#that he has to be there and do more instead of avoiding
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tsuutarr · 3 days ago
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Yandere! Otome Isekai Gardner x Reader
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Benjamin has always been labeled as scary, terrifying, a monster. His large frame and snake-like eyes hide the soft heart he harbors inside his chest. 
He’s quickly learned to duck his head and quietly avoid people, lest they get angry and pick a fight with him. The scars on Benjamin’s body are constant reminders of the time a traveling noble commanded their knights to attack him purely because Benjamin had made accidental eye contact. 
Thus, it’s quite easy to say that Benjamin likes to avoid nobles at any cost.
One day, however, he ends up running straight into a noble – you. A complete accident, really – he had been too distracted by the pretty flowers in his arms and neglected to pay attention.
As soon as he sees the beautiful embroidery on your outfit, he immediately knows that you’re a noble. He can also deduce that you’ll most likely order your knights to rough him up. The thought makes him frown. He doesn’t like getting hurt, but he’s much sadder about his precious flowers being injured. 
Benjamin closes his eyes, bracing for your punishment, but is surprised to hear you ask him if he’s okay instead.
He blinks once, twice, thrice, completely stunned.
When he opens his eyes again, he sees your apologetic face. For some reason, it makes his heart thud in his chest. You just look so… so sweet, so kind.
“I’m fine,” he manages to grunt out, clutching his flowers to his chest. He can feel his heartbeat accelerate.
“I’m glad,” you respond, looking a little relieved, before you motion to the flowers in his arms. “These are very lovely, by the way.”
“Thank ya.” He can feel his cheeks heat up. “Grew them myself.”
An impressed expression brightens up your face. “That’s amazing!” you beam, clasping your hands. “You’ve got quite a green thumb, don’t you? In fact…”
And like that, Benjamin finds himself taking care of the Arrington Estate’s lovely garden. It makes his heart flutter – he can’t believe that he has the privilege to work in such a beautiful place with such wonderful tools. He couldn’t have ever dreamed of it – he’s a mere commoner after all. And yet…
You’re quite special, he thinks.
So, he’s ecstatic that he gets to see you every day. You walk through the flora he lovingly cares for, chatting with him from time to time. He’s always loved flowers, but your appreciation for his work amplifies his love. Your smiles, your laughter, your kindness – it makes the flowers bloom so much more beautifully. 
He wants to make sure you’ll always be able to smile, surrounded by your favorite flowers.
So, perhaps it’s no surprise that Benjamin is digging a man-sized hole near one of the trees. His gloved hands easily heft a man’s body into the hole, before he begins to fill the hole with dirt. Then, he finishes the job by planting some pretty chrysanthemum bushes over the body.
Benjamin has never been one for violence, but he doesn’t feel a single piece of guilt as he looks over his handiwork. It’s probably because he wasn’t the one who killed the man since his job is to bury the body.
Or, perhaps, it’s due to Geoffrey, the Arrington Estate’s Head Butler, informing him that the murdered man was someone who tried to hurt you – you. It makes Benjamin feel an anger he hasn’t felt in a long time.
But you’re safe and that’s what matters to him. Regardless of the reason, as long as he can make sure your lovely visage is surrounded by his flowers, he’ll do anything.
Anything at all.
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endursent · 2 days ago
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WHAT IF astral express sunday would be too nervous to hold readers hand or hugging them bc his brain goes 💥 until he gets used to it and softens up to reader waa 🎉🎉
HES SO SILLY i want him to explode
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【 content; sunday x reader , astral express sunday , fluff , character exploration, mild suggestiveness in one section , gn!reader 】
【 note; see sunday mention. NEURON ACTIVATED. i have neglected sunday writing for too long, it's time to sunday post more. 】
【 word count; 1.818 | read on ao3 | masterlist 】
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Even after properly defining your relationship as “definitely happening”, Sunday still struggles to adjust to it—not because he doesn’t know what to do specifically, but because he fails to follow through with a lot of it. 
  As soon as he meets your eyes and feels the warmth of your skin at the same time, his brain halts in place like a deer caught in headlights—something about the affection and love in your gaze causes him to freeze, to hesitate and draw back. 
  He wants to enjoy that warmth, he wants to touch your cheek and gaze into your eyes for hours on end, examining every detail of your iris until he has it mapped better than the back of his own hand… but his heart tightens and his arms tingle when he tries. 
  He’s afraid, scared to overstep thresholds whose doors have long since opened wide for his presence. Afraid to take a wrong turn in the endless hallways of his thoughts and what-ifs.
  You don’t push him, you give him time to consider his movement and actions and proceed in the ways he feels comfortable—but you don’t let him pull back too far either. You grasp his hand as it pulls too close to his chest and he swallows when you bring it to yours, you press his palm against your chest and allow him to feel your heartbeat—quickened, excited, yet nervous as well. Sometimes, you’re also nervous. It’s okay to hesitate. 
  Mere moments like brushing his fingers against yours on accident are enough for his head-wings to shoot up into the air. You had simply been reaching for a pistachio in a bowl on a table where you sat with Sunday next to you, and he had coincidentally reached out as well. “A-ah, my apologies,” he pulls his hand back, wings lowering again as one moves halfway up his cheek in a meagre attempt to disguise the dusty red of his cheeks. 
  A small smile tugs on your lips and you take an additional nut to give to him. “It’s okay, here.” He holds his palm open for you to place the pistachio in, but instead of doing so, you peel the shell away with a click and hold it towards his lips. “Open up.”
  Five or so muscles in his face twitch as he leans back, surprised by your sudden approach and the very intimate gesture of trying to feed him—his eyes flicker to the left where Himeko is positively destroying March 7th in a card game, they’re not paying any attention to the two of you at all. 
  Sunday’s lips press together and for a moment you wonder if you might have pushed him a little too far, the red hue of his cheeks deepening as he avoids your eyes… and opens his mouth, just a little—barely enough to fit the small pistachio there.
  Your fingers touch his lips as you manage to set the pistachio on the tip of his tongue hiding only a little behind the bottom row of his teeth, and Sunday thinks he might explode. The way his upper lip lifted a little and a small drop of drool slid under his tongue—thankfully out of sight but definitely not out of mind—when your finger pushed under it to set the nut in his mouth…
  He swallows the pistachio quickly and nervously without chewing it and it almost stops in his throat before he could even realise what he was doing. Sunday might have just perished from embarrassment before the lack of oxygen would kill him were the pistachio to stop in his throat.
  Sunday hasn’t stepped off the Express in a while, he does so rather often, all things considered—usually choosing to at least peek out at the worlds you explore. After all, how can he find himself if he doesn’t look? 
  But he has never experienced a planet like this… you could convince him this is some intergalactically funded horror exhibition if you tried. Long stretches of trees and branches reach into the skies, casting dark shadows on the dull grass that covers the ground as far as one can see. The skies are dark when you hop off the train and practically drag Sunday along.
  He walks close to you, unsure if to reassure himself of your presence among the shadows, or to be ready to give his assistance were you to catch your foot on a root and crash on the ground—you’re walking so fast he can't help but think it’s just a matter of time.
  You feel something touch your thumb and look down, only to see Sunday’s gloved hand retreat. He’s looking ahead and pretending there is nothing strange happening. “Are you scared?” you wonder, tilting your head to get a better look at his face.
  A small frown tugs at his lips, so faint you could barely see it. “Of course not, but I am concerned about us getting lost—do you know where we’re going?” 
  “Kind of,” you sway your hand a little, seeing if you can fish at where he has retracted his to. “Pom-Pom mentioned there a huge city not far from where we dropped down, this world has some real good puddings if I read right.”
  Sunday merely hums in response, following you along. You did finally find the city—high buildings made of darkened wood, but with bright lanterns and strings of lights hanging between buildings to illuminate the streets in a comfortable orange. All the ambiance needs is rain (and for you two be inside a nice café) and it’s perfect.
  The streets, however, are a labyrinth. 
  You get lost only seven minutes after reaching the city, and no matter how you squinted at your phone, you couldn’t wrap your head around the map—and it doesn’t help that despite the darkness, it’s midday, and thus the streets and crowded near shoulder-to-shoulder. This place must be popular despite the gloomy atmosphere. 
  Having almost lost sight of you wandering around trying to get your bearings in the crowd, Sunday gathers his courage and stomps down his thoughts—and takes your hand. 
  You stop where you’re going and turn to look at him. “Hm? Is something wrong?”
  He still avoids your eyes, but his grip is firm. “You’re… still going in the wrong direction.”
  “I am?” you look back down to your phone and tilt it sideways. “Ah! Like this, I get it now… I think.”
  Sunday sighs, stepping closer to you as a person shoulder past your positions—and suddenly the two of you are standing far closer than planned, nearly pressed against the wall of a building that leads to the corner of the street. He can’t stop thinking about your hand against his gloved one, and he also can’t help but notice that your fingers feel cold.
  As you try to figure out the best path towards the mythical pudding, holding your phone out for Sunday to see as well, his fingers and palm engulf yours and try to move some of his heat to you. His thumb rubs over your palm as you speak and the lack of proper reaction from you, yet still laying your hand out to him, helps him find the gesture more natural and comfortable… something he wouldn’t mind indulging in more often. 
  Sunday is a very passive person when it comes to affections, he’s rarely the one to reach out first and needs a bit of a push to even come up with romantic gestures. He considers the time you spend together and the understanding between you to be much more precious and indicative of his affections.
  However, he gets an idea one time from something he saw when scrolling his phone… to leave notes around. Sunday wasn’t sure of it at first—and a little embarrassed that someone else might find them before you do—but gradually began to find it as an easy way to show his attention. 
  Sometimes, the notes have a small message on them (mostly reminding you to sleep more) but other times, there’s no message at all. He came to use it as a ‘I thought of you’ message, where he leaves a blank, small post-it on something. 
  One time you forgot to buy new toothpaste on the Express’ most recent stop and dreaded having to borrow from someone again—until you opened the drawer to fetch your toothbrush and saw a full tube with a small blue post-it on it… now you need to go over to his room and rub his cheeks and thank him for remembering your complaints about always forgetting to buy a new one. 
  Sunday is a surprisingly good caretaker, you caught some sort of cold or flu on a recent trip off the express and have been miserable in bed for days. Up and down, hot and cold, snot-filled and gross on all ends. But he sits down by your bedside and takes your temperature, lays the back of his hand against your heated skin and does all he can to help. 
  One aspect he struggled with was when you got whiny one evening and reached out for a hug…
  While you might mistake his hesitation for disgust, as you are snot-nosed, puffy eyed and half crying from misery—it’s far from what was on his mind. But Sunday feels his chest tighten at the sight of you so miserable, temporary as it is, and he doesn’t have the heart to refuse your embrace. 
  He leans down and lets you wrap your arms around his shoulders, your clammy forehead rubbing into his shirt as he stiffly pats your head and tries to soothe you. “It’s alright… your fever is going down, you’ll be okay soon, just remember to drink the water on the nightstand, okay?” he mumbles by your ear, and the more you nod and thank him for taking care of you, the more his muscles ease and he shifts a bit to lay down with you, allowing you to burrow into the crook of his neck and find comfort in his presence. 
  Sunday rests his chin over your head and rubs your back. “Would you like me to sing for you?”
  You nod into his shoulder and he closes his mouth to hum familiar tunes, the beginning of a familiar song as the vibrations in his chest rumble against you. His voice is soothing, and his singing is surprisingly soft and gentle. 
  As you drift to well-needed sleep, Sunday stays with you until he’s certain you’ve fallen asleep… and then for a while more, just long enough that he can’t imagine tearing himself away from you—or risking waking you up by rising from the bed. Perhaps it’s alright if he stays the night here, after all, he needs to make sure you hydrate through the night.
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thezombieprostitute · 1 day ago
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Can't Stand It
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A/N: Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial.
Warnings: Bad boss. Please let me know if I missed any!
Summary: Working at a fancy restaurant with a demanding boss, you're starting to reach your limits. So is your favorite customer.
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You're grinding your teeth in frustration and your shift hasn't even started yet. It's not that you don't like the work you do, it's just the people you have to work with, specifically your boss. If you could be a waitress for a boss that didn't insist on waving his dick around, sometimes literally, you'd be happy to do the job.
Instead, Mr. Hansen has you working the worst shifts for collecting tips and making sure your schedule is unpredictable. You know it's because you turned down his advances. Go figure, he can't handle being turned down.
Some of your favorite customers have asked after you, including Mr. Levinson, or Ari, as he insists you call him. You heard through some of your coworkers that Mr. Hansen got some harsh words from Ari because you weren't working your usual shifts. You smile at the thought of someone putting that asshole in his place.
You're doing your prep working and just trying to avoid Hansen so you don't have to fake your smile so much to your customers. Most of them don't care about fake smiles, but the big tippers always seem to appreciate the genuine ones.
Talia interrupts your work telling you, "Mr. Levinson just arrived. I made sure to seat him in your section."
"Thank you, so much!" You're definitely smiling for real now.
She gives a playful scoff. "I did it as much for me as for you. If Levinson found out you were working and I didn't seat him in your section I don't doubt I'd get an earful."
"Still, thank you so much."
Heading out the dining area, you make right for Ari. You'd never admit it, but between his ocean blue eyes, long hair, and strong physique, he's definitely shown up in several of your dreams. Your face heats up as you recall some of them. You have to stop for a moment and shake your head to clear up your thoughts.
Ari smiles wide when he sees you. "It's about time I got to see you again!"
"Yeah, my schedule's been crazy," you tell him as you hand him a menu. You omit the reason for the crazy schedule as it wouldn't do to set Hansen off again.
"So I gathered," his voice softens as he takes the menu from you.
The two of you chat a little before you get his drink order and head to the kitchen to grab it.
"There you are!" Hansen yells as soon as you're in the kitchen. "Where the hell have you been? Your prep work is sloppy and, worse yet unfinished. You wanna tell me what you've been doing?"
"My job," you snipe back. "I have a customer and I need to get their drink."
"We don't get customers at this time," he shoots back. "I made sure to schedule you for now specifically because of that."
"Well you can go out and look for yourself, Mr. Hansen. Now if you'll excuse me, I gotta get the man his drink."
Bringing Ari's drink to him, you try to plant your smile back as it was before your encounter. Unfortunately for you he's very observant.
"What happened?" His tone is kind and your smile turns a little more genuine.
"Just a little spat is all," you shrug. "It happens, you know?"
His expression turns stern. "Is someone giving you trouble?"
"Well, yes, but that's what bosses do, right?" You try to make sure there's a joking tone in your voice but his expression indicates he isn't buying it.
"Do you like your job? Do you enjoy working here?"
"Honestly," your voice quavers. "I can't stand it. My coworkers are okay but my boss is killing me. He keeps jumping my shifts around and is metaphorically on my ass all the time because I refused to let him literally be on me."
Ari's fist tightens in frustration. "Come work for me." You'd say it's an offer but his anger makes it sound more like an order. When you hesitate he continues, "I need someone reliable and friendly as my secretary. My current one keeps putting off clients with his cold, sarcastic demeanor. I can promise you it'll pay better than this job. And your schedule will be a lot more stable."
You hear a loud crash in the kitchen, followed by Hansen shouting at everyone and everyone.
"I'm in," you tell him, holding out your hand.
Ari takes your hand in his, giving it a firm shake. "Happy to have you aboard. Can I watch as you tell Hansen you're quitting?"
You laugh, "sure!"
As he follows you into the kitchen, you don't notice Ari's eyes on you. He was just hoping to ask you for a date, but he's not one to turn down an opportunity to get to spend more time with you. He's hopeful you'll feel the same about him.
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Tagging: @alicedopey; @delicatebarness; @icefrozendeadlyqueen; @irishhappiness; @lokislady82; @ronearoundblindly; @thiquefunlover63
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halogenwarrior · 3 hours ago
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I can contribute by showing this post here https://www.tumblr.com/halogenwarrior/756391562104160256/i-posted-this-as-a-reply-to-someone-elses-post?source=share where I counter the claim that Cassie is too favored by the narrative because she is always right even if her idea is stupid. TLDR the narrative can't show she is wrong by having the others listen to her and her fail because they are always on the knife's edge of success such that while Cassie succeeding would have a big positive effect, her idea failing would mean everyone dies/gets infested and that would end the story so they can't do that. Instead the narrative shows Cassie isn't always right and sometimes the more ruthless option is correct by having the others not listen to Cassie and have things work out/it be clear if they hadn't done that they would have been doomed. One example of that is actually the part with the Yeerk pool in #52 that you mentioned, where Cassie doesn't want to do something on moral grounds, they do it anyway, and it's clear they would have just lost the war there if they didn't.
Regarding her not respecting the others' sacrifices, I feel she deeply does internally but her moments of disparaging the others or leaving temporarily sometimes makes (mostly Rachel) think otherwise, and she didn't quite fully understand Rachel or her motivations in a way that put psychological pressure on her, but most or all of the other Animorphs were the same way with that (and there are plenty of other dynamics like that, everyone else except Cassie uses Jake as their tool to do the hard decisions without giving as much sympathy as they normally would if they aren't so desperate, notably Marco despite starting from such a position of friendship, everyone subtly Tobias as a pity case in ways that hurt him and Tobias' insecurity leads to him seeing this as worse than it is though he's not wrong the dynamic exists, Marco feels he has to hide his vulnerability to avoid being in the same position as Jake/Rachel/Tobias in this respect...) I don't hate Cassie for that I actually think that tension makes her more interesting! But it's hard to have an intelligent conversation when people are simultaneously criticizing the character for Doylist things (too favored by the narrative) and Watsonian (does things they morally disagree with) and you want to refute both. She's actually my favorite Animorph (with some tough competition!)
So I'm putting together an In Defence of Cassie PowerPoint for a PowerPoint night with friends. Do you have any arguments for or against her? I trust your opinion and am curious.
Let's see.
"She's too powerful, too unique, too far-seeing, and not good enough for Jake! What a Mary Sue!"
Counterpoint: May I introduce you to the reigning champion fan favorite, Sad White Boy Tobias?
Only nothlit ever to regain the ability to morph
Only known human-andalite hybrid ever to exist
Regarded as savior by entire hork-bajir species
Entire existence is a time paradox the war hinges upon
Pulls the canonically "most beautiful girl in our grade", who turns down 6 or 7 other offers in favor of Bird Boy
Correctly predicted planetary ecology 65 million years in advance
Believed to be immune to 2-hour limit
In conclusion: y'all wouldn't be crying "Mary Sue" if Cassie was a sad white boy, and I can prove it.
"She's too weak and hand-wringing, and she never helps the war effort!"
Counterpoint: First of all, the fact that the same people say this in the same breath as "she's too powerful" is... telling. Secondly:
She saved the entire team's lives in #24, in #29, in #44, and in MM1, among others.
Specifically calling out #44 — that ending shows she is willing and able to be ruthless when her friends are in need. She doesn't like slaughtering human-controllers, but if the alternative is everyone she loves dying, then she'll fucking well do it.
Much like Jake (see: Sad White Boy), she's more willing to risk herself than her friends, hence the end of MM1
Her medical knowledge saves Marco from rabies, Ax from brain!appendicitis, and Tobias from bird flu.
Her survivalist knowledge saves everyone in #25 (the Arctic), MM2 (Cretaceous Era), #11 (rainforest), and #14 (desert).
In conclusion: Cassie's only idealistic-looking by the standards of this extremely morally gray team.
"She's so unfair to Jake!"
Counterpoint: Jake? The Jake who refused to speak with her for weeks? Jake who proposes marriage while they're still broken up? Jake who announces he'll never trust Cassie again because she [checks notes] saved his brother's life? That Jake?
Also:
She gives him tons of emotional support in #16, #21, #47, and other times he's feeling low.
They have a healthy argument where they air differences and come to an understanding in #9.
Did I mention he doesn't just dump her but ghosts her in the middle of the war's endgame?
They're teenagers. Their relationship isn't perfect, but it is built on open communication and mutual respect which is more than Rachel and Tobias can say
She's fighting a war, and PTSD for that matter. No, she doesn't have infinite emotional bandwidth.
In conclusion: Their relationship is fine, their breakup is mutual, and her behavior only looks bad if, once again, you're holding Cassie to a different standard than you are Jake.
"She shouldn't have trusted Aftran!"
Counterpoint: friendly reminder that the alternative was killing a 6-year-old for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. If that's what you think Cassie should've done, that tells us more about you than about her.
"She spends too much time moralizing!"
Counterpoint: this is a book series about war, not a friggin' video game. If you want moral pornography, go play Call of Duty. If you want sci fi realism, then you're going to have to accept that a majority of humans prefer not to kill their fellow humans if at all possible.
"She's a ripoff of [insert character here]!"
Counterpoint: literally every single one of these says more about the commenter than about the source work. "Every dystopia is set in the U.S." is the kind of thing only people who only read books by American authors would think. "All epic fantasy is Eurocentric" => tell me you only read books by white people without telling me. I'm glad you think Cassie is too similar to Willow Rosenberg, but there are at least 6 other stories in the known world, and I hear some of them even feature sweet/dorky/caring characters who are secretly ultra-powerful.
In conclusion: You don't have to like Cassie as a (fictional) person, but 85% of criticisms directed at her are bad-faith attacks on one of the 1990s' only fat Black female gnc ultra-powerful superheroes.
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arsenysworld · 2 days ago
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No Pickles, No Problems
April Ludgate x Male Reader
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Y/N wasn’t sure how he ended up in this situation. He wasn’t even that hungry, but April had insisted on dragging him to Paunch Burger after a long day of avoiding work at city hall. Now, he found himself staring at the towering Big Mac in his hands, feeling his chest tighten—not from the grease, but from the green abominations peeking out from under the bun.
“Uh, April?” he murmured, shifting uncomfortably.
April leaned against the counter, scrolling through her phone, her ever-present smirk plastered on her face. “What, did they forget your precious extra napkins or something?”
“No, it’s… it has pickles,” he whispered, glancing nervously at the cashier a few feet away.
April froze mid-scroll. Slowly, she turned to face him, her eyes narrowing. “What do you mean, pickles?”
“I—I’m allergic to pickles,” Y/N admitted, voice so quiet she had to lean closer to hear. “Like, my throat could swell up, allergic.”
April blinked, and for a moment, Y/N thought she might just laugh it off and tell him to man up. Instead, her expression darkened, and her smirk twisted into something far more dangerous. Without a word, she grabbed the offending burger out of his hands.
“April, it’s fine, I can just—”
“No,” she cut him off, her tone sharp enough to slice through steel. “They had one job.”
Before he could stop her, April stormed toward the counter, her combat boots thudding against the floor. The few customers in the restaurant turned to watch as she slammed the Big Mac down with a force that made the soda cups on the counter tremble.
Travis, the cashier, looked up from his phone, startled. His expression shifted from bored indifference to pure terror as he met April’s withering glare.
“He. Ordered. No. Pickles,” she said, enunciating each word like a knife being sharpened.
Travis blinked at her, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. “Uh, I-I can fix that,” he stammered, his voice cracking.
“You’re damn right you’re gonna fix it,” April snapped, leaning forward until her face was mere inches from his. “Because if he eats a pickle and drops dead, I’ll make sure you’re the one explaining to his mom why her precious son kicked the bucket in your crappy restaurant.”
Behind her, Y/N tugged at the sleeve of her leather jacket. “April, it’s not a big deal—”
She spun around, silencing him with a look. “Not a big deal? Do you want to die choking on a pickle? Huh? Because I don’t want to spend the rest of my life avenging your death like some sad, goth widow.”
Y/N’s face turned crimson. “Uh… no?”
“Exactly,” she said, turning back to Travis, who was frantically assembling a new burger. “Get it right this time. No pickles. Not even a hint of pickle juice. Do you hear me?”
“Y-Yes, ma’am,” Travis squeaked, beads of sweat forming on his forehead.
When the new burger was handed over, April inspected it with the intensity of a forensic investigator. After a long moment, she nodded. “Good. You live to serve terrible food another day.”
As they left the restaurant, Y/N glanced over his shoulder to see Travis slumping against the counter, visibly relieved.
“Was that really necessary?” Y/N asked, biting his lip to suppress a nervous chuckle.
April shrugged, casually slipping her hand into his. “Of course. No one messes with my boyfriend. Not even fast food morons.���
Despite himself, Y/N felt a shy smile tug at his lips. “Thanks. For, uh, sticking up for me.”
April smirked, leaning closer. “Don’t get all mushy on me, nerd. Now eat your pickle-free burger before I throw it in the trash.”
Y/N laughed softly, his chest feeling lighter. She might have a dark sense of humor and a terrifying streak, but April cared in her own unique way.
And that was more than enough for him.
@fandomnerd9602 @jacenradio7 @6rookie-writer0110 @multi-fandom-enjoyer
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stxrslutrestored · 2 days ago
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GOSSIP GIRL 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚
new to the upper east side? not sure how it works round here? don’t you worry, I have you covered. sit back and put on your reading glasses while you become introduced to some of our very own gossip girl regulars 𐙚 enjoy!
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gossip sweetheart, at first glance, and second, she’s the nicest girl on the upper east side, kind and well mannered, well educated and seemingly well seasoned (within her world at least). she’s the perfect amount of sheltered and innocent, but don’t let that fool you, she can get what she wants when she wants it. 
to be on her bad side is what some might consider social suicide. because to have sweetheart mad at you, you have to have done something. 
those who know her personally will get to know a much sillier girl, one who jumps easily and then plays it off like nothing. who makes stupid pop culture jokes and gets herself in shenanigans to no end.  
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sarah cameron fits into her lifestyle perfectly. much like sweetheart, she’s the perfect girl for the upper east side, making the second half of the it girl duo that we love so much. sarah is classy when she needs to be, yet on the more informal side, we at gossip girl know that she has some other, less precious tendencies. 
sarah cameron is a party girl, known to be in the clubs with a new man every night. for a girl with such a good reputation, sarah cameron certainly has a dark side outside the bubble wrap of upper east side life. 
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kiara carrera is somewhat of an outlier in the upper east side, instead of embracing her status and her riches, kiara chooses to live a more simple life, avoiding rich events at all costs. she spends her time hanging in brooklyn with those less fortunate than her. her money goes towards what she sees as good causes. 
this modern day rebel does what she wants when she wants. she indulges in her interest and lets be honest, she doesn’t care one bit what anyone has to say about her, or that’s what it seems like at least.
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rafe cameron, the most infamous boy in the upper east side. nobody really knows what goes on inside rafe cameron’s mind,but everyone knows that he is really quite crazy. rafe is often caught in quickly covered scandals. drugs, violence, sex, you name it, if there’s something abominable going on in the upper east side, he’s involved. 
despite all his scandals, rafe still seems to make a life for himself. even after dropping out of college he lives comfortably on the upper east side, wielding his charm like a weapon to get whatever he wants. some say he’s set to inherit the cameron business and all its assets, but how well will that work out in the end? 
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topper thornton, typical boy of the upper east side, facing no troubles or woes in his life. topper is laid back without a care in the world. some might say that it’s a sad existence to care for nothing but money, but topper disagrees, his life is easy, getting all he wants without lifting a finger, materials, rights, girls even. but will toppers life one day come crashing down when he really grows up and learns the harsh realities of adulthood. 
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kelce rylan is yet another typical rich boy. always spotted with topper thornton, he has much of the same attitude towards life. kelce does whatever he wants and then pays as much as he can to cover it. to the naked eye he is just a regular guy, to gossip girl, we know there’s more to him. as one of rafe cameron’s minions, there’s nothing you can put past him.
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jj maybank a total mystery, its common knowledge that jj lives in brooklyn with a deadbeat dad, and that he couldn’t care less about anything to do with the upper east side life. so how is this boy at constance? that’s a secret not even I can tell you. 
jj is constance academy’s resident bad boy, hanging on to his place in the school by a thread it seems. with a constantly scuffled uniform and a generally intoxicated demeanor, jj maybank still manages to carry a certain charm, and it does make him somewhat of a ladies man. 
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pope heyward the star student. at constance on a scholarship by some sweet miracle, his one priority is to make it to an Ivy league and finish his education with straight A’s.
a sweet boy, a kind boy. pope heyward is the perfect gentleman. he spends his free time helping out at the family cafe, a staple for the brooklyn gang.
whilst pope heywards life seems simple, it will most likely become apparent that one little push will be enough to send everything crashing down
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john b routlege, brookyns heartthrob. high status enough for constance, but not for anything else. rumour has it his father found a lost city of gold and became rich, not many believe it. a lottery win seems more likely.
john b is hard working, determined, loving and caring, the perfect boy to many. as he hangs out with the other brooklyn boys and only just scrapes by at constance, he makes the perfect other half to our very own JJ maybank
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barry rodriguez, the local dealer in simple terms. nobody really knows who he is or where he comes from, but they do know he gets the good stuff. barry supplies the entire upper east side, he’s particularly well known to be around rafe cameron, whatever kind of deal they have, nobody really knows.
now you know what the upper east side is about, who everyone is and how it works.
and who am I? that’s one secret I’ll never tell. xoxo, gossip girl
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cheeseceli · 2 days ago
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When you marry someone else
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Pairing: ot5 TXT × Gn! reader (individually)
Genre: angst, unrequited love, a bit bittersweet, reactions
Prompt: they attend your wedding, but you are the love of his life, and he is not the groom.
Warnings: no happy ending for now, reader wears a wedding dress on Yeonjun's, Kai has mentions of food, mentions of tears and crying
A/n: had this entire idea when showering, so enjoy the angst! | Daily click
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Yeonjun
He is so conflicted
He is genuinely happy at the thought of you finding the love of your life, but he is sad because it's not him
He is happy when he sees you in that beautiful dress, but he is sad when he sees that you didn't dress up with him on your mind
He wants to sit down on the first row to see you closer, but he also wants to stand on the end of the room so it doesn't hurt that much
He loves you but he wished he didn't
At the party, he would try his best to avoid both you and your now husband
He wants to be there for you, but it seems unfair that he needs to watch it in so many details
He tries to distract himself from the fact that this night is all about you dedicating your life to someone else
And he tries to ignore his mind telling him that this someone else was so not worth of you
His vows seemed shallow, and it was ridiculous how he didn't cry when he saw you walking down the aisle. It outraged Yeonjun to see him talking with his friends instead of being with you
Everything that the groom did, Yeonjun knew he could do ten times better
But he was trying to ignore it. For the sake of your night
And when you come to him, handing him the bouquet, he can't help but feel defeated
"I want you to be the next one to find everlasting happiness" is what you said to him
So Yeonjun took the bouquet, hoping and praying that it actually meant something
Soobin
He genuinely thought on not going
The moment he received the invitation, he threw it away
And since he refused to talk to you ever since, you thought you'd be missing your best friend on your wedding day
But in the end, he couldn't help but to go to the ceremony
It wasn't fair on you if he missed one of the most important days of your life
Especially since you had no idea Soobin has been in love with you for decades
So he attends the wedding
And he regrets it the moment he gets there
Why were you so beautiful?
And why were you so happy?
He talks to all your friends and family members throughout the day
He is searching for any hint that your fiance doesn't deserve you
Anything that could give him a reason to stand up and object
But there is nothing
The man you fell in love with was nothing but a kind and generous person
And Soobin can't recall a day where you had smiled that much before
So he just sits down in defeat when you start to say your vows, wondering what he could've done in the past so today would've been different
Beomgyu
He is trying his best to act like your best friend
Like yes, he's so happy for you!!
He'll cry tears of joy and he'll party all night!!
He's doing his best to just be happy for you
Because that's what he's supposed to be
Happy for you, not happy with you
So he buys you the greatest gift you could ever imagine
He talks with every single person in the party
He is the first to go to the dance floor and he doesn't hesitate on playing with the kids
He is trying to be happy
And when your groom comes to him, thanking him for taking care of you until now, Beomgyu cries a bit
Especially when the groom vows that he will love and protect you from now on
He cries in the ceremony and cries even more when you hug him by the end of it
But as your best friend, he promises he'll always do his best to be happy for you
Taehyun
He won't be there
I'm so sorry, but I don't think he would be able to endure the pain
Every time he saw you guys on a date, or the photos you post, or the messages you sent with "I'm with my boyfriend right now, can we talk later?" always felt like a dagger in his heart
So to see everything come to life was not something he could do
He'll come see you a day before the wedding though
And in his plan, he would try to convince you to give up
He never liked your boyfriend anyways, he didn't feel like too good of a person
So he tries to hint on the topic
But you're so blindly in love that you don't notice
And he's so in love with you that he simply gives up
So he just smiles at your content and announces that he needs to go, that he will get some things ready for tomorrow
But he doesn't
He tells you that there was an accident on the road, that he was suddenly required on his work, or that there was a family emergency
Something happened, and he couldn't make it to your wedding
And upon seeing your smile on the photos, he's glad he didn't
Hueningkai
The moment you tell him you're getting married, he is volunteering to help you in anything and everything
He is there when you choose your clothes for the day
He finds the best florist in town
He helps you decide on the cake, on the place, on the date, everything
Because he knows this is the last time you'll be relying on him for help
From now on, your soon to be husband will be the one who is supposed to be by your side
Till death do you apart
And as much as it hurts, Kai won't let the sorrow be on the way
If he has this last opportunity to help you and be with you, that's precisely what he'll do
So when the big day ends up being more beautiful than your dreams
And both you and your now husband come to him to thank him
He can't help but smile through teary eyes, which he reassures you that it's because of happiness
Now he knows that he at least tried his best until the end
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Masterlist | you'll probably like: moving on
Reminder this is just fiction!! I'm not trying to portray real life and you shouldn't believe that this is how the members actually are. This is just for the vibe and the delulu!
Thank you for reading <3
Taglist (open!): @yuyubeans @zzzzzwicked @sheraayasherrecs
Dividers by @enchanthings | images 1 , 2 and 3
70 notes · View notes
mywhisperingwords · 1 day ago
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am i what you wanted? | fred g. weasley
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summary: casual. no strings. just something to forget the loneliness. right? word count: 7.6k masterlist
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The air at the party feels heavier than usual, like everyone is trying too hard to pretend they’re having a good time.
You’ve spent most of the night nursing a drink you don’t particularly like, offering polite smiles to people you barely know. It’s not your scene, but you came anyway because that’s what friends do—they drag you out, convince you it’ll be “fun,” and leave you regretting it by the second hour.
You’re just about ready to slip away when you spot him—Fred Weasley.
He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, casual and effortless as always, but there’s something different tonight. The usual spark in his eyes is dimmer, his smile not quite as wide. He’s talking to someone, but his gaze keeps drifting, like he’s only half paying attention.
You consider leaving without a word. After all, you’ve spent years perfecting the art of avoiding him. Not because you dislike him—quite the opposite.
Your stupid schoolgirl crush on him hasn’t quite fizzled out, no matter how much time has passed.
And of course, there was the matter of his latest relationship, a whirlwind romance with someone you considered a friend, Leah.
It would be wrong to approach him now, wouldn’t it?
But then Fred’s eyes land on you, and there’s no escaping. He gives you a faint smile, a shadow of his usual grin, and lifts his drink in a lazy sort of greeting. It’s an invitation, subtle but unmistakable. Against your better judgment, you cross the room.
“Fancy seeing you here,” he says, his voice low enough to cut through the background noise without effort.
You shrug, trying to seem unaffected. “Alicia dragged me out. Said I needed to get a life or something.”
Fred huffs a quiet laugh, looking down into his glass. “Sounds like something she’d say. George said the same to me, actually. Guess misery loves company.”
The comment surprises you. Fred doesn’t usually talk like that—so openly, so vulnerable. It’s enough to make you pause, to glance at him more carefully. “You don’t seem miserable,” you say, testing the waters.
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he takes a long sip of his drink and stares past you, like he’s trying to find the right words. “You’d be surprised,” he finally says, his tone softer now.
It’s an opening, one you hadn’t expected but can’t ignore. “What happened?”
Fred glances around, his expression unreadable, before gesturing toward the balcony. “Do you mind? It’s a bit loud in here.”
You follow him outside, where the night air is cool and quiet compared to the chaos inside. He leans against the railing, staring out at the city lights, and you stand beside him, unsure of what to say.
“She left,” he says abruptly, and it takes you a moment to realize he’s talking about her—his ex.
“Oh.” It’s all you can manage.
Fred smiles faintly, but there’s no humor in it. “Yeah. Not the dramatic kind of leaving either. No big fight, no slamming doors. Just… stopped caring, I guess. Said it wasn’t enough for her.”
The confession stirs something in you, a mix of sympathy and something sharper, harder to define.
You’ve never known Fred to be anything but confident, self-assured. Seeing him like this—guarded, almost uncertain—it’s disarming.
“I’m sorry,” you say quietly, and you mean it.
He glances at you then, really looks at you, and for a moment, it feels like he’s seeing you for the first time. “It’s funny, isn’t it? How loneliness sneaks up on you. One day you think you’re fine, and the next, it’s like you can’t breathe.”
You nod, because you understand more than you’d like to admit. “Yeah. It’s awful.”
Fred studies you for a moment longer before offering a faint, almost wistful smile. “You get it.”
The words settle between you, warm and unspoken, and before you can overthink it, you say, “Maybe we’re just terrible at choosing the right people.”
Fred laughs then, a soft, genuine sound that eases some of the tension in your chest. “Maybe we are.”
It feels like an unspoken agreement, a quiet acknowledgment of shared pain. And when he leans just a little closer, his shoulder brushing against yours, you don’t pull away.
&
The door slams shut behind you both, barely closed before Fred’s hands are on your waist, pulling you closer. His mouth is on yours again, urgent and consuming, and the world outside this moment ceases to exist.
You’re not sure how it started—or maybe you do—but you’re too caught up in the feel of him, in the way he kisses like he’s unraveling a part of himself he’s never shown anyone.
Your back hits the edge of the couch, but Fred doesn’t stop. He moves with you, stumbling through the dark like neither of you can think beyond each other.
You barely make it to the bedroom. A trail of discarded shoes and jackets marks the path, forgotten in the haze.
He pauses only briefly, just enough to catch his breath, his forehead resting against yours. “This…” he begins, his voice rough, barely a whisper. “This is what I needed. Something… easy. No expectations.”
The words are quiet but land with a weight that sticks somewhere in your chest. You know what he means—casual, uncomplicated, something to dull the ache of loneliness he spoke of earlier.
Your heart lurches, but your mind, clouded with want and the intoxicating proximity of him, nods before you can think it through. “Yeah,” you murmur, barely above a whisper. “Me too.”
The lie tastes bitter even as the kiss resumes, as his lips trail down your neck, as his hands find your skin. You tell yourself you’re fine with this. It’s Fred, and it’s what he wants. Isn’t it better to have this than nothing at all?
When morning comes, he’s gone.
You’re not surprised—he doesn’t strike you as the type to linger—but the silence in the room feels deafening. The sheets are cold where he was, and you stare at the ceiling, replaying his words in your head.
Something easy. No expectations.
Your agreement, muffled and uncertain, rings louder now. You agreed. This is what you signed up for. So why does your chest ache? Why does it feel like you’ve made a mistake you can’t undo?
You sit up, the mess of the night scattered around you—a shirt draped over the chair, an overturned glass on the table. It’s all so mundane, yet it feels like the air has shifted in your room, like the walls are pressing in.
You bury your face in your hands, letting out a slow, measured breath. Maybe this wasn’t the right decision. But you can’t change it now. Fred was what you wanted for so long, wasn’t he? Maybe this is all you get.
Maybe this is all you’re allowed to have.
You hope you can convince yourself of that.
&
The pub is buzzing, laughter and conversation spilling out from every corner as you sit wedged between Alicia and George.
Fred is across from you, casually leaning back in his chair, a pint of beer balanced between his long fingers. His laughter blends with the noise around you, effortlessly charming, as always.
It’s easy to forget, in moments like this, that this is supposed to be casual. Easy.
You catch yourself watching him longer than you should, noting the way his hair falls into his eyes when he laughs, the way his smile lingers just enough to make your stomach twist.
You remind yourself to look away.
The conversation circles back to someone’s recent breakup, a natural segue into a casual remark about Fred’s ex.
It’s Angelina, sitting two seats down, who says it without malice—just an innocent mention of the girl who was once by his side.
“You were so into her, Fred. Thought you two were endgame, honestly,” she says with a smile, tipping her glass toward him.
Fred’s expression flickers, just for a second, but it’s enough to change the energy at the table. The easy grin falters, his fingers tightening around the glass. “Yeah, well,” he says, voice light but guarded, “things don’t always work out the way you think they will.”
The group catches on quickly, steering the conversation elsewhere, but you can’t take your eyes off him. There’s something in the way his shoulders tense, in the way he avoids eye contact, that makes your chest tighten.
The rest of the evening is a blur of noise and small talk. You find yourself gravitating toward the bar, needing space, needing air. But you don’t get far.
Fred appears beside you, leaning on the counter with a quiet sigh. His eyes are darker now, shadows of something unspoken behind them. He doesn’t say anything, just glances at you, and suddenly the air feels heavier.
“Come with me,” he mutters all of the sudden, so low you almost don’t hear it.
You hesitate, your heart skipping, but you follow.
He leads you down a narrow hallway, past the kitchen, until you’re standing outside the bathroom door. He checks once over his shoulder before pulling you in, locking the door behind him.
“Fred, what are you—”
He cuts you off, his mouth crashing into yours with a force that takes your breath away.
It’s messy, hurried, like he’s trying to drown something out. His hands find your waist, pressing you against the cold tile wall, and you can feel the tension in his grip, the desperation in the way he kisses you.
It’s different this time—more frantic, less controlled. There’s no room to think, no space for words, just the heat of him against you and the quiet hum of the pub muffled beyond the door.
When it’s over, you’re both catching your breath, the silence settling around you like a weight. Fred’s forehead rests against yours, and for a moment, it feels like he might say something—something real, something vulnerable.
But then he steps back, adjusting his shirt, his eyes not quite meeting yours. “Thanks,” he mutters, almost too softly, and the word hits you like a slap.
You blink, trying to find something to say, but he’s already unlocking the door, slipping out like nothing happened.
You’re left standing there, the cold tiles against your back, your pulse still racing. You stare at the empty space where he was, your mind replaying the moment in vivid detail.
Something about this feels wrong. But then again, wasn’t this what you agreed to?
&
It’s late. Later than late, really, with the kind of stillness in the air that only comes when the rest of the world is sleeping.
But you’re wide awake, perched on the edge of your couch with a half-empty glass of wine in your hand, listening to the faint hum of the city outside.
You don’t know why you’re waiting.
Or maybe you do, but admitting it feels like giving it more weight than it deserves.
It’s been a few days since you saw Fred—since he showed up at your door for the first time, with that crooked smile and a cocky, unspoken challenge in his eyes.
You hadn’t known what to expect then, and you still don’t know now. But when you hear the knock at your door, your chest tightens in anticipation anyway.
You set the glass down and cross the room, opening the door to find him leaning against the frame, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket.
“Bit late for a social call, don’t you think?” you tease, though your voice wavers just slightly.
Fred grins, that easy, practiced grin that always feels like it’s hiding something. “Thought you might say that. But then, you’re still awake, aren’t you?”
You roll your eyes and step aside, letting him in. He walks past you, his steps slow and deliberate, like he’s taking his time to assess the space.
It’s not the first time he’s been here, but he looks around like it is, his gaze lingering on the small details you’d never think to notice.
“You always keep it this tidy?” he asks, turning to face you with a smirk.
“I knew you were coming, didn’t I?” you shoot back, closing the door behind him.
Fred laughs, the sound low and warm, and suddenly the room feels smaller.
It’s always like this with him—this electric push and pull that leaves you feeling off-balance and exhilarated all at once.
He shrugs off his jacket, tossing it carelessly onto the back of a chair, and then he’s sitting on your couch like he’s been doing it for years.
You join him, keeping a safe distance between you, but it doesn’t matter. The tension fills the space anyway, a quiet, unspoken thing neither of you is willing to address.
“So,” Fred says, his eyes flicking to the wine glass you left on the table. “Drinking alone, are we? Rough night?”
You laugh softly, shaking your head. “Not rough. Just… quiet.”
Fred hums, leaning back and stretching an arm along the back of the couch. His fingers are close enough to brush your shoulder, but they don’t.
“Well,” he says after a beat, “I’m good at making noise. Want me to liven things up?”
You turn to look at him, arching a brow at his choice of words. “That depends. What exactly do you have in mind?”
He grins again, wider this time, and before you know it, you’re caught up in one of his ridiculous stories—something about a prank that went wrong back at Hogwarts and ended with George covered in soot and screaming about cursed cauldrons.
You’re laughing so hard your sides hurt, the kind of laugh that feels like it’s shaking loose all the tension you’ve been carrying for days. Fred is laughing too, his head thrown back, his shoulders shaking.
And for a moment, it’s easy to forget the doubts gnawing at the edges of your mind.
But then the story ends, and the laughter fades, and the room feels too quiet again.
Fred’s laughter dies in his throat first. He turns his head toward you, the space between you charged, his expression softening as his eyes flicker to your lips.
“You’re staring,” you whisper, trying to keep your tone light, but your pulse betrays you.
“Am I?” he murmurs back, his voice low and teasing, but there’s something in his gaze that makes it hard to breathe.
You don’t know who moves first—maybe it’s him, maybe it’s you—but suddenly, the space between you disappears. His mouth meets yours in a rush of heat and hunger, and your body reacts without thought, your hands tangling in his hair as he pulls you closer.
He tastes like mint and something else, something unmistakably Fred, and for a moment, it feels like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.
It starts like it always does—feverish and desperate, hands searching, breaths stolen. Fred’s hands find the hem of your shirt, tugging it over your head, and your back hits the cushions of the couch before you even realize you’ve moved.
But somewhere in the middle of it—between the hurried kisses and the whispered curses—something shifts.
His touch slows, his fingers trailing along your skin with an almost reverent softness. He presses his forehead to yours, his breath warm against your lips, and for a fleeting moment, it feels like there’s more to this than just a casual arrangement.
Your chest tightens, and you open your mouth to say something, anything, but the words catch in your throat.
Fred pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours like he’s trying to figure out if you feel it too.
But then the moment passes, and he closes his eyes, shaking his head like he’s dismissing some unwelcome thought. He presses a lingering kiss to your collarbone before shifting his weight and standing, grabbing his jacket from the chair.
“Leaving already?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.
Fred hesitates, his back to you. “Yeah,” he says, his tone lighter than the moment calls for. “Gotta keep you wanting more, don’t I?”
The grin he throws over his shoulder is forced, you think, but you don’t call him on it.
You watch him leave, the door clicking shut behind him, and you’re left alone again, your chest tight and your mind racing.
This is what you signed up for, you remind yourself. Casual. Fun. No strings attached.
So why does it already feel like so much more?
&
The party isn’t much different from the last one. A haze of laughter and music hangs in the air, the dimly lit living room thrumming with energy as bodies mill about. You’re leaning against a wall, clutching a drink, when you spot him across the room.
Fred.
Your breath catches—not because you didn’t expect him to be here, but because it’s the first time you’ve seen him like this since everything began.
In the few weeks since that night, he’s always shown up at your door under cover of darkness, a secret that slips away before the world wakes. Now, he’s here, among friends, out in the open. It feels… surreal.
His eyes catch yours, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face before he looks away. You should probably do the same, pretend he’s just another person at the party, someone you barely know outside of shared jokes and casual conversations.
But something about seeing him here, the same Fred everyone else knows, tangles in your chest.
The game between you feels different now. Riskier.
You manage to avoid each other for most of the night, though you’re painfully aware of him. The way his laugh carries over the music. The effortless charm in the way he leans against the kitchen counter, surrounded by people.
But it’s when you least expect it that it happens.
You’ve slipped into the quiet hallway, hoping for a moment to breathe. He appears from nowhere, leaning casually against the wall a few feet away. His hands are shoved in his pockets, and he looks at you like you’re the only person in the world.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says, low enough that no one else could hear.
You swallow, refusing to meet his gaze. “You’ve been avoiding me too.”
A ghost of a smirk crosses his face. “Fair enough.”
For a moment, neither of you speaks. The silence stretches, filled only by the distant hum of the party, the bass thudding like a heartbeat. Then he shifts closer—too close, considering the thin walls and prying eyes just a room away.
“This is risky,” you murmur, though you don’t move away.
“Since when do you mind risky?” he counters, his voice teasing but quiet. There’s a flicker of warmth in his tone, a reminder of those moments when he’s let his guard down just enough to let you in.
You should push him away, but you don’t.
Instead, you glance up, and for the briefest second, he looks at you like he’s about to say something important. Something real. But he doesn’t. He’s Fred, after all.
Instead, his hand brushes yours, a fleeting touch that sends a shiver down your spine. “You know I shouldn’t be here,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.
You hesitate, your chest tightening. “Then why are you?”
He doesn’t answer right away. His fingers graze your wrist, light and hesitant, before he steps back, creating a distance that feels far too wide.
“I shouldn’t be,” he says again, as though repeating it will make it true. Then, softer, “But I am.”
The air between you feels heavier than it should. He’s pulling away again, retreating into the shell of secrecy he’s so carefully built. It frustrates you more than it should.
“You don’t have to make this so complicated,” you say, surprising even yourself.
Fred’s jaw tightens. He glances at the door leading back to the party, his gaze distant, before his eyes flicker back to you. “You think it’s that easy?”
You don’t answer, because you don’t know how to.
Instead, he leans in, his voice a whisper. “Careful. Someone might see us.” His words are teasing, but there’s an edge of something sharper beneath them.
And then he’s gone, disappearing back into the crowd as though nothing happened.
You’re left standing there, your heart racing and your thoughts tangled in ways you can’t quite unravel.
The rest of the night passes in a blur. You don’t see him again, but his presence lingers like a shadow, like a secret you can’t escape.
And when you finally leave the party, stepping out into the cool night air, you can’t help but wonder if this game you’re playing is one you’ll ever win—or if it’s one you’ll lose before it even truly begins.
&
It’s been days since the party.
Days of wondering if Fred will show up again, if you’ll hear that familiar knock on your door in the dead of night. He doesn’t call, doesn’t send any owl—not that you expected him to. But his absence still gnaws at you.
When the knock finally comes, it’s past midnight. You hesitate for a moment, standing barefoot in the hallway, staring at the door like it might vanish if you blink. Then, as if on instinct, you reach for the handle.
Fred is there, leaning against the frame, his hair tousled, his expression unreadable. He doesn’t say anything, just steps inside, his hands finding your waist almost immediately.
It’s fast, like always. A trail of kisses down your neck, murmured words you can barely catch, and then you’re stumbling toward the bedroom. It’s almost routine now—the way he knows exactly how to pull you apart, the way he leaves before the sun comes up.
It’s the same pattern, the same urgency, like he’s trying to chase away whatever’s haunting him.
Only this time, he leaves without saying much of anything. A quick glance back, a muttered “I’ll see you,” and then the door clicks shut behind him.
The quiet that follows feels heavier than it should. You sit on the edge of the bed for a long time, staring at the empty doorway, wondering why the familiar ache feels sharper tonight.
&
Alicia’s offer couldn’t come at a better time. “You need a reset,” she says, twirling her straw in her iced tea. “Seriously, this guy is perfect. Smart, funny, normal. Give it a shot.”
It’s not like you have anything better to do, so you agree.
The date is fine. Fine. Paul is nice—charming, even—but there’s no spark. By the end of the night, you’re both laughing about how you’d make better friends than anything else.
It’s late when you finally get home, the streets quiet and dimly lit. You’re fishing for your keys when you notice the shadow near your door.
Fred.
He’s leaning against the frame, his hands stuffed into his pockets. He looks up as you approach, his gaze flickering to the key in your hand before settling on your face.
“You’re out late,” he says, his voice casual.
“I had plans,” you reply, matching his tone as you unlock the door. You don’t elaborate, and neither does he.
Inside, the tension follows you, crackling in the air as you set your bag down and turn to face him. He’s watching you, his expression neutral but his shoulders taut, like he’s holding something back.
“How were the plans?” he asks, his voice steady, but there’s an edge to it you can’t quite place.
“They were fine,” you say. “We’re better off as friends.”
He nods, his lips pressing into a thin line, and for a moment, you think that’s the end of it. But then he’s stepping closer, his hands finding your waist like they always do.
This time, it’s different. His kisses are rougher, his grip firmer, but there’s something else underneath it—a quiet desperation, like he’s trying to claim something without admitting it. His hands linger longer, his lips move slower, and you let yourself lean into it, pretending not to notice the shift.
Afterward, he’s quiet again, lying beside you in the dark. The air feels heavier, and you can sense the walls going back up before he even moves to get dressed.
As he pulls on his shirt, he pauses, standing by the door with his back to you. For a moment, it seems like he’s about to say something, but instead, he runs a hand through his hair and exhales softly.
Then, just before he leaves, he glances back over his shoulder, his gaze flickering to yours. “Let me know when you’re too busy.”
It’s barely a whisper, so quiet you almost miss it. But there’s something in the way he says it, something unsaid lurking beneath the words, that lingers long after he’s gone.
You sit there in the dark, replaying the moment over and over, wondering why it feels like he just said goodbye.
&
Angelina’s birthday party is already in full swing by the time you stumble through the door, only half-committed to being there. The laughter, the music, the clinking of glasses—it’s all too loud, too bright, too much.
But you came anyway, maybe out of habit, or maybe because part of you hoped you’d find a distraction in the chaos.
Fred is here. You noticed him immediately. He’s impossible not to notice, leaning against the bar, his easy smile tugging at something in your chest you’ve been trying to ignore. He hasn’t come near you, hasn’t even spared you more than a glance. But that glance—it felt like it saw too much.
You bury your feelings in your drink, letting the bitterness of it settle the knots in your stomach. It doesn’t help.
“Alright, what’s with the face?” Alicia’s voice cuts through the noise as she drops onto the couch beside you. “You look like someone just ran over your cat.”
“I’m fine,” you lie, swirling the last of your drink. “Just…thinking.”
“About your nonexistent love life again?” she teases, nudging your shoulder. “Seriously, you need to loosen up. Or at least stop picking all the wrong people.”
You force a laugh, but it feels hollow. Alicia doesn’t know. No one does. You’ve kept Fred a secret, just as he asked. The weight of it presses heavier tonight, threatening to spill over as you down the rest of your drink and reach for another.
As the night goes on, the alcohol blurs the edges of everything. Faces blend together, voices turn to static, and you’re left moping in the corner, the ache in your chest louder than any song playing.
Fred’s there, somewhere. You’ve caught glimpses of him—his easy posture stiffened, his smile more strained than usual. But he doesn’t approach, and you don’t give him the satisfaction of looking too long.
By the end of the night, most people have left, and the crowd has thinned out. You’re sitting on the couch, staring at the bottom of your empty glass, when a shadow falls over you.
“Let’s get you home,” Fred says, his voice low but firm.
You look up at him, the alcohol dulling your usual instincts. “I don’t need your help.”
“Yes, you do.” His tone leaves no room for argument, but there’s something gentler in his gaze, something that makes your chest tighten.
You don’t resist when he helps you up, his arm steady around your waist as he guides you out the door. The walk home is quiet, the chill of the night air biting at your skin. Fred doesn’t say much, and neither do you, but the silence feels heavier than usual.
When you finally reach your flat, he helps you inside, sitting you down on the couch as he disappears into the kitchen. He returns with a glass of water, kneeling in front of you.
“Drink,” he says simply.
You take the glass, your hands shaking slightly as you bring it to your lips.
“Fred,” you start after a moment, your voice barely above a whisper. “Stay.”
He looks at you, startled by the request. “I—”
“Please.” The word spills out before you can stop it, raw and pleading. “Just for the night. I don’t want to be alone.”
He hesitates, his expression flickering between something unreadable and something achingly vulnerable. Then, finally, he nods. “Alright.”
Relief washes over you as he helps you to your feet again, guiding you to your bedroom. He’s careful as he tucks you into bed, his hand lingering briefly on your shoulder before he steps back.
“You’ll stay?” you ask again, your voice softer now.
“I’ll stay,” he promises, his voice low and steady.
You don’t remember falling asleep.
When you wake up, the room is quiet, the sunlight streaming through the curtains. For a moment, you lie there, disoriented, the haze of last night still clinging to your thoughts.
Then you notice it—the bed is empty.
Your stomach drops, a hollow ache blooming in your chest as you sit up. The other side of the bed is cool to the touch, and for a moment, you wonder if he left as soon as you fell asleep. The ache sharpens, and you feel foolish for believing he’d actually stay.
Swinging your legs over the side of the bed, you bury your face in your hands. Of course, he left. Of course, this is what it always is with him—half-hearted promises and fleeting moments that never mean as much as you want them to.
It’s only when you lower your hands that you notice it.
A glass of water and a small packet of painkillers sit neatly on the nightstand.
Your breath catches as you reach for the glass, the pieces falling together in your mind. The bed might be cool now, but the faint warmth lingering on the pillow tells a different story.
And then you hear it—the faint click of your front door closing.
Your chest tightens, your heart pounding as you realize the truth: Fred stayed. He kept his promise.
The ache in your chest softens, replaced by something you can’t quite name. It’s not relief, not entirely. It’s something more fragile, more complicated.
He stayed.
And for now, that’s enough.
&
The pub feels suffocating tonight, the air heavy with laughter and music that’s a touch too loud. You’re sitting at the edge of the booth again, nursing the remnants of your drink while the conversation at the table flows around you. Fred is there too, only a few feet away but worlds apart, as always.
At least, that’s how it’s supposed to be.
But tonight, something is different. You’ve caught him looking at you more than once, a flicker of warmth in his gaze that lingers just a moment too long before he turns away.
And then there are the little things—how he slid the drinks menu your way when you couldn’t reach, the casual way his hand brushed yours when passing the salt, and the faint smirk on his lips when you dropped your napkin, like he found your clumsiness amusing.
It’s maddening. These small, almost imperceptible gestures that would mean nothing if it were anyone else, but with Fred, they feel like everything.
You glance his way now, trying not to linger. He’s leaned back in his chair, his long fingers drumming lazily against the table, his attention seemingly on George, who’s telling some animated story about a prank gone wrong. But then, as if he feels your eyes on him, Fred looks up.
The corners of his mouth twitch, and there it is again—that fleeting, private smile that feels like it’s meant just for you.
It’s a cruel kind of softness. The kind that makes you want more.
“Leaving soon?” His voice pulls you back, low enough that it barely cuts through the noise, and you realize he’s speaking to you.
Your heart skips. You shrug, trying to feign indifference. “Maybe. You?”
His smirk deepens, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “Not yet.”
The words hang between you, unspoken but understood. The plan forms, unspoken as always. You’ll leave first, and he’ll follow.
When the clock creeps toward midnight, you push yourself up, offering the table a vague excuse about an early morning. Fred doesn’t look at you, but you can feel the tension, the way his fingers still against the table as you grab your things and step into the cool night air.
The sharp contrast of the quiet street is a relief at first, but it doesn’t last. Your thoughts churn, the familiar mix of guilt and longing rising to the surface. You shake your head, trying to focus on the walk home when you see her.
Leah.
She’s leaning against the wall just outside the pub, her arms crossed, the faint glow of a cigarette in her hand. She looks up when she hears you, her face illuminated by the streetlamp above.
“Hey,” she says, her tone casual but her gaze sharp.
You freeze, your chest tightening. “Hey.”
Her lips quirk into something that’s not quite a smile, and she takes a slow drag of her cigarette before exhaling, the smoke curling into the air between you.
“You’ve been quiet tonight,” she says, tilting her head slightly.
She must’ve watched you—you hadn’t even noticed her in the pub. Had Fred?
You force a shrug, your voice tight. “Long day.”
She hums, her eyes narrowing just a fraction. “Fred seemed to have been distracted too. Must’ve been one of those days for everyone, huh?”
The mention of his name sends a jolt through you, but you keep your expression as neutral as you can manage. “Yeah, maybe.”
Leah watches you for a moment longer, her gaze unsettlingly calm. She takes another drag before flicking the cigarette to the ground, crushing it under her heel. “You two seemed friendly tonight.”
Your stomach twists, but you don’t falter. “We’re all friends, aren’t we?”
Her lips press together, her expression unreadable. “Sure.”
The pub door swings open, the sound spilling into the street, and your heart sinks as Fred steps out. His hair is a little messy, his face flushed from the warmth of the pub. He glances around, his eyes landing on you almost immediately.
“There you are,” he says, his tone light as he steps closer. “What’s taking so long? I thought you’d—”
His words die as his gaze shifts, landing on Leah.
His smile falters, and for a moment, the easy confidence he always carries slips. “Leah.”
“Fred,” she says smoothly, her tone neutral but her eyes sharp as they flick between the two of you.
He straightens, shoving his hands into his pockets as the tension thickens.
“What’s going on?” he asks, his voice tighter now.
You feel like the air has been sucked out of your lungs. You glance between them, your chest tightening. You can’t do this. The weight of the secrecy, the guilt, the unspoken accusations—it’s too much.
“I was just leaving,” you say quickly, your voice steadier than you feel.
Fred’s gaze snaps to you, his brow furrowing. “Wait—”
“I’ll see you later,” you cut him off, stepping away before either of them can stop you.
You won’t see him later, you’re sure of it.
The last thing you hear as you walk away is Fred’s voice, quieter now but still tinged with something you can’t quite place.
“Leah, we should talk.”
You don’t look back. You can’t.
&
You’re lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. The faint hum of the city outside is no comfort tonight. It’s too quiet, too still, and your mind refuses to stop racing.
You picture them together—Fred and Leah. You imagine their conversation, her calm but sharp gaze and his uneasy expression. Maybe they’re sitting close, voices low and familiar, smoothing over the jagged edges of their breakup. Maybe they’ll work things out. Maybe they’re already back together.
The thought is a knife to the chest, twisting deeper with every passing second. You roll onto your side, pulling the blankets tighter around you, but it doesn’t help. The ache is relentless, carving itself into every corner of your heart.
Hours pass. The clock on your nightstand glows faintly, marking the time you’ve spent wide awake. 2:47 a.m. Your body is heavy with exhaustion, but your mind won’t let you rest.
You try to reason with yourself. Fred never promised you anything. This was always supposed to be casual, meaningless—a fleeting distraction for both of you. You knew that. You agreed to it.
And yet.
A sharp knock cuts through the silence, jolting you upright. For a moment, you freeze, your breath catching in your throat.
Another knock.
You stumble out of bed, heart pounding, and shuffle to the door. When you open it, Fred is standing there, his hair disheveled, his shirt wrinkled like he’d left in a hurry. The faint light of the hallway casts shadows across his face, but his eyes are clear, intense.
You can’t speak. You just step aside, and he walks in without a word.
The door closes behind him, the lock clicking softly into place. He turns to you, his gaze searching, but whatever he’s looking for, he doesn’t say. He just steps closer, his hands brushing against your arms before they settle on your waist, pulling you toward him.
There are no questions, no explanations. Just his mouth on yours, slow and deliberate, like he’s memorizing the way you feel.
It’s different this time.
The usual rush of urgency is gone, replaced by something quieter, softer. He touches you like you’re fragile, like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers if he’s not careful. His hands linger, tracing patterns on your skin, and his lips trail down your neck with an almost reverent slowness.
When he lifts you, carrying you to the bed, it’s not hurried or thoughtless. He lays you down gently, his weight pressing into you as his lips find yours again.
It’s almost too much. The tenderness, the quiet intensity—it’s overwhelming in a way that makes your chest ache.
Somewhere in the back of your mind, you wonder if this is goodbye. If this is Fred’s way of ending things, giving you something to remember before he walks away for good.
The thought makes your throat tighten, but you don’t stop him. You can’t.
When it’s over, you lie there in the dark, the sheets tangled around you, his arm draped loosely over your waist. His breathing is steady, his body warm against yours, and for a moment, you let yourself pretend that this is enough. That this could be enough.
But then he stirs, pulling away.
You turn to watch him as he sits on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his hair. He doesn’t look at you as he stands, gathering his clothes and pulling them on with quiet efficiency.
Your chest tightens, but you don’t say anything. You just watch as he moves to the door.
He hesitates, his hand on the knob, and for a moment, you think he might say something. But he doesn’t. He just turns back to you, his expression unreadable, and steps closer.
He leans down, pressing his lips to your forehead in a soft, lingering kiss.
It’s the kind of tenderness he’s never shown before, the kind that makes your heart break even as it swells.
When he pulls back, his eyes meet yours for a brief moment. There’s something there, something unspoken, but before you can grasp it, he’s gone.
The door clicks shut behind him, and you’re alone again.
You lie there, staring at the ceiling, the ache in your chest heavier than ever.
This is goodbye, you think.
You close your eyes, but sleep doesn’t come.
&
The weeks without Fred are a blur of emotions, each one more exhausting than the last. Some days, you manage to feel like yourself again, like the world might not actually end without him. Other days, the grief hits you like a wave, dragging you under with the weight of all the unsaid words and the things you wished could’ve been.
Your friends help, of course. Alicia keeps you busy with plans you don’t want to make, and Angelina sends you pep talks at odd hours of the night. But there’s a hollow ache they can’t touch, a space inside you carved out by Fred and left empty when he walked away.
You try to fill it with distractions—new books, long walks, even the occasional half-hearted date—but nothing works. Because no matter what you’re doing, your thoughts always circle back to him. To the warmth of his hands, the sound of his laugh, the way he looked at you that night before he left.
The worst part is the silence.
For weeks, there’s no word from Fred. No knocks at your door, no teasing notes slipped under the frame. He’s just… gone. And while you tell yourself that’s what you wanted—that it’s for the best—you can’t stop wondering where he is. What he’s doing. If he’s with her.
And then, one day, the silence breaks.
It’s mid-afternoon, and you’re home, though you have no memory of how you spent the morning. The hours have blurred together in a haze of restless pacing and half-formed thoughts, none of which have brought you any peace.
When the knock comes, you almost don’t hear it. It’s soft, tentative, like the person on the other side isn’t sure they’re welcome.
Your heart stutters.
You tell yourself it’s probably Alicia or Angelina, or maybe even Leah. But when you open the door, it’s Fred.
He looks different in the daylight. There’s no mischievous grin, no late-night bravado. Just him, standing on your doorstep, his shoulders tense and his hands shoved deep into his pockets.
“Hi,” he says, his voice quieter than you’ve ever heard it.
You stare at him, unsure whether to laugh, cry, or slam the door in his face. “What are you doing here?”
Fred shifts, glancing past you into the flat before meeting your gaze again. “Can I come in?”
You want to say no. You want to tell him to leave, to take all the chaos and heartbreak he’s brought into your life and walk away for good. But instead, you step aside, letting him in.
Fred moves to the middle of the room and stops, his eyes scanning the space like he’s trying to memorize it. He doesn’t sit, doesn’t relax, just stands there, his weight shifting from foot to foot.
“I didn’t know if you’d let me in,” he admits after a moment.
“Why are you here, Fred?” you ask, crossing your arms over your chest.
His eyes flicker with something you can’t quite place—guilt, maybe, or fear. “I needed to see you. To explain.”
“Explain what? That you left? That you couldn’t give me what I wanted? What I needed?” Your voice wavers, betraying the anger you’ve been holding onto for weeks.
Fred flinches but doesn’t look away. “Yes. All of it.”
For a moment, neither of you speaks.
“I was a mess when we started this,” he says finally, his voice low and steady. “Leah and I were over, but I wasn’t okay. I told myself I didn’t want anything serious, that I couldn’t handle it. And then you…”
You hold your breath, waiting for him to continue.
“You made me feel like I could handle it,” Fred says, his gaze dropping to the floor. “And that scared me. It made me feel wrong, like I was moving on too fast. Like I didn’t deserve it.”
You blink, his words sinking in.
“I pushed you away because I was scared,” he admits, meeting your eyes again. “But that doesn’t excuse what I did. I hurt you, and I hate myself for it.”
You swallow hard, your throat tight. “And now? Are you still scared?”
“Yes,” Fred says without hesitation. “But I’m more scared of not being with you. Of letting you slip away because I was too much of a coward to fight for this.”
Your breath catches, your chest tightening with a mix of hope and fear. “And what happens when it gets hard again? When you start to feel like it’s too much?”
Fred takes a step closer, his expression earnest. “Then I’ll tell you. And we’ll figure it out together. Because I’m done running, and I’m done pretending this doesn’t mean something.”
The sincerity in his voice is almost too much. You look away, your hands trembling as you try to keep your emotions in check.
“What are you asking for, Fred?” you whisper.
He hesitates, and for a moment, you think he might not answer. Then he reaches out, his fingers brushing yours. “I’m asking for a chance. To do this right. To give you what you’ve always deserved.”
You close your eyes, his words washing over you like a wave.
“Okay,” you say finally, your voice barely audible. “But we take it slow. No more secrets, no more running. We do this the right way.”
Fred nods, a small, relieved smile breaking through his tension. “Slow. Got it.”
He steps back then, extending a hand like he’s meeting you for the first time. “Hi. I’m Fred. Nice to meet you.”
You laugh, the sound a little shaky but genuine. “Nice to meet you, Fred.”
For a moment, you let yourself smile, the tension in your chest loosening just a little. Then you glance at his outstretched hand, raising an eyebrow. “Though I have to say, you look a lot like this guy I used to know. Total pain in the arse, but surprisingly charming when he wanted to be.”
Fred grins, his eyes lighting up in that way that always makes your heart skip a beat. “Well, I’m hoping I’m nothing like him. He sounds awful.”
“He was,” you say, shaking his hand firmly. “But I think you might be an improvement.”
Fred laughs, the sound warm and unrestrained, and for the first time in weeks, you feel like you can breathe again.
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isagispuzzle · 3 days ago
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CONGRATS ON 200 🤍 you deserve that and so much more !!
for your event, even tho it's rlly hard to pick just one trope, i would say that the second chances trope has been one of my recent favs lately!
HEHE THANK YOU NISHIII anyway are you in my walls.... because i've been thinking about doing a part 2 for my oliver angst piece like this timing is too perfect HAHAHA
oliver might have played it cool when his teammates found your makeup bag, but now, his heart is about to explode.
it hasn't been long since you moved out of his life. he found your makeup bag in his backpack the day after you left, but he didn't reach out to you till a month later. he told himself it's to give you time to rebuild a routine without him, to let your heart start to miss him a little before he re-entered your space. of course, he knows that's just an excuse, and he only hesitated to text you because he wanted to hold onto the remnants of you for just a little longer.
oliver doesn't fear much, but when his thumb hovered over the send button on his phone, it trembled at the prospect of giving up this last piece you've left him with, the last relic of your love.
yet, despite his selfish reluctance, he arranged to meet you at a cafe to return your makeup bag, because he knows how much the earrings inside mean to you.
(did he hurt you enough for you to give up retrieving a piece of your heart just to avoid speaking to him again?)
he reaches the cafe at four on the dot, like you agreed to. he scans the room and is surprised to see a jarring lack of you. you're not at the counter, nor at the window seat you loved, nor at the shelf on the inner wall, admiring the owner's memorabilia from across the globe. so he finds himself choosing the table, staring at an empty seat in front of him, without any sign of you.
barely a minute passes and his leg starts bouncing restlessly under the table. oliver checks his texts to see nothing new from you. he looks out the window just to see a new wave of strangers exiting the subway station, and when he doesn't see you in the crowd, he starts to pick at the nail on his thumb. his thoughts start to race. oliver wonders if he's been stood up. he doubts you'll ever break a promise with him, but what's to say that hasn't changed, now that he's no longer someone special to you?
oliver's palms start to sweat and he feels his pulse in his neck. this sucks, he thinks. he hates feeling like this. like he's grovelling for your scraps, like he's hanging off every little thing that could be related to you. he's always been the one to care less, the one with nothing to lose, the one who left the other begging for more.
yet here he is, breathing the biggest sigh of relief when you finally show up, five minutes past the agreed time. you're straight faced and composed, and you haven't done anything to your hair. in the fleeting moment when you walk past oliver, he notices that you smell different.
"you're early," you say as you sink into your seat, and his stomach drops.
you're echoing his words back to him, from back when he'd turn up late for dates and never utter a word of apology.
oliver sees the satisfaction billowing in your eyes. he recalls all the times there were tears in them instead, when you'd beg him to love you more.
(which, he never understood why you ever doubted his love for you, because you're the only one he's ever held onto for this long. you're the only one he could truly be himself with, the only one he never got bored with, the only one he wanted to build his life with. you're the only one he's ever truly loved.)
it's only when oliver catches himself apologising for everything he's done to you and promising he'll do better that he finally realises you were never a gamble to him. there was never any doubt that you're the one for him, and there was never any chance that he'll truly let you go. you were never a gamble to him, but a promise, which he now swears to keep like a vow.
you might be repeating the mistake of letting oliver into your life. but you see the sincerity in his eyes and the desperation in his words, and you convince yourself that he's learnt from his mistakes. the walls you prepared around your heart for this day crumble when you realise they had only kept him in your heart, not out.
so you reach out a hand for him to take, a peace treaty and a warning, a second chance and an ultimatum.
instead of the red string of fate, oliver sees a thin, translucent fishing line around your pinky and down his throat, because you've got him hook, line, and sinker.
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yourcutelittlegayfriend · 3 days ago
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hi hope your having a good day!
do you have any headcanons for a yandere Clark Kent, I just think he's neat
Hi! I have slightly great day actually but I hope yours is much better!
In regards to Headcannons about Sups yes, Superman really is a pretty great character loved the guy since I saw him on TV but kinda scared about how they keep making evil superman these days, anyway lemme just open my old notes and please forgive me for typos this isn't really proofread much.
Yandere Clark Kent/SuperMan
HeadCannons
[General, Platonic and Romantic]
General
In the terms of a yandere Clark I think he's somewhat-
Obsessive - loves to pick up even the tiniest things you do or the little stuff that makes you -You! especially with that perfect vision that can literally see for miles.
Example: The tiny baby hairs that curls at your nape when you tie your hair up, The habit you do when something catches your eye or interest and even the slight twitch of your muscle when you're about to do something.
Controlling - but I say he let's you have some freedom, this golden boy is raised by the Kents to hold his temper when things doesn't go his way-
Like when you disagree with what he wants he will then try to hear out your reason first and maybe work something out, it breaks his heart to see you angry, distress or just sad.
But if it's been life or death? your life and wellbeing on the line? There's no talking your way out of this, his words are final.
Hero Complex - He thinks its his responsibility to protect and save you from everything, He's Superman, Man of Steel and a Hero, Yes of course you can get groceries for yourself but atleast let him come with you, you don't know what some people are planning or what goes inside their head until you just find yourself at the end of the barrel of a gun.
[Platonic]
As a Yandere Platonic it's like just in a very over protective family.
Whether you're like a parental figure, a sibling or even like his own child, He'll become to protective over you.
If he ever has the chance to show you of he will but not to the point of telling anyone everything about you, they'll know who you are, your name , what you are or relation to him and what you do but that's it, he'll try to avoid anymore discussion or talks about you, he gets to keep that informations to himself.
Like how you really like your puppy and you want everyone to know you have one but you won't let them pet it or even just look at them in general, it's your puppy, you're not obligated to share them to people.
Very family Oriented guy, he likes to have his family close to him and celebrate any important events with everyone, memories are precious and he wants to keep them forever, we have this thing here -a culture you might say- where in some families it's not really required or force upon the children to move out and become independent sometimes it's still okay to live under the same roof with your grandparents, parents, siblings, in laws, along with your wife and children and your siblings children (dear lord u don't know how true this is in my country)
I like to think that if you want to be a bit independent to Clark, he'll be like 'Oh! I understand so I thought about this instead'-
and literally build either a separate house that reaches his parents farm house in one full walk or extended the house where you get your own space and still be with the family.
He coddles you even more when you don't have superpowers or is a kryptonian, He freaks out when your hurt and acts like you'll die from a little scratch after falling, still kept baby proofing the house even if you become an adult
You can use accidents or possible injuries as a leverage but you can never talk or joke about kys because he will literally get angry with you and gives you lecture about how important your life is.
[Romantic]
As a romantic yandere I think he's a bit on the Hopeless Romantic side.
Believes in love at first sight or soulmates and continue to fall more and more in love with you day by day, thinks about how romantic it is to swoop in and save you as Superman, likes to pop out everytime you stand on your balcony and sneak up on you and how you fit right in his arms as he carries you in the sky with you and him alone above everything and everyone.
Will give you gifts that has more sentimental value than the price tag, like the scarf his Ma made even meals and treats for you, simple things maybe art supplies or notebook for journaling and if he can get a good raise he'll get you that jewelry that brings out your beauty, he loves to see anything he gifts to you on your person a bit like marking on you that kind of stuff.
Doesn't really like Poly-relationship, he's not really against it but He likes to keep you to himself, you're both made for each other and he likes to keep it that way.
Family - adding this again but really wants to get married to you soon after like what 2-3 dates? wants you to move in and become a stay at home spouse where you'll spend more time with his folks and maybe take care of the kids.
Is dying to see you round and prego like goodness lord you are even hotter to him when you stand there either cooking or walking around with your hand on your hip and the other under that bump may or may not.
If you're willing in this relationship maybe 2-3 kids? if not forced pregnancy might become possible.
And if you can't have kids it's alright adoption is available, he would still look like a highschool boy in love when you hold a baby or a tiny kid in your arms
I'm a bit soft on my Yandere stuff so a bit srry for that
And that's all I got for the Big Man supes, I hope you like this and I hope did this right, been writing this one at 3am, Thanks for the ask btw.
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it-was-summer · 16 hours ago
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Nevertheless (I'm In Love With You)
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A/N: Basically, it's a broken-up little fluff piece! This is after Season 15, but I'm pretending that he is a full-time professor who occasionally assists the team with cases. Most of the time, professors DO NOT sub for each other, but hey its fanfiction man. THESE ARE MY BARBIES!!! I hope you enjoy it!
Link to the Ao3: Nevertheless (I'm In Love With You) Link to the: Yee olde masterlist You are on: Enemies (if you could call it that) -> Friends (Associates at best) Tags: Use of She/Her pronouns (I apologize), slight enemies, genuinely a short and sweet little slice before y'all let me cook, mentions of victimology, violence, forensics mentioned FOR A MOMENT, ugly Christmas sweater? College talk? Embezzlement mention guys!
Genre: Slight Enemies to friends to lovers. ForensicsProfessor!Reid x ForensicsProfessor!Reader
Plot: Your new coworker, Dr. Spencer Reid, has a talent for avoiding teaching responsibilities, thereby leaving the duties to you. However, forgiveness is easily given when he makes a little effort.
Word Count: 2,966
Enemies (If You Could Call It That)
You didn’t like this new professor. It wasn’t because of change– you usually welcomed change, especially if that change was a new person coming into your life. People typically describe you as kind, passionate, and empathetic. But you strongly disliked fickle people, fair weather, and unpredictable people never sat right with you. You arrive at events on time, and the older you get, the more you view tardiness as a sign of slight disrespect. But this was on another level. 
From your understanding, three professors were teaching Victimology 6113 this Fall semester: you, Dr. Matthew, and Dr. Reid. Sometimes, you would teach introductory courses— Criminology, Criminal Justice, the basics. However, this Fall semester, you were only teaching three: Victimology 6113, Violence and the Family 2184, and Psychopathology 6104. 
Dr. Reid and Dr. Matthew taught their Victiomology courses on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. You had opted for the other, slightly longer option, on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Sure, you still had an influx of graduate students, but not as much as your male counterparts. Your classes were an hour longer to compensate for the lost time of only having classes twice a week instead of three. 
You liked that kind of schedule, the ability to have more time on Fridays or Mondays to grade papers or fix lesson plans. You had kept it consistent since taking up the position two years ago and were happy to keep it that way. 
So… when Dr. Matthew asked you to fill in for one of Dr. Reid’s Victimology classes on a random Wednesday, you were initially happy to help. You didn’t mind helping out your slightly new coworker. He had done seminars at the university in the past, and when he left the Behavioral Analysis Unit, he took up a position teaching Forensic Psychology. That was all you knew about him, though, other than his name and BAU reputation. 
His graduate students were learning the same material as yours, so it wasn’t difficult to fill in– this one time. 
Then, Dr. Matthew asked for assistance again—this time for an afternoon Friday class. The last time you covered for Dr. Reid, you assumed it was a one-off— a coworker needing a hand. You didn’t think of it when you agreed for the second time. 
Then there was a third…, a fourth, a fifth, and eventually a sixth. You had tried to get out of the fifth time, deciding that enough was enough and that Dr. Reid would have to find his own substitute and not let Dr. Matthew do all his dirty work for him.  However, when you used the excuse that you were behind on lesson plans, Dr. Matthew simply said you could borrow some of his material if needed. 
It wasn’t even halfway through the fall semester, and by the end of September, you had covered at least fourteen classes for this man– your coworker with whom you barely had a relationship. It was getting ridiculous. 
Consistent behavior reflects character, and all you could think of as you walked to his classroom that fifteenth time was Dr. Reid’s character was lacking consideration. It almost seemed cruel at this point. 
At first, you thought you were being dramatic, but then it hit you. You were doing extra work for a class that wasn’t yours—answering questions for students who weren’t in your cohorts. You had every right to be upset with the situation! So, it was natural that your feelings for your supposed coworker were… cold. 
When you did see him, in faculty meetings or passing, you kept your gaze off him with a fast pace in your step. A small, more rational voice in your head suggested that you were being rude or petty. But the more you thought about it, the more you decided that you weren’t. You were a graduate professor with your PhD, the same as Dr. Reid. You had the same amount of classes as him, similar students, and experience in the field (though, in this case, yours was forensically based, but experience nonetheless). You could keep a schedule; you were rarely tardy and rarely canceled classes unless absolutely necessary. Why couldn’t he do the same? 
When October faded into November, you prepared for busier office hours. You were unaware that Dr. Reid did as well. You were also surprised that his office was across the hall from yours. His blinds were closed, but his light was on, and you could see the occasional shadow of him and a student. 
Bitter thoughts surfaced as you stared at the shadows in his office. His students would indeed have questions; he was never teaching! You bit the inside of your cheek at the nasty thought and hung your head for a moment, instead trying to focus on a small stack of ungraded papers. 
Lost in thought, the knock on your door frame made you jump. With wide eyes, you found yourself staring at one of Dr. Reid’s students, and behind him was Dr. Reid himself. “Excuse me,” the student said gently, entering your office. “You mentioned some victim advocacy programs in DC the other day while subbing for Dr. Reid, and I was wondering if you could recommend a program?” 
You pause, thinking briefly before your lips form a slight ‘o’, and nod, “Yes, of course!” You grab a pen and sticky note, writing as you speak, “DC SAFE has a great volunteer program!” You smile as you write the number of an associate of yours who primarily talks with the volunteers. 
Walking around your desk, you hand the sticky note to the student. “Just call that number and tell them I sent you,” You smile as the student thanks you and walks away, but after a brief moment, you realize Dr. Reid is still in the hallway, just staring at you. His big brown eyes seem more hazel under the fluorescent lights of the hallway, and he’s very tall. Was he this tall the last time you saw him? Then again, you don’t think he has ever been close enough for you to notice. 
You force an awkward smile, “Can I help you?” 
He swallows, his brown eyes nervously scanning your face. “No, I mean, yes. I didn’t—" he sighs softly. “I was unaware that your office was near mine—your office hours differ from mine.” 
You draw your lips into a tight line, nodding as your hand motions to your desk. “Yes, we appear to be neighbors.” 
Then, more silence. You watch as he nervously shifts his weight on his feet, his brows knit together, and he opens his mouth to say something when one of your students pokes her head around the corner. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but could I… go over some material with you?” 
You feel your tight chest lighten as you nod, barely glancing at Dr. Reid as you reach for your door. “Have a nice day, Dr. Reid.” You mutter as your student shuffles past you, and the door shuts in his face. 
The knot in Spencer’s stomach twists as he stands outside Dr. Matthew’s office. All those months ago, all Dr. Matthew had told him about his first absence was that he had it covered. For some reason, Spencer assumed that Dr. Matthew would teach his classes if the BAU needed a consultation. He did not know that it had been you. 
He wasn’t bothered that it was you, no. You were brilliant, competent, and courteous. He observed that his students were grasping concepts well, even with his absences, which he could now credit to your teaching abilities. You excelled at your work. He had praised Dr. Matthew when it had been you all along!
The student visiting him during his office hours had revealed it to him, and everything started to make sense. You were polite but obviously avoiding him. He had taken note of it in September but thought he was simply overthinking it. 
He bites his lip gently as he waits for the door to open. His eyes meet Dr. Matthew’s, and the older man frowns. “Spencer, is there a case? I’ve told you before, that you needn’t—” 
“No,” Spencer says, holding up his hands. “I just wanted to talk to you about who’s been covering my classes.” 
Dr. Matthew looks bewildered as he mutters your name in a confused tone, asking, “What seems to be the problem?”
“Well, technically, there isn’t a problem.” Spencer watches how Dr. Matthew’s face relaxes, “I was just unaware she was covering for me.” 
“Ah, well, not to worry, she’s very good– wonderful!” He fixes his last choice of words and repeats it, “Wonderful!” Before Spencer can say more, Dr. Matthew shakes his finger– an idea brewing. “You know, she’s around your age! I’m sure the two of you could be great friends– might have plenty in common.” 
“Right, well I–” 
The sharp ringing of the older man’s phone cuts Spencer off. Pulling it out, he frowns and holds up a finger before saying quickly, “Sorry, I have to take this.” Then he retreats into his office and shuts the door behind him, leaving Spencer alone in the hall. 
Spencer finds himself frowning at the dark oak door before returning to his office in defeat. By the time he’s back in his office, he can see you’re gone, and his apology will have to wait another time. 
It’s a Wednesday, and you can feel it in the air—the dreaded anticipation of Dr. Matthew knocking on your door and asking for another favor. You struggle to find an excuse. You’re ahead of grading, lesson plans, everything. You puff out your cheeks as you enter the lecture hall, passing empty seats as you approach the front of the room. 
Setting your bag on the desk, you pull a chair up and get to work setting up. Then… you spot a yellow sticky note stuck to the whiteboard. At first, you brush it off as another teacher forgetting to clean up after themselves. Your fingers pluck it away from the whiteboard, ready to toss it in the trash, and then you see your name written in messy handwriting. 
Your eyes narrow as you bring the note closer to read it. Your name is scrawled in the top left corner, followed by a comma and ‘I truly appreciate you stepping in to cover my classes right before finals. Though it may not be much, there is a chocolate croissant in my office fridge with your name on the bag.– Dr. Spencer Reid’
You blink, then reread it, and again, and again. Then you find yourself briefly smiling, then frowning, then shaking your head, and tossing the note out. Your eyes briefly stay glued to the note in the bin before you finish setting up for class. 
Spencer is happy to see that said chocolate croissant is missing from his mini-fridge when he’s in his office the next day. He moves to sit at his desk when he sees a pink note on the back of his chair. 
‘Dr. Reid, Bribery is low class– no matter how delicious.’ 
Spencer feels his lips quirk up into a smile, holding the note in his hand as he sits. Then, he finds himself doing something surprising, saving it. He places the pink sticky note in his desk drawer, pulling out his yellow sticky notes while he’s at it.
His foot taps under his desk momentarily, and his pen hovers over the colorful paper. He writes a quick message and finds himself quickly waltzing over to his door, opening it, peaking his head to scan the hall, and gently sticking the note on your office door as fast as possible. 
Friday, the construction near your apartment makes it too hard to concentrate, so you head in to get some well-needed work done. When you see the yellow note, it’s barely hanging onto the door, but you can now place the messy handwriting as Dr. Reid’s. 
‘What form of corruption is considered high class?’
You huff out a laugh as you open your office door, tucking the note into a drawer without thinking. You’re eager to turn on your desktop, but as you grade assignments, your mind wanders. 
Your eyes trail over to the pink notes on the edge of your desk. You glance at your screen, then the paper. Your intrusive thoughts win, your fingers wrapping around a pen as you scribble an answer to Dr. Reid. Your tongue swipes across your bottom lip as you run across the hall to place the note on his door. 
Spencer finds himself, surprisingly, excited on Monday morning as he spots a pink note on his office door. He doesn’t even unlock his door. Instead, he stands reading the note with an amused smile. You wrote the word ‘Embezzlement’ in large, neat letters and nothing more. 
However, due to the lack of words, he finds it unnecessary to write a note back. Though, he supposes he’s not obliged to. He tucks the pink note with the other one at his desk and works on some end-of-semester grades. However, his mind occasionally wonders about the office across the hall and if you’re inside. 
At the end of the year faculty ‘party,’ Spencer finds himself feeling rather tongue-tied. Dressed in a thick grey sweater, he finds himself stuck to the wall. He misses the team, and for a second, he debates texting Penelope or Emily to see if they can save him from this situation. But he knows that he needs to get to socialize despite it never being his strong suit. Personally, he thinks that he’s gotten better at it. 
His spot against the wall makes it easy to spot Dr. Matthew and his wife as they discuss something with another couple. He gives up on that route and searches for his friend in the philosophy department. Instead, his eyes land on you. 
Unlike most staff, you’re happily dressed in a festive-looking sweater. He swears that he can see bells and tinsel hanging off it as you talk with another woman excitedly. Spencer lets out a short laugh; it reminds him of something Penelope would wear. 
You’re covering your mouth as you laugh, your eyes sweeping across the room as your giggles shake your shoulders lightly, landing on Dr. Reid for a second. Maybe it is the approaching holidays or the relief that you’re getting a break; you find yourself gracing him with a bright smile. 
Spencer feels a smile spread on his face at the sight and starts approaching you. When he gets to your side, you’re alone. “Hello,” 
You tilt your head up to look up at him, “Hello,” 
This is more awkward than you thought it would be. 
Spencer finds that he didn’t think this through, a surprising development, as he quickly says, “Ugly sweaters originated in the 50’s,” 
Your shoulders fall with that, eyes going soft as you mutter a quiet, “You think my sweater is ugly?” 
“What? No, no, that’s not–” He panics, his cheeks flushing slightly before he sees the growing smirk on your face. “You’re messing with me.” 
“And enjoying it deeply,” 
“You’re cruel,” 
“Payback, I suppose.” 
Spencer feels a stab of guilt in his chest with that, and he sucks in a light breath, “I do appreciate all your help this semester. If there is anything I can do to make it up to you, I will gladly do it.” 
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Then, the conversation dies off for a second. You watch as Spencer glances around the room, reminiscent of how you looked two years ago. You bite the inside of your cheek. “I don’t hate you,” you sigh out, defeated. 
You were easy to please, and he had done just that– pleased you. You didn’t hold grudges, and even if you did, watching him now–talking with him really– you knew he didn’t mean any harm by it. 
His eyebrows shoot up, hazel eyes looking into yours, “Did you?” 
You let out a soft ‘mm’ as you flip your palm up and down, “Perhaps, briefly, pre-croissant.” 
Spencer let out a groan, eyes casting downwards as he nods, “I deserve that,” 
“Water under the bridge,” You decide, watching his hazel eyes leave the ground and meet yours with a hopeful glint.
For a moment, you focus on the color of his eyes. A deep honeyed color at first glance, but hints of cool-toned greens prove that idea wrong. Spencer swallows, wondering why he keeps finding himself without words when he’s around you. Perhaps he is scared of saying the wrong thing, further fractioning your relationship. 
“Would it be alright if we exchanged numbers?” You say, watching his eyes go wide. 
“For?” He hates how the question sounds coming off his tongue but relaxes when you smile. 
“Dr. Matthew saved your ass,” He’s still confused, and you can tell by the way his eyebrows furrow. “He told me that you occasionally lend a hand to the BAU, thus explaining the absenteeism.” 
He lets out a quiet ‘ah’ as you stare at him. "But I’d like to communicate better with you in the future. Hence, I am requesting a number exchange.” 
“I don’t plan on repeating–” 
“Nevertheless, just in case,” You insist softly, taking your phone out of your pocket and opening it for him. “I’m not the biggest fan of surprise classes.” 
Spencer nods as he carefully takes the phone out of your hands, careful not to touch your hands. “Of course,” he says, returning the phone after sending himself a hello message. 
You tuck it away as you nod, catching him smiling at you playfully. “What?” 
“Does this make us friends?” 
“Acquaintances, associates at best.” 
“Noted,” He says with a short laugh, watching you shake your head with a broad grin.
73 notes · View notes
scariusaquarius · 2 days ago
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rehab. 5.
Avenger! Bucky Barnes x Winter Soldier! Fem! Reader
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Summary: While on a mission to find any more possible super soldiers that were a part of the Winter Soldier program, Steve and Bucky make a discovery in an abandoned HYDRA base that was cleared out a few years prior to their mission. They discover the Reader, a long-forgotten soldier that was still asleep within a functioning cryostasis pod; still awaiting orders. While Bucky isn't happy about it, he is put up to the challenge of helping to rehabilitate the soldier in Wakanda where she may be able to become a person again.
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A/n: This chapter is going to contain some very dark and graphic scenes. Please read carefully. I'm really happy that you guys are enjoying the story! The comments are feeding me and motivating me so much, I really do appreciate the support. Also, you can read it here on my archive account as well!
This is an au where Bucky joined the avengers but still rehabilitated in Wakanda (sometime before Infinity War [canon divergent cause NOPE]). I am NOT fluent in Russian, so I did use google translate cause I couldn't find a good translator that I trusted. If anything is wrong, PLEASE let me know!! Also, I tried to list as many warnings as possible so you know what the story will contain as chapters are posted. Stay safe!
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Genre: Slowburn, Enemies to Lovers/Friends to Lovers, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Humor, Drama, Dark Content Rated: Explicit Warning: Angst, Dark Content: Graphic Depictions of Sexual Assault, Blood and Gore, Mentions of Manipulation, Kidnapping, Canon-Typical Violence, Body Horror, Nonconsensual Body Modification/Scarring, Emotional and Physical Abuse, Mentions of Murder, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts/Ideation, Graphic Depictions of Human Remains, Mentions of Sexual Coercion/Manipulation, Death, Misuse of Drugs/Forced Drugging, Self-Harm (Graphic Depictions and Mentions), Nightmares
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Author: ScariusAquarius
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rehab masterlist. chapter 1 / chapter 2 / chapter 3 / chapter 4
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All through the night, Shuri had worked on dissecting the Winter Soldier's brain. When Bucky had swung by the lab in the morning, it seemed as though Shuri hadn't slept at all. Her space buns were now down, the freely-hanging braids swinging wildly as she walked around the cryostasis pod with quick paces.
Her brows were furrowed with annoyance, the princess cursing to herself in Xhosa as Okoye stood by, raising a brow at the profanities Shuri was listing off. Bucky was concerned, greeting her with a tilt of his head and holding out a cup of coffee for her.
"Good morning. Did you get any sleep at all?"
"Good morning, Sergeant Barnes. I admittedly lost track of time, but the programming is proving to be difficult. Every time I seem to get past the encryption, another layer pops up and tries to activate her. However, since she's in cryostasis, the activation is failing."
Bucky nodded, humming thoughtfully as he stared at the woman within the pod.
"Seems like they updated their programming to avoid another...well, me."
Shuri nodded, huffing as she glanced back at him.
"Exactly. I knew that she was going to be complex, but I didn't think to realize that they would install safeguards in such a way. I can do it, it's just frustrating."
Okoye hummed, quirking her brow slightly before snorting in amusement when Shuri glared back at her.
"She has been yelling profanities for the last two hours."
Shuri waved her off, not even gracing Okoye with a response. Instead, she gestured Bucky over, expanding the hologram of the woman's mind. Throughout her mind, Bucky could see pulses of...something...happening, and he glanced at Shuri when the woman asked.
"What do you see?"
"Um, it looks like there's a lightning storm flashing through her mind."
Shuri smiled, nodding.
"Precisely. The synapses of her brain are firing rapidly despite her being in cryostasis. Do you understand what this means?"
Bucky was quiet, shrugging slightly, and Shuri rolled her eyes before saying.
"She is dreaming, White Wolf."
Bucky was surprised, asking Shuri as she began to poke around the hologram, pulling up a couple sections.
"Wait, she is?"
"Yes, and with my technology, I've been able to see into these dreams."
Her expression became grim, eyes darting away from Bucky, and Bucky understood what her expression was saying. Whatever Shuri was able to see hadn't been pleasant in the slightest, which in a morbid way, Bucky wasn't even surprised. Almost wordlessly, she pulled up a particular image, explaining.
"I was only able to get glimpses and small portions of dreams due to HYDRA's programming kicking me out repeatedly, but from what I saw...it was truly horrific. The things that HYDRA did...the things it seems that she is remembering, or perhaps never forgot, are...they are horrific, Sergeant Barnes."
Bucky frowned deeply as looked at the images that Shuri was showing him. Some were of a familiar cell wall, some were of blurred faces that were familiar yet unknown at the same time, and there was one that made his stomach churn.
Blood. There was so much blood covering her naked thighs and pooled beneath her. Shuri had taken the time to carefully blur the soldier's vagina from view, but Bucky didn't even need to see it to know what they had done.
You're a super soldier, they would say. You can take it.
Bucky bit his tongue while his back stiffened considerably, and Shuri brought up a clip that began to play automatically. It seemed to be of a previous killing, the man on the ground looking up at the soldier fearfully as a bloody hand came into view.
He seemed to be begging, crying hard as the body of a child whose head was crushed and gushing with blood and destroyed brain matter laid within his lap. The soldier was holding a gun, and when the gun was fired, the clip ended.
"Were you able to do this with me as well?"
Bucky's tone was quiet, his words almost a whisper as he looked away from the clip, his breathing starting to accelerate slightly as Shuri swiped the clip away quickly.
"Definitely, but not to this extent. However, our work together helped to shape my technology into this."
Shuri gestured to the hologram with her hand before she glanced back at Bucky, pursing her lips as she grabbed another image and maximized it, showing the image of a blurry paper-crochet butterfly and small hands that were in the process of decorating the art project.
"There are a few memories that I was able to get to, though they are slightly miniscule; almost useless to us in figuring out who she is."
Another video came up, a short 10 second clip that showed the soldier in what looked to be a graduation or awards ceremony. There was an elderly-looking hand that was lifting a medal before pinning it to her chest, and Bucky's eyes widened.
"Wait a minute...that looks familiar. Can you clear up the image a bit?"
Shuri looked smug before winking as the image cleared, showing a medal that had an inscription engraved onto it. Bucky shook his head in surprise, saying as he uncrossed his arms in surprise.
"No wonder she's a ghost. She worked for the CIA."
The medal that the soldier had been given was for Career Intelligence, a reward that came from exceptional achievements and, if Bucky remembered right, the length of service. Shuri hummed, stating as she crossed her arms and glanced at the woman.
"Not all ghosts are completely untraceable. If I can get deeper into her mind and get more parts of her memories unlocked, I can attempt to figure out who she is a lot easier and faster."
Shuri then shook her head, huffing with frustration.
"The risk that comes with doing so, however, is that once she awakens and her mind is able to be more active, these memories have a chance of coming to her all at once. It will be an overwhelming and horrifying experience for her."
Bucky sighed heavily. If that happened, there was a risk that it could reactivate HYDRA's programming and she would become an active threat, and nobody wanted that.
Hell, his temple was still throbbing.
Bucky then glanced over at Shuri again when Shuri pointed to a hologram of a document with the CIA's official seal, maximizing the image and swiping a few of the scanned documents away.
"Because we know our soldier was a part of the CIA, I scanned through their database to see if I could find anything akin to the Winter Soldier program. While the CIA is involved in a super soldier project, I haven't found anything of use yet. And don't worry, I erased my tracks as soon as I made them."
Shuri smirked with a haughty glint within her eyes, and Bucky chuckled at her. He hummed after mulling through his thoughts for a moment.
"It's nice to know that we're getting closer to knowing who she is, but if you can't get past the firewalls of the algorithm...how would we reactivate her without wiping her?"
"I can put a temporary lock upon her most recent memories from the time she was awakened until now. That lock will slowly deteriorate over time, almost like a dissolvable suture, so it won't be permanent."
That was nice to know, at least. T'Challa's voice made Shuri and Bucky jump from the surprise, the two of them looking back at him as he walked inside of the lab.
"If our Isithunzi worked for the CIA before she became a Winter Soldier and was awarded for her work, then perhaps the next step would be to look at every single employee that was in service within the last 50 years that received recognition from the agency."
He was holding the black book within his hands, and T'Challa placed it down on a table beside one of the original Black Panther suits, the king regarding the two of them with a tired look. Shuri scoffed, waving him off before doing the Wakandan salute.
"Please, you always think so lowly of me. When I discovered this particular memory, I downloaded as much information as I could without tripping the CIA's cyber security systems. There's at least 75 years worth of information here. If we filter out employees that hadn't specifically received a Career Intelligence reward, we lower the number to at least five to 10 years."
Bucky was impressed, and he joked gently.
"You ever thought of becoming a spy?"
T'Challa pursed his lips in annoyance when Shuri laughed loudly.
"Not in your life, White Wolf. I like being my own boss."
"Unless the king says no."
Shuri didn't even grace T'Challa with a response, making the man roll his eyes and shake his head. T'Challa regarded Bucky with a hard gaze, asking him.
"Have you gotten in touch with the Captain to see if Tony or Natasha have found anything as well?"
"Not yet. I was kind of waiting on them to get in touch with me."
T'Challa nodded, and he suggested.
'You should tell the Captain what you have found. I am sure that he is eager to know what we have uncovered."
Bucky nodded despite the cryptic feeling that was twinging T'Challa's words, and he walked out of the lab into a deserted hallway, a couple of the Dora Milaje standing guard. Awkwardly nodding to them in greeting as he walked down the hallway, Bucky slipped out the phone within his pocket and frowned.
Despite the fact that he'd had the thing for a while, Bucky still couldn't quite grasp the fact that touch-screen was a thing. Hell, the last time Bucky had ever used a phone before HYDRA, it was to call his little sister, Rebecca, before he went to Europe with the 107th.
He could still remember the number for the Shelbyville operator, the specific number for Rebecca's telephone, and how calls were logged and billed for at the end of the month. Now, it took just dialing a number directly. Bucky's mind was still having a bit of trouble wrapping around the idea of call operators not really being a thing anymore.
Shaking his head slightly, Bucky called Steve, a quiet part of his mind wondering if Steve had felt this way before as well. The meaningless thought was squandered when Steve answered, sounding a bit out of breath as he spoke.
"Hey, Buck. Any progress yet on the woman?"
Bucky hummed, leaning against the wall as he glanced in the direction of the lab, replying.
"We got a bit of good information. Shuri's technology was able to get through to some parts of the woman's brain and reveal some memories of her. Apparently, she was a part of the CIA before she became a Winter Soldier."
Steve made a noise of surprise, stating.
"That makes things a bit easier. Tony wasn't really able to find a lot, and Natasha hasn't even combed the surface of the databanks we acquired."
"She's a complete ghost, so I don't know if it'll help. There's something else, though..."
Bucky's voice trailed off for a moment, his surprise hitting him again before he informed Steve.
"...the woman's dreaming. Shuri had a live hologram of the woman's brain up, and she said that the synapses of her brain were firing in a way that was common with dreaming."
"Which means the woman might be remembering things...that's good, right?"
The image of the woman's bloodied legs came to Bucky's mind, and he tightened his grip on his phone, muttering.
"I don't...I don't know. Some of the images that Shuri was able to capture of the woman's dreams and memories...they weren't pleasant."
Steve was quiet for a moment, and he replied with a stern tone of voice.
"We'll get this figured out and we'll find out who she is. If not...then we can help her become a new person...a completely clean slate."
Bucky didn't comment on the way that Steve said 'we' and instead rubbed a hand over his face, muttering.
"The CIA seems to have a super soldier project, but it's not confirmed that the CIA had any volunteers that we know of...it's mainly rumors and ideas."
Bucky added as he watched T'Challa and Shuri leave down the opposite hall, their steps quick and purposeful.
"It's possible there were HYDRA agents within that stole information on the serum, or the serum itself, that the CIA was concocting and grabbed some random woman off of the side of the street. They, as well as HYDRA, have the ability to scrub a person completely off of the radar, and nobody is gonna be looking for a nobody."
Steve was firm, and Bucky knew the man had to be shaking his head at him as Steve slightly scolded him.
"That's not true. There's always going to be someone...we just don't know if that someone is alive or dead. According to that book we found, she's been an active soldier for HYDRA since 1985, and who knows how long she was there before she was created. 30 years is a long time."
"Yeah? Try 70."
Steve was quiet, and Bucky apologized quietly, revealing gently.
"Sorry...I'm sorry...it's just...it's a lot."
Steve's voice was gentle with patience, making Bucky furrow his brows as he ran a hand through his hair.
"I know, Bucky, but I'm with you till the end of the line. You know you can call me at any time and talk to me."
"I know. I'm with you till the end of the line, too, pal."
Steve then groaned gently when the sound of an explosion went through the phone, and he was quick to inform Bucky.
"Hey, I gotta go. Queens just crashed in. Literally. Call me if you get any updates, and I'll call you if I get one first."
Before Bucky could respond, the line went dead, and Bucky shook his head and slipped his phone back into his pocket. Walking back into the lab, Bucky came to stand in front of the cryostasis pod.
Hands within his pockets, he stared at the woman, gazing at the scars that covered her lower jaw and neck, and he watched as the live feed of her brain began to become active again.
An alert showed up along with a video, and Bucky was astounded to realize that it was a live feed of the dream the woman was currently having. It was a bit jarring to watch, bits and pieces becoming jumbled and blurry, and then it began to become clear.
The woman was standing before a man that Bucky knew very well, his face crystal clear to him and sparking rage deep within his chest. Bucky watched as Rollins spoke to her, and though there was no audio to be able to hear what he was saying, Bucky knew it wasn't pleasant.
Rollins seemed angry, walking back and forth in front of her before striking her down with a baton, the view shifting to the floor as the soldier fell and blood splattered onto the ground as if the woman had coughed.
From there, it only got worse, and Bucky had to turn away the second the soldier began to unbuckle the man's belt with bloodied hands, his anger becoming too much. Anger, regret, recognition, it was too much for Bucky to handle.
He could feel his chest restricting, could feel the oxygen becoming harder to breathe, and a tingling sensation began to grow within his toes and fingers.
Flashes began to appear within his own mind, images of the Enforcer's hosing his naked body with ice-cold water before they began to touch him; reaching for places he didn't want to be touched.
He could feel their teeth in his flesh, could hear the echoes of their taunts as they laughed menacingly, and Bucky squeezed his eyes shut as he began to tremble and feel disgusted by his own body. A voice within his head began to speak to him gently; familiar and comforting as it guided him.
Breathe, Bucky.
In and out. Slowly. You are not their tool anymore. They can't hurt you. You're free.
Bucky repeated the words in his head over and over, as many times as he could.
I'm free. I'm free. I'm free. I am James Buchanan Barnes. I am Bucky.
Swallowing thickly, it took a little while for his heartrate to settle, and he stood upright, rubbing his chest slightly. Closing his eyes, Bucky could feel the tears starting to well up within his eyes, and he took a few more deep breaths.
Turning back to the screen, he was thankful that the image was gone. Instead, the woman seemed to be dreaming of a wooded area, the point-of-view looking down at a plaque that was placed within stone In the peripheral vision, there was a little kid's hand that was grabbing at one of the flowers that was surrounding the plaque.
It was so peculiar to Bucky to the point that he was completely jarred out of his panic. Squinting, he began to realize that this plaque was familiar, especially when the name on the plaque became clear.
Meltzer Woods.
He knew that name and place. In fact, Bucky could recall the trails like the back of his hand, could still smell the wildflowers, and if Bucky really thought hard enough, he could still hear the way his mother scolded him as Rebecca became upset by Bucky teasing her.
"Come, now, James. Leave your little sister alone."
He could still remember the way Rebecca had squealed, though time had taken away what exactly she had panicked over. He recalled that his mother had placed her hands on her hips, giving him a stern gaze when Bucky had talked back to her; exasperated as Rebecca began to cry.
"But Ma, we're in the woods! Of course there's going to be bugs!"
"Now, don't you give me that lip. You don't want your father to hear, do you?"
The memory slowly faded, but Bucky was too floored to care.
What had the soldier been doing in Shelbyville, Indiana? Did she know the place like he did? Was this from a time before she had been with HYDRA?
"You look as though you have seen a ghost!"
Shuri was back, giving him an odd look as Bucky stared at the woman in the cryostasis pod, and all Bucky could respond with was-
"I think I did."
-
STORY NOTES: Shuri has been working endlessly to get past HYDRA's programming. She is verbally and visibly frustrated, which Bucky becomes concerned about as he greets her. Shuri reveals that she had lost track of time because of HYDRA's programming continuously throwing up more firewalls that try to activate the soldier every time she managed to break through another.
Bucky comments that HYDRA seems to have updated their algorithms since his departure. Shuri then shows Bucky a live feed of the digital rendition of the soldier's brain, telling Bucky to list off what he observes. Bucky observes that the activity within the brain looks like a lightning storm, which Shuri agrees and elaborates.
It is revealed that the soldier is currently dreaming despite being in cryostasis, and Shuri reveals that she has developed a technology that allows her to be able to show what a person is dreaming about. Using this technology on the soldier, however, reveals the gruesome treatment HYDRA inflicted and the brutality of the Winter Soldier.
Shuri's technology is able to access and project dreams in the same way, and she shows Bucky a memory the soldier had about receiving a medal. Bucky recognizes the medal, and it's revealed that the Winter Soldier had been involved with the CIA at some point on a professional level.
T'Challa makes a recommendation to Bucky to get in touch with Steve, and Bucky agrees. He reflects on the advancements of communications technology and how he had to speak to an operator to call his sister when he was still int he ARMY. Bucky then tells Steve about what Shuri had found, and he also reveals that the woman is dreaming.
After his phone call, Bucky goes back to the lab and is angry when he is shown a memory that the soldier is currently remembering of her Handler, which Bucky recognizes as Jack Rollins. Bucky begins to experience a PTSD episode where he begins to remember when Enforcers sexually assaulted him during a hose-down.
Once he calms down, Bucky recognizes a place that the soldier is now dreaming of: Meltzer Woods. He recalls a memory of him, his parents, and his little sister going to the trails all of the time since Meltzer Woods is located in his hometown of Shelbyville, Indiana, and when Shuri comes in and comments about how Bucky looks as though he's seen a 'ghost', he comments that he might have. End Scene.
TRANSLATIONS:
Isithunzi - Xhosa for [the] shadow/shade
TAGLIST: @mgchaser @tilldeathripsusapart @vicmc624 @aash3
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sitp-recs · 9 hours ago
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hi! do you happen to have any drarry recs where draco just gets harry? like even if he doesn't say anything, maybe reading his body language, his facial expressions or just simply knowing him so well? and harry being relieved he doesn't need to say much because draco just gets him? sorry if this seems confusing hope i articulated myself well enough, its not my first language...
Hi there! That’s a great ask - I’ve read this theme being explored in a few different ways so I went a bit wild here, I hope all of these work for you:
Begin As You Mean To Go On by @doubleappled (E, 3k)
The first time, it was an accident. The second time, Harry’s going to have to ask.
A Little Death Never Hurt Anyone by @tackytigerfic (E, 4k)
Harry's getting good at slipping through the Veil. He's determined to win the war, even if means he has to raise the dead to do it. Draco just wants a stiff drink and a good night's sleep.
Life goes not backward by @shealwaysreads (T, 9k)
Harry still isn’t used to gifts, but this one is different. A story of coming home, finding safe ground, and the wild courage of putting down roots.
Wield Me by @tackytigerfic (E, 10k)
Draco Malfoy, blacksmith, is renowned through the magical world for his skill and exquisite creations. He could quite easily spend the rest of his days making pretty trinkets for the fae court, and being handsomely rewarded for the privilege. But why take the easy route when instead he could get involved in a dangerous mission with Unspeakable Harry Potter (who also happens to be Draco's... well, he's something, isn't he?)
Unseen by astolat (M, 11k)
When he wasn’t wearing it, he got jumpy, always waiting for someone to come at him wanting something—and now they did it even more urgently, if they ever saw him, because most of the time, nobody did.
Trouble, My Old Friend by Tepre (E, 21k)
Harry goes rogue investigating an illegal potion and ends up at Draco Malfoy's dodgy lab.
Nice Things by aideomai (M, 22k)
The first thing that happened was Theodore Nott came back from France.
Like Lightning at Your Fingertips by potterwatch (T, 43k)
The problem with living with another insomniac is, eventually, they find out you’re one, too. When Harry and Draco return for their eighth year, they think they’ll see very little of each other. Then McGonagall assigns them to room together. And the castle starts breaking. And there’s that thing with Potter’s magic.
Meet Me at Midnight by @the-starryknight (T, 57k)
Harry was beginning to wonder if he’d ever make anything again when Malfoy stormed through the door of Harry’s furniture shop. Now Harry’s got an impossible Ministry commission to finish, and even less energy than ever to deal with his elusive muse. That is, until he stumbles upon the surreal and beautiful world of a mysterious fae creature…
Little Deaths and How to Avoid Them (or Draco Malfoy's Guide to Stop Dying and Start Living Instead) by nerakrose, dustmouth (T, 96k)
Malfoy is way too interested in coroner reports for somebody who's definitely not looking for ways to die, Harry wants to be friends with him, and Ginny wants to break up with Harry.
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mirx-xko-offical · 2 days ago
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I’ve always enjoyed the idea of body swap fics
the idea of you swapping bodies with someone like Rook you stressing out hard and rook having the time of his life gaining a deeper understanding of you
not to mention the fact the beastmen and merboys avoid ‘Rook’ like the plague and r very off scared of ‘your’ new personality
this lady’s, gentlemen and, our other gendered friends, is a amazing idea. I’ve never written for Rook so this is going to be fun !!
prompt: Body swap
Content warnings- Second person pov, nothing romantic (honestly because I don’t know how I’d make this romantic tbh), Not proofread, Rook (and probably Vil) is probably OOC mainly because I haven’t written him before (and quite frankly don’t like him that much but please don’t come after me for it 🙏), probably short because I’m trying to finish it for once
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You’d never expect to not only wake up in someone else’s bedroom but, to also be in their body too… The bad thing is that you seemed to swap with someone who has a certain stalker reputation. Oh how you wonder how you’d make it through the day. Hopefully he doesn’t do anything weird to your body.
You dress yourself, looking at yourself in the mirror before a certain housewarden walked in, seemingly checking in on the blond that your soul is currently in.
’Rook! There you are. Where were you this morning? You were meant to wake me up!’
He complains as you just stood there awkwardly, unsure how to explain the current situation you’re in.
‘That’s the thing…’
You mumble on, explaining how you weren’t the blonde he was looking for but instead the magicless human. He simply stood there before sighing.
‘Why must it always be you potato…’
‘I don’t know..’
You sulk for a while as you followed Vil around, so ready to get out of the blonde’s body. Speaking of the said blonde, what just is he doing while he’s in your body? You’d much rather not think of it…
You sigh as you walked into your potions class, the only class you really have with him. Everyone turning towards you suspiciously as you kept your head low, most of them not knowing about the swap of bodies.
You sit down at Rook’s usual desk, looking towards the doorway before finding Rook or rather you walk in with the amount of confidence you’d never have in your life.
You decide to just keep your head low and wait u til the end of class to confront Mr. Crewel about it.
You look up at the clock again, something you did often today it seemed. 5 minutes til the end… You thought to yourself, your mind always making sure you knew the time.
Time passed by slowly as if it was slowing down to a complete stop. You look at the clock again, reading the time. 3 more minutes…
Then those 3 minutes turned into 2 and finally I to 1. Most of the students by then were already packing up their stuff as Professor Crewel finished the lesson.
You sigh at the sound of the bell finally ringing, standing up from your seat before walking up to the professor. You glance over to see Rook do the same.
You were the first to speak, telling him about the entire situation through your awkwardness, looking up from his desk to see him nod, understanding what you were saying.
‘I am sure I have something for you pups.’
He hummed as she stood from his desk, walking over to a shelf, grabbing a potion with a small purple hue. He gave it to you both, telling you to simply drink it and you’d be back.
You look over to Rook, him giving you his signature smile before drinking it himself, giving you a nod to drink it as well.
You looked down at the potion before placing your lips against it, drinking it quickly as if almost out of desperation.
You gasp before feeling your vision fade before finding yourself opening your eyes, looking down to find yourself back in your own body. You look at Professor Crewel before nodding to him respectfully, walking out of his class with a thank you.
You’re sure that both you and rook had came to an agreement, to never have this happen again.
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dragonnarrative-writes · 5 hours ago
Text
Part 10 - Blind Retrieve (Interlude)
Slasher Handler Masterlist
Read on AO3
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Price calls Ghost for a job.
CW: Discussion of wounds, cannon adjacent discussions of terrorism and violence, Soap (the family dog)
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Price calls Simon to work exactly four weeks after you puncture his lung. The wound is healed, with nothing but a bright pink line left behind. You’d gone into a bit of a fit when you’d finally seen it, helping him change the bandages. The drain hadn’t bothered you none, but the scar…
Ghost reports to the base at 2200, masked and kitted as usual. A bit of overkill, for a briefing, but he likes the routine of it. There’s a comfort in the distance it gives him. He doesn’t see many people, but the ones he does see avoid his eyes and find somewhere else to be.
He’s surprised, then, to see Soap pacing the length of the conference room when he arrives. More surprised at the warmth that blooms in his chest at the sight of him.
He’s a little skinny, Ghost observes, as blue eyes light up when they find his. Underfed and not as bulky as he usually likes, jeans and a tee sitting not quite loose on his frame. He lost his weight training privileges in prison, most likely. But his hair is shiny and his skin is clear. When he grins it looks like he has all of his teeth.
“There ye are, ye wee bonnie bastard,” Soap cries, dramatic, dancing forward for a clap on the shoulder. He’s away just as fast, laughing at the way Ghost’s knife barely misses him. ���Miss me?”
“’Ardly noticed you was gone,” Ghost answers. “Gaz ‘ere?”
“That’s all I get?” Soap ducks close again, bats Ghost’s half-hearted swat away as he tries to shake Ghost by a vest strap. “Ten months away an’ yer done with me already.”
“Not really interested in ‘ow many dicks you sucked in prison,” Ghost says with a shrug. “Can’t imagine there’s much else that’s noteworthy.”
“Six,” Soap cackles.
A sour faced man, a general by insignia, clears his throat from the other end of the conference room. He visibly blanches when Ghost turns to look at him. The analyst next to him stares for a moment, then looks down at the legal pad in front of him like catching Ghost’s eye might kill him.
It might.
Putting a big hand on top of Soaps head, Ghost reels him in for a one armed embrace. It’s easy to tip forward to knock Soap’s skull against the one adorning his face.
“Good to ‘ave you back,” he mutters. “Been quiet.”
Soap nuzzles in and grins. “’Ardly any chips in this one. ‘S it new?”
“Mm. Gift from my new girl.”
Blue eyes go sharply interested. “Ye’ve a new bird?”
“Told you. Things ‘ve been quiet.”
Price arrives then, Gaz a step behind. They’re both dressed conservatively, jeans, tee, a light jacket. They don’t react to Soap’s presence, probably got their greetings out of the way. It doesn’t stop him from making Gaz put up with a full-body hug, though. Price rolls his eyes as he takes a seat, but he’s got a squirt to the side of his mouth that says he’s happy to have his men accounted for again.
Last to walk in are a couple of self-important looking uniforms who frown when they see Ghost standing in his customary corner. The colonels look sharp, for a late night meeting. Pressed and proper. They look slow. Ghost catalogs their lack of weapons as an afterthought. Ghost does not sit.
The briefing is uninteresting. There are terrorists, because there always are. The target is in London, because it always is. Red tape mans bombs have crossed international lines before anyone could do anything effective. There was an engagement in Bulgaria, and another in Czechia. Shipping containers made it to Lowestoft. Kortac was deployed. Kortac was eliminated. Terrorists are in the wind.
Typical.
“So instead of deploying us first, on our own turf,” Gaz says, tapping his pen on his notebook, “you let terrorists in, then threw a second rate team at the problem and made things worse.”
One of the colonels, the tall, fat one, bristled. “Now see here-”
“If you had this handled, you wouldn’t have called us,” Price interrupts. “So unless you’re paying all of this money to jerk yourselves off over a job well done, you need my men in the line of fire.”
“Easier ways to kill me” Soap chuckles.
“Apparently not,” Price mutters. Louder, he says, “Enough of the bullshit. Time for brass tacks. How many of the hostiles do you need alive?”
The sour faced general scowls, but says. “Two. They’re identified in the dossier.”
The little analyst pipes up. “That doesn’t mean you can just kill-”
“A bit too late for that,” Price rumbles. “If you wanted a low body count, you should have contained all of this before calling in the butchers. But if you’re too squeamish for this, perhaps you should leave before we talk civilian casualties.”
It becomes apparent that the rest of the conversation is just going to be a bunch of mewling around the realities of what they were called in to do. Ghost stops listening and half examines the briefing packet in his hands. He’s bored. Even thinking about the ways he would gut the little analyst after stalking him to his car is dull.
He wants to go home to you.
The thought makes him pause, and he pretends to reread the same line again.
He wants to go home to you. He looks forward to going home. He has a home, now, not just a flat. He has you.
The 141 is far from the suicide squad it was supposed to be. They’re too good, and unrestrained by the law and rules of engagement. They all fight to kill first and win second. Price runs a tight ship. Nothing escapes his scrutiny, Gaz’s perfect analysis. Soap is a wildcard. Ghost is the cold destruction extremists only aspire to. But shit happens when bullets fly. No one is immune to a hole in the neck or the brain.
He has a home to return to now.
“Price,” he says, ignoring the way eyes snap to the skull and away. His team looks at him without flinching. “Takin’ the dog on a walk.”
“No pissing on the carpet,” Price says, to the chagrin of the other colonel, who is stubbornly trying to explain unacceptable collateral to a group of men who kill for fun. Must be new to the game of hiring mercenaries. Gaz has a look in his eye that suggests he may not live to regret opening his mouth.
Soap, for his part, jumps out of his seat with palpable relief. The smile doesn’t leave his face when they leave the room, but the energy about him changes. The opportunity to move makes him sharp. From happy hound to a set of teeth with intent. Even so, he looks up with a sparkle to his eye. “Where to, Ghost?”
So goddamn charming. Ghost can’t help but smile under his mask. “Captain and Gaz got to meet the missus. Think you should, too.”
Soap is quiet for a long time, flipping a key card between his fingers that is certainly not his. Ghost can see his eyes flickering with his racing thoughts as they circle the floor. Eventually, he asks, “Ye think we’re ginnae die, then? Not like ye to phone it in.”
“Not fuckin’ likely,” Ghost snorts. “’S a waste of time, bringin’ oll of us in. Mace’d have it done in 48 hours if they’d called him in in Turkey. No, I jus’ want to introduce my pets to each other.”
“Oh aye?” Soap swipes them through a door and into a cubicle farm. He spots something - a candy bowl, apparently - and stalks forward to mess about at someone’s desk. Over his shoulder, he asks, “Gettin’ tired of ‘er?”
“Quite the opposite,” Ghost chuckles. “Wait til you meet her. I think you’ll get along.”
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marinettesaltprompts · 2 days ago
Text
The Perfect Partner (Part 2)
Prompt by @ironicreality
“What?” Adrien was confused, he thought he was supposed to look like Ladybug’s old sidekick, but instead he was in this weird restrictive mix of a skintight supersuit and a vaugely ‘royal prince’ uniform..
Cat themed of course, complete with silly pawprints for the buttons. If they weren’t in a literal life or death situation he’d probably find it kind of fun in a childish way.
“You- I…” Ladybug shakes her her and scowls. “Of course it was one big trick- I’m going to-”
There is another crack a stone wall behind them shudders with a superpowered blow.
“Ladybug, whatever it is we have a job to do.” Adrien sharply reminded her.
Ladybug’s scowl didn’t let up, but her attention returned to the present. Wordlessly she grabs his arm and practically drags him closer to the enemy.
“Uh, Ladybug- what’s the *plan?*” Superpowered or not, Adrien wasn’t looking forwards to seeing the Akuma he’d suicidally upset for some reason.
Abruptly they passed a piece of rubble and they were suddenly in view of the thing. A bunch of other heroes were desperately dancing around it with no other apparent goal than drawing attention and hoping to avoid immediate death.
“Distract it and keep it in the school.” Ladybug *growled* and literally *threw him* at the stone monster. Adrien found himself slamming into the thing, rebounding off the hard body with a sharp gasp (some part of his brain confirms that the collision would have been lethal normally, so superpowers were confirmed) and landed on his backside before the thing.
“Oh hey, who’s the new guy?” The turtle themed-one asked.
“Carapace, back before you change back!” Ladybug interrupts. “Everyone else, leave this to *Cat Walker*.”
Wait, what?
Adrien stares in shock as the rest of the team wordlessly abandons him. 'Cat Walker’ stares up at the Akuma, and somehow dodges to the side in time to avoid being crushed.
What follows is a full ten minutes of Cat Walker continuing that trend. The super-agility, strength and speed help but the monster still knocks him through a few walls. Surprisingly he doesn’t immediately die but instead just feels bruised and winded.
At some point he notices that he has a metal stick attached to his back and finds that it snaps wide to become a staff of some kind. It’s kind of neat.
It also does nothing what-so-ever to the giant rock monster-
Oh, never mind. The Akuma *laughs* like it’s being tickled.
By the end of the ten minutes Cat Walker is tried, sore and quite sure that he’s going to need to be “brought back” by Ladybug. But luckily for him, that’s when the rest of the team comes back, this time with a stripey wasp-themed hero and within moments the Akuma is contained and then paralyzed before Ladybug comes over with some a bottle of spray (red and black spotted of course) that reveals a choker around the Akuma’s neck.
And so Cat Walker witnesses his first (?, it feels familiar… did he see it on TV before?) purification and the Miraculous Cure.
Honestly it’s kind of awe-inspiring up close to see the school rebuilt in a second around him but, the wonder is quickly cut off as Carapace turns to him again. “So hey newbie, not bad-”
“He’s a temp!” Ladybug interrupted again, sharply with that same sour tone, “*just a temp.*”
“Hunh, oh.” Carapace shrugs, “shame Dude, you did pretty good there for first time.”
Cat Walker finds his voice. “… I nearly died six times.”
Ladybug *snorts*, and the Dragon-themed hero calmly- but *snidely* in a way that reminded him of Kagami when she was feeling smug- speaks up; “we noticed.”
“Thanks for your help!” The wasp quickly distracts from that, “sorry about taking so long. I had a thing and-”
She was giving a polite and possibly true excuse. Which was more than he’d probably get from anyone else here- did they *really* need to leave him alone to fight the monster?
Oh well. Adrien knew when to cut his losses, so he drops into the appropriate script.
“That’s alright, I’m sure you had a good reason.” Cat Walker slides into the polite etiquette with a disturbing ease, almost like he *meant it*. “But I’m sure we all have our lives to return to.”
“That’s right!” Ladybug chirps, clearly in a good mood now, “so everyone get to your rendezvous points and-”
Cat Walker pulled off the ring.
“ADRIEN!” Carapace’s eyes bulge. “You-” he turns to Ladybug. “You picked *him*?”
From the sound of things, Carapace’s good opinion of him had disappeared like Cat Walker’s confining suit. Come to think of it the same seemed to apply to the Wasp Heroine, and the Dragon’s eyes had become hard.
Adrien, for his part, couldn’t say exactly why he’d suddenly tugged off the magic ring. Well, no: of course he could. The form felt powerful for sure, but it was also confining, and the fact that he’d been thrown to the giant rock monster without warning didn’t make it more appealing. But somehow being Cat Walker also felt like…
Embarrassment? *Anger*?
No. Not just that, there was resentment burning under his skin but also…
Submission?
Whatever it was, some part of him utterly *loathed* being Cat Walker even before Ladybug threw him at the giant monster and wouldn’t stand for wearing the ring a second longer.
“You wanted this back right after, right?” Adrien found the box from before -where had it gone when changed?- in his hand, and spied the little black cat-thing from before in the corner for his eye for a second before he popped the ring in and snapped it closed. “Here.”
He pointedly pushed it to her, and Ladybug reflexively took it even while apparently still in shock.
“Right, so was that it?” He put on a winning smile, just like the creepy cameramen at his job loved. The rest of the team still seemed lost for words, and Adrien- still feeling his skin crawl with *whatever* from the ring and the phantom pains of being beaten- decided to escape the little clan of Superfurries before that changed. “Great, thanks for all your hard work- say, is she all right?”
He pointed to the Akuma victim, currently dazed and slowly coming to. She looked like a girl a little past four.
“Uh-yeah…” Carapace looked over to her, “hey so-”
“One of you should probably get her out of here, bye!” Adrien shot another smile and promptly *left*.
If you asked him, he couldn’t say for sure *why* he so jerkily left the team like that. Even more than the shock and frustration of being made into an impromptu mouse for an Akuma to play with, it was something *else* like what he felt from the ring.
If Father had seen him act in that way, he was sure the uptight man would have shoved him straight back into etiquette lessons again. But Adrien was quite sure that if he’d stayed he would have said something worse.
Either way, the whole thing was behind him as he found his class restored, so he promptly put the surreal experience out of his mind.
And things mostly went back to normal after that. There were some odd looks from his classmates, especially from Chloe and the Class President’s clique, he just paid attention to the lessons and moved on.
Father actually spoke to him at dinner, which was kind of a novelty. Somehow he’d found out about his little ‘heroics’ in saving Chloe (not about the superhero part, just the suicidal part) and gave him a lecture about basic common sense and not running into danger.
It was… actually kind of fair. The man was a complete jerk most of the time but Adrien had to admit that he’d been a bit of lemming, so he just took his medicine without complain: and that satisfied Gabriel enough to leave him be after that.
What *was* surprising though was finding Ladybug waiting for him in his room.
The pleasantries are short (nonexistent).
“Today was a one-time thing. Don’t expect to touch the ring again.” Ladybug is professional, but there’s an undercurrent there that he doesn’t care for.
“I wasn’t planning to,” Adrien keeps his tone airy, like he’s not bothered that she’s there.
(Something in the back fof his skull crawls)
“Good. Then we’re done here.” Ladybug turns to leave.
But Adrien, whoever he was in the past, was just a *little* too ‘imperfect’ now, just a little petty now to just let his all-too-long career of spontaneous Akuma hackysack slide without at least one jab in of his own;
“Do you usually leave people to fight the enemy on their own? Or is that just for temps?”
Ladybug ignored him as she left.
Adrien, having not enjoyed his brief time as a hero/punchingbag as much as you might think, was quite happy to ignore *her* and the entire war once more. Which he did for a full day, a full week, and very nearly a full month.
But there always whispers about Ladybug having to use different ‘cats’ now, rumours that even he couldn’t close his ears to. And it turned he also couldn’t close his life to either.
It was a dour afternoon while Adrien was practising his piano (there was something kind of nice about the ‘click’ of muscle memory guiding him to the notes before his mind realised). The wind was blowing quite heavily, so he’d shut his window-
So imagine his surprise when suddenly the thing opened from the *outside*, and a miserably wet Superheroine dropped in- no wait.
She was also just flat out miserable to be there, judging from her expression.
“Why hello Ladybug, come in, come in,” Adrien hid his surprise as best he could with , but some inner barb poked through his good sense again (why am I antagonising a superhero?). “Don’t mind the water damage I’m sure I can pay for it.”
Ladybug stared as him like she was facing a needle to the eye.
She said nothing as she pulled out a box like the one from last time.
Something bitter twisted in him.
“I thought we agreed last time-”
“I need Ryuko *and* a black cat.” Ladybug’s words were sharp and to the point, like they hurt her to say.
Adrien looked at the box. “And you want me to be the cat?”
“*No.*” The re was venom there before she composed herself, “But you’re… good with the ring.”
Adrien wasn’t stupid.
This Ryuko was the Dragon Hero, and from the way Ladybug was speaking- she was also Ladybug’s first pick for Black Cat when she didn’t need both seperately.
But there was no way that he was so ‘good with the ring’ after one try spent running from one beating after another. He knew she had other backups as well, but maybe it was the same thing and she needed them with other Miraculouses…
“*Chloe* is out there,” Ladybug seemed to have picked up on his hesitation, and she growled the name. “I know you care about *her*, so just take the ring and get going.”
Adrien opened his mouth to refuse- But again, something in him twisted. Maybe it was some left over feelings for an old friendship he couldn’t remember? Whatever it was, it enough to overpower the feelings of *wrongness* as he stood up to take the box.
“Follow my path out of the garden,” Ladybug’s words were clipped again as she turned, “the cameras won’t see us.”
As expected, Ladybug more or less dropped him on the Akuma and left him to absorb the heat.
“Aww, poor little kitty left out in the cold?” The weather-themed Akuma mocked him, “better hold on tight if you don’t want to be blown away!”
No sign of Chloe anywhere, but maybe she’d had the good sense to run while Ladybug left. Unlike some other poor souls.
A supernatural gust of hail struck one of said souls with full force, almost throwing him over a bridge railing before some instinct pushed him to extend his staff for support.
He looked up at the Akuma. A dark dress, purple hair in two large pigtails and an umbrella; something clicked in his head;
“Stormy Weather was it?” Cat Walker looked up at the floating Akuma.
“The one and only,” Stormy confirmed with sadistic glee. “Now, why don’t we see if this little kitty swims like the old one-”
Okay no, Cat Walker had better things to do that to just take beatings today- or any day. There were better ways to waste time; why not try ‘diplomacy’?
“That seems unnecessary,” a perfect model smile crossed Cat Walker’s face.
“Oh, and why’s *that*?” Stormy smirked.
“Because clearly you’re going to win,” Cat Walker sighed with apparently sincere resignation.
The Akuma’s face dropped in surprise, and the model continued on; “anyone can tell where this battle is heading.” He put a hand to his chest, “I’m but a poor novice to this war, and then there’s *you*, well… don’t you think this is a bit unfair?”
Stormy giggled like an idiot; “yes, yes it is!” Fine lines of Lightning flickered into existience around her as she circled in closer to him. They licked the ground and left scorch marks, but Cat Walker’s eyes focused on the umbrella instead while Stormy’s attention was elsewhere. “You’re helpless before me!”
“I have to agree,” Cat Walker mournfully concurred, and as if in deep fear; he flinched away from Stormy Weather, drwaing closer to a stone Pillar like she was a predator he was retreating from. “This is, is, is…”
Stormy’s eyes gleamed with a sense of power over the hero and she advanced closer, “*go on*….”
“A cataclysmic disaster!” Cat Walker threw up his clawed hand in emphasis.
In a second, Stormy realised the ruse and hissed; her eyes darted to his right hand.
And left herself vulnerable to his left. Having floated in close, she barely had time to blink as he lunged forwards with his ringless hand and ripped the umbrella from her grip.
“Wait-”
Chat Noir’s power hadn’t activated, but Cat Walker only took a second to break the umbrella in two under foot. To his pleasure, not only did Stormy’s power vanish, but a butterfly suddenly flew out of the broken implement and the Akuma victim reappeared in human form from a weave of dark magic.
“Where… where am?” The girl blinked in shock as Cat Walker nimbly plucked the Akuma butterfly from the air, “Are you a hero? Where’s Ladybug?”
“Oh don’t worry, I’m just a temp” Cat Walker gave her the same smile that had charmed her a moment ago. “The real heroes should be here any minute.”
And I’m just going to leave it here for now. With the core dynamic established and parts of the mystery of Chat Noir’s end implied: the next parts will be covering just how a Black Cat who 'takes things seriously’ would clash with Marinette’s approach.
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