another mockery.

"What?" Sam asks, eyes not leaving the path ahead.

"That … thing in the sky. What is that?"

Bucky stops and squints at where you’re pointing. "It’s called a cloud," he says dryly.

"With that color?" you murmur, but continue walking when he stops to turn to you, your wrist tingling. His stare is searing your neck, but you ignore that, too.

The best course of action, you’ve learned, is to shut your brain off as soon as you get out of the quinjet and just go through the motions, trying to ride out the mission like you’ve done dozens of times before. There’s a sort of autopilot you’ve fallen into after a couple of days, and it’s the only thing keeping you somewhat sane. Most days, it means it’s all over quickly, and you can’t help but feel glad about that.

You’ve given up trying to change your own actions to get him through the day.

But this …

It’s something new, and in all this monotony, that thought is both frightening and exciting. It distracts you enough to get you off script.

"Lovely interior design," Sam mumbles like he always does.

"Remember how this was supposed to be a day off?" You kick one of the pebbles in your path with a sigh. "What happened to 'don’t worry, Y/N, after training the day is all yours'?"

"Occupational hazard," Sam says, checking his map for the thousandth time.

"You know what I mean."

"Don’t you have tomorrow off?" Bucky says over the intercom.

Tomorrow. "Right." It comes out somewhat strained, your fingernails digging into the palm of your hand. "And why do you know that?"

Sam shakes his head and there’s a brief crackle of static in your ear. For a fraction of a second, you nearly dare to hope Bucky will give you an answer, even though you have no clue what it would be.

"They’re heading your way now," he says instead, "so get a move on."

And just like that, you’re back on track.

Quickly clearing your throat of the lump that has formed there, you say tonelessly, "I probably only have one reset left. Two, if we’re lucky and you two aren’t being stupid again."

It’s taken you a while to get used to it. To the constant lying.

You’ve worn fingerless gloves on missions before, so that’s not raised any questions from the others yet, and your rings stay hidden away. You’ve been more reluctant to take them off since the one you lost on your bathroom floor vanished into thin air.

The other thing you’ve picked up on while endlessly repeating this day is that Bucky is less likely to catch you in a lie if he can’t see your face.

So you’ve made an effort of spending as little time as possible with him.

It’s surprisingly easy to stay in your room for the majority of the day, because he doesn’t remember it ever being any other way. Even today’s little exchange will be lost to the loop soon enough, just like that little pause he made, just like the bullet through his heart.

Still, when you wake up with a start on Friday, July 4th, you look at the sky first. Its perfect blue doesn’t soothe the sinking feeling in your stomach at all.

You’ve been waiting for something to change for weeks, and now that it’s here, you don’t like it at all.

"What did you expect?" Strange says with an infuriating composure once you’ve nervously recounted your experience. "I told you, time isn’t supposed to get stuck in this way. Of course your reality was going to act up sooner or later."

"I really feel like you should be more concerned about this," you mutter, letting a ball of green energy pass from your left hand to the right. It’s about the size of a quarter now.

"Honestly," Strange answers, "I thought something like this would have happened a while ago." He taps his fingers together. "Again. Slower."

"So what am I supposed to do then, just ignore it?" The green ball pulses with your indignation, turns around itself once and then sinks into your palm again.

"In all likelihood, it’s a one time glitch. If everything is back to normal today, I wouldn’t worry about it."

Your thumb rubs across the empty space on your finger. "Easy for you to say if you’re not the one who’s stuck in an endless hellscape."

"Aren’t I?"

You both roll your eyes at each other, but then you bite the inside of your cheek again, unable to shake the feeling of a whole new shade of dread. "What if it’s not just a one time glitch?"

The corners of Strange’s cloak roll up on themselves, and he doesn’t meet your eye when he says, "We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it."

It’s still early when you return to the present, too early for Bucky to be back from wherever he’s always going, so you decide to venture out of your room again, stretching your tired limbs. You’re pretty sure at this point that waking up on the floor is never going to feel fun.

Sam is in the kitchen as always, reading something on his laptop. He’s still sitting down, which means that it’s even earlier than you expected. You miss these early parts of the day, the calm before the storm.

If today were only made up of these few hours, you suppose, it might not be half so bad.

You pull up a chair next to him and lean a cheek against your hand. "What’re you doing?"

"Research." Sam sighs, rubbing his temples. "Remember that ULTIMATUM group?"

"Never heard of them," you say with a small yawn. "Is that an acronym? What does it stand for?"

Sam gives you a glare and your mouth twitches slightly.

"Anyway," he continues, turning his laptop so you can see the article he’s reading. "They’ve been more active again lately. Acquired a couple thousand dollars’ worth of lab equipment through one of their contacts and then went underground again."

Of course, you know all this. You’ve been over it again and again, back when you were all still trading information like it could save Bucky’s life. Like there was a deeper meaning behind any of this damn loop other than the fact that you, and you alone, fucked up.

Useless.

You close the mental door on those thoughts and take a deep breath. You hate to admit it, but all of this sitting around with your thoughts bullshit you’ve been doing has actually helped you to clear your head somewhat—if only to make it through the parts of the day you can’t avoid.

"And now what?" you ask, pretending to just have reacquainted yourself with the topic.

"Now," Sam says, taking his laptop with him as he stands up and strolls over to the kitchen island, "I’m waiting for Torres to get back to me so we can decide our next steps once we’re all recovered." He gives you a meaningful look and you scowl.

Then, slowly, his words register in your brain, and you stare at his back as he stretches and then moves to make some coffee, wordlessly taking one of your mugs out of the cupboard as well as his own.

"You don’t seem too worried," you say hesitantly.

Sam shrugs. "Until we have a proper lead, there’s not much we can do. And I doubt they’ll be doing any actual damage any time soon. They’re a lot more covert than the Flag Smashers ever were."

"Right," you say, more to yourself than in response.

"Try that again, less convincing?"

"I don’t know," you mutter, slowly following him to lean against the fridge. "Just … what if Torres did find something? Should I be getting ready?"

Sam frowns. "Are you not telling me something again?"

You try to shake the thought, pulling your arms around you. "Forget it."

You don’t, though.

It keeps bugging you, because that day like any other day, he knocks on your door at 4:32 on the dot, and you go on that mission anyway. And even though this has been happening for weeks, you’re just starting to suspect that you are, in fact, still not getting the whole picture.

***

Catching a glimpse of Sam’s phone turns out to be more difficult than you first thought.

You’re still trying to get the timing exactly right a couple of days later, and you miscalculate enough to catch Bucky on his way upstairs.

"Hey," he says, his shoulders tense when he looks at you. There’s a restlessness to him that he’s not quick enough to hide; or maybe you’ve just grown more perceptive when it comes to him.

"Hi," you say, crossing your hands behind your back. "Where’ve you been?"

He shrugs. "For a walk."

You already know he won’t elaborate if you try poking, so you don’t. "Was it good?"

"Lotta people." He hesitates when you continue to not meet his eye, and then he says, "Do you want to talk about it?"

You swallow, ignoring the tingling sensation on your wrist. "Not particularly. Do you?"

Bucky’s jaw twitches. "Nah."

Somehow, you feel like that’s also a lie. Once again, you’re left wondering.

The silence between you stretches as you continue to not quite look at each other, until you finally clear your throat, nodding at the front door. "I’m getting coffee, do you want something?"

Honestly, it’s just an excuse as to why you need to leave before he notices something off again somehow, but Bucky tilts his head in amusement.

"Didn’t you just get some this morning?"

"So? I like coffee."

"Really. I never knew."

"Screw you."

You can hear him huff behind you, but thankfully the door falls shut before you can do anything stupid. Like turning around to face him, for example.

You miss his eyes.

Why won’t you look at me?

When the elevator doors open, you almost yelp into your delivery guy’s face. He stumbles a half-step backwards, somehow managing to keep a hold of the boxes precariously balanced on his arm while he’s reading something on his phone.

"Oh my god," he lets out, "I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I was just …"

"Early." You blink.

"Sorry?"

"Nothing," you say, frowning only a little. "Wait, let me get that."

You quickly sign for the delivery and open the door with your keycard, holding it open for him. You’re not exactly afraid of burglars these days, and besides; you know this guy by now.

"If you could just go straight ahead and to the right, that’s where the kitchen is."

"Sure thing," he shrugs. "Thanks—"

His mouth snaps shut and he blushes a little as if he wanted to say something else but thought better of it.

You’ve introduced him to Sam enough times you know he’s going to be fine, so you just smile and wave him in.

When you step out on the street, you instinctually look up at the sky. It’s outrageously blue, blatantly perfect for an endless Friday, and even when you squint, you can’t make out any irregularities.

It’s a tiny relief, but a relief nontheless.

Lucy is leaning against the wall just out of sight of the storefront, an unlit cigarette dangling between her lips as she rummages through her pockets. Her colorful makeup has begun to melt off in the sweltering heat, making the red-white-and-blue stars on her cheeks bleed into each other to look somewhat purplish.

"Are you off or on break?" you call over.

She lifts her head, the glare vanishing when she recognizes you. "Counting the seconds," she says. "Don’t you have anything better to do?"

You sidestep a couple of pedestrians hurrying to cross the street and join her. "Not really."

"I hate you." She finally fishes a lighter out of her back pocket, sighing contentedly as she takes her first drag. "I swear, this day just won’t pass."

Fine. Maybe your chuckle is a little shrill. "I’m sorry."

Lucy waves you off with a gesture crude enough to make a young dad with a stroller send the two of you a dirty look. "You without your shadow today?" she asks, inspecting her nails.

You blink. "My shadow."

"You know. Your friend who’s been in here eight thousand times and still gets confused when he orders." A cloud of smoke vanishes into thin air. "Kind of the lingering type, isn’t he?"

"He’s old," you say, because for some reason nothing else comes to mind.

"Not that old."

"No," you agree, "not that old."

For a moment, you’re afraid she’s going to ask you to pass her number along to him, and you’re already scrambling to find an answer somewhere in the depths of your brain, coming up empty. That’s the problem with being able to unhave entire conversations; you don’t usually really have to deal with reactions if you don’t want to.

Without your powers, though, you’re stuck, and it’s making you wish you hadn’t come here at all.

Instead of any of that, she pulls a flyer out of her other pocket. "Sorin and Cass are doing a gig in Brooklyn next week, do you wanna come with? They’re still terrible, but they got a new bassist who seems alright."

You take the flyer, staring at it. "I didn’t know they’re in a band," you admit.

The truth is, you’ve never paid that much close attention to the people you work with. Maybe that’s been a mistake.

Lucy shrugs. "You’re always doing your own thing." It stings, even though you’re pretty sure she doesn’t mean for it to. "It’d be fun if you came, though."

"I’ll think about it," you say, and your smile is a little unsure, but genuine.

So is hers.

"If you don’t want to hang with us all night, you can bring some friends, too." Her emphasis hangs in the air between you like a dare.

You snort. "I feel like this isn’t quite their scene."

"You feel like or you know?"

"Isn’t that the same thing?"

"No." She puts her cigarette out on the wall behind her. "Knowledge is based on experience. On memories. Your feelings don’t sit in your head. And so they don’t make sense and they’re not necessarily true." She winks.

"You’re weirdly smart," you say, shaking your head.

"I know. It’s a curse." Lucy sighs. "Anyway, think about it. I gotta get back to hell."

"You know," you say with a grin, "I could really do with a frappuccino right about now."

"You know what you could do?" she answers in her sweetest customer service voice, pointing you down the street. "Get in a trash can."

Damnit. You might actually grow to like Lucy.

She taps her fingers against her temple and then shuffles back inside, a hot rush of air blowing out of the AC as the door opens. You fold the flyer up to fit into your back pocket, hoping you’ll make it to that concert one day, and then you walk on, aimless again for the moment.

***

Time passes while it’s standing still.

The problem is, at least for the moment, that by all appearances you’ve reverted back to square one. Going through your day as though any of this is even remotely normal, counting the hours and minutes to reenter the astral plane and feel some semblance of control again.

It’s been nice, really, if you’re ignoring the constant underlying feeling of dread.

Which you’re getting better at.

You wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume.

Rinse and repeat.

You wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume.

Even on days when you’re sure you’re making progress with your powers, every reset makes it just a little harder to keep dragging yourself onwards.

You wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume.

"You look like shit."

Your head rolls to the side slowly, allowing yourself a glance while Bucky is still distracted with his arm. Concentration makes his brows knit, and something warm spreads in your chest.

"I’m so tired," you say, voice barely above a whisper.

He doesn’t look at you, but you’re grateful for it for once. Your eyes are stinging a little.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Yes. Yes. Yes.

"Not particularly."

"Do you want to talk about something else?"

You almost smile. "Like what?"

Bucky shrugs with one shoulder. "Like the fact that you just planted Sam into the mat head-first and yet made a face like you killed a puppy?"

Sometimes you wonder how he still manages to slip in without you noticing, no matter how many times he does it.

"Did I?"

"Did you kill a puppy? I’d hope not."

Your body’s been getting stronger, anticipating Sam’s every move. At this point, it’s not so much training as it is an exercise in muscle memory; but how would he know that?

It still isn’t enough. It’s never enough.

You pitiful, selfish, useless bastard.

"You’re doing it again," Bucky says and you blink.

"Doing what?"

"I don’t know, but I don’t like it."

Something inside you twinges uncomfortably and you wrap your arms around your knees, pulling them into your chest. "That might just be me, period."

Bucky huffs. "Take the towel on the right," he says. "I already used the other one."

So you do.

And then you wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume, and then you wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume, and then you wake up with blah, blah, blah.

"I can’t do this anymore."

Strange watches you, but you don’t get up from where you’re lying, blankly staring at the ceiling, feeling like your chest is about to explode.

You don’t want to feel like something is tearing you apart every single time, even though you know it’s not permanent. There’s always the tiniest glimmer of hope that this will all be over soon.

Or maybe it’s dread.

"Maybe you can’t," Strange answers.

You blink, sitting upright. "What?"

"Maybe you are actually incapable of cleaning up your own mess. You’ve never had any training before, after all. Maybe you’re too weak."

Useless. Not good enough. Waste of time.

"If this is reverse psychology, it’s not working," you say through gritted teeth, pressing your eyes shut so tightly they don’t burn anymore.

Strange ignores you. "Maybe you’re going to be stuck in this loop forever. If that’s the case, there’s no point to keep trying either. Maybe we should just call it a day."

You can feel your breaths coming in shorter.

"Maybe you’re just going to keep failing to save anyone for the rest of your life."

"Stop it!"

An explosion of power goes through your body, bouncing off the walls and bathing the room in a ghostly green light. You cough and curl into yourself as you watch it billow, still echoing the words back at you, "too weak", "stuck in this loop forever". Your bones are heavy with exhaustion.

Strange crouches down next to you and a cup of fragrant tea draws itself up to the side of your face.

"You’re drawing the bulk of your power from pain. From a desire to fix things that you think you alone are responsible for when the truth is that each and every one of us is constantly creating reality."

"Fuck you," you mumble. When you sit up, your head is still swimming.

"You cannot keep this up."

"If I’m such a lost case, then why do you bother?"

"I’m trying to tell you that you’re not." He points at the walls, still covered by that greenish fog. "This is the strongest display of your powers I’ve seen from you yet, and it only happened because you were lashing out. Pain is not a sustainable source of energy. Imagine what you could do if you could be in control."

Do as I tell you.

"There’s no way to control my powers on a larger scale. It’s impossible."

"You keep telling me that, and yet you keep coming back. Why?"

You push yourself up to your elbows, wiping at your face. "Because I have to hope, right?"

"And there it is."

You take a sip of your tea and some feeling returns to your translucent fingers. Strange’s cloak draws itself around your shoulders.

The wizard himself stays quiet for another minute or two, before he asks, "Why do you think I’m talking to you right now? Helping you, even, nevermind your constant whining and your insistence that this won’t work, after you’ve spent your whole life running away from anything resembling actual responsibilities."

"I didn’t—"

"Answer the question."

"Because I created a time loop?" you guess.

"But you already know that this loop is just one point on the timeline. A single day, repeated endlessly, but going exactly like it was always supposed to, once resolved. So, without the time stone and my privileges as the Sorcerer Supreme, and with your protections still in place, how would I have found you?"

He knew exactly where and when to look for you. But he’s right, that shouldn’t even have been possible unless …

"I came to you," you realize. "Or, I will, once I get out of this." The relief that washes over you makes you want to sob. "So there is a way out?"

"Of course there is," he says, surprisingly gently. "Time isn’t supposed to get stuck."

You sit with that for a minute, hiding your face in your hands as Strange stays silent. Finally, you take a deep breath and look at him again with newly sharp focus.

"So why don’t you just tell me how to do it?"

He raises an eyebrow. "You know that’s not how it works."

"Yes. It is. It’s literally what I do all the time."

"What you do is leaving realities you don’t like by turning backwards."

"That’s not true."

"Just because your motivations aren’t entirely selfish doesn’t mean you’re right."

You’re so damn exhausted. The frustration of this whole thing is really starting to scratch at your sanity, and there’s an ache in your chest as you stare at your own sleeping face, biting the inside of your cheek, thinking.

Strange snaps his fingers to get your attention back.

"I’m not a mind reader," he says. "Out with it."

"I want to see him," you say, getting up. The cloak flaps around you in a very satisfying way. "Bucky. It’s early this morning, right? Just before the loop starts again. That means he’s upstairs."

"And what’s seeing him going to do?"

You ignore him and walk towards the door, reaching for the handle. Your hand goes right through it. You try it several more times, to no avail.

"Heaven help me," Strange mutters behind you.

Shutting your eyes, you take a deep breath. The circle of green tingles around your wrist.

Then, you walk through the closed door.

You fully expect to crash into the wood head first, but instead you feel the door moving through your noncorporeal form, and then you’re standing on the other side.

With a startled hum, you turn left, not waiting to see if you’re being followed.

You only hesitate in front of Bucky’s bedroom door. You’ve never actually been inside his room since he’s moved in; well, apart from that time he patched up your feet and you woke up in the astral plane for the first time. It feels odd to consider entering without him actually being aware of it.

Then again, there’s quite a few things at this point that he’s unaware of.

Before you can make up your mind, the door swings open just a little, and you automatically take a step back. Alpine sleepily slinks through the gap and trots off in the direction you came from, probably to sit in the kitchen and mope until FRIDAY activates the food dispenser again. On the stairs, she passes Strange who raises an eyebrow at you.

"Changed your mind?"

You glance into the room.

At first, you can’t find him. The bedding looks untouched, and there’s a brief flurry of panic that makes you step inside before you can keep questioning yourself.

Bucky is lying on the floor next to the bed, his hands balled tightly into an old throw blanket. It’s haphazardly draped across his torso, like he’s been trying to wriggle free during the night. He grimaces in his sleep.

Try the floor.

You can’t help but wonder when he’s last tried the bed.

"Can he hear us?" you ask quietly, not needing to look over your shoulder as you sink to the floor next to Bucky.

"No," Strange says. "Not until you put in a lot more work."

"Would he remember if I did?"

"I don’t know."

You do look back at him, then. "You know, considering your position you don’t know a whole lot of things."

You concentrate on your own hand until you’re starting to feel cool metal underneath your fingertips, ignoring the throbbing of your head. Carefully, you touch the crease between his brows, smoothing it out tenderly.

Bucky sighs a little in his sleep, but doesn’t stir. Doesn’t stop quietly murmuring in his dreams.

"You feel better?" Strange asks.

"Not really." You’ve already reached out to him without it having any repercussions too many times. "But that wasn’t the point."

"What was?"

"Just …"

Comfort. He brings you comfort, even when he doesn’t know it. It’s the same reason you keep waiting for him to arrive in the gym in the mornings, even though you could probably hurry up and miss him.

Even if the loop never ends, it’s still good to see that it’s bringing him back like it’s supposed to.

How incredibly selfish, you think as you continue looking at Bucky and letting a quiet, hesitant wash of calm come over you.

And then, all of a sudden, his eyes open.

You flinch backwards, but even though you’re almost face to face, he seems to stare right through you, his breaths heavy.

"Did I do something?" you say quietly.

"No," Strange answers. "This is just when he wakes up."

You watch as Bucky drags a hand over his face and then gets up with a determined tick in his jaw, grabbing a notebook from the nightstand. He scribbles something down, hastily, like it’s threatening to get away from him if he doesn’t hurry. You don’t have to read it to know it has something to do with what he’s seen in his sleep.

When the words stop flowing, he sits on the edge of the bed for a minute longer, but the tension doesn’t leave his shoulders. Finally, he rolls his left arm a few times before pulling on a shirt and his running shoes.

He always goes for a run in the morning. You’ve made fun of him for it before, but you hadn’t put together that while Strange was trying to get you to clear your own head through sitting still, Bucky might be doing the exact opposite to get the same result.

The door clicks shut.

"Are we done with the spying, then?" Strange says.

"No need to get weird about it," you mumble and take his outstretched hand.

***

Something changes once you know that your situation actually has an end date, even though Strange either cannot or will not tell you how many more loops you’re going to have to go through until then. Even so, there’s a new assurance to your every step again, a determination grown from the knowledge that all this isn’t for nothing. That there is an out.

You can cling to that.

"What would you do if you were stuck in a time loop?" you ask, letting your legs dangle over the ledge of the roof.

"Ew, no," Lucy replies, shaking the few remaining ice cubes in her cup emphatically. "My shift was long enough as is, and I’ve been looking forward to my Sunday off all week."

"Fair point," you concede.

It’s early afternoon then, and you’ve found a quiet spot on the top of the Tower. If Lucy was at all confused why you’d shown up at the store right when she clocked out and asked her to hang out, she’s not showing it. Over the past couple of loops, you’ve learned that she really likes to go with the flow, and you appreciate that.

"If it’s not today, though," she continues, like she’s thinking aloud. "Imagine the books you could read. You could try out all that stuff that you say you want to do, and then you never have the time to actually do them."

It’s a good thought, but a lack of time has never really been an issue for you. "Nothing you do would really stick, though."

She squints against the sun. "You realize that’s a pro, right? No consequences whatsoever. I could cut my bangs again and they’d be gone the next day."

"You used to have bangs?"

"Never, and I’m willing to state that in a court of law."

You smile and lean back on your elbows. "If something good happened, that’d be gone, too, though. You don’t get to keep that, either."

"Yeah," Lucy says thoughtfully. "I’d still remember it though, right? It still happened. I could make it happen again."

"Maybe." Your thumb scratches the empty space on your pinkie. Even though you’ve turned your entire bathroom upside down, your ring is still gone, like it just up and disappeared from this reality. You can’t help but wonder if that rift in the sky from a few todays ago has anything to do with that.

"What about you?"

"Hm?"

Lucy takes another slurping sip from her almost empty cup. "What would you do in a time loop?"

You can’t help but laugh. "I’d try to keep making the good things happen, I guess."

"Sounds like a lot of work."

It is.

"Are you out of your damn mind?" someone shouts behind you. "It’s in the fricking nineties today and you’re baking?"

"Technically, we are baking," you say, nodding at Lucy and leaning back further so you can look at Sam upside down. "And we’re baking for you."

"Hi, cap," Lucy says, pulling her sunglasses off.

"Hey." Sam crosses his arms and fixes you with a very cap-like glare. "Why are you baking for me."

"Y/N said it’s for your birthday."

"My—" He cuts himself off, rubbing his temples. "My birthday’s in September."

"Whoops," you say, your grin just believable enough. "My bad, cap."

"You’re not funny," Sam says, "I hope you know that."

You know.

Of course, today isn’t actually his birthday, not even if time were allowed to pass normally. It is day forty-fucking-nine of the loop, though, which makes it your fiftieth time living through this crap and frankly, you all deserve some damn pie.

It’s not going to make a difference in the long run, of course, and yet you can’t help but feel like keeping count of those little markers of time helps to hold your head above water. Making the good things happen, even if they don’t change a thing and no one but you is going to remember.

So you simply say, "It’s turtle pie," because you know that it’s Sam’s favorite. "Hey, what’s the time?"

"Oh, it better be," he says, holding his phone up for you to read and then marching out of your field of vision.

Sadly, you’re just about a minute early.

"He could’ve stayed," Lucy says when you let out a frustrated huff.

"He has that thing at the Garden," you tell her distractedly, taking a mental note to stall Sam a little longer next time.

"There you are."

You flinch at the sound of Bucky’s voice, barely daring to move your head when he sits next to you, his back to the brink.

He never comes up here. That’s the whole point.

"Hi?" you say carefully, and a grin tugs at his mouth.

"Not you," he says, nodding to the ground in front of him.

You turn around fully to find Alpine taking a nap just a few feet behind you, her snowy tail wrapped around a flower pot.

You let out a relieved breath and ignore the small sting in your chest. Of course he’s not up here because of you. Why would he be?

"Gee, thanks," you murmur, quietly shifting around so your hands are hidden underneath your legs. "You sure know how to charm the ladies."

You glance back at Lucy, but she’s looking at her phone, her eyes once again indecipherable behind the large sunglasses.

Bucky raises an eyebrow. "Think you could handle my charm, Y/L/N?"

He might has well have doused you in a bucket of ice water. You’re suddenly very aware of every single cell in your body, and you don’t like the challenge sparkling in his eyes.

So you do what you always do and you block it out. Dismiss and distract.

"Does Alpine seem weird to you?"

He tilts his head, his jaw tight. "Weird how?"

"I don’t know," you say, staring at her. "She’s just been acting … odd, lately. Today, I mean."

And following you around in a way you’re pretty sure she’s never done before. Not before the loop, at least.

Bucky sighs. "Did you make her scratch you again? Because I’ve told you before that I’m not getting rid of her for enforcing her boundaries."

"First of all, I never make her scratch me, she does that well enough on her own."

"That’s victim blaming," Lucy says without looking up. Bucky snorts and you almost roll your eyes.

"Second of all, she’s up to something. I know it."

"Oh, yes," Bucky says dryly just as Alpine makes a small noise in her dreams, her nose twitching. "That’s the embodiment of evil right there."

"I don’t trust her," you mutter.

"And yet the cat’s the weird one."

"I hate you," you mumble, standing up. "I’m gonna go check on the pie."

"There’s pie?" Bucky says.

"Not for you!"

You turn at the door to see Lucy leaning in to show Bucky something on her phone; the frown has disappeared from his face, his shoulders relaxed. If he’d pull off his glove right now, it’d almost be like sitting in a park.

That’s good, you tell yourself as the door slams shut behind you with a bit too much gusto. Reminds you that there’s nothing special about you in particular, which is much needed, really.

Can’t wait to punch that one out of your system later.

Again and again and again and a—

"Whoa, whoa, you alright?"

You blink. Riff slumps to the ground in front of you, body limp.

Bucky stares at you in concern, his hand still on your shoulder. His lip has split open and there’s the usual bruise already forming on his cheekbone. You can’t help it. Your gaze is drawn down, your breathing shallow.

You screw your eyes shut to snap yourself out of it, but when you open them again, Bucky hasn’t moved an inch.

"Never better," you whisper, and for a split second, you almost believe it yourself.

Liar, liar, liar.

***

At least, you suppose, reality seems considerably less broken these days. No more cracks in the sky.

You get your wake-up call when you wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY …

"… FRIDAY?" you say into the silence of your room, your heart pounding wildly. This cannot be happening. Not now.

Not yet.

He got shot again yesterday.

A pleasant jingling sound rings out. "Good morning, Ms. Y/L/N."

You look at the clock on the wall. Ten to eight, just like every morning. "What day is it?"

"Today is Friday, July 4th."

You can taste bile in your mouth despite your relief. There’s an impatient thrum to the symbols around your wrist, like a noose that’s tightening.

What did you expect?

"Rise and shine, McFly! Time to get your ass kicked!"

"Didn’t you set FRIDAY to wake me?" you ask Sam as you’re climbing the stairs, nerves on edge.

He looks at you weirdly. "I did. You’re up, aren’t you?"

You bite the inside of your cheek. "Didn’t sleep well."

That much, at least, is still true. Full nights of sleep are a long distant memory from before constant back-to-back repetitions. The only time your body shuts off is when you manage to sleep for a little bit in between your astral visits and the mission call.

"I hope you don’t think that’s an excuse," Sam says, bumping your shoulder, and you manage a tired grin.

"You wish."

Today, you let him win, even though your ankle makes an odd crack when you land on the mat. You’ll take care of it later.

"You look like shit."

Grief and relief, you’ve learned, both taste like salt and iron, but the latter is so much easier to swallow.

"That makes two of us," you say, sitting up slowly. "How was your run?"

"Good," Bucky says, putting the cloth away and stretching his fingers out. They catch a ray of sunlight. "What’s wrong with you?"

Not this again.

"Later, okay?" you answer, because that’s not a lie. "Let’s just … not, right now?"

"Alright," he says.

And, oh, you want to tell him again. Because he doesn’t press it. Because you miss having someone to share things with. Because you miss telling him the whole truth. Because you’re scared, and tired, and sick of losing him.

But those are egotistic thoughts, and so you keep them all to yourself and take the towel on the right.

There’s one good thing about this today. You make it to the living room just in time to finally catch a glimpse of Sam’s phone right when it pings with Torres’ message.

I can check it out on Monday if you’d like.

That’s it. No urgency, weirdly proper spelling, not even an exclamation mark.

In other words, you’re not sure what you expected but you’re no closer to answers than before.

"What does it matter?" Strange sighs when you tell him all of this with a frown.

"It matters," you reply, "because if we hadn’t gone on the mission, Bucky wouldn’t have died that first time and none of this would’ve happened."

"So what?" he says. "It’s already done."

"But if I could prevent it—"

"It already happened."

"I can make it not happen."

"You and what powers?" Strange says sharply. "Even if you did that, it wouldn’t stop the loop."

"How do you know that?"

"Because you’ve already seen first-hand that it’s bound to you and your powers, not to whatever you do or don’t do during the day. Karma is a fairy tale for those who don’t want to take responsibility for their actions."

"Do you really still think this is me not taking responsibility?" There’s a green flare that goes through you, hot and seething and making goosebumps crawl down your arms.

Strange smiles at the sight. "Let’s find out."

He extends his arms and slowly opens his fists until orange symbols dance across his shaky fingers. The band around your wrist prickles at the weight of his magic flooding the air.

Strange’s cloak nudges you towards the center of the room and your heart gives a heavy thud. "What, right now?"

"Would you prefer being stuck for a couple weeks more?"

"Of course not it’s just—I don’t feel ready."

"No one ever feels ready until they try."

And maybe it’s because it reminds you of something Steve once said, but it makes you step up, falling into the stance you’ve practiced over and over again. You breathe in deeply and close your eyes.

The pull comes easier now. Your powers have just been resting, nestled somewhere deep inside your bones like glowing embers, waiting for you to call upon them.

When you look at your open palm, the green wisps of your powers have curled up to the size of a ping-pong ball. You take another steadying breath and let it glide to the tips of your fingers, carefully letting it balance itself out for a second before moving your other hand.

"Good," you can hear Strange say quietly.

Slowly, carefully, you let the threads untangle until they’re just about to touch the green band circling around your wrist. You can feel the electric tingle of it, the soft beat of each passing second contained within, and you push past it.

You’ve done this before, so you’re not surprised when you feel the energy drain from your body almost immediately. Up until now, though, it’s just been trial and error, not expecting anything to happen. This time, you have Strange’s magic feeding some of his strength into you as well, and so instead of hesitating, you press on, your heartbeat speeding up.

The band around your wrist does the same.

"Don’t lose your focus." Strange’s voice sounds very far away, almost warped.

Very funny, you might have said, but you’re too busy watching it all unfold.

The whirring inside of your head grows louder as the circlet of time keeps rotating with accelerating speed, faster and faster until your eyes start tearing up and there’s something that looks almost like a crack.

You gasp quietly. At first, you think you might have just imagined it, but then the split starts growing, the symbols growing farther and farther apart as the band itself keeps spinning. Your pulse is beating in your ears. Your wrist feels like it’s being set on fire.

There are voices, then, quiet and fast, like you’re watching a sped up movie, music and noises and chatter and birdsong and a whooshing sound like something flipping right past you. Then, something like distant shots.

I’m getting Bucky out of this, you think as the green band continues rotating until suddenly, there is a shockwave of green light that takes up your entire field of vision.

You close your stinging eyes, keeping your feet firmly planted on the floor as your powers rush through you once more and then, with a shudder, settle down again, exhausted. The glare subsides. Something like a trickle of sweat runs down your noncorporeal neck.

"Did it work?" you ask, your voice rough, not daring to look for yourself. There’s no answer, though. "Doc?"

Slowly, your eyes readjust to the gloomy darkness of your room in the astral realm. The only source of light is the glowing green band continuing to circle around your wrist, the rifts stabilizing again like it’s clicking back into place.

You swear under your breath and turn around to ask what went wrong, but Strange is no longer standing beside you.

You’re all alone.

***

Three, two, one—

"Iced grande extra whip caramel macchia—shit!"

You catch the plastic cup before it drops onto the suit of the business man standing in line in front of you. "Here you go, sir."

He grabs his drink with a grunt and hurries back outside. One of these days, you might ask him why he’s in such a hurry, but it’s not today.

You’ve grown to adore the noise of the pre-noon rush. The cacophany of the whirring machines, the AC and the people is just loud enough to make your head calm down a little. Besides, being alone in a crowd has never been easier than when you know for a fact they are not going to remember you.

The drinks are starting to pile up at the hand-out, and because you feel bad for your colleagues, you start handing them out to people. You’ve been here a lot, after all.

"Tall hazelnut latte for Misty!"

Plus, it helps to keep your mind from wandering back to everything that’s going wrong.

Strange still hasn’t returned.

The astral dimension feels different when you return the day after your experiment, like someone’s been pulling invisible strings to make everything just slightly more disordered and dark.

It’s cold, too. You watch your body shiver in her sleep as you wrap your arms around yourself. The books are still there, shimmering slightly with the magic they contain.

"Doc?" you call out, and the vibrations of this place hum it back at you. There’s no answer.

The book at the top of the pile is still opened to a page, as if it’d just been left a moment ago, and you pick it up. The words glide around like they are looking to jump back into an inkpot, and you have to squint to make out any of them.

Incursion, the section header reads. Result of a contraction in a universe’s timeline. Can cause premature disintegration or collapse of any one reality within the multiverse.

"Just great," you say, slapping the book shut again. "I get it, alright? You can come out now."

But there’s no sound apart from your own heartbeat.

Your noncorporeal head is swimming with pressure as you pass through the closed door and into the hallway. The walls seem larger than usual, the stairs warping ever so slightly underneath your feet so that you can’t look at them for too long without feeling seasick.

Upstairs, the air doesn’t feel quite as heavy. The silence follows you, though, lingering in the grayish morning shadows like the remnants of a nightmare.

Bucky still mumbles in his.

You can’t make out what he is saying, and you wouldn’t have understood the words, anyway, but there’s sweat on his brow again. His fingers are tightly clutching the thin throw blanket like it’s shielding him from whatever he’s seeing in his dreams.

You take a step closer to him, desperate to do something, anything, when you notice movement out of the corner of your eye.

Alpine is perched on top of the bed, complacently tucked into herself on one of the fluffed up white pillows like it’s really her room, not Bucky’s.

And she’s staring right at you.

You take a step to the side, then another. Alpine tilts her head, her large eyes fixed on you. They follow your gestures as you wave your hand.

A quick glance tells you that Bucky is still sleeping. You take a deep breath and conjure up a small dot of bright green light, letting it dance across your fingertips. Alpine uncurls herself in interest, her tail twitching.

"You can see me," you whisper, and the little spec of your power disappears.

The cat meows in disappointment.

Carefully, you move closer to the bed, reaching out your translucent hand until you place it on Alpine’s head.

She rubs against your palm.

You chuckle incredulously, scratching behind her ears. "You little devil."

Alpine seems particularly pleased with herself. She starts purring.

This is simply bizarre, you think as you continue petting her soft fur. You’re expecting a sarcastic comment from behind your shoulder any minute now, but it doesn’t come.

So, you lower yourself down on the floor next to Bucky, the tips of your fingers not quite grazing his arm as you swallow heavily.

And then you wait until he gets up.

It’s possible, you think as you watch him leave and then make yourself wake up too, that Strange is simply messing with you for the hell of it. You don’t like the timing of this, though. Your day still continues on and on and on, like it always does, but it seems just a little too pointed that this would happen right after you had your first hopes of getting out of here in a long time.

It doesn’t help that the reality glitches have decided to return with a vengeance.

Every day is still July 4th. You wake up with a start, you train, you get coffee, you fight over lunch, you take your astral visit, you go on that damn mission. It’s the details that start to get … fuzzy.

In the beginning, every single thing around you was the exact same every single day. Now, though, there are sometimes details that are just wrong. A different mug left on the drying rack. A mess all over the tables in the lab. Weird noises all over the Tower.

You don’t know what to make of any of it, and so in general, you follow Strange’s rule of thumb and simply ignore the things that are wrong one day and then right the next—which, thankfully, is all of them. You just go with it, telling yourself that this is simply reality malfunctioning a little, like a machine that needs oiling.

Weirdly enough, that doesn’t reassure you in the slightest.

But what else can you do?

You lose a few hours here and there, time seemingly speeding up at random sometimes now. One morning, Bucky isn’t in the gym like he usually is, and you work yourself up over it so much you nearly have a panic attack. In the end, you almost crash into him outside of his room, and a rush of reassurance floods through you with such force you can’t even look at him.

That time, Sam is there when Bucky gets shot, and it’s his cry that follows you into the next day. Your hands are clean this time, and somehow that feels worse.

Everyone’s back to their usual stuff again, and that’s that.

Another time, you’ve barely rolled out of bed and into your bathroom—"Rise and shine, McFly!"—when you’re suddenly jolted forwards and you wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume. Your stomach feels like it’s still turning, nauseous, as if you’d sat up too fast.

That feeling still leaves a bad taste in your mouth, sticking to the back of your mind like the blood you haven’t even had time to wash off.

The thing that demands most of your attention, though, is the pile of books waiting for you in the astral realm. Since you don’t have any control over the loop itself, you pour all of your energy into trying to understand the theory behind your powers. It’s giving you a constant headache, and it takes a lot longer than you would like to admit, but at least you feel like you’re doing something that’ll last.

Nothing else will.

There’s one last lonely cup sat on the counter next to your own, which signals that the rush is over for now. You can see Lucy wiping her forehead as you wave your goodbye, picking up both drinks on your way out and handing one of them to the guy just hurrying back downstairs.

"Here you go," you say without stopping, glancing at your phone. You haven’t stayed this late before.

"What the—" you hear behind you, just before the doors glide open and you’re greeted by the sound of traffic and a hot breeze of air.

If you’re lucky, you can make it back to your room without anyone seeing you. You’ve moved on to a particularly hefty tome about relativity, and you’d like to—

"Hey! Miss? Hold on a second!"

You look over your shoulder to see the delivery guy has run after you, cup still in his hand. His bike is leaned against a lamp post nearby, his cap dangling off one of the handles.

You found out a couple of weeks ago that he takes his break just after dropping off your order, but you don’t usually make eye contact anymore.

Now, he holds out his cup accusingly. "That’s my drink."

You smile. "Good for you."

"No. No, that’s not—I mean—how did you know it was my drink?"

And because nothing really matters and you really want to go home, you say, "It has your name on it, doesn’t it?"

You expect him to look at you with wide eyes, just like people normally do when you know things you’re not supposed to. His mouth will drop open, speechless, his frown will deepen, and you can wink at him and continue on your way so he can spend the next couple of hours wondering what just happened.

The cup falls out of his hand, but somehow he manages to catch it before it hits the sidewalk. When he looks up at you again, and his expression is unlike anything you’ve seen coming.

"But that’s not …" he says quietly. "Do you remember me?"

And then it’s you who’s speechless, because the shock on Peter Parker’s face is more than you bargained for.

*****

"Honestly, I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this," you said quietly, looking over the rim of your glass at the crowd.

"You complaining?" you heard Sam’s voice say over the little earpiece you were wearing.

"Not at all."

Apparently, people connected to terrorist organizations threw incredibly fancy parties.

You hadn’t felt this glamorous in a while, if ever, dressed up to the nines in a dark green jumpsuit with an incredibly flattering cut that you’d never had a reason to wear before. Despite your initial doubts about this whole thing, you felt great, for the first time in way too long.

"Are you gonna move any time soon?"

Well. Mostly.

At least Barnes cleaned up nice, you supposed; it almost made up for his grouchy demeanor.

With a sigh, you downed the rest of your drink and got back to work. You let the crowd swallow you up, seemingly on your way to the restrooms, and then you stopped it all to slip upstairs unnoticed by prying eyes and cameras.

You didn’t hold it for very long; you had to rattle some doors, after all, and despite your espresso martini, it was still hard to tell if you could manage several redos back to back. After all, you’d only been back in the game for a couple of weeks.

It took you a few tries to find the right office, and locating the files was comparatively easy with what you already had access to. There it was, proof that ULTIMATUM had managed to secure most of the Flag Smashers’ previous supporters as well as some high brow weapon dealers.

While you copied everything onto a flashdrive, your eyes caught one of the designs. You frowned.

Even though you couldn’t pinpoint what it was, exactly, something about it seemed just slightly too highbrow for an organization of the international bad egg committee that was supposedly still mostly underground. Your gaze started drifting through the rest of the office, noting the usual boring books and glass awards in the bookshelves on the far wall. You pulled open one of the desk drawers.

"You almost done in here?"

"Fuck!" You slammed the drawer shut again, getting your pinkie stuck in the process. "Damnit, where did you come from?"

Bucky pointed over his shoulder.

"Fuck me," you murmured, your eyes stinging at the pain.

Bucky looked nonplussed. "Can’t you just undo it?"

"Great input, thank you." The flashdrive beeped softly and you shut everything down again. At least you were definitely sober now. "What are you, anyway, my babysitter?"

"Wouldn’t have to be if you could check in on time," he answered, checking the corridors, then nodding for you to follow.

"Time’s a social construct," you murmured, but followed him, the flashdrive hidden in your fist.

You didn’t even make it to the staircase.

"Didn’t I tell you?" a voice said right before several triggers clicked and you both froze. "I knew I’d recognized that arm. And who do you have with you here, Winter Soldier?"

No one, you thought, and then you yanked time backwards so forcefully you stumbled into the desk, your heart still racing. The copy sat at 57%.

You felt almost seasick with the rewind, but there wasn’t any time. "Keep going upstairs," you said into your earpiece.

"What?" Bucky said.

"I’m fine. Don’t come get me. Just keep going," you gritted through your teeth, trying to calm your breaths. 70%.

"Exit plan C, then," Sam said.

Bucky didn’t answer. You looked at your hands. There was a slight tremor to them, but nothing too bad. If you could get the nausea under control, you could probably make it past the cameras one more time.

You should’ve eaten more.

As soon as the flashdrive was done, you ripped it out and forced everything to a halt again. Your palms were sweaty as you hurried out of the office and in the direction of the staircase, your lungs burning. This didn’t feel like a good sign.

You stumbled over your damn heels and the noise returned for that moment you lost your concentration.

Not good enough.

Sweat pearled on your forehead as you and the universe held your breath again. You could feel your hold slipping with every second that wasn’t allowed to pass. Time was impatient with you.

A small crowd had assembled at the bottom of the stairs. As you closed in on them, you felt a jolt go through you and suddenly found yourself surrounded by people as time attempted to right itself again. Your nails dug into the skin of your palm so hard you could feel yourself draw blood.

It went quiet again and you moved through them, almost blindly. Everything seemed to be spinning.

Behind your shoulder, you could hear several people talking, interrupted only by the world stopping around them every now and then.

"—d’you—see that—"

"—could’ve—sworn there—”

And with time stumbling and flailing around in confusion, you made it out of the building and into the waiting cab.

chapter seven

thank you for reading!! you can follow my library blog @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications 💚

#time after time #nika <3 #i am not okay #i need to go to bed

138 notes · View notes

natsmagi · 1 day ago

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ok no i need to bitch because i have remained positive and hopeful throughout most of !!-era because i believed that happyele loved their characters and wouldnt deliberately go out of their way to butcher them but time and time again i have been proven wrong on this fact. and seeing the way theyre doubling down on having ibuki, a ryukyuan kid from okinawa, join a traditional "wa" japanese unit that embraces mainland japan traditions when the mainland has continuously tried to make okinawa theirs and disregard the ryukyuan identity WHILE ALSO LITERALLY HAVING EICHI COLONIZE OKINAWA IN ATLANTIS its all just becoming too much. I am no expert when it comes to these topics so do not take my word when it comes to jp culture, conflict and the likes, but knowing how poorly happyele has continuously time and time again treated their indigenous (or middle eastern in adonis's case) cast i cannot see this going well. Not to mention how having ibuki join akatsuki goes against everything the three of them have built up and the whole POINT of their unit and that for them to even fucking put this garbage in the story they had to make keito PAINFULLY ooc to pull it off because NO OTHER REALITY WOULD ALLOW IT!!!!! theyre taking akatsukis developments and throwing it out the window in an attempt to make them something "new" and more profitable while also using a beloved group that so many have spent so much of their time loving and supporting into nothing but a scapegoat for their imperialist propaganda im so unbelievably angry that theyre doubling down on this. im so angry that theyre stupid enough to let shit like this pass

and im sure youve probably read posts explaining the aktk thing better than i ever couldve, esp considering im not an aktkP, but im also writing this to tell the fans of big units to Stop Giving In. do not feel safe just because happyele is scared of losing you, because I used to be an undeadP before getting into switch and the reason i STOPPED producing them was because they viewed the unit as nothing but a money-maker machine and would completely disregard their developments for the sake of feeding into tropes that fans liked and they cared more about yaoibait than they did the characters themselves. They tossed out any growth rei and ritsu had in opperetta for the sake of bringing back sakuma brothers conflict in that painfully annoying la mort story and theyre gonna keep doing this shit until fans tire of it. valkyrie, eden and knights are three super popular units with upcoming events, and i seriously need you to not give happyele any of your time or money because they do not deserve it.

even with switch, a rather unpopular unit, theres been total garbage pulled. in switchs case i think its safe to say that akira does genuinely really care for natsume and tsumugis relationship considering thats basically all that man even includes in his switch stories, but he never really knows what to do with sora. And i feel like he doesnt really care. Like sure i can sit here and be like "well at least MY favs seem to be doing alright" but thats purely because they keep spoon-feeding us crumbs of the units popular ships so we wont complain. i still really like their dynamic and i strongly disagree with alot of fans saying natsume and tsumugi have been OOC lately, but like. Look at sora man. i dont mind him having a little gf in the virtual world, i dont mind him growing more independent, i dont mind him relying less on his synesthesia. but the executions are just. Theyre painful. with the synesthesia thing esp bc synesthesia doesnt just go away. You couldve easily made a simple point of "you cant always rely on your synesthesia to know how people feel" because that is TRUE! but that would de-fetishize this idea these people have of synesthesia being some Magical Ability and not just a neurological condition. And with the sora being more independent; this is also something thats been needed for his story! natsume and tsumugi would often coddle him way too much, and sora himself would complain about being treated as a kid. But like. sora has started to feel so disconnected from switch in a way.....? and this has even been a point of conflict in stories, sora not knowing how to partake in ntmgs conversations because theyre too difficult, or being sad that ntmg never have time to hang out with him. But instead of working on these things, they just. keep having sora hang out with people outside of natsume and tsumugi? who have practically become a package deal at this point?? literally having sora join a NEW UNIT without natsume or tsumugi????????? i dont know. im rambling but i just wanted to get this out there. Theyre my specialest guys in the whole entire world and i just want to make people more cautious of thinking "well the aktk thing wouldnt happen to MY fav unit! they wouldnt butcher MY favs!" because they very much can. even if theres an aspect youre still hooked on, other factors are visibly crumbling because management cares only about what will bring the most revenue, and not what is best for the character

i cant help but feel the reason theyre pulling this shit with akatsuki is because they felt as though they somewhat got away with it with Double Face and raked in some extra cash because kohaku ended up popular, so now theyre doing that again but taking it to the next extreme. its disheartening

anyway. i will continue to draw and enjoy ensemble stars. But i wont be supporting them financially anymore as they clearly do not care about fans at all. if i desperately want some merch ill just buy it second-hand. And while im at it, i need you people to stop telling enstarries to get into some other idol franchise instead as if the main problem here isnt how disgustingly predatory they are. Happy Elements were THE biggest joseimuke franchise, making the most money out of all their competitors, and it still wasnt enough. they still didnt respect their fans. when the fans would continuously respect their wishes. Enstars is like the only fandom ive seen that doesnt share leaks for example, yet this courtesy means nothing to them. Corporations arent your friends, never have been and never will be. those characters arent real, they do not have feelings of their own. They were all written by someone to serve a purpose, and this includes ibuki being an indigenous kid joining the wa japanese culture unit. To use this popularity to spread so much fucking bigotry and hatred is heartbreaking. And to blame the fans for being upset over it????????????? youre disgusting happyele.

#this is a rant feel free to ignore #but god.#nat rambles

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that-hazbin · 2 days ago

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Need more fics where Lucifer is a straight up asshole. No one does his assholery justice. Like, he calls Charlie's friends "a bunch of losers." Basically goes on a taunting "I'm right you're wrong" rant on Charlie while her hotel is LITERALLY crumbling around her. When he first shows up, he COMPLETELY ignores the rest of the hotel greeting him and just walks by them to look around and give everything extremely judging looks. He treats them like they're not even there, until Alastor forces him to shift his attention towards him.

There is not a single doubt in my mind that this man is a privileged asshole. He's not the kind of guy who's nice or understanding towards a waiter who's struggling. He's definitely not the kind of person who says "thank you" often.

I think the only people who ever write Lucifer as a dick are people who genuinely HATE Lucifer, and I don't read their fics either because they always go too far with it and depict him as an actual monster, which is... not what I want either.

I just really want a fic where Lucifer actually starts off acting like the dick he is in canon, and then slowly starts to realize how much of a jerk he is as he gets to know the rest of the hotel. Like, him coming to understand that these people have layers to them, and don't really fit into this mold of what he believes sinners to all be like. They're multi-faceted individuals who are capable of and willing to show genuine care and kindness to one another.

Added to this, I really want a fic where like. The rest of the hotel actually outright don't like Lucifer BECAUSE of his entitled attitude. And Lucifer has to get hit in the face with the fact that he's the one at fault here for the way they act towards him. For example; No, Husk is not going to have friendly small talk with you, Lucifer, you literally only ever call him "bartender" and can't be bothered to learn his name.

#hazbin hotel #lucifer morningstar #I just want Lucifer to ACTUALLY be written as The Sin of Pride #and that pride gets in the way of him making connections with Charlie's found family #because it means he acts like an entitled prick who thinks he always knows better #Need him to realize he DOESN'T know better and for that realization to hit him like a fucking bus

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wolfsong-the-bloody-beast · 3 days ago

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I'm kind of obsessed with Blackwall's idealized ideas about the Wardens. He was once picked up by a Warden and lulled by the promise of atoning for his crimes and turning his life around, only for that opportunity to slip away when the Warden not only saved him, but sacrificed his own life to do it. This whole experience makes our Blackwall become a Warden in heart, if not in blood, but with his own ideas of what a Grey Warden should be - noble, brave, inspiring, heroic, self-sacrificial. Everything he now wants to embody. He knows well that he's not there, but he wants nothing more than to start from scratch and be that.

In his beliefs, he reminds me a bit of Wynne in Origins who tells the Warden at some point that the Grey Wardens are supposed to be more than killing machines and weapons against the blight.

“There’s more to being a Grey Warden than killing darkspawn and saving the world from the Blight. Ultimately, being a Grey Warden is about serving others, about serving all people, whether elves or dwarves or men. As a Grey Warden, you are a guardian of men. And you guard them because their continued existence is more important than you are.”

However, we know that's not exactly how it works. That's what they want the Wardens to be. The light against darkness. The shield against monsters.

Although it's not entirely wrong, either, I suppose, all things considered. The more darkspawn they obliterate and push back, the more people are protected from them. Of course, sacrificing their lives to fight literal monsters, which means those same monsters don't eat everybody's kids, ultimately is heroic, and it's something that must have been born out of the need to protect the world and its inhabitants (from the Blight). But to have idealized opinions of the Wardens to this degree, you have to ignore all the other shady stuff and the mentality we, as players, also know the Wardens for. The fact that the Wardens are primarily weapons to slay darkspawn, prevent and end Blights, by any means necessary. The last part is important. After all, they are the Grey Wardens, not the White Wardens. They recruit from all walks of life and are famous for taking in criminals. Not to redeem themselves and get a second chance at life, but because they usually have nowhere to go and nothing left to lose. It's not a coincidence that each of the Origins gets chosen by Duncan, not only because he sees them as capable, but also because they are in a situation they can't escape from. Either they join the Wardens, or they're done for.

We know the Wardens from a few games now, but does the public in the setting even know? Does the average person have any idea how far the Wardens are willing to go? Besides grand stories of slaying monsters in the dark and preventing the end of the world? Probably not. The order is very secretive. And it explains a lot. The Wardens end up sounding almost romantic, when being a Warden is anything but. Is it ignorance talking out of these characters? Perhaps.

It once again shows us this aspect of Dragon Age where you can't take everything a character says as a fact, because the setting is full of people who have no idea what they're talking about, but who are absolutely convinced that they do.

And yet, I can't help but also like Wynne's and Blackwall's romantic ideas about what the Wardens are or should be, almost knights in shining armour and all that. They're fairy tales, but they're beautiful fairy tales. And I can't fault the characters for wanting to believe it or even live it. Especially in case of Blackwall, who sees it as a way to make up for the crimes he committed, somewhat. In the end, this might actually be a bigger draw to join the Wardens than, "Got nowhere to go? Come suffer horribly and probably die gruesomely with us!" It all sounds great on paper, though. I can't fault Davrin for trying to find purpose in life by becoming a monster hunter, either.

And maybe a little bit of idealism doesn't hurt. Not only it's good motivation, but in the end, doing things by "any means necessary" doesn't always pay off, either. It led the Wardens into all kinds of trouble, like getting tricked into employing dangerous forms of blood magic and demon summoning, basically into doing their enemy's work for them. In their determination to win at any cost, they helped trigger a cataclysmic event. Maybe having some principles isn't so bad after all.

In the end, I can appreciate that we get to see the clash of the old and new blood in Veilguard, where there's hope for the order to transform into an organization that's less secretive, less exclusive, and hopefully less prone to letting corruption spread through its ranks and make other devastating mistakes. Duncan once said that letting people join the Wardens isn't an "act of charity", and I like how Evka and Antoine go, "Yeah, you know what? Fuck that." And that likely inspires more loyalty. I imagine Blackwall would like that.

#Dragon Age #Dragon Age: Inquisition #DAI #Dragon Age: The Veilguard #DATV #Veilguard #Blackwall #Thom Rainier #don't mind me #just a stream of consciousness that got out of hand #classic case of ''I want to write a paragraph about this aspect of a character that I find interesting''#''okay a few paragraphs''#''let's include a quote that is relevant''#''okay maybe several paragraphs''#(goes on a tangent)#''what's even the point of this post any more?''#''fuck''#at least it didn't end up like that recent Lucanis text post of mine haha #anyway #the Grey Wardens have always been one of my favourite factions #if not my absolute favourite #I both like their messiness but also that they're not portrayed as a monolith #and I like how some characters have very strong feelings about them and the stark difference between myth and reality #hell I didn't even include Alistair because the post is long enough as it is #either way I'm glad we get to play them again in Veilguard

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lucius-morningstar · 2 days ago

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Vaggie is not a bad girlfriend.

I know there are some Vaggie haters out there and don't get me wrong I understand why. But you're hating her for the wrong reasons. Her character wasn't completely fleshed out right in my opinion and I think that's why so many people hate her character. She's a dependent and honestly can you blame her? Her entire life was killing sinners under the guise of helping heaven. She leaned on other sisters who were said to be "just like her." She depended on them because they were the only family she knew. That WE know of. Imagine being so close to someone and you make a decision out of complete mercy for someone else. Someone you see as innocent and in doing that, you're severely punished and abandoned by people you considered family. I could even say Vaggie has a touch of Stockholm syndrome but Charlie doesn't do this intentionally. You basically took two broken girls who suffer from abandonment issues and expected them to be stable. Let's be real for a couple in hell with abandonment issues, Stockholm syndrome, dependency issues, ect and they actually do come off to be the most healthy if not for one obvious factor. Vaggie's hidden past. Now let me be clear, the Stockholm syndrome bit is obviously not intentionally. Charlie is just doing her best to be helpful and help her out and in doing that Vaggie had a deep dependency in her. So much so that being honest about her past put her into possibly sever panic attacks. I wouldn't be surprised if Vaggie had tried and would have mental break downs because of it. After all, the people she knew she could trust with everything saw her, heard her spare someone and their reaction was to rip everything from her and leave her for the worst fate possible. Could you picture what could have happened if Vox, Alastor or hell forbid Valentino found her instead of Charlie. Especially Alastor of all people, imagine someone with Vaggie's determination and loyalty behind Alastor's command. Instead she was shown true kindness in a place that was suppose to hurt her, where the place that was known for good and kindness hurt her beyond words. Yes, she fucked up. She hid a lie for almost four years. I can understand every reason both parties have for being afraid/hurt and betrayed in a sense. Vaggie despite being in the best place never truly mentally healed from her pain. Not until her meeting with Carmilla did she truly accept her actions and move on for it thus gaining her wings back. Yes you could say it was her desire to protect her girlfriend but I also believe it was an acceptance that her way wasn't going to help in the long run.

Vaggie did everything she could to try and make up for the wrong she did, her not telling Charlie wasn't just hiding but it was her own silent torture. She believed she deserved to be hated and the idea of Charlie loving her despite her actions was far more insane then redemption itself. So in not telling her, she tortured herself further. Believing she did not deserve to be forgiven and every loving gesture, gentle kiss, touch was another knife in her heart telling her she deserved none of it and her guilt was her punishment. Vaggie was in her own personal hell, in her eyes, being loved over a lie. Not being able to tell the truth despite wanting too, her guilt and self loathing pushing her deeper into a pit she couldn't get out of alone. So her response was to push herself out of her comfort zone for Charlie, for the one person who truly showed her true kindness and love no matter what would happen to Vaggie, she'd do anything if it meant Charlie was happy, if it meant she could be forgiven for what she viewed as HER sins. Vaggie is not a bad girlfriend, She literally went to someone who had been confirmed to have murdered an exorcist. The value of her life is so low to her and all she clearly cares about is Charlie getting what she needs. if anything she's bad at self love and she's slowly working her way to loving herself as much as she loves Charlie. That's where I feel her arc is going, being better for herself and for Charlie. Sorry for the rant. Feel free to add your own comments, I obviously forgot some things xD Just went off on a rant about this cause I honestly despise all the hate Vaggie gets, as a girlfriend and as a character.

#hazbin hotel #hotel hazbin #hazbin hotel fandom #hazbinhotel #charlie morningstar #charlie #chaggie #vaggie x charlie #vaggie hazbin hotel #vaggie #charlie x vaggie #hazbin hotel vaggie #charlie hazbin hotel #Support Vaggie #Vaggie is a AMAZING GF #Charlie and Vaggie deserve BETTER #charlie and vaggie

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newkatzkafe2023 · 2 days ago

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Alright if Wukong's meet (not yet married or dating yet) fem!y/n that act and has powers of the Sun from Solarballs?

I AM HELIOS!!! RA!!! APOLLO THE INTI!!! YOU DARE MOCK MY NAME ARES?!?!- Sun

(Lmk Wukong) He met you a long time ago back when he was supposed guarding the peaches, but instead found himself listening to your jokes. Wukong and you bonded over your Chaos and Hilarity of the situations you'll find yourselves in, until one day you both were chatting when some Guards made fun of him. Wukong could literally see how red you became as you look at them, Clearly a switch was flipped in your head as you yelled....

(Y/N) YOU DARE MOCK OUR TITLES LITTLE ANTS LEAVE!!!!!!😡

Wukong sat their with a huge blush as you shot solor flares out of your mouth at the traumatized guards. He's now trying to think of a safe way to ask you out.

(MKR Wukong) Ohhhhhhhh god he had no idea who's he f*cking with, but it's gonna be Hilarious when he does😈🤣 You both meet during the journey to the west in a village. Though Immediately they knew something was wrong because of how nervous everybody was around you, even fruity felt how fake the laughter was as you told joke. Wukong was already fed up with your bullcrap. You know what Wukong does.........he calls you unfunny and clingy to your obviously forced Audience. Everyone froze.....as you turned redder and redder in your fury.

(Y/n) I......Am.....WHAT?!??!?!?😠

(Wukong) Yes you are clingy forcing everyone to listen you your crappy jokes...😈

(Y/n)...Did...you just call me CLINGY!!?!??!?!😡

That was the final start, and you grew into a red giant monkey looking down at Wukong with Psychotic fury

(Y/n) I AM HELIOS, RA, APOLLO, THE INTI!!!!! YOU DARE MOCK MY NAME AND TITLE MONKEY?!?!?!? REPENT YOU MOTHERF*****🤬

And you then shot a solorflare at him not hitting him but Definitely very close to his head..........................leave it to you to not only make him almost sh*t himself but also receive a raging boner😳

(NR Wukong) Oh man If it wasn't for his immortality he would be dead by now. Like seriously he's the only one I know with a deathwish and kinda aware of it! He was just loving listening to you talk and tell him jokes he genuinely laughed at, and over time you both got close to each other until one night you were at a club. Somebody was stupid enough to heckle you at your jokes, and Wukong and you became annoyed with him but you kelp going entertaining Wukong. Until the same person got a few people to rally and heckle you, Wukong was beyond fed up and that's when you shot a shot flare near the guy making him shat himself and a few others in terror. Wukong knew you were the one for him immediately, his one and only star, as he watches you rampage all over the bar with your solorflares. You beautiful psychotic laugh is Music to his ears🥰.

(HIB Wukong) Interesting enough you meet Luier and silly girl first, asking if they want to hear a joke.

(Sun Y/n) Hey kids do you know why I'm always signing autographs???😁

(Luier & Silly Girl) ???? Why???😮

(Sun Y/n) BECAUSE IM A STAR HAHAHAHA🤣

Silly girl would giggle at everything, but Luier was slow to understand your jokes. On a brighter note (get it brighter?😉😆) The three of you became fast friends and the two children would come by to hang with you. Unfortunately that's when papa sun finds out about your get togethers. Wukong of course immediately starts assuming things but then everyone Except for Wukong noticed how you seem to be getting redder and redder as you stood with a forced smile. Then suddenly you looked like you were gonna sneeze, and Luier immediately knew what that mention and yelled to warn his dad. Too late though you shot a solorflare right in Wukong's face leaving burn fur and sunburn, you frantically apologize to him as You and the children put burnt cream on him. Meanwhile Wukong was making plans involving baby solar cubs😏

(Netflix Wukong) Just great two megalomaniacs🙄 except One has no idea what the other is capable of😧. Now, of course, Wukong would stupidly provoke you. The only one great around here is him, so you should back off and take your corny puns with you. That's when he learns how dangerous you truly are, Wukong had gone off to fight demons without you and now you were super worried about him demanding him to either return home or let you fight along side him.

(Wukong) look I appreciate your concern but I really don't need....😒

Then Wukong watched you shoot a solor flare at an oncoming enemy completely turning them into ash.

(Wukong)(blushing)...........well what are we waiting for😳😳😳

(BMW Wukong) (evil laugh) heheheheheheheheHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣😈😈😈😈😈 Ohhhhhhhhh, Sun Wukong will meet his terrifying match, and it's gonna be sooo hot(Get it HOT🤣). When you first met, he thought you were this goofy monkey woman telling terrible puns. Not to mention you would hang off of him the most, getting annoyed with you on that matter and telling you off about being clingy that quickly backfired. You stared at that monkey glaring into his soul, as your face and body became so red and hot you burned a hole in the ground

(Wukong) Ohhhhhhhhh what's the matter??? Gonna cry and yell???😏

Then all of a sudden you Unleashed a solor flare right into Wukong's face in a fit of rage, when you were done he stood their Charcoal but his tail formed into a heart.....Suddenly You became way more attractive than before.

(Destined one) He immediately thinks something is up with you, nobody is this friendly and happy despite your Excruciating puns. You always greet thr Destined one with a smile and laugh as you tell another sun pun to him. Now why does he feel that way you ask???? wellll it all began when he met you and came across your territory home. The Destined one felt like he was being watched and felt like he should keep his guard up. He was right to do so to.....

(Sun Y/n) WHO DARES APPROACH MY RO LIMIT WHO?!?!?!

You booming voice had the Destined one's soul shake all over his body...he looked at you a giant red female monkey in fear and.......arousel?????

(Sun Y/n) CELESTIAL BODIES WHO IGNORE THE IMPORTANCE OF THE RO LIMIT, HAVE NO CARE FOR THEIR EXISTENCE!!!

The Destined one looked up at you, as you shot solor flares out your mouth so you have to deal with lousy celestials too, now your weirdly hot😳

FEEL FREE TO REBLOG☀️

#monkey king reborn #monkey king netflix #monkey king x reader #nezha reborn #lmk monkey king #monkey king hero is back #x female y/n #black myth wukong #the destined one x reader #solarballs #Solarballs sun

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lokisswiftie · 2 days ago

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My beloved ghost and Me (Spencer Reid x Reader)

3.2k words

First time writing for Spencer, please be nice! I’m open for requests :)

Summary: Spencer Reid was your entire world. Until he died, leaving you with nothing but the ghost of him. But Is the ghost of him more present than you expected?

Warnings: Main Character Death (it’s literally the premise of the fanfic), mentions of Guns/Gunshots, loss and grief is a key theme, Reader is probably depressed, BAU!Reader, Heavy Angst, descriptions of violence, Ghost!Spencer, possibly ooc Spencer because I’ve never wrote for him before, written with early seasons Spence in mind. Yes I did make Wuthering Heights the book, who is going to stop me? Tell me if there’s any I missed.

When you first met Spencer Reid, you were both young agents at the Behavioural Analysis Unit. Before he ever became close to you, you’d found yourself slightly intimidated by his vast intellect. Still, you grew close fast, Spencer Reid was a kind person, more than that all his little quirks seemed to make you like him even more. The rest of the team could see you both falling for eachother fast, they could see the way his eyes always found you after he told a fact- searching for your approval. He always got it.

There was reluctance to accept the love between you. Love could hurt, and the two of you had experienced enough hurt to know that. But try as he might, Spencer Reid could not pull his eyes away from you. He could not stop himself from wanting you. The longing between you grew and resistance was futile. So on that quiet night at some hotel the team was staying at, when he had sought you out and your lips had met for the first time, it was a breath of relief after so long pretending.

After that your life was filled with Spencer Reid, and you woke up in the morning when the sun was creeping through your windows and saw him next to you and knew this was were you needed to be. You saw a brightness in him that seemed to pull you towards him, like a moth to a flame. Though, in the time that Spencer Reid was in your life he had only ever hurt you once. The pain of that flame came unexpectedly.

You both knew that with your work, with the job that you both had that there was danger. Part of the reason you both had for being so reluctant to be together was that something happening to one of you in the field was a haunting thought. And it could happen. And though you reassured eachother constantly, promised to be careful and tried to be… it did happen.

You never should have left him. There was a sinking feeling of dread in your gut the moment Spencer even proposed the idea of splitting up, but you had pushed it down. You had given the okay, agreed to him taking the back of the building and pushed down the crawling feeling of nausea in your gut.

Less than a minute. Less than a minute after your beloved had left your sight, the snap of gunshots echoed through the air. Your head had snapped in the direction of the sound, hands flying to your radio to alert Hotch that something had happened. Something had gone badly wrong.

Try as you might since that day, you can’t forget the sight of Spencer on the floor of the building, dark blood pooling around him. His eyes had been wide with almost childlike surprise, looking at the blood on his clothes like he didn’t even realise what it was. You stayed beside him till the EMTs came, and he’d begged you not to go. While you had been holding onto his steadily whitening hand, he remained as calm as he could and promised you everything would be okay.

Spencer died in the hospital. The gunshots- yes, that bastard had shot the love of your life multiple times- had broken inside him. Just like something had broken inside you the moment the doctors told you and the team that Spencer was gone. The rest of your team were doing their best to support you, but loss weighs down heavily. Especially when someone like Spencer is gone.

Since Spencer died life has felt at a stand still. Mandatory leave has resulted in you trapped at your apartment. Surrounded by your shared belongings. In the months after he died, Penelope was a rock for you, and bless her she really did try to keep you steady. She forced you to actually venture outside the apartment. And on the days when she arrived and you couldn’t bring yourself to get out of bed, she stayed with you too.

Nothing could replace him though. And the team couldn’t be there all the time- you understood, of course. But when you were alone, you felt the darkness creeping in. You couldn’t bare to open the curtains so your apartment remained in half darkness most of the time. When you slept, you dreamt of Spencer. And though you knew it wasn’t helping… you were just glad to see his face again. Even if he did fade with the morning light.

Three months after Spencer died, and you think you’ve driven yourself mad with pacing your apartment like this. Your daily routine has turned into getting up, and finding a new area of the house to be flooded with memories of Spencer by. Today you were standing by the bookshelf, swaddled in your pyjamas. Tears wet your cheeks. They always do.

This apartment had originally been Spencer’s, but when you moved into it he had accommodated space for your belongings. Both of you being avid readers, a large chunk of that was books. Your fingers trace over the spines of countless books, eyes flickering to titles. You don’t have an eidetic memory, but you can remember Spencer’s voice reading these stories to you during cold winter days, his arms around you tightly. You pull your hands away when you find a book Spencer had read to you late one night when you were both stressed after a case. Wuthering Heights.

You can feel the tightness in your throat already, and when you close your eyes you can see him again. Your hands hover over the bookshelf while your mind flicks back to that day with Spencer. Your Spencer.

“Are You okay?”

Spencers voice broke you out of the trance you had been in, your head snapping up to look at him in the bathroom mirror. He looked exhausted, already wearing his pyjamas and leaning on the door with tired eyes. He’s been watching you. Watching you staring at your hands, soaking them in the sink for so long they’ve started to prune. The water stopped being filled with blood long ago, but the urge to scrub your hands so hard the skin peels prevails. You wipe your hand on your face, sniffing while you quickly drain the clear water from the sink.

“I’m fine. Sorry I’ll be right in-“

You freeze in the middle of drying your hands, staring at yourself in the mirror. You can see the haunted look in your own eyes. Somehow the flickering bathroom light isn’t bright enough for you to forget what you saw on that case. Both of you know it. Spencer watches you for a moment, watching how you visibly recoil at the sight of yourself. For a long moment neither of you speak, the room filled with the sound of your ragged breathing.

When Spencer’s arms gently encircle your form, you jump at first before settling into him. Admittedly, you’re shaking.

“It’s Not your fault.”

He whispers by your ear, his voice as soft as the sweater he’s wearing. You’re looking at yourself in the mirror and find your lip trembling. There’s a look of skittish fear in your eyes that’s strange to you. You don’t remember starting to cry.

“I know-“

You try and reassure him, unable to meet the soft brown eyes you know are staring back at you.

“It’s Not your fault,”

He repeats it anyway, saying your name with a firmness. you realise how much you’ve begun to lean on him, and how his hands steady you. You’re filled with a rush of emotions and you turn around in his arms before he can see you fully start sobbing. Spencer pulls you into his chest without hesitation. Your eyes sting so you press your face further into his neck, and he repeats those words over and over again until you can believe it. Until you can’t cry any more, and he’s gently rubbing your back and pulling away.

You know you must look even more of a mess now, skin puffy with broken sobs. But he doesn’t look at you with anything less than adoration. His hand comes up to hold the side of your face and you exhale shakily, the space between you tiny.

“Let’s go to bed baby,”

And so you do, following Spencer into your shared bedroom and slipping under the lavender covers. You look up In confusion when he doesn’t join you, and your eyes land on him as he finally comes to join you with a book in his hands. He smiles when he sees you squint in questioning, and you could melt at the adoration in his eyes at that moment. He slips into bed beside you, beckoning you closer which you eagerly comply with and find your designated place in his arms.

“What’s this?”

You question finally, looking up at the sharp curve of his jawline from where your head rests on his shoulder. His face is focused as he flicks through to the first page of the book.

“Wuthering Heights, by Emily Brontë.”

He replies, and sensing the scrunch of your nose in confusion he adds with a coy smile.

“I’m going to read to you.”

You’re sure you’re burdening him with your unpleasantness, because once again you find yourself replying in a far more abrasive tone than his.

“I’ll probably fall asleep before you’re even started.”

You grumble, and you’re not sure why you’re fighting off the affection but something within you wrestled with your morals, begging you to be difficult. Maybe to see if he’ll love you anyway.

He turns his head to look at you when you say that in that specific tone, and his eyes have this way of seeing through you.

“That’s the point. Get comfortable, I’m about to start.”

He turns his head back to the book and as promised, begins to tell the story to you like you’re a little kid. You settle down without another word of protest, too exhausted and too content by the sound of his voice to fight it anymore. You find yourself Inhaling deeply while you watch his fingers dart over the page, surrounded by the scent of his cologne and drifting in a sea of his voice.

As promised, you slip into a sleep quickly, one far more restful than would be without his help. And when Spencer tenderly brushes your hair back from your face you lean into his touch. Sometimes you still find yourself leaning, but find nothing left of him to hold you.

A choked gasp leaves your throat at the memory, and then before you can judge the situation better you grab the book tightly by the spine. It’s hurting your hand how hard you’re gripping the ornate cover, clammy hand shaking with rage. The sound of your own crying has become like white noise over the past few months. It's filled so much of your time recently that the sound of silence is more distressing than the wretched sobs.

Your eyes flash and once again your head is filled with images of Spencer. When his eyes appear in your mind, you hurl the book right at your front door. For a moment you choke on your own sobs, before caving into the bookcase and without much grace slump to the floor. With your eyes blurry with tears you can see the book, it’s spine looking cracked. Spencer would have hated that. Spencer would have hated you for doing that.

“God, I’m sorry-“

It’s pathetic, you tell yourself. How often you find yourself apologising to the memory of your partner. The reason why changes every time. There’s so many reasons to beg for his forgiveness now.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’m sorry-“

You wail, and you can’t even be bothered to think about your neighbours. The first few times your wailing had disturbed them they had been understanding, and they gave you the same pitying smiles in the corridors that everyone did. Now, you're certain their sympathy has worn off. The bookcase makes a noise while you suddenly slam your head back against it. It aches deep into your skull, and when you find that it somewhat muffled the sound of Spencer’s voice in your head you do it again. And again, and again and again and again and-

“Y/N.”

No. You’d been slamming your head back so hard you were starting to see stars. Surely reprieve from the torment that is his voice should have come by now.

“Y/N.”

No, he sounds clearer this time. You almost scream in frustration. You weakly hit your head again.

“No!-“

Your voice comes out in a scream that silences the voice for a moment. The relief doesn’t even get a chance to fill you, before your chest starts to feel like it’s being crushed. You keep Your eyes screwed tight shut to avoid the sting of your own salty tears, and deep down to avoid his voice. Jesus, you must be past the point of insanity now.

“Y/N!”

Like a crackle of thunder, Spencer Reid’s voice echoes into the air around you. And it is a startling realisation, one that spurs you to blink your eyes open- but you’re certain. You didn’t make that up. He’s here.

Tears blur your vision, and you struggle to make out the room in front of you for a moment before it swims into focus. The sight rips the breath from your lungs all at once. Your eyes travel up, from his shoes which are shiny and polished, to the top of his head where his hair shines like a halo in the warm lighting of your apartment. There, like a mirage in the depth of the desert, is Spencer. Your Spencer. And he looks back at you with soft eyes.

The seconds where you stare up at him like a worshipper to a god seem to stretch into hours. You gape like a fish wrenched from the ocean, silently begging for words. Begging for an explanation for the man you love standing In Front of you, when for the past months all you’ve done is remember him dead.

Finally the silence breaks when you wheeze out a reply, breathing his name like a prayer while tears threaten to cloud your vision again. You frantically wipe them away, lest he disappear from the world again and leave you more broken than ever.

“Spencer?”

He looks back at you, his eyes startlingly alive. So bright, you could almost kid yourself that the young man before you is still alive and well, and not buried with all of his future in the ground with him. The guilt eats like maggots under your skin, a rot you’re certain is polluting the air around you. The way he looks at you with some kind of divine forgiveness in his eyes does not ease this feeling.

“I’m here, it’s me.”

He replies, his voice eerily nostalgic. And then he reaches out a hand to you, and you look at it. You realise how pathetic you must look, on the ground with your lips wobbling while you suck in breath after breath. You can’t seem to care when all you feel is disbelief. You stare at his palm; you don’t trust yourself to grab ahold of it in case he vanishes like mist in front of you.

“How… are you here?”

Your voice cracks and his fingers twitch like the sound pains him. You look up at him and can’t restrain the flood of liquid to your eyes when you say the words out loud.

“You’re dead.”

He looks down at you, his eyes warm with heartbreaking pity, and then he comes closer as he drops to the ground. You watch with stunned half believing eyes as he sits beside you, leaving a distance of approximately five inches between you both as he too comes to lean against the bookshelf.

“I was. I don’t know. I think I still am, I’m not sure I-“

His voice is like a fever dream, every syllable making you shiver with memories. You stare up at his face, and he cuts himself off and looks down at you. That’s when you know this must be real, because he has that look. The one that seems like he’s totally enraptured with you. None of your previous visions of him had given you that mercy, the burn of hatred in his eyes was more common. Spencer looks down at you with sorrow.

“I remember dying. I remember… watching everything that happened after.”

He explains, fixing his eyes on his hands while you stare at him numbly.

“I watched you for so long, Y/N. I tried to talk to you- I think I wasn’t strong enough then, maybe or something like that.”

Your heart, which you didn’t know could still shatter further, somehow does. Spencer. He’s been here, within reach but somehow not. If you could remember how to, you would laugh bitterly at the revelation that the universe has found yet another way to kick you down.

“What changed? How are you here now?- I don’t understand-“

You frantically ask, and he quickly reaches for you. His eyes flash with hurt for a moment when you duck away from his touch before they fill with understanding.

“Y/N, please- I’m here. I don’t know how, I think maybe I’m… stronger? I’ve been trying to get you to notice-“

You listen to him and at this your mind flashes with memories of the various objects that have been falling off of tables. You didn’t care at the time, but the pieces fall into place now. He continues.

“…I saw you hurting yourself and I didn’t think about it, I just spoke. And you heard me.”

There’s a moment of silence where the world seems to settle- it turned on its head when you saw him, and you’re not sure it will ever return to the way it was before. But the world around you settles as you grapple with the knowledge.

You stare at your palms stunned, and you can hear the anxious tapping of Spencer’s fingers against his thigh. It’s a sound you didn’t realise you’d missed. It’s then you realise sluggishly that he’d tried to touch you, and you’d pushed him away. It’s then that your body is filled with overwhelming need for Spencer, and it’s the moment that you realise you can have him again.

He lets out an exclamation when you quickly turn towards him and briefly look at his face. Not bloody, not bruised, not pale and lifeless. You choke on a sob, and launch yourself into his arms again.

“Oh my god, Spencer-“

You sob, and his arms wrap around you without hesitation. He’s just as eager to have you in his arms again, and he doesn’t flinch at the way you squeeze him harshly. He’s real. You reach up and you can feel the softness of his hair under your fingertips. You bury your face in his neck and you can smell his cologne once more. Then his hand moves up to gently cup the back of your head, which you’ve only just realised has started to sting. He cradles you close to him, and you can sense the worry emanating from him.

“Oh, baby. I’m so sorry.”

He whispers, and presses a firm kiss to your forehead. You shudder at the feeling, eyes slipping shut as his breath tickles the hair on your neck.

“I’m here. I’m here.”

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