#wait was it? maybe i liked something and forgot

[siri-ike]

I can't believe I kinda forgot about this. But the people asked for more, and here it is.

(P.S. I would have reblogged from one of the requests, but I messed up some lines in the first part, so I had to edit it first)

The first thing they did was establish which wall separated Aqualad and Star. An easy feat, Kaldur just had to knock on each wall, and Star pointed out where it was loudest. Superboy was told to lie flat on the ground and do nothing but breathe. Dick examined every inch of his box over and over and found nothing. He wasn't even able to hack the computer. It wasn't advanced or anything. Aside from the weird ports, the computer looked pretty old.

The worst part was waiting.

Over the course of 30 minutes Dick watched his friends become more and more uneasy. Both Superboy and Starfire lay on the floor of their rooms, making sure to breathe. Kaldur was up to his shoulders in water. By now, he would have realized he couldn't swim in it either. KF was still asleep. It was important that the first part of the plan goes well. They can worry about Artemis' absence later.

"H̸u̶r̶ts, do̴esn̴'t it?" He wasn't speaking over a PA anymore. Apparently, he can just do that to his voice.

Robin kicked hard, in the exact spot the voice came from, but no one was there. The taller teen materialized behind him with a cold hand on his back.

"I ̴hate ̴waiting, ̴too." He looked different from before. There was a bruse on his cheek and he was wearing different clothes. What was he doing for the past 30 minutes?

"What do you want?" Dick spat. He knows full well how dangerous it can be to anger your captor, but patience is a very finite resource.

"There's another way out." He leaned in close to Dicks ear. "Confess."

"What do you want me to confess to?" Dick was sure he had never met this guy before. The only way this could be about something personal... "or should I ask, what does your boss want me to confess to?"

His smile was wide and unnatural. It's just enough to be unsettling. "No~ he doesn't know about this." He grabbed onto the colar of Robin's cape and started to sink into the floor, pulling Dick down with him.

Robin struggled as much as he could, even emergency releasing his cape, but it didn't matter. It was like this guy wasn't holding onto the cape at all, but his soul or something.

The pull came to a sudden stop, with just the big smile sticking out of the floor and a hand at his chest. "Your sins," the pause was short, but excruciating, "are your own." The mouth and hand disappeared, and Dick was able to get up again. But he didn't. He just sat there on the floor.

Why?

Why does he have to be so... powerless?

"Artemis calling team!"

Artemis? Dick tried to say something, but no words came out.

"Friend Artemis, what a joyous relief." Starfire wheezed.

Dick turned back to the monitors. Aqualad! He looked away for too long.

"Star, break the wall to Aqualad. Hurry." Dicks voice was so rough he barely understood himself. Star blasted one of the firewalls. It didn't work.

She blasted again and again, but they were impervious to her starbolts. "Friend Robin, it does not work."

Dick scrambled through the notes he'd scribbled on the back of his letter. That's it. "Star, take a deep breath, then blow it out into the fire on the wall to Aqualad."

"But that will hurt Aqualad and Kid Flash."

"I don't think it will, not if the watter puts out the fire fast enough."

"What if you're wrong?"

"Water is also a great shock absorber, and KF heals fast."

The coms were silent for a moment, but Star didn't move.

"It's a calculated risk. Trust me."

Dick heard a loud bang, and all the monitors turned off. "Robin calling team, can you hear me?"

"Why?" a small voice whispered in his ear. He turned quickly, but no one was there. It sounded younger than the teen from earlier. Younger than Robin even. Maybe around seven to ten? "Why would they trust you?" It sounded familiar.

"No!" He huffed. "How am I supposed to play your game when I can't even move my pieces?"

"Is that all they are to you?... still?" The child's voice sounded neutral. There was a total lack of emotion. It was almost like talking to Batman. "That's not what you were to me." A hint of sadness. So faint, most wouldn't notice.

*Boom!*

A loud crash shook the room. Could it have been Star?

*BANG!* *Crash!*

That one was bigger. It had to be the floor/ceiling between Aqualad and Superboys rooms.

(I'm sorry Artemis is purple, Tumblr has a very limited color selection.)

Danny Phantom:Villain for hire writing prompt

Danny goes to college after he becomes ghost king and gets bored when his life is no longer packed with chaos.

Sure he could head to the realms and fight some ghosts but that was just regular chaos and he wanted to mix things up a bit.

It’s around this time that Danny learns about the young protégés of the Justice league.

One day while the JL are at the watch tower having a meeting IN SPACE they are interrupted by a teenaged invader.

The whole team goes on the defensive when much to their surprise, the teen passes out his resume and pulls up a PowerPoint title “Phantom:Villain for hire”

He then goes on to explain that he’d been in the hero game for years in a small town where the media actively portrayed him as a villain for years before going completely dark on the matter when Vlad was kicked out of office.

He explains that he’d been in fights with various levels of villains and is incredibly versatile with his power output and fight difficulty.

Which is why he would be the perfect villain to have their protégés practice against!!

He can be their villain of the week that helps them learn valuable life lessons while giving them a very real challenge WITHOUT the risk of death or dismemberment!

he can even create schemes catered to lessons they want to teach their proteges

for a price of course….

years down the line when each of them officially join the league. one by one the team has a mental breakdown when they find the bane of their existence eating a bagel in the league cafateroa

[rynwrites4fun]

Across The Hall (3) | Michael Robinavitch x Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Michael Robinavitch x F! Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Summary: Michael offers to help you carry a large box, but when the elevator’s out, you end up climbing six flights of stairs together. The climb is tiring but playful, and it leads to him spending time with you in your apartment.

Word count: 2180

Warnings: Age Gap (Mid 20/ Early 50s)

Authors Note: part 3!!! the story Michael tells is based on a actual story from someone in my life lol. if I forgot to add you to the tag list, very sorry! let me know if I didn’t add you and I’ll add you on. again thanks for the love! I enjoy reading your comments :) - ryn

Wednesday 7:20pm

“You need a hand with that?” Michael asked, walking up to the mailboxes, key in hand. He slid it into the lock and pulled out a small stack of mail. He looked tired—fresh off a long shift, still in scrubs.

You had just come back from a coffee shop, where you’d stayed after work to chip away at lesson planning. Now you stood by the mailboxes, eyeing the large box at your feet.

“Oh hey! Yes, please! It’s pretty heavy. Like, definitely a two-person job.”

“Alright, let’s go for it.”

The two of you hefted the box together, making your way toward the building’s single elevator—only to find a sign taped across the doors: Out of Order.

You both set the box down and stared at it in silence.

“Crap,” you muttered.

You exchanged a glance. It was obvious—you’d both just gotten off work, bags in tow, and neither of you had the energy for this.

“Okay… well, I guess we’re hitting the stairs,” Michael said.

“I can just leave it…”

“And let someone in our building steal it?”

“Who’s dumb enough to steal a box that weighs, like, over fifty pounds?”

“Hey, you never know. People are desperate these days.”

He bent to grab his side of the box, and you followed suit.

Together, you maneuvered the large box toward the stairwell, bumping it against the doorframe with a dull thud that made you both laugh, tired and amused.

Then began the slow, painful climb—six flights of stairs ahead.

They two of you made it about halfway.

“Okay—wait, wait,” Michael huffed, setting his side of the box down with a dramatic grunt. He leaned over the banister, catching his breath. “I need a minute. I’m not as young as I used to be.”

You laughed as he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, shaking his head.

“How old are you, anyway?�� you asked, playfully squinting at him.

“Fifty-three,”

He was twenty-nine years older than you. He’d lived more life, seen more, carried years of experiences you hadn’t even brushed against.

“How old are you?” he asks back.

“I’m twenty five”

“Geez,” he mumbled under his breath, masking his reaction with a slow exhale. He’d known you were young…just maybe not that young.

“Should I be worried about you throwing out your back?” You tease.

He gave you a hard, playful look as he looked up at you from leaning against the banister.

“Careful,” he said, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I might just leave you to drag this thing up yourself if you keep it up.”

“You wouldn’t do that." you say.

“You’re right, I wouldn’t” he chuckles.

He was teasing, sure—but he meant it. He’d never leave anyone hanging, especially not a woman. That’s just the kind of man Michael was. Caring. It was something his mother had instilled in him from the time he was a kid: look out for others, be kind, be useful.

It was why he became a doctor in the first place. He didn’t just want to fix things, he wanted to help people.

“Okay… halfway there,” he said, standing up straight.

You mirrored him, both of you grabbing your sides of the box as you began the final climb—three more flights of stairs.

By the time you reached the sixth floor and made it to your apartment door, the box hit the ground with a heavy thud.

You and Michael both let out loud huffs, panting like you’d just run a race.

He dropped his backpack beside the box and hunched over, hands on his knees.

“Shit,” he breathed.

“Okay—we… we did it. We made it,” you said, dropping your own bag, one hand braced against the wall, trying to catch your breath.

“What even is that?” he asked, squinting down at the box like it had personally offended him.

“It’s a shelf,” you replied.

“Do you wanna come in? I’ve got water… beer.”

He was still hunched over, catching his breath, but he pointed a finger at you when you said beer, wagging it up and down like it was the magic word.

“Beer… a beer sounds good.”

“Okay,” you exhaled, leaning your shoulder against the doorframe.

“Do you think we can just… take a minute?” you asked, gesturing vaguely at the hallway—at the idea of not moving at all for a bit.

“I’m right there with you,” he said, like he’d read your mind.

You both stayed there a second longer, just breathing. Neither of you moved to open the door.

—

Eventually, the two of you made it inside your apartment. The box lay on your living room floor. You and Michael slouched on the couch, beers in hand, too exhausted from not only lugging the box up six flights of stairs but also your jobs.

“Are you gonna build it?” Michael asked, glancing over at the box.

“I was gonna have Aiden do it,” you said with a shrug.

Michael raised an eyebrow. Well, if Aiden didn’t even unjam your window, he most likely won’t be assembling your shelf either. The box was probably just going to sit there until you caved and did it yourself. He thought about it for a second, then sighed.

“Well, since I’m already here, I can put it together for you,” he offered.

You blinked. “What? No, come on, Michael. You just got off a 12-hour shift, you just helped me lug this thing up six flights of stairs—and your back—”

“My back will be fine,” he said quickly, waving it off.

It was a lie. His back was definitely hurting, but he wasn’t about to admit it. He’d pushed through worse and, honestly, he didn’t mind helping you out. Plus, it gave him an excuse to stay, to linger in the space for a little longer.

“Well, if you’re gonna build it, at least stay for dinner,” you said, giving him a pointed look.

“Okay, deal,” he agreed, grinning.

“I can also supervise you as you cook. You know, so you don’t smoke your apartment out again,” he said, teasing you, nudging you with his elbow.

You rolled your eyes. “Very funny.”

“Hey, I take this supervising gig seriously.” He leaned back, a mischievous grin on his face as he took a swig of his beer

“Oh, I’m sure you do,” you replied, getting up from the couch, heading to your kitchen.

__

You start cooking dinner, the comforting rhythm of mixing and stirring filling the air. Michael sits on your floor, his glasses on as he carefully reads the directions. His second beer sits not far from him, and tools and scattered pieces of the shelf are spread across the floor.

You glance over your shoulder, watching him as he concentrates, fiddling with the screwdriver in his hand, his brow furrowed in focus. The scene feels oddly domestic.

For a moment, you let yourself savor the quiet comfort of it—how natural it feels, how easy. You wish you and Aiden could have moments like this, too. No rush, no tension, just small, simple acts of being together. But the thought lingers, bittersweet, before you return to the task at hand.

“How long have you been a doctor?”

He huffs out a laugh “A long time”

“Uh well I started working in the ER when I was around your age–” he says picking up a piece and screwing it to another part. “I was assigned to the ER as med student…never really left after that. the department I wanted to be in”

“What made you want to be a doctor?” you asked, stirring the food in the pot, the wooden spoon clinking softly against the sides.

“I knew from a young age I always wanted to help people,”

“I was raised by a single mother,” Michael said, his voice steady but thoughtful. “She taught me to be kind, to be useful. Helpful in any way I could—whether it was something big or small. Her rule was: take action. Don’t just stand there waiting for someone to tell you what needs to be done. If you see it, do it.”

Michael said, his voice softening a bit and tinkering with the now half-built shelf, fitting a wooden panel into place. “There was this time when I was a kid—my friend and I were messing around with his BB gun, and he ended up getting shot in the torso. It was lodged in there, and he was too scared to tell his parents because we weren’t supposed to be playing with it”

You looked at him, eyebrows raised. “What did you do?”

“I panicked, but then I remembered her rule. I went into full rescue mode. I kept running back and forth through my house grabbing supplies—Band-Aids, peroxide, even tweezers. My mom was yelling, ‘What are you doing?’ and I just kept saying, ‘Emergency!’”

You laughed quietly, picturing a younger version of him in full crisis mode.

“Long story short,” he continued, “she was proud of me for wanting to help him, but also told me, very clearly, to leave it to the professionals. And right then and there, I knew I wanted to be one of them.”

He looked over at you.

“What about you? What made you want to be a teacher?”

You stopped stirring, turning the burner to low before resting the spoon on the edge of the pot. And grabs bowls from the cabnit.

“Kind of the same thing, I guess,” you say. “I just knew as a kid I always wanted to be good and do good. I thought I could do that by being a teacher. Impacting kids, inspiring them. I remembered how some of my favorite teachers made me feel… seen, safe, like I mattered. I wanted to do the same for someone else.”

“Look at us—working two of the most underrated, underappreciated, and undervalued professions,” he laughed, shaking his head.

“Tell me about it,” you said, cracking a tired smile as you scooped rice into the bowls.

“The food’s done. Come eat,” you called over your shoulder.

Michael paused mid-screw on the shelf, then set down the tool and picked up his beer. “That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day.”

He made his way into the kitchen, peering into the pot with interest.

“Red beans and rice,” you said, ladling it into bowls. “It’s a Louisiana dish. I’ve got family down there. This is kind of my go-to comfort food.”

“Smells good,” he said, taking the bowl from you with a nod. “Thank you.”

—

The two of you sat at your island table like the first time the two of you had dinner, natural conversation flowing between you. Eventually, you both cleaned up the kitchen and made your way to the living room. Michael returned to the half-built shelf, you helping this time, passing him screws, holding panels steady, the quiet kind of teamwork that made the space feel warmer.

“How long have you been with Aiden?” Not looking at you right away, his focus on aligning two wooden panels.

You paused, caught a little off guard by the question, but not in a bad way.

“Since college,” you said, handing him a screw. “That was a different time though.”

He glanced over at you then, curious but not prying.

“Different how?” he asked, his tone careful, curious.

“We’ve changed a lot, I guess…” you said, your voice briefly tinged with sadness. But you quickly deflected, flashing a teasing grin and adding, “Not as young as we used to be.”

You mirror his earlier words, throwing them back at him when he had stopped to rest while carrying the box up the stairs.

He notices the brief shift in your mood but doesn’t push, sensing you’re not ready to dive into the heavier stuff. He figured maybe Aiden had been the one to change since then.

Instead, he chuckles, the sound light and familiar. “Says the 25-year-old. If you’re old, then what does that make me?”

You raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Ancient? A fossil? Practically prehistoric?”

He lets out a sigh and shakes his head “You wounded me.”

After finishing up the shelf, you both set it carefully in the corner of your living room.

“Now I have a place to house my books and not leave them lying around,” you say, stepping back to admire the shelf.

He crosses his arms, looking at the shelf with a proud nod. “Well, look at that. Mission accomplished.”

You glance over at him, your expression softening. “Thank you, Michael, can I repay you?

“Hey, you paid for my manual labor in beer and food, so we’re even.”

You laugh, raising an eyebrow. “Okay, so pay you in food and beer—got it. Noted for future reference.”

He picks up his bag off the floor, signaling that he’s heading back across the hall, giving you a mock-serious look. “I expect my shelf to be filled with books and knick-knacks and whatnot.”

You give a mock salute. “I promise, it’ll be a shelf worth showing off.” The two of you walk toward the door.

You pause at the threshold, glancing at him with a soft smile. “Good night.” He says.

“Good night, Michael.”

With a final, lingering glance, he steps out into the evening, and you close the door behind you. You heart feels warm.

Tags: tag: @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere @beebeechaos @antisocialfiore @delicatetrashtree @xxxkat3xxx @homebytheharbor @woodxtock @letstryagaintomorrow @livingavilaloca @elkitot @annabellee88 @hagarsays @emma8895eb @the-goddess-of-mischief-writing @jazzimac1967 @lafemme-nk @kmc1989 @whos6claire @harrysgothicbitch @trustme3-13 @qardasngan @silas-aeiou @k3ndallroy @ohmystrawberrycheesecake @ay0nha @404creep

Across The Hall (1) (2) (3)

[liminalmemories21]

Epiphanies on a bathroom floor (911 ficlet - post episode 8x17)

@cecilyv and I took a crack at another version of what could have happened post 8x17. (entertainingly, I still haven't seen the episode - @cecilyv has though, so slightly more informed vibes this time around)

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

Buck gets back from the scene, from the building falling to pieces around them, and locks himself in Eddie’s bathroom. Doesn’t feel like his house. Again. He stands, staring at himself in the mirror, rocking forward on his toes. His heart pounding in his chest, hammering against his breast bone like it's trying to escape. 

He barely recognizes the person looking back. 

Eddie knocks, asks if he’s okay. Buck’s not sure exactly what to say, what he should say, what Eddie wants to hear. Whatever he ends up saying must have been good enough because Eddie tells him that he and Chris are going to Pepa’s. 

Good, that’s good. More people Buck doesn’t have to put a brave face on for, any longer.  He listens to them leave.  In theory the house is empty now. He could unlock the door, go sit somewhere more comfortable for his breakdown. Go back to the church, double the number of times he’s gone in a decade in a weekend.

Doesn’t move.

Doesn’t know if the earthquake was a sign from God that he was blaspheming, but he can’t tempt fate again. Doesn’t have another earthquake or lightning strike in him right now. Bobby, God, whomever is watching over him and letting him royally fuck up.

There’s a noise, someone opening the front door, footsteps.  He wonders what Eddie forgot. Then a knock on the door and, “Evan?”

He feels tears prickle at the corners of his eyes and squeezes them shut. Grips the edge of the counter until he feels it digging into his palms. Can’t start crying now.  Not sure he’d ever stop.  Breathes through it until he thinks his voice will be steady.

“Tommy?”

“Hen called me.  Said she was worried about you after that last call.”

And she’d called Tommy?  Has no idea what to do with that.

“She thought Eddie would be here, but apparently he’s at his aunt’s?”  Tommy sounds baffled. He doesn’t have the energy to explain.  He’s not sure what to think about the idea that Tommy was Hen’s first call after Eddie.

Just says, “Yeah.”  And then out of some kind of loyalty, or something, adds, “I, uh, I said it was okay.” It’s not Eddie’s fault that he was made wrong. 

Tommy makes a non-committal noise.  “Do you want to come out?”  He doesn’t think he makes a noise, but he must, because Tommy’s instantly backtracking, “Or I can sit here and wait until you’re ready.”

It takes him a second to place that tone of voice, and then he wants to cringe his way into a corner, because that’s the ‘talk the crazy person off the ledge’ voice. The first responder, ‘calm the victim down’ voice. He knows that voice; he uses that voice. 

Ma’am, I’m not Satan, my name is Buck. He really was begging to get smited, wasn’t he?

Slides down the wall instead, down down down, until he’s sitting on the floor. Wraps his arms around his legs, thinks he’s as small as he can be. Tilts his head against the door with a thunk. He’s sure that Tommy has better places to be, things he should be doing. He sits, for a second, a minute, expecting him to go. He should go. But then he hears Tommy moving, swearing softly, grunting when he hits the ground. His hip must be hurting him again, it does sometimes -- had always enjoyed getting his hands on him when it had, before, rubbing muscle cream into it, finding the knots and pushing until they loosened, making it better. 

Now, he thinks he should get back up, open the door -- keeping Tommy down here, with him -- he’s doing exactly what Eddie said he always did. Worries his lip between his teeth. Maybe he’d never made it better; maybe he’d always made it worse.

Can’t bring himself to move.  If he’s quiet, he thinks he can hear Tommy breathing and that has to be enough. 

He’s silent too long, because Tommy says, "Evan, I need you to keep talking to me.”

He's foggy enough that it takes a minute to figure out why. "You think I have a concussion?"

"Well, Hen thinks it’s a possibility, and I make it a policy not to argue with Hen." He snorts wetly.  Gets an amused hum in response, and then, “Since I can't get in there and check, I'm going to need you to talk to me until I can. Okay?"

Concussion protocols.  He can do that.  Could do it in his sleep.  "Um, my name is Evan Buckley." Pauses. "Do you know you and Maddie are the only people who call me Evan. Well, my parents. But I don't like it when they do it. You and Maddie are the only people who do it and I like it."

Hears Tommy make an indistinct noise he can't parse. Keeps going.

"President is, uh, Trump. Fuck all our lives." He hadn’t cared the first time, Washington was so far away, had so little impact on his day to day until fire season rolled around. He thinks about Tommy, Hen and Karen and Josh and all the other people who dealt with the fear and anxiety every single day. He should have cared. It should have mattered. It’s just another way he failed them without knowing; another way he could have, should have been better.

"Umm, what else. Oh right, what day of the week is it." That stumps him. Thinks backwards, flips through the shift calendar in his head. Still nothing. "Okay, I don't know that. But, to be fair, I don't think I knew what day of the week it was before the earthquake, so it shouldn't count."

He can tell you how many days it's been since Bobby died though. How many days he's been trying to hold everything and everyone together with tape and string and he's not Bobby, he's not enough. He can't do it.  Eddie made that very clear. 

“Two out of three,” Tommy says.  “Good enough for government work.” He waits for Tommy to leave.  He’s done his duty. Checked on him. One more way he’s making himself the problem - pulling Tommy away from whatever he’d been doing, making him drive out of his way to come check on him. Hears Tommy shift to find a different position on the other side of the door instead, jeans rustling when his legs rub together.  “Now that’s out of the way, how’ve you been doing?”

Pepa told him to accept change and Bobby told him to be there for people, that they’d need him, that he’d be alright — and he whispers, soft enough that Tommy shouldn’t be able to hear him, even back to back against the same door, “I’m not okay, Bobby said, but I’m not — and Eddie said--“ and trails off.

Closes his eyes.  Swallows it down.  Waits until he’s sure his voice won’t give him away. “I’m okay. You don’t need to stay.”

Tommy makes a hmming noise. “But I just got myself settled. I’m not as young as I used to be, I think I’ll stay for a minute if that’s okay with you.”

He wants to ask why Tommy’s here. Why Tommy came when Hen called. Why he keeps coming when Buck calls, when all Buck ever is is mean to him. Thinks he should tell Tommy he’s not worth it, that whatever Tommy thinks he sees, it’s not real.

Hears Tommy shifting again.  There are blankets and pillows in the bedroom. He should tell Tommy to grab some if he’s planning on staying.  Floor’s not going to get any softer. 

Thinks about asking what he’d have to do to make Tommy want to stay. With him, not just here on this floor. Reminds himself not to make it about him, what he wants.  

He doesn’t want any of this. Wants a do-over.  

There’s a stretch of silence, then Tommy breaks it. “I watched the new Blue Planet the other day. Or well, I guess it’s not new, but I missed it when it came out, so new to me.”

He appreciates what Tommy’s trying to do. It’s still a little bit -- talk the crazy guy off the ledge, but well, he feels a little bit like he’s balancing on a ledge, so maybe Tommy knows something he doesn’t.

“Proof of life,” Tommy asks him, and oh, yea, didn’t respond. Out loud, anyway. Guesses that’s the only response that really matters. 

“Did you like it?” his voice sounds rusty, like it’s been scrapped over the shards of his throat. He wipes his eyes. Doesn’t know when he started crying. Must have been for a while. 

“It lacked commentary,” is all Tommy says, which is weird because it has a good narrator, and he-- oh. 

“You mean, uh, me?” 

It’s an old house, Eddie’s, his, whoever's it is right now. There’s a gap under the door — he watches Tommy’s fingers slide under, like a cat’s paw.  He hooks his finger with Tommy’s.

“I mean, you.” Buck lets that settle inside him, feels his lips quirk upward. “Think you’re ready to let me in?”

Could be talking about the bathroom. Could be about something bigger.  Either way. “I’ll only hurt you, I’m no good for anyone I love.”

And Tommy’s quiet again for a long time and when he speaks, his voice is funny -- not talk the crazy person down, more like he’s trying to talk around a lump in his throat. “I’m someone you love?” 

“Yes,” he says, affronted, before he can stop himself.  Because that’s never been up for debate.  “But that doesn’t matter, it’s not about me — what I want.”

“It matters a lot to me,” Tommy points out.  “And, I think it’s a little bit about what you want.”

Buck puts his other hand on the door, presses until his knuckles whiten. It’s what he wants, but he never gets what he wants.

He can’t believe they’re having this conversation while he’s locked in a bathroom, sitting on cold tiles, staring at the toilet. The lights are harsh, because he never bothered to change them from the cheap fluorescents Eddie put in. They expose every flaw for anyone who can see — God. Bobby. Himself. Maybe Tommy. 

“Think you can open the door now?”

He looks down at their fingers, still wrapped around each other. “I’ll have to let go.” Doesn’t want to let go, never did; right now it feels like the only thing tethering him, making him feel safe, wanted.

“Just for a second,” Tommy concedes. “I’ve got you.”

[katemoneymartinsgf]

Azzi wanting cuddled while Paige kk and ice are playing Fortnite

maybe she like sits on her lap straddling her( not like in a sexual way just cutesy)

Fortnite |pazzi|

a/n: one of the prompts that was given to me could potentially be a little series if y’all want, or it could just be one long chapter. what would you prefer?? Feel free to request paige x reader or azzi x resder. I can also write for kate and caitlin. Also thank you for the prompts, i would be in a drought if it wasn’t for the ideas 😛

-

��Bro, don’t land there, you’re gonna killed”
“Ice, I’m cracked, relax.”

Paige’s voice echoes through the apartment, body leaned forward in the gaming chair KK dragged from her room. Ice is cross-legged on the floor, headset slightly crooked. KK’s pacing like it’s real life combat.

Azzi’s watching from the couch.

At first, she doesn’t say anything — just sits, one knee pulled up under her hoodie, water bottle balanced against her thigh. But the longer she watches Paige yell about loadouts and builds, the more her pout starts to settle in.

“Bro, this squad’s lowkey trash,” Paige mutters. “I swear, I could 2v1—”

Azzi gives it another minute stands up and walks over.

Paige doesn’t notice.

Without a word she slides into Paige’s lap, straddling her knees and curling her arms around her shoulders.

Paige doesn’t react right away. Just leans back slightly to make room, her hands still on the controller.

Azzi rests her head on her shoulder, face half-hidden in her hoodie.

“You can still play,” she murmurs, like this is normal. Like she hasn’t just completely folded herself into Paige’s space mid-match.

Paige exhales a soft laugh through her nose. “You good?”

Azzi nods. “Just wanted you.”

And Paige doesn’t say anything else. Just adjusts her grip on the controller and shifts one arm so it sits low around Azzi’s waist, holding her in place while she keeps playing.

Azzi stays quiet after that. Not needy. Not asking for more. Just there — tucked in close, like Paige being there and warm is all she needs right now.

Paige is still yelling at the game. Still makes a few clutch plays.

But every so often, she mumbles something only Azzi can hear.

“Your hair smells good.”

“Stop smilin’ like that, I’m tryna concentrate.”

And every time Azzi shifts just a little closer, Paige just tightens her arm — not rough, not obvious. Just a little. Just enough.

-

The game ends with a win — barely.

Paige tosses the controller onto the couch, arms still wrapped around Azzi’s waist like she forgot how to let go.

Azzi’s thumb is tracing slow circles into the back of Paige’s neck, soft and absentminded. She doesn’t say anything yet. Just waits.

Paige tilts her head back slightly, looking up at her with a lazy grin. “Carried again.”

Azzi raises an eyebrow. “Did you?”

“Babe, I had like six kills.”

“Six,” Azzi repeats, gently.

Paige blinks. “Okay, and?”

“You usually have like ten.”

Paige scoffs. “That’s crazy.”

“I’m just saying.” Azzi shrugs, still playing with her hair. “Seems like someone was a little… distracted.”

Paige narrows her eyes. “You climbed into my lap mid-fight. Mid-rush.”

“You said I could stay.”

“You said I could still play!”

“I didn’t stop you.”

“You were literally on me bro.”

Azzi hums. “Exactly.”

Paige groans and hides her face in her hoodie sleeve. “You’re a menace.”

Azzi leans in, brushing her lips against her cheekbone. “You still won, didn’t you?”

“Barely.”

“Still counts.”

“Barely,” Paige repeats under her breath, but she’s already pulling Azzi closer, hands sliding under the hem of her hoodie to rest warm against her waist.

Azzi lets her — settling in like she never plans on moving.

“You like when I distract you anyway.”

Paige just sighs, leaning her head back with a dramatic eye roll.

And then kisses her.

Because she does like it.

And Azzi knows that too.

They stay like that for a second — quiet, soft, breath syncing up. Paige’s fingers drumming slow against Azzi’s side, Azzi pressing her forehead to Paige’s temple, like they’ve both forgotten they’re not alone.

Until—

“Hey so sorry to interrupt ,” KK calls from the couch, controller in hand. “We running another or are you guys busy being gay?”

Paige lifts her head, blinking like she’s waking up from a dream. Azzi just smiles and tucks her face into her hoodie.

“I can play,” Paige says quickly, straightening up.

KK smirks. “You sure? Need a minute to regain focus?”

Ice from across the room: “She’s only good for, like, four kills now. Azzi nerfed her.”

Azzi shrugs. “Worth it.”

Paige groans. “Y’all are so annoying.”

KK’s already re-queuing the game. “That’s what you get for falling in love during duos, bro.”

Paige mutters something under her breath and grabs her controller again — but not before Azzi leans forward and kisses her cheek.

And paige spends the whole next match grinning to herself.

[uniquexusposts]

But I am Lando Norris | L. Norris

Summary: Lando Norris went to a random concert and ended up seeing his childhood neighbour on stage. What would he do to see her again after all those years? Words: 2.619 A/n: I got the inspiration after seeing Tom Odell and Billie Eilish at their concert :)

The venue was filled with many people. A lot of people. Something Lando hadn’t really expected, for some reason, but it was very real. 20.000 people in this stadium. All for Your artist name (Y/a/n). Everything in the stadium was louder than expected. 

It wasn’t chaotic, not yet, but there was a humming with that kind of pre-show tension that made everyone talk louder than usual, laugh sharper, sing along with the background music, scroll their phones more nervously, as if trying to pass the time before something important dropped. And to many, something important would happen. The opening act had just finished.

Lando tucked his hands into the pockets of his jacket and scanned the crowd beneath and next to him, from where he stood near the VIP lounge entrance. His friends had disappeared a few minutes ago, getting drinks or merch or whatever else people would do before a show like this. He had said he would wait here. He didn’t mind it. 

He wasn’t even really sure why he had said yes to coming. His friend had offered the spare ticket with zero pressure, and he had said ‘why not’ like it meant nothing. He hadn’t expected anything, they said it was just a show of an artist, just music, good music, and maybe some songs he would vaguely recognise. 

And then he had seen the name on the poster when arriving. 

Y/a/n. Just that. Stylised. Sharp. Backlit in white. 

He remembered seeing it and pausing, only for a second. Enough to think, Huh. That’s wild. Because even if she went by something different now, even if her look had changed, he knew who she was.

They had grown up on the same street. Played in the same games with the same kids outside. Played football, hide and seek, ring and run. Things kids would do when playing outside. They had never been close, just part of the blut of childhood. And then one day, after going to high school, the entire group stopped meeting up. 

Lando exhaled slowly and glanced over the crowd. Y/a/n had a massive fanbase, she had so many hits, the tickets to her tour were sold out quickly. People would camp a week before her show to get the best seats. People were standing outside without a ticket, hoping someone would give up a ticket to still give them a chance to see Y/a/n. 

He ran a hand through his hair, then followed the others inside. They took a seat on their designated seats. 

Max nudged him. “Didn’t know you were a fan.”

“I’m not,” Lando said, almost absently. “She just… grew up in my neighbourhood.”

Max blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

“Yeah. We used to play outside with the same group of kids.” He shrugged like it didn’t matter. “That’s it.”

And then the lights went out.

A breathless silence fell like a wave, followed by a sudden scream from the crowd. Somewhere beneath it all, a low, pulsing synth began to rise, slow, haunting, magnetic. Lando sat up straighter. He hadn’t expected much. But the moment the music hit, the first note, the sudden bloom of lights, something shifted.

The screen behind the stage flickered to life, abstract visuals in grayscale, like static breaking into water, and the bass deepened, vibrating in Lando’s chest. Then, through the smoke and fractured light, she appeared.

Y/a/n. 

Y/n L/n from house number 47. 

It wasn’t just the way she stood there, still, centred, not saying a word, but the way the entire arena reacted on her presence. She wore something simple, red, almost careless, yet very stylish, but held herself like gravity had shifted in her favour. The crowd roared. She didn’t flinch.

Lando forgot to blink.

It was her. Of course it was her, her voice was on every radio, her face was on every screen. But this was different. This was now. And the shy girl, who used to kick gravel down their street had turned into a phenomenon.

And when she began to sing, the crowd was screaming the lyrics along. They knew every single word. She moved energetically along the stage, waved every now and then to the crowd. It was like a bomb with energy exploded in the stadium. 

Lando didn’t hear the lyrics.

He only watched her. The way she moved with purpose but without effort. The way the crowd swayed like she was pulling every string.

His friends were cheering. Someone bumped into his arm. But Lando didn’t move. He wasn’t starstruck, it wasn’t that. He just suddenly couldn’t believe that someone like her had been standing five feet away from him all those summers ago, barefoot and shy and loud and ordinary.

And now?

Now she looked like a storm that had learned how to sing.

-

The crowd screamed, clapped, their cheers nearly drowning out the music when Y/a/n walked around the stage to wave at her crowd for the last time. Lando stood, clapping along, but it was automatic. He didn’t feel the rush of excitement everyone else was experiencing. He was still lost in the haze of that last moment.

His mind was still back at the moment she had stepped on stage, her presence a magnet. His heart wasn’t pounding, it wasn’t nerves, but something deeper, quieter. A magnetic pull he couldn’t explain.

Max slapped him on the back. “She was incredible, huh?”

Lando nodded, eyes still on the stage as the lights began to fade, her presence fading away as she got off the stage. “Yeah. Incredible.” His words felt empty compared to what he was actually feeling, but he couldn’t find the right ones. Incredible didn’t even begin to cover it.

The crowd slowly began to spill out of the stands, but Lando wasn’t moving. His friends were already heading toward the exit, chatting about the encore and how they could grab drinks after. But Lando’s feet stayed planted.

How could she be that powerful?

He scanned the stage one last time, searching for any sign of her, his heart still racing despite the calm exterior. There was a stir in the air, a buzz of people rushing behind the scenes, a mix of crew, security, and the last few fans who were hoping for a glimpse.

He didn’t think, he just acted.

Lando got up and he walked towards one of the doors that said ‘backstage, staff only’. He could hear the excitement of all the fans, many were screaming, crying and almost hyperventilating. Some recognised him, but they were still processing the moments they had with their favourite artist. His pulse was fast, not from adrenaline but something else entirely, something raw and uncertain. He couldn’t explain it, but the need to see her, just for a second, had overtaken him.

By the time he reached the backstage entrance, a security guard stepped in front of him, blocking his path.

“Can I help you?” the guard asked, arms crossed, his gaze unimpressed.

Lando swallowed, trying to push away the uncertainty that suddenly hit him. “I… I just need to talk to her. Y/n. Is she still here?”

The guard raised an eyebrow. “You a friend?”

Lando hesitated for a beat too long, the weight of his own words feeling heavier now. “Yeah. I grew up with her. We-”

The guard didn’t even let him finish. “And I grew up with the King. You can turn around and go home.”

Lando bit back a frustrated sigh. He glanced at the exit, hoping for a glimpse. But he knew that wasn’t enough. He wasn’t going to leave this night like that. Not after what he had just seen. “Do you have any idea when she’ll be available?” he asked, his voice steady but urgent now. “I don’t want to take up much time. Just a quick conversation.”

The guard looked him over again, as if debating whether or not he should let him through. He squinted his eyes. “You know, mate, we can do it the friendly way or the difficult way. There’s a reason why I am here. And you should know all about it. We can’t give everybody access to their favourite person. You would not like it too.” 

“No, I fully understand,” Lando sighed. He couldn’t leave, not yet. He had to see her again. “But how can I see her? This is personal. And as you said, I know all about it. So why would I disturb her for no reason?”

The guard didn’t budge, still eyeing him with skepticism. The silence between them stretched for a moment, the background noise of the crowd's excitement humming in the distance. Lando could feel his patience wearing thin, but he knew he had to stay calm. He couldn't risk losing his chance.

Finally, the guard spoke again, his voice softer, though still guarded. “Alright, mate. Here’s the deal. She’s not going to have time for some random fan to chat her up after the show, even if you used to play football with her as a kid-“

“But I am Lando Norris,” Lando said, throwing out a card he hated. 

“And I am Leo Samson, nice to meet you. I can’t make exceptions. Stop the debate, it’s not going to happen-“

“But I’m not a random fan,” Lando cut in, sharply but not unkind. “I’m not trying to take a picture or get an autograph. I’m not even here for her music, well, I am now, I guess. But I didn’t come here because she’s famous.”

The guard’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I came here because I recognised the name on the poster,” Lando continued. “Because I remember her before all of this. Before the crowds and the lights and the sold-out stadiums. I just... I saw her tonight and I remembered who she was. And she probably doesn’t even remember me, but I would hate myself if I didn’t try to say hi. That’s it.” He let the silence settle again. “I’m not trying to cross any lines,” he added quietly. “But if I walked away right now, I think I would regret it. For a long time.”

The guard studied him. Really studied him. Then finally, he huffed a breath through his nose and reached for his microphone that was connected to his transceiver. “I’ve got Lando Norris coming through for Y/n L/n. It’s alright.” He stepped aside and opened the door. “Don’t do weird things, mate. I will find you.”

A relieved smile came on Lando’s face. “I will, thanks.” 

“Someone will bring you to her.”  

Lando gave the guard a quick, grateful nod, then stepped through the doorway, the heavy sound of the door closing behind him like a shift in atmosphere. The hallway he entered was quieter than the rest of the venue, cooler, dimmer, like the pulse of the show had finally exhaled back here.

Someone, one of the backstage crew, was already waiting. She didn’t ask questions, just gave him a glance, then motioned with her head for him to follow. They walked down a corridor lined with industrial pipes and faded posters from past shows. He could still hear the crowd outside, but it was muted now, distant. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say when he saw her. He wasn’t even sure she would want to see him. But the idea of not trying had been worse.

He turned the corner, and there she was.

Y/n was walking down the hall toward him, alone, her hair damp from the show, her outfit stuck to her skin due to the sweat. Her head was down, scrolling her phone. She looked so normal like this. So real. The stadium version of her was still echoing in his mind, but this, this was the part he had been desperate to see.

She looked up.

Stopped.

He froze too.

“…Lando?”

Her voice was cautious, halfway between recognition and disbelief.

He exhaled a laugh, barely a breath. “Hey.”

Y/n blinked like she was trying to make sense of him standing there. “What are you… how did you..?”

“I saw your name on the poster,” he said. “Didn’t believe it at first. Then I saw you tonight and I-” He ran a hand through his hair, suddenly unsure of everything he had rehearsed in his head. “I couldn’t leave without seeing you.”

She didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at him. Really looked.

He stepped closer, slowly, not wanting to spook her, not wanting to mess it up. “You probably don’t remember me.”

Her brows rose. “Of course I remember you. You’re the reason I almost broke my arm falling out of the neighbour’s tree. And the reason I never touched Capri-Sun again.”

He laughed, a little dazed. “You threw it at my head. Deserved, for the record.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, and for a second, the years between them shrank. “I didn’t know you were into concerts,” she said.

“I’m not, really.” He shrugged. “But apparently I’m into you.”

Her eyes flicked up to his, a quiet spark lighting behind them.

Lando cleared his throat, suddenly nervous again. “I just… I didn’t want this to be one of those things where I remembered someone forever and never told them they meant something to me. Even if you didn’t remember me.”

Y/n looked at him, soft now. “Well… I do.”

They stood in the hallway, just looking at each other, while the world outside buzzed and pulsed with the afterglow of her performance.

Lando let out a breath, eyes still on her like she might disappear if he blinked. “I don’t even know where to start,” he said, a little breathless. “You were… insane tonight. In the best way. Like… I don’t think I’ve ever been in a crowd that loud before. And I’ve stood on podiums, but this? You had everyone wrapped around your finger.”

Y/n flushed slightly, the way an older neighbour made a comment about them playing on the road. “I mean, F1 podiums are something different, huh?” She smiled. “And I mean, it’s kind of surreal, still. Even after all this time.”

“It shouldn’t be,” Lando said. “You’re meant for this. I don’t know how I didn’t see it back then. You were always singing, always messing around with lyrics or humming something under your breath. I guess I just thought everyone had something like that.”

She smiled again, the kind of smile that carried a hundred memories. “Most people grow out of it.”

“But you didn’t.” His voice was quiet now, sincere. “You built a world out of it.”

Y/n looked down at her hands for a second. “It wasn’t easy. Still isn’t.”

“I can imagine,” Lando said. “But tonight… God, Y/n, you were like this force. You had everyone screaming one minute, dead silent the next. It was electric.”

Y/n’s smile turned shy, like she didn’t know what to do with the praise. “Thanks. That means a lot, coming from you.”

Lando shook his head. “I’m not saying this as the Lando Norris, if you mean it like that. I’m saying it as some kid who used to race you down the street for ice cream and lost every time. I’m proud of you. Seriously.”

The silence between them filled with warmth, a fragile but growing sense of something shifting.

“You always were terrible at running,” she murmured.

“And apparently, really good at recognising stars before they go supernova.”

That made her laugh. Really laugh. And Lando swore it sounded just like it used to.

Taglist: @itsjustkhaos @crashingwavesofeuphoria @maryvibess @ironmaiden1313 @sltwins @heart-trees @npcmia @llando4norris

[robbysreaders]

pairing: jack abbot x reader (i think i kept it pretty gender neutral???) warnings: age gap (unspecified, but reader is late 20s/late 40s), not so casual relationship, i know nothing about anything medical so please glance over that lol word count: 3.7k notes: if you are under 18 do not interact also be kind to me, i am not a writer but dr. jack abbot is a menace who i cannot stop thinking about so you all must suffer with me. also my inbox is open for all your screaming needs!

It started out strictly casual. You met on an app, for god’s sake. His profile was short and dry — but something about the line “I work nights. Not here to waste anyone’s time.” made you pause.

You’d been trading messages for a few days — mostly jokes, a few late-night check-ins after his shifts — when he finally asked, “Would you want to meet in person?” He told you he’d had a string of rough nights in the ER. Said he was craving company that didn’t know what "bed four" looked like post-code blue. You didn’t totally know what that meant, but you got the vibe.

Your schedule’s flexible — hybrid job, some travel, some desk work — so you offer a morning coffee at a place you’ve been wanting to try. He shows up looking like hell in the most attractive way: gray tee, tired eyes, rough around the edges but steady. You’re halfway through your latte when you realize you haven’t stopped smiling. He listens like it’s an instinct — intense, unshakable — but cracks jokes that disarm you when you least expect it.

You don’t hesitate when he invites you back to his place. It’s not flashy, not even particularly tidy, but it’s his. He kisses like he’s starving. And then, right before pulling you in again, he murmurs with a half-smile, “Take it easy on me, alright? Been a while. I might be a little rusty.”

You roll your eyes but your stomach flips. He is not rusty.

You feel a twinge of guilt sneaking out later, after he falls asleep. But you both said this was casual. Besides, it’s noon, and you’ve got spreadsheets and emails to wrangle. Still, before you even finish your afternoon calls, you send him a quick, “Had a great time. Hope you get some sleep.”

That opens the door.

What follows is a steady trickle of nothing texts that somehow mean everything. Memes. Podcasts you both like. A random snapshot of his hand scribbled with vitals — “Guess who forgot his notebook again.” You meet up again. And again. Sometimes it’s his place, sometimes yours. One night you share Thai on your couch and you swear you hear him hum when you rub your socked foot against his under the blanket.

You start catching feelings. Hard. And it’s the most grounded you’ve felt in years.

You don’t want to ruin it, so you let him lead. You try not to double-text. You wait a beat before offering plans. When your friends ask why you’ve been so mopey, they start teasing: “You’re in love with your situationship, huh?”

You don’t deny it.

He picks up on it, too. One night, over drinks at a dim bar near the hospital, you’re nursing a beer and dodging his questions about your weekend plans.

You say something noncommittal, too casual. You see it on his face before he speaks.

He sets his drink down a little too hard and says, voice low but clear: “Hey, I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t play games like this. I’m pushing 50. I know I’m taking up time you could be spending with kids your age, and maybe that’s my mistake. But I like you. I like spending time with you. And if you don’t feel the same — if you’re trying to back off or slow-walk me into fading out — just say so. Don’t drag it out.”

Your stomach drops.

You blink, stunned. “Wait—what? No. Jack—God. You have it backwards.”

He watches you carefully, guarded, already preparing to retreat.

“I’m in too deep,” you say. “That’s the problem. I don’t know how to do casual with you anymore. I want to see you all the time. I’m trying not to scare you off. But if this is just something light for you—if you really want to keep it easy—then yeah… maybe we should take a step back. Because I don’t think I can.”

The silence between you stretches for a beat.

Then he exhales. Long and slow.

And when he speaks again, his voice is softer. “Well,” he murmurs, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Sounds like we’re both idiots.”

[berniceinthehouse]

Loved your fic of Baku!!🥹🥹 can I request yeon sieun x oblivious fem reader? Maybe like idiots in love!! Reader liking sieun for a very long time now but decided to put it aside (atp she believes sieun has a lover and that’s his textbook) she’s loud and a little rowdy, definitely likes to tease sieun and drags him down random stuff with her and she is okay staying friends with him if it means not ruining anything!!

She had no clue sieun reciprocate her feelings and maybe they shared a sweet moment where sieun is surprisingly the one to confess and reader who is known to be loud is suddenly speechless and very, very flustered.

Not just friends

Pairing: Yeon Si-eun x Fem!Reader

Genre: Fluff 🎀

Warnings: none

Summary: You’ve had a crush on Si-eun forever, but you’re sure he’s already taken—by his textbooks. So you never push. You tease him, drag him around, stay in his orbit. That’s enough. Until he says something that turns your whole world upside down.

A/N: thank you so so much for being my first request!! I’m so glad you enjoyed my Baku fic!! I really hope I gave you what you asked for, if I didn’t I sincerely apologize :(

You had rules when it came to Yeon Si-eun.

Rule #1: Do not flirt with him.

Rule #2: Don’t stare too long.

Rule #3: Don’t ever, ever assume he feels the same way.

Because he didn’t.

Obviously.

So you kept it simple.

You were his loud, annoying friend. The one who talked too much. The one who always pulled him into dumb convenience store trips and picked fights over ramen flavors and knocked on his desk just to say “Hey. Are you studying to be the next Albert Einstein?” when he’d been studying for three hours straight.

You liked being in his life.

You liked being his friend.

And you didn’t wanna ruin it because of some stupid feeling you had deep down in your heart for him.

That evening started the same way most of your hangouts did—with you texting “get your ass outside i’m bored” and him showing up ten minutes later with no complaints.

You were sitting side by side on the steps of the convenience store, swinging your legs while sipping banana milk.

“People say you look like you’ve got no emotions,” you said, looking at him sideways.

He blinked slowly. “You’ve said that before.”

“I stand by it.”

He didn’t answer. Just kept sipping his drink.

You bumped your shoulder into his. “Do you ever get bored of me?”

“No.”

You turned to him. “Really?”

He nodded once, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Why not?” you asked, half-laughing. “I drag you everywhere. I talk too much. I’m kind of a pain.”

Si-eun stared at you for a moment, then looked down at his drink. His fingers tightened slightly around it.

“I like being around you,” he said.

It was quiet. Casual. Like he was telling you the weather.

But your brain short-circuited anyway.

You blinked. “Huh?”

He glanced at you again. “You make things easier.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you just went quiet. For once.

He shifted slightly, placing his drink down.

“I thought it was obvious,” he said, still calm. Still unreadable.

“What was obvious?”

“I like you.”

You stared at him, eyes wide, face blank.

And then—completely overwhelmed—you laughed.

Not because it was funny. Because you were short-circuiting.

“Wait—what?”

Si-eun frowned slightly. “Is that not clear?”

You shook your head. “No—no, it’s clear, it’s just—what do you mean you like me? Like, you like being around me? Or like—you like me like me?”

He looked at you steadily. “Like I want to hold your hand. Like I want you to stop pretending it’s just one-sided.”

You forgot how to function for a solid five seconds.

You, the loudmouth. The chaos friend. The one who always said she was fine just being in his life seen as a friend.

Now frozen. Blushing. Quiet.

“…Okay,” you finally said, voice way too soft.

He blinked. “Okay?”

“Yeah. Um. Okay.”

You were blushing so hard it burned. He noticed, obviously.

And that bastard—he smiled.

“Can I hold your hand now?”

You nodded, still stunned.

And when his fingers laced through yours, you didn’t say anything. Just sat there in total silence.

You then swallowed.

Then, before you could overthink it, you leaned in.

Slow. Cautious. Like maybe you were about to touch a dream that might vanish if you moved too fast.

He didn’t pull away.

His hand stayed laced in yours, fingers warm and solid. And when your lips finally met his, it was soft—deliberate. Like he’d been waiting for it. Like he already knew what it would feel like.

The kind of kiss that didn’t rush.

Just… settled.

And when you pulled back, barely, your forehead brushing his, you whispered, stunned and a little breathless.

“I can’t believe you like me.”

He looked at you, voice low. “I always have.”

[the-winter-spider]

Pink Skies | Bucky Barnes

Word count: 17k

Warnings: Death, Angst, sadness idk

A/N: Working on the next couple parts of Yours, Always. Found this fully finished One Shot i forgot to post i guess lol Not proofreading, enjoy!

He left, and the world didn’t end but something in you did. What followed wasn’t healing, not at first, just presence, patience, and hands that never let go.

-----

You met Steve Rogers long before you knew what it meant to be the man on the posters.

Before you knew what his name meant, before you saw they built statues in his honor, before you noticed what that shield truly meant and the silence and the burden of everyone else’s expectations. You knew him when his shoulders still carried guilt heavier than any battlefield. You knew him when his hands shook, when his voice cracked, when he sat in the dark listening to jazz records because the world had moved too fast and he couldn’t quite catch up and he knew you when you were still afraid of your own power, when the wind howled because your heartbeat did, when the ground trembled under your feet without you meaning it to.

Steve found you in the middle of a mission gone wrong young, scared, half-buried beneath the wreckage of a burning compound in the middle of the mountains, your fingertips lit with sparks of a storm that hadn’t learned how to rain gently. You were a weapon. You were a ghost. But he didn’t look at you like that. He looked at you like someone worth saving and from that day on, he never stopped saving you.

You were never just another mission report to him. You became the one he trusted to watch his six, the one who could calm his breathing when the air got too thin, the one who sat beside him after long battles when he didn’t have words for what he was feeling. You called him Cap for years, but eventually it softened into Steve and eventually, Steve became family.

So when the world broke apart, when the Accords tore the team in half and the sky stopped pretending to be safe you didn’t hesitate. You stood by him. Even when it meant running. Even when it meant losing everything else. Because you trusted him. Always, and when he told you Bucky Barnes was worth saving, you didn’t question that either. You helped him bring Bucky home. You helped him heal. Even if Bucky was a stranger to you, the kind with quiet eyes and decades of pain stitched into his silences. You didn’t need to know Bucky to believe in him.

You only needed to know Steve.

And then you were gone.

Dusted away in an instant that rewrote the sky and for what felt like seconds to turn out to be five years, there was nothing. No air, no sound, no time. Just nothing. But when you came back, when your feet hit solid ground again and your body remembered how to breathe it was Steve who was there waiting. He held you like you weren’t real, like you would slip away all over again. Like something he couldn’t believe had come back to him.

You didn’t realize then it would be the last time he ever looked at you like that.

The night before he returned the stones, you found him sitting on the porch of the cabin, the shield at his feet and the sky bleeding gold into the lake.

You hesitated in the doorway. Watched the way the light touched his profile, how tired he looked. How much older than the last time you’d really seen him. The silence between the three of you felt like something sacred, or maybe like something already ending. Bucky was leaned against the railing, arms folded, eyes locked on the horizon, like he was trying not to look at either of you.

You stepped forward, slow and careful, like your presence might crack whatever this moment was and you already knew. Before Steve said a word. You knew.

“You’re not coming back,” you said, your voice quiet, but steady. It wasn’t a question. It was already the truth.

Steve turned toward you. Met your eyes. “No,” he said softly. “I’m not.”

The air changed. The wind stilled. The world held its breath, just like you held yours. 

You stared at him, blinking slow, as if the weight of his words hadn’t fully landed yet. But then they did and the storm started building in your chest, hot and tight and shaking.

“You told me we’d be okay,” you whispered. “You promised me. After everything, we lost five years. Five years, Steve. And you brought us back. You brought me back. Just to leave?”

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t look away.

“Why?” you asked. Your voice was cracking now, because your heart was. “Why now? Why her?”

Steve exhaled, like the answer hurt him too. “Because I owe it to myself. To the man I used to be. I owe him a life.”

You shook your head. “And what about the life you built here? What about the people who needed you, who still need you?”

His voice was gentler now. “You’re strong. You always have been. You and Bucky—”

“Don’t!” you snapped, stepping back. “Don’t put this on him. Don’t act like we’re just going to pick up the pieces together because you decided to disappear.”

Steve swallowed hard. “I’m not disappearing.”

“Yes, you are,” you said. “You’re choosing to walk away. From all of this. From me.”

The look in his eyes nearly undid you. Regret and guilt. But no change of heart.

“You were the first person who ever made me feel safe,” you whispered. “You were the first one who didn’t look at me like I was dangerous or broken or too much. You were my family. You are my family and now you’re leaving. Just like everybody else.”

His voice was quiet. “You’re not alone.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

You turned before your hands started to shake. Before the tears made it to your throat. Before Bucky, silent and still as stone could say anything at all.

You walked back into the cabin, the storm at your heels and you didn’t come out the next morning.

Didn’t watch him step onto the platform. Didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t see him pass the shield to Sam. You stayed inside, staring at the walls like they might give you answers he wouldn’t.

Because the truth is, you didn’t lose Steve the day he went back. You lost him the moment he decided that his future didn’t include you.

He was never a maybe. Never a second guess. He was home. The closest thing to unconditional you ever had and losing that, losing him wasn’t just grief.

It was abandonment.

And nothing you could summon, not fire, not wind, not thunder could protect you from that kind of hurt.

Steve did technically come back, but not the way you needed him to.

Not as the man who used to sit across from you on long missions and fall asleep mid-sentence, head tilted back, shield leaning against his chair like it was just another piece of luggage. Not as the one who made you feel like you belonged in your own skin. He didn’t come back as the person who knew how to help you breathe when your powers spun out or how to stand close without making you feel small. He didn’t come back with his sleeves rolled up and worry in his voice and that firm, steady certainty that used to hold you up when you couldn’t hold yourself. No. He came back as something else. Someone else. An old man with a soft smile and the kind of peace in his eyes that made you ache, because it meant he wasn’t carrying you anymore. Because it meant he had set it all down. Including you.

You weren’t beside Bucky like Steve always said you would be. You had been long gone by then disappeared the way you always feared you might, turned invisible by grief and disbelief and something sharp that lived deep in your gut where your loyalty used to sit. And when Sam looked around after taking that shield, his hands heavier for it, his heart unsure, he didn’t see you. He glanced toward Bucky, quiet and tense, like the silence had finally gotten too loud.

“Is that why she’s not here?” Sam asked quietly, his voice dipped low. “Because of this? Because he left? Did you both know?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. He kept his eyes on the trees on the exact spot where Steve had once stood, his hand on both their shoulders, telling them they’d always have each other. Like that promise hadn’t splintered the moment Steve chose the past over everything they were still trying to hold onto. After a long, brittle silence, Bucky exhaled. “Yeah,” he said. “We knew.”

Sam didn’t respond at first. Just nodded once. Like it hurts to understand. Like it hurt more than he thought it would. “Do you know where she is?”

Bucky shook his head. “No. I don’t.”

Because whatever had tethered the three of them had come undone the second Steve walked away and the only person who might’ve helped knot it back together was gone, because he chose to be.

The messages started a few days later.

Sam’s voice, softer than usual. Hesitant, like he didn’t want to push. Like he was knocking on a door he wasn’t sure he had the right to open anymore.

“Hey,” he said the first time. Just that. A beat of silence. “I don’t know where you are. Or what you’re feeling. But I hope you’re safe.”

The second voicemail came the next day. “I know you think nobody gets it. But I do. He was my family too.”

The third. “You didn’t lose everyone. Not this time. You still have me.”

The fourth. “You don’t have to call me back. I just want you to know I’m here. That you’re not alone.”

You never deleted them.

You listened in the dark, sitting with your knees drawn up to your chest, your phone pressed to your shoulder, eyes blank as the world went quiet around you. You didn’t answer. You didn’t speak. You just let the words sit there. Familiar, kind and unbearably gentle.

You didn’t know how to let them in.

Because something in you had cracked the day Steve came back and handed his shield to someone else. Something had broken when he smiled that soft, faraway smile and told you nothing was wrong. When he looked at you like a memory. Like something from a life he’d already closed the book on. He didn’t die. But he was gone. And he had left without looking back.

You made it to the hills two days later. Some forgotten stretch of land just outside a nameless town, where the grass grew high and the wind came easy. You didn’t pick the spot for any reason. You just kept driving until the road gave up and your body said enough. You climbed, slowly, barefoot and quiet, until you reached the highest point of the hill and sat down hard in the dirt. Your powers buzzed just beneath your skin, restless, raw, aching. But you didn’t call to them.

They came anyway.

A single dark cloud unfurled overhead, silent and heavy, pressing close enough to almost touch. The sky everywhere else was clear, soft and distant. But right above you, it mourned. The wind stopped moving. The trees stilled. The world held its breath, and then the rain came…thin, steady, cold.

It rolled down your spine, soaked through your shirt, pooled at your ankles. You didn’t move. You didn’t shield yourself from it. You let it fall. Because for once, it wasn’t your powers you couldn’t control.

It was your grief.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t crack the earth open or summon lightning or tear the clouds apart. You didn’t have it in you. You just sat there, completely still, and let the water blur your vision and the sky sob in your place.

Because this was what abandonment felt like. This was what it meant when the only person who ever truly saw you decided not to stay and no storm, no matter how loud or how bright or how wide could drown that out.

------

Steve’s house was quiet when they arrived. It always was these days. Tucked away on the edge of a field in Maryland, a one-level farmhouse with white siding, wide porches, and curtains that never seemed to change. It wasn’t the kind of place that called attention to itself. It wasn’t built for legends or gods or war heroes. It was built for a man who had done all that and just wanted to sit in a chair with the breeze in his hair and the weight of a life finally laid down. The nurse, Marisol qhad called earlier that morning. Said she didn’t think he had long now. That his breathing had changed. That he was asking for people who weren’t there. So Bucky and Sam got in the car and didn’t say much on the drive, just passed the time in silence, knowing what it meant. Knowing what they were walking into.

Steve was already out back in his favorite chair, a blanket over his lap and a book open in one hand that he wasn’t really reading. His eyes were tired, red-rimmed, but the second he saw them, something in his face shifted. The same soft warmth that had never quite left him, even when the rest of the world had. Sam walked over first, crouched beside him, clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, Cap,” he said, voice low. “You’re looking old.” Steve huffed a laugh that broke halfway through and turned into a cough.

Bucky stepped forward after, just stood next to him, eyes on the book, not really knowing how to start. “You’re still reading The Old Man and the Sea?” he asked, mouth twitching. “Fitting.”

Steve smiled and shook his head. “It’s the only one I don’t get tired of.”

They sat with him like that for a while, not saying much, just letting the breeze move through the trees and the light shift across the porch like it always had. It was quiet in a way the world hadn’t been for a long time. Peaceful, almost. Like a page was turning in slow motion. Sam sat back on the step and asked about the old team, if Steve remembered the first time they all trained together in the Tower. Steve laughed again, wheezed, and nodded. “You mean when y/n knocked the power out because Tony said she couldn’t hit him?” Sam grinned. 

“Exactly that one.” Steve’s expression softened. He leaned his head back. 

“Haven’t seen her in a while,” he said, eyes drifting. “She missed coming by this week.”

That made Sam glance up. “Y/N?” he asked carefully. “She’s come by?”

Steve’s mouth pulled into a tired smile. “Every week,” he said, almost like it was a dream. “Tuesday mornings. She comes around for the day. We sit, we talk. She never stays the night, but she always leaves tea in the cabinet when she goes.” 

Sam’s brows furrowed. “Wait, you’re serious?” He looked at Bucky, then back at Steve. “She’s been here? I haven’t heard from her in months. I thought—” He cut himself off. “You sure this ain’t old age Cap?”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “Are you sure, Steve?” he asked. “You’re not just… thinking about her?”

Steve turned his head slowly and looked over toward the sliding door, where Marisol was just stepping out with water. “You can ask her,” he said, voice thinner now. “She’ll tell you.”

Sam stood and met Marisol halfway. “Sorry—uh, quick question. Has Y/N actually been coming by here?”

Marisol smiled softly, nodding. “Oh, yes. Once a week, just like clockwork. Comes with a bag full of books and those little pastries from that bakery in town. Doesn’t talk much, but she always comes.”

Sam blinked. “Huh,” he said, almost to himself. “I thought she was still… out there.”

“She is,” Steve muttered, amusement filling his tone. “She just comes back to haunt me.”

Bucky crossed his arms. “So… you two made up?”

That made Steve laugh again, short and wheezing. It rattled in his chest. Sam reached for the glass of water, handed it to him without a word. Steve drank, coughed, then set it down on the arm of the chair and leaned back with a small shake of his head.

“She can hold a grudge better than anyone I’ve ever met,” he said with affection. “We didn’t make up but said she just couldn't leave me.”

Sam looked out over the yard. “How’s she doing? Should I be worried?”

Steve’s smile faded. His eyes didn’t lift from the trees. “You should be worried,” he said simply. “She doesn’t look well. She talks less. She’s smaller somehow. Like she’s still carrying everything and doesn’t have the strength to hide it anymore.”

He turned, not to Sam, but to Bucky.

“She won’t let Sam in. He’s been trying. But she alway used to answer you.”

Bucky shifted slightly, eyes narrowing. “I haven’t heard from her either.”

“I know,” Steve said. “That’s why I’ve got one last order for you, Captain's orders and all.” He raised a hand, a faint ghost of his old grin tugging at his mouth. “You need to look out for her. No matter how hard she makes it. Promise me that.”

Bucky stared at him, nodded once and reached for his hand. “Yeah,” he said. “I can do that for you.”

“Not for me Buck, but for her, for you.” Steve’s fingers gripped his just tight enough to feel. His voice was barely above a whisper. “‘Til the end of the line.”

Bucky held on. “‘Til the end of the line.”

The funeral was small, quiet. No cameras, no press. No flags or horns or long speeches. Just the people who mattered. The ones who knew him, not the symbol, not the legacy, but the man. Sam wore a dark suit, hands clasped in front of him, staring down at the casket with a tight jaw and tired eyes. Bucky stood beside him, still, arms crossed, the weight of the years between them showing in the lines on his face. There were a few others, Wanda, leaning quietly against a tree; Bruce and Clint, both with bowed heads; even Rhodey, who said little but nodded at every word spoken like he was hearing them for someone else, too.

The chair next to Sam was empty, until it wasn’t. The moment was quiet just before the minister began speaking. The wind had picked up, shifting through the grass and lifting the edges of the canopy. And then footsteps. Soft, slow and deliberate, you stepped into the clearing like a storm walking on two legs.

You weren’t dressed for the occasion, not really. A dark coat clung to your frame, too big, sleeves hiding your hands. Your boots were caked in dirt. Your hair was pulled back, but loose strands clung to your damp cheeks. The sky above you had gone darker than before, not enough to rain, not yet, but heavy with the threat of it.

Bucky turned first. Then Sam and when Sam saw you, his breath caught. “Oh my God,” he whispered.

You didn’t say anything. Just walked to the edge of the gathering and stopped. Eyes fixed on the casket. Shoulders trembling. One hand pressed over your ribs like you were physically holding yourself together.

Sam took a step forward like he might say something, but Bucky caught his arm gently and shook his head. Not yet.

Because whatever was happening in your chest, whatever storm you’d brought with you, it wasn’t finished breaking, it just started brewing and the sky above you, loyal as ever, waited for your permission to fall.

You left before the dirt hit the coffin.

Before the sound of it could settle in your chest. Before you had to hear the final thud of goodbye. You didn’t wait for the eulogies to end. Didn’t linger for the handshakes or hugs or the sympathetic looks that would’ve made you crack. The second they stepped forward to lower the casket, you turned. You walked away from the field and into the woods, taking the long path around the house, boots sinking into the wet soil. You didn’t care. You just walked and  when you reached the back porch, hand on the screen door, you paused only once just long enough to breathe in the air like it might still smell like him.

The house hadn’t changed. Everything was still there. His books you brought him are still stacked on the little side table near the fireplace. The same old wool blanket folded across the back of the armchair he always sat in. The fireplace was cold, but you could still feel the warmth of all the hours you spent there, long afternoons, Tuesday mornings, those quiet visits where nothing got resolved but everything hurt a little less. You stepped inside slowly, letting the screen door creak behind you, and moved toward the chair like it might move too if you didn’t walk carefully enough.

And then you stopped, you just stood there, frozen, staring at it.

The chair was empty and still…undisturbed. It felt wrong, seeing it like that. It had always looked the same but now it looked abandoned. The way a home looks after everyone’s gone and only the ghosts are left to sit in silence. You didn’t reach for it. You didn’t touch the blanket. You just stared, eyes fixed on the curve of the armrest where he used to drum his fingers when he was thinking, where his hand had rested the last time he said goodbye without saying it.

You didn’t hear them coming.

Bucky and Sam were still walking up the gravel path, their voices low, footsteps crunching in the quiet. They didn’t expect to see you there. Sam had just said your name, softly, like it might summon you from thin air.

“She’s still not answering,” he muttered. “I don’t know what else to do.”

“She was here,” Bucky said. “She showed up.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, stopping just before the steps. “But that wasn’t her. That was… something else. You saw her face.”

Bucky nodded. “Yeah. I did…I know.” 

He opened the door first, letting it swing inward. The two of them stepped into the front room and stopped short at the sight of you.

You didn’t turn around. You didn’t even flinch. Just stood there like you had been standing there for hours. A statue made of rain and memory. Sam’s breath hitched when he saw you. The way your shoulders had folded in, like you were barely holding your own weight. The way your hands were at your sides, clenched into fists so tight your knuckles had gone white.

“Y/N,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

That’s when you spun around and they both felt it in their chests.

You didn’t speak. Your mouth opened, then closed. Once. Twice. Your lips trembled. But nothing came out. No words. Just tears, thick and fast, carving tracks down your cheeks. Your eyes didn’t blink. They were wide and wet and shattered, and Sam swore later he had never seen someone look so completely broken and then the wind picked up. Not through the door, not through the trees….from you.

The air in the room shifted like it had a heartbeat. Like it was alive with the sound of grief. A low groan in the walls. A pressure building beneath the floorboards. Bucky stepped forward carefully, like the wrong movement might tip the whole house sideways.

“Hey,” he said, soft. “Hey, it’s okay.”

But it wasn’t.

Because then the thunder cracked. Not overhead, not in the distance, right outside.

It ripped through the air like the sky couldn’t take it anymore, and then came the rain, fast and hard and angry. It beat down on the roof with enough force to rattle the windows. Water streamed down the glass like the house was crying, and still, you didn’t move.

Sam moved toward you slowly, palm up, helpless. “You don’t have to say anything. Just—just let us in. Let us be here, okay? Please.”

Your chest rose sharply and then your knees gave out.

The storm didn’t stop.

It just followed you down as you collapsed to the floor, shaking, silent, gasping for air between sobs that didn’t make a sound. Sam dropped to his knees next to you. Bucky was right behind. Neither of them spoke. Neither of them touched you. They just sat with you. In it. As the rain came down. As the house held all of it…the love, the pain, the pieces left behind.

Because grief like this doesn’t ask for permission. It just comes and it doesn’t stop until it’s done with you and Steve… he wasn’t done with you yet.

The rain was still coming down when Sam finally stood. He didn’t say much just reached over, rested a gentle hand on your shoulder for a beat, and said, “I’m gonna run into town. Get some food. Something warm.” His voice was quiet, the kind of quiet people use in hospital rooms and front porches after funerals, like sound itself might break something if it’s not handled carefully. You didn’t answer. You didn’t nod. You just stayed curled on the floor where your legs had folded beneath you, one hand braced against the old wood, the other limp at your side, fingertips barely twitching from the storm still humming in your bones. Sam’s eyes lingered on you for a second longer before shifting to Bucky. That look between them wasn’t loud, but it said enough. I trust you. Be gentle. Bucky gave him the smallest nod, and Sam pulled the door shut behind him.

The house went quiet again, except for the sound of rain on the roof and the storm moving in slow waves outside. You didn’t lift your head. You could feel Bucky sit down a few feet away, just far enough not to crowd you, just close enough that the space between you could hold something. The silence wasn’t awkward, it was thick. Dense with all the things neither of you had ever said. You kept your eyes on the chair by the fireplace….Steve’s chair. You remembered the way he used to sit there, worn cardigan sleeves rolled up to the elbows, book open, mug steaming beside him. You remembered the way he’d glance up at you mid-sentence when you’d arrive on Tuesdays, like he’d been waiting for you all day and now the room was whole. But now it was just a chair. Just fabric and wood and memory. It looked smaller without him in it and you couldn’t stop staring.

Minutes passed, maybe more. The storm didn’t ease, it just shifted, like it was waiting. Waiting for something to give. You didn’t speak until your throat ached from holding it all in and even then, your voice sounded foreign.

“I hated him for leaving.”

You didn’t turn to look at Bucky. You didn’t need to. The words fell out like water finally overflowing the edge of a cup.

“I hated him for choosing a life that didn’t include me. I know he earned it…I know he deserved peace. But I still hated him. Not for the dance. Not for the ring. But for how easy it was for him to say goodbye. Like I was never going to be part of the rest of his story. Like I was something he could set down….” You paused, inhaled, dug your nails into your palm until your hand started to shake. “I loved him. Not like that, not like the world thought. I loved him like he was the only person who ever made me feel like I belonged somewhere. Like I wasn’t just power and damage and the worst thing that ever happened to anyone. He was my family, he made my world quiet and then…. he left, then he sat in that chair every week like everything was okay, like still being here made up for leaving in the first place.”

You could feel Bucky’s eyes on you. You could feel the weight of it. But he didn’t move, he didn’t interrupt. He let you breathe through the thick of it.

“I know he gave you ‘orders’,” you whispered, voice bitter at the edges. “Told you to look after me like I’m a mission. Like I’m some wounded thing to babysit.”

Bucky’s voice came quiet but steady. “He didn’t think you needed pity.”

You finally turned your head to face him. Your eyes were swollen and rimmed in red, and your mouth trembled as you said, “I needed him to stay.”

“I know.”

Your throat worked like you were going to cry again, but you didn’t. You were already wrung dry. You looked back toward the fireplace, where the air felt heavier than the rest of the room. The storm outside had gentled a little, the thunder further off now, but the rain was still coming. It was always coming. You pulled your knees tighter into your chest.

“I’ve been angry for so long,” you murmured. “Angry at him. At myself. At the way people just… slip away and I know I made it hard for everyone to reach me. I didn’t want anyone to see me like this. I didn’t want anyone to see what was left after he walked away, I don’t even wanna see…me.” 

Bucky leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands hanging between them, his fingers brushing the floor. “You don’t have to explain it,” he said. “I’ve been mad too, I am mad…I get it.”

Your voice barely came out. “Do you?”

He looked at you then, not just a glance, but full-on and he nodded once.

“I do.”

It was quiet again. You stayed beside him, knees drawn to your chest, head tilted slightly toward the fireplace, but your gaze lingered on Bucky now, he shifted his weight slightly and exhaled like it cost him something.

“I didn’t think he’d actually do it,” Bucky said, voice low, gravel-thick. “Not really. I mean…I knew. He told me, he told us. We talked about it. Said he was thinking about going back. Said it like it was some hypothetical, like he just wanted to see her again, maybe tell her what could’ve been. I thought it was just one of those things we say when we’re tired and full of ghosts. I didn’t think he’d actually go.”

You didn’t move, just listened.

“He told me, before he stepped onto the platform. Told me it was my job now. Told me Sam would take the shield, that I’d look after the two of you and I nodded like I understood.” Bucky’s mouth twitched slightly. Not a smile. Something sadder. “But I didn’t, not really, I still don’t. I stood there, and I watched him go, and part of me kept thinking he’d come back. That he’d walk out of the trees with that dumb expression like, ‘Did you miss me?’ You know the one.”

You did and it cracked something deep in your ribs.

“But then he didn’t… and when he did show up again… he was old, happy and I couldn’t get a read on whether I wanted to hug him or hit him.” Bucky rubbed his palm against his thigh like he could scrape the emotion off it. “I spent seventy years getting ripped apart and put back together. All I ever wanted was to get back to the man who knew who I used to be. The only one who remembered me before I was a weapon and when I finally got him back… he left.”

You turned toward him more now, slow and quiet. His eyes weren’t wet, but they were red at the edges, raw.

“I know he deserved peace,” Bucky said, voice softer now, more broken around the edges. “And I know I should’ve been happy for him, but I wasn’t….I was pissed. I was so fucking pissed. Not because he went back but because he didn’t say goodbye like he should have. Because he made that choice without thinking about what it would do to the people still here.” He looked down at his metal hand, turned it slowly in his lap like it might tell him something. “He said he believed in me. Said he trusted me to keep going. But he also knew how fragile I still was. He knew how hard I was hanging on and he still left, after everything, he still left me…” 

The confession hung there between the two of you, and your breathing picked up at the vulnerability filling the room.

“I didn’t even know who I was without him,” Bucky whispered. “He was always the one constant. The one person who didn’t look at me like a monster. Who never stopped seeing the kid from Brooklyn, even when I didn’t see him anymore.”

He finally lifted his gaze, met yours fully now, and the look in his eyes nearly undid you. “And now he’s gone…and I don’t know what to do with that.”

You inhaled slowly, sat with it, with him. With the wreckage he had so carefully hidden behind quiet strength and soldier training and all those years of not breaking. You reached out, not to fix it, not to make it better, but just to touch his hand. Real to real. Warm to cold.

“I don’t either,” you said quietly.

And that was the truth, you didn’t know what to do with Steve’s absence. You didn’t know what to do with the anger or the ache or the way the world felt tilted now, off-balance without his presence holding it steady. But at least you weren’t the only one who felt that way. At least in this house, in this quiet, in this storm, there was someone else who still understood what it meant to love him so much that his absence felt like a betrayal.

You sat with Bucky in that silence, your knees touching now, your hands close and let the storm pass outside, letting it cry for you both.

The rain had settled into something quiet by the time Bucky stood. You didn’t ask why at first. You were still curled in on yourself, breath moving slower, throat raw, but your body no longer shaking. You watched him move toward the fireplace, toward that chair, his chair and kneel down beside it, brushing a hand beneath the cushion like he was reaching for something he wasn’t even sure was there. You heard the soft sound of paper, faint and dry. The rustle of something old and deliberate. He pulled out a small, black journal bound with string and tucked beneath it and three envelopes. Each one marked with a name. Yours. His. Sam’s.

He held them for a second, just staring down at the ink. His name in Steve’s handwriting, the familiar curves. The weight of it, like seeing a voice he’d thought he’d never hear again. You watched him swallow, then move back toward you slowly. He didn’t say anything when he sat down. He just extended his hand toward you…your name on the envelope facing up.

You stared at it like it might burn you, like it might make it worse. But you took it anyway, your fingers trembled as you turned it over and slid your thumb beneath the flap. And when you opened it, you smelled him faintly. Cedar…..paper…..dust. Like memory, like home.

You unfolded the letter, you didn’t read it out loud but the words filled the room.

Y/N,

I never figured out how to thank you, not really. You gave me back parts of myself I thought I’d lost for good. When I brought you in, when I found you I didn’t know what I was doing. I just knew you didn’t need saving. You needed someone to stay and I did, for as long as I could. But I realize now, that maybe staying any longer would’ve made you smaller. Not because you needed me. But because I made it easy for you to stay where you were.

After I found Bucky again, after we had time, real time and I understood something I didn’t before. I wasn’t meant to stay. Not because I didn’t love this life. But because this life wasn’t mine to keep. It belonged to you. To Bucky. To Sam. To people who had years left to shape it into something new.

I’ve always believed people come into our lives for a reason and I know now that you weren’t brought to me so I could save you. You were brought to me so I could make sure you survived long enough to find the person who could.

Don’t close off the world, please..not now. Not when it’s just beginning to know who you are without me. You’re fire and rain and everything in between. You’ve got the kind of strength that doesn’t need a shield, it is one. Don’t be afraid to love again, any kind of love you find. Don’t be afraid to let someone love all of it. Even the parts you still flinch at.

And if you’re reading this, it means I didn’t come back. I’m sorry. I hope you never doubt that I loved you like my own. And I hope you’ll let him love you in the way I never could.

Your big brother forever, 

Steve

You didn’t realize you were crying until your hands blurred. Until your fingers curled around the letter so tightly the paper crinkled. You didn’t sob, you didn’t collapse. But the tears came quiet and slow, tracking down your cheeks like the rain on the windows. You stared at the words, reread them, then lowered the paper into your lap like your chest had just opened all over again.

Bucky didn’t speak.

But when you finally looked at him, his letter still unopened in his hand, he nodded like he already knew what Steve had said. Maybe not the words but the meaning, then he opened his. 

Bucky,

I don’t know how to write this to you without getting it wrong. I don’t think I ever really knew how to say the things you needed to hear when we were younger. Back then, I just tried to be loud enough for the both of us, hoping you’d never have to carry more than you already did. And when I couldn’t follow you into the dark, when they took you from me, I kept telling myself I’d find a way to fix it. That if I could just bring you home, everything we lost would somehow return with you. But it didn’t, it couldn’t.

I know I let you down more than once. I know there were times when you needed me to understand something I just… couldn’t. And still, you stayed. You let me believe in you. You let me call you mine, my brother, my better half, my reason. Even when the world tried to take that from you, you never stopped being the man I grew up with in Brooklyn. Not to me.

And I know how heavy it’s been, all of it. The blood on your hands. The years they stole. The weight of survival when you didn’t ask for it. But Bucky, none of that was ever your fault. You hear me? None of it. You were used. Hurt. Rewritten and rewritten and still, still, you came back with a heart that hadn’t hardened. A soul that still looked for light. I don’t know anyone stronger than that. Not even me.

I chose to leave. I chose to walk away from the fight. And I need you to know, I didn’t do that because I stopped needing you. I did it because I finally believed you didn’t need me to keep going. For the first time, I looked at you and saw a man who could build something without me in the picture. Not because I wasn’t proud of you. But because I was. More than I ever said out loud.

You spent so long in someone else’s shadow, carrying orders that were never yours. I wanted to hand you something that couldn’t be taken away. I wanted to give you space. The kind of space you needed to figure out who you are when no one’s telling you what to be. You don’t owe anyone anything anymore. You never did. What you choose to do now..it’s yours. That life, that future… it belongs to you.

Look after her. You know who I mean. Not because I said so, but because I know you will. Because you already do. You always did. Even when you kept your distance, even when you thought you were the wrong person for the job you saw her. Like you saw me.

You were never the weapon they made you. You were never a broken man. You’re the one who survived and I hope to hell you finally believe that.

Until the end of the line,

Steve

“He always saw more than he said,” Bucky murmured.

You nodded, tried to answer…couldn’t. And then you whispered, “He knew.”

Bucky’s voice was rough. “Yeah.”

“He knew that if he stayed, I would’ve kept hiding behind him.”

“And if he stayed,” Bucky said quietly, “I never would’ve stepped forward.”

The two of you sat there with the letters in your laps, the fireplace cold, the storm nearly gone. And in that moment, you understood. Steve hadn’t left because he didn’t love you. He left because he did. Enough to let you go. Enough to give you back to yourself. To give you to Bucky. To make space for the life that could only begin once he stepped away from the center of it.

The screen door creaked open just as the last echo of thunder rolled out over the fields. Sam stepped inside with two brown paper bags tucked under his arm, the scent of something warm trailing in with him. Fried chicken, cornbread. Something soft and southern, the kind of food that didn’t ask for conversation. His boots thudded gently against the floor as he stepped further into the living room and took one look at the two of you, your back leaned against the wall, Bucky sitting on the floor beside you, both of you holding the weight of something that no longer felt completely unbearable.

He paused, not saying anything right away. His gaze flicked to the letters in your laps, the open envelopes, the soft, wrecked look in your eyes and then Bucky stood, walked over, and without a word, handed Sam his.

Sam looked down at the envelope for a long moment. It was lighter than he expected, but somehow heavier in meaning. He sat the bags down on the kitchen table before opening it. He didn’t speak as he read. He just stood by the window, the letter held in one steady hand, the other braced lightly against the sill like he needed to feel something real beneath his fingers. You watched him silently, your stomach turning slow, heavy from more than just hunger.

Sam,

There were a lot of things I got wrong in my time. A lot of things I fought for before I understood what they really meant and a lot of things I held onto for longer than I should’ve. But you weren’t one of them. You were one of the few things I got right. From the moment I met you, I saw it, you were already doing the work. Already carrying people. Already making sure someone else got to live. You were never in it for the glory. You never needed the spotlight. You just needed to be in the fight, because it mattered. Because people mattered.

I know the weight of the shield isn’t easy. I felt it every day. Sometimes more than others. Sometimes it felt like a promise. Sometimes it felt like a grave. But I gave it to you not because I was tired, and not because I wanted to be done. I gave it to you because it was always meant to be yours. You’re the kind of man this world needs…especially now. Not just a soldier. Not just a leader. But someone who sees the cracks in people and doesn’t turn away. Someone who understands that strength isn’t measured in how hard you hit, it’s in how many times you get back up. How many people you bring with you when you do.

You didn’t ask for any of this. You never wanted to be Captain America. But you’ve always been the best of us and  when I looked at you that day, when I placed it in your hands, I saw the future. Not my future. Yours. One that would belong to the people who never got a voice in mine. I knew there’d be questions. I knew some people would say you didn’t fit the mold. But Sam….you were never supposed to fit the mold. You were supposed to break it.

You’ve carried so much, and I know there’ve been times you’ve felt alone in it. But I was always with you. I still am. In every choice. Every fight. Every moment you stand tall when it would be easier to walk away. You honored me just by believing I could be something worth following. And now I’m asking you to lead. Not for me. But for them. For her. For Bucky. For the kids who’ll never know our names but will still live in a world you helped shape.

You don’t need permission to carry the shield. You never did. You just needed to believe you were already enough.

And you are.

Thank you, Sam. For everything.

Your friend always, 

Steve

When he finished, Sam exhaled through his nose, long, deep, almost like it had to travel through years to reach the surface. His jaw was tight, his eyes wet, but he nodded. Once. Folded the letter back into thirds and slid it into his jacket pocket.

He didn’t say what it said.

He didn’t need to.

He turned back toward the kitchen, unwrapped the takeout, and placed it gently in the center of the table. Cornbread, mashed potatoes and chicken still hot in the foil. He pulled out plastic forks, napkins, nothing fancy. Just enough for the three of you to sit down and eat like people do when there’s nothing left to fix but everything left to feel.

You moved to the table slowly, shoulders still stiff, but lighter somehow. Bucky sat beside you. Sam across. The plates passed without question. Food taken without much thought. The kind of silence that used to stretch in cemeteries now sat at your table like a guest, but it wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t suffocating. It was just… still.

No one said a word until the last bite was done. Until Sam leaned back in his chair and looked out the window, eyes half-lidded like he was watching ghosts pass through the trees. Bucky was quiet, his fingers resting near yours on the table, not touching but close enough that you could feel the warmth of him. You hadn’t cried since reading your letter. The grief hadn’t disappeared but it had settled. Had folded into your spine like something you could finally stand upright with.

You pushed your plate forward, wiped your hands on a napkin, and looked up at them both.

“So,” you said, your voice still a little raw, but clear. “What’s our plan?”

Sam turned to look at you. Slowly. The smallest shift in his expression, then he blinked, sat forward a little.

“Our?” he echoed, like he wasn’t sure he heard it right.

You gave him a tired, crooked smile just enough to be real.

He smiled back, wide and warm and aching with something like relief. He didn’t say anything else, didn’t need to.

He stood up and walked around the table. Pulled you into a hug before you could overthink it. His arms wrapped around you with all the softness of a promise that didn’t need to be spoken aloud. You let yourself lean into it.

Bucky didn’t interrupt. He just watched, eyes steady, the corner of his mouth barely lifting.

-----

Grief didn’t stop, it just changed shape.

Time didn’t heal it. You didn’t wake up one morning lighter. You didn’t stand in Steve’s house and suddenly feel whole again. You just… kept moving. Kept breathing, kept waking up and doing the things you promised him you’d do, because that’s what people like you and Sam and Bucky do. You keep going. Even when everything aches.

The weeks after the funeral passed in a haze. You stayed in Maryland for a while, cleaning out drawers, folding blankets, rereading old notebooks you weren’t sure were meant for you to find. Sam took the couch most nights. Bucky would leave at sunset and return before the coffee finished brewing. You didn’t ask where he went. He didn’t ask why your room stayed lit until morning. There were no questions. Just routine, quiet survival and then the missions started again.

Not the end-of-the-world kind. Not the ones with exploding helicarriers or world-ending stakes. Smaller ones. Messy, complicated, real ones. People falling through the cracks. Power shifting hands. Shadow organizations still crawling out of the ruins of what was. You didn’t join back right away. You told Sam you weren’t ready. He said, “Okay. But when you are, you have a place.”

It took two months before you called him. Said, “Where’s the next one?” like it was nothing. But it wasn’t and you both knew it.

The first mission back was in Latvia. You flew with Sam and Bucky, shoulder-to-shoulder on a cramped jet that smelled like sweat and old metal. No one said much on the flight. You spent most of it staring at the clouds outside the window, your fingers unconsciously tracing patterns in the condensation. Bucky sat across from you, arms crossed, eyes closed, but you could feel him watching you every now and then. Not in a protective way. Just… checking. Like he didn’t quite know what to say yet.

That’s how it started.

No declarations, no epiphanies. Just you, Sam, and Bucky working side by side again. Rooming in rundown safehouses, passing intel across cracked kitchen tables, whispering strategy in back alleys and rooftops at two in the morning. You didn’t talk about Steve. Not out loud. But he was everywhere. In the way Sam barked orders with more authority now. In the way Bucky took corners with his body half-shielded in front of you, even when he didn’t have to. In the way you stayed up long after the others fell asleep, sitting with your back to the wall, wondering if Steve would’ve made the same call you did. If he’d be proud of who you were now. Of who you were becoming.

You started to trust your instincts again. Started to believe in your powers again. The first time you let the wind rise mid-mission, Sam gave you a look across the rooftop like there you are. The first time your lightning dropped a rooftop gang like dominoes, Bucky grinned as he cuffed the last guy and said, “Remind me not to piss you off.”

It was subtle at first, but things shifted.

Bucky started walking beside you more often, matching your pace. Started bringing you your coffee the way you like it, black with honey, without asking. Started leaning in during debriefs, his knee brushing yours beneath the table, neither of you moving away.

He still didn’t talk much. But when he did, it wasn’t sharp like it used to be, it was softer. Dry humor, honest observation and quiet concern. He was learning you. Watching how you worked. How you flinched when your powers got too loud in your chest. How your fingers trembled before a fight and stilled afterward.

You caught him once, standing outside a motel door after a long mission in Jakarta. He was staring out at the rain, face lit by the low hum of a streetlamp, his hands stuffed in his pockets like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself. You didn’t speak. You just stood beside him, both of you watching the water slide down the glass.

And he said, “You sleep better on the left side of the bed.”

You blinked, looked at him. “What?”

He nodded toward the other room. “The night we had to share a room. You stayed on the left. You slept through the night for once.”

You hadn’t realized he noticed and well, you started noticing too.

How he rubbed his thumb over the inside of his palm when he was nervous. How he always offered to take night watch but fell asleep sitting up with a book open in his lap. How he laughed louder when Sam was around, but watched you longer when it was just the two of you.

It was never loud.

It was never sudden.

It was… a slow unbreaking.

The kind of thing that grows in the quiet, in the aftermath, in the moments that don’t look like anything until you string them together and realize you’ve been building something without meaning to.

You weren’t falling in love…not yet.

But you were falling into something.

------

You were both bleeding, but neither of you would admit it.

The motel room smelled like sweat, smoke, and rust like too many fights and not enough sleep. The lights were dim, one bulb flickering in the corner near the peeling wallpaper. You were sitting on the edge of the tub with your sleeve rolled up, a long gash running along your bicep, crusted with dried blood. Bucky knelt in front of you, silently dabbing at it with a damp towel. His brow was furrowed, eyes sharp but soft, like he was focusing hard to keep his hands steady. You’d seen those hands snap necks, crush weapons and catch you mid-fall with barely a grunt. But now, they moved with the kind of care that made your heart pull in your chest. Not fragile…just deliberate.

“You don’t have to be that gentle,” you said, your voice low, amused.

He didn’t look up. “You flinched the last time.”

“That was because you dumped alcohol straight into an open wound.”

He paused, glanced up through his lashes, and the corner of his mouth twitched. “You passed out. It wasn’t that bad.”

You rolled your eyes, but your lips betrayed you. Smiling small and quiet. The kind of smile that only ever showed up around him now.

He pressed the towel once more to your skin, then leaned back on his heels. “You’re good. Just needs wrapping.”

You didn’t move. Just looked at him, chest rising slowly. “You gonna do that too?”

His gaze met yours, unflinching. “Yeah.”

You should’ve looked away. Should’ve joked. Should’ve said something snarky to break the tension crawling up between your ribs. But you didn’t. You just watched him tear the edge of the gauze with his teeth, metal fingers catching the edge as he leaned in again, brushing the skin of your arm with the backs of his knuckles as he worked. His face was close now. Closer than it needed to be. You could smell the sweat in his shirt, the iron in the blood on your own and still, he didn’t pull back.

You swallowed. “You always this gentle with your partners?”

He looked up, his hands still on your arm, and smiled slowly, tired, something darker behind it. “Just the ones I like…so, only you.”

You blinked, heart tripping.

Before you could answer, the door creaked open and Sam stepped in, wiping his hands with a takeout napkin. “I swear if you two are flirting while actively bleeding out—”

You both froze.

Sam looked between you, eyebrows raised. “Oh God, you are.”

Bucky stood, not flustered, but definitely caught. He leaned back against the sink, arms crossed like it would hide the pink warming his ears. You slid your arm down to your lap, suddenly very interested in your shoelace. 

Bucky had just wrapped gauze around your arm with hands too gentle for what they’d done hours before. You hadn’t said much since then. Neither had he. The energy between you was taut, not urgent, but pulled, like something invisible had been slowly tightening between you since that first mission in Latvia. Since the first time his hand found your lower back after a fight. Since the first time your name sounded different coming out of his mouth. There had been a moment in the bathroom his fingers brushing your wrist, his head bowed over the wound he was tending and you had to look away because if you hadn’t, something in you might’ve cracked. Something in you already had.

Now you were out on the balcony, breathing in the night air, the motel’s rusty railing cold against your palms. The world was quiet and soft mist curling under the parking lot lights, a radio playing low from a nearby room. You could still feel the echo of Bucky’s hands, the way his gaze had lingered on you for just a second longer than it needed to. You hadn’t spoken since. You didn’t trust your voice not to give something away.

The door creaked behind you, and you didn’t have to turn to know it was Sam.

He didn’t speak at first. Just stepped up beside you, leaned his forearms on the railing, mirroring your posture. The silence stretched for a few long seconds. He glanced at you once, then back at the street.

“I saw the way he looks at you,” he said finally, voice low, not teasing just matter-of-fact.

You blinked, didn’t answer.

“I’ve seen it for a while,” he continued, softer this time. “But tonight? It was different.”

You exhaled, slow. “I don’t know what it is.”

Sam nodded once. “That’s the thing about good things. You don’t have to know. You just have to let yourself have it.”

You turned your head slightly, looked at him through the corner of your eye. “You sound like him.”

Sam smiled small, bittersweet. “I think he saw it coming.”

You stiffened. “What?”

He shook his head, that smile widening just a little, like it held a secret you weren’t ready for yet. “Nothing,” he said. “You’ll see.”

He gave your arm a gentle squeeze before pushing off the railing, walking back inside and letting the screen door creak closed behind him and that’s when you looked.

Bucky was standing inside the room, leaning in the doorway between the bathroom and the beds, still in his undershirt, hair damp, arms crossed loosely like he was trying not to make the moment too heavy. But his eyes were on you, something swirling softly in the deep blues of them like he’d been watching, not waiting. Not expecting anything, just seeing you like Steve said he would.

You looked away first but not because you wanted to.

Because it was too much to hold all at once the way he looked at you like he already knew what this was and maybe he did, but what scared you worse was maybe you were starting to know too.

Later, when Sam was out cold in the other bed, snoring softly, limbs spread wide like his body hadn’t been through a firefight just hours before you and Bucky sat shoulder to shoulder on your bed, the television on mute, both of you staring blankly at the soft flicker of some late-night infomercial neither of you were actually watching. Your arm brushed his once… then again… then didn’t move. And after a long, unbroken silence, you turned to look at him.

He was already looking at you.

Neither of you said a word. You just stayed there, breathing the same quiet air, like even the space between your ribs had finally stopped trying to keep you apart.

----

It started with the small things.

You weren’t even sure when the flirting truly began, or if it had always been there, tucked into the way he called you trouble under his breath after a mission, the way you said his name with a grin that made him shake his head but smile anyway. Sam noticed it first, of course. He’d arch a brow when Bucky handed you your coffee without asking how you take it. He’d clear his throat dramatically when the two of you got just a little too close in the middle of strategy briefings, eyes narrowed, amused. But he never said anything out loud. Not yet.

On one mission in Cairo, the safe house was too small for all three of you. One bathroom, one kitchen, two beds, and a broken AC unit humming in the window like it was barely holding on. Sam went to bed early that night and said something about needing to be up for recon before dawn. You and Bucky ended up eating dinner at the tiny kitchen table alone, your knees brushing beneath it more often than they needed to. He passed you the last piece of flatbread without being asked. You poured him tea without looking. Every time you glanced at each other, one of you smiled like it couldn’t be helped. You didn’t talk about the mission or Steve or anything big. Just little things, places you wanted to see, foods you missed, the one time he accidentally fell asleep in a tree on a stakeout. You laughed so hard you had to cover your face with your hands. He didn’t stop looking at you for the rest of the night.

A few weeks later, after a long, bruising extraction in Munich, you both ended up back at a borrowed apartment Sam had secured through a favor. He knocked out early, still sore from the landing. You and Bucky collapsed onto the old couch, bodies aching, muscles spent. It was quiet. Not heavy, just worn-in and that’s when you talked about Steve.

You asked him what it was like. Not the war, not the headlines just him. What it was like to know him before the shield. Before the serum. What it was like to grow up with someone who ended up becoming a symbol to the world. Bucky’s voice was softer then. He told you about how Steve used to get in fights he couldn’t win. How he used to draw comic strips in his notebook. How he used to worry about everyone else before himself, even back then. You listened with your legs pulled up beside you, a pillow in your lap, heart full and sore in a way that didn’t feel painful anymore. 

You teased him after, nudging his shoulder. “He said you were a ladies’ man. Said you could twirl anyone around a dance floor.”

Bucky groaned, dropped his head back against the couch. “Oh God. He would bring that up.”

You grinned. “Is it true?”

He smirked, eyes on the ceiling. “I haven’t danced in ages.”

You tilted your head. “I’ve never danced, not once.”

That made him look at you. Really look.

“Never?” he asked.

You shook your head. “Why are you so shocked? I spent most of my life being trained like an animal. Dance lessons weren’t high on Hydra’s priority list.”

He didn’t laugh, not at that. His smile faded into something softer and sad, then it got quiet.

He stood up slowly, walked to the corner where Sam had left his old speaker, connected his phone, scrolled for a second and then the first notes of something old, something warm, began to float through the room. He turned back to you, the lighting dim, the edges of him gold with city glow, and held out his hand.

You narrowed your eyes. “What are you doing?”

His smile tilted. “Being your first.”

Your chest clenched. You tried to laugh it off, but your palms were already sweating.

“I don’t—Bucky, I don’t know how.”

He stepped closer. “You don’t have to.” His voice was low now, gentle. “It’s just me.”

The wind outside shifted, not violently. Just enough to nudge the curtains, he felt it.

And he whispered, “You’ve got nothing to be nervous about.”

You looked at his hand and then you took it.

His fingers curled around yours like they’d been waiting their whole life to. He pulled you in slowly, one hand at your back, the other holding yours steady, and you moved. Clumsy at first, stiff. Then warmer, smoother. Your eyes never left his face, not once. He watched you like he couldn’t believe you were real. You watched him like you’d finally stopped being afraid of letting someone else in.

The first song ended, another started and still, you didn’t stop.

You danced through five, maybe six songs, moving slowly around the living room like the world had shrunk to just this. Just the way his thumb moved at your back. Just the way your breath stuttered every time he smiled. You didn’t speak, you didn’t laugh, you just stayed in it.

At some point, Sam woke up, probably from the music. He padded out to the kitchen, opened the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, and paused when he saw you. His hand on the fridge door, his mouth quirked up at the edges.

You didn’t see him.

You were too busy leaning your head against Bucky’s chest. Too busy letting yourself rest. 

Sam watched for another few seconds. Then walked back to his room without saying a word. On the way, he stopped by the window. Looked up at the sky and whispered, “Damn, Cap. You really were right about everything.”

----

Things changed more after the dance, not in any obvious way. No sweeping changes or whispered confessions. Just something quieter, steadier, slipping beneath the surface of everything. Bucky wasn’t just your partner anymore. He wasn’t just your shadow on missions or your quiet at night. He became something more without either of you saying it out loud. He was the reason your coffee was already waiting on the table when you came downstairs. The reason your ribs were wrapped tighter than you asked for after every fight. The reason your hand started brushing his a little more often, staying there a little longer, until the gap between you became the most natural place to be. You hadn’t kissed or anything, not even a hug but the air between you changed. Every time he looked at you now, it lingered and you let it.

There was a mission just outside Prague, bad intel, sharp turns, too much smoke, and not enough backup. You came back with a bruised rib and a busted shoulder, and Bucky hadn’t stopped pacing the room since they pulled you out. He hadn’t even taken off his jacket. Rain streaked the back of his neck, his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides like he didn’t know how to be still. You watched him from the edge of the couch, blood still drying down your forearm, and when you tried to joke “You should see the other guy” he didn’t smile.

 He turned and said, voice tight, “You could’ve died.” 

You tried to deflect. “It wasn’t that bad.” 

And he came apart. “You don’t get to say that to me. Not after everything, not after what we’ve already lost.” He sat down hard beside you then, eyes dark, hand hovering above your leg like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you. “I thought I was going to lose you too,” he whispered. And for once, you didn’t have anything clever to say. You leaned in, slowly, rested your forehead against his, and whispered, “I’m still here.” His hand found yours, gripped it without asking. You didn’t pull away.

In Romania, it was the fire. A temporary base, the kind of safe house with mismatched furniture and a fireplace that actually worked. The power had gone out mid-dinner and Sam had gone off to make a satellite call, leaving you and Bucky in the flicker of orange light. You sat on the floor near the hearth, the flames dancing against the curve of his cheek, and he told you he used to be afraid of silence. That after everything, after Hydra, after Wakanda, after losing Steve it was the stillness that scared him most. That in the quiet, he didn’t know who he was supposed to be. You didn’t say anything. Just watched him talk, watched the lines in his face ease as your hand found his without either of you thinking about it. That night, you lay side by side on the rug, an old record spinning low in the background, and Bucky read from some old book he found on the shelf in a voice that made the world feel soft again. You didn’t fall asleep, but you stayed still long enough that when you opened your eyes, he was already watching you.

In Greece, it was the ocean. Sam had gone off chasing a lead, and the two of you stayed behind to clean up the last of the mess. You walked the beach at dusk, wind in your hair, salt on your skin, and Bucky found you with his hands in his pockets, his jacket open, that look in his eye that meant he’d been thinking too much again. You asked him what was wrong, and he said, “I think I like who I am when I’m with you.” The words hit like a wave. Not heavy, just deep and real. You tried to make it lighter, asked if that meant he liked when you made him do recon reports and he smiled. But when you looked at him again something pulled in your chest. Something that whispered, this is the kind of love you grow into, not the kind that burns hot and quick. But the kind that roots into the soil and stays. You reached for his hand without thinking and when he held it, it felt like you’d done it a thousand times before and you knew that a thousand times more wouldn't be enough either.

Now, when you walk into a room, his eyes find you first. When you laugh, it’s often because he said something under his breath just for you. Now, when you come back from a mission with bruises, it’s his hands that hold your face and check for cuts before he even sits down. You haven’t called it anything. You haven’t needed to. But you’ve started to feel it like a rhythm, one that hums through everything now. Through the space between your fingers. Through the look he gives you before you fall asleep. Through the way he breathes a little easier when you’re in the room.

You haven’t said I love you, but it’s there.

 In the way he presses a kiss to the crown of your head after a hard day.

In the way you squeeze his hand twice when he’s lost in thought.

In the way you both stay, quietly, deliberately, always.

----

It wasn’t supposed to go sideways, that's what they all say but the mission had been clean on paper, tight formation, mapped exits, predictable resistance. You had your roles, your zones, your escape plan. You’d all done this before. Dozens of times. Sam had cleared the perimeter and was stationed at the upper south tower. You and Bucky were inside, splitting off to cover more ground, his route taking him to the data terminal, yours to the locked archive room. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing worth worrying about. Until the moment the gunfire cracked like thunder two floors above you and your heart stopped mid-beat.

You froze at first, just long enough to register the sound, too close, too rapid. Your comm buzzed in your ear, but it wasn’t his voice. It was static. Then it cut to nothing. You didn’t think, you ran.

“Bucky, come in.” You took the stairs two at a time, voice sharp in your throat. “Bucky, status report.” No answer. “Bucky, talk to me.” The static didn’t even hiss back. You rounded the next landing with your lungs clawing at your ribs, boots slamming concrete, your pulse thundering louder than the sound of the fight you couldn’t see. Every corner you turned felt too quiet. Every hallway too long. “Goddammit, Bucky, please respond.” You were screaming by the last word, the panic twisting around your voice like wire.

Still nothing.

You turned into another hallway and stopped dead. Blood, not a lot, not a puddle. But enough to make your knees buckle. A splatter across the far wall, fresh and red and human, and the kind of silence that only comes after something irreversible. Your grip tightened on your weapon, but your hands were trembling so badly the metal knocked against your vest. Your chest constricted like your own body was trying to suffocate itself. It wasn’t just fear, it was grief. Premature, bone-deep. A world cracking in half inside your chest. You whispered his name once, then again, then louder. You didn’t hear yourself anymore. Only your heartbeat, only your footsteps. Only the sound of something breaking behind your ribs as you whispered, “No. No, not him. Not him.”

And then, he came around the corner.

Hair plastered to his forehead, breathing hard, his shirt torn, his knuckles scraped. But alive, whole. There was a shallow cut over his temple, but he was walking…walking toward you like nothing had happened. And when he saw your face, the terror still carved into your expression, he stopped cold.

“My goddamn comms died,” he said, panting. “I—I tried to fix it. It wouldn’t come back.”

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. The blood was rushing too loud in your ears. Your limbs had gone numb. You took one step toward him, and then another, until your hands found his arm and clamped down like he might disappear if you didn’t hold him still.

He looked down at your fingers wrapped tight around his sleeve, then back up at your face and something shifted in his eyes.

“Come on,” he said, his voice low, steady. “Let’s get to the roof. We need extraction.”

He took your hand. Without asking, without explaining. Just laced your fingers through his like it had always been meant to happen. You didn’t pull away. You couldn’t. Your breath was coming faster again, but you followed him up the stairwell anyway, your boots echoing off the walls, his hand not letting go once. Not even when you tripped a step. Not even when your free hand gripped the railing like it was the only thing keeping you upright.

By the time you reached the roof, the wind had changed. The sky above had turned metallic, the kind of gray that made the air feel electric. You let go of his hand the second your boots hit the top landing and walked out into the open, the cold air slapping your cheeks, your lungs too tight to function. Your pacing started before you even realized it…back and forth, back and forth, arms crossed, nails digging into your sides. You heard Bucky’s voice faintly behind you, radioing in for extraction. Sam’s voice came back over the line, saying five minutes out. But if a storm rolled in…..and you were the storm.

You were the reason the wind was climbing. The reason the clouds were swirling like bruises over the skyline. Your fear had nowhere to go but out, and the rooftop air was trembling with it. Then his voice broke through the noise, calm but weighted.

“You need to calm down, sweetheart.”

You stopped pacing. 

“The wind’s getting worse,” he said, taking a step toward you. “If a storm rolls in, we lose our window.”

“I know,” you whispered, chest rising too fast.

“Then talk to me.” he said gently. “Tell me what’s going on.”

You turned around like your body couldn’t hold it in any longer. And it all came crashing out.

You didn’t turn. You couldn’t. Your arms were crossed over your chest so tightly it hurt, your shoulder aching from where you’d landed hard earlier, your mouth full of the copper tang of fear, but not from the mission. Not from the fight, from something deeper, from what came after.

You finally turned around so fast it made you dizzy. The wind shoved your hair into your face, your clothes clinging to your damp skin, and Bucky was just standing there, rain beginning to speckle across his shoulders, worry etched so deeply into the lines of his face it hurt to look at. You stepped back, voice shaking before you even opened your mouth, and then everything just came out at once.

“I’m scared,” you said, the word leaving your body like it had claws. “I’m scared because I don’t know what this is. I don’t know what’s happening to me. I’ve never felt like this before. Not like this. With Steve…it was different. I loved him like family,  it was safe. It was different then…. It was… it didn’t undo me. This—” you waved toward him, toward yourself, toward the wind that was rising around your feet, “you…you terrify me. You make me feel like I’ve opened up something I don’t know how to close again. I can’t stop thinking about what happens when I lose you and I will. I always do. People always go. People leave, Steve was never supposed to leave and he did and I don’t know what I’m going to do when you do, because it won’t be like when Steve left. It won’t be like losing anyone else. It’ll be worse. Because this thing between us…whatever it is, it’s in my blood now. I feel it every time you look at me. Every time you don’t. Every time I think I’m fine and then I realize I’m only okay because you’re in the room.”

Your hands were trembling now. The wind whipped harder, tugging at the edge of your jacket, the clouds overhead shifting darker, lower. You took another step back like you could outrun it, outrun him, outrun the truth that had just spilled out of your chest, but he moved with you. One slow step forward. Then another.

“You think I don’t feel the same?” Bucky asked, his voice low and rough, cracking like it hurt him to say it. “You think I haven’t been waking up every morning wondering what the hell I’m supposed to do with this feeling? You scare me too. You scare the hell out of me. Because I’ve never had something like this before. Something I don��t want to lose more than I want to protect myself.”

Your throat clenched. You turned your face away, but he reached for you. Slowly, his hand touched your jaw with a trembling tenderness you weren’t ready for, and he wiped the tear from your cheek with his thumb before you even realized you were crying. His other hand reached down, found yours, and pressed it flat against his chest, right over his heart.

“Feel that?” he whispered. “That’s yours. All of it. I’m not going anywhere.”

You blinked hard, rain catching in your lashes now, your breath still ragged but beginning to slow. His heart beat steady under your hand, thudding like it had always been meant to sync with yours. Your voice came out as a whisper, broken, wet. “You promise?”

He nodded, lips twitching into the softest smile. “I promise.”

You pulled your hand back slightly, lifted your pinky between you. A little laugh broke through your panic as you said, “I need it. The pinky swear. I need it to be real.”

His smile grew, eyes bright despite the storm. He hooked his pinky through yours, held it like it was sacred.

“It’s real,” he said. “I swear.”

And then you surged forward, couldn’t help it, didn’t want to and kissed him. Not with urgency, not with desperation. But with everything you’d been too afraid to name. His arms came around you fast, holding you like the sky might take you if he let go, his lips soft against yours, sure. The rain came harder. The wind blew wild. But the storm inside you broke like glass.

Because you believed him.

The wind had slowed.

Not entirely, not all at once, but enough. The clouds above held steady, thick but no longer swirling, the air cool instead of electric. The tension that had knotted itself around your ribs had started to loosen, bit by bit, thread by thread as your forehead rested against his, both of you still clutching the aftermath of what had nearly torn you apart. Neither of you spoke. Neither of you moved. It wasn’t a silence that asked for distance. It was the kind that only exists when you’ve been through hell with someone and finally know, without a shadow of a doubt, that they’re not going to leave you in the ashes.

The sound of the rotor blades came next, faint at first, then rising. The extraction team cutting through the fog like it had all been cleared just for you. Bucky didn’t move until you exhaled. He felt it, your breath finally steady against his chest, your heartbeat no longer racing like a runaway train. When you leaned back just enough to look at him, his eyes were already there. The kind of look that didn’t demand anything from you, he wasn’t asking for a decision. He wasn’t pushing for more. He was just there.

The chopper descended slowly, blades whipping the air in loud, rhythmic pulses, the open hatch facing the far end of the roof. Bucky reached down and gently laced your fingers together again. You followed him toward the edge without a word. Your boots moved on instinct. Your hand never left his.

When the crew waved you over and dropped the ladder, Bucky turned to you like he wanted to say something, maybe thank you, maybe I love you, maybe I’m still here. But he didn’t need to. He just helped you up first, his hand pressed steady at your back as you climbed, the warmth of him staying even after you reached the cabin. And when he pulled himself up behind you, settling beside you on the bench with the door open to the night air, he didn’t let go of your hand.

The ride was quiet.

The kind of quiet that says, we made it through.

You leaned your head against his shoulder, the fatigue crashing down on you like a slow, gentle wave. He didn’t shift. Didn’t breathe too loud. He just rested his chin lightly on your head, his hand tightening just a little on yours every time the chopper jolted. You didn’t speak. Neither did he. Not even when the lights of the city began to blink below, and you knew you were almost home.

And you didn’t need to because everything that mattered had already been said in the way he held your hand, the way you leaned into him, the way neither of you let go.

The room was quiet when you stepped inside. Dim light from a single bedside lamp spilled gold across the floor, brushing over the edge of the bed like a hush. The air smelled like rain, clean, wet cotton, the faint trace of soap on your skin. You’d showered first. Bucky had insisted. Said you needed to feel warm again, said he’d go after. He hadn’t left your side once since the rooftop, but there was no fear in the distance now. Just room…room to breathe. Room to feel and you had. The moment the water hit your shoulders, your chest cracked open, and you let it. Let yourself cry, silently, under the pressure of the showerhead like it was safe to fall apart for once. Not because he wasn’t there but because you knew he was.

Now, you were curled in one corner of the bed, knees tucked under you, one of Bucky’s long-sleeve shirts clinging to your damp skin, your legs bare, the blanket piled around you but untouched. You watched the door without really meaning to. Your eyes had softened now. Your shoulders were loose. But part of you still wasn’t sure any of this was real.

The door clicked open softly.

He stepped inside slowly, hair damp, a fresh shirt hanging loose over his frame, his expression open and tired but still watching you like you were something precious he couldn’t stop checking on. He didn’t speak. Just closed the door behind him and crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps. He didn’t ask if he could lie beside you. He didn’t have to.

When he eased onto the bed, sitting first, then turning to stretch beside you, the space between you felt small. Your knees touched. Then your hand brushed his and then you shifted, just slightly and lay down on your side, facing him. He lifted his arm, just enough for you to nestle into the space beside him, and you fit there like you always had, like it had been waiting for you.

Your hand came to rest over his chest again, just like it had on the roof. The beat beneath your palm was slow now and he looked down at you barely a breath between your faces and murmured, “Still yours.”

------

The next motel was one of those quiet ones off the side of the highway, the kind that still used real keys and had chipped paint on the doorframes. You’d stopped in Maryland to rest, just a night between the last mission and the next. Sam had gone ahead to scout, and Bucky had said, “Let’s just stay close for a night, get some air.” You hadn’t argued. The room was small, two beds, even though you only need one, one flickering lamp, a little table with a stained coffee pot that neither of you trusted. The rain had started sometime after dinner, soft and steady against the window, and the whole world felt hushed. Like it knew what was coming.

You were sitting on the edge of the bed, legs curled under you, hair still damp from your own shower earlier. Bucky was in the bathroom, the sound of water running slowly fading as the door creaked open. He stepped out barefoot, towel slung low around his hips, steam clinging to his shoulders, and for a second, he didn’t say anything. He just looked at you. His expression unreadable. Something in his eyes caught hesitation. He grabbed the shirt he’d dropped near his duffel, pulled it over his head, slow and wordless.

Then he spoke, softly. “I was thinking… we’re close. If you wanted to—” He paused, rubbed a hand down the back of his neck. “We’re not far from where we buried him.”

You froze. You didn’t look at him. Just stared at the threadbare blanket under your hands, your knuckles curling slightly. Your breath caught in your throat and quieter than you meant to, you said, “Okay.”

He stepped closer, not all the way. Just enough that you could feel the shift in the air. “Are you sure?” he asked, voice gentler now. “We don’t have to if you’re not ready. I just thought—”

“No,” you said. Firmer now. Still not loud. But certain. “I want to, I need to.”

He nodded, said nothing more. Just crossed the room and pulled the covers down on the bed you shared, he laid back against the pillows in silence. He didn’t press, didn’t look at you. But he didn’t close his eyes either. He just stayed there, breathing steady, waiting.

You stayed seated, arms wrapped around your knees, eyes on the window where the rain had started to blur the world outside into streaks of light and water. You could feel it rising in your chest, the ache you’d been carrying like another rib, the thing you never said out loud because saying it would make it real. Steve was gone and you never told him the things that mattered. You never said goodbye. You never said I forgive you. You never said I understand.

It was well after midnight when Bucky finally drifted off. You watched the rise and fall of his chest, the way his hand still lay open beside him like he’d been reaching for you in sleep. You didn’t lie down. You pulled the motel notepad from the drawer between the beds and the pen that barely worked from your bag. Sat at the little table by the window. The lamp buzzed faintly, the storm rolled on and you started to write.

The words you’d been holding inside since the day Steve left, the one you needed to say more than anything else.

------

The headstone was simple. Nothing flashy. No shield engraved in marble, no list of accomplishments. Just his name, clean serif lettering, the years that never felt like enough, and a line you were sure he didn’t pick himself: A soldier. A friend. A good man. You stood there with your hands in your jacket pockets, wind curling around your ankles, boots damp from the early spring thaw. It was quiet out here. Not empty, not forgotten. Just still. Like the earth knew better than to be loud around someone like him. Bucky stood to your left, his hand brushing yours once in a while when the wind caught his coat. Neither of you had spoken in a while. The walk from the car to the hill was long, and your silence stretched comfortably between you, full of memory. When you reached the grave, you stopped and looked down at it like it might answer back. The sun was low, the air still cold, but the sky was soft. Like it had heard your prayers and was finally listening.

You looked over at Bucky. He didn’t look at you. His eyes were on the stone, the lines in his face deeper in the quiet. You could see the way his jaw ticked, the way his breath slowed, the way he stood like he was still bracing for orders that would never come. Now here you both were, standing over the resting place of the man who made you both whole once, and then broke you in the same breath when he left.

You hadn’t planned to say anything, not when Bucky first had the idea. You planned to come just to stand here, maybe leave the letter, maybe not. But when you looked down at the name carved into the stone, at the years that felt both too short and too full, your chest caught. Not in pain this time, in recognition. Because everything he left behind..this hill, this silence, he had brought you exactly where you were meant to be.

“I wrote him back,” you said, quietly. Bucky turned to look at you, eyes soft, and you pulled the letter from your coat pocket, creased and weathered from being touched too many times over the last few hours. 

He didn’t say anything at first, just stepped slightly back, then, “Do you want me to go?” he asked, voice low.

You turned to look at him, his face lined with worry, with knowing. With all the quiet kindness he gave you without asking for anything in return.

“No,” you said. “I want you to stay.”

So he did, like he said he always would. 

You stepped forward and unfolded the letter. The wind stilled, the moment held. You started to read, your voice was quiet. Not gentle, just tired.

Steve,

I was angry. For a long time. Longer than I admitted. Longer than I even realized. I wasn’t just grieving when you left, I was furious. You promised me we’d keep going. You promised you wouldn’t leave and I know you didn’t say the words. I know you didn’t look me in the eye and make some big speech about forever. But you didn’t have to. You made me believe in something again. And then you left me with it.

And it wasn’t just the leaving. It was how you smiled like it would be okay. Like we’d all understand. Like it was a simple thing to walk away from the life we bled for together. Like it didn’t matter that you were everything I had left, the only real thing I ever had. And I hated you for that. I hated you for thinking I’d be fine. For not looking back. For not choosing me, even just for a little while longer. And when you came back as someone older, someone finished, it felt like a betrayal I couldn’t explain.

I know now that it wasn’t meant to hurt. That you were chasing a kind of peace none of us could give you. And maybe you were right to take it. But it cost something. It left cracks in me I didn’t know how to fill. I disappeared for a long time. Shut down. Closed off. Because without you, I didn’t know who I was supposed to be. You were my center. My family. The only place I felt safe enough to be all of me. And when you left, I didn’t just lose a friend Steve, I lost the one person who made the noise in my head go quiet.

But something happened after you left. Something you probably saw coming before I did.

He didn’t walk in and save me. It wasn’t dramatic. There was no moment where everything changed. He just… kept showing up. Without asking anything from me. He fought beside me. Sat in silence beside me. Watched me fall apart and didn’t try to piece me back together, he just waited until I started to do it on my own.

And then one day I realized I was reaching for him without thinking. Listening for his voice in the dark. Watching his back and knowing he was already watching mine. I didn’t fall for him all at once. It wasn’t a wave. It was a slow tide pulling me back toward something I didn’t know I still had the strength to believe in. And it wasn’t because he reminded me of you. It was because he didn’t. He let me become someone new. Someone who didn’t need you to stay in order to become whole.

And I think you knew. I think that’s why you left when you did. Because you knew if you stayed, I would’ve kept looking to you for every answer. And Bucky never gave me answers, he gave me space. He let me choose.

I don’t know what we are yet. I’m not even sure it matters. What I know is that he’s home in the way I always thought you were. But this time, it’s different.

You were right, Steve. You were meant to find me. So that I could find him.

I don’t forgive you for leaving, not completely, not yet. But I understand now. And I think… I think that’s enough.

Thank you for everything. For finding me when I didn’t know how to be found. For trusting me. For loving me in your way. And for knowing when to let go. 

I’ll always carry you with me, but I’m not lost anymore and I’m not alone.

Love your little sister, 

Y/N

You folded the letter carefully, fingers trembling just a little now, and leaned down to tuck it beneath the smooth stone at the base of his marker. It didn’t feel like letting go. It felt like placing something down. Something you’d carried too long and when you stood again, your throat tight but your lungs full, Bucky was still there, watching you. His hand reached gently for yours, no words exchanged. Just pressure, just presence.

“I think he knew,” Bucky said quietly, his voice barely more than breath. “Even before we did.”

You nodded, looked at the hill one last time.

“I think he always did.”

And this time, when you walked away, the ache in your chest didn’t drag you down. It stayed behind, with the letter, with the stone, with the man who gave you back to yourself by stepping away.

Time didn’t stop for you. Not after the grave. Not after the letter. It didn’t shift in some poetic way either, it just kept moving forward. One day into the next. One foot in front of the other. But something inside you did change. Something in the way the weight in your chest settled. The ache didn’t disappear, but it wasn’t sharp anymore. It dulled into something manageable. Like scar tissue you’d grown used to tracing. Saying goodbye to Steve didn’t close a door, it opened your favourite one and in the weeks that followed, you started walking through it.

The three of you settled into something that almost looked like peace. Sam had found a rhythm with the shield, more confident now, less hesitant, like he finally understood that Steve didn’t choose him out of pressure, but because he believed no one else could carry it better. You saw it in the way Sam stood taller in briefings, in how people listened when he spoke, not because he barked orders, but because he always asked first. Always saw the human before the hero. Sam never tried to be Steve. He didn’t need to. He was already exactly who the world needed.

And Bucky, God, Bucky he changed, too. It wasn’t drastic. It wasn’t even visible, really. But you could feel it. In how he didn’t flinch at kindness anymore. In how he let himself laugh, not just under his breath, but full and unguarded. In how he touched you now, without hesitation. His hand on your back. His shoulder brushing yours. His lips against your temple when you passed him the report in the morning.  You saw it in how he reached for you before he fell asleep. In how he waited for you to take the first sip of your coffee before taking his. In how he called you “darlin’” under his breath like it slipped out when he wasn’t paying attention.

You were a team now, a family. The three of you, not just operationally but emotionally. The kind of bond that didn’t ask for loyalty because it had already been proven. You’d been through the worst together and you’d come out the other side, bruised and stitched up, but still standing. Missions came and went, so did the cities, the languages, the names on the files. But every time you came back to the little apartment you shared in D.C. the one with the creaky stairs and the view of the river, it felt like coming home.

You cooked together now or tried to. Sam was the only one who could make rice without burning it, and Bucky pretended to hate your taste in music, but still let you play your records in the mornings. Sometimes you all ate dinner in silence. Sometimes you argued about who got to pick the movie. Sometimes Bucky fell asleep on the couch and you curled up next to him, Sam throwing a blanket over both of you with a muttered, “Pathetic,” before smiling and grabbing another beer. It wasn’t perfect, but it was yours.

And one night, after a mission that went smoother than expected, you sat on the roof with Bucky, legs tangled, his arm around your waist. The city buzzed below, lights blinking in the distance. And without turning his head, without making it into a moment, he said, “I think I was always meant to find you.”

You turned your head at that. Slowly, like if you moved too fast, the moment would disappear. The words hung between you, not fragile, not uncertain, just real. His eyes were still on the skyline, but you could see it the slight tension in his jaw, the way his thumb twitched against your hip like his body was bracing for something, even now. You stared at him for a long time, studying the curve of his mouth, the scar that tugged just slightly at his temple, the steadiness he’d grown into. Not just as a soldier, not as the man Steve had left behind. But as himself, as the man who stayed. The one who didn’t run when it got too quiet. The one who learned to be soft with his hands even after a lifetime of them being used to break things. The man who looked at you like he couldn’t believe he got to keep you.

And then, still not looking at you, his voice dropped, barely a whisper, like he didn’t need it to carry far, just to you.

“I love you.”

You didn’t breathe, not for a moment. Not because you hadn’t been waiting for it but because somewhere deep down, you hadn’t believed he’d ever say it first. That maybe he’d carry it in the way he touched you, the way he stood between you and the worst of the world, the way he kissed your shoulder before missions and held your hand in sleep but never in words. But now here they were, raw and naked in the cool night air, and he wasn’t rushing to cover them up. He let them sit, let them breathe, let them be true and you smiled.

Not the practiced one you gave reporters, not the sharp one you wore in combat but the one that only ever belonged to him.

You leaned in close, lips brushing his jaw, your voice softer than anything you’d spoken all week.

“I love you too.”

His shoulders eased. His head dropped against yours. He didn’t speak again, and didn't have to. The words were out. Finally, after everything, they didn’t need an explanation.

You sat there a little longer, just like that, legs tangled, fingers woven, his heartbeat slow against yours. The city below kept moving. Cars passed, planes crossed overhead. Someone in the next building laughed too loud. Somewhere far away, trouble would come again. But for now, for this, you stayed still.

Maybe….just maybe, this was what Steve had seen before either of you could.

Not an ending, not even a beginning. Just the place where you’d finally stopped surviving and started to live.

[itdontmatter283472374]

What are we? Chapter Thirteen

A/N: Ok, so this is long and over a long period of time so that's my bad. Also with school being done, I am gonna be working more hours this summer, so posts are not gonna be as frequent for the next couple of weeks. Also, there is slight smut.

Ted’s was buzzing.

It always was on Saturday nights, but tonight there was something extra in the air—maybe the spring breeze sneaking in through the open windows, maybe the way the music seemed just loud enough to blur thoughts without drowning out conversation. The kind of night that made you forget about practice, papers, and pressure for just a little while.

Paige and Azzi walked in with the rest of the team, laughter trailing behind them as they pushed through the crowded doorway. Azzi’s hand brushed lightly against Paige’s as they moved toward their usual corner table, and for a second, Paige felt that same small thrill—the kind that had been catching her off guard more and more lately.

They were… them again. Not tiptoeing around things, not navigating awkward silences. Just them. The way it used to feel before things got complicated, and maybe, somehow, even better now.

Azzi sat next to Nika, while Paige grabbed the spot across from her. Caroline and Piath were already flagging down the waitress for pitchers, and the music shifted to something upbeat—Doja Cat, maybe. Something loud enough to sing along to and pretend it didn’t matter who was listening.

Paige caught Azzi’s eye across the table and grinned. Azzi grinned back, and for a moment, the bar around them faded.

Nika watched them over the rim of her drink, her expression unreadable but knowing. She didn’t say anything, just took a long sip of her cocktail and let the moment sit. Paige noticed, but didn’t flinch. Let her watch.

They were good. Maybe better than good.

But that peace was short-lived.

It happened fast—like these things always did. Paige was reaching for a fry when she heard someone slurring her name just a little too loudly over the music.

“Paige.”

She turned, and there she was—Madison, from that messy January weekend. Paige stiffened instantly.

Madison stumbled closer, her cheeks flushed, her drink halfway gone, her eyes glassy and locked onto Paige like she’d just spotted her lifeline.

“God, I’ve missed you,” she said, swaying slightly as she gripped the edge of the table. “Why didn’t you text me back? I miss your kisses… and your strap.”

The words dropped like a bomb.

Azzi blinked, pulling slightly away from the table as Paige’s expression froze somewhere between a grimace and a prayer.

Caroline choked on her drink. Piath coughed out a laugh, covering her mouth like it might help. And Nika? Nika just sat back and watched the chaos unfold with a smirk, like she’d been waiting for something like this all night.

“Jesus,” Paige muttered under her breath, glancing at Azzi, whose jaw had clenched just slightly.

Madison didn’t seem to notice—or maybe she didn’t care. She leaned in farther, nearly toppling into Paige’s lap. “You don’t even miss me a little? Don’t lie. I know you do. I can feel it.”

Before Paige could respond—before she could even formulate words beyond how is this my life right now—another girl stepped in and grabbed Madison’s arm.

“Okay, Mads. Time to go.”

The friend—blessed, blessed friend—gave Paige an apologetic look as she tugged Madison back.

“I’m so sorry,” she said quickly. “She’s had way too much and clearly forgot about basic decency. Again. Seriously—sorry.”

Paige nodded stiffly, her ears still burning.

Azzi stared down at the table, her fingers clenched around her glass.

As Madison was dragged away, still mumbling something about missing that energy, Paige exhaled sharply and rubbed her temple.

“Well,” Caroline finally said, breaking the silence, “that was... educational.”

“Ten outta ten,” Piath added, laughing. “Peak Ted’s content. I needed that.”

Nika raised her glass. “To strap girl. Gone but not forgotten.”

Paige shot her a look. “You’re not funny.”

“I think I’m hilarious, actually,” Nika replied, deadpan.

The table laughed again—Caroline even wiped a tear from her eye—but Azzi stayed quiet.

Paige glanced at her, feeling the familiar swirl of guilt in her chest. But Azzi didn’t look mad, not really. Just… bothered.

“Hey,” Paige said, leaning across the table slightly, her voice low enough to be private. “You good?”

Azzi looked up and met her eyes. For a second, Paige couldn’t read her. Then Azzi nodded slowly.

“Yeah,” she said. “Just... kind of kills the vibe, you know?”

“Yeah,” Paige agreed. “I didn’t—”

“I know,” Azzi said quickly. “It’s not like that.”

A beat passed.

“I just… don’t want to share you,” she added, voice quieter now. “Not like that. Not anymore.”

Something in Paige’s chest cracked open a little. She didn’t say anything right away—just nodded, letting the moment settle, real and raw.

Azzi reached for another fry. “Anyway, next round’s on you. For emotional damages.”

Paige smiled, relief flooding in. “Fair.”

—------------------

Later in the night, the table started to feel too loud—Caroline was trying to convince Azzi to dance, Piath was deep into some argument about who the real queen of R&B was, and someone had just spilled a bit of beer across the table without noticing.

Paige slid out of her chair and stretched. “Bar run,” she said to no one in particular. “Anyone want anything?”

“Dirty Shirley!” Nika called out immediately, standing up with a sly smile. “Actually—make it two. I’m coming with.”

They weaved through the crowd together, the warm haze of the bar wrapping around them like a blanket. Ted’s smelled like lime wedges and cheap vodka, with flashes of neon from the jukebox lighting up people’s faces as they danced or leaned in close to talk.

At the bar, Paige leaned her elbows on the counter while Nika flagged down the bartender. “Two Dirty Shirleys, extra cherry,” she said with practiced ease, before turning her attention back to Paige.

“So.” Nika’s voice was casual—too casual.

Paige didn’t look at her. “So…?”

“You and Azzi.”

Paige sighed. “Here we go.”

“I’m just saying,” Nika said, bumping her shoulder lightly against Paige’s, “it’s different. Like—actually different. Not just the ‘are-they-or-aren’t-they’ teasing from last year.”

Paige finally glanced over, her expression half guarded, half amused. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Nika said, accepting their drinks from the bartender and handing one to Paige, “that you two were eye-flirting through the entire appetizer round, and then syncing your sips like you’re in a rom-com montage.”

Paige took a slow sip of her drink. “You’re exaggerating.”

“I’m observing,” Nika countered, raising an eyebrow. “There’s a difference.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the thrum of the music and chatter filling the space around them. Paige tapped her straw against the rim of her glass, then finally said, “It’s still... new. We’re not labeling it.”

Nika nodded. “Sure. That’s valid. You don’t need to. But I see you, Paige. And I see her. And that Madison thing? You didn’t even flinch at her. But when you looked at Azzi afterward, you looked like you might throw up.”

Paige winced. “Yeah. That was... not great.”

“You’re not playing the field anymore,” Nika said, not unkindly. “You’re all in, even if you haven’t said it out loud.”

Paige swirled her straw through her drink. “I just don’t want to mess it up. I’ve... never really done the slow, careful thing.”

“I know,” Nika said, her tone softening. “But it looks good on you.”

Paige glanced at her, startled.

“I’m serious,” Nika added, shrugging. “She makes you soft in a way that doesn’t make you small. That’s rare.”

Paige blinked a few times, then looked away, not trusting her voice.

Nika took another sip. “And for what it’s worth? She’s been looking at you like you’re gravity. Like even if she tried to walk away, she’d swing right back around.”

Paige finally laughed—quiet, shaky. “When did you become the team’s therapist?”

“About the time y’all started acting like you were starring in your own rom-com,” Nika said, nudging her shoulder again.

They clinked glasses, and for a moment, Paige let herself just feel it—the truth in Nika’s words, the warmth in her chest, the steadiness of having a friend who really saw her.

As they turned to head back to the table, Nika added, “Just promise me one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“If y’all finally kiss or whatever… please do it where I can see it. I deserve that.”

Paige laughed so hard she nearly choked on her drink.

“Noted,” she said, grinning. “No promises, though.”

—--------------------------

Back at the table, the vibe had shifted slightly—still playful, still loud—but something in Azzi had quieted.

She hadn’t touched her drink in a while. Instead, she watched the bar, half-listening to the music, half-lost in thought. Her knee bounced beneath the table, a small nervous tick she hadn’t quite managed to outgrow.

Caroline, ever the observant one despite the tequila in her system, leaned in closer.

“So… Madison,” she said, dragging the name out like it was its own inside joke.

Azzi blinked. “What?”

“You know. The human wrecking ball who just confessed her undying love for Paige and her... accessories,” Caroline said, smirking. “That was... something.”

Azzi’s jaw tightened. She didn’t answer right away.

“I mean, look,” Caroline went on, swirling the straw in her drink, “we all have history. Paige especially. But it’s wild watching it come back and slap her in the face like that.”

Azzi finally turned to her, eyes sharp. “Is there a point to this, or are you just trying to be messy?”

Caroline raised her hands, mock-innocent. “Relax. I’m just saying... it was weird seeing that, and then seeing you just… sit there.”

Azzi’s fingers clenched slightly around the edge of her glass. “What do you want me to say? That I loved watching some drunk girl claim Paige like she still had access?”

Caroline’s smirk faded a little. “No. But I guess I thought you’d say something. Or get up. Or even throw a look.”

“I did throw a look,” Azzi muttered. “Just not one you could see.”

There was a beat of silence between them, filled only by the bass of the music and a cheer from somewhere near the dartboard.

“Okay,” Caroline said, more gently this time. “That’s fair.”

Azzi didn’t respond. Her eyes had drifted again—this time toward the bar, where Paige was laughing with Nika, sipping on something bright red with a cherry floating in it.

And then Paige turned, spotted her, and smiled.

Azzi looked away too fast, but it was too late—Paige was already heading back toward the table, drink still in hand, gaze locked in like she could tell something had shifted.

“Hey,” Paige said, sliding into a chair beside Azzi. “Miss me?”

Azzi blinked and gave a half-smile. “Always.”

Caroline raised her brows at that, but didn’t say anything—just turned her attention back to her phone, pretending not to listen.

Paige leaned in, just enough that her shoulder brushed Azzi’s. “You okay?”

Azzi hesitated. Then, with a voice low enough for just them, she said, “I don’t like her thinking she still has a piece of you.”

Paige looked at her for a long second. “She doesn’t.”

Azzi nodded, but didn’t speak. Her eyes were fixed on the table again.

“She never did,” Paige added, softer now. “Not like this.”

Azzi finally looked up. And in her eyes—past the hurt, the hesitation—was something else. Something vulnerable. Something real.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Good.”

Paige didn’t say anything else. She didn’t need to. Her hand found Azzi’s under the table, fingers brushing lightly, then resting there—steady, sure, quiet.

And just like that, the noise of the bar seemed to blur again, fading into the background.

—------------------

The walk back from Ted’s was a little quieter now. The cool air had sobered everyone up just enough to swap the chaos of the bar for the low murmur of tired voices and quiet laughter.

Most of the team peeled off toward their own dorms one by one, until it was just Paige, Azzi, and Nika left, heading in the direction of the dorm Paige and Nika shared.

Nika walked a few paces behind them, hood up, eyes very much not minding her own business.

Azzi bumped Paige’s shoulder lightly. “You sure it’s okay?”

“Yeah,” Paige said, eyes soft. “You’ve stayed over before.”

Azzi gave her a look. “Not like this.”

Paige smiled. “I know.”

Behind them, Nika made an exaggerated cough and muttered, “Subtlety is dead.”

Paige turned over her shoulder. “You good back there, roomie?”

“Oh, I’m great,” Nika said, tone dry. “Can’t wait to relive this story when I’m forty and you two finally admit you’ve been together since highschool.”

Azzi laughed under her breath, while Paige just shook her head and kept walking. “Don’t wait that long. You’ll get wrinkles.”

They reached the building, and Nika swiped her key first, holding the door open like she was being forced to witness something scandalous.

“Don’t mind me,” she said as they walked in, “just your friendly neighborhood third wheel.”

Once inside, Nika kicked off her shoes and made a beeline for her room, turning at the hallway with a smirk.

“I’m blasting music at 8 a.m., by the way. Just so we’re clear.”

“Love you too,” Paige called back.

Azzi and Paige stood in the living room for a second, neither moving, the energy between them soft now—lighter.

“Your roommate’s a menace,” Azzi said.

Paige laughed. “Yeah. But she’s kind of our menace.”

Azzi stepped a little closer. “Guess I’ll have to get used to her side-eyes.”

“You already have,” Paige murmured, and reached for her hand.

The apartment around them was still—quiet, cozy, safe.

And in the hush of that moment, neither of them needed to say what came next.

—----------

The lights were off now, the only glow in the room coming from the streetlamp outside Paige’s window, casting soft shadows across the walls. Azzi lay on her side, tucked under the blanket, but her body wasn’t relaxed — Paige could tell by the way her shoulder stayed just slightly tense, the way she hadn’t said much since brushing her teeth and slipping into bed.

Paige rolled over onto her side, propping her head up on her elbow. “You good?”

Azzi didn’t answer right away. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Paige narrowed her eyes, even though it was too dark for Azzi to see. “You’re lying.”

Azzi let out a short breath. “No I’m not.”

“Az,” Paige said, voice quieter now, “come on. I know you. You’ve been stiff ever since we got back.”

Azzi stayed silent for a moment longer, then finally rolled onto her back, staring up at the ceiling. “Fine. I guess… I didn’t like how that girl was talking about you. In front of everyone.”

Paige blinked. “You mean Madison?”

Azzi nodded, jaw tight. “I know it’s not a big deal or whatever. And I know it was nothing. But the way she said it — like she was proud of it, like it was just some joke… I don’t know. It made me mad.”

Paige let the silence hang for a second. Then: “Az, it’s okay.”

Azzi turned her head, frowning. “No. It’s really not. No one should talk about you like that. Like you’re just some… thing to brag about. I don’t care if it was months ago or if you didn’t mean anything by it — people should respect you.”

Paige’s voice softened. “For what it’s worth… it’ll never happen again.”

Azzi gave her a skeptical look in the dark. “And how do you know that?”

Paige didn’t miss a beat. “Because you’re the only girl I’m gonna strap from now on.”

Azzi’s eyes widened, and she immediately sat up, throwing a pillow at her. “Paige!”

“What?” Paige grinned, very proud of herself. “I’m being serious.”

Azzi stared at her, half-flustered, half-annoyed. “You don’t just say that!”

“Why not?” Paige shrugged. “It’s true.”

Azzi flopped back onto the bed with a groan, covering her face with her hands. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet… you’re still here,” Paige teased, shifting closer until their arms were touching.

Azzi peeked at her through her fingers. Her voice came out quieter. “I just… I care about you. I don’t like people disrespecting you.”

Paige’s grin faded a little, her voice gentler now. “I know. And I’m not used to that. But I’m really glad you do.”

Azzi peeked at Paige through her fingers, then dropped her hands to her chest with a sigh. “Just… maybe don’t say things like that if you haven’t actually done it yet.”

Paige raised an eyebrow, a slow, mischievous smile creeping across her face. “So… should we do it right now?”

Azzi immediately sat up, eyes wide. “No. I don’t want some second-hand strap you’ve used on other girls.”

Paige blinked, caught off guard, then laughed under her breath. “Az, I always get new ones when I’m done.”

Azzi’s head snapped toward her. “So you did have a getting-around phase.”

Paige rolled her eyes, sitting up to match Azzi’s energy. “Okay, and you had two boyfriends while you were playing with my feelings. So, what are we doing here—point tallying?”

Azzi opened her mouth, then shut it, eyes narrowing. A pause. Then: “Truce?”

Paige nodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Yeah. Truce.”

Azzi let herself exhale, shoulders dropping as she laid back down, turning into Paige’s side. She nestled her head into Paige’s neck, the tension slowly leaving her body. Paige reached over and pulled the blanket up around them, pressing a soft kiss to Azzi’s temple.

“Goodnight, Az,” Paige whispered.

Azzi mumbled against her skin, voice muffled but warm. “Night, P.”

And just like that, the air between them softened again—no scoreboard, no pasts. Just quiet breathing and the comfort of closeness, the kind that didn’t need fixing or defining. Just them.

—----------------

The gym wasn’t as loud these days. No fans, no cameras, no pressure.

Just sneakers squeaking against hardwood and the low thud of basketballs echoing off the walls.

It was May, and the sting of the national championship loss to South Carolina still lingered somewhere beneath the surface. But the team had settled into a quiet rhythm—offseason workouts, casual scrimmages, half-serious drills. No looming bracket. No buzzer-beaters. Just time. Space. Healing.

Paige wiped her forehead with the bottom of her shirt, taking a slow sip from her water bottle as she watched Azzi jog back to the three-point line. The lights above made everything feel washed-out and sleepy, but in a comforting kind of way.

“Still mad we lost?” Paige asked, voice low, teasing.

Azzi didn’t look at her. Just caught the pass from Nika, squared up, and drained the shot. “Only when I think about it.”

“Which is… every day,” Caroline muttered, rebounding for her.

“Every hour,” Nika added.

The team chuckled softly, not in bitterness but in that shared, “we went through hell together” kind of way. They weren’t over it. Maybe they never would be. But the worst of the ache had dulled into something manageable now.

Practice wrapped up with more stretching than drills, more side conversations than sprints. Piath lounged along the baseline with her shoes half-off, scrolling through music on her phone. She hadn’t said much about the transfer yet—not to the group—but everyone knew. It hung in the air like a quiet goodbye nobody wanted to say out loud.

Caroline sat cross-legged midcourt, trying to tie her braid back while complaining about finals.

And Paige?

Paige leaned against the bleachers, watching Azzi from across the gym.

They hadn’t really talked about what came next. About labels, or definitions, or expectations. But after that night in her apartment, something had shifted between them. Something steady.

Azzi caught her staring and shot her a look. “What?”

Paige just smiled. “Nothing.”

Nika wandered over, holding two orange Gatorades. “You guys wanna get smoothies after this or go full summer mode and hit DQ?”

“Ice cream,” Paige and Azzi said in unison, then looked at each other and laughed.

“Gross,” Nika groaned. “You’re that couple now.”

“We’re not a couple,” Azzi said automatically.

“Sure,” Nika said, smirking as she walked away. “Tell that to your sleepover record.”

Azzi rolled her eyes but didn’t deny it.

They finished up slowly—no rush, no tension. Just the low, easy burn of a season behind them and the summer stretching wide ahead. For once, it didn’t feel like they had to be anything other than who they already were.

And that was enough.

—------------------------------

The sun had started to dip low in the sky, casting everything in that soft, golden light that made the walk feel warmer than the temperature actually was. The team wandered in a loose pack down the sidewalk toward Dairy Queen—Caroline and Nika arguing about Blizzard flavors up ahead, Piath walking quietly beside them, earbuds in, her face unreadable.

Azzi and Paige lagged behind on purpose.

Not obviously, but definitely on purpose.

Paige kicked a stray pebble on the sidewalk, letting it roll a few feet ahead before nudging it again. “So,” she started, dragging the word out dramatically. “What are you getting? Let me guess—vanilla cone. Plain. Like your music playlists.”

Azzi side-eyed her, lips twitching. “First of all, I get twist. Second of all, my playlists are elite.”

“Debatable,” Paige said, nudging her shoulder lightly. “You literally had a Coldplay phase.”

Azzi gasped. “It was one week and it was finals season. I needed calm energy.”

“Oh, you were giving calm, alright,” Paige teased, leaning in closer. “Calm like a sad movie montage.”

Azzi shoved her gently, trying not to smile. “You’re so annoying.”

“And yet,” Paige said, grinning, “here you are. Walking next to me. On purpose. After practice.”

Azzi rolled her eyes but didn’t deny it.

They kept walking in step, Paige’s hands stuffed into the pockets of her hoodie, Azzi’s hair still slightly damp from her post-practice shower. The sidewalk stretched ahead of them, filled with their teammates’ laughter, the promise of sugar, and the soft feeling of almost summer.

“You know,” Paige said after a beat, a little softer now, “I like this. Us. Like this.”

Azzi looked over at her. “Me too.”

Paige bumped her arm again, not ready to let the teasing go completely. “Even if your music taste is questionable.”

Azzi groaned. “One more word and I’m ordering a dip cone just to spite you.”

Paige grinned. “Worth it.”

Ahead of them, Nika turned around and called out, “Hurry up, lovebirds, before they run out of Oreo!”

Azzi sighed and picked up her pace, but Paige lingered a second longer, watching her with a smile she didn’t bother hiding.

Whatever this was—they were finding their rhythm. One step, one tease, one walk at a time.

—-------------------------

The campus café was quiet for once, tucked into a slow Sunday morning hum. Sunlight cut across their table, glinting off Azzi’s iced latte as Paige stabbed another forkful of pancakes.

“You’re literally five bites in and you haven’t even made eye contact with your eggs,” Azzi teased, spreading avocado over her toast.

Paige gave her a look. “That’s because pancakes are elite and deserve respect. You wouldn’t understand.”

Azzi snorted. “You say that like I didn’t just drop 13 on you in practice.”

“Okay,” Paige said, pointing her fork like a sword. “First of all, disrespectful. Second of all, fake news.”

Before Azzi could come up with a comeback, someone hovered beside their table.

“Hi—sorry,” said a girl in a UConn hoodie, phone in hand and eyes wide. “Are you… Paige and Azzi?”

They nodded, already smiling.

“Oh my God. I’m such a huge fan. You two are, like, best friend goals. I watched every game this year. You’re both amazing. Can I get a picture?”

Azzi blinked once but quickly stood up, slipping into the familiar rhythm of fan moments. Paige joined her, smiling for the photo as the girl angled the camera just right.

“Thank you!” the fan beamed. “Seriously, you guys are my favorite duo. It’s like, you’re always in sync. It’s so cool.”

“Appreciate that,” Paige said, her smile not wavering even as Azzi sat down a little too quickly.

The fan disappeared, and the table went quiet for a moment.

Azzi sipped her latte. “That was sweet.”

“Yeah,” Paige said, poking at her eggs now. “Best friend goals, huh?”

Azzi gave her a sideways look. “We’re not correcting anyone.”

“I know,” Paige said, still smiling faintly. “It’s just funny. How people see what they want.”

Azzi didn’t answer right away. She chewed slowly, then set her fork down. “You going home this summer?”

“Probably for a few weeks,” Paige said. “But I’ll be back early for workouts. I kind of… don’t want to be gone too long.”

Azzi nodded. “Same. My mom wants me home, but... I was thinking it might be nice to have some quiet time here.”

Paige looked up at her, her voice soft. “We could stick around. Train a little. Chill. Just hang out.”

Azzi smiled faintly. “You planning our summer now?”

“Not planning,” Paige said, holding up her hands. “Just suggesting. Like, I don’t know... we’ve never really had time when we weren’t constantly in season or traveling or trying not to make it weird.”

Azzi tilted her head. “And now it’s not weird?”

“I mean,” Paige said, grinning, “not unless you make it weird.”

Azzi threw a sugar packet at her, but her smile lingered. They went back to their food, something lighter settling between them. Summer was on the horizon, and for once, it felt like it might actually belong to them.

A​​zzi set her fork down again, this time slower, more deliberate. “Okay, but if we’re talking about spending the summer here… what would that even look like?”

Paige shrugged, chewing thoughtfully before answering. “Morning lifts, afternoon runs, maybe late-night ice cream runs. Couple days down at the beach if we’re lucky. You, me, and literally no one asking questions.”

Azzi arched an eyebrow. “So... a summer vacation disguised as training?”

“Exactly,” Paige said with a smirk. “We tell the coaches we’re locked in, but really we’re just trying every milkshake flavor in Connecticut.”

Azzi smiled, but her fingers tapped absently against her glass. “You ever think about how easy this could’ve been?”

Paige’s expression shifted—softer now. “Yeah. All the time.”

There was a silence that didn’t feel awkward, just full—like there were too many things they weren’t saying all at once.

Azzi picked up her drink again, avoiding Paige’s eyes. “Sometimes I think… maybe if we’d figured it out earlier, things wouldn’t feel so…”

“Careful?” Paige offered.

Azzi nodded. “Yeah.”

Paige leaned forward slightly. “We don’t have to be careful, Az.”

Azzi met her eyes now, guarded but open. “No? Then what are we doing?”

Paige smiled, not cocky, just... steady. “I think we’re just trying. And maybe trying slow isn’t the worst thing.”

Azzi looked at her for a long second, then reached across the table to steal a piece of pancake off Paige’s plate. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“I’m lucky you finally admitted it.”

Azzi laughed under her breath and shook her head. “Alright. Summer training. Ice cream runs. Minimal weirdness.”

Paige tilted her head, teasing. “But just us, right?”

Azzi didn’t answer right away. She popped the bite of pancake into her mouth, chewed, then looked right at her. “Yeah. Just us.”

Paige didn’t grin this time—she just nodded. Like it was already decided.

—---------------------

Later that night, the room was dimly lit, just the glow of Azzi’s phone screen illuminating both of their faces as they lay side by side, half under the covers. Paige’s head was tilted toward Azzi’s shoulder, both of them scrolling through TikToks and occasionally laughing quietly at the same clips.

“Why do we always end up on food TikTok after midnight?” Azzi murmured, voice soft.

“Because we’re weak,” Paige replied. “And also because people out here are building five-star meals with a bag of hot Cheetos and a dream.”

Azzi chuckled, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “You better not be getting snack ideas again. I’m not eating another cereal sandwich.”

Paige sat up a little suddenly, her voice full of mischief. “Okay, but I actually do have a surprise.”

Azzi glanced at her warily. “I swear, if it’s a cursed TikTok recipe—”

“It’s not food,” Paige said, already leaning off the bed and reaching into her gym bag in the corner. “Well. Not exactly.”

Azzi narrowed her eyes. “What does that mean?”

Paige turned around with a small black box in hand, a cocky grin tugging at her lips. She tossed it gently into Azzi’s lap.

Azzi stared at it for a second, then slowly opened the lid. Her eyes went wide, and her jaw dropped just slightly. “Paige.”

Paige bit her lip, clearly holding back a laugh. “Too much?”

Azzi looked at her, a mix of exasperation and something warmer flickering in her expression. “You bought a whole new strap?”

“I figured you’d appreciate the gesture,” Paige said, shrugging but watching her closely. “Fresh start. No recycled history. Just... us.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow, trying not to smile. “You make it sound romantic.”

Paige leaned in a little, her voice low and teasing. “Isn’t it?”

Azzi shook her head, rolling her eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

“But you’re not mad.”

Azzi didn’t answer right away. She set the box down beside her and settled back into the pillows. “No,” she admitted, a little quieter now. “I’m not mad.”

Paige gave her a sideways look. “Curious?”

Azzi smirked, the kind that said she wasn’t going to give Paige the satisfaction. “We’re watching TikToks. Go back to being annoying.”

Paige laughed softly and slid back under the covers beside her, brushing their shoulders together again. “Alright. But I’m just saying... when you're ready, so am I.”

Azzi didn’t say anything right away, just let the next TikTok roll. But as her hand brushed lightly against Paige’s under the blanket, her fingers stayed there this time.

Neither of them said it out loud, but the moment had already shifted. It wasn’t a question of if anymore. Just... when.

—--------------------------------

The TikTok sounds faded into the background, a dull noise neither of them was really paying attention to anymore. Paige shifted slightly, her gaze resting on Azzi—not just playful this time, but full of something quieter, more serious.

Azzi looked back at her. “What?”

Paige hesitated, then said, “Nothing. Just… you.”

Azzi tilted her head, soft amusement in her voice. “That’s not even a full sentence.”

“It doesn’t need to be.”

She leaned in then, slow and unhurried, giving Azzi every chance to pull away. But Azzi didn’t. Her eyes fluttered closed just before their lips met.

The kiss started soft—familiar now, but still something they hadn’t quite figured out how to define. Paige deepened it slightly, her hand finding Azzi’s waist as she moved closer. Azzi responded instinctively, her fingers curling into the fabric of Paige’s hoodie, pulling her in without a word.

The room stayed quiet except for the subtle rustling of blankets and the occasional shared breath between them. Paige’s hand slid up Azzi’s back, not rushed, just deliberate, grounding. Azzi let out a quiet sigh into the kiss, her body relaxing into the moment.

They broke apart briefly, foreheads resting together, breaths shallow.

Paige’s voice was barely above a whisper. “You good?”

Azzi nodded. “Yeah. You?”

“Yeah,” Paige said, brushing her thumb along Azzi’s jaw. “But if we keep going, we’re… going.”

Azzi smiled, cheeks a little flushed but eyes steady. “I know.”

Paige gave a soft, almost nervous laugh. “Okay. Just checking.”

Bit by bit, they began to undress each other with quiet care, until they were both left in nothing but their underwear. Paige hovered above Azzi, steadying herself with one hand, their breaths mingling in the stillness between them.

Paige pulled away now just admiring the doe brown eyes beneath her, pausing only for a moment. 

“You sure?” she questioned looking at Azzi.

All Azzi could do was nod, biting her bottom lip as she stared up at the blonde girl above her. Her mind flickered through all the nights she had dreamed of this—of Paige. The quiet ache of past moments when she’d imagined it was Paige, only to open her eyes and be met with someone else. But none of that mattered now. In this moment, it was them. Just them. And nothing else.

“I’m gonna need words, pretty girl,” Paige whispered, her voice soft but filled with awe as she looked down at Azzi.

“Yeah, you’ll get them,” Azzi replied, her face flushed with a mix of anticipation and playfulness, a small smirk tugging at her lips as she glanced up, already aware of what was about to unfold.

Azzi watched from the bed as Paige rummaged through her closet, pulling out the strap. She had seen it earlier, but not for long. This time, though, Azzi noticed the length, the girth of it. A wave of uncertainty washed over her, a hint of worry flickering across her face as she wondered if she could take it. But before those thoughts could fully settle, Paige turned around.

"You okay, Az?" Paige asked, walking back to the bed, concern flickering across her face as she took in the look on the girl's face—her girl. The truth of it hadn’t fully settled in yet. Azzi was hers. Right here, right now, in this moment.

Azzi nodded slowly, her gaze locked on Paige’s, those blue eyes filled with a calm intensity, like they’d imagined this moment a thousand times before. Paige leaned in, pressing soft, deliberate kisses across Azzi’s shoulders, then down the length of her abs.

Finally, she settled the strap just above Azzi’s center, then looked up at the girl—who was staring at it like she’d seen a ghost. Paige reached out, gently cupping her cheek.

"Hey," she whispered, voice soft but steady. "I’m gonna be gentle. I promise."

Azzi didn’t speak—she just nodded, eyes wide, trusting.

She pushed in slowly, watching as the girl beneath her closed her eyes and instinctively pulled back a little—then exhaled, a soft sigh escaping her lips as she adjusted to the length.

—-------------

It was quiet now. Azzi lay naked on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, her chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. Paige watched her for a moment, brushing hair back from her face.

“Az, you okay?” she asked softly.

Azzi mumbled something unintelligible.

Paige leaned in closer, concern tugging at her voice. “Az?”

Azzi winced slightly, then turned and buried her face against Paige’s shoulder, her voice muffled and tired. “Yeah… you can back up your talk.”

Paige let out a soft laugh, wrapping an arm around her. “Yeah.”

Azzi settled into her with a content sigh, body relaxing completely now.

“I’mma be sore tomorrow,” she mumbled.

Paige’s smile faded into a gentle frown. “I’m sorry, princess.”

Azzi, eyes still closed, reached down and gave Paige’s butt a playful pinch. “No you’re not.”

Paige laughed again, quiet this time, and held her a little tighter.

Moments later, Azzi drifted off in her arms—and not long after, Paige followed.

—------------------------------

The morning light crept in through the curtains, soft and golden. Paige stirred first, shifting slightly under the covers. Azzi was still tucked into her, face pressed against her chest, arms loosely draped around her waist.

A knock at the door broke the quiet.

“Hey,” Nika’s voice called from the hallway. “Me and Aaliyah are going out to breakfast. You coming?”

Paige didn’t answer—still half-asleep, eyes barely open.

Azzi blinked slowly, groggy but awake. “Yeah… we’ll come,” she called back, voice hoarse.

A pause. Then Nika’s voice, teasing: “Az? You in there?”

Azzi snorted, and Paige let out a groggy laugh, burying her face in the pillow.

“Just be ready soon,” Nika added with a knowing tone, her footsteps retreating down the hall.

Azzi smiled, eyes still closed. “She knows.”

“Everyone knows,” Paige mumbled into the pillow.

They both laughed.

The car was filled with morning light and the scent of leftover perfume and coffee from someone’s travel mug. Paige was behind the wheel, sunglasses on, one hand on the steering wheel and the other tapping the beat on her thigh.

Nika and Aaliyah were in the back, already hyped from whatever chaotic playlist Nika had queued up. The opening notes of "Nobody Gets Me" by SZA came through the speakers, and within seconds, all three—Paige, Nika, and Aaliyah—were belting the lyrics like it was a stadium performance.

“Took a long vacation, no make-up, just Jay-Z…” The car shook slightly with their voices and energy.

Azzi sat in the passenger seat, head leaned against the window, watching the city blur by with a smirk tugging at her lips. She shook her head slowly, amused, clearly trying not to smile too hard.

Then Paige sang louder, locking eyes with her for a beat:

“How am I supposed to tell you—I don’t wanna see you with anyone but me?”

Azzi chuckled under her breath and turned to look out the window, lips twitching with that little half-smile she gave when she was flustered but trying to play it cool.

Paige just grinned and kept singing, and the car rolled on toward breakfast, loud and full of life.

The diner was a cozy little spot tucked on the corner—brick walls, checkered floors, and the smell of bacon and fresh coffee wafting out the door before they even stepped in.

They slid into a booth near the window, Paige and Azzi on one side, Nika and Aaliyah on the other. Menus were barely glanced at before Nika waved a hand.

“We already know what we want. Paige’s treat, right?”

Paige raised an eyebrow. “You get so bold so early in the day.”

“I’m just confident,” Nika grinned, reaching for the syrup bottle even though no pancakes had been delivered yet.

Azzi sat tucked into the corner of the booth, still looking a little sleepy, legs lightly brushing against Paige’s. She sipped her orange juice in silence until Aaliyah leaned forward.

“You good over there, Az?”

Azzi glanced up, cheeks warming slightly. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

Paige didn’t miss a beat, raising her coffee cup like a toast. “She’s got stamina, though.”

Nika choked on her water.

Azzi side-eyed Paige. “Shut up.”

Laughter spilled over the table. The server came by and took their orders—Paige with black coffee and eggs, Azzi settling for something healthy, Nika going big with a full spread, and Aaliyah ordering waffles.

Conversation flowed easy—teasing, inside jokes, talk about upcoming summer plans, music drops, weekend plans. At one point, Nika pulled out her phone and showed a photo of the four of them from last semester, triggering a flood of memories and stories.

Azzi leaned into Paige, voice low enough for just her to hear.

“I like this.”

Paige glanced over. “This?”

“All of it.” Azzi gave her a small, honest smile. “You. Them. This morning.”

Paige reached under the table, squeezed her hand gently.

“Me too.”

And just like that, between the smell of pancakes and the chaos of her friends, Azzi felt like maybe—just maybe—she was exactly where she was supposed to be.

—----------------------------

Later that afternoon, the apartment was calm. The chaotic energy from breakfast had faded into the soft rustle of clothes being folded and bags being zipped.

Azzi stood by her bed, packing a weekend bag—sweatshirt, jeans, chargers, a book she probably wouldn’t read. Her earbuds were in, but the music was low, more background than distraction. She glanced around the room once more, then zipped her bag shut.

In the other room, she could hear Paige moving around, talking on the phone with her mom—laughing, telling her she’d be on the flight by seven, promising to bring huckleberry jam back from Montana “if she didn’t forget again.”

Paige walked in a minute later, her own bag slung over her shoulder, sunglasses tucked into the neckline of her tee. “You all packed?”

Azzi nodded, tossing her bag onto the bed. “Just finished.”

There was a brief silence as they stood there, facing each other, both clearly reluctant to step into the weekend alone.

“Montana’s gonna be freezing,” Azzi said finally.

“It’s May.”

“Still.”

Paige chuckled. “I’ll survive. I’ve got layers.”

Azzi smiled, then looked down at her hands. “You excited to see them? Lauren and Ryan?”

“Yeah,” Paige said, her voice softer now. “Been a minute. Mom’s probably gonna cook enough for a small army.” 

—----------------------------

The drive to the airport was quiet, the kind of quiet that felt full rather than empty. The windows were cracked slightly, letting in the early evening air, and a soft playlist played between them—something chill and wordless, filling the space without interrupting it.

Azzi’s hands were steady on the wheel, eyes flicking between the road and the signs overhead. Paige sat beside her, one leg curled up in the seat, fingers absentmindedly spinning the ring on her thumb.

As they pulled up to the departures curb, Paige sighed.

“Alright. Guess this is me.”

Azzi threw the car in park and turned to her. “You sure you don’t want me to come in?”

Paige shook her head gently. “Nah. Check-in’s quick. Plus, I don’t wanna make this goodbye longer than it has to be.”

Azzi smiled, but there was something tight around the edges. She looked down at her lap, then back at Paige. “Have a good flight, okay?”

“I will.”

Paige leaned over the console, arms sliding around Azzi’s neck. The hug was warm and slow, neither of them rushing it.

“I’ll miss you,” Paige murmured into her ear.

Azzi closed her eyes. “Yeah. Same.”

They pulled back just enough for one last kiss—soft, lingering, like a promise that distance wouldn't shake anything loose.

Paige grabbed her carry-on and stepped out onto the curb. She turned back, resting her arms on the open window.

“Text me when you get to your mom’s?”

“You know I will.”

Paige grinned. “Good. And Az?”

“Yeah?”

“Try not to fall in love with anyone while I’m gone.”

Azzi smirked. “Guess I’ll just stay home, then.”

Paige laughed and blew her a kiss before turning toward the terminal. Azzi watched her disappear through the glass doors, her silhouette shrinking in the crowd.

And only when she was completely out of sight did Azzi pull away from the curb and head home—already counting the hours until Sunday night

[bloodyfries]

So, I love post cannon fics but I want to see more of cqm/the peak lords actually figuring out that Bingqiu married. I'm guessing they announced it, essentially Luo Binghe, and then they went on their honeymoon... but I also think it'd be very funny if they just didn't(forgot) and everyone just thought: wow, Shen Shixiong and that demon have been gone for a while. I wonder if it's something kind of holiday in the demon realm?

I also think it'd be very funny if they found out in a really stupid way ex, doing a trade deal with a demon (ik that's probably sqh's job but just suspended your belief, maybe it's a demon noble so the sect leader is there for some respect reason idk)

YQY: You mentioned earlier about a library that you might share?

Demon: Oh yes, there's plenty of topics that will appeal to all different of subjects. While this might not appeal to all peaks I have heard that...

Demon(internally): wait, since I'm talking to his martial sibling should I just say Peak Lord Shen... no, I'll just go with the title with the most power cause humans like respect

Demon: Consort Shen enjoys literature and that his peak-

YQY, who stopped listening after 'Consort':

[nonranghaes]

heads up! technically connected to this drabble hehe. + food mentions.

"i think i'm getting old."

joshua doesn't miss a beat, "you are." but he looks up at you a moment later, smiling as innocently as he always does when he's teasing you about your back acting up or finding another gray hair. "what's the reason this time?"

you step out of your shoes and into your house slippers, holding into your little grocery bag as you make your way further into the apartment. "little things excite me now. stuff i didn't care about as a kid, y'know?" you drop the bag in front of him, revealing you bought three mangoes during your little trip to the store. "they had a deal today--three for a reduced price. and... i dunno." you take the chair across from him. "i got excited."

his eyes crinkle a little as he grins at you. "it's a good deal," he hums. "is that it?"

"i didn't used to care about this stuff. i know it's part of the whole 'paying for my own groceries' thing, but... i dunno. i don't think i got this excited over stuff when i was in college." you rest your head in one palm, watching as he glances at your receipt. "i could have got more but i figured i'd play it safe and go back before the deal ends."

"you forgot to get tortillas." he's already standing, patting down his pockets.

shit. fuck. "i can go back--"

"i can go," he says. "i haven't been outside today. maybe i'll get some more mangoes while i'm there." he ducks down to kiss the top of your head. "because i know you."

you just grin at him, the cheeky cutie that he fell in love with, as if you're proud of your love for the fruit. "i loooove you," you giggle. "thank you, honey."

if it means you'll smile at him like that... then he'll always indulge you in your little joys. but he waits until he's almost out the door to call back that he's more than happy to get you a chance to rest your old, weary bones.

(... and he smiles again when he hears you yell something after him, muffled by the closed door behind him.)

[boopiemadz]

[History project]

No crash AU

Here's the Travis fluff you all were so patiently waiting for! I went with option B :) enjoy!

(sorry for the super un creative title)

---

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as Mr. Kennedy paced the front of the classroom with his clipboard, his voice flat as he read off names. “You’ll be partnered up for the Colonial Economy project, presentation and research paper, due next Monday. No exceptions.”

“Martinez and [Y/L/N],” Mr. Kennedy called out.

Your eyes flicked up.

Travis Martinez sat in the third row, lazily spinning a pencil between his fingers. He didn’t react right away, but when he finally looked up, his gaze met yours.

There was something unreadable about him. Not shy, not cold exactly, but like he kept the world at a low volume on purpose. You’d seen him around school, usually lurking by the vending machines or zoning out in the back of class, and of course, you knew his dad: Coach Martinez, who ran your soccer practices like a drill sergeant.

“Hey,” you said once Mr. Kennedy released everyone to start planning. “Guess we’re stuck together.”

“Could be worse,” he replied. You laughed under your breath. “Could it?”

“Are you free after school?” he asked. 

You hesitated. “I’ve got practice. Your dad runs us pretty hard.”

Something flickered in his expression, annoyance, maybe, but not at you. “Right. Forgot you’re one of his.” You smirked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” he said, “We’ll figure something out.” Mr. Kennedy clapped his hands and dismissed the class. You gathered your stuff slowly, watching Travis disappear into the hallway without looking back.

---

Practice had been brutal, you pulled your shin guards off with a groan and chucked them into your duffel bag. The sun was dipping low behind the trees, casting everything in that golden, eerie light that always came before a storm.

Most of the girls were already heading out, half-limping, still laughing about something dumb from drills. You spotted Travis by the fence near the parking lot, arms crossed. He looked like he’d been standing there forever, headphones around his neck, eyes somewhere a million miles off.

You grabbed your water bottle and headed over, giving him a small nod.

Before you could say anything, his dad’s voice barked across the field:“Travis! C’mon, don’t stand around like a zombie, grab cones.”

 “I’m talking to someone.” Travis contested with a snarky tone.

Coach Martinez came striding over, looking mildly surprised to see you standing next to his son. “[Y/N]” he said, nodding at you. “You’ve got a solid right foot. That pass to Lottie today? Beautiful. Keep working on that.”

You smiled awkwardly. “Thanks, Coach.” He looked between you and Travis. “Didn’t know you two were… friends.”

Travis groaned. “We’re not.”

“We have a project together,” you added quickly, shifting your weight. “A project, huh?” 

“Yeah,” Travis said, a bit too fast. “History. School. That’s it.”

Coach smiled like he wasn’t buying it. “Well, why don’t you just come back to the house, then? You can work on it there. It’s gonna storm anyway. We're having frozen pizza.”

Travis looked like he might spontaneously combust. “No,”he said quickly. “We’re good. We’ll figure it out later.”

“I’ll stay out of your way.” Said coach, “I said we’re good,” Travis muttered, eyes narrowed. You could feel the secondhand embarrassment radiating off him.

You coughed, trying to ease the tension. “It’s fine, really. I don’t mind, if it makes it easier.”

Coach gave you a friendly pat on the shoulder like this was all going so well. “Smart and athletic. You’re a good influence on him.”

“Dad,” Travis hissed.

As you followed them toward the car, the wind picked up, leaves dancing across the pavement. The sky above looked heavy, like it was about to break open.

You wondered what the hell you'd just walked into, but for some reason, a part of you was curious to see what Travis Martinez was like when he wasn’t just a shadow at the edge of your life.

---

The drive to Travis’s house was mostly silent, except for the sound of the blinker clicking too long at a turn and the low murmur of Micheal Jackson on the radio. You sat in the backseat, still damp from practice, your bag shoved between your feet. When Coach finally pulled into the driveway, he cut the engine and glanced at you in the rearview mirror. “Didn’t realize you two were history buddies,” he said flatly.

“We got assigned the project,” Travis muttered. Coach Martinez let out a humorless snort. “Lucky you,” he said dryly. “She’s one of the few on varsity who actually listens.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the compliment, but also by how his tone shifted, just sharp enough to cut, and it was aimed at Travis, not you. Travis didn’t respond. Just climbed out of the car and slammed the door a little too hard.

Inside, the house smelled faintly like oregano and laundry. Travis kicked off his shoes at the door and disappeared down the hall without a word. You hesitated. Coach turned to you as he took off his jacket. “You’re early to every practice, run like hell, and don’t whine when I push you,” he said. “If he had half your drive, I’d…” He shook his head. “Anyway. Go on.”

You gave a half-smile, awkward and unsure, then made your way in.“Travis?” a woman’s voice called from the kitchen.

His mom stepped out a second later. She had warm eyes, and dark clipped-back hair. She gave you a polite smile, then blinked at you like she was trying to place you.

“Hi,” she said. “I don’t think we’ve met?” Before you could answer, Travis trudged back into view and mumbled, "Mãe, ela joga no time. O pai é o técnico dela."

His mom raised an eyebrow. Then, in Portuguese: "Ah, entendi. Ela é bonita. Ela é sua namorada?" Travis groaned. "Mãe, não. A gente só está fazendo um projeto de História." She smiled softly, clearly amused at her son 's suffering. “Okay, okay.”

“Sorry dinner’s not real dinner,” she added to you in English. “Just frozen pizza. Nothing fancy.”

“That’s totally fine,” you said quickly. From the hallway, another voice perked up: “[Y/N]?” You turned and smiled. “Javi!”

He looked taller, older, but still had the same grin. “I haven't seen you since the summer!”

You gave him a hug, you had volunteered at a summer camp last summer, Javi was one of the kids you led at the soccer camp, he was always your favorite.

Their mom chuckled and disappeared back into the kitchen, calling out one last time, “Door stays open!” Travis groaned and motioned you toward the hall. “Come on.” You followed him, but before you reached his room, his dad called after you: “[Y/N] Don’t let him slack off. Make him do his share.”

You turned to respond, but Travis was already pulling his door open, muttering, “Yeah, thanks, Dad.”

---

Inside, the room smelled faintly of old cologne and pencil shavings. Posters half-tacked to the wall, unmade bed, a couple of books on the floor. Travis flopped down in the chair by the desk and ran a hand through his hair.

You dropped your bag near his bed and raised an eyebrow. “So… this is your natural habitat?”

You and Travis were quietly working on the project, the occasional rustle of papers and soft hum of the room filling the silence. Travis was still distracted, his eyes drifting outside, but you were trying to keep focused.

“I think if we add more dates to the timeline, we can make it flow better,” you said, breaking the silence. “Like, more context for each event?”

Travis barely nodded in acknowledgment, still staring out the window, the flickering lights casting shadows across the room. “Yeah, sure,” he replied in a low voice, his tone almost absent.

You tried to push through the awkwardness, hoping that maybe the project would lead to more conversation, but it felt like pulling teeth. You took a deep breath, thinking maybe you’d just power through it and get it done.

Eventually, you decided to call your mom to figure out when she planned on picking you up. You stood up and walked over to the kitchen where the landline sat on the counter. Picking it up, you dialed her number, tapping your foot impatiently as you waited for it to ring. The line crackled for a moment, but you finally heard her voice.

“Hey, Mom, it’s me,” you said. “The storm’s getting pretty bad, when do you think you're going to come pick me up?”

Before you could finish, Mrs. Martinez came into the room, glancing at you with a concerned look. She could hear the storm beginning to pick up outside, the wind howling, the rain hammering at the windows.

“Oh, it’s getting pretty rough out there,” she said with a frown. “Maybe it’s best if you stay here for the night.” You gave her a slightly surprised look. “I don’t know, I don’t want to trouble anyone. I’ll just wait for it to pass, and wait for Mom to come get me...”

As if on cue, your mom’s voice came through the phone, crackling slightly with the storm interference. “It’s too dangerous to drive in this weather hun, I'm afraid Mrs. Martinez is right. Stay there for the night. It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

You hesitated, glancing between Mrs. Martinez and the phone. “Are you sure, Mom? I can just…”

“No, no. Stay there,” your mom insisted, the line cutting in and out a little as the storm worsened outside. “It’s better to be safe. Don’t worry about coming home tonight.” You nodded slowly, feeling a bit awkward but grateful for the reassurance. “Okay. Thanks, Mom.”

You hung up, turning to face Mrs. Martinez, who was watching you with a friendly, almost maternal smile. “Well, looks like you’re staying the night then,” she said warmly, as if it was no big deal. “We’ll set you up on the couch, and you can relax while the storm blows over.”

The atmosphere inside the house was charged, a heavy silence hanging between you and Travis after his mom suggested you stay the night. After a while Mrs. Martinez pulled Travis aside to talk to him outside in the hallway. You could overhear their conversation but couldn't understand exactly what had been said as they were arguing in Portuguese. 

Mrs. Martinez looked at her son, her voice steady but firm. "Travis, ela vai ficar aqui. Não podemos deixá-la sair nesta tempestade. Você sabe disso."

Travis crossed his arms, frustration evident on his face as he shifted in his seat. “Mãe, isso não faz sentido. Ela pode ir embora quando a tempestade passar. Não é como se fosse tão ruim assim.”

Mrs. Martinez didn’t budge, her eyes narrowing slightly as she stood up, her voice taking on a sharper edge. “Você não está entendendo. Está muito perigoso lá fora. Não vou deixar ela sair. Ela vai ficar aqui.”

Travis looked away, rubbing his hand through his hair, clearly agitated."Mãe. A gente mal se conhece e você quer que ela passe a noite aqui..."

Travis 's voice, though soft, carried frustration. “Você não entende. Isso é estranho, mãe.”

Mrs. Martinez 's response was firm and unyielding. "Eu sei o que é melhor, Travis. Não se trata de você. Trata-se de ela ser uma pessoa segura, e não dos seus sentimentos."

You could hear Travis 's feet shuffle as he paced, his voice growing louder with annoyance. "Eu só... eu não sei. Não quero que ela fique aqui, mãe. É desconfortável."

Mrs. Martinez sighed, her tone shifting to something softer, though still firm. “Você precisa parar de ser tão teimoso. Você não pode sempre afastar as pessoas, Travis. Isso não é sobre você, é sobre fazer o que é certo. Ela vai ficar aqui porque é o que precisamos fazer.”

Travis was silent for a moment, likely processing, before he muttered something under his breath. “Está bem... Você venceu.”

The door to the room opened, and then he came back into the bedroom. Travis’s posture was still tense, but there was no more protest. Mrs. Martinez, on the other hand, smiled warmly at you.

---

The rain outside hadn’t let up, and the power had since gone out. Travis's room felt extra quiet, just the dull drumming of water on the windows, and the warm flicker of the candle his mom had set on his desk. You were both crouched on the floor, backs against the bed, working mostly by flashlight.

The project was almost done, you glanced sideways at Travis. His face was lit by the candlelight, serious, focused, his lashes casting shadows under his eyes.

“You’re not as mean as you look,” you said suddenly. He looked over at you, brow raised. “Thanks… I think?” You shrugged, smirking. “You’re quiet. People always assume quiet means rude.”

“I’m not quiet,” he said. “I’m just not loud.”

“Oh wow,” you deadpanned. “That’s so profound.” You nudged his knee lightly with yours. “So, is this the part where we pretend we’re friends now?”

“I mean…” He glanced over at you. “You’re staying over. Might as well.” You blinked, caught off guard by how casual that sounded. The mood had shifted, just a little. He wasn’t as closed-off anymore, not all grunts and shrugs. His voice had softened, and so had his posture. You could tell the guard was coming down.

“I like this version of you,” you teased. “The non-grumpy one.”

“I wasn’t grumpy.”

“You literally argued with your mom in Portuguese so I wouldn’t sleep on your couch.”

Travis laughed under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “That wasn’t about you.”

“Oh no?”

“No. It was about me being stuck in awkward situations I didn’t ask for.” You tilted your head. “So… am I in an awkward situation?” He looked at you then, really looked. “Nah. Not anymore.” Something warm settled between you.

You didn’t say anything for a few seconds, letting the silence stretch. Not the bad kind. The kind that made it feel like maybe something small had shifted. You leaned your head back against the bed frame. “You know what would make this night less cursed?”

He gave you a look. “If the power came back on?”

“Okay, yeah. But also, if we made a blanket fort.”

He snorted. “A fort.”

“Yup. Couch cushions, old quilts, the whole deal. Make it an adventure.”

“You realize we’re not six.”

“Exactly. Which means we can make it better than a six-year-old would.” He hesitated, then smirked. “You’re seriously gonna make me do this?”

“I’m seriously already planning it in my head.” Travis sighed, but he was still smiling. “Alright. Let’s build a dumb fort.” You grinned, hopping to your feet. “It’s not dumb. It’s cozy. And you’ll thank me later.” As you padded out into the dark hallway toward the living room, you heard him mutter behind you, “This is so dumb.”

But he followed you anyway.

---

The living room was dark, except for the occasional flash of lightning through the windows and the flickering candlelight. Travis stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, arms crossed, while you got to work like it was a mission.

“Okay,” you said, hands on your hips. “Couch cushions, quilts, chairs. We need at least one flashlight and maybe a lantern if your mom’s got one.”

“You act like this is a military operation.”

“Travis,” you said seriously, “blanket forts are an art form.” He stared at you, deadpan, but you saw the edge of a smile tug at his mouth again. “Alright, general.”

Between the two of you, you managed to drag in a few pillows from the storage closet, stack some chairs on either end of the couch, and drape thick quilts overhead. Travis helped, mostly by handing things to you while pretending not to care, though you caught him adjusting the corners and securing a wobbly chair when he thought you weren’t looking.

By the time you crawled inside, it was warm and dark and way more impressive than you expected. “This is actually kinda sick,” Travis admitted, ducking inside with the slightly cold frozen pizza his mom had luckily starters to make before the power went out.

You gasped. “You admitted you liked it.”

“I said kinda. That’s not the same.” You grinned and grabbed a slice of the half-warmed-up frozen pizza.  Javi peeked in from the hallway, grinning like this was the coolest thing ever. “This is so cool. Can I…?”

“No,” Travis cut in. “Go back to your room.”

You both sat back against the couch cushions, legs stretched out. The storm was still roaring outside, but the fort made it feel far away, like the two of you were kids again, hiding from the world. After a while, you finished eating, and Travis reached over to grab something from under the coffee table, a small stack of old board games.

“You serious?” you said, eyeing Sorry! and Uno like they were ancient relics. “My mom hoards these,” he shrugged. “It’s this or actual conversation.” You grabbed Uno. “I’ll kick your ass.”

“You wish.”

A few rounds in, the teasing got louder, the laughs less guarded. Travis started doing ridiculous voices. You accused him of cheating. He denied it but was definitely cheating. Every time he slapped down a Draw Four, you groaned dramatically and hit him with a pillow.

By the end of the third game, you were both lying down, heads side by side, feet tangled up in the mess of blankets. “I didn’t think you were funny,” you said, stretching your arms above your head.

Travis turned his head. “I didn’t think you were this weird.”

“Thanks?”

“It’s a compliment.”

---

The fort had quickly turned into the most comfortable space in the house. Travis had settled near the back of the fort, flipping through a magazine. You were lounging on your side, looking for something to tease him with.

You spotted it, the CD case on the floor. He'd left it just out of sight, but the shiny surface of the Green Day album caught your eye. A small, innocent thing, but you didn’t care. You picked it up, holding it in your hands.

He groaned, shifting toward you. “Come on, give it back.” You slid back, holding it just far enough out of his reach. “Nah, I think I’ll keep it for a little while longer.”

Travis grinned, clearly not going to let this slide. “Alright, if that’s how it’s gonna be...”

Without warning, he lunged forward, his hand grabbing at the CD case. You yanked it away, but in the process, you lost your balance. He was already too close, his body tumbling into yours as he overextended his reach. In a moment of clumsy desperation, he landed on top of you, his chest pressing against yours with a soft grunt.

For a brief, breathless second, neither of you moved. Travis was frozen, his arms braced on either side of you, his face inches from yours. His hair, normally messy, was slightly more wild, a few strands falling into his eyes. And it wasn’t just that. It was the fact that you could feel everything now. The heat between you, the way your heart skipped a beat as you met his gaze... and you noticed something else, too.

Travis had a... well, an undeniable reaction. You were both so close that you could feel it growing against your leg, and your stomach flipped with sudden nervous energy.

He hesitated, his expression flickering with uncertainty, before he finally pushed himself up and sat back. His hand brushed against your side as he moved, and you couldn’t help but notice the way his muscles tensed, his body still so close to you.

You took a moment to collect yourself, trying not to acknowledge the way he had fallen on top of you, how his weight felt against your chest, how his body was so warm.

“Uh, sorry,” Travis muttered, his voice low, a little too soft. He was trying to act like it was no big deal, but you could see the flush creeping up on his cheeks. “I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s fine,” you quickly cut him off, though your own heart was racing. You sat up, trying to brush it off, but it wasn’t as easy as you hoped.

Then, Travis cleared his throat, leaning back against the pillows. “So, uh, are we just gonna sit here in silence, or...?”

But even as you moved on, you couldn’t help but notice how he was sitting, the way his shoulders were broad and the way his t-shirt clung to his chest. He was leaning back against the blankets. And then it hit you.

Travis Martinez was actually... hot. You didn’t mean to think it, but the way the light hit his face and the way his muscles were just subtle enough to make you notice, you couldn’t pretend you hadn’t noticed it anymore.

“Hey, uh, you good?” he asked, snapping you out of your thoughts. He was looking at you with a raised eyebrow, as if he knew something was off. “Yeah,” you muttered, shifting uncomfortably. “Fine.”

Travis just stared at you, not pressing the issue, but still seeming like he was waiting for something. He smirked lightly. “You sure?” You shook your head, trying to hide the sudden heat in your cheeks. “Yeah. Let’s just... let’s finish the project.”

The air between you two had shifted again, but this time, you didn’t really know how to deal with it. So, you both just fell back into the rhythm of the project, quiet, easy banter, a few laughs, and still the occasional look that made your heart race.

---

The night had grown quieter, luckily the power had come back on after the whole CD fiasco. The fort had become the perfect retreat, a cozy little corner of the world away from everything else. You and Travis were sitting cross-legged, taking the opportunity to kick back and relax. The movie, a cheesy '90s romance, was playing in the background, but you were too distracted to really focus on it. You had been wearing your soccer gear all evening, but when his mom offered you some of her clothes to change into, you reluctantly agreed. After all, you didn’t want to be stuck in your sweaty uniform the entire time.

The bathroom was just down the hall, and you slipped in to change into the oversized pair of pajamas that Mrs. Martinez had given you. When you looked at yourself in the mirror, you noticed the shirt that was baggy fell way too low, so you used a hair tie to tie it up in order to make it look like less of a dress, and the bottoms were loose but hung low on your hips, the waistband just barely staying up. The fabric was soft, the shirt with a slight V-neck, and it fit just right, comfortable, yet undeniably more... flattering than you anticipated.

You didn’t think too much of it, just needed something comfortable, but when you emerged from the bathroom and walked back toward the fort, something felt different.

Travis was sitting in front of the TV, but when he saw you, his expression froze for a second. His eyes widened slightly, as if he’d just noticed something he hadn’t before. You tried to ignore the sudden flutter in your chest as you walked past him, but you could feel his gaze lingering on you.

You raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile curling on your lips. “What? You’re not used to seeing me not in soccer clothes?” He snapped out of his daze, quickly looking away and clearing his throat. “Uh, no, I just, uh, I didn’t expect you to... I mean, you look…" He stopped himself, running a hand through his hair as if trying to gather his thoughts. "You look... good.”

You couldn’t help but grin, the way he stumbled over his words making it all the more amusing. “Thanks” Travis just nodded, his face still a little flushed. He didn’t say anything more, and you didn’t push it. Instead, you sat back down on your side of the fort, curling up with a pillow in your lap, trying to ignore the little twinge of nerves in your stomach. It was just Travis. 

The movie played on, the soundtrack of cheesy romantic scenes drifting in the background. Travis stretched out on his side, getting comfortable in his own pajamas, loose blue plaid pants and a fitted, faded T-shirt. He looked relaxed, but there was something about him tonight that made you notice the way his chest looked in the shirt, how his muscles flexed as he shifted. You found yourself glancing at him more often than usual, your heart racing a little more than it should.

At some point, the movie’s predictable plot started getting to you. You rolled your eyes and stretched out, still trying to ignore the tension building between you two. Travis seemed to sense it too, though, his eyes flicking over to you as he adjusted on the floor.

He gave you a sideways grin. “You don’t look too convinced by the movie.” You shrugged, trying to keep it light. “It’s just... it’s so cheesy. Like, who falls in love in a rainstorm like this? It’s a total cliché.”

Travis’s hand brushed yours as he moved slightly, and both of you paused for a moment, the electric spark of touch hanging in the air. His fingers lingered just a second longer than necessary, but neither of you said anything.

You shifted, trying to play it cool, but when you moved your hand closer to his, accidentally, maybe, you could see the hesitation in his eyes. And then, without a word, he slowly, subtly reached for your hand.

You didn’t pull away. You let him.

He laced his fingers with yours, and you could feel the heat of his hand against yours. Your breath hitched, a flutter going through your chest as you tried to ignore the surge of excitement in your stomach.

Neither of you said anything. The cheesy romance movie continued, but it felt like the entire world was silent now, save for the sound of the rain and the occasional rustle of the blanket. His hand was warm in yours, and for once, neither of you seemed awkward about it.

---

The movie played on in the background, but neither of you were paying much attention anymore. Your hand was still intertwined with Travis’s, but you could feel the tension slowly shifting between you both. You shifted closer, leaning against him a little, testing the waters. He didn’t pull away. Instead, his arm moved, subtly at first, and then he wrapped it around your shoulders, pulling you even closer. The warmth of his body felt natural against yours, comforting in a way you hadn’t expected.

You let yourself sink into the moment, your head resting on his shoulder, the quiet beats of his breathing syncing with your own. He didn’t say anything, but you felt his fingers gently trace patterns on your arm, as if he wasn’t sure how to act but wanted to be close, too. And you liked it. You liked how natural it felt, how easy it was to just be with him like this.

Neither of you said anything for a while, just watching the movie as the rain continued to tap against the windows, the occasional rumble of thunder making the air feel even more cozy. Every so often, you’d glance up at him, your eyes meeting him for a split second, only to look away again, heart fluttering in your chest.

When the movie finally ended, the soft glow of the TV light was the only thing illuminating the fort. You realized, almost too late, that you had fallen asleep. Your head was still resting against Travis’s shoulder, and you hadn’t even realized how tired you were until you felt the gentle pressure of his hand on your shoulder, waking you.

“Hey,” Travis whispered softly, his voice barely audible, “you fell asleep.”

You blinked, groggy for a second, and then straightened up, surprised to realize how long you’d been out. “Oh, I didn’t mean to, sorry. I guess I was really tired.”

“No problem,” he said with a soft chuckle. His voice sounded a little different now, lighter, more relaxed, like the air between you two had shifted in the last few hours. “You were really cozy, though. Must’ve been the rain.”

You smiled at that, shifting to sit up a little straighter, but then he shifted, too. His eyes locked with yours, and there was something in the way he looked at you now, something different than before. The teasing, joking tension from earlier was gone, replaced by something a little deeper.

“Travis?” you asked softly, unsure if it was the right time, but the moment felt like it was pulling you in.

He didn’t say anything right away. Instead, he moved closer, just slightly, and your breath caught in your throat. The space between you two was small now, and his hand gently cupped your chin, tilting your face up toward his. His thumb brushed across your lower lip, and for a heartbeat, you both just stared at each other, heartbeats racing.

Before you could even fully process what was happening, he leaned in slowly, his lips brushing against yours with a soft, gentle pressure. It wasn’t urgent. It was a question, and you both lingered there, testing the waters. And when you didn’t pull away, he kissed you again, this time, deeper, with more certainty.

The kiss wasn’t just a kiss. It felt like everything you’d both been holding back, the awkwardness, the hesitations, the quiet moments faded away. Now, there was no more space between you. His hands slid to your waist, pulling you closer, and you didn’t pull away. You leaned into him, letting yourself feel every touch, every shift in the way his body moved against yours. It felt natural, like you should have been doing this all along.

When you finally pulled away, breathless, your faces were inches apart, and neither of you knew what to say at first. Travis ran a hand through his hair, his gaze slightly unfocused. “I… I didn’t think that would happen tonight,” he muttered with a nervous laugh.

You smiled, your heart still racing. “Neither did I. But I’m glad it did.”

Travis grinned at that, his thumb brushing across the back of your hand where it still rested in his. He took a breath, a more serious look in his eyes now. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while. But I didn’t know if…”

“If I felt the same?” you finished for him, raising an eyebrow. “Well, now you know.”

He chuckled softly. “Yeah, now I know.”

There was a brief pause before you both spoke at the same time.

“I…” Travis started.

“You..” you started.

And then, as if nothing else mattered anymore, he kissed you again, this time slower, more deliberate. You both lost yourselves in the kiss, the world outside the fort disappearing as everything else faded into the background. It was just you and him now.

The funny thing is, the two of you got so carried away you never finished the project.

Mr. Kennedy gave you a C-, but for some reason it didn't matter, because you had gotten something much more important than an A, you got him.

[bwobgames]

She remembers the first time she met Nina.

It was when He took her home for the first time.

They had mistook the deadline for an assignment, and they had to rush part of a project in very little time. Seeing as He lived closer, they made a run for it.

“I should still have an unopened pack of energy drinks and enough coffee for 20 cups so we might just make it”

“Leave that for later, start planning the introduction!”

“This is gonna be worse than my metroid run”

He unlocks his door at record speed, because of course he does.

“I'll get the things I printed. You get settled”

“Alright, grab me a-”

There is a woman.

There is a sleeping woman at the table.

“...There's a really bad intruder at your house.”

“WHAT?!”

He runs over, somehow not dropping any of the papers he messily put together.

“Agh, you scared me for nothing, grab these”

“Eugene who is this.”

Actually, she can recognize her a little. She has seen her talking to him on campus sometimes. New roommate?

“It's Nina. World's number one champion at giving bad first impressions. Hey, wake up”

“Noooo”

“We have visitors”

“awawhat?!”

While that is an expression Marigold could never see on Eugene, somehow this girl looks like him.

She connects the dots

“Your sister?”

“Obviously. Oh, wait. I didn't tell you before?”

“Whoops. Mistake. I'm a bit too used to people seeing us as a pair”

“Excuse me! Are you Miss Marigold? I've been told wonderful things about you! It's a pleasure!”

“Uh. Likewise”

She offers a cold handshake.

At the time, she couldn't understand how those two were in any way related. And her grumpiness at the time didn't help.

How could a man as hardworking as Eugene have a sister who simply decides to take a nap on a table?

Then she found out Nina's studying to become a teacher. In this economy.

Does she have any ambition? Any sense of responsibility? Or is she planning on mooching off Eugene's career?

Nina is everything her parents warned her about.

She helped in keeping them awake that night, bringing drinks and making noise, but due to their busy work they didn't notice.

Of course, as her friendship with Him started to develop, Marigold found it beneficial to befriend his sister. Perhaps befriend is too much. She is now colleagues with his friend's sister.

But that changed the day of her birthday.

They were out of a hard test, going for a walk in the city.

“Ok, I calculated everything and even if I completely fail I still pass, so it's fine!”

“There's no way you failed, you're awesome!”

Marigold is aware that Arnold is only befriending Kevin for his parents connection to the wine industry. And Kevin is in no way worried about his grades because he's aware his parents could sue the teacher easily. Again.

Now Ashley is going to pipe in with something about celebrating, as she has no cares in the world. She is married after all.

“We should celebrate that it's finally over!”

“Yeah!”

This is a great opportunity for Mari for more networking. If she can get them talking about other friends she'll get a bigger network.

Maybe if she gets them a little drunk…

“Wait, Marigold, isn't it your birthday today?”

Oh. Surprise Kevin interjection.

“Oh, I forgot about it”

“We were so busy studying, it completely flew over our heads”

And here's a wildcard, Eugene Coli. Someone with a name like that clearly wasn't a wanted pregnancy.

They are similar, in a way. They are both ambitious, they both need to work their way to the top. They both know what's right.

She can see potential in him. She can see a future where they are strong, on top.

She could use him.

And as she has found out in drunken stupors, he might enjoy it!

They pass a toy shop.

“What about something from here? For the birthday girl? Might make you feel younger”

Well now that's just rude. A lot of her male classmates are still not used to dealing with ladies.

“What will I get from that? An useless thing to gather dust in my room? Please, if I wanted that I would get a Philosophy degree”

It makes everyone laugh, as she foresaw. Thus redirecting their rude comments somewhere else.

A lady cannot be rude. And an entrepreneur cannot risk losing connections.

This is the correct way.

There are many contradictions in her head. She ignores them.

“Let's do a double celebration then, for us and Marigold. Oh! I want pizza!”

.

.

.

.

.

When all her classes are finally over for the day, Nina of all people asks for help retrieving something she forgot in a locker.

Why couldn't she bother someone else was a mystery, but Marigold needs the Coli connection anyways.

She wonders if it's really worth it, it's not like he talks much about his sister anyways. Maybe they grew separately.

But while the data is not clear, she'll go with her.

The weather was lovely.

<PREV START NEXT>

[abbotjack]

Do you think Pope could actually cope with someone genuinely loving him? Like do you think he has it in him to just let himself be loved by someone who doesn't want anything out of it?

(Hi I am anon who started watching because of your NSFW alphabet, about halfway through season 5 now, thank you for this blessing, Andrew is SO SPECIAL)

Yes. But only the way a man who’s spent his whole life bleeding learns to stop looking for the wound.

Because Pope Cody doesn’t heal. He endures. He survives. He buries. He memorizes the shape of the pain and calls it penance. And if someone were to come to him with love—real love, unarmed, unguarded, unearned—he wouldn’t know where to put it. Wouldn’t know how to let it live inside him without choking it to death with suspicion.

Because love, to him, has always been another kind of violence.

Touch was a trigger before it was ever a comfort. Care came with terms. Affection was a power play disguised as praise. His mother, that high priestess of conditional devotion, carved into him the first rule of survival: Obedience is the price of staying close. And he paid it. Over and over again. In silence. In bruises. In loyalty.

So when people talk about love—real, soft, steady love—he flinches. Not out loud. Not in a way you’d catch if you didn’t know him. But his shoulders inch tighter. His jaw sets. His gaze drifts. Because what they’re describing sounds too much like a trap. Like something that could be taken away.

And Andrew—the boy buried under Pope—he knows about being left.

He remembers what it felt like the first time someone walked out and never came back. He remembers the grief that didn’t get held. The questions that didn’t get answered. The silence that never got filled. He remembers trying to be good, trying to be better, trying to deserve whatever scraps of tenderness were rationed to him. And he remembers every time it still wasn’t enough.

Love, true love, the kind that doesn’t punish or require or mold or demand—it would dismantle him. Gently. Quietly. Without force.

And that’s what would make it so terrifying.

If someone offered that to him—love with no ledger, no warpath, no score to settle—he wouldn’t scream, wouldn’t break things, wouldn’t snap like people expect. That’s not his brand of chaos. He’d disappear. Shrink. Go still in a way that would feel almost holy. He’d answer less. Show up late. Say he’s tired when what he means is I don’t know how to hold this without breaking it. He’d sit across from them, eyes too bright, mouth too quiet, waiting for the moment they realize what he is and walk away.

Because they always have. That’s the law of his life: What you touch, you lose. What you love, you destroy. What you let in, burns.

But still—still—the wanting lives.

It’s there in every glance that lingers too long, every moment of silence that lasts just a breath past comfort. It’s there in the way he watches their hands when they talk, like maybe if he can memorize the way they move, he’ll understand something about safety. It’s there in the way he starts the car even when he doesn’t know where he’s going. In the way he drives through the night with no destination, trying to outrun a kind of hope he doesn’t have the words for.

And if they stay—if they stay through the shutdowns, the stormy silences, the volatility he doesn't mean to unleash—they’ll see it.

The cracks.

The sacred fissures in the stone.

He won’t say I missed you. But he’ll fix the loose hinge on their door without being asked. He’ll keep track of their schedule like it’s his own. He’ll bring back the brand of granola they mentioned liking six months ago, like it was a sermon he never forgot.

Because for Pope Cody, love is not a performance—it’s ritual. It’s devotion. It’s carrying someone in your every breath and pretending you’re not scared shitless they’ll leave anyway.

But don’t mistake that quiet for peace. There’s rot in the foundation. He’s lived too long in the shadow of his own sins. The things he’s done—the people he’s buried, the rage he’s swallowed, the lines he’s crossed to protect what little he had left—they haunt him. And when someone loves him anyway, it doesn’t cleanse the guilt. It amplifies it.

Because now he has something to lose.

And losing something good—something soft and sacred and real—would be the most violent thing he’s ever endured.

So he might push them away. Not because he doesn’t care, but because he cares too much. Because he sees himself as a curse. Because he thinks love from him is a death sentence.

But if they stay—really stay—something shifts.

He softens. Like something that used to be sharp learning how to hold without cutting. He starts making eye contact. He starts laughing, low and surprised, like he forgot what joy sounded like in his own throat. He says home and means it.

And eventually—slowly, reverently—he gives it back.

Not in declarations. In presence. In protection. In vulnerability.

That’s the holiest thing about Pope Cody. Not the violence he’s endured. Not the damage he’s done. But the miracle of him still choosing tenderness. Still reaching for something that terrifies him. Still offering his chest, scarred and sacred, as a place for someone to rest their head.

He’s not holy because he’s redeemed.

He’s holy because he tries.

Because every small act of love from him is a rebellion against everything that built him. Because he holds his own brokenness like an offering—and still finds a way to love through it.

And when he does love, when he finally lets himself be loved—he’ll never go through the motions. He’ll check the locks twice so they can sleep. He’ll sit beside them in silence when they cry, not trying to fix it—just letting them be, because he knows what it’s like to fall apart and not want to be rebuilt.

So yes. He could survive love.

But it wouldn’t be survival anymore. It would be transfiguration.

Because Andrew Cody doesn’t need to be saved.

He needs to be believed in.

And there is no one more deserving of holy, quiet, lifelong love than the man who thought it would kill him—and still dared to try.

(Andrew is so special. There’s something almost biblical about the way he suffers, the way he loves, the way he carries it all in silence. I’m glad you’re watching. Season 5 is brutal in the best way. Welcome to the long, slow heartbreak of loving a man like Pope Cody. You’re exactly where you’re meant to be.)

[candywife333]

You Could Never

Pairing: Jungkook singer x chubby y/n

PART 1 of Places You Never Were

Not edited as usual and should end with part 2. Really poured my heart out in this one, hope you like it!

Triggers: sad feelings, crude words and description, intense unrequited love, heart break

She had loved him in the silent ways. And he had simply let her, as though he was doing her a favor.

He never asked for anything but he always accepted. The hearty home cooked meals , the cheerful messages reminding him to sleep early and take a break when he needed it, the silence when resounding echoes of the world around him got too loud. When he needed an escape. Always there.

Foolish girl. I was always there. Invisible, woven into the tapestry of his life --a single seamless thread overarching the entire narrative. Always there, but never seen.

Too trivial to be seen. To be seen with. In the background of his life like a never ending tune.

Even the way he broke up with me was trivial. Like I held no meaning to him after 5 long years of holding him down. It was a text, after he had left for one of his international tours with the rest of his group.

I never told him about what I saw in the studio that day. I simply bottled it up, the grief and then the rage, rocking myself to sleep in tears -dwelling on things of the past that would haunt me.

That night was when they all hitched a late night flight to America from South Korea. It was 5 AM when I received the text, "Let's take a break Y/N. I know this feels like it came out of nowhere, but come on. You know that we haven't been the same since a while now. It's best for me and you , so we can stay focused on our professional goals".

I read the text, a manic, dry laugh escaping my throat. Like something in me had cracked. Permanently. Focused on professional goals. So that was what he was doing with that dancer in that studio late into the evening. Pursuing professional goals. I see, I guess that's what they called whoring around nowadays.

We both knew whose goals he truly cared about. His. Because, even though I had been transforming his career and his life selflessly, mine had changed very little. I was still under-study to a producer, not even an official one. That's what happens when you take shit. From everyone. Including people at work. I guess my relationship dynamics had translated into my work as well.

Days evolved into weeks.

Weeks of unwashed, crusty dishes and funky smelling, dirty hair. But if I didn't show up for any more days- I would be unemployed. So I went back to work. The producer I worked under, Kang, still forgot my name though I had been working with him for a number of years. Still getting his dry wash, still making his piss water coffee, still organizing messy shelves-fixing his life instead of mine. Still unnoticed.

But the world doesn't wait for you. Even when you are decaying and decomposing inside. The machine of the industry won't ever stop. For anyone. The world wouldn't let me recover, headlines flooded with rumors of his projects, his hook-ups, his relationships, collaborations, him.

The text still reverberated in my ears, as if he had spoke it out loud , "Let's take a break". Five years down the drain. Spilled milk. And maybe that's why they call these things break-ups. Because it literally breaks you from the inside out... corroding parts of you that you tend to take for granted. Trust and optimism in the world gone in the blink of an eye.

Those were the days I wish my love was unrequited. If it had just stayed a pipe dream, at least it wouldn't have broken me like this.

I still didn't know where I went wrong. I still didn't as I went through the motions of my monotonous life. He had been warm to me. Kind and considerate, loving. He had called me his rock, his calm in the storm that was his life. All lies. I should've known that I was just a phase in his life. A passing summer rain. We were too different to work in reality.

His life is noisy and vibrant. He lives in stages and luxury hotel rooms. Rented Villas. He passes through places, nothing ever permanent. I live in the embrace of soft blankets worn out by the passage of time and faded covers of books I have thumbed through the pages of a million times. In an apartment I had stayed in for 6 years now.

My eyes fall on memories--all too painful. I try not to think of them, to not see them. Mementos of times gone by. A backstage pass, a hoodie he left behind, a birthday card signed in his messy loopy signature. The pain never dulls, even though its been a few months since the fall out. He has been jet-setting across the globe for his tour.

And just when I thought it could not hurt anymore than it already did. I saw them at the award show. The dancer and him. Walking hand in hand. The dancer was dressed in a golden shimmery fabric, floating across with floor with her lengthy, frail arm on his buff, tuxedo clad shoulder. My producer had told me to come, a networking event from hell.

I was dressed in black, as most of the junior crew were. A drab black shirt and pants that couldn't cover my hefty frame well enough. As if it wasn't enough to see him with her, his speech poured salt on the raw edges of my wounds. "Thank you to our fans, our team, our families", he drawled smoothly. "And to all the people behind the scenes who have seen all versions of me and still helped me to walk this path and achieve so much when I was lost. You are all part of my journey and I am forever grateful".

I felt like I had been sharply slapped on my cheek. I had been relegated to the supporting cast in his life, the side character, the background. It seemed to me, that's all I ever was. The supporting character in someone else's life. He looked through the crowd, his gaze fixing on me - a flicker of recognition. A momentary lapse in his nonchalant composure.

I look forward at him as though he was immaterial, as though he was invisible. Because to me in that moment that was what he had become. He had erased my existence from his life. And he did so proudly.

I didn't win anything that night.

But I sure as hell was done losing.

________________________________________________________

The studio looked different now that it had nothing to do with him. I had purged all signs of him from the studio. The ones that I could anyway. Gone were the days were I scurried around like a mouse, silent and hesitant to pitch in ideas.

I stayed longer than everyone else. I was building myself. Something I should have done from the beginning. Instead of building up someone else. Learning and absorbing all the skills of the producers and engineers around me. Fine-tuning layered vocals, manipulating sample sounds to fit in with a track. Lacing together vocals with syncopated beats.

I asked. Something I never did before. I let them take a risk on me, trying the controls myself when they offered. I worked on demos on my own and one day when I was busy munching on a veggie sandwich , my boss came in, a wry smile on his face , crooning melodically, "You've got it".

I stared at him confused. Stuttering, "Sss...ir what do you mean"? He went on resolutely as though he had made up his mind, "You got it kid. The gumption and the genius. Drop all the projects you are working on as of today. You will be working for a solo artist, crafting together their title tracks".

I sat there completely mind-blown as he walked away as fluidly as he had come in, just as silently.

I worked on the tracks day and night. The rough work schedule and my disinterest in food making me lose weight and gain skills I never thought I had. I thought I didn't have it in me. But I layered every track, made every decision regarding arrangements- no matter how minute. I could hear a hint of the insertion of one trumpet and the chords of one piano piece and know which part of which track I was in. I was obsessive. It had to be how I envisioned it.

The room was silent the day of the title track recording. "Alright", I said to the awaiting room, all head producers and boss in to hear the recording. "Let's make sure the verses for track 3 are minimal , raw, with low reverb. Pull in the strings, and build the tension . Make sure to make it sharp in terms of enunciation of lyrics because once we break the tension... there will be silence in the track ".

The young soloist frantically noted it down, teaming with fear and wide eyes as I explained how it should progress.

One of the senior producers who wouldn't even have acknowledged me before raised his hand. "Are you certain that such a drop, with silence, wouldn't be too precarious. Don't you think it would lose the interest of listeners"?

This time was not the time I doubted myself. I had slowly stopped doing that as I had crafted these tracks together. "I am sure", I firmly responded. " There are too many ballads-especially pop ballads nowadays with the same over produced noises. Silence occasionally would do the audience some good".

There was a brief overture of silence in the room till another producer sighed.

"Let's give it a go".

In the booth, the artist sang the song over the arrangement, and as i sat in the control room--I felt so joyous. Something I hadn't felt in a while. The tracks with the voice sounded honest...truthful... and so beautiful. I let his voice crack because that brought beauty to some tracks. The rawness with the music arrangements enveloping them, even brought tears to a few producers in the room.

When the artist came out of the booth, he fearfully looked at me, "I am so sorry... for my voice cracking. I promise I will do better. Please let me record them again". He looked at me, like I would take away everything he worked for. But I am not that type of person...I don't take people away from their dreams.

I whispered back to him, "We are keeping the tracks as is. If your voice didn't crack, I would feel like you were singing lies. But you can't lie on these tracks... they have to be honest , even if they are painful. Thanks for lending your voice and bringing them to life".

He smiled back at me, his pink bangs fringing his watery, teary eyes. And you know what, I was not at all close to this guy. But I could feel my eyes tear up too. Some bonds are forged differently. We laughed at each other , leaky eyes meeting as the rest of the producers clapped me on the back, exiting the room.

It was the birth of something new.

______________________________________________

The track dropped 2 months later. No heavy marketing circuit. Just a midnight release and accompanying dance performance done by the artist to certain tracks on music bank and other channels.

It was everywhere by that morning. Flooding the radio, in all stores, in clubs, cafes , playing everywhere--even in a few ads and the central track anticipated to be in one long awaited korean drama which had already included it in its trailer .

The title track dominated the charts with its "charming simplicity" and "devastating lyrics and arrangement". Even the most astringent of critics lauded it as a "heart wrenching series of compositions that mimicked the death of love". Artists used it in edits and sang along to it. Even avid indie lovers who tended to harp on mostly overproduced pop songs spelled it out to be " the sound of scratching your soul on glass shards , melancholy and akin to slowly bleeding to death".

Placed in cursive handwriting below the title, in credits was my first name. Embossed in red script on the bottom of the album. Something for once, in its entirety, belonged to me.

The artist, Jimin, blew up overnight as well. He was a part of Jungkook's group and a lesser known member. He had been struggling til now to make an identity for himself, to distinguish himself as he had what some considered " weaker vocals" and only dance skills to show. But with this album, he ascended into the ranks. Showing up on billboard, even getting international acclaim. Invited to perform at the VMAs.

With my production and lyrics, and his innate talent, he beat out Jungkook's solo for the No. 1 spot on the Korean Hot 100- and stayed there for 4 weeks straight.

His fans argued that it was a fluke, a temporary deviation. Nothing to write home about.

But the talents and the machinery of the industry knew better.

Jungkook may have been spectacular, but he lacked depth. Depth and soul that the newcomer had. Singing that sounded like crying... that resounded in the souls of everyone who heard the artist live. And now the soul had someone's name encrypted into it, one that the industry couldn't afford to pretend away any longer.

Headlines ravaged the press, "Rookie member Dethrones Veteran Soloist in Weekly Chart", "Clash of Members due to Superior Skills ", "The Death and Birth of Pop".

All dramatic titles that reached me. I laughed dryly at the soap opera that was being played out in the headlines.

My life sure was changing quickly. I was being fought over...artists wanted me to direct and produce their albums. I had moved out of my apartment into a cozy house that I had always wanted, since I was a little girl. A homey, spacious cottage with a massive garden filled with fruit and flower trees.

My earnings were sky-rocketing and I bought properties to ensure that in case something happened, I still had the means to stay in my new house (that I now never wanted to leave).

At work I felt like I belonged. The other producers listened to my thoughts and took it seriously. I had my hands in a lot of projects. And it was all working out.

I showed up on my first talk show , a panel named "The Sound of Music". It was an entire show talking about female empowerment through music as a medium. The host of the show asked, "You have been behind the scenes for the longest time. Was your success something you expected"?

I pondered the question for a bit. "No, definitely not. But I built it , thinking that the outcome was inevitable . That there is no way I could possibly fail".

And that is how I continued my work. My newfound stability was reflected in my appearance. I had lost some weight from following a healthy lifestyle and my curves that had at one point made me look frumpy, now looked well-proportioned on my frame. No way would I be a model by any means, but my figure suited my frame. I was feeling more active than ever.

But life can't stay perfect like that now, can it? A headline dominated the frame of the news articles, "Idol involved in DUI, severely injured. Can he survive this"?

I stared at the title in bewilderment. Can he? Did he survive? I guess we'll find out.

[earthtoharlow]

Love On Lafayette

main masterlist

The bell above the shop door gave a lazy jingle, but Lila Carter didn’t look up right away. She was arranging daisy’s into a teacup-sized pot, a soft smudge of soil across her cheek. Lila was trying not to swear in front of the tiny pair of eyes watching her from the floor behind the counter.

“Momma, Cinnabun’s ears ripped again.”

Lila sighed and leaned over the counter just far enough to see her four-year-old daughter, Violet, holding up a battered stuffed rabbit with one ear hanging on by a thread. Again.

“Tell him to hold it together for ten more minutes,” she said, grabbing the needle and thread she kept in the drawer specifically for this purpose. “We’ve had a long morning.”

Violet gave her a dramatic eye roll—far too advanced for a preschooler—and returned to her coloring book, propped up on the floor with a juice box at her side.

It wasn’t ideal. But it was life.

Running a small flower shop in Brooklyn while raising a child alone wasn’t exactly a recipe for luxury. Especially not after Violet’s dad decided the whole fatherhood thing wasn’t quite for him somewhere between “I’m pregnant” and “It’s a girl.”

Lila’s older sister had offered her the spare bedroom in her apartment over the shop, and Lila had taken it without hesitation. Rent was too high, babysitters were too expensive, and Violet’s daycare had shut down six months ago.

So now, the shop was home, work, and a playroom all in one. It was chaos. But it was hers.

The bell jingled again, and this time, Lila looked up.

A man walked in wearing a baseball cap pulled low and sunglasses that didn’t belong indoors. He moved like someone who wasn’t used to being ignored, which immediately made her suspicious.

He took off his sunglasses, paused in front of the succulents, picked up the tiny cactus, and inspected it like he was waiting for it to talk.

“That one’s not technically a flower,” Lila called from behind the counter, needle still in hand. “But points for effort.”

The man glanced over, clearly surprised to be addressed. “Right. Of course. I knew that.”

Lila arched a brow. “Sure you did.”

He looked around, eyes scanning the shelves like he was searching for the meaning of life in a pot of daisies.

“What flower says, ‘I mean well, but I’m a bit of a disaster’?” he asked finally.

Lila froze mid-stitch, she could tell from his accent that he was not a New Yorker. “Sorry?”

“You know,” he said, gesturing vaguely. “Like—‘Hi, I vanished for a few days and maybe forgot your birthday, but I swear I’m not a bad person.’ Something like that.”

She gave him a look. “So… the universal man bouquet.”

He let out a laugh—rich, low, and surprisingly genuine. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

She walked out from behind the counter, brushing her hands on her apron. “Sunflowers, then. Big, showy, fall over without support. The metaphors built-in.”

As she handed one to him, he noticed the little girl peeking over the edge of the counter with wide, curious eyes.

“Hello,” he said, crouching slightly. “Small creature.”

Violet blinked at him, unimpressed. “Hello, big human.”

He grinned. “Fair enough.”

“That’s Violet,” Lila said, unable to hide her amusement. “And no, she’s not for sale.”

He raised his hands. “Didn’t even ask. But she seems cool.”

Violet turned back to her coloring with an air of dismissal only toddlers could pull off.

The man stood and looked at Lila again—long enough that she finally looked closer, too.

She considered him again. He looked familiar, in a vague, have-we-met-once-at-a-party-you-don’t-remember kind of way. But she chalked it up to him just having one of those faces.

Lila quickly wrapped the sunflowers and handed them to him.

He just offered a smile and a twenty-dollar bill.

“Keep the change,” he said. “This place has good energy.”

And then he was gone, walking back into the city.

Lila turned to Violet, who was watching the door like she half expected him to come back.

“Do we know that man?” Violet asked.

“No, I don’t believe so.” She said, still staring at the door he walked out of.

“He talks funny.”

“You think so?”

Violet picked up her stuffed bunny again. “I liked it.”

And that was that.

But it wouldn’t be the last time he came in.

Not even close.

****

A nice little short story, this probably won’t have more than 6 chapters. I already have it all written so 😌 please let me know if you like this because validation makes me post chapters faster 🥰

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