#once I realized how much I liked the idea

[sunsburns]

the complete knock — bob reynolds

⟢ synopsis. you’re only here to try and understand why bucky’s suddenly gone off the rails and joined a new team, leaving you, sam and joaquín in radio silence. the last thing you expected was to find comfort in a stranger. a kind stranger named bob.

⟢ contains. spoilers for thunderbolts*, takes place during the 14 month later period. nothing too crazy, mostly plot. reader is described as female. bob is a cutie!! reader and joaquín are sambucky children of divorce :(

⟢ wc: 9.7k+

⟢ author’s note. wrote this with a vague idea and a dream. i don't know. don't ask pls.

You were here strictly for business.

The lobby was all polished glass, military-grade charm, and propaganda dressed in gold. Cameras flashed like fireworks along the crimson carpet, catching every inch of shine from designer suits and sharp smiles. A towering digital screen looped the promo again: "The New Avengers: Built for Tomorrow." You watched from the fringe as the montage played, the images slicing together in quick succession—John Walker throwing the shield with over-practised precision, Yelena Belova dismantling a room of dummies in under twelve seconds, and Ava Starr phasing through a concrete wall with a smirk. Hero shots. Sanitized. Manufactured. All of them.

You didn’t blink as you were ushered to an elevator.

Growing up, the Avengers Tower never really felt real to you. Sure, you’d seen the photos, the documentaries, the endless footage of press conferences held on its front steps. Hell, you’d even walked past it with your parents whenever you visited New York—but it still felt like it belonged to another world entirely. Untouchable. Almost mythic.

You never imagined you’d walk inside.

And yet now, riding the elevator up with a slow-climbing hum and nerves that prickled beneath your skin, all you felt was dread.

It was a strange kind of emptiness—the feeling of finally reaching something you once admired, only to realize it had been gutted and repainted in someone else’s image. The marble floors had been waxed clean, but the history here wasn’t. You could still feel the ghosts under the polish. Somewhere between the seams of the rebuilt walls and reprogrammed elevators, there was once a legacy. Real one. But it didn’t belong to the people in charge of this event.

You were crammed in with a handful of Congress members and defence contractors, all of whom smelled like cologne and quiet greed. Congressman Gary was there too, smiling too much, already half-drunk from the limo ride there. (He said it would be the only way he’d survive an entire night listening to people praise Valentina Allegra de Fontaine). Gary had been the one to suggest your attendance might smooth things over. It might make the New Avengers feel like someone from Sam’s camp was willing to listen. Get on their good side—that whole thing.

But you were here for an entirely different reason. His invitation was exactly what you needed to get in, though.

Underneath your gown—sleek, formal, and designed to draw no conclusions—you had a mic stitched into the seam of your strapless bodice. Hidden, but live. Your earpiece buzzed softly with Joaquín’s voice, casual as ever.

“If Sam finds out we’re doing this, we’re so dead.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying not to be overheard as the elevator operator gave a rehearsed speech about the tower’s restoration—how it stood now as a symbol of “unity, rebirth, and strength.” You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. The tower didn’t feel like a symbol. It felt like a stage.

“He’ll take away your wings at most,” you murmured, gaze fixed forward. “Relax.”

You could practically hear Joaquín pouting through the comms.

“I just got them back.”

“Then let’s not make a scene. Gary said it’d be good optics to have someone on our side here. We’re doing Sam a favour.” A pause. Then, quieter: “I’m surprised you didn’t want to come with me. You’re cleared for field work.”

“No, thanks. As much as I adore red carpet politics, I don’t think I can be in the same room as de Fontaine without committing a felony. Might get myself in trouble.”

“And I won’t?”

“You’re better at smiling.”

“You’ve never seen me smile.”

“Exactly.”

You exhaled through your nose, the tiniest edge of a grin forming before you could stop it.

“Just... try not to piss anyone off for five minutes, yeah?”

You didn’t answer. The elevator chimed. The doors slid open with a muted ding, and you stepped into a wall of flashing lights and artificial warmth.

The event space had been reconstructed on the upper floors, a showroom designed to impress donors and government officials alike. White marble floors stretched endlessly beneath towering banners that hung from the ceilings like monuments. Each one bore the new emblem of the team—sleek and stylized, but hollow. You could see the press eating it up already.

A digital display behind the podium read:

WELCOME TO THE FUTURE.

MEET EARTH’S NEWEST MIGHTIEST HEROES.

Your stomach turned.

“You still with me?” Joaquín asked.

“Yeah.” You nodded once, moving deeper into the room as your eyes scanned the crowd for familiar faces. “I’m here.”

“I’m gonna need camera access,” he said. “There’s a chip tucked under the gem on your bracelet. If you can slide that into an outlet somewhere, I’ll be able to map out the floor’s electrical system. Should help me locate the control room.”

“Guy in the chair,” you muttered, lips twitching into a faint grin. It was impressive—his gadgets, his confidence. Typical Joaquín.

Congressman Gary had vanished into the crowd, but you didn’t mind. Better alone than attached to a man who introduced you as a pet project. You plucked a glass of champagne from a passing tray, the cold stem grounding in your fingers, and sidestepped toward the edge of the room.

An outlet revealed itself by a floor-length curtain. You knelt, as if adjusting your heel, and casually broke the gem from your bracelet, slipping it into the socket with practiced ease.

“Okay,” Joaquín said, voice clearer now. “Give me a minute to get my bearings. While I’m working on this, try not to look like a loser in the corner. Mingle or something.”

You scoffed under your breath. “Easy for you to say—you can talk anyone’s ear off.”

“You calling me annoying?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow. Go see if you can find Bucky while I work on this, would you?”

Right. Bucky Barnes.

You weren’t here to mingle. You weren’t here to sip champagne or shake hands or sweet-talk your way into the New Avengers’ good graces. You were here for Sam. And more specifically—for Bucky. Wherever the hell he was hiding.

The plan was simple enough in theory: Get a read on what Valentina was playing at. Try to talk to Bucky. Get ahead of whatever fallout was brewing between him and Sam before it turned into a full-blown civil war again. You’d offered to go because no one else would.

Joaquín was trying to stay neutral (and failing). Isaiah had dismissed Bucky as a long-lost white man with too many ghosts. And Sam refused to speak to Bucky since the news broke about the New Avengers. And Bucky hadn’t said a damn word back.

So here you were. You were the only one left who might still be able to stand in the space between them without setting off alarms, even if you were biased.

You still didn’t understand how Bucky could do it. How he could go from testifying before Congress about accountability and reform, to standing beside Valentina Allegra de Fontaine like she hadn’t personally undone everything they’d fought for. Like he hadn’t been there when Ross tried to throw his friends all in cells. (Sure, you weren't there for it either, but Sam told you all about it; the accords were one of the reasons the Avengers broke up.)

Valentina wasn’t just dangerous—she was calculated. Clever. The kind of dangerous that worked in the shadows, smiling for cameras while quietly tying strings around people’s necks. She had her ex-husband arrested, sabotaged Wakandan outreach missions, and picked through the wreckage of post-blip heroes like she was drafting a fantasy football team. The fact that she now had a unit of enhanced individuals marching under her payroll and calling themselves the New Avengers made your stomach turn.

And Bucky was one of them.

You believed Valentina was guilty the second Bucky first mentioned she’d recruited John Walker. Walker—who had murdered a man in public, with blood still wet on the shield—and somehow walked free. Charges vanished. Headlines redirected. Now he was being repackaged as a hero again, and Bucky was standing next to him like nothing had happened.

You couldn’t wrap your head around it. No matter how many angles you looked at it from, it didn’t make sense. And the more you thought about it, the more it burned in your chest.

What was he thinking?

Why hadn’t he said anything?

Why wasn’t he here?

You pulled in a slow breath as you stepped further into the room, letting the sound of clinking glasses and diplomatic small talk wash over you like static.

The room was grand in a gaudy way—shiny surfaces and marble floors that reflected the chandelier light too harshly. Everything screamed polished excess, like they were trying to distract from the blood under the polish.

You tried to scan the crowd for Bucky, but there were too many faces, too many government suits and PR smiles, none of them him. You told yourself that when you did find Bucky, he’d have some kind of explanation—something to loosen the knot in your chest, something that could push down the rising anxiety. Something that could explain how the man you once trusted was now parading around in a suit under Valentina’s thumb.

Instead, you found Congressman Gary. Or rather, he found you.

He was already three glasses of champagne deep—five, if you counted the shots you’d seen him down on the way—and he beamed like he’d found a shiny toy in a sea of suits.

“There she is,” he said, slinging an arm around your shoulder like you hadn’t just been avoiding him for fifteen minutes. “You have got to meet some of these people. Big names. Big wallets.”

You were too polite to shrug him off, even as he dragged you into a circle of De Fontaine’s investors. Their grins were just a little too sharp, their eyes a little too eager. The way they looked at you made your skin crawl, like you were a chess piece they hadn’t quite decided how to play yet.

You smiled tightly. Shook clammy hands. Answered vague questions. Nodded while they spoke about “opportunities,” “rebuilding legacy,” and “rebranding heroism.”

One man leaned in closer, his breath thick with bourbon. “You know,” he said, voice oily, “with your background, you’d be a perfect candidate for the new team. Valentina has a real eye for talent, and we’re building something bigger than what came before. Something better. You could help shape it from the inside.”

You swallowed your disgust with a sip of champagne. “I’m not really looking to join anything right now.” That was a lie. You already had a seat in the team Sam was putting together. But he did not need to know that.

He chuckled, as if that wasn’t an answer.

“Okay, I’ve got eyes,” Joaquín said suddenly in your ear. His voice broke through the haze like a rope thrown across stormy water.

You exhaled in relief. “Excuse me,” you told the group, already turning away. “I need to grab a drink.”

They nodded, already moving on to the next opportunity in heels. Gary wasn’t too happy, though.

You drifted from the circle, walking slowly toward the open bar. On the way, you passed a tray of themed hors d’oeuvres—tiny “Avenger” sliders with edible logos, cupcakes shaped like shields and guns.

A mounted camera in the corner caught your eye, its red light blinking lazily above a velvet-draped sculpture.

“See me?” you muttered.

“Yeah, I see you,” Joaquín replied.

“Still no sign of Barnes.”

“Scanning crowd pings now,” he said. “Either he’s ghosting the place or he got another haircut and I can’t recognize him. Which would be so like him, by the way.”

You sighed and accepted another drink from a passing server, something dry and too expensive, and kept moving.

You figured you’d shaken at least six hands tonight that belonged to people who’d love to see your head on a stick—if not for the lucrative optics of you standing here at all. You were an opportunity to them. A symbol. A bargaining chip in a war they didn’t even understand.

Your dress caught suddenly.

You stumbled—only a step, but enough for the chilled drink to slosh dangerously near the edge of the glass. You turned on instinct, hand rising to fix the silk scarf that had slipped from your neck and shoulder.

A man stood behind you, wide-eyed, hand half-raised like he’d been about to catch you.

“I—I’m so sorry,” he stammered. His voice was low, a subtle rumble barely audible over the layers of clinking glass, conversation, and ambient music. “—stepped on your dress. Sorry.”

You blinked, caught off guard.

He looked like he didn’t belong here. Not in the way the others did. No glossy name tag, no designer smugness. His suit was clean, but not flashy. Understated.

“It’s fine,” you said quickly, instinctively adjusting your scarf where it had slipped from your shoulder. You shook out the fabric of your dress around the ankles, heart skipping in the echo of that voice. Something about the way he said it—apologetic, soft, like he genuinely meant it—caught you off guard.

“Sorry,” he mumbled again, even quieter this time, eyes dropping to the floor. His dark hair fell over his face, almost like he was trying to shrink three sizes. You could hear a faint, awkward laugh in his voice. “Uhm… yeah. Sorry.”

He didn’t linger. Just turned and slipped back into the crowd before you could even process anything. No second glance. Just a gentle pivot and a few long strides back into the crowd, swallowed instantly by the sea of shoulder pads, press passes, and sharp perfume.

You stood there for a second, staring after him.

He moved differently from the others. No performative swagger. No politician’s posture. No tray in his hand, so he’s definitely not a server. He was quiet in a way that made you feel like you’d imagined him, like he’d only brushed through this reality for a second before vanishing into another.

You didn’t recognize him.

And you should have.

For all the files you’d scoured, the profiles and photos, the research you’d buried yourself in to prepare for tonight, you’d made it your job to know every player in this room. Who to watch. Who to avoid. Who might be useful.

But not him.

You turned back toward the bar, but your mind didn’t follow. Not entirely.

Who the fuck was that?

You were just about to ask Joaquín to pull a facial scan when something in your periphery stopped you cold.

John Walker.

He was only a few steps away, mid-conversation with some high-level sponsor, until his gaze landed on you. And then he froze.

The look that crossed his face was quick, recognition, discomfort, maybe a flicker of guilt, but he buried it just as fast, turning away without a word. He pivoted like a man avoiding a ghost, ignoring the way the sponsor he spoke to called after him.

“Walker just made a hard left into the hors d’oeuvres,” Joaquín muttered in your ear, low and amused. “You see that?”

You exhaled, more irritated than surprised. “We’re not here for him.”

“Yeah. I think he knows that too. That’s why he’s pretending he’s got important shrimp to eat.”

That pulled a faint smile from you, biting down the urge to laugh.

Typical. The last time you’d seen Walker in person, he was seated in a courtroom with his jaw clenched so tight you thought he’d snap a molar. You’d testified in his case, alongside Sam, Bucky, and everyone else who had to witness what happened in Madripoor—what he did to that man in the square. The shield, slick and red. The silence afterward, heavier than any explosion.

You never fought him. Never had to. But you'd been on opposite sides of that mess, and he knew it. Hell, you’d spoken directly to his discharge. Your words were probably still echoing in the back of his skull.

The way he turned away just now… yeah. He remembered you.

“I’m surprised he didn’t start barking about national security,” Joaquín quipped in your ear again. “Do you think we should trail him?”

You hesitated. You didn’t want to. Just the idea of following in Walker’s smug footsteps made your jaw clench.

But Joaquín pressed, “He might know where Bucky is.”

And that was the problem—he was right. And you hated how much sense it made. Of course, Walker would know. You also hate how Walker and Bucky were probably friends now.

A camera flash caught your eye, and you instinctively straightened your posture, smoothed your expression. No time for a scowl, even if that’s all you wanted to wear.

You adjusted your gown, tugged lightly at the hem, checked the wire hidden at your waist, and started walking in the direction Walker and that ugly barret he wore had vanished.

The crowd shifted around you like tidewater—polished politicians and strategic handshakes, investors with too-white smiles and drinks that cost more than your rent. Every few steps, someone waved. A few shook your hand like they knew you, like you were an old friend they’d been waiting for. A woman asked for a photo. Another leaned in and whispered, “Are you joining the new team?” like it were a secret worth selling.

You deflected with a nod and a vague smile, each interaction leaving a layer of static behind your eyes.

It was strange how quickly the attention shifted now that you were in the spotlight. Recently, you’d spent most of your career standing behind Isaiah while Joaquín and Sam did the talking. You liked it there. It was quieter. Easier to breathe. Now, suddenly, they were holding out chairs for you at the table.

The whole thing felt like theatre. Scripted and glassy. Lines rehearsed. Costumes ironed. Every player doing their part beneath the blinding stage lights.

You still weren’t sure what was worse—that Bucky accepted Valentina’s funding, or that he and his new friends let her call them The Avengers.

Sam was right to be angry. He should be. He’d already turned down President Ross’ private offer to hand him the reins of a military-funded global response team. The same offer that Valentina had repackaged, repurposed, and handed off to people who were too coward to say no.

“He’s on the east end, talking to Ava starr and another woman. I think she’s Valentina’s assistant. Oh—shit. He just pointed at you.”

Your chest tightened. You turned too fast, momentarily losing your bearings in the rotating lights and mirrored walls. East—east—

And then someone stepped into your path.

A wall of a man appeared in front of you so suddenly, you nearly collided with him; broad-shouldered and bearded, dressed in a burgundy suit that looked just a size too tight across his chest.

He smiled widely, eyes bright like he’d been waiting for a moment like this all night.

“I know you,” he said, voice thick with a Russian accent. “I’ve seen you on the televisions. You shake hands with the new Captain America.”

You blinked. “I—uh, yeah.”

“Ah!” He laughed, clapping one heavy hand to your shoulder with surprising gentleness for a man who looked like he could punch through drywall. “Very brave of you. Very good. You look different in person. In a strong way. Like a panther. Or mongoose.”

You tried for a diplomatic smile. “Thanks, I think.”

“Oh! Where are my manners,” he said, dramatically straightening and offering his hand. “I am Alexei Shostakov. The Red Guardian.”

You knew that, but you didn’t know he’d be so... loud.

You took his hand, his grip warm and firm. “Pleasure to meet you, Alexei.”

“Kind. Very kind,” he said, eyes gleaming. “You remind me of my daughter! You have same fire in eyes. Around same age, too—you could be friends! Yelena is always looking for new friends.”

Yelena Belova. That name lit something up in the back of your mind. You’d seen the files. The attempted murder of Clint Barton. Her brief status as an independent threat before being absorbed, quietly and conveniently, into Valentina’s new game.

And suddenly, Alexei’s smile widened even more.

“Yelena!” he bellowed, cupping his hands to his mouth as if you weren’t standing in the middle of a very public, very polished gala. “Come meet new friend!”

Several heads turned. Cameras flashed—bright, blinding. You winced against the burst of lights, regretting everything from your dress colour to your decision to show up at all.

But it was too late. He leaned in beside you, one arm suddenly draped over your shoulder like you were posing for a family Christmas card. “Smile!” he boomed, and before you could protest, he struck a dramatic flex, biceps pressing into your back like steel girders.

You caught a whiff of expensive cologne and vodka.

In the corner of your eye, a flash of short, bleached blonde hair was making its way through the crowd with frightening determination. Elegant, yes—but there was no mistaking the sharpness in Yelena Belova’s gaze. She wore a sleek black suit like it was made of knives, a funky eyeliner design, hair slicked back and every step carved with purpose. And beside her—

Your heart dipped.

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.

Poised. Smirking. Watching everything.

“Be careful. Yelena is coming your way with Valentina.”

Thanks for the warning, Joaquín. Delayed. But thanks nevertheless.

You stood up straighter, willing your heartbeat to slow down even as Valentina’s eyes zeroed in on you like a predator clocking a foe.

Wonderful.

You leaned slightly toward Alexei, trying not to seem as panicked as you felt. “Can I ask you something? About Bucky Barnes?”

“Ah!” he exclaimed, cutting you off before you could finish the question. “Bucky! Yes, yes. The Winter Soldier. Very cool. Very handsome. Like Soviet James Dean.”

You blinked. “I mean—do you know where he is?”

But Alexei was already on another tangent. “We fought in Uzbekistan once, did you know this? I threw him through a door. He did not like that. But I like him. I like him very much. Quiet, serious type. You know he never answers my texts?”

“Right. Yeah. That tracks.”

And then—

“Oh, what a pleasant surprise,” said a voice sharp as champagne fizz and just as bitter. De Fontaine. She cut into the conversation with the smoothness of someone who was always in control, grinning like she knew a secret you didn’t. A glass of bubbly dangled between her fingers, catching the light just enough to draw attention. As if she needed help with that.

“I was just about to introduce you all,” she said, placing a perfectly manicured hand on Yelena’s arm as the blonde finally joined your little nightmare circle.

“What is this?” Yelena asked flatly, eyes flicking between you and Valentina.

Valentina didn’t bother to answer—just gave a smug little hum and tugged Yelena closer, corralling her between you and Alexei. The four of you shifted automatically into position, an unspoken reflex in rooms like this.

You could feel the cameras turning like sharks in bloodied water.

Flashes burst across your vision. The moment was already captured—your stiff shoulders, your frozen smile. A picture-perfect lineup of cooperation.

And you could feel it: this wasn’t a coincidence.

This was intentional.

Valentina leaned in, voice cool and sugary against your ear as more bulbs burst. “I am so pleased to see you here,” she cooed, “considering how close you and Sam are.”

“I mean, I had to come congratulate you,” you said tightly, lips barely moving. “Recreating the Avengers. That’s… big.”

She beamed at the cameras, teeth white and wolfish. “Someone had to.”

“Of course.”

Another flash. Another frozen pose.

You winced. Sam is going to kill you.

Valentina fielded the sudden swarm of questions like she was born in front of a podium—deflecting, redirecting, charming. Every answer was deliberate, each word chosen like a chess move. Stability. Legacy. Global confidence. Alliances.

They lapped it up like champagne, snapping photos, nodding, laughing. You stood beside her, barely blinking, jaw tight behind your polite smile.

You weren’t meant to be part of this show. You were supposed to be on the outside looking in from the in the crowd.

When the flashes finally began to die down and the clamour shifted elsewhere, Valentina turned with that too-perfect, too-white grin. She glanced at Yelena and Alexei like she were dismissing children.

“Would you two mind?” she asked, breezy as ever. “I’d like to have a quick little chat.”

Yelena’s gaze flicked toward you. Not unkind. But cautious. Reading you like a live wire.

“Is everything all right?” she asked, her brows subtly knitting.

“Oh, everything’s perfectly fine,” Valentina replied before you could speak, her hand already at your back. “Go fetch a drink. Mingle.”

It wasn’t a suggestion.

You barely had time to glance back at Yelena—at the slight, suspicious narrowing of her eyes—before the crowd swallowed her and Alexei whole.

Your earpiece crackled to life. “She’s taking you to the balcony,” Joaquín said, voice low and taut. “There are no cameras there. I won’t be able to see, but I can still hear you.”

There was a pause, then: “I’ll keep looking for Bucky.”

You barely managed a breath of relief before Valentina cut in, sharp and smiling.

“Bucky’s not here tonight, if that’s really why you’re here.”

You stiffened mid-step.

Joaquín swore in your ear. Something heavy hit a surface—maybe his fist against a table—and you heard the scrape of a chair.

“What do you mean?” you asked, your voice light, falsely sweet. “I came to celebrate you.”

You crossed the threshold to the balcony.

It was quieter out here, eerily so. The muffled pulse of the gala was dulled by glass and distance. The cold kissed your skin through your dress. You could feel it biting at your exposed arms, but you welcomed the sting. It was honest.

Below, the city stretched like a glowing circuit board. Skyscrapers hummed with light. Traffic moved in golden veins. It was beautiful in the kind of way that felt removed. Untouchable.

Valentina’s heels clicked once against the stone floor, then stopped.

“Cut the bullshit,” she scoffed, voice low now. “We both know that’s not true.”

You turned your head, slow and steady. Her eyes were already on you. Unflinching.

“Where’s your friend?” she asked casually. “The little Mexican one?”

You flinched—just barely. Your jaw clenched tight.

Valentina smiled wider at that.

You opened your mouth to answer, to lie, to throw her off, to say something clever, but she leaned forward before you could, voice barely above a whisper.

Her lips were close to your collarbone, eyes locked on your chest. On the mic she couldn’t see.

“Hola, Joaquín,” she murmured, velvet-smooth. “¿Cómo estás? How’s the arm? Still broken?”

She pulled back with a grin full of satisfaction. Joaquín didn’t respond—not a breath. But you felt the burn of it in your gut. He heard her. She knew he was listening. And that was the whole point.

She got what she wanted. You could see it in the eyes, the tilt of her head, the calm sip from her glass, the curl of smugness just under her lipstick.

Valentina turned her back to the railing, facing you fully, her glass catching the amber light of the city. Her smile didn’t crack once.

“You know,” she began, like she was catching up with an old friend, her voice silked with charm, “you don’t have to keep playing both sides. It’s exhausting, isn’t it?”

You said nothing. Not because you didn’t have something to say, but because the words wouldn’t form. Your brain was too busy calculating exits, signals, whether Joaquín could hear any of this, or if he was already doing something stupid like storming into the gala uninvited.

“You show up with a wire,” she continued, waving her champagne flute like it weighed nothing, “a dress like that, pretending you’re just here to smile for the cameras.”

Her eyes dipped slowly, then back up.

“You do look stunning, by the way,” she added casually. “But we both know you’re not here for the press or to butter yourself up to me or my team. You’re listening. Recording. Digging...”

The flute met her lips again. Sip. Deliberate.

“Looking for Barnes,” she said. “Like he’s going to whisper some grand truth that’ll fix whatever little crisis your friends are having.”

You could feel your jaw tighten. Every word she spoke landed like pressure against a bruise you didn’t want to admit was there.

Valentina tilted her head, studying you with the kind of gaze that belonged in an interrogation room, not a rooftop party. “You’re sharp,” she said. “Good instincts. It’s why Sam keeps you close, right?”

Still, you stayed silent. Because anything you gave her, she’d twist. She already was.

“But let me ask you something,” she said, voice a shade lower, softer. “What’s loyalty really worth—if the people you serve are always the ones left bleeding in the dirt?”

A pulse of heat shot up your neck. You didn’t move, but she saw it.

Of course, she saw it.

“And for the record,” she added, twirling the stem of her glass, “I don’t have anything against Sam Wilson. Poor guy. I pity him, actually. The shit he’s put up with just for carrying that shield—God.”

She clicked her tongue with exaggerated sympathy.

“I’d kill to have Captain America on my team. The real one. Not Walker. That man is a pathetic as it gets. Hair-trigger temper, zero emotional intelligence—”

“Sam would never work with you,” you said, sharper than intended.

Valentina’s smile widened because you finally said something worthwhile. “Oh, I know,” she said, almost gleefully. “He’s a purist. One of the last. His morals are steel-tight. Fucking unshakable. A real Boy Scout. Steve Rogers made a good choice.”

And that was the part that hurt—the part that made you swallow back a flicker of doubt you hadn’t expected to feel.

“Where’s Bucky?” you asked, voice quieter now. “I just want to talk to him.”

She didn’t even hesitate.

“Bucky’s not missing or anything,” Valentina said. “He’s busy. Doing a job for me in Pennsylvania. Cleaning up some loose ends, you know the deal.”

You felt it before you could stop it—that tiny, invisible shift in your expression. Something cracked. Something gave her an answer you hadn’t meant to give.

“That supposed to scare me?” you asked, though it already kind of did.

“No,” she said. “It’s supposed to make you think. About options. About what someone like you could do with the right resources. With the right funding. Imagine it: you with your own team. Autonomy. Access. No more red tape. You make your own shots. We clean up whatever mess you leave behind. And, get this, you even get paid for it.”

You glanced toward the city, anything to avoid her eyes. Lights. Windows. Warmth. All of it felt so far away.

“And if I say no?”

“Then someone else says yes.”

She stepped back, brushing something from her blazer sleeve. “Just think about it,” she said, all silk and sugar again. “We could use someone like you. You belong in rooms like this, you know. Not chasing ghosts, or waiting for Wilson to approve your next move. You’re already breaking. I can see it. You wouldn’t be here tonight if you weren’t. I’m sure Captain America won’t be happy seeing your name in the headlines tomorrow morning: The Next Potenital Avenger.”

Her smile held, framed in the cold, glittering dark of the balcony. Then she turned and walked past you, the soft graze of her shoulder against yours more intimate than it had any right to be. A mockery of closeness.

“Enjoy the rest of your evening,” she said, already stepping back through the doors. “Tell Sam I said hi.”

The glass door shut behind her with a quiet click.

And the cold came in fast.

Not just the air, but the after. The silence. The wrongness of being left alone up here, the wind biting now that you weren’t so focused on not showing fear.

Your body finally remembered it was yours. Your fingers hurt from gripping the railing too hard. You eased your hands free, flexed them, saw the white draining slowly from your knuckles. You still couldn’t feel them.

Your mic hissed faintly to life, and Joaquín’s voice filtered through the static like someone calling out to you underwater.

“…you okay?” he asked, strained. Urgent.

You didn’t answer right away. Your mind was still racing through what Valentina had said, how easily she’d dodged your defences, how easy she was to turn your presence into a publicity stunt, how well she knew you—or at least thought she did.

She must be blackmailing Bucky. That must be it.

You kept staring out at the skyline like it might give you an answer. It didn’t. Just glass and steel and lights that blinked too slow to feel alive.

“No,” you finally muttered.

It didn’t come out strong. It came out cracked. Like the inside of your chest had gone hollow, and you were just now realizing it.

Joaquín exhaled through the comm, like he’d been holding his breath.

“I think legal action is our next step,” he said, tone snapping back into focus like a lifeline. “We can sue them for the name. Trademark it. Or maybe—maybe Sam tries to talk to Bucky again? We’ve still got options.”

You didn’t respond. Not yet.

The railing under your palm felt like ice. You blinked hard, fighting back the sudden sting in your eyes. Not from fear. From frustration. From the way every word she said still echoed in your head, sticky and sharp, leaving splinters behind.

You dragged in a breath.

“…that fucking bitch,” you scoffed.

“Yeah… I don’t like Valentina either.”

You jumped.

The voice came from somewhere behind you, softer, unsure. You spun around on instinct, stepping away from the railing.

That man.

The one who stepped on your dress earlier. He was sitting now, low in one of the patio couches near a sleek electric fireplace that flickered lazily against the dark. The flames glinted off the patio doors and caught the edge of his profile—brown hair, downturned mouth, eyes wide like he was the one who got caught.

You hadn’t noticed him when you came out here. And now that you really looked… you realized why.

He wasn’t trying to be seen.

He sat in the farthest corner of the couch, hunched slightly, knees close together, hands clutched like he didn’t know what to do with them. Like someone had planted him there and told him to wait. The firelight danced across his face, softening him. He didn’t look threatening. Just... startled. And oddly apologetic for existing.

He offered a small, nervous smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to, like… scare you.”

There was genuine concern in his voice—concern for you, not about you. That was rare.

“It’s fine,” you said, because you didn’t know what else to say.

“Who’s that?” Joaquín's voice cracked through your earpiece.

You didn’t answer right away.

Your eyes stayed on the stranger, and for a moment, you debated whether or not to even breathe too loud.

“I don’t know…” You muttered.

“Okay, uh… I’ll try to do a voice match or something—see if anything comes up. Keep them talking.”

The man must’ve noticed the way you were half-turned, the way your fingers brushed against your ear.

He shifted slightly. “Who’re… who’re you talking to?”

You froze. And then, with a wince: “Uh… just… myself. Thinking out loud.”

There was a pause.

“Oh,” he said. “Yeah. I do that too. All the time, actually.”

You weren’t sure what to do with that. You weren’t sure what to do with him.

He looked different now compared to earlier. Still awkward, still nervous—but less like he was trying to shrink into himself and more like he was trying his best to meet you where you were. His eyes held yours this time. Not for long, though. They dropped to his hands and shoes after a while. But it was long enough to feel it.

You took a cautious step forward, angling yourself toward the fire, toward him, but still keeping a healthy distance.

“You um… You know Valentina?” you asked. Stupid. Of course, he did. Everyone at this party did.

“Uh… yeah. Something like that,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wasn’t like… eavesdropping or anything. It’s just—there’s a lot of people in there. And it’s… quieter out here.”

He hesitated, then added: “I’m Bob, by the way.”

His voice wavered, but not from dishonesty. He said his name like he wasn’t sure it would mean anything to you. Like he just told you his name to be kind.

You gave him a nod. Not a smile. But not cold either.

“Hi, Bob.”

A beat passed.

You debated telling him your name. Joaquín would probably advise against it. But you weren’t feeling tactical anymore—you were feeling tired. Bruised in a way you couldn’t name. And maybe you just needed to feel like a real person again. Like someone who wasn’t being puppeteered.

So, after a pause, you gave him your name.

Bob blinked. Then he offered a small, shy smile that cracked at the edges.

“Cool. Hi,” he said, breathless. His brows furrowed as his gaze dropped lower, his eyes catching on your waist, your hips. “Uh—sorry again, about your dress. I didn’t mean to step on it earlier. You looked like you were in a rush and I—well, I was definitely in your way.”

You felt your lips twitch. The barest curve, not sharp or defensive. A faint grin. Delicate. “It’s alright,” you said. “Bound to happen at places like these.”

His head tilted slightly, curious. “You come to stuff like this often?”

“Not often. Just sometimes.”

And it was only then that you realized you’d stepped closer.

Your arms had casually found their place against the back of the couch across from him, hands gripping the cool metal frame as your scarf drifted with the breeze behind you. You weren’t leaning in exactly, but the distance had shrunk.

When did that happen?

You tilted your head, letting your eyes linger a little longer now, more curious than guarded. You assessed him with a little more attention now.

“I’m guessing you don’t come to these events much?”

Bob immediately shook his head, a nervous, breathy laugh escaping his lips like it was running away from him. You could see the cloud of it in the cold night air, swirling and vanishing between you.

“God, no. This is my second one and it’s—it’s been a lot. I think I’m gonna ask to just stay in my room next time.” He gave a little shrug, slouching a bit. “It’s not like I do much anyway. I mean, I’m allowed to talk to people, and I like talking to people, but I’d rather not sometimes.”

That made you blink. Allowed?

The word snagged on something in your mind. There was something disarming about the way he said it, like he didn’t mean to offer that information but also didn’t think it was worth hiding. You couldn’t tell if he was joking, oversharing, or both. But it was too strange to ignore. Like it slipped past a filter that wasn’t built right. It made you hesitate, if only for a breath.

But he wasn’t watching your reaction. He was staring at the flicker of the fire, letting the silence sit between you like it belonged there.

You folded your arms gently across your chest, the smooth material of your dress whispering beneath your fingertips.

“You seem to be talking just fine with me,” you pointed out, softer now.

Bob looked down at his hands. Then back at you. Then away again.

“I… well…” he stammered, voice catching on another shy, almost embarrassed laugh.

And then you saw it.

The blush. A warm pink crawling up from the collar of his white shirt to the apples of his cheeks. Subtle, but not subtle enough to miss. Especially not in the glow of the firelight, which danced over his skin like it had a crush of its own.

“I… yeah, I... I don’t know. Some people are easier to talk to than others, I guess.”

Your mouth twitched before you could stop it.

“Yeah,” you said, “I’d say so.”

The smile that tugged at your lips came easier than you expected. Not just polite. Not guarded. Honest. Probably the first one you’d let slip all night.

Seriously, who the hell is this guy? And why did he make the night feel a little less awful?

He was cute. Not the kind of handsome that announces itself the second someone walks in the room, but the kind that sneaks up on you, quiet, awkward, totally unsure of how much space he takes up and trying not to be a bother. Like he wasn’t used to being looked at for too long and didn’t know where to put himself when he was.

You’d seen a lot of people in this world wear confidence like a costume. Bob didn’t even try. He wore uncertainty like a second skin, and somehow, it made him feel… real.

You liked the way he didn’t crowd you. Didn’t puff out his chest or pretend to have all the answers. He sat with his knees slightly knocked together, most of his hands swallowed by the sleeves of his jacket, like even they were too bold to leave out in the open. Maybe he was anxious. Maybe a little broken in the places that never healed right, but he felt safe. Your gut told you so.

And that made you more nervous than anything else tonight.

You caught yourself watching him again. The way he kept his hands mostly hidden in his sleeves, shoulders rounded forward. His suit was clearly tailored but still seemed a size too big, like someone had tried to wrap him in something expensive just to prove he belonged. And still, it worked.

His hair was brown and shaggy, a bit longer than most people would have it at these events, barely even styled, but you kind of liked it. It gave him a strange charm, even if the loose curls hid his eyes whenever he ducked his head.

You weren’t used to thoughts like this. Not ones this soft. Not ones that fluttered in your chest like nervous birds. Not often. Not like this. Not here. Not in places like these.

You came for Bucky. That was the plan. Show up, find him, talk. Clear the air. Maybe start patching things up with your broken little found family—cracks and all. But Bucky wasn’t here. Valentina played you like a fiddle, and now the whole night had soured. Tomorrow, you’d wake up to press statements and headlines, scrambling to explain why your name wouldn’t be on the next New Avengers roster. You’d spin it clean, of course. That’s what you did.

But none of that mattered yet.

In this strange little pocket of quiet, just outside the hum of power plays and champagne politics, you kind of just wanted something normal. Not mission normal. Not cover-identity normal. Real normal. A conversation that didn’t hinge on leverage or patriotism. A moment that wasn’t already weaponized.

Maybe you could stay for another half hour before you disappeared and joined Joaquín in the van downstairs, counting your losses.

And maybe it was the firelight, a flicker here, a flicker there, warmth and glow dancing in the night that influenced you. But you found yourself leaning forward a little more, walking around the couch, smoothing your hands down the front of your dress. You straightened your spine, trying to will yourself into being brave.

“Would you...” You paused, “um. Do you wanna grab a drink with me?”

Bob blinked, eyes flicking up to meet yours. He sat up straighter at the invitation, startled, like a puppy hearing its name for the first time. His lips parted. For a split second, you swore he looked excited. Maybe even hopeful.

But then he deflated.

His shoulders fell, his expression shifting to a quiet sort of apology as his eyes darted away. “I... I can’t. Sorry—”

“Oh.” You blinked, trying not to let your smile falter.

“I want to,” he rushed to say, almost stumbling over the words. “I do.”

“It’s okay—”

“No. No. I would. It’s just... I’m—I’m sober now.”

Your mouth opened. Then closed.

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry—” he added quickly, like he was terrified he’d ruined something.

But you shook your head, even stepping a little closer without realizing it.

“No. Don’t be sorry,” you said gently. “Seriously. Congratulations. That’s a big deal.”

He smiled at that, small and grateful. A little crooked and thin-lipped. It was cute.

“Thanks.”

You hesitated a moment, then tilted your head. “Can I ask how long?”

“Uh…” He scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking upward like he was counting the months with the stars. “I think about a year now. I’ve only really started keeping track since I moved here, so... maybe like, seven? Eight months?”

You smiled softly, your heart unexpectedly warm.

“That’s still a long time.”

He gave a sheepish shrug, and his cheeks pinked again, like he didn’t quite know what to do with your praise. Like no one gave it to him often enough for it to feel normal.

“Some days feel longer than others,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching at his own tease.

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of you, quiet, but real.

“What are you…?”

Joaquín’s voice fizzled to life in your ear, cracking the quiet like a crowbar to glass.

“Are you flirting right now?”

You froze, the smile instantly tugging at your lips again despite yourself.

When you didn’t answer, he laughed.

“Oh my god, you’re totally flirting right now! It’s so bad, but you so are! Who even is this guy?”

You turned ever so slightly, subtle as you could manage, and pressed a knuckle into your ear to mute him. Your cheeks warmed in tandem with Bob’s.

Bob blinked. “Sorry… did I, um—was that weird?”

“No, no,” you said quickly, maybe too quickly. “That wasn’t you.”

He just nodded, like your word was more than enough. Like you could’ve told him the moon was fake, and he’d say, huh, never really thought about that before.

You moved to take a seat across from him, the fireplace crackling softly between you like a low, slow heartbeat. The warmth of the flames painted him in golds and ambers, the flickering light catching the softness in his eyes and the loose fall of his hair.

You fidgeted with your fingers out of instinct. And across the fire, he mirrored the motion—thumb twisting around his knuckle, pinky tapping rhythmically against the inside of his sleeve. There was something strangely reassuring in that shared nervousness, like you were both waiting for the same storm to pass.

You let out a quiet breath, tension easing from your shoulders. “You said you moved here? Like, New York?”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. His shoulders dipped too, visibly relaxing just a touch, like your voice permitted him to breathe. “I… uh, I lived in Malyasha for a while. But I’m from Florida. Born and raised. Where—where are you from?”

You tilted your head slightly, watching how intently he tried to keep eye contact and how quickly he broke it again. “I flew in from Washington.”

“D.C.?” he asked, and you nodded.

His eyebrows lifted, eyes wide for a split second. “Wow. Do you work in the White House or something?”

You huffed a laugh, smiling into your words. “Sure. Something like that.”

His head bobbed along with the answer.

“So you’re like… a really important person here.”

You laughed again, this time wider. Your teeth showed. It surprised you how easily you let your guard down. “I wouldn’t say that.”

But he was smiling too, softer now. Less anxious.

“You are,” he said, more sure of himself now. “I saw the way people looked at you tonight. Not—not that I was watching you or anything… just, it’s hard not to. You’re, um…”

You saw the moment he lost his words, saw them spill and scatter like marbles across a floor. His blush deepened, blooming across his cheeks in a full, unmistakable deep red colour. He ducked his head, eyes falling to his shoes again, and you watched him fight a shy, apologetic smile.

“…I can see why they’d want your picture.”

And just like that, your heart softened.

You leaned in a little, elbows resting against your knees. “Thank you, Bob. You’re really sweet, you know that?”

Bob looked up again, startled by the compliment, his mouth parting slightly like he didn’t know what to say to that. You weren’t sure if anyone had ever told him that before, and if they had, you could guess they didn’t mean it the way you did now.

He didn’t belong here. That much was obvious. Not with people like Valentina, not with cold smiles and polished lies. Not with mercenaries, politicians, and millionaires who hide behind their money. You could see it in the way he sat too stiffly on a velvet chair meant for lounging, in the way he tugged at his sleeves or tucked his hands away when he felt exposed.

“What’re you doing in a place like this, Bob?”

He blinked, tilting his head like he wasn’t sure what you meant.

You smiled, eyes squinting a little as you leaned forward more. “I mean, are you like, a sponsor? Investor?”

The words didn’t even sound right on your tongue, not when directed at him. The image of him swirling champagne and talking stocks was so laughably out of sync with the shy guy currently pressing himself into the couch cushions like he wanted to disappear.

“I don’t think you’re here for the politics,” you added, and there was a touch of something playful in your voice.

He chuckled softly, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Me? Gosh, no. I don’t… I don’t do politics.” He scratched the back of his ear, sheepish again. “That’s Bucky’s thing. I’m here for my friends.”

And just like that, your whole world tilted.

Your smile dropped before you could stop it. A subtle shift, but you felt it everywhere: in your spine, in your lungs, in the weight of your hands resting suddenly still on your knees.

You straightened. Slowly.

“…You know Bucky?”

The question came quieter than you intended, and Bob must’ve heard the change, the sudden stillness in your voice. His smile faltered, and he went still, too, sensing the tension without understanding it. His posture shrank, as if unsure what he’d stepped into, as if trying not to take up more space than he already had to upset you.

He nodded, a cautious kind of affirmation. “Yeah. He’s my friend.”

That stunned silence stretched long between you.

“I… I know he’s your friend too,” Bob added quickly, the words spilling out like he was trying to fill the void before it grew too wide. His voice was quieter now, softer around the edges, almost apologetic. “I heard you talking about him to Val, I—I thought maybe…”

You weren’t sure why he kept talking. Maybe because you hadn’t said anything. Maybe because your smile had disappeared too fast, and he could feel the way the mood had shifted even if he didn’t know why. His nervous ramble wasn’t meant to hurt, you could tell that. But it did. It did because the moment he said Val, something in you knotted tight again.

The warm glow you’d felt around him moments ago started to dim, curling in on itself like a candle snuffed out mid-flicker. Your heart gave a small, stupid lurch—embarrassed at how quickly you’d let your guard down. Of course he knew Bucky. Of course he was close to Valentina. The pieces slid together too easily now, fitting into a picture you didn’t want to look at.

You tried to pull yourself back together, quickly and quietly. You reminded yourself this wasn’t supposed to be about comfort. It wasn’t about soft smiles or normal conversations or maybe asking someone out for a drink. You came here with a mission, no matter how personal it was. To find Bucky. To set the record straight. This—this moment of peace with a stranger who felt safe—wasn’t supposed to happen.

He called her Val. Like they were friends. Like they knew each other beyond just work. Like he wasn’t just some shy, nice guy who complimented you under his breath and blushed when you smiled at him. Jesus, were you that easy?

A strange bitterness bloomed in your mouth. Not anger, more like disappointment. At yourself, maybe. For forgetting, even just for a second, what kind of place this really was.

You stood up.

The decision was sudden, impulsive, a small motion made louder by the way Bob flinched. His eyes followed you, something tentative and uncertain flickering across his face.

You reached for your earpiece, thumb brushing over the button to unmute Joaquín.

But Bob stood, too. Slowly, almost clumsily, like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to follow you or stay where he was.

“Did I—did I say something wrong?” he asked.

You froze. Your fingers stilled over the earpiece. You hadn’t expected that.

You turned, not quite facing him fully, but enough to catch the look on his face. His brows had drawn together, confusion etched faintly into his expression, and one of his hands was lifted just slightly, hovering in the air between you like he’d started to reach out and changed his mind halfway through. There were still several feet of space between you. The fire crackled low between you both, casting shadows across the expensive furniture and marble tiles.

“I’m sorry if I did,” he said, voice smaller now. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

That stopped you. “No… you didn’t…” You said, the words stumbling out, half-formed. You didn’t know why you tried to soothe him. Maybe it was the way his eyes had gone wide or the way he seemed to dread the thought of you walking away just when he was finally starting to settle into himself. It stirred something in you. Something that made your chest tighten.

You could’ve said never mind. You wanted to. Pretend his words hadn’t struck a nerve, hadn’t made your heart twist in your chest. But they did. It bothered you.

“You didn’t upset me,” you repeated, softer now. “I just… wasn’t expecting that.”

Bob blinked at you. “Oh,” he said, so gently it almost got carried off by the breeze.

A silence fell between you again. You wrapped your arms around yourself against the wind as you turned to look at him.

“Who are you, Bob?”

He straightened, caught off guard. “I’m... I’m Bob,” he said. “Just... just Bob.”

You tilted your head. “That’s it?”

He opened his mouth like he was about to say more, but nothing came out. His lips parted, then pressed shut again, the words retreating back into him like they were scared to be seen. He just shrugged helplessly. Like that’s all he had left.

And yet he kept looking at you like he was begging you not to go. Not yet.

You sighed, bringing your fingers up to your temple, pressing cold skin to your warm forehead. There was a pulse pounding there now, dull and insistent.

“I just…” You started, voice cracking faintly. “I came here looking for Bucky. I thought maybe I could get him to come home.”

“Home?” Bob asked carefully, his eyes soft.

“Yeah. With Sam. With us.” You hesitated, glancing through the tall windows behind him. The light inside spilled gold across the floor, where laughter echoed and people clinked glasses without a care in the world. Your eyes landed on the group you’d been avoiding all night—Bucky’s new team, huddled together with drinks, grinning like it was just another night to celebrate.

It made your chest hollow out.

“Ever since he joined Valentina’s little fuckass team or... whatever this is,” you said, gesturing vaguely toward the gala behind you, “everything’s just been so... shitty.”

You looked back at Bob, surprised to find that he’d stepped a little closer. Just enough that you could see the way his jaw twitched, like he was working through something he didn’t know how to say.

“Sorry,” you muttered, suddenly self-conscious. “Not to, like, dump all that on you.”

The cold bit into your arms. You rubbed them quickly, wishing you’d brought a coat.

“It’s not...” Bob started, and then, more firmly, “It’s not a fuckass team.”

You blinked. “Sorry?”

“They saved me,” he said, voice trembling just a bit. “Lena. Bucky. The others. They’re my family. We... we take care of each other.”

You stared at him, something icy curling low in your stomach. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said again, earnest. “I know it probably doesn’t look like it from the outside, but... they gave me a chance when no one else would. They didn’t treat me like I was broken. They... saw me.”

You wanted to believe that. You really did. But it felt like trying to swallow glass.

“Right,” you muttered, too tired to argue. “I have to go.”

You turned, reaching for your earpiece.

“Wait,” Bob said suddenly, like he’d only just realized this was goodbye. “Will I... will I see you again?”

You paused, fingers still hovering near your ear. The balcony lights flickered faintly behind you, and the sound of the city buzzed low in the background, as if the world were holding its breath.

You didn’t turn around right away.

Part of you wanted to say no. Make it easy. Clean.

But when you finally looked back at him, at the boyish worry carved into his face, the way he stood there with his hands half-raised like he didn’t know whether to reach for you or let you go, you felt that ache again. The one that whispered that maybe, despite everything, he meant what he said. That maybe there was still something worth salvaging in the strange, quiet warmth you’d felt earlier. Something real.

And you desperately wanted it to be real. You wanted it to mean something.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Bob swallowed. Nodded like he understood.

But his eyes lingered on you like he hoped the answer might change.

[jungwnies]

polyglot | merc, ferrari, & mclaren

୨ৎ : featuring : mercedes, ferrari, and mclaren drivers ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by 🥐) : how the react to you being a polyglot (knowing or using several languages) ୨ৎ : word count : 438

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ 10k event | masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : i love this idea as someone who also has multiple languages under my belt

ʚ・mercedes

george russell

he finds it insanely attractive, but tries to play it cool

will absolutely ask you how to say "thank you for the support" in the local language before press conferences

once had you translate a fan letter word for word because he needed to understand what they wrote

drops little “how do you say…” questions mid-breakfast like it’s casual

lowkey brags about you in interviews — “my partner actually helped me with the pronunciation!”

kimi antonelli

silently impressed; won’t say much but you’ll catch the way he watches you when you switch between languages

100% asks you how to say “i love you” in every language you know and remembers them perfectly

gets bashful when fans ask him to say something in their language and he turns to you for help

always listens quietly when you teach him — then absolutely nails the accent and acts like it’s no big deal

“how do you say ‘you’re beautiful’ in… all of them?

ʚ・ferrari

charles leclerc

pretends he’s chill but is secretly obsessed with how effortlessly you jump from one language to another

will record you saying things so he can practice alone (you caught him once, he nearly died of embarrassment)

constantly goes, “can you say it again slower?” just to hear you speak

gets flustered if you translate something romantic in another language

always asks for help with fan signs — “babe, is this saying what i think it’s saying or did i just call myself a baguette?”

lewis hamilton

thinks it’s the coolest thing ever and hypes you up constantly

“she speaks like seven languages. literal queen energy.”

makes you do short videos helping him thank international fans in their own languages

gets super soft if you teach him phrases to connect with fans — like genuinely wants to get it right

tells people you’re his secret weapon for global communication

ʚ・mclaren

lando norris

teases you constantly but adores it

“what’s ‘lando is the best’ in finnish?”

will randomly blurt a phrase you taught him at completely the wrong moment just to make you laugh

gets a little clingy when fans flirt in other languages — “babe, what did he say?? be honest.”

100% starts asking for curse words first and then tries to get serious when he realizes how useful it is

oscar piastri

quietly fascinated — listens more than he asks, but his curiosity is endless

always goes to you before foreign gps: “hey, how do i greet fans in korean again?”

gets this little proud smile when you help him pronounce something perfectly

sometimes asks you to whisper things in other languages just because “it sounds cool”

lowkey has a note in his phone with all the phrases you’ve taught him and uses them strategically

2021-2025 © jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

[l0s3rd0wnt0wn]

Hellooo idk if you've played the Tekken games before but what if neglected reader is like Lili? Djjsbsjdjd gahh I love her sm and she's like this sassy confident lady hehehe and her outfits are GORGEOUSS 😭😭

And I got this idea for a Lili! Neglected reader while playing the dark resurrection game and how Lili is just this badass Compeating to save her father's business ^^;;

"Please don't tell my father!"

Lili Rochefort!reader x yandere batfam

Bruce and your mother's marriage was not based on love but rather a financial arrangement. She desired Wayne's wealth, and she obtained it. She ensured a biological child with him, even if their divorce was inevitable. Your mother would still retain his riches. Without lifting a finger, which meant you were more of a tool to gain wealth than actually be a daughter.

When your mother was through and had gotten what she wanted, she left you in your father's hands—the cruelest thing the woman ever did to you. Living in the manor was a nightmare. You had thought you were an only child, but life spat in your face and gave you "brothers." Rude, obnoxious, mean, angry, rage-filled, obsessed little creatures with a taste for violence; you found it vile how they would fight like brutes in front of the dinner table, making you almost drop your plate of decadent food Alfred had prepared for you. How beastly you think, watching them fight on TV in ridiculous costumes, fighting crime, and causing public property damage. They barely even had manners at galas or block events. So what if they acted like they wanted nothing to do with you? You wanted nothing to do with them.

"She’s so stuck up."

"She acts like such a princess."

"She walks like she has a stick up her ass."

You didn't care what your siblings said, wiping your long blonde hair in their faces. You were a sophisticated young girl, and that’s what you were raised to be: a good morning routine, daily workouts, piano lessons, and ballet on weekends. You were far from a ruffian; you were a lady and deserved to be treated as such. You didn't care how much Steph hated your prissy attitude or how Cass thought you were weak, how Jason thought you were a spoiled brat, or how Dick and Duke believed you had never been through a day of hardship in your life.

Tim and Damian never agreed, but one thing they could agree on was that all you were was a pretty rich girl, and you never tried to make them think you weren’t. Sure, there was more to you than meets the eye; Alfred knew that, but your brothers could never see it. When your father—the man you had been trying to impress for years with your good behavior, good grades, and overall good everything—wouldn't even spare you a passing glance, your whole world crumbled. He never loved your mother, and you knew better than that, but why couldn’t he love you? All he did was throw his ultimatum black card at you and say, "Not now, [Name]."

He thought you were like your petty mother, that you only cared about inheriting the Wayne fortune, nothing more. So, he kept you occupied with pretty dresses, nice shoes, and fancy ballet slippers. He couldn’t be serious, but the only way your father knew how to communicate was through violence—pure, unadulterated violence. Sitting in spare with Jason, you realized what language your family spoke; even Barbara had spoken it once or twice. It was violence, so you decided to speak their language—this unspoken language of fighting.

Holy shit, was it not fun! No wonder you saw the smile on Cass's face when she fought Duke in a match; it was pure fun watching your opponent fall and grovel underneath you, knowing you had the upper hand in a fight. Knowing you were better was pure bliss. But you must remember to fix your makeup after every match; a lady like you must never mess up her nails. And every time you win, you laugh like a mad woman, but you'll never tell your father that you're a fighter because you're his delicate little girl who's scared of dogs that bark too loudly.

[apple-onigiri]

please may we know some more about the understudy recalled au................. the patients need toxic sifloop yuri to live

the patients are going to get so much toxic sifloop yuri they're going to ascend all the way to the firmament, let me tell you

in big summary, understudy recalled au is what happens when you get my thought process going because of this sifloop self-love/self-hatred analysis i did a while back and crank up those two's worst mutual destruction tendencies to the point where it all ends with siffrin disappearing from existence and loop reprising their role

[details under the cut for the sake of not creating a long post]

what you get in this au is a loop whose propensity to project their own self-hatred onto siffrin because they're still getting used to the idea that siffrin is his own person and not just a reflection you can jeer at with no consequence is dialed up to 11. a loop who doesn't know when to stop with all that envy, bitterness, unresolved anguish and self-destructive tendencies within them, and who starts to realize that they messed up too late to fix anything.

what you get in this au is a siffrin who kept getting constant feedback fueling his own spiraling thoughts about just how bad he is at everything, who kept being told by the only person he could really actually talk to within the loops how he's constantly stumbling helplessly. a siffrin who really starts to believe they're the worst possible person to deal with all this, actually. just useless, useless, useless. no good at all. someone whose party must be tired of him, grossed out by him. wholly inadequate to solve the issue of the time loop, and maybe not even deserving of the resolution.

one night, far into the loops, loop having caught sight of siffrin's lifeless face, usually hidden by their hanging head and big hat, earlier this loop, puts their own fragmented psyche together. there's a pit of guilt actively opening in their stomach because they very suddenly realized that stardust is not and has never been them - but they treated him like he was, like their words would have no effect because they both would think the same about each other. but even if siffrin thinks the same things about himself as loop, that's not the same as hearing it from someone else. someone who you don't even know is the same person.

loop decides, in a panic, that they need to try and fix it, if they even can, starting the moment they see siffrin next loop. beg for forgiveness, or maybe just for an opportunity to redeem themselves, maybe even come clean about who they are, be helpful to the best of their ability, be a point of support from now on, try to fix it, fix it, fix it���

just then, siffrin, having snuck out from the clocktower in the dead of night, approaches the favor free to make a wish. a wish for someone else to figure a way out, someone who isn't as useless, as aimless as him. someone like loop, who always seems to know what's going on and has to explain reality to him like he's a little kid. for someone else to take over and for himself to just disappear. loop sees him pick a leaf from the ground and start mumbling into it.

despite loop's efforts to get down the tree in time to stop siffrin, tear the leaf out of their hand, stifle their words of self-renouncement, they don't make it in time. it is done, the universe realigning to push this new reality into existence. siffrin just smiles sadly at them from the ground they're kneeling on, face wet with tears, and asks loop to make sure the others make it out of the loops they have no idea they're even trapped in.

and then he disappears, as if consumed by a black hole or swallowed up by the shifting shadows, just stardust left behind on top of his hat, resting on the grass. loop is left alone right there, under the tree; looking painfully human again. back to the stage, loop.

loop ends up playing the role of siffrin once more and, knowing how much the party cares about them just from observing them, finally gets out of the loops; but it feels like the biggest loss they've ever gone through because they didn't want this, they didn't realize how far they took it, they want him back, give him back, this wasn't theirs, it was his—

but he's gone, not even a whisper or a ghost left behind. and no one remembers. after all, a siffrin is still there. just not stardust.

[sodapopkiss6]

Sylus the type of guy to...

Let you put pink ribbons and bows on him, anywhere you want. Of course, at first, he'd laugh at you, amused when you ask. He doesn't get the purpose of it.

You force him down on the bed, undressing him slowly, taking your time to love every inch of his skin. He closes his eyes, a shaky breath escaping him.

You're going too slow. He grips the sheets, but he will try to be patient, to be a good boy, because good boys get rewards.

It takes him a minute to realize he's fully undressed. His skin hot and sensitive under your touch.

His eyes open quickly, though, when he feels the first ribbon. Its softness wrapped around his length, making him shudder. You tighten it just enough and make a cute little bow.

He still doesn't get it, but doesn't comment on it.

And just like that, his body is fully decorated, ribbons wrapping around him from different angles. The last ribbon, you tie it around his wrists, keeping them above his head.

You move back to admire your work. Smiling when you see his dazed eyes and needy look.

Your hand goes to tease his tip, smearing his precum while you slide your hand up and down. The reaction is instant, his hips buck, and he lets out a moan. It's such a pretty sight. You can't help but coo at him.

"You look so cute, I wish you could look at yourself right now" An idea pops into your mind "Actually you could..."

You reach for your phone and snap a couple of pictures. Choosing the best one you show it to him.

"Look at you, don't you think you look adorable?" Your hand resumes its earlier movements.

Sylus whines and nods, barely processing your words.

"Such a cute boy, so pretty." You go down to kiss his chest making him gasp.

"I love you so much, I'm so lucky to have you." Your lips wrap around one of his nipples and you suck.

He whimpers loudly, his chest has always been a sensitive area.

"You're mine, only mine, forever." Your free hand goes to play with his other nipple.

"Say it, say that you're mine, my pretty boy, and that you're worthy of love and kindness"

"I'm y-yours!" He moans,"your p-pretty boy and ngh- I'm worthy of mm! L-love a-and kindness! Mngh 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦" he whines, hips bucking into your hand. He's so close. He can feel the build-up ready to spill over, but something is in the way.

"That's right, so you better not say otherwise ever again," you say, moving up to look into his eyes. "I don't care what anyone else thinks. You're perfect just the way you are"

Your hand that's wrapped around his length stops and tugs at the bow, letting it loose.

"I love you, every part of you, I love the leader of onychinus and Sylus. Because at the end of the day, no matter what name you choose, they're all you"

You lean down to kiss him softly yet passionately. Your hand stroking him faster until his tipping point. It didn't take much. Your words and your body make him fall apart. Only you are capable of this, of making him feel safe while letting go, being vulnerable.

He moans into your mouth, his wrists weakly pulling on the ribbons.

"Shh, it's okay, just breathe," you talk to him softly, guiding him back.

Placing small kisses in between his eyebrows, you murmur praises. Feeling his breathing controlling itself as minutes passed.

Once he was back to his senses, he hummed and squirmed. You quickly free him from the restraints, and his arms wrap around you, sitting up to hold you close. You hear small sniffles and feel something wet fall on your neck.

Rocking him, you hum a gentle melody while your hands rub his back and head. You can't tell how much time has passed, you don't mind, though. You will wait patiently for him just like he does for you.

"Thank you" he whispers, voice raw and vulnerable.

"Anything for you." You press a small kiss on his head.

He moves back to look at you. Eyes red and glassy.

"I love you"

Looking at him fondly, you rest your forehead against his.

"I love you too"

He starts to understand the purpose of the pink ribbons.

I like this one. I think it's cute, ima make a long fic version of it. Need more fics of mc comforting Sylus

[so-i-did-this-thing]

I don't know where else to ask this but honestly I sometimes wish I was trans, from what I hear the transitioning is wounderus to go through (not so much the transphobic people obviously) and I just can't seem to find any joy anymore

I also can see why this is horrible as trans people have to go through so much just for being trans and i

just don't know what to do anymore

Idon't feel uncomfortable in my body or seek to become a woman so I don't think I'm actually trans, but the idea of becoming happy for once in my god damn life just seems so good

I'm sorry if this is a horrible thing to say but I just want to be happy

Hey there, Anon. Sounds like you're in a bad place right now.

Fwiw, medical transition for me was the clearing out of a lot of background radiation so I could do the actual hard work of becoming a better man. There is a lot of shit about myself I've had to fix that HRT will never improve. It's been a long road and continues to be so.

I feel like you're looking for a blueprint for happiness, and maybe it seems to you that trans people have a clear path, given how dramatic physical transition can be.

But I'd ask you to dig deeper, and look for inspiration in all the groundwork that goes into transition. And see how this work could apply in your case:

Realize you are not alone

Understand there is a lot of work to do - a lifetime of it - but it will be worth it

Constantly self-reflect

Articulate who you are and who you are not

Set goals and find role models for who you want to be

Work out a plan for what steps - even modest ones like a fresh haircut or change of clothes - you need to take to be your best self

Empower yourself to experiment with how you present yourself to the world

Get comfortable with the idea that your "best self" might look very different in the future than how it looks now

Stand up for yourself & uplifting others

Reach out for community - ask for help when you need it, and help others when you can

Get professional help when it's necessary

Learn the benefits, risks, and limitations of medication

Track your progress & being kind to yourself on the bad days

Relentlessly look for joy

Find strength in vulnerability

Don't be afraid to cut out toxic people from your life

Give yourself permission to take up space in the world

Acknowledge that change takes time and is the accumulation of mostly a lot of little steps, with the occasional big leap

Transition is deeply rooted in how we see ourselves and how we want to be perceived by and move about in society. And honestly, isn't that just being a human being?

It seems to me like you're unmoored right now. And possibly isolated. A good way to find help is to connect with other human beings (seek out community) and learn tools for making better connections (work with a therapist).

Hopefully with some time spent working on these connections, you can connect better with yourself and forge your path towards happiness.

[xoxojisu]

THIS IS FALLING IN LOVE.

synopsis: falling in love with chigiri hyoma is slow. it's quiet. but it's sweet, and it's easier than you could ever imagine.

notes: chigiri is one of my bllk favs and i never talk abt him. HES UNDERRATED JUSTICE FOR HYOMA </3 i feel like fanon chigi always gets mischaracterized so i hope this is canon chigiri core. maybe this'll kickstart my bllk writing again..

it doesn't happen all at once.

it’s not some grand, cinematic moment where the wind and sun catch his hair just right and suddenly you’re in love. (though, you’ll admit, the hair thing is very distracting.)

it happens slowly. quietly.

when you first met him, he seemed simply like a quiet, introverted guy. it wasn't that he didn't talk, but it seemed like he just chose his moments carefully. he seemed polite and well-kept. you thought he had nice hair, but didn't think much of him beyond that.

it started the first time he talked back.

you'd teased him. something about his princess hair routine taking longer than practice. you expect him to offer a polite, awkward smile or a light chuckle, but he instead gave you a deadpan look before saying,

“yeah, sorry i like not smelling like gym socks. can’t relate?”

you blink.

he raises a brow.

you try not to let your jaw drop.

and then he smirks. like he knows he got you.

that’s when it starts.

-

after that, you start looking for it. the way he leans into sarcasm like it’s second nature. it's subtle. like it just slips out naturally. it surprises you at first. the way he says things that make you pause and go wait. was that flirty..? or mean..? (it’s both)

and it’s addicting.

he’s not just pretty. he's not just quiet. he's not just thoughtful. he’s funny. and competitive. and weirdly good at comebacks that have you reeling in fake anger but also leave you red in the face for hours after.

“is this your idea of flirting?” you ask once.

he shrugs, tossing his water bottle into his bag and tugging out his hair tie in one fluid motion.

“if it was, you’d be obsessed with me by now.”

little does he know that you already are. you probably have been for a while. but he doesn’t know that yet, and neither do you.

-

the real unraveling happens in the small moments.

how he always takes the time to stretch now after you'd scolded him. not just because he's told to, but because it seems like he really wants to take care of all of him now. you watch him learn to be gentle with himself. (he might be a little too gentle now, though. the princess.)

how he pulls his hair back with care, like it’s armor and comfort all at once, the beautiful cherry hue glistening.

how he doesn’t talk a lot, but when he does, it’s never wasted.

you learn his moods. the difference between "quiet because he’s tired" and "quiet because he’s thinking too much." you learn when to sit next to him and say nothing. you learn when to nudge him until he rolls his eyes and softens.

the more time you spend with him, the prettier you realize he is. his hair is a given, sure, but his eyelashes are also unfairly long. they're thick, too. he looks like he's wearing mascara all the time. his skin is perfectly clear and his eyes are the most gorgeous shade of pink. they resemble two twinkling rubies. you think he looks like someone's muse. like he's painted in watercolor with wind blowing through his hair and cherry blossom petals falling all around him all the time and for no apparent reason.

he lets you in so gradually that you don’t even realize you’re already there. part of his rituals, his routines. you don't notice the shift with the way he starts to tease you more and linger longer.

“you’re always around,” he says once, voice low and lazy. you'd just finished doing face masks together, and were now searching for something to watch. you're both ignoring the nonexistent space between you, opting to wordlessly shift closer.

"does it bother you?" you ask, studying his following facial expression carefully.

"nah," he replies quickly. maybe a little too quick. "just noticed it, i guess."

you shrug, “maybe i just like being around you.”

he tilts his head. studying you. not in a dreamy way. in a real way.

“yeah,” he says eventually, “i think i like it too.”

-

you fall in love with him one glance, one witty reply, one quiet kindness at a time.

and when he falls back, because he does, he makes sure you know.

he doesn’t say it with flowers and chocolate.

he says it when he sends you skin care recs at midnight.

he doesn't say it with a poster board and a rose petal pathway.

he says it when he sits a little too close and doesn’t move away.

when he says, “you make things feel less heavy.”

and it’s then, only then, that you realize.

you’ve been falling in love with him for who knows how long.

and he’s been catching you the whole time.

masterlist

[skyguytoast]

hi there!

I LOVE your Anakin and Hayden works, they're so well written and I just get lost in this universe you pull me into 👏🏻🥰

I was wondering if you had the time if you'd be able to make headcanons for a Hayden Christensen x kinda chubby younger girlfriend reader?

Thanks! Xoxo

HAYDEN CHRISTENSEN X CHUBBY!READER HEADCANONS

WARNING: none, just cuteness A/N: hiiii my loves, how are you doing?? So, when I got this request, it really made me stop and think at first, I was like “wait, is there even a difference between dating someone who's thin or chubby?” cuz in my head love is love 💕BUT then I realized that assuming everything’s the same can actually be a bit careless 🥲 so I took a step back and reflected with lots of love and care. Anywayyyy I hope you like it and please keep sending requests because I get so excited every time!! I love love love hearing from you all!! also didn't know if you want smut or no

Hayden fell for you long before you realized it. The first thing that caught him wasn’t your body, it was your laugh, your warmth, the way your cheeks lifted when you smiled. You were sunshine to him, warm and lovely.

His jaw always dropped when you wore those curve-hugging dresses you were unsure about. When you nervously mentioned the way your belly folded or how it clung “too much,” he just looked at you with that quiet intensity and said, “That’s my favorite part.”

When Hayden returned to training for Vader, he loved how strong it made him feel when he could pick you up effortlessly. He adored the way you’d squeal and laugh when he lifted you during a TikTok challenge you dragged him into (even though he had no idea what half of them meant).

That day you tried on one of his sweatshirts expecting it to be oversized, only for it to feel snug, broke your heart a little. But Hayden noticed the way your smile dimmed. That night, he sat beside you, handed you a softer, roomier hoodie from a Star Wars event in Tokyo, kissed your forehead, and told you, “It’s not about what fits you. It’s about what makes you feel safe.”

Hayden leaves love notes in your snack drawers. You’ll go for a cookie and find “Your thighs are art, don't argue” written on a sticky note in his handwriting. He knows how tempting it is to try those crazy diets that society seems to push on you, and he doesn't want you to fall into a black hole of insecurities and compromise your health.

Hayden always takes the pictures you feel cute in — no “suck it in,” no weird angles. And when you ask, “Do I look okay in this?” He simply says, “You always look beautiful, baby.” His lock screen is a picture of you in a tight white dress that hugs all the right places, highlighting your cute cleavage and the little folds of your tummy.

Hayden gently nudges you away from negative self-talk. When you get caught in a spiral, he doesn’t dismiss you, he listens, holds your hand, and says, “I know the world tries to make you feel like you’re ‘too much.’ But you’re everything to me.”

You once caught him reading body positive essays and plus-size fashion blogs. When you asked why, he shrugged and said, “If I want to love you well, I need to understand." Because Hayden knows how easy it is to fall into those toxic positivity conversations, reinforcing stereotypes and prejudices instead of validating your beauty.

He always encourages you to eat what you want when you go out, especially when you hesitate. “Life’s short,” he whispers with a smirk. “And that cheesecake’s flirting with us.” Hayden cares about your food, knowing that making food the villain will only bring guilt, give space to eating disorders and reinforce the idea that food is the villain.

Whenever someone online makes an ignorant comment, you never have to see it, because Hayden’s already blocked, reported, and moved on. “You don’t owe the internet your pain,” he says. He doesn't have social media, but he knows how tough the internet is, and he does everything he can to make sure you don't have to deal with insults and stupid comments.

______________________________________________________________

TAGLIST: @ihearthayden @anakinstwinklebunny @sometimescharlolette @awhhayden @dessxoxsworld @throughparisallthroughrome @freudsweetlamb

______________________________________________________________

[mrsvante]

A House Between Us III

pairing: jimin x reader

genre: entrepreneur au, yandere, angst

summary: He moved in next door with a job to do, then he saw you. Polite, perfect, hiding bruises behind your smile. Now your husband’s dead. Jimin’s in your bed. And the only thing more dangerous than his devotion…is how much you love being kept.

warnings: non graphic domestic abuse, non graphic murder, mild dubcon, soft moments, smut, pregnancy

word count: 3,527

Weeks passed like that.

Softly.

Unnervingly.

Like ribbons wrapping themselves around your limbs—comforting at first, then too tight to escape.

Jimin never left your side now.

It had begun so gently you hardly noticed the shift. At first, it was easy to rationalize: he stayed the night because he didn’t want you waking up alone. Then he lingered through breakfast, sitting cross-legged at the kitchen island while you padded around barefoot, his gaze always fixed on you like you might vanish if he blinked.

By the time he was staying through drowsy afternoons on your sun warmed patio, through evenings where he curled behind you like a second skin, it felt natural. A new routine. One your body welcomed with an ache that felt eerily like peace.

Eventually, you stopped asking if he would be going home. Your home became his.

Or maybe… you had simply moved into his world without even realizing.

He didn’t invade the space you once called your own, he folded into it, became it. The empty drawers filled with his scent. The echoing corners softened with the warmth of his laughter. His toothbrush beside yours. His mug in the cabinet. His slippers at the door. The past faded in the face of such quiet domination.

Gone were the icy silences and forced smiles of a life lived under surveillance. Now the walls breathed with something else—something warmer, thicker, more potent.

His voice, low and velvety, recited poetry while you stirred soup on the stove, though he never let you finish the meal alone.

His laughter, soft and smoky, curling through the air when you teased him.

His arms, pulling you back into bed when you tried to sneak away in the morning, mouth brushing your shoulder with that slow, lazy smirk that made your knees go weak.

Jimin made you feel wanted. He made you feel needed. But above all else, he made you feel kept.

And you liked it.

God, you really did.

You liked the way his hand always found yours, his thumb stroking lazy circles into your skin like a tether, an unspoken vow.

You liked the way he plucked grocery bags from your arms with a quiet frown, like the idea of you lifting something heavier than a wine glass offended him.

You liked how his eyes tracked you across every room, half lidded and hungry, like he was still convincing himself you were real.

There was nothing left of the woman who once begged for scraps of affection from a man who made her feel like a trophy no one looked at anymore.

Now, you were gazed upon.

Cherished.

Still—beneath the soft velvet of your new life, small cracks formed.

Not rebellion. Never that.

But curiosity.

Questions that curled like vines inside your ribs, wrapping around your heart with gentle, insistent pressure.

{} {} {} {} {}

It happened late one night, when the moonlight made lace patterns across your sheets and the cicadas sang a lullaby through the open window.

You were sprawled across his chest, your limbs tangled with his, fingers idly tracing the constellation of his collarbones while his hand rested on your hip. Protective and possessive, a silent promise that you were his and always would be.

Jimin’s fingers sifted through your hair, unhurried. The kind of touch that says, there’s nowhere else I need to be.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, lips ghosting across your forehead. “So fucking perfect for me.”

You hummed, boneless and soft against him, lulled by his warmth and the low hum of his voice. But something stirred in you.

“Jimin…” you whispered, shy but steady, your fingertip drawing soft circles over the fabric stretched across his chest. “Do you ever think about… more?”

His hand paused—only for a moment—but you felt it. That subtle hitch. That microsecond of stillness that told you he’d heard.

“More?” he echoed, careful.

You shifted, lifting your chin so you could see him, caught off guard by the sharp heat of his gaze, so intense, so direct, it made your breath catch.

“Like… seeing the world. Traveling. Not just this house or this town. And maybe…” You hesitated. “Maybe children someday.”

Silence. Weighted. Heavy with meaning.

His gaze held you there, studying your face like he was carving it into memory. Each lash, each line, each hope you hadn’t dared voice until now.

Then, slowly, his mouth curved.

Not with malice or mockery. But with wonder, unbidden delight.

“You want to see the world?” he asked, his fingers tightening subtly on your waist.

You nodded, your voice barely above a breath. “I want to see something else. Something that isn’t the ruins of my old life.”

Jimin’s smile widened, bright and boyish, but his eyes glinted with something far more grown, something territorial, hungry.

“Then I’ll show you everything,” he promised, voice laced with something sharp beneath the sweetness. “Beaches, cities, mountains—whatever you want, it’s yours. We’ll build new memories. Burn the old ones to ash.”

He shifted above you, the sheets whispering around your skin as he pressed you gently into the mattress, caging you in without ever making you feel trapped.

“If you want Italy, we’ll live in Florence. If you want Japan, I’ll learn the language. If you want Paris…” he paused, eyes gleaming. “I’ll buy out a whole arrondissement so it’s quiet enough for you to sleep.”

You laughed, breath catching in your throat at the ridiculousness of it—but more than that, at the way he meant every word.

“And children?” you asked, the question slipping from your lips like a wish. “Do you ever want that, too?”

There was no hesitation.

His eyes flared. His breath stuttered.

“As many as you want,” he said, voice thick. “One, ten—I don’t care. I want them all. I want your belly round with my babies, I want their laughter filling our house, I want them to know what it’s like to grow up loved.”

You couldn’t breathe. Not really.

His words dug into something old and aching in you—something that had been so starved for this kind of tenderness it didn’t know how to receive it without unraveling.

Jimin’s lips met yours with amazement and fire, brushing once, then again, until your fingers fisted in his shirt.

“Little versions of you running around? That sounds like heaven to me,” he whispered.

Your heart clenched.

“I’m going to want a cat too,” you said, voice light even as your eyes stung.

Jimin blinked, then groaned dramatically, flopping down beside you like a sulky child.

“No. God, no. The fur. It’s everywhere.”

You giggled, nudging him with your knee. “I don’t mind cleaning. I can vacuum. I can brush them—”

“No.”

His voice, this time, held no softness.

It wasn’t cruel.

But it was immovable.

You froze, eyes wide.

Jimin propped himself on his elbow, leaning in so slowly you felt the heat of his body before his lips even touched yours.

“You will never lift a finger in our house,” he murmured, voice dipping into something dark and velvety. “Not to clean. Not to serve. Not for anyone. Not even me.”

Your lips parted, but he silenced you with a kiss, deep, hungry, filled with a kind of desperation that made your toes curl.

“The only thing I want you using those hands for…” he whispered between kisses, “is touching me. Loving me. Holding the babies we’ll make together.”

You melted beneath him, breathless and trembling.

Gone were the days when you confused survival for love. Jimin didn’t just want your obedience. He wanted your soul. And he gave you his in return. Pressed between your thighs, his hands tracing your skin, his voice a hypnotic lullaby in the dark.

Jimin wasn’t just beside you anymore.

He was everywhere.

Threaded through your days. Anchored in your bones. And there was no part of you left untouched by his devotion.

{} {} {} {} {}

The moon had shifted higher in the sky, casting a pale, silvery glow across the bedroom walls, but sleep still hadn’t found you.

You lay curled against Jimin, your cheek pressed to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, limbs tangled beneath the sheets. His scent—warm and clean, tinged with something only him—wrapped around you like a second blanket, grounding you even as your mind wandered far, far away.

You should have been asleep hours ago. His body was a lullaby, his presence a drug, but tonight… your thoughts were too full. Too bright. Too hopeful.

The promise of something new glimmered just beyond the horizon.

A future unspooling itself like a ribbon.

You could see it so clearly now. Your fingers laced with his as you explored cities older than memory, beaches that kissed the sky, mountaintops that made the air thin and the world small. You could feel the warmth of little hands wrapped around your fingers, laughter bouncing down the halls of a home you hadn’t built yet, but one that lived in the soft corners of your heart.

Not a house made from polished stone and silence like before.

But a home made from love. From lazy mornings and shared toothbrushes. From barefoot dancing in the kitchen and the quiet sound of safety.

Jimin stirred slightly beneath you.

His arm, already wrapped tight around your waist, flexed just enough to pull you closer, like he’d felt the tremble of your thoughts beneath your skin.

“You’re still awake,” he murmured, voice husky from sleep, lips brushing the crown of your head.

You tilted your face toward him slightly, chin nudging against his chest. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

He shifted then, just enough to look down at you, his hand rising to cradle your cheek with infinite care.

“Are you okay?” he asked, worry clouding his voice. “Is something wrong?”

You shook your head, smiling softly.

“No. Nothing’s wrong. I’m just…” You sighed, the sound gentle, dreamy. “Thinking. I can’t stop thinking about everything.”

His brows furrowed, but you reached up to stroke the space between them, soothing the crease away.

“It’s not bad,” you promised. “I’m just excited. About change. About… the future.”

He blinked, eyes softening.

“The future?”

You nodded slowly. “With you.”

And then you told him.

In a voice barely louder than a whisper, you started to unravel the threads of your daydreams. One by one. Hushed, tender.

You told him about the places you wanted to see—the snowy rooftops of Prague, the cherry blossoms in Kyoto, the lavender fields in Provence. You told him about the food you’d always dreamed of trying. Street noodles in Bangkok, handmade pasta in Rome, the sweet, warm honey of Moroccan tea.

Jimin listened like the stars had gone out and you were the only light left in the world.

His thumb stroked slow circles into your hip, grounding you even as you floated through the possibilities. Sometimes he interjected, murmuring promises beneath his breath, we’ll go there, or I’ll take you next spring, or you’ll never eat pasta from anywhere else again once I cook for you there.

Then, as your voice grew softer, you let yourself whisper the picture of a home. One filled with light.

A sun drenched kitchen with windows that opened onto a garden. A nursery painted in soft earth tones, with storybooks and stars.

A reading nook. A fireplace. A swing on the porch.

A space that grew with you. With them.

“Our kids will never have to guess what love looks like,” you whispered, blinking slowly as your body began to finally relax.

“They’ll see it in every corner of the house. In how we talk to them. In how you kiss me goodbye, even if you’re just going to the store. In how we slow dance on the porch on Sundays and how you always—always—make pancakes a little too golden.”

Jimin’s chest rose and fell beneath you, deep and quiet.

He didn’t speak for a long moment. Just brushed his lips over your hair, over your temple, over your cheek, soft and still.

Then finally, he whispered, so close you felt it in your soul.

“I’ll give you everything, angel.”

His voice cracked on the last word, a raw emotion threading through the quiet.

“Everything you’ve ever dreamed of. And more. I swear to you.”

Your lashes fluttered, heavy now. His warmth, his words, the weight of your shared dream finally beginning to pull you under.

And still, he held you.

He listened as your voice trailed off into soft breaths. As your body softened completely against his, your mind finally surrendering to sleep. He kissed your forehead once more before whispering again, this time just for himself.

“Everything. You’ll have it all.”

And long after you drifted into dreams, Jimin lay awake, watching the stars fade into dawn, already plotting the world he’d build for you.

Not just a life.

But a kingdom.

A legacy.

A home that bore your name in every corner.

And he’d guard it forever.

{} {} {} {} {}

Years later, your life has softened into something dreamlike.

Gentle, slow mornings steeped in golden light. Quiet, blissful afternoons where time seemed to bend for the sake of peace. And long, sultry nights filled with whispered confessions and soft gasps under moonlight, when Jimin’s hands roamed your body like he still couldn’t quite believe you were real. Like some part of him feared you’d vanish if he didn’t touch you enough.

Your home sat nestled deep in the green folds of the countryside, far from the hum of cities or the ache of memory. The hills rolled like sleeping giants around you, thick with trees that blushed gold in autumn and shimmered silver in winter.

It wasn’t grand. Not like the place you’d once fled, that mausoleum of cold marble and echoing grief.

No, this house was different.

It was built slowly, lovingly, over years. each room a quiet testament to the life you and Jimin carved from the ashes. Wide porches wrapped around the house, windows opened toward the morning sun. The kitchen was flooded with light, warm woods and worn stone underfoot, and a fireplace always crackling just slightly too high because Jimin worried you might get cold.

You painted the walls yourself. Picked every tile. Pressed your hand into the wet concrete of the garden path one late afternoon, giggling when Jimin kissed the paint from your nose and did the same, leaving behind twin handprints at the edge of your front steps.

“This is ours,” he whispered against your neck that evening, arms circling your waist as you watched fireflies bloom in the dusk. “Every inch of it.”

You hadn’t said a word. You didn’t need to.

Because it was true.

And you’d never wanted anything more.

The neighbors were kind in a way you still weren’t used to, soft spoken people who offered their warmth without expectation.

They brought fresh bread and warm preserves, invited you to local fairs and simple potlucks under the stars. They adored your son. Always asked about your growing belly with wide eyes and delighted laughter, eager to meet the twins who had already charmed them without ever being seen.

Your son.

The center of your little universe, the echo of Jimin in motion, ran barefoot through the fields and gardens with dirt on his knees and joy bursting from every breath. He had Jimin’s smile and your stubbornness. He brought you fistfuls of wildflowers nearly every day, and clung to your waist as he kissed your stomach with sticky fingers and wide eyed wonder.

“When are sisters coming?” he’d ask, voice high and sweet, as he counted the days like treasure.

Soon.

Always soon.

And when you said it, you’d catch Jimin watching you from the doorway, his expression a strange, beautiful thing. Awe and hunger braided into something dangerous and unshakable.

“Two more little girls to spoil rotten,” he had mused one afternoon, his hand spread protectively over the round of your stomach as you sat together on the patio, your son dozing against your lap.

“You’ll have your hands full,” you teased, fingers brushing over his wrist, your voice full of mischief and love.

“I already do,” he murmured, kissing your belly low, his lips branding you gently. “You and our daughters will ruin me.”

Your laugh was quiet. Full of memory.

Because hadn’t he said something like that before?

In the middle of a Paris hotel room, years ago, your passport still warm in your purse from the flight, your body flushed from too much champagne and his mouth against your thighs. He’d looked up at you then, breathless and loving, and whispered, You’ll be the death of me.

And now here you were painting a nursery. Baking apple crisps with your son. Watering dahlias at dawn.

Still ruining him, just as he’d promised.

You had hobbies now.

Gardening, mostly, the only physical task Jimin would allow.

Every morning, you padded barefoot into the dew drenched yard, hands in the soil, coaxing life from the earth. You wore soft linen dresses these days, your belly swaying as you knelt beside the hydrangeas, whispering to them like they were old friends.

From the kitchen window, Jimin would watch you with a mug of dark roast clasped in both hands, his eyes shadowed with quiet intensity. You always knew when he was there. You could feel the weight of his gaze, the intense tilt of his devotion.

He never interrupted. Never scolded you for the dirt under your nails.

He would let you have this.

But only this.

Anything else? Carrying groceries? Vacuuming? Folding laundry?

Absolutely not.

“You’ll never serve anyone again,” he told you once, catching you halfway up the stairs with a box of baby clothes in your arms. He took the box, placed it aside, and cupped your face gently with both hands.

“Only yourself. Only us. That’s all.”

You hadn’t argued.

Just like you didn’t argue when he hired Margot, a quiet older woman who reminded you of your grandmother and smelled like jasmine tea. She adored you, doted on your son, and tended the house like it was her own. She called Jimin young master sometimes when she thought you couldn’t hear, and though it made you smile, it never failed to make your heart twist just a little.

You painted most afternoons. Always with music, jazz, mostly, or the soft lull of classical piano drifting from the record player Jimin insisted on finding for you in a back alley shop in Venice. You’d nearly missed your train because of it, but it was worth it. Every note reminded you of that summer. The canals. The wine.

The way he pressed you up against the glass door of your hotel room, the moon glimmering off your skin as he whispered in awe, I’ll build you a life you’ll never want to leave.

And he did.

Your son’s bedroom was your proudest creation. One whole wall had become a living dream. Mountains reaching toward a sleepy moon, foxes peeking from tall grass, trees dotted with stars. A world for him to grow into, dream within, get lost inside.

Jimin had sat on the floor as you painted, legs crossed, hands clasped beneath his chin.

“You’re painting their world,” he’d said, voice low and rough. “You’re giving them magic.”

He touched the wall when you were done like it was holy.

“You make everything beautiful.”

You’d smiled, eyes stinging, and pulled him to you until your cheeks pressed together.

{} {} {} {} {}

At night, it always came back to this.

You and him.

No noise. No strangers. No shadows of who you once were.

Just your body—soft, round, glowing—and Jimin’s breath at your neck as he moved inside you with aching care.

He made love like a man who had stolen something priceless and could never stop marveling at the weight of it. His hands mapped every inch of your skin like a cartographer of worship, lips murmuring praises against your throat, your collarbone, the swell of your belly.

“You’re everything to me,” he whispered between slow thrusts. “You gave me forever.”

You clung to him, moaning softly, heart full and body open.

“No one will ever touch you but me.”

And you believed him. How could you not?

He kissed you like he meant it. Like he would die without it.

And when it was over, when your pulse had slowed and your limbs were boneless, he wrapped around you and breathed in your scent like it tethered him to the earth.

“You’ll never feel like that again, angel,” he whispered.

You nodded, already drifting.

“I know.”

But he wasn’t done. He leaned in close, his lips brushing your ear, voice velvet and iron.

“No more doors to escape through,” he murmured. “No more windows to cry at. No more houses between us.”

His arms curled tighter.

“You’re here. With me. Forever. No further.”

And you, sleepy, sated, and beloved, only smiled. Because the truth was simple. You didn’t want further anymore. You had everything you needed right here.

Jimin.

Your son.

The daughters blooming inside you.

A love so heavy it pinned you in place, sweet and smothering.

You had given him your surrender long ago.

And you never wanted it back.

two | masterlist

[dcpridefanzine]

🌟Team Interview- Blue and the Bold 🌟

@boostergold07 : Tuff had this great idea of boostle being representation for younger heroes and it really stuck out to me as someone who grew up really sheltered and never had the words to describe my own labels growing up, you know, like I feel like I know so many people who knew they were queer since they were super young and I didn't get to realize it until a was an older teenager. And so, kind of obviously, there's no way that Ted wouldn't have a similar experience, or similar feelings. There's a lot of shame and suppression that comes from growing up in a time like Ted did and coming out can sometimes feel like opening yourself up to people who might validate that shame. So, I really wanted to write about that feeling and how when we give people representation, maybe they won't feel as bad about themselves to begin with, using Tim and Booster as examples. This story means a lot to me because I feel like I'm still learning how not to suppress my identity today. I literally work on it during therapy. So, this theme means a lot to me because accepting yourself is a very long journey and you really do need a lot of support along the way. Representation is so important, and it's not just something that comes out of watching a TV show with a queer character or something. Representation comes from important people in your life and getting to see queer joy firsthand and realizing that you too can experience it for yourself. And we need more of that. We need more people who can be brave enough to be themselves no matter what, and who can inspire young queer people to do the same. I really liked getting to connect with Ted's character, because I tend to think about Booster a lot more. But also, getting to include the whole cast of JLI and trying to carry on their style of humor got me really exciting and I had so much fun doing that!

@arttuff : This story resonated with me the first time I read it because, like Ted, I didn't have any representation growing up. I grew up in a small, very homophobic town, and so it was very difficult for me to come out to those who I loved. And yet, once I came out, a couple people came to me privately and said I helped them realise their own queer identities. Sometimes, it just takes one person to be loud enough to give you the courage to be yourself in turn! I love drawing the interactions between booster and ted! So being able to draw their awkward attempts at a serious sincerity was very fun for me <3

Here is a WIP they’ve chosen to share!

[cursed-sonic-opinions]

People underuse the fact Shadow is a Robotnik too damn much for my liking.

I want to see direct implications that Shadow and Eggman have an awkward family dinner every now and again.

I wanna see someone make him smile only for him to burst out the trademark Robotnik grin.

I want him to talk about his childhood, the good parts for once, and have people realize that while Maria will forever remain the sweetheart sister in his mind, she was a Robotnik at heart.

I want him to burst out with weird, hyperspecific knowledge of something and have everyone remember, 'Oh yeah, he's a Robotnik.'

I want someone to anxiously ask Shadow if he's eggman's kid or something cause they KNOW they're obviously related, but have no idea how and Shadow is now wondering what their relation is because if he thinks of Gerald as a dad, they're uncle and nephew but Maria is his sister so cousins but really-

I want to see Eggman and Shadow wrestle like kids despite them being a grown man and a teenager, respectively.

He's a Robotnik and I'm tired of having people forget it just because he has depression and also is very much not human.

🦔‧₊˚✩彡

[geeky-politics-46]

Fluffy Sinister Stephen Strange Headcanons

Random thoughts I have about fluffy Sinister Strange. I separated them into SFW and NSFW. These may be elaborated on and expanded on later. If there is a specific headcanon you really want a story about, let me know in the comments or an ask.

SFW:

He wouldn't tell anyone, but he's more of a cat person than a dog person. They are quieter, and he thinks they are smarter. 

He has a specific place for everything, but it is an organized chaos. Stuff is seemingly everywhere, but he can tell you exactly where everything is down to the most obscure item.

He is a terrible cook. Every now and then, he gets the idea that he will surprise you with dinner. It usually ends with lots of crashing sounds and swearing.

When you are cuddling, he likes to be the little spoon more than the big spoon. You often go to sleep with him as the big spoon, only to wake up and have him in front of you as the little spoon. You always hold him a little tighter when you find him as the little spoon.

He hadn't really cared much about grooming before he developed feelings for you. In fact, he had stopped looking in the mirror almost completely. His first real hint that he had it bad for you is that he starts caring how he looks again. 

He's incredibly touchy feely once you are together. He loves to have you in his arms and will often go out of his way to be in the same room as you just so he can touch you in some way.

He genuinely thinks you are the most amazing creature in the multiverse. Sometimes, he catches himself studying you, trying to figure out if you really are a human or if you are some kind of siren or goddess turned flesh. He does not know what he did to earn your presence or if he just got insanely lucky, but he swears he will never take you or your love for granted. Not even for a single second.

The first time you have an argument, he practically has a full mental breakdown. He's sure you hate him now and that his reason for living is gone without your love. He doesn't mean to be such a drama queen, okay maybe he does a little, but everything in his world has been life or death for so long he doesn't remember any other way to be. Once you get him calmed down, he becomes very aware that he overreacted very quickly.

He hates apologizing and you may never actually hear the words “I'm sorry” without explicitly telling him he needs to say them, but he will go out of his way to show you he's sorry. Flowers, other gifts, holding doors for you, doing chores, etc. He will eat crow in his own ways, but he really would prefer not to actually say the words.

At first, after you arrive, he will occasionally get so caught up in his own work and in his own mind that he forgets you are there. So you have made Mr. Big Scary Sorcerer nearly jump out of skin on several occasions just by giving him a cheery “Howdy.” After all, no one else has been there for the longest time.

He didn't realize how much he had started talking to himself until you arrived. He suddenly became self-conscious of it, changing his full volume speaking to mostly murmuring under his breath. He is aware that actually makes him look crazier.

NSFW:

Thanks to being trapped in his universe alone he is incredibly sensitive the first time you have sex and he has to try really hard not to cum almost immediately. He still didn't last very long, and it definitely embarrassed him, but he was ready to go again almost immediately.

He also hadn't really felt much need to masturbate until he found you and you showed up there. After a while all thought of sex had just stopped. Suddenly, he felt like a teenage boy again. Everything you did got him aroused. You were the only thing his fantasies revolved around. He had a lot of wet dreams about you after you arrived and before you got together.

He was also a bit of a peeper once he discovered how attracted he was to you. Trying to catch glimpses of you getting dressed or undressed. Shamelessly staring at your ass if you bent over. He even debated “accidentally” walking in on you in the shower or the bath a few times. If he thought he might have heard you touching yourself, he absolutely urgently needed something from your room at that very second.

Definitely has a copy of the Kama Sutra in the Sanctum library and definitely wants to try every single position in it. In fact he has it marked with colored post it notes based on which ones he wants to try with you first.

He has magically hidden all of your clothes on more than one occasion to try to convince you to either spend all day in bed with him or just walk around naked. He's okay with either one frankly. He always gets a cheeky smile when he's busted but never pretends he isn't pleased with himself, because he is very pleased with himself.

He worries a lot about how he compares to your former lovers. So when you start having sex he tries his absolute hardest to make sure you cum hard every single time. The first time he can't make you cum he nearly has a meltdown. 

Definitely has his kinky side, but more than anything he actually really craves vanilla love making missionary or cowgirl position sex with you. It's an intimacy and a comfort level he has not felt in a very long time, and it nearly brings him to tears.

Is a big fan of mutual masturbation. He just loves watching you. The way your breathing changes, the way your back arches. It's like art to him and almost as erotic as touching you himself. He also likes to study how you touch yourself so he can expertly do the same later.

Thanks to his universe being completely barren and destroyed he will take you whenever and wherever he wants, but he has a soft spot for taking you against the large window bearing the seal of Vishanti. He likes the idea that someone could see you, but they won't because there is no one else there. He's not sure he could actually handle someone else seeing you that way. 

Like the other Stephen's, he has a lingerie kink and loves gifting you all sorts of pieces to wear. Some more demure and innocent, flowing nighties in soft silks and satins. Some barely cover anything at all and are intricately made of delicate lace in rich deep colors. He will pay attention to which pieces you like and wear the most, but some pieces are pulled right from his naughtiest fantasies.

His favorite position is you on top riding him, but he does like to plant his feet and thrust up into when he gets close. He gets the best view in this position, seeing every inch of you, but still gets to help set speed and pace. If he's feeling really soft he'll pull you down to lay flat on his chest as you grind on him and he thrusts in and out of you. He also loves that when you're on top and he hits that spot just right he can literally watch your eyes roll back in your head.

--------------------------------

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Stephen Strange Taglist: @starkiller-queen @glitterylokislut @verycollectivecreator @chatampr @maskmare931 @lovecleastrange @wheredafandomat @mkixx @evelynrosestuff @katefullerrr @littlepinknightmare @foofarny @stygianoir @moonroyalt @saturnsbabe69 @blaxdet @blackrose-92 @ironstrange1991 @rindulacre @nancy-thompsons @wolfatheartandsoul @dangerouslittlefairy @n0obmaster-69 @oliveoilthoughts @onebatch--twobatch @yourmajesty13 @blondekel77 @lil-sweater-slut @gwephen @taramaria @sinceimetyou @slashersrus @coeurgrenaty @cc13723things @just--a-magpie @supervengerslock @strangelockd-library @dont-feel-so-good-peter @kingsmanperfecthartwin @ghost-lantern @inlovewithloki16 @thefalconandthewinterwidowshield @itssmaugtheterrible @katherinemaximoff @veryfancydoilies @cute-angi @mochacake2016 @prix19 @alexfanficnook @anotheroddfish @namor-is-the-way @xourownsidee @baes-x @dreamingsmile @negar77rd @imaginesfreetotake @ppatricia34me @rougepetale @tis-vereon @divinearchangel @sherlux @hiddlechive @ginnykate @thatesqcrush @friendofplenti @yuugenmomo @holdmyowos @the-royal-petals @lokislov3 @captaincarmel164 @lucimorningst4r @mydearalmira @petalcranberry @singhfae @emotionsareforuglypeople @trappedinlimbo15 @veryladyqueen @icytrickster17 @kentucky-criedfricken @briefhandsstudenttoad @calamityismyspecialtty @sinisterstrange616 @patbrdac @trojanaurora @azu21 @massivehahaao3tree @strangesgirl @tobios-shawty @asgards-princess-of-mischief @rmoonstoner @aphroditesdilemma @aoi-targaryen

[gilmorenights]

I love the idea of Hugo’s adoration for Varian being obvious even before he realizes what he’s feeling because he doesn’t know how to hide it.

Like, he’s usually a master at hiding what he’s thinking/feeling. But that’s because he’s dealt with those things before and knows how to mask anything that would give him away. He knows what he’s like when he’s angry, he knows what he’s like when he’s hurt or upset, but he knows how to hide it well because he’s felt that way so many times in the past. It’s like a routine: recognize emotion, recognize what would give that emotion away, hide it. And it’s a good routine, one that’s worked and helped him survive for years.

Having a crush on Varian totally broke that routine. He’s never had a crush before, at least not a real one. Sure he’s been attracted to people and craved attention/ admiration, but never has he felt real, genuine affection towards anyone. Especially not romantic affection.

So once he starts feeling these things, Hugo doesn’t know how to hide it. He doesn’t know what he’s like when he’s in love, what his body language is like, any little ticks that might give him away. Every time he’s around Varian, he shuts down because he doesn’t know how to hide his feelings.

I think this is what got Varian to ultimately realize his own crush on Hugo, because Hugo has no choice but to be completely unmasked when it comes to Varian no matter how much it terrifies him. That’s not to say he completely loses his ability to lie and mask his other emotions, but it’s ten times harder to hide behind a facade when he’s around Varian, and Varian notices. He notices this different version of Hugo and chalks it up to him becoming a better person because of the power of friendship or whatever. He feels like he truly sees Hugo now. And he likes that he truly sees Hugo.

Or at least, he thinks he truly sees Hugo. Because, you know. No one saw the betrayal coming.

[dark-lord-of-awesomeness]

Had a few what-if thoughts about cat Stan. Bear with me as I list them all

So, in Bill Wins, Ford uses a spell to look at Stan's shattered, mixed-up soul. If that same spell was used on Nikola pre-reveal, would it look like any normal cat soul? Or would there be glimpses of the human soul underneath? Or if it was used on Stanley post-reveal, would the curse be, kinda. Woven into his soul?

Next thought was, what if(in an unlikely scenario) Stan decided to try and come clean about being Stan to Carla? Or Fidds? Or Emma-May?

Final thought: double cursed but they accidentally get carpet swapped. Just. Ford stumbling around in this teeny cat body and Stan suddenly being this big honkin wolf. Would probably be funnier post-reveal because I can almost picture cat-Ford chasing Stan around like "give me my body back! STANLEY!" but Stan's just giddy to finally be taller and doesn't wanna give that up

If Ford cast the soul spell on Stan it'd look like a red cat soul, if somewhat funky looking (being a fish) and with a golden undertone that hints at his human one underneath. Post reveal it'd be the opposite, being a large golden human soul with a few red spots where the curse is clinging to. Not so much woven as hanging on, and if Ford figured out how to look at a dissected version of Stan's soul there'd be red roots shooting through it.

If Stan tried to come clean to Fiddleford it'd go similar to some of my other asks, in that Fiddleford wouldn't jump to 'this cats a person!' but 'oh god Stanfords invited some horror critter into his house and its pretending to be a cat.' He'd more supersticous then Ford, and i think he'd also miss the cat=human jump from Stan's strange behavior, since he's now sitting in the middle of weird territory and has seen some strange things in the woods.

Emma-May would be similar, but with the added terror of 'i need to figure out whats going on with the thing.' less of a fear response, and more of an interest as she continued to find nothing but a genetically normal cat with an abnormal highly intelligent behavior. so now Stan's dodging unwanted tests from the newest mad scientist in town and trying to use Ford as a shield. Since Emma-May is rooted heavily in science and doesnt dabble in magic, she'd also miss the cat=human jump here.

Carla would be Stan's best bet, as she'd be more open minded then the rest of the household (she knows nothing about magic and such other than it exists, and so has no preconceived expectations about whats possible). She'd also make the connection of cat=human=Stan fairly quickly once she got cat=human, as she knows Stan and Nikola being Stan makes sense once the ideas there. The moment she realized Nikola was smart enough to understand her, she'd do a lot of yes/no questions to figure out what he wanted to communicate.

You're absolutly correct in that double curse body swap post reveal is peek. pre reveal there just an awkward shuffle to switch back, but once Stan knows its Fords body he is going to take advantage. He's tired of being small! He wants to dash around! Maybe pick up Ford in his mouth! See how he likes it!

[lilianade-comics]

I am LOVING your AU! I was just wondering... Do you plan on having Valerie show up more often in your season 3 rewrite? Because I just rewatched season 3 (while shredding SO much paper, so I wasn't exactly listening to it very much lol) and I realized that Valerie hardly shows up in season 3 at all! And it's another reason for why season 3 is so deeply frustrating! We hardly got to see Vlad and Valerie interact, even though Vlad is Valerie's patron and the entire reason she can ghost hunt in the first place! D-Stablized offers some interesting ideas, but there are too many of them tackled at once and none of them are given the proper time they need to breathe! Nor do they get as much set-up as these ideas deserved! Valerie being a sort of personal bounty hunter for Vlad? Interesting! Valerie meeting Dani and coming to want to protect her? Fantastic! Valerie having the motivation of wanting to protect humans from being harmed by ghosts, even if that means destroying said ghosts, and not just wanting personal, petty revenge? Could be an interesting direction for her character to grow in! Valerie learning Vlad's secret, but not Danny's? FANTASTIC idea, ESPECIALLY if we get to see Vlad and Valerie's relationship develop and grow! Season 3 just doesn't know how to execute it in a genuinely good way... Valerie was done dirty! Almost as dirty as Dani! Obviously not quite as dirty as Dani, but still! Would love to see both of them get the spotlight they deserved >.<

No worries if you don't end up having Valerie very much in your season 3 fix-it though! These ladies just deserve SO much better than what they got! I'm glad that someone's giving Dani the justice she deserves!!!

The answer is yes but also no on the topic of Valerie inclusion! I would LOVE to be able to say I've fleshed out a substantial role for her to play in this rewrite, but in truth it's been like trying to fit a Valerie shaped peg into the cheese melt shaped hole in my brain. However! That's not to say I haven't thought about her at all.

This rewrite has a few entirely original episodes to it, one of which is a Dani + Valerie team up episode. (Vlad brings the girls together to form a team for some sort of underhanded purpose.) Valerie reluctantly agrees to work with "Ellie Phantom" but she obviously can't stand the idea. Dani is her usual chipper self and is trying very hard to get Valerie to like her. They're like a good cop/bad cop dynamic that gets complicated when Danny inevitably gets involved.

Valerie and Dani both will appear in this AU's version of Girl's Night Out, because it's utterly ridiculous that Valerie wasn't in the canon version. Both girls' fathers have been snapped away by Kitty, Spectra, and Ember, (and I might throw Desiree and Dorathea in too so everyone has someone to fight) so they're both eager to help bring all the boys back.

That's all I can confirm about Valerie at this point. I've kicked around some other muddled thoughts about her in this AU, mostly about how to handle the only canon plot beats season 3 gave her, but I've been more preoccupied with Dani, Danny, and Vlad. She'll probably end up with more to do! I just can't say what yet.

[honeydippedfiction]

happy bday 🥳

for Joe burrow from hurt/comfort 3,28, and 18?

like maybe reader and bf get in massive fight and finally end a toxic relationship, reader runs to Joe he’s happy it’s over, and he stays with her to comfort her.

Idk just and idea

#honeydipped1k

1k & Birthday Bash nav | main navigation | reqs | table of contents

#3. "I didn't know where else to go, I'm sorry for bothering you.", #18. "Can you wait until I fall asleep before leaving?" "I'm not leaving you alone when you're like this." & #28. Not hiding how relieved/happy/satisfied they are when you tell them you broke up with your ex for good.

Joe Burrow x black!femreader

• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

Y/N had always been the kind of person who tried to see the best in people. She believed in second chances, in working through problems, and in the idea that love could fix most things. But lately, she’d been questioning just how far those beliefs could stretch, especially when it came to her relationship with Terrence.

At first, things had been simple. Terrence had charmed her with his easy smile, his sweet words, and the way he made her laugh when she needed it most. He wasn’t perfect, but then again, neither was she. They’d connected over their shared sense of humor and love for adventure. Early on, she had felt like they balanced each other out—his spontaneity complementing her calm, his boldness playing off her cautious nature. For a while, it had been enough.

But now, as months had passed, things had begun to shift. At first, it was little things. Snide comments when she made decisions he didn’t agree with. The subtle, passive-aggressive jabs that stung more than he realized. Then, it became worse. The arguments had started, small at first, easy to ignore or smooth over with a forced apology and promises to do better.

But slowly, the cracks deepened.

Y/N found herself walking on eggshells more often than not. Terrence’s temper had flared during their dinners, when he was frustrated with work, or when she’d suggested they spend time with friends instead of staying in. The insults were sharper now. The silence after every disagreement was heavier. He would shut her out for days, only to return with some half-hearted explanation, like nothing had happened.

And every time, Y/N tried to forgive. She reminded herself of the good times, the laughs they’d shared, the way he had once made her feel safe. She reminded herself of how much she had invested into this relationship, how much she wanted it to work. But the truth was becoming clearer with every passing day—this wasn’t love. Not the kind of love she deserved.

Her friends had noticed it too. They’d tried to tell her, gently at first. "Y/N, you’re different when you’re with him," they’d say, concern lacing their voices. "You’re not yourself." But she had brushed them off. She didn’t want to believe it. Didn’t want to admit that the man she had thought she would build a future with was someone who was slowly tearing her down.

It wasn’t until tonight that she couldn’t pretend anymore.

It had started, as most of their fights did, with something small—something insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Y/N had suggested they go out with some friends to celebrate the weekend. Terrence had shot the idea down before she could even finish her sentence.

“You know how I feel about going out,” he had snapped, eyes narrowing. “I don’t feel like wasting my time with your friends. It’s just gonna be some boring night.”

She’d tried to reason with him. "It’s not about the night, Terrence. It’s about spending time with people who care about us. We haven’t done anything together in weeks."

He had scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Always with the guilt trips. Why can’t you just take a hint and let me relax?"

The words cut into her, but she held her ground. "It’s not about you relaxing, it’s about us connecting. We’ve been growing apart, Terrence. Don’t you see that? I’m not asking for much, just a little effort."

His face twisted in annoyance, the muscles in his jaw tightening. “Effort? Is that what you think this is about? Effort? You’re always complaining about something, Y/N. Maybe it’s you who needs to change, not me.”

She could feel her patience slipping, her heart pounding in her chest. The exhaustion of months of unspoken frustration and hurt bubbled to the surface, and before she could stop herself, the words came tumbling out.

“You think I need to change? Maybe you should stop being so selfish for once and actually listen to me.” Her voice was shaking, the tears already threatening to break free.

His eyes darkened, and he stepped toward her, pointing a finger in her face. "Selfish? You're calling me selfish? You’re the one who’s always complaining, always nagging me about something. Maybe if you weren’t so damn needy all the time, we wouldn’t have these problems!"

Y/N’s chest tightened as his words echoed in her mind. It was always the same—every fight ended with him deflecting blame, with him making her feel like the problem. The anger flared inside her, but beneath it, something else was growing: a quiet sense of realization. This wasn’t just an argument. This was the end.

“Don’t talk to me like that,” she snapped, her voice trembling with a mixture of hurt and fury. "I’m not your punching bag, Terrence. You can’t keep treating me like this and expect me to stick around."

He smirked, crossing his arms. “Oh, so now you’re leaving me? You’ve been threatening that for weeks, Y/N. You’re just too weak to actually do it.”

Her heart dropped at his words, but the finality in them broke something inside her. Maybe it was his blatant disregard for her feelings. Maybe it was the fact that, deep down, she knew she’d been too afraid to let go for far too long. But she wasn’t weak. She wasn’t going to be dragged down by someone who couldn’t see her worth.

“No,” she said, her voice steady now. "I’m not weak. But I’m done, Terrence. I’m done. This… this isn’t love. And I’m done trying to fix something that isn’t worth fixing anymore.”

The words hung in the air between them, charged and full of finality. Terrence’s expression shifted, confusion and anger flaring together. “You’re really going to do this? You think you’ll be better off without me?”

Y/N shook her head, taking a deep breath to steady herself. “Yes. I will be.”

The silence stretched between them, a tension so thick it felt suffocating. And then, as if he couldn’t stand the weight of it anymore, he let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. "Fine. Leave then. You think you’ll be happy? Go ahead."

But Y/N didn’t move. She didn’t run after him or beg him to reconsider. She didn’t try to hold onto something that had been slipping through her fingers for far too long. Instead, she turned and walked away.

Out the door. Out of the life that had drained her for so long.

As she closed the door behind her, she didn’t feel the weight of loss. No, instead, she felt the lightness of freedom.

She had done it. She had broken free.

And for the first time in a long while, she didn’t feel alone.

Y/N didn’t know where to go, or what she was going to do next, but she did know one thing: she was done with Terrence. For good.

And as she walked out into the night, her phone buzzing with unanswered calls from him, she made a decision. She couldn’t stay in this mess any longer.

Without even thinking, she dialed the number she knew she could always count on. Joe’s.

“I need you,” she whispered when he answered, her voice thick with emotion. “Please… I don’t know where else to go.”

The relief that flooded her body in that moment Joe said for her to come over was overwhelming. She didn’t have to be strong anymore. Joe had always been her safe place, the one person who had never let her down. The thought of seeing him, of being in his presence, soothed her racing heart.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭*ੈ✩‧₊˚⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭

Joe's mansion loomed ahead as she approached, its warm lights casting long shadows across the driveway. The sprawling estate, tucked away on the outskirts of town, was a world away from the chaos of her life. The imposing structure was softened by the warmth of its lights, and for a moment, she let herself be swallowed by its calm.

As Y/N approached the front door, she could hear the sound of weights clinking, the familiar rhythm of Joe’s late-night workout. She smiled despite herself, a bittersweet feeling settling in her chest. Joe had always been like that—steadfast, reliable, someone who found solace in the familiar routines of his life. She had always admired that about him. But right now, she just needed the comfort of his presence, the steadying force he exuded.

Without knocking, she pushed the door open, the sound of it creaking on its hinges echoing in the vast entryway. Her heart pounded in her chest as she stepped inside, her sneakers soft against the polished hardwood floors.

Joe was in the kitchen, wiping his face with a towel after his workout. He was dressed in a simple gray tank top and shorts, his muscles still glistening from exertion, but the moment he turned and saw her standing there, his face shifted from casual to concerned in an instant. His gaze dropped to the frantic trembling in her hands, the tears brimming in her eyes, and the exhaustion in her posture.

“Y/N?” His voice was a whisper, as if he wasn’t sure whether he was seeing things clearly. “What happened? You’re—what’s going on?”

Before he could finish his sentence, Y/N crossed the room in two long strides, her arms instinctively wrapping around his torso as her body shook with the force of her emotions. She buried her face in his chest, feeling the solid strength of him against her like an anchor in the storm.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” she whispered, her voice ragged and broken. “I’m sorry for bothering you.”

Joe’s heart twisted at the sound of her voice, cracking with sorrow. Without hesitation, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her in closer, his hands smoothing over her back in slow, calming motions. “You’re never bothering me, Y/N. Never. You don’t have to apologize. You never have been, and you never will be. You’re safe here. Always.”

She closed her eyes, leaning into him, letting his solid presence calm the frantic storm inside her. She didn’t have to explain herself. She didn’t have to say anything. She could just be—here, with him. And that was enough.

For a moment, neither of them spoke, and the world outside seemed to disappear. It was just Joe and Y/N, standing in the quiet of his mansion, holding onto each other like they had done a thousand times before. But this time, it was different. This time, Y/N wasn’t just seeking comfort. She was seeking escape, seeking freedom from a relationship that had drained her for far too long.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Y/N pulled back slightly, her eyes red from the tears she had held in for so long. She wiped her face quickly, trying to regain some semblance of control, but there was no hiding the pain in her eyes. She met his gaze, and for the first time in months, she said the words that she knew she had been too afraid to say before.

“I broke up with him,” she said softly, her voice almost a whisper. “For good. This time, it’s over.”

The words hung in the air between them for a beat before Joe froze, his hands still resting on her shoulders. His mind raced to process what she had just said, and for a moment, his heart skipped a beat. It wasn’t just relief that washed over him. It was a rush of emotion he hadn’t expected.

He didn’t even try to hide it—the relief, the happiness, the almost overwhelming satisfaction that she had finally done it. Finally broken free. Joe’s shoulders sagged with the weight of his own relief, and a small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his lips. It wasn’t just a smile—it was a sense of quiet joy, as if a burden had been lifted not just from her, but from him too.

“You did?” he asked, his voice thick with emotion, almost as if he was confirming that he had heard her correctly. “Y/N, I—I’m so glad you did.”

His eyes softened, and there was a genuine warmth there, one that reached far beyond simple friendship. It was relief. It was happiness. It was a long-awaited moment where he knew, deep down, that she had finally chosen herself.

Y/N nodded, the weight in her chest finally starting to lift. “I had to, Joe. I couldn’t keep doing it. The fighting, the manipulation, the lies... it was suffocating. Every time I thought it would get better, it just went right back to being the same. I couldn’t breathe anymore.”

Joe's hand gently cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. He tilted her face up, forcing her to meet his gaze. “You deserve so much more than that. So much more than him.”

Joe’s gaze never left her face, and the intensity in his eyes was almost overwhelming. He reached out and cupped her cheek, his touch gentle but firm. “You deserve so much more than that, Y/N,” he said, his voice a quiet promise. “So much more than him. You’ve always deserved more.”

His words hit her like a wave, washing over her with the force of something she had never quite realized she needed to hear. She had always known Joe cared for her—but the way he said those words, the sincerity behind them, made something inside her shift. She wasn’t just hearing him as a friend. She was hearing him as someone who truly cared for her happiness.

“I just feel stupid for staying so long,” she admitted quietly, her voice cracking. “I knew it wasn’t right, but I kept thinking he’d change. That maybe it would get better.”

Joe’s thumb brushed over her cheek, wiping away a stray tear, his eyes soft with understanding. His voice was unwavering when he spoke again. “You’re not stupid, Y/N. You’re human. And sometimes, we all stay longer than we should, hoping things will change. You wanted to believe in him, in the good you saw in him. But you did the right thing. You chose yourself.”

Y/N looked up at him, something raw and real flickering behind her eyes. She realized, with an almost painful clarity, how much she needed to hear that. How much she had needed him—needed his steadiness, his unwavering belief in her—for far longer than she had been willing to admit.

A shiver ran through her as she exhaled deeply, the release of tension a physical sensation. The weight of her decision, and the years of pressure she had been carrying, finally began to lift. She leaned into Joe’s chest again, feeling his warmth radiate into her. She didn’t want to be strong anymore. Not tonight. Not when he was here.

“Thank you,” she whispered, the words barely audible as she leaned into his touch.

Joe pulled her closer, his lips brushing the top of her head. “I’m just glad you’re okay,” he whispered back. “And that you’re here.”

She nodded, tears still lingering, but something had shifted. She wasn’t alone anymore.

“Can you... can you stay until I fall asleep?” Her voice was barely above a whisper, vulnerable, fragile.

Joe’s heart twisted at the vulnerability in her voice, at the quiet plea for him to stay. He didn’t even hesitate. His response came easily, instinctively.

“I’m not leaving you alone when you’re like this,” he said, his voice warm but firm. “I’ll stay as long as you need me.”

Y/N didn’t hesitate. She let herself be led to the couch, feeling the warmth of Joe’s presence beside her as he made sure she was comfortable. He adjusted the blankets around them both, his touch light but comforting.

Minutes passed in peaceful silence, and soon, Y/N’s breathing slowed as she drifted into a restful sleep, her body relaxing against Joe’s. He stayed awake a little longer, watching over her, his heart swelling with a protective tenderness.

As he kissed the top of her head, his voice soft in the quiet of the room, he whispered, “I’m so glad you’re free, Y/N. You deserve everything good that’s coming your way.”

In that moment, Joe realized that maybe this wasn’t just about her escaping a toxic relationship. Maybe it was the beginning of something new—something better. And for the first time in a long while, he felt the stirrings of hope, knowing that they were both exactly where they were supposed to be.