#where i will promptly collapse on the couch

[alwayslurkinginthebackground]

Anger - A Joel Miller Drabble

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader Rating: E (is there anything else with him?????) Truly this is the least crazy thing I've written in days. Unprotected p in v. Word Count: 1155 a/n: Sometimes I spend all afternoon trying to write Joel and get nothing and other times I write 1000 words in less than 30 minutes. There is no in-between. Written for TLOU Sundays!

"You've really gotta do something about him," Ellie tells you from where she's sitting at the kitchen table.

You're barely through the door, coat still covered in a layer of snow from outside. "Well hello to you, too, Ellie," you respond, pulling off your boots before you track any more water into the house. It's strange, how something like keeping the floors dry didn't matter for twenty years and now suddenly again it does. "You're the fourth person to say that to me today though, so I assume you also are talking about Joel?"

She's flipping through the pages of a comic, barely paying you any attention. "Yes, Joel," she emphasizes, not that you need any further confirmation. Maria had cornered you at the saloon, the other half of your patrol had been on your case, and you had a run-in with Jackson's resident grandma first thing in the morning, who gave you an earful about how you needed to learn how to satisfy your man so he would stop torturing the entire town with his bad mood.

You sigh, shucking your coat and flexing your toes in your thick socks as you make your way into the kitchen. "Any idea what's wrong with him? He seemed fine this morning."

Ellie shrugs, still engrossed in the pages in front of her. "I don't know, Dina just told me he was being a real fucking asshole. You know how he gets."

That you do. You're well aware of the way Joel Miller can make or break an entire day based on his mood, especially since you've been at his side to witness it longer than anyone else.

Before you can contemplate further, the man in question storms through the door, a grumble on his lips before it's even closed behind him. Ellie meets your gaze, glancing over at him before turning back to you and then quickly rising. "I've gotta get going," she says quickly, sneaking past Joel to grab her jacket.

She's out the door before he can even say a word.

"Where the fuck is she going?" he questions, ignoring the way his boots squeak on the floorboards as he makes his way to the couch, collapsing into it. A part of you wants to scold him for the wet spots now littered all over the floor, but based on the furrow in his brow, there's no use, and you simply follow him instead, swinging a leg over his thigh to climb into his lap and settle there.

Only he has the audacity to grumble. Again.

"Joel," you say sternly, "don't do that."

"Don't do what?" he fires back, and now you know exactly what everyone had been warning you about. "I didn't do anything."

"What's up with you today?" It's a simple question, an inquiry that he should have no problem answering, but he doesn't, so you continue with a follow-up request, "Just tell me why I had four separate people tell me that I needed to figure out who you're so angry today."

"I'm not angry."

You frown. "Bullshit, Miller. Tell me what the fuck is wrong."

His answer is to seal his lips to yours, his rough grip dragging your hips against his so you can feel the hard press of him between your thighs. This felt familiar, especially since he'd been in an equally shit mood the day you first met, something you'd promptly fucked out of him later that night. And usually, that did the trick, but there was always something else lingering beneath the surface.

Not that you have time to contemplate what it might be because he pushes any thought of his mental well-being from your head when he rips your shirt from your body and latches onto one of your breasts. Likewise, any train of thought is gone just as quickly as the remainder of your clothing.

It's a good thing Ellie left quickly, because within minutes he has you spread out on the couch beneath him, one of your legs hitched around his hip as he pounds into you. There's little space left between you, the moment feeling intimate even with the intensity of the way he's pressing you down, grunting with each thrust until he has you clenching around him.

His fingers are on your clit before you come down from your climax, already drawing you higher a second time. "Joel, fuck, I can't," you whine, gripping at his hand.

"You can," he emphasizes, "you're gonna take every fucking inch of me."

And then you can see it. The rage behind his gaze, the emotion that has his eyes glassed over. The anger he has to unleash somehow. It scared you when you first met him, the first time he had you like this back in Boston, pressed up against the door, the first time you watched his fist collide with a FEDRA officer who tried to touch you, and the first time you saw him have to kill someone who definitely wasn't infected.

But now, you know better. You know that he won't hurt you, but he still needs a way to release the pent-up emotion that boils beneath the surface. You don't know what happened to get him here today, but you do know how to fix it.

Joel groans when you shift to wrap your legs fully around his waist, pulling him down so the soft expanse of his stomach presses against your own, increasing the pressure of your walls wrapped around him. It's all he can do to rut into you, your back slowly snaking up the arm of the couch as he fucks you. The angle changes the higher you move, guiding his lips to yours so he can catch the scream that rips from your throat when you clench around him a second time.

He follows you into the abyss, pulling out seconds before he spills against your center, jerking himself off until the last drops drip down onto the fabric.

When he regains his breath he stands, cock softening as he moves to grab a cloth to wipe his spend from your core. And then he's pressing you into the couch again, settled in the safety of your thighs as his head rests on your chest.

"Do you wanna know what Mrs. Davis told me today?" you ask softly, fingers curling through his hair.

Joel rests his chin on your breast as he looks at you, eyes softer now, more playful. "Fuck, what did she say?"

You smile. "She saw me at the store and pulled me into the corner to tell me that I needed to get you home and ride your cock because she was sick of your shit."

His laugh is rough, but he says nothing else as he settles back against you.

"Was she right?" you ask, your own laughter threatening to bubble up.

He doesn't answer, but he doesn't deny it either.

[inkspiredwriting]

Without her

Five Hargreeves x reader

A/N: Hey, this was a sweet request from @llawlietswif I hope you like it, and even if you don't please let me know

Warnings: none

It was rare—almost unheard of, really—that Five slept in. But that morning, the sunlight was unusually gentle, the blanket warm, and the absence of doomsday-level threats meant he actually got a solid night’s sleep. So when he blinked open his eyes and saw the clock blinking 10:30 a.m., his first reaction was confusion. The second reaction, however, was alarm.

Y/n was not in bed.

Now, under normal circumstances, a missing spouse might not warrant a full-blown panic. But this was Five. A man who had lived through a post-apocalyptic wasteland. A man who had seen timelines bend, break, and collapse. A man with trust issues not just with people, but with reality itself.

He sat up sharply, hair sticking up at odd angles, still wearing a T-shirt that read "World’s Grumpiest Genius." He looked to Y/n’s pillow. Cold. Her phone was not in its usual place. Her shoes were gone. The house was too quiet.

“Y/n?” he called, already swinging his legs out of bed. “Are you here?”

No answer.

He walked into the hallway, calling her name again. Still nothing.

Bathroom—empty.

Kitchen—empty.

He even opened the pantry door for a second and peered in, like she might have inexplicably decided to hang out between the flour and the cereal boxes.

Then came the garden. Also empty. He stared at the tomato plants like they might give him answers.

"Okay, don't panic," he muttered to himself, tugging a hand through his hair. "She probably just went out to grab something. Like... fruit. Or... emergency jam."

He pulled out his phone and called her. Straight to voicemail.

“Great,” he muttered. “She was either kidnapped or I’ve slipped into another cursed timeline.”

He called again. Voicemail.

He called Allison. No answer.

Viktor. No answer.

"Okay," Five said to himself, pacing in a circle in the living room. "If I were Y/n, and I decided to disappear without warning, where would I—wait, why would I disappear without warning?"

Out of mild desperation, he even checked the laundry room, just in case. Then the closet. Then, in a move he would never live down, he actually crouched and checked under the bed.

At this point, he was about thirty seconds from teleporting to every coffee shop in town.

By the time 2:00 p.m. rolled around, Five was sitting on the couch with a scowl so deep it could have split the Earth’s crust. He had made himself coffee and promptly forgotten it, and now it sat cold and bitter beside him. His arms were crossed. He had called Y/n’s phone at least seven times, and left a voicemail that could only be described as "angrily affectionate."

Then—finally—he heard the jingle of keys at the door.

Y/n stepped in, laughing, with Allison and Viktor behind her, carrying shopping bags and to-go cups. All three looked happy, relaxed, and completely unaware of the emotional hurricane Five had been through.

“Oh, finally,” Five snapped, rising from the couch. “Look who decided to show up after vanishing off the face of the earth for four hours!”

Y/n blinked. “Hi to you, too?”

“Where have you been?! I woke up, and you were gone. I checked the entire house. I looked in the pantry, Y/n.”

“You looked in the pantry?” Allison started to laugh.

Viktor added with a smirk, “Did you also check the freezer?”

“I almost did,” Five admitted, with the sort of self-righteous glare only a 51-year-old man trapped in a 30-year-old body could manage.

“I turned off my phone,” Y/n said, apologetic but clearly holding back laughter. “I just wanted a relaxing day. I didn’t think you’d wake up before noon.”

“I never sleep in!” Five said, waving a hand. “It was one time!”

Y/n walked over and kissed his cheek. “You’re cute when you panic.”

“I wasn’t panicking. I was doing a thorough sweep.”

“You looked in the pantry,” she repeated with a giggle.

“That was part of the sweep,” Five muttered.

Viktor patted his shoulder. “You know you’re whipped, right?”

Five ignored him. “Next time? Just leave a note. Or a post-it. Or a breadcrumb trail. Anything.”

Y/n grinned and slid her arms around his waist. “You really got that worried?”

“Yes,” he grumbled, wrapping his arms around her anyway. “Because you are the most important person in my life, and when I woke up and you were gone without a trace, I thought maybe the universe finally realized it screwed up by giving me something that good.”

“You’re so romantic,” she teased.

“Don’t push it.”

Allison and Viktor were now cracking up on the couch, and Y/n whispered into Five’s ear, “I love you.”

He sighed, kissing her temple. “I love you too. Even if you cause me minor heart attacks.”

“And next time, I’ll leave a note in the pantry,” she promised.

[catladyoftheyr]

Emergency Contact (Gojo x reader)

A/N: I have a lot of smut in the drafts but I felt called to write something cute for my man tonight. Pg-13, brief mentions of intimacy. Something short and silly! Warnings for pregnancy, birth, children, broken nose

You often wondered how you’d ended up where you were in life. A loving husband and two young children, with a third on the way. Married to the legendary Jujutsu Sorcerer, Satoru Gojo.

One of the biggest draws to your husband was his silliness. On your wedding day he had removed your garter with his teeth and then promptly flung it at Nanami Kento. He was quick to crack jokes and never strayed away from playful banter with you.

You often found yourself being the one to take care of him on nights out, cradling a drunken Satoru while he cooed about how much he loved you. He’d come home and collapse onto the couch before you could coax him into bed. The strongest sorcerer couldn’t handle his liquor and you would laugh softly as you pulled a blanket over him and kissed him goodnight. In the mornings you’d find him rummaging through the kitchen, barefoot and disheveled, gathering the ingredients to what he swore would cure a hangover.

Satoru loved to show his passion in the bedroom, but was never able to stay serious for too long. He had a variety of novelty boxers, with patterns ranging from eggplants to cartoon characters. He loved to kiss down your stomach during foreplay and catch you off guard by blowing a raspberry on your navel. You had been lounging in bed in your skivvies before and he’d driven a hot wheels car down your back and over your rear end.

When pregnancy came into the equation, he tried every odd craving you had with glee. You’d watch him fight back a gag when you fed him peanut butter covered pickles and raw lemon slices. He came to every appointment and watched in awe as his children moved on the ultrasound screen. When your water had broken In a corn maze several weeks earlier than expected he’d practically barreled toward the exit to get to the car. When he’d watched his daughter crowning in the hospital room his face had gone sheet white and he’d nearly fainted.

Gojo claimed his title with pride when it came to being the fun dad. Your home became overrun with pillow forts and plus animals. Fits of laughter rang through the air as Satoru tickled his son and daughter, tiny voices screeching with glee. One afternoon Satoru had offered to take the kids to a trampoline park while you finished up some work in your office. You braced yourself for the worst when you saw your husband contact flash across your phone screen. When a tiny voice was on the other end of the line you had to fight back laughter as your eldest daughter explained “daddy broke his nose”. You arranged for Kento to take your children home while you drive Satoru to the emergency room.

You once again wondered how the man with an ice pack to his swollen nose sitting in the hospital waiting room had become your emergency contact.

[ihni]

Billy Hargrove has been dead for little over two months when Steve opens the door to find him on the doorstep, dirty and pale and shaking. He stares at Steve with wide eyes – bluer than Steve remembers – before he collapses into a heap of dirty limbs halfway across the threshold. Steve pulls him inside, disposes of him in the couch in the living room, and naturally proceeds to freak the fuck out.

After some processing, he decides that he must be experiencing a very vivid dream – and honestly, it’s a welcome change after the usual nightmares – and since it’s merely a dream, he opens a bottle of his dad’s best whiskey, because where’s the harm, right?

An hour later finds Steve sitting on the floor with his back to an armchair, predictably drunk and watching Billy sleep. Or possibly being unconscious. It doesn’t really matter which, since it’s only a dream.

Turns out, though, that it’s not a dream – or if it is, it’s a damn weird one. Because Billy wakes up, and when he looks around the room and spots Steve there, he starts to cry, which. Is not something that Steve’s brain could ever dream up, alcohol-soaked or not. And Billy feels solid enough under Steve’s hand, when he awkwardly pats the other boy’s shaking shoulders.

The events that have taken place are eventually revealed, but make no sense to either of them. Apparently Billy woke up somewhere dark and cramped (the coffin, he doesn’t say, but Steve hears it anyway), promptly panicked, and … broke out, somehow. Dug himself out from the rain-soaked earth, and stumbled along the roads until he saw a house he recognized. Which was Steve’s house.

It’s impossible, Steve knows. Billy has been dead for months. Steve saw him die – had first row seats to the sight of him getting impaled by a monster made out of meat and bones – and coming back from the dead after all that is simply not possible. Yet here Billy is, sitting on the floor of Steve’s living room, not a mark on him.

(Literally. There are no marks, no scars. Just smooth skin where they both know he was speared through.)

They spend the rest of the night slowly making their way through Steve’s dad’s expensive whiskey.

In the morning, Billy says, voice hoarse; “I need you to drive me to California.”

Steve thinks of asking why. Thinks of Max, thinks of Billy’s parents, thinks of telling the Party or the police or at least some adult who would possibly know what to do. What he says, though, is “Okay.” The world swims, and he adds, belatedly, “Tomorrow, though. I’m too drunk to drive now.”

A snort is the last thing he hears before he falls asleep where he’s sitting.

~~~

Half the next day is spent nursing hangovers and realizing that nope, last night wasn’t a dream or an alcohol-induced hallucination. The other half is spent making preparations for the trip.

Now when Steve is sober, he revisits the idea to simply tell someone. Billy being back is a miracle, and there are people mourning him, people who has missed him –

Billy shuts that down hard and fast. “No one is mourning me here,” he says, voice gravel-rough. “If they act like they do, it’s because they’re feeling guilty. There’s nothing left for me here.” He licks his lips, and his next words are a whisper. “I never wanted to come here in the first place.”

And, like. If he really thinks about it, Steve realizes that they wouldn’t be able to keep Billy being back a secret if he stayed in Hawkins. And if they tell Max, or Billy’s family, then word would spread. The government would no doubt hear of it. There would be a high probability of Billy being taken in for tests, experimentation, whatever else.

He doesn’t deserve that, Steve thinks as he watches Billy emerge from the shower wearing borrowed clothes. Because Billy died saving them. Sacrificed himself for them, even when they’d done so little to try to save him. This? Driving Billy to California? It’s the least Steve can do for him.

~~~

They get on the road the next day. Steve has taken time off work blaming the death of an elderly aunt and a rare family gathering, and been as vague as he can get away with concerning how long he’ll be away. Early in the morning, they put their bags – Billy’s is a borrowed one, containing only Steve’s things since he has nothing of his own and understandably didn’t want to keep the clothes he had on when he was buried – in the trunk of the car, and get in.

Steve is driving. When they pass the “Leaving Hawkins” sign, Billy lets out an audible sigh and slumps down in his seat. Steve glances over at him, and Billy explains without being prompted; “I always hated this town. I can’t believe they fucking buried me here.”

His incredulousness over the fact draws a snort out of Steve.

~~~

It’s strange, how easy it is to get used to having Billy Hargrove next to him while in a confined space. Stranger yet, how well they get along considering their history. And even more strange, how different Billy seems now, when they’ve left Hawkins behind them.

Or perhaps it’s not strange at all – at least not in comparison to all the other weird stuff they’ve both seen and somehow lived through. In the great scheme of things, one young man coming back from the dead and wanting to go back home doesn’t even make the top ten list of weird shit.

Billy is surprisingly funny, and witty, and smart – and it is dazzling without the sharp edges. It takes Steve a while to recognize what is missing, and when he does, it makes him watch Billy with new eyes. Because Billy doesn’t seem to exist behind a layer of anger anymore. The tension is gone. The further they get from Hawkins, the easier Billy seems to breathe.

The change is remarkable. Makes Steve think that he probably never knew who Billy really was, before this.

He finds himself thinking that he is looking forward to getting to know the real Billy.

~~~

They take turns driving. Sometimes they talk, sometimes they sit in companionable silence, and sometimes whoever’s in the passenger seat naps while the other drives. They stop at gas stations to stock up on gas and snacks, and at diners for food. That first night, they drive straight through, but the next night they stop at a motel for some proper sleep in a bed.

They share a room, but lie in separate beds. They talk for hours in the dark before falling asleep.

“I never wanted to be buried underground,” Billy says, when they’re both on the edge of sleep. “They knew that.”

“What did you want, then?” Steve asks, never having considered an alternative.

“I wanted to get back to the ocean,” Billy says. “Have my ashes spread over the surface of the water and become one with the waves again.”

Steve doesn’t know what to say to that. That he’s sorry that even Billy’s own family didn’t respect his final wishes? That it sucks that they buried his body in the dirt of a town he hated, leaving him to rot there forever when he never even wanted to come there in the first place?

“’One with the waves’ … That sounds beautiful,” he decides on. And then, as an aside, “I’ve never even seen the ocean.”

Steve can hear the smile in Billy’s voice when he speaks next. “You’re going to love it. It’s … everything.”

~~~

They get closer – to California, and to each other – and the closer they get, the less urgency Steve feels to get to their destination. Because what will happen when they get there? Steve can’t just leave Billy there without a means to support himself. Without a home, without a car, without money – without someone to take care of him. Steve can’t help it – he worries.

And then he looks at Billy’s smiling face next to him, and feels his worries being washed away.

He still finds himself taking the scenic route more often than not. Insisting on taking detours to see the sights. Claiming he’s too tired to drive unless he takes a break.

Billy smiles as if he knows what Steve is doing, but he doesn’t make a comment. Doesn’t complain. Seems to enjoy this little bubble they’re in together, in Steve’s car with the world passing them by outside.

It’s strange. But it’s nice, too. Steve kind of doesn’t want it to end.

~~~

The last night, they stop at a motel an hour or two from their destination. They could have kept on driving, but none of them seemed to want to. So they get a room, as usual. Steve pays, as usual. There are two beds, as usual.

Yet, when it’s time to sleep, Billy forgoes his own bed and goes to stand by Steve’s. There’s a question in the air between them, unasked.

Steve answers by peeling back the comforter in invitation. His mouth is dry and his heart is beating like a drum in his chest as Billy climbs in next to him.

They don’t speak much, that night. But they kiss. And they hold each other.

“I never wanted to come to Hawkins,” Billy whispers between kisses. “And I hated it there. But I met you, so I guess it wasn’t all bad.”

The next morning, they wake up in each other’s arms.

~~~

“I’ll show you my home,” Billy says when they get back in the car after breakfast. Steve is back behind the wheel, because he wants a reason to keep his eyes on the road. If he watches Billy too much, he’ll do something stupid – like turn the car around and go back to Hawkins with Billy still in it, or perhaps decide not to go back to Hawkins at all, himself. Just, stay here with Billy, for a while longer.

It’s a fantasy that hurts, so he pushes it down. Concentrates on following Billy’s directions, and drive through a city bigger than one he’s ever been in.

(When he first spots the glittering blue between buildings, he gasps. So does Billy.)

They drive through the city, then out of it. Along a winding road with fewer and fewer buildings around, the ocean vast and terrifyingly endless to their right. Eventually Billy directs them down a gravel road that doesn’t have a sign and looks like it might lead onto private property. Steve would worry, would perhaps protest, if it wasn’t for the longing on Billy’s face.

They have to walk the last bit, Billy says. They get out of the car. It’s hours before noon, but it’s already warm. Steve’s in just a T-shirt, and for a second he his face to the sun to feel the warmth of it on his skin – before turning to Billy only to see him turned to the sun, too. Like a flower in bloom.

He looks golden, in this light.

After a short walk down a steep incline, they end up on a little beach. A tiny one, empty, with rocky outcrops on either side which makes it seem like they’re the only people on earth. The sand is fine and pale under their feet, the water lapping at the edges of it and then stretching out in front of them until it meets the horizon, far far away.

It’s beautiful. But it’s not exactly a house. And didn’t Billy say he’d show Steve his home?

“Mom used to take me here when I was a kid,” Billy says, kicking off his shoes. Steve does the same, and pulls off his socks as well. “We used to come here all the time.” Billy holds out his hand with a smile, and Steve takes it. They make their way to the water. “She’d watch me play in the water for hours, sitting on a towel, just listening to the waves and the seagulls.” The first step into the water is a shock – it’s cold, but not freezing. It almost feels alive. Steve takes a tentative step after Billy, bolstered by Billy’s widening smile. “I think taking me here was the most peaceful she ever got to be. It was for me, at least. The best times of my childhood.”

They stand there in the surf, feet in the water and holding hands, when Billy turns to Steve. His eyes are shining with unshed tears and his smile is wobbly as he places his hands on either sides of Steve’s face and leans in for the softest of kisses; their lips just barely brushing against each other.

“Thank you,” he says, and Steve’s heart skips a beat because it sounds like goodbye, “for not letting me stay buried in Indiana.”

He backs up a step. Brushes a tear from Steve’s cheek – that he hadn’t realized had fallen – and turns towards the endless sea. Takes a deep breath and starts walking.

Steve wants to reach out to stop him, wills himself to to say something, but he can’t. Somehow, he knows that this is where they were heading from the start. This is why they had to go here.

As Steve watches, Billy … dissolves. Like in a movie. One moment he is solid, and the next he’s … not. He turns to dust in front of Steve’s eyes, fine dust that glitters like gold in a sudden ray of sunlight. It – he – is spread out over the water, is carried over the clear surface by the gentle breeze.

Instead of being trapped in the ground inland, he becomes one with the waves again.

[bellysoupset]

This is in the future because I couldn't help myself, when Vin already moved in with Wendy. As always, it'll be in the correct order in the masterlist. Christopher, the doctor Jonah hates, was mentioned in this fic.

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

"Hi," Wendy breathed out, opening a blinding smile as Vince entered their apartment. Just thinking that gave her butterflies, she felt like a teenage girl, "how was your day?"

"Uhm," was Vince's grumpy response, dropping his crossbody bag on top of the dining table and marching to the couch so he could collapse on it, "sucked."

"Oh?" Wendy frowned, feeling a stab of hurt at his lackluster response, but that quickly vanished as she saw his washed out complexion, "what's wrong?"

"I don't know," her boyfriend groaned, removing his shirt as if it was annoying him and throwing an arm over his eyes as he leaned back on the couch, "I felt gross all day."

"Be a little more specific, honey," Wendy teased him lightly, sitting by his knee and combing her fingers through his soft curls. Today his hair was curlier than normal, locks licking at her fingertips and trying to wrap around them like vines.

"Headache," Vince grumbled, not moving his forearm shielding his eyes, "stomach feels sour as fuck too... Do I feel warm to you?"

Wen raised her eyebrows, then cupped his cheeks and his neck, "not really, Vin..." she moved her hand down his naked chest, to his stomach, feeling bolder than normal and trusting he'd stop her if he was feeling too bad.

When Vince didn't move a muscle, Wendy pressed around his belly. She could tell he was bloated, the conclusion a consequence of having him all to herself now that they lived together. Wendy could easily pinpoint every single change in her boyfriend's body and she felt extremely smug about this fact. Right now, his belly had a pink mark where it was meeting his jeans, which normally wasn't there, and there was no give under her hands...

BUUUUOURP!

Wen jumped at the sudden burp and so did Vince, removing his arm so he could plant a hand over his lips and hunching forward, ducking his head as he continued to let out a string of much smaller, wetter burps.

His cheeks turned pink, "Pheeww..." he raised his eyes, sheepishly, "sorry, hon, that was gross."

"I could fucking eat you," Wendy replied instead, leaning forward to kiss him and Vince's lips twisted into a smile, mouth meeting hers and lips parting slightly so he could kiss her back.

"You're unbelievable," he chuckled, but pushed her back by the shoulder, gently, "but I really don't feel well, honey... My head hurts."

"Did you take something for it?" She asked softly, running her nails on his scalp and feeling him relax under her touch. Vin shook his head and she planted a kiss on his temple, "alright, wait here."

Wendy's bedside table's drawer had become their whole emergency kit, given it had doubled in size when Vince moved in. He had more over the counter medicine than she ever did and the funny part was that half his pills were for migraines that he didn't even suffer. She grabbed the little bottle of Pepto, TUMS and Tylenol as well, then walked back to the living room.

"Pick one," she raised the Pepto and TUMS and Vince grimaced, reaching for the chewable tablets of TUMS, "This too," Wen instructed, passing him the Tylenol pill.

He swallowed it dry, not bothering to wait for a glass of water, then grabbed Wendy's hand, pulling her close, "can we cuddle?" He asked in a pitiful voice, "I really don't feel well..."

Wendy rolled her eyes at the whininess, but nodded, falling on the couch and squirming to rest her feet on the coffee table as Vince promptly collapsed to the side and buried his face on her lap. It seemed he was unaware that he was far too big for the couch, not minding one bit as his feet stuck out the opposite end.

She fished out her phone and put it on mute, turning on captions to watch TikTok while continuing to pet Vince's hair. It wasn't long until his weight seemed to drop fully and his breath got deeper. Wendy moved her phone just a smidge, smiling at his placid face while napping, then went back to the task.

It was past 6 PM and she had been waiting for him to eat, so Wendy was positively ravenous as nearly 8 PM rolled around. She didn't dare move, knowing he'd for sure wake up and while it wasn't a big deal, she was really enjoying herself there- Her stomach let out a loud growl and Vince snorted, rolling on the couch so he could press his face to her belly.

"You're hungry," he mumbled, sleepily, voice muffled by her top. Wendy shrugged, stroking his cheek with her thumb and sliding down on the couch, pushing the curls away from his face.

"Is your head any better?"

"A little," Vince rolled away from her stomach, opening his eyes and taking a second to situate himself, before he grabbed on the couch to hoist himself sitting up, "go eat, Wen."

"You're not gonna have dinner?" Wendy pouted, getting up. Vince shook his head, palming his still bloated belly and putting his shirt back on, shivering.

"No, I don't think that would be smart," he groaned and she let out a heavy sigh, nodding.

"Okay, but at least drink some water," Wendy moved ahead into the kitchen. Ever since Vince had moved in, she hadn't stepped foot inside of the room. Wendy knew how to do the basics, after all she had lived many years alone by now, but she didn't like cooking and was more than happy to relegate the task entirely. Now, she felt a little lost with all his fancy pans inside the cabinets and all the twenty different pastas and grains Vince had bought.

"I can cook you something," Vin offered, probably noticing how she seemed out of her element, moving inside the kitchen to start making himself tea.

"No," Wendy wrinkled her nose at the thought, offended, "but keep me company? Unless you're feeling too sick, then I'm alright on my own-"

"No, I'm fine," Vince yawned, planting his baby blue fancy kettle on the stove and leaning against the opposite wall of the kitchen, so he was out of her way.

She knew how to cook, but had no idea what she wanted to eat, so Wendy opened the fridge and stuck her head inside of it, in search of any inspiration as she saw the ingredients they had, "when did you start feeling sick, Vin?"

They had gorgonzola cheese and filet mignon stripes, which was an easy enough recipe she had seen Vince do enough times that Wendy thought she could recreate. She grabbed the onion, garlic, as well at the other ingredients and moved away, in time to see Vin press a fist to his mouth and muffle a little burp.

"Uhm- Around... A little after lunch," he cleared his throat, then eyed her cutting board as she started to chop the onions, "don't hold the onion like this, you'll chop your fingertips off-" he reached around her, planting a hand over hers and folding her fingers so she was holding the onion basically with nails, "better."

Wendy muffled a chuckle, he was such a passenger seat driver in the kitchen, "thanks," she rolled her eyes, continuing to chop them and starting to tell him about her day at work. Wen was always in the fold of all hospital gossip, circulating easily between all circles, and Vince finished his tea as she told him the tale of the guy who had a breakdown in the ER and broke one of the IV poles, only for them to learn he was one of the nurse's ex.

"I hope someone called the police on him," Vince scoffed and Wendy noticed he wasn't drinking his tea, but rather using the cup to warm his hands up, "is she alright?"

"She's fine," Wen dismissed him, "and did I tell you I had Christopher come up to me ask me if I think he'll be invited to Jon's wedding? Can you believe that?!"

"No..." Vince mumbled, but now Wendy was barely listening to him as she chopped the cheese pieces and threw it in the frying pan after the onions turned transparent and the garlic golden, opening the fridge to grab some heavy cream.

"Yep! Christopher! The nerve, everyone knows he hates us," Wendy scoffed, continuing to stir the sauce, "I mean, Jonah's not subtle about hating him either, so I really don't know where did he get this notion. Maybe because Claire and I were talking the other day about it?"

"Uhm-"

"Not like, really talking, because Jonah hasn't told me all that much, he said Leo would be offended if I highjacked the wedding — which I wouldn't. But he showed me the venue they are thinking of closing, have you seen it yet? It's super pretty-"

She was interrupted as Vince lurched over the sink, vomit splashing on the couple plates inside.

Wendy let out a squeal, more startled by the sudden movement than anything, and immediately let go of the spoon she was holding, rushing to his side.

"Oh honey, shh-" she rubbed his back, opening the faucet to wash away the mess and splashing the cold water on his face, wiping away the sickness clinging to his chin.

His eyes were squeezed shut, throat bobbing up and down, "sorry..." he rasped out, before another heave interrupted him, spine curling and causing his knuckles on the counter to turn white, "fuck-"

"No, don't- Don't apologize," Wendy kept a hand on his back as she stretched on the kitchen in order to kill the heat of her stove, "get it up, honey, then you can go lie down..."

"Not- Not-URrgph..." Vince belched, another splash of vomit coming up and he grimaced, "it's the smell..."

"Oh," Wendy blinked, surprised, "Ah! Okay, okay, okay-" she dived under his arms, in order to open the cabinet he was half blocking with his body and retrieved a big bowl, holding it up to his chin and grabbing Vince's arm, "alright, lean on me- I didn't even consider that..."

They stumbled together back into the living room and Wendy abandoned him as soon as Vince collapsed on the couch, in order to go close her kitchen door, which she had probably never done in all years living in this apartment.

"Better?" She rushed across the room, opening the windows despite the coldness an early March night.

Vin nodded, although it wasn't very believable, as he was hunched over with one arm wrapped his stomach, free hand still holding the bowl, although it seemed to be slipping in his sweaty fingers.

"Here," Wendy grabbed it and planted on the coffee table, "lie down, honey..."

"No," Vince stopped her from pushing him down against the couch's cushions, breathing in and out slowly, "I'm too nauseous to lie down..." he reached for the bowl once again, planting it on his lap and spitting inside. His stomach let out a loud whine and Wendy raised her eyebrows, sitting on the couch and scooting closer so she could plant a hand on his back.

"Let it up then, Vin," she kissed his shoulder, "c'mon, force up a burp..."

Vin let out another whimper, but gulped down air, struggling to do that when his jaw felt so heavy. A tiny, pathetic burp came up and Wendy let out a scoff.

"You can do better," she patted his back in a rhythmic manner, but absolutely nothing happened, only Vince groaned louder and clutched the bowl a little tighter, rocking on the couch.

"I feel...So'full..." He slurred and Wen bit down her lip, then glanced at the door.

"Uh- I can just open the door again...?" It was only half innocent, if she was being honest. Vince's spine curled and he gagged at the idea and it made her cheeks burn. Wendy pressed her face to his arm, continuing to rub his back and fighting to remain rational.

"Please, don-" Vince gulped around nothing, bringing up a little pathetic gush of vomit, "don't mention foo-URorp-"

Wendy let out a frustrated sigh, planting a hand on his stomach and then saying sweetly, "was it the cheese that set you off? I know, gorgonzo-"

She didn't even have the opportunity to finish that sentence, as Vince let out a deafening retch and then a much bigger wave of puke fell in the bowl, causing her to scramble to grab it, since his hands were so sweaty.

Vince groaned, but didn't straighten up, still hunched over as another burp rolled up and he vomited again, panting as if he had run a marathon.

"Wow," Wendy's face was tingling. She licked her suddenly dry lips, "Vin?"

"Fuck," Vince breathed out, opening his eyes. There were little tears clumping his dark lashes together and his cheeks were flushed too. He fell back against the couch and Wendy took the opportunity to take the bowl, clutching it nervously.

"I'm gonna- Gonna clean this up..." She mumbled, rushing out of the living room to get rid of the half full container.

When she returned, five minutes later, Vince had moved so he was fully lying down on the couch, head on the arm of the furniture, and he had a hand resting on his bloated stomach, the other arm thrown over his eyes in the original position he had when arriving home.

"Vin...?" Wendy walked closer, "uhm- Are you mad at me?"

His lips twisted into a little smile and although half his face was shielded away, she could almost see him eyerolling. He raised a hand, so she took it and her boyfriend pulled her closer, sitting on the edge of the couch.

"Please," he scoffed, then planted her hand on his upset belly, tugging on his shirt so her palm met skin, "rub it."

Wendy's cheeks hurt as she opened a luminous smile, "yessir," she said, breathy, then leaned in and pressed a kiss on his belly, resting her chin on it just in time to see Vin raise his arm enough to glance down and snort at her.

"You minx."

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 39

part 1 | part 38 | ao3

Eight hours, four pizzas, and one — yes, one, Henderson, Jesus — job-well-done beer each later, Steve waves the kids out the door and promptly collapses facedown on his shiny new vinyl flooring.

"God," he groans, rolling his forehead on the floor.

Eddie's not much better off. He's slumped against the front door, bracing his weight with one hand, head hung low between his shoulders. His hair's all frizzed out with sweat, and Steve can hear his soft panting over the hum of the radio. "Yeah," he says in breathless agreement. "Fatherhood is exhausting."

Steve snorts a quiet laugh. "Welcome to the babysitters club."

"Not even getting paid for this shit," Eddie complains, but Steve can see the smile tugging at his mouth when he steps over him. "I'm gonna grab a shower. That okay?"

"Go ahead," Steve mumbles, eyelids heavy as he waves Eddie down the hall. "Towels are in the closet. Borrow whatever you want."

His limbs feel like lead. Shoulders throbbing; headache worse. He's also... maybe, possibly having some major regrets about moving all the couches out onto the front lawn along with the rolled-up carpet earlier (a fact he'd sooner eat his own shirt than admit to Eddie, because Eddie warned him not to do it; told him he was going to be too tired after installing the floors to bring them all back inside, and Steve had shrugged him off at the time because Steve's an overconfident dipshit.) Anyway, he's pretty sure the spasm in his spine is price enough to pay for not listening. He's not about to put up with Eddie's gloating, too.

Eddie pauses in the hallway, rings tapping against the wall, smug little bastard look on his face. "You doin' okay down there, champ?"

It's a serious effort to raise his arm to flip him the bird, but Steve manages.

—

"Hey, sunshine."

Eddie's voice is gentle as Steve blinks himself awake, neck cracking horribly, little puddle of drool under his chin. He's not sure when he drifted off. The last thing he remembers is nuzzling his cheek against the floor, feeling the weirdly papery material slide against his stubble; thinking about how it was cheap and it was tacky but it was new and it was his. How it felt like as good of a fresh start as anyone in Forrest Hills was going to get.

"How long was I out for?" he groans, rolling onto his back to stretch out his stiff limbs.

Long enough, apparently. Eddie got a whole pillow fort situation sorted out while Steve was snoozing — dragged all the pillows and blankets off Steve's bed and arranged them in a pile in the middle of the empty room, pulled a side table and lamp over from the corner, gathered up the radio and the last box of leftover pizza and his black lunchbox and a couple of beers to share.

He's also freshly showered and wearing Steve's pajamas. Looks clean and warm and soft; borrowed Hawkins High green sweats, a thin, white undershirt, the shoulders damp where his hair hangs in pretty wet waves.

Steve is so, so normal about the picture Eddie paints.

So normal.

Not at all popping a boner over a guy in ratty loungewear.

Steve crosses his legs — subtly, left ankle to right knee, but Eddie gives him a knowing smirk over the lip of his beer bottle anyway.

"Shut up," Steve blushes.

"Did I speak?" Eddie asks.

—

part 40

tag list in separate reblogs under '#trailer park steve au taglist' if you'd like to filter that content. if you want to be added tomorrow please comment and let me know (must be over 21; please either verify in the comment or have your age visible on your blog)

[lev1hei1chou]

Bunny Boy

Gojo x reader Genre: Fluff Synopsis: Gojo loses a bet Masterlist

Gojo Satoru sighed, staring at the fluffy bunny costume in his hands. He couldn't believe he'd lost the bet, and now he was supposed to wear this ridiculous thing. "Do I really have to wear this, baby?" he pleaded, holding up the costume with a pained expression.

You gave him a mischievous grin, crossing your arms. "Oh, you definitely do, Satoru. A bet's a bet, remember?" you said, trying to stifle your laughter.

"But bunny ears? And a fluffy tail?" he protested, looking like he was about to start bargaining for his dignity.

"Yes, bunny ears, and a fluffy tail," you affirmed with a giggle. "Come on, it'll be hilarious!"

Resigned, he reluctantly slipped into the costume while sulking, struggling with the huge ears and adjusting the tail awkwardly. "I can't believe I'm doing this," he muttered, feeling utterly ridiculous.

Once he was fully decked out in bunny gear, you burst into laughter, unable to contain yourself. "Oh, love, you look adorable!" you exclaimed between giggles, snapping a quick picture.

"I'm glad I amuse you," he grumbled, though the corners of his lips twitched with a hint of a smile. Despite feeling utterly silly, seeing his beloved laugh so freely made it worth it.

He lost a bet fair and square, and now he was paying the price by parading through the streets of Shibuya in a full-blown bunny costume.

"Come on, baby, it's not that bad," you said, trying to make him feel a little better. "Not that bad?" he protested, his voice desperate. "I look ridiculous!"

"That's the whole point," you teased, looping your arm through his as you set out to walk through the bustling streets.

People passing by couldn't help but stop and stare, some bursting into laughter, others whipping out their phones to capture the sight of the great Satoru Gojo, an esteemed sorcerer, reduced to a fluffy bunny.

"I hope you're enjoying this," Gojo muttered under his breath as they continued their journey.

"Oh, immensely," you replied with a mischievous grin.

Despite the embarrassment burning in his cheeks, Gojo couldn't help but notice the smiles and laughter his costume brought to those around him. It was hard to stay mad when he saw the joy it brought to others, even if he felt like a walking punchline.

Eventually, you made it back home, where Gojo promptly shed the bunny suit and collapsed onto the couch with an exasperated sigh.

You flopped down beside him, still grinning like the cat that got the cream. "You know, you make a pretty adorable bunny."

"Adorable, huh?" Gojo raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "I'll show you adorable."

Before you could react, he lunged forward and began peppering your face with playful kisses, tickling your sides until you doubled over with laughter.

"Okay, okay, I surrender!" you gasped between fits of giggles.

Gojo relented, pulling you close and wrapping his arms around you. "Y'know, despite the humiliation, I wouldn't trade moments like these for anything."

You leaned into his embrace, planting a soft kiss on his cheek. "Me neither, even if it means occasionally turning you into a bunny boy."

[sexsylexi]

Drunken Supprise

Wally West x reader

Wally West had just returned from a patrol around the city, his red and yellow suit still clinging to him as he sped through the streets and finally stopped at the front door of his shared apartment. It was a quiet night, with the only sound being the distant hum of traffic and the occasional chirping of crickets. He unlocked the door, stepped inside, and was greeted by the familiar warmth of home.

He tossed his keys onto the small table by the entrance and kicked off his shoes. The living room was dimly lit, the soft glow of a table lamp casting gentle shadows across the room. Wally stretched, feeling the tension from his evening patrol ebb away. He was just about to head to the kitchen for a quick snack when he heard a series of muffled sounds coming from the hallway.

Frowning, Wally turned toward the noise. It was unusual for anyone to be up at this hour, especially since he and his partner, you, usually turned in early after a long day of hero work. But as he approached the source of the noise, he realized it was coming from the front door. He quickened his pace, concern growing with each step.

He swung the door open and was met with the sight of you, fumbling with your keys, your eyes glazed and your movements uncoordinated. Wally's eyes widened in surprise. He had seen you tipsy before, maybe a bit more carefree and giggly after a couple of drinks, but never like this. You were undeniably drunk.

"Y/N?" Wally called out softly, stepping closer to you. "Are you okay?"

You looked up at him, your vision clearly struggling to focus. A lazy grin spread across your face as you recognized him. "Wallyyyy!" you slurred, stumbling forward. "Hi!"

Wally quickly closed the distance between you, wrapping an arm around your waist to steady you. "Hey, easy there," he said, his tone a mix of amusement and concern. "What happened? I've never seen you like this before."

You leaned heavily against him, your head resting on his shoulder. "Had a few... too many," you mumbled, your words barely coherent. "The team... we were celebrating."

"Celebrating what?" Wally asked, guiding you inside and closing the door behind you. He helped you over to the couch, where you promptly collapsed, giggling.

"Just... being awesome," you said with a hiccup. "You know how it is."

Wally chuckled, shaking his head. "Yeah, I know how it is. But I think you might have overdone it a little tonight."

You groaned, your hands covering your face. "I feel like the room is spinning."

"Here, let me get you some water," Wally offered, heading to the kitchen. He returned a moment later with a glass of water, which you gratefully accepted. He watched as you sipped it slowly, hoping it would help you feel a bit better.

As you drank, Wally sat down beside you, his eyes filled with concern. "You really should have called me. I would have come to pick you up."

You shook your head, a stubborn look crossing your face. "Didn't wanna... bother you."

Wally sighed, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. "You know you're never a bother to me. I worry about you."

Your eyes softened at his words, and you leaned into his touch. "I'm sorry, Wally."

He smiled, his heart melting at your vulnerability. "It's okay. Just promise me you'll call next time, alright?"

You nodded, your eyelids growing heavy. "Promise."

Wally gently helped you lie down on the couch, draping a blanket over you. "Get some rest. I'll be right here if you need anything."

As you drifted off to sleep, Wally sat beside you, watching over you protectively. He had never seen you so vulnerable, and it reminded him just how important you were to him. He would always be there for you, no matter what. And as he sat there, he silently vowed to make sure you were safe and cared for, through thick and thin.

Hours passed, and Wally remained vigilant by your side. Every so often, he would check to make sure you were still comfortable, adjusting the blanket or brushing a stray hair from your face. The night was peaceful, the only sounds being your soft, steady breathing and the occasional rustle of leaves outside.

At one point, you stirred, mumbling something incoherent. Wally leaned in closer, trying to catch your words. "Wally... I love you," you murmured, barely audible in your sleep.

A smile spread across Wally's face, warmth flooding his chest. "I love you too, Y/N," he whispered back, even though he knew you probably couldn't hear him. The sentiment was genuine, and he hoped you would remember it when you woke up.

As dawn approached, Wally decided to make you a hearty breakfast. He slipped into the kitchen, moving quietly so as not to disturb you. The aroma of pancakes, bacon, and fresh coffee soon filled the apartment, a comforting reminder of normalcy after the night's events.

When you finally woke up, the sun was peeking through the curtains, casting a golden glow over the room. You sat up slowly, rubbing your temples and groaning at the dull ache in your head. "Ugh, what happened last night?" you asked, your voice hoarse.

Wally appeared in the doorway, holding a tray laden with breakfast. "Morning, babe," he greeted with a grin. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I got hit by a truck," you replied, attempting to smile despite the discomfort.

Wally placed the tray on the coffee table in front of you and sat down. "Here, eat something. It'll help."

You looked at the spread before you and your stomach grumbled in response. "Thanks, Wally," you said, genuinely grateful.

As you ate, Wally filled you in on the previous night's events. You listened, feeling a mix of embarrassment and gratitude. "I can't believe I got that drunk," you said, shaking your head. "I must have looked ridiculous."

Wally reached out, taking your hand in his. "Hey, we all have our moments. I'm just glad you're okay. And it was kind of adorable, seeing you all giggly and carefree."

You laughed, squeezing his hand. "Well, I'm glad you were here to take care of me. I don't know what I would have done without you."

"You don't have to worry about that," Wally assured you. "I'll always be here for you, no matter what."

The two of you spent the morning together, enjoying breakfast and each other's company. As the day went on, the headache faded, replaced by a warm feeling of contentment. You knew that with Wally by your side, you could face anything, even the aftermath of a wild night out. And from that day forward, you made sure to always call him when you needed help, knowing that he would be there in a heartbeat, ready to catch you if you stumbled.

[alicia-18]

Second Choice — Eminem x reader

Summary; Y/N was used to being a second choice to everyone, so it didn’t surprise her at all when Marshall broke off their situationship in order to give things a try with Kim again. But she was surprised by the emotions that came with it.

Warning; this fic will include mentions of domestic violence (not between Em and Y/N), drug and alcohol abuse, adult content, swearing, idiots in love, and moments where you hate both Eminem and yourself :)

Chapter Two; I think my dad’s gone crazy!

A bead of sweat fell down your temple as you finished perfecting the recording of the chorus to one of the final songs on your upcoming album. Dre had an eyebrow arched at you as you left the booth and entered the production room.

“What? Was it not a good take?” You huffed, taking a gulp from your beer glass. The flavour was awful when you first began drinking it, but it had grown on you over the years and worked as a good warm up to the harder liquor you often found yourself indulging in later in the night.

“Nah sounds great.” He shrugged, make you give him an odd look. Your body collapsed onto the little couch, and you pulled your notepad onto your lap to quickly go over the lyrics to ensure that wasn’t what Dre’s look had been for.

“Spit it out then, Dre.” You huffed, not finding anything particularly wrong with the song. The knowing look he was giving you was becoming suffocating.

“Second choice?” He questioned the title of the song, taking a gulp from his own drink and pulling out a blunt which he promptly sparked before continuing. “Thought ya didn’t care ‘bout Em and Kim?” He bluntly asked, sending a slight flush to the apples of your cheeks. You blamed that on the alcohol as you finished the bottle.

“I don’t, this song ain’t about them.” Dre didn’t look convinced by the declaration. You weren’t sure if it was your growing buzz or just the trust you had built with the producer over the last couple years, but you felt a need to let him in slightly. “I’ve always been second choice. My mom left when I was a baby for some dude in Canada, dad always chose drugs or women over me. And all of my boyfriends have cheated on me. Fuck, I’ve barely even been a second choice to people.” You laughed humourlessly at the revelation, and happily accepted his silent offer of the blunt.

“Well the song’s gonna be a hit, that’s for sure.” He smiled warmly, though didn’t seem to be finished. Now it was you staring at him with a raised brow. “You deserve more credit. You’ve gone through enough shit for’a lifetime, and stand on business for everyone around ya. I don’t think you see it but you don’t even put you first. If everyone else makes ya a second choice, why not make yourself a first choice?” His words hit like a punch to the gut, and left you frozen for a moment. You blinked back at him, his words sinking in and stabbing your soul. He was right, of course, and if anyone was in a place to tell you the hard truths you needed to hear, it was him. He had seen you right from the start, and you wouldn’t be in the position you was in currently without him.

That next week you had fully taken Dre’s words in and was doing something you hadn’t done in a while that you enjoyed — going to the club with your girls. You couldn’t remember the last girls night you had, so to say it was overdue wasn’t an exaggeration. You hadn’t even gone to the studio that day, deciding that the entire weekend for yourself. But as fate seemed to control your life, you had to pop there quickly on your way to the club as you had left your favourite purse there the day before and wanted to feel perfect that night.

You had already had a few shots before arriving, as you preferred arriving to the club with a moderate buzz already going. That, however, made walking in your black heels over the halls carpeted floor a lot harder. Your instability made you sigh with relief once you had reached the linoleum flooring of the break room. Your E/C eyes searched the room before landing on the duo sat on the small couch which also just happened to be where you left your purse.

Marshall’s eyes fell on you as soon as the door creaked open, and his stare flicking to the door made Hallie turn around also. She stared at you with wide blue eyes, a little gasp sounding. “Is that Y/N, dad?!” She excitedly spoke, looking between the two adults. You smiled apologetically to him, feeling as if you were crossing a line by meeting his daughter. “I love your music!” She confessed, her bright smile warming your heart.

You grinned back and made your way over, making sure to pull your short mini skirt down a little to appear slightly more modest infront of the child. “Well that’s funny cause I love your song too!” You giggled, stopping infront of the pair. Hailie looked up at you with pinched brows, so you crouched down to be eye level with her. You tried your best to copy her little voice as you sang “I think my dad’s gone crazy!” which sent her into a heap of laughter.

“What’re you doing here anyway?” Marshall finally spoke, biting the inside of his cheek to prevent smiling. His words reminded you of what you had came here for as you reached between his side and the arm of the couch. You heard his breath falter a little, but it didn’t last long as you pulled your purse into your clutches.

“Left this here yesterday, I’m going out with the girls and wanna look my best.” You shrugged, lifting the metal chained handle over your bare shoulder.

“You do look very pretty.” Hailie complimented with a smile, one which warmed you even more to the adorable little girl. You leant over and gave her a high five, making you both giggle. Marshall watched on with a baffling mix of emotions, a mix he didn’t appreciate.

“Thank you, so do you Hailie! It’s been so nice to meet you, your dad tells everyone just how great you are all the time.” You were shocked as she jumped from her seat and wrapped her arms around your waist. You eyes went wide and looked immediately to Marshall, definitely feeling like you were overstepping now.

“Hallie, I think Y/N has somewhere to be.” He rubbed the back of his neck, and continued chewing the inside of his mouth. You gave her a quick squeeze so she didn’t feel like you were being mean or rude then stepped back.

“It was so cool meeting you!” She beamed, sending a rush of warmth to your cheeks. You had never expected meeting Marshall’s kids, at all, but you immediately liked Hailie. She seemed so happy, and was obviously lovely to everyone.

“It was so nice meeting you too, Hailie. Have a good time with your dad.” You gave them both a little wave before your phone began ringing. You flicked it open and accepted it, and your best friend began shouting down the phone.

“Yeah yeah I’m coming, Jesus woman—“ You put your hand over the speaker and moved it from your face to address the father daughter duo infront of you. “I’d love to stay and chat but I’ve really gotta go. It really was so nice to meet you Hallie, I’ll see you Monday, Em.” You accepted a second high five from the 9 year old girl before lifting the phone back to your ear and scurrying from the room.

MASTERLIST

[gyorouis]

── ✦ winter things.

⋆˚ 𝜗𝜚 ˚⋆ synopsis⸝⸝ my baby's in town and we're gonna do some winter things.

꒰ genre⸝⸝ fluff, chaos, winter magic pairing⸝⸝ bf!soobin x afab!reader wc⸝⸝ 1.08k warning⸝⸝ extreme coziness, marshmallow casualties tune in⸝⸝ ariana grande — winter things ୨ৎ ꒱

“soobin, i think we’re cursed,” you announced dramatically, dropping your phone onto the couch.

he looked up from where he was setting down two mugs of hot chocolate, a marshmallow already melting into his. “what happened now?”

“the cabin canceled on us. snowstorm, apparently.” you flopped back onto the cushions with a sigh.

“you’re kidding,” he groaned, setting the mugs on the coffee table. “we planned this for weeks!”

“i know! i was so ready for hot tubs and snowy mountains and… not this,” you said, gesturing vaguely at the apartment.

soobin stared at you for a moment, then crossed his arms. “okay. new plan. we’re bringing the winter getaway here.”

“here? soobin, this is a 600-square-foot apartment.”

“and it’s about to become the coziest winter wonderland you’ve ever seen,” he declared, grabbing a blanket and tossing it over his shoulder like a cape.

two hours later, your living room looked like it had been taken over by a holiday enthusiast with no sense of restraint.

“soobin, why do we have twelve blankets out?” you asked, struggling to keep the fort you were building from collapsing.

“because comfort is key,” he replied, balancing a pillow on top of the blanket pile.

“this isn’t comfort; this is chaos,” you muttered, though you couldn’t help smiling.

he stepped back, surveying the structure. “it’s not chaos—it’s art.”

“it’s lopsided.”

“you’re lopsided,” he shot back, sticking his tongue out.

you threw a pillow at him, which he dodged with an exaggerated gasp. “violence in my own home?”

“you started it!”

“and i’ll finish it,” he said, launching himself into the fort, which promptly collapsed on both of you.

later, as you lay side by side under the remains of the fort, you couldn’t help but laugh.

“this is actually kind of nice,” you admitted, your voice soft.

“see? i told you i’m a genius,” soobin said, sipping his hot chocolate.

“don’t push it,” you warned, nudging him with your elbow.

he grinned, his dimples making an appearance. “admit it—you’re having fun.”

you rolled your eyes but couldn’t deny it. “okay, maybe a little.”

soobin’s next idea was “fake snow.”

“where did you even get this?” you asked as he pulled out a bag of white fluff.

“the craft store,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“and you didn’t think to tell me?”

“i wanted it to be a surprise!”

the two of you spent the next hour sprinkling the fluff over every available surface.

“this is ridiculous,” you said, watching him carefully place a pile of snow on top of a bookshelf.

“this is festive,” he corrected, tossing a handful at you.

you gasped, grabbing your own handful. “oh, it’s on.”

what followed was a fake snow fight that ended with both of you laughing so hard you couldn’t breathe, fluff stuck in your hair and scattered all over the floor.

“you look like a snowman,” you said, picking a piece of fluff off his head.

“and you look like someone who lost the snowball fight,” he teased, his grin smug.

“oh, please. i let you win,” you shot back, though your cheeks were warm from the laughter.

the next scene started with soobin raiding the kitchen cabinets.

“what are you doing now?” you asked, watching him stack various snacks on the counter.

“making s’mores,” he said simply.

“soobin, we don’t even have a fire.”

“details,” he said, holding up a lighter and a fork.

“this feels illegal,” you said as he skewered a marshmallow and held it over the tiny flame.

“it’s innovative,” he argued, rotating the marshmallow carefully.

you leaned closer, inspecting his work. “you’re going to set the apartment on fire.”

“not if you keep distracting me.”

somehow, he managed to toast the marshmallow perfectly, and soon, you were both sitting cross-legged on the floor, assembling makeshift s’mores.

“this is a mess,” you said as chocolate smeared onto your fingers.

“it’s a delicious mess,” soobin corrected, biting into his creation with a satisfied grin.

you laughed, shaking your head. “you’re impossible.”

“and yet, you’re still here,” he said, leaning over to wipe a bit of chocolate from the corner of your mouth.

later that evening, the two of you sat in front of the fireplace, which was really just a space heater with a digital flame effect.

“this wasn’t the plan,” you said, leaning against soobin’s shoulder.

“no,” he agreed, resting his head against yours. “but i think it’s better.”

“better?”

“yeah,” he said softly. “it’s just us. no distractions, no fancy trips. just... this.”

you looked up at him, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. “you’re kind of sappy, you know that?”

he laughed, his cheeks turning pink. “only for you.”

“you’re lucky i like sappy,” you teased, though your heart was warm.

“good,” he said, reaching for your hand. “because i think i’m going to be like this for a while.”

before bed, soobin had one last idea.

“we need music,” he announced, grabbing his phone.

“what kind of music?” you asked, watching as he scrolled through his playlist.

“something cozy,” he said, settling on a soft acoustic track.

the two of you sat in silence for a moment, the gentle strumming of the guitar filling the room.

“dance with me,” he said suddenly, standing up and offering you his hand.

“soobin, there’s no space to dance,” you protested.

“we’ll make space,” he said, pulling you to your feet.

you laughed as he twirled you around the small living room, narrowly avoiding the coffee table.

“this is ridiculous,” you said, though you couldn’t stop smiling.

“it’s perfect,” he said, his voice quiet.

as the song ended, he pulled you into a hug, resting his chin on the top of your head.

“thank you for putting up with me,” he said softly.

you closed your eyes, leaning into him. “always.”

the glow of the makeshift winter wonderland wrapped around you like a hug.

it wasn’t the snowy getaway you’d planned, but as you looked at soobin, his eyes sparkling and his dimples on full display, you realized it didn’t matter.

sometimes, the best memories weren’t about where you were or what you were doing—they were about who you were with.

gyo's note: hi, i don’t even know what this is, but i was in my winter feelings, and soobin being soft just felt right. i hope this feels like a warm hug or at least makes you smile a little. lmk what you think if you want, no pressure. okay, bye. ⛄if you made it this far, thank you! (,,>﹏<,,) you will be loved, xoxo!

✮ 2024 gyozies, all rights reserved.

[problem-prone]

Since both of his brothers were recovering from the flu, it was only a matter of time before Darry would fall victim to the virus. 

He was woken up the next morning by a fierce pounding in his head and a throat that felt as if he had been gargling glass in his sleep. “Shit,” he whispered into the quiet of his room. He wanted to stay in bed, just curl up under the covers and wallow in his misery. As much as he dreaded it, he had to get up and go to work, considering he had already taken a week off to care for Ponyboy and Soda. 

With a groan, Darry pushes himself out of bed. The ground seems to sway under him, and it takes all of his might to stay standing. He shakes off the dizziness and begins getting dressed for work. After what seems like an eternity, he sits to put on his work boots and then heaves himself up to go make breakfast. 

Darry opens his door and sees Ponyboy and Soda at the kitchen table, with Pony working on the assignments he had missed the week. Soda looks up and sees Darry standing in the hallway. “I made breakfast,” he says, holding out a plate towards Darry. Darry could feel his stomach lurch and he swallowed down a gag. 

Darry shook his head and grabbed his keys and wallet from beside the door. “I’m not hungry Pepsi,” he says, “plus I gotta get on to work.” His throat screams in pain with his words, and the roughness of his voice has him suppressing a flinch.  

Ponyboy looked up from his homework and furrowed his brows. Soda tilts his head, a confused look in his eyes. “Darry it's Sunday, your day off,” Ponyboy replies with a questioning tone. Sighing, Darry sets his stuff down and walks over to the couch where he promptly collapses. “You look like shit, just so you know.” Darry wasn’t sure when his little brother had made his way over to the couch, or how long he had been standing over him before he spoke. He also wasn’t sure when the room had started spinning. 

Soda comes over and perches on the end of the couch where Darry’s head is. He gently places his hand on Darry’s forehead, smoothing his hair back like their Mama used to do. Darry sighs at the coolness of Soda’s palm and whines a little when he pulls his hand back. “He’s right Dar and you’ve got a fever. Looks like the mighty have fallen.” Soda’s attempt at a joke falls flat as Darry squeezes his eyes tight in response to his heartbeat thumping in his ears. 

He lets out a small whine and rolls over onto his side. Usually, he wouldn’t let anyone in on how bad he felt, especially not his brothers. But between the deep-seated aching in his bones and the fever-driven malaise he couldn’t stop himself from acting a little pathetic. At some point in his feeling sorry for himself, a hand found its way into his hair and was scratching at his scalp. Ponyboy walked to the other end of the couch, lifting Darry’s legs before gently setting them in his lap. “Sleep, you need it,” Pony says as he begins to massage Darry’s calves. 

Darry shook his head and tried to sit up, but a hand pushing on his chest stops him. “Y’all are still gettin’ over this, need to take care of y’all.” 

“We’re both fine, let us take care of you for once Dar,” Soda says as he resumes running his fingers through Darry’s hair, which makes him sigh contently. He lets himself relax into the touch, eyes fluttering closed. “Now you’re gonna get some sleep then I’ll make you some soup, how about that?”

The corners of Darry’s mouth quirk up into a small smile, the fingers playing with the strands of his hair making it hard to focus on what is being said. “Yeah sounds good,” he replied before drifting off into a peaceful sleep.

[kinardsevan]

Buck sees an old video of Tommy during a rescue and is insanely turn on so he goes on a deep dive to find anything he can. Competency kink unlocked

It was all Evan could do to close his mouth as he stared at his brother-in-law’s phone. Chimney had mentioned the rescue earlier in the day, but fuck, something about actually seeing Tommy repel down the side of a mountain with nothing but a harness to hold him up was hot. 

It was a risky move. Granted, Evan was learning his boyfriend loved risky moves. This one in particular though, had been in an icy downpour in the middle of December. He’d been the only one tall enough to be able to make the drop between where the rope ended and the cliffside in order to reach the kids who had fallen there and get them back up into the harness so they could be pulled back up to safety. There was plenty to be said about how the rescue could’ve gotten Tommy killed, but the fact that he’d done it was hot. He’d put everyone else on the scene before himself, never mind the way his clothes were sticking to him from the rain. Even though the video was over a decade old from some news footage, just seeing had been what kept Evan going through the rest of his shift, after which he’d promptly driven to Tommy’s house, determined to get his tongue on his boyfriend's skin and lick every inch of his beautiful, beautiful chest. And that was only the beginning. 

A week and a half later, Evan was stuck on the couch, courtesy of a bad strain in his leg on a rescue of his own. He’d been ordered to sit out the following shift and rest, and of course Tommy had to work. Evan had hated it at first. At least, until he hobbled into his livingroom, halfway through an episode of Days of our Lives when the news cut in. 

It was hot. So hot that Evan had to unbutton the collar of his polo when he saw his boyfriend on the TV.

Harbor was at a scene on a highrise, trying to get people out of a partial collapse, and Tommy was fucking repelling the side of the building to get people out. The news was holding such great coverage that Evan was able to watch him get two kids, an adult, and their dog out of the building before they finally switched to an interview with Chief Simpson. And it was right about that time that Evan realized he was hard. He groaned at the realization, far too frustrated from the way watching his boyfriend work affected him, and even more frustrated at having to solve his own problem. 

Still, he didn’t forget. 

Nine hours later when Tommy stumbled through the doorway to the loft, Evan was at the door, waiting. He promptly shoved Tommy back against it and hit his knees. Tommy furrowed a brow, running a hand through Evan’s hair as he looked down at him. 

“What’s happening right now,” he asked, a little incredulously.

“Watched my sexy ass boyfriend save an entire family today,” Evan replied, unzipping his pants and reaching into them. Tommy groaned and dropped his head back against the door. “Figured he should get a reward for that.” 

Tommy tilted his head down, ready to say that it was just his job, he wasn’t doing anything extra, only to get a full view of Evan going completely down on him, pulling a moan out of the middle of his chest. 

“Fuck, Evan- oh my god.” 

Little laughs, almost cunning. And then all the way down. Tommy jolted. And then, only because he wouldn’t be able to hold it together much longer otherwise, he pulled Evan off of him, pulled his pants back up. Evan scowled at him. 

“I was doing something,” he whined. 

Tommy shook his head, leaning down and sweeping his boyfriend up from the floor, tossing him over his shoulder like a ragdoll. 

“Sorry baby. My boyfriend said I need to do him instead. Besides, you said yours deserved a reward, and this is the one he wants.” 

[g3tinl0ser]

Aftermath

well this ended up way longer than I meant lol! hope you enjoy @leodorable-trivium !!

PART 1

The morning light barely filters through the heavy curtains,  but it’s enough to wake you. For a long moment,  you just lie there,  staring at the ceiling,  letting the heavy weight of your own mind settle around you like a fog.

Bucky was right.

You knew he was right.

Losing Steve had broken something inside both of you. But even knowing that,  even hearing Bucky’s pain,  his love,   in every word last night,  didn’t stop the voice in your head from whispering cruel things.

He wouldn't love you anymore if he really knew you. You're tainted. Less.

You squeeze your eyes shut,  willing the thoughts away. They're lies. You know that. Somewhere deep down,  you know that.

And you know you can’t keep letting them win.

Not after hearing the way Bucky’s voice cracked,  the way he gripped your hand like you were the only thing tethering him to this world. You promised yourself last night: you're going to try.

With trembling fingers,  you reach for your phone and send a text to your therapist.

Hi. Is there any chance you have time today? I really need to talk.

It would be the first time meeting her without Bucky there beside you. The thought alone sends a wave of panic through you. But you can't and won't have this conversation with anyone else in the room—not yet.

You glance over at Bucky,  still fast asleep,  peaceful in a way he rarely is. You can’t bring yourself to wake him.

So instead,  you find a scrap of paper on the nightstand and scribble a note.

Went to see Dr. M. I’m okay. I’ll be back soon. Love you.

You leave it where you know he’ll find it. And with one last look back,  you slip out of the tower,  heart hammering,  steps shaky, but moving forward, anyway.

Brooklyn, 1935

The three of you were crammed into Steve’s tiny apartment,  laughing so hard you could barely breathe.

Steve was half-falling off the lumpy couch,  his face red,  tears streaming from his eyes as Bucky reenacted the most dramatic fall he'd taken trying to impress a girl at the market.

You were doubled over next to him,  clutching your sides.

Bucky threw his arms wide,  chest puffed out,  mimicking himself swaggering — then promptly slipped on the threadbare rug,  landing hard on his back with a loud THUD.

"See?" he groaned dramatically from the floor. "I suffer for my art."

You and Steve practically collapsed on top of each other,  laughing so hard it hurt. Steve wiped at his eyes,  still chuckling,  and nudged you with his shoulder.

"You're a terrible friend, " he said between breaths. "You should be helping him."

You snickered and offered Bucky a hand,  which he took with an exaggerated wince.

"You're lucky I'm so forgiving, " Bucky said,  pulling himself up. "Otherwise, I'd leave you two helpless losers and find some better company."

"Yeah?" you teased,  folding your arms. "Good luck finding someone else who'll put up with you falling flat on your face every ten minutes."

Steve burst into another fit of laughter,  and Bucky just grinned,  that cocky,  dimpled smile that always gave him away. The three of you melted back into a pile on the couch,  limbs tangled,  heads resting against each other like it was the most natural thing in the world.

In that tiny room,  with the rain tapping gently against the cracked windows and the smell of cheap coffee lingering in the air,  you felt invincible. Like nothing could ever touch you. Like no matter what the world threw at you,  you had each other.

And that would be enough.

The city is louder than usual. Or maybe it’s just you ,   your senses on high alert,  every sound amplified,  every step away from the Tower feeling heavier than the last. You clutch your jacket tighter around yourself,  trying to disappear into it,  trying to stay invisible,  trying to hold yourself together.

By the time you reach the therapist’s office,  your hands are cold and shaking. You hesitate outside the door for longer than you should,  staring at the brass plaque with her name on it. You can feel the familiar urge to turn around,  to run back to where it’s safe ,   back to Bucky. But the memory of his voice ,   the pain in it ,   echoes in your mind.

You force yourself to take a breath. Then another. Then you step inside.

The receptionist looks up and gives you a warm,  knowing smile. "She's ready for you, " she says gently,  like she can see the way you’re falling apart just under your skin.

You nod stiffly and walk down the short hallway to the office. The door is already cracked open,  waiting for you.

Dr. M is sitting in her usual chair,  a cup of tea in her hand,  her eyes kind. No clipboard. No laptop. Just her,  waiting,   open and patient and safe.

As soon as you see her,  the tension in your chest loosens just a little. You step inside and close the door behind you. It’s silent for a moment,  the air heavy. Then she speaks,  voice soft.

"I'm really glad you're here."

And somehow,  hearing those words,  not "how are you?" not "what happened?",   just I'm glad you're here,  makes your throat tighten and your eyes burn.

You sit down slowly,  the familiar couch feeling foreign without Bucky beside you. Your hands knot together in your lap.

You open your mouth to say something,   anything ,  but instead,  your voice breaks,  and before you even realize it,  the first tears are already sliding down your cheeks.

You cover your face with your hands,  embarrassed,  angry at yourself for falling apart so quickly. But Dr. M just waits. No judgment. No rush. Just quiet understanding.

When you finally manage to speak,  it comes out in a raw whisper:

"I think I broke something. And I don’t know how to fix it."

And for the first time in a long time,  you realize: You’re not alone in trying to figure it out anymore.

Brooklyn, Late Summer 1936

It was a sticky, sweltering night, the kind where the heat clung to your skin no matter how much you moved.

 But none of you cared — tonight was special. Tonight, for the first time, you, Steve, and Bucky were going on a real date.

Of course, not that you could ever call it that out loud. Not in public. Not in a world that would tear you apart for loving the wrong way.

You had been the one to push for it — reckless, stubborn, needing to live even if it was dangerous.

Bucky and Steve had been reluctant at first, eyes shadowed with worry. But they could never say no to you for long.

So you all cleaned up as best you could.

Steve in a too-big jacket he borrowed from Bucky, trying to smooth down his unruly hair; Bucky, as always, looking like he'd just stepped out of a movie reel, tie loose around his neck, easy grin hiding nerves. And you — you wore your best dress, one you'd patched yourself, twirling once in front of them just to hear them both stumble over their words.

"You’re gonna kill me," Bucky muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair. Steve just stared, cheeks burning pink.

You took both their hands — quick, a flash of fingers brushing, nothing too obvious — and led them into the night.

The boardwalk at Coney Island was still busy at that hour, lights flashing, the scent of popcorn and sea salt heavy in the air. You kept a careful distance between you, weaving through the crowd like three friends out for a summer night.

But when you leaned in to whisper a joke in Steve’s ear, when Bucky brushed your hand under the safety of a vendor's counter, it was like electricity sparking in the humid air.

You played games at the booths, laughing as Bucky won you a stuffed bear that was missing an eye, Steve cheering louder than anyone. You bought sodas and shared them under a quiet pier, hidden in the shadows, your knees knocking together, your heads leaning in close as if the world had shrunk down to just the three of you.

Bucky stole a kiss first — a quick, feather-light brush at the corner of your mouth when no one was looking.

Steve hesitated, looking around like someone might catch him, but you grabbed him by the collar and pulled him in, and he melted against you with a soft, desperate sigh.

And there, with the sound of waves crashing against the shore and the faint buzz of laughter and carnival music drifting through the air, you felt it — the truth of it, the immensity of what you had found together.

It was dangerous. It was foolish. It was everything.

Later, walking back toward the city, you found yourselves tucked into a narrow alleyway, hidden from view. Bucky pressed his forehead against yours, hand finding Steve’s at the same time.

"You’re gonna get us killed, doll," he whispered, half-teasing, half-scared.

"Better to live and love than hide forever," you whispered back.

Steve squeezed your hand tighter. And Bucky kissed your forehead. And you knew — even then — you would risk anything for this. For them.

Dr. M lets you cry for a few minutes without interruption,  passing you a box of tissues without a word. You take one,  wipe at your face,  and eventually the shaking in your shoulders settles enough for her to speak.

"Tell me about them, " she says softly. "Bucky and Steve."

You breathe out slowly,  blinking at your hands. Your voice is rough when you finally answer.

"They're... they're everything. They've always been everything."

You swallow hard.

"I met them when I was still a kid,  basically. And even when life got messy,  and we were in different places. It never really changed anything. We were always tied together,  no matter what."

She nods encouragingly,  so you keep going.

"It was like... no matter how long we were apart,  we could pick up right where we left off. No awkwardness. No resentment. It was just us again. Every time." You can feel your chest tighten again,  but you push through it.

"And it wasn't just friendship. They were,  " You struggle for a word big enough,  one that could capture the history,  the love,  the lifetimes worth of connection between you.

"They were home, " you whisper finally. "They are home."

Dr. M smiles gently,  but there’s something almost sad in it too. "And what changed?" she asks quietly.

That’s when you feel it ,   the sudden,  hot spike of panic surging up from your gut,  curling around your ribs like barbed wire. Your breath catches. Your hands clench into fists without you meaning to. The walls feel closer. The room feels smaller.

"I,  " you stammer,  your heart thudding hard in your chest. "I don’t,   I can’t,  "

"Hey,  hey, " Dr. M says,  her voice low and soothing. She leans forward just slightly,  hands loose and open in her lap. "You're safe here. You don't have to rush. We can go as slow as you need."

You squeeze your eyes shut,  trying to force the rising tide back down. You hate this.

You hate how weak you feel. You hate how afraid you are to even say it out loud ,   like if you do,  it’ll make it even more real.

"Take a breath with me, " Dr. M says gently. You feel her breathing ,   slow,  deliberate ,   and you latch onto the rhythm,  matching her as best you can.

In. Out. In. Out.

The panic eases,  just a fraction. Enough for you to open your eyes again,  blurry and stinging.

"I’m scared, " you admit hoarsely. "Scared of what?" she asks.

You stare at the floor,  the words tearing themselves out of you.

"That... that I’m not enough anymore. That I’m not good anymore. That... if Steve knew what i did,  he wouldn’t,  " Your voice cracks again,  and you force the last part out. ",  he wouldn’t love me anymore."

The silence that follows is thick and heavy,  but Dr. M doesn’t rush to fill it. She lets it settle. Lets it breathe.

Finally,  when she speaks,  her voice is steady and sure.

"Love that real doesn’t disappear because of pain. It doesn’t unravel because you're hurting. It doesn’t leave when you struggle. If anything..." she leans in slightly,  her voice soft but fierce,  "Real love stays. It fights for you. Even when you don’t feel like you deserve it."

Something in your chest twists ,   sharp and aching and almost unbearable.

Brooklyn, 1942 — Late Evening, A Few Months Before Deployment

The night was heavy with the thick, oily scent of car exhaust and summer heat. You and Bucky were standing outside a little mechanic's shop Howard Stark had been working out of — a back-alley operation filled with half-built engines and half-truths.

The argument had started small, the way the worst ones always did. A little jab from Bucky, a sharp retort from you.

Now it was boiling over.

"You think I don't see the way he looks at you?" Bucky snapped, his voice a low, furious rasp, trying not to draw attention from the street. "He's damn near undressing you every time you walk in the room."

You threw your hands up, exasperated. "Buck, he flirts with everyone. It doesn't mean anything! That's just Howard being Howard!"

He stepped closer, jaw tight, eyes dark with a cocktail of jealousy and fear he couldn't quite untangle.

"Doesn't mean I have to like it," he hissed. "Doesn't mean I have to watch it happen like some kinda idiot."

You crossed your arms, stubborn. "And what, you don't trust me now? After everything?"

He flinched, just a little.You saw it — the hurt flashing through him before he masked it with anger.

"It's not you I don't trust," he muttered. "It's him. You're... you're too good, doll. Guys like him, they see that, they want to ruin it. Take it."

Your heart twisted, the fight draining out of you in an instant. You stepped closer, softer now.

"Bucky," you said, voice breaking a little, "he's like a— a really annoying brother, alright? Someone who thinks he's God's gift but can't even tie his own tie half the time. You’re the one I want."

He shook his head, looking away like he didn’t believe he deserved to hear that. You reached up, fingers brushing his jaw, forcing him to look at you. When he finally did, his eyes were glassy, desperate.

"Buck," you whispered, "it’s always been you."

Something in him cracked — you felt it, like a dam giving way. He surged forward, hands cradling your face with a roughness that was almost reverent.

And then he kissed you.

Hard. Hungry. Years of fear and longing and love pouring out of him at once.

You clutched the front of his jacket, pulling him even closer, kissing him back with just as much fire, feeling the world around you fall away.The noise of the street, the risk of being seen, the war looming on the horizon — none of it mattered.

Not when he kissed you like that. Not when he held you like you were the only thing keeping him standing.

When you finally pulled apart, breathless, foreheads pressed together, Bucky whispered, "I'm sorry. I just... I can't lose you, doll. I can't."

You smiled, tearful, and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "You won't. Not now. Not ever."

You let yourself in quietly, the rickety door creaking even as you tried to be careful.

The apartment was dim, only the faint glow of the streetlamp outside leaking through the thin curtains. Bucky had peeled off toward the docks, shoulders heavy but giving you a tired wink before he disappeared down the block.

Now it was just you and Steve.

You toed off your shoes, shucking your jacket, and padded over to the small bed tucked against the wall. Steve was curled up, already half-asleep, his chest rising and falling slow and steady.

He didn’t stir when you slid under the threadbare blanket beside him, but when you pressed your forehead against his shoulder, he let out a little sleepy sound and instinctively tucked you closer.

You smiled into the fabric of his shirt.

He wasn’t all that much bigger than you — skinny from too many illnesses, too many skipped meals — but he still held you like he could protect you from everything.

You laid there a while, listening to the city breathing outside the window. Then you whispered, almost like a confession, "Had a fight with Buck."

Steve hummed, still half-asleep but listening.

You told him everything in a low voice, tracing the pattern of a small hole in the blanket with your finger as you spoke — how Bucky had bristled about Howard, about how the argument had spiraled into something bigger and rawer than you'd meant.

When you finished, there was a long pause. You were almost afraid Steve had fallen back asleep when he finally spoke, voice rough but sure:

"I think... I think Buck’s scared," he said softly. "More than he lets on."

You lifted your head just a little, looking at him. He blinked up at you with those wide, too-honest eyes.

"If he gets drafted," Steve continued, "he’s worried about what happens after. He sees Stark — sees someone who could give you everything he can't. Money, safety, a future without scrappin' for every meal."

You swallowed hard, guilt twisting deep inside your chest. You hadn’t even thought about it that way. To you, Bucky and Steve had always been enough. More than enough.

You buried your face against Steve’s chest, clutching him tighter. He let you, threading his fingers gently through your hair.

"I’m not goin’ anywhere," you murmured against him, voice thick. "I love you both too much. I don’t care about any of that."

Steve smiled, tired and soft, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "I know," he said. "We know. Sometimes it’s just hard to believe it, y’know?"

You nodded against him, your heart hurting for both of them.

You promised yourself, right there in that tiny, too-cold room, that you'd do better. That you’d never let them doubt again how fiercely you loved them — how whole they made you feel.

You stayed like that, tangled up in Steve’s arms, listening to the slow beat of his heart as outside the city spun and roared and waited to swallow you all whole.

But here, in this small slice of Brooklyn, you were safe.

You were home.

You don't even realize you're speaking until you hear your own voice,  low and shaking.

"It wasn’t the torture that really broke me, " you say. "Not... not the physical stuff. I could survive that. I did survive that."

Dr. M just listens,  patient and steady,  her presence grounding you like a lifeline.

"It was what they did to my mind, " you continue,  fingers twisting the tissue in your lap into a mangled,  ruined thing. "That was worse."

You glance up,  searching her face,  half-expecting to see disgust or pity. But all you find is quiet,  unflinching compassion.

"I,   I overheard them once. The doctors. The officers. They were talking about how they failed... with the last Soldier. How he,   how Bucky,   was too strong. He didn’t stay loyal after they lost control."

You have to pause for a moment,  because your throat feels like it's closing up.

"So with me... they decided to be smarter. More thorough. They said... they said I had to believe that I didn’t belong anywhere else. That the only place I was good enough for was with them."

Your hands are shaking now,  but you can't stop. It's like the dam inside you has cracked wide open.

"They started reprogramming me. Not just wiping my mind,  but planting things. Repeating things. Telling me... telling me over and over that Steve would never want me again."

Dr. M’s eyes soften,  but she doesn’t interrupt. You think you might break if she did.

"They said... Captain America wouldn’t love a killer, " you whisper. "Wouldn’t love someone dirty. Someone who..." You choke on the words,  but you force them out because you have to. "Someone who did things. Things I didn’t want to do. Things they made me do."

Your whole body is trembling now,  but you barely notice.

"And every time,   every single time they forced me to do something... to kill someone... or,  " You break off,  your voice shattering under the weight of the memories. "Or when they... when they touched me... they would spend hours after. Days. Beating me. Screaming at me. Telling me all the reasons Steve would hate me now."

You press a trembling hand to your mouth,  trying to hold back the sob clawing its way up your throat.

"You’re a monster, " you whisper,  repeating the words you still hear in your nightmares. "You’re disgusting. You’re tainted. He’ll never even look at you again."

You bury your face in your hands,  your shoulders heaving.

For a long moment,  there's just your ragged breathing and the quiet hum of the tower air systems.

Then you feel it ,   not a touch,  but a presence. Dr. M leans forward just a little,  her voice like a soft,  steady anchor.

"I'm so sorry they did that to you, " she says,  every word weighted with sincerity. "None of what happened was your fault. Not one moment of it."

You shake your head,  the shame so deep it's like poison in your blood.

"But I did those things, " you rasp. "I,   I let them,  "

"No, " she says firmly,  cutting through the spiral before it can drag you under. "You survived. You were forced. They twisted your mind,  your choices. They stole your agency. That is not the same as choosing."

You look up at her,  broken open and hollowed out,  desperate for something ,   anything ,   to hold onto.

"Steve loved you before, " she says quietly. "The real Steve Rogers ,   not the idea they poisoned you with ,   he loved you for your heart,  your loyalty,  your soul. None of that was taken from you."

You don't believe her. Not really. Not yet.

But part of you ,   some tiny,  stubborn shard ,   wants to believe. And maybe... maybe that's enough for today.

Brooklyn, 1943 — Outside the Recruitment Center, Early Morning

The world felt like it was ending.

You stood on the cracked sidewalk, the air thick with the smell of oil and the distant sound of trolleys screeching along their tracks. You could feel Steve standing stiff beside you, his hand brushing yours but not holding it — both of you too stunned, too raw.

Bucky was folding up the letter, his hands shaking even as he tried to smirk, to make it easier for you.

He tucked it into the pocket of his worn jacket, the same one he always wore when you went out dancing, the same one he’d loaned you when you got cold at Coney Island last summer.

"Guess they finally decided I’m Army material after all," he said, with a crooked grin that didn’t touch his eyes.

He looked tired.

He looked... scared.

You couldn't speak. If you opened your mouth, you knew you'd start begging — and what good would that do?

 What good would anything do now?

You felt your heart splinter.

Just like that, you were already on borrowed time.

Bucky stepped closer, his hands settling on your arms, grounding you. "Hey," he said softly, like you were the one going to war. "You’re gonna be alright. Both of you."

You shook your head helplessly. "Don’t say that," you whispered. "You don’t know that."

He smiled — that beautiful, infuriating smile — and leaned in to rest his forehead against yours. "I do," he breathed. "Because you’re stronger than you think. You always have been."

Steve looked like he was about to shatter into a thousand pieces right there on the sidewalk.

You reached for him blindly, pulling him into the space between you and Bucky, the three of you clinging to each other like you could stitch yourselves together tight enough to survive this.

People passed by, pretending not to stare. You didn't care. You never did. Not when it came to them.

Bucky’s voice was rough when he spoke again: "I need you two to promise me somethin'."

You nodded immediately. "Anything."

He swallowed hard. "Take care of each other. No matter what."

Tears burned your eyes, but you blinked them back. You nodded again.

Steve gave a broken noise of agreement, pressing his forehead against Bucky’s shoulder.

Bucky hugged you both tight — tight enough that it hurt, tight enough that you wanted to scream.

And then he pulled back, flashing you both that cocky grin you loved so much, even as his eyes gleamed suspiciously wet in the morning light.

"I’ll write you," he said, trying to sound normal. "I’ll drive my sergeant nuts with how much I write."

You laughed, choked and messy.

Bucky kissed your forehead, kissed Steve’s hair, and turned on his heel before either of you could fall apart completely.

You watched him walk away — the boy who’d been your whole world, walking off into a future you couldn’t follow.

You didn’t breathe until he turned the corner and disappeared.

Only then did you let yourself collapse against Steve, burying your face in his shoulder as the first sob ripped its way out of your chest. Steve held you fiercely, his own body shaking with the force of everything he wasn’t saying.

The city roared on around you �� loud and uncaring. And you stood there, clinging to the only piece of Bucky you had left, praying to anyone who would listen that he'd come home.

Brooklyn, 1943 — Small Apartment, Late Evening

The door creaked open under your hand, your arms aching from another fourteen-hour day at Stark’s lab.

You were still wearing your work clothes, grease staining the hem of your skirt, the heavy scent of metal and smoke clinging to your hair.

You were exhausted — but it was a good exhaustion, the kind that came from knowing you were doing something that mattered. Something that might help Bucky, too, wherever he was.

You kicked the door closed behind you with your heel, your hands full of papers and a sandwich you snagged for Steve — he always forgot to eat when he was working on his drawings — and you didn’t notice anything different at first.

Until you looked up.

And then you froze.

There he stood, filling the tiny living room like he barely fit in it.

Steve.

But not Steve. Taller, broader, stronger — wearing clothes too tight across his chest, his hair neat, his jaw sharper. The same impossibly kind eyes, wide and hopeful, waiting for you to say something.

You dropped the sandwich.

It hit the floor with a soft, stupid thud.

"Hey," he said, his voice deeper now, but still him somehow. "I was gonna explain—"

You shook your head hard, your heart hammering painfully against your ribs. "No. No, what the hell, Steve?!” Your voice cracked, loud and sharp in the too-small room.

His face fell instantly. "I—I had to," he said, stumbling over the words. "It was my chance to help. To finally be... useful."

"You LIED to me," you hissed, stepping back like he'd slapped you. "You went behind my back, you let them do something to you, and you didn't even think about what it would do to us."

He stepped forward, panic rising in his eyes. "I was scared you’d try to stop me. I couldn’t let you."

"DAMN RIGHT I WOULD HAVE!" you shouted, tears burning at the edges of your vision now.  "Do you have any idea what it would have done to Bucky if you—if you died trying to be something you already are?!"

You jabbed your finger against his chest — it felt like poking a brick wall now, and it made you flinch. "You were already enough, Steve."

He opened his mouth to answer, but the knock came before he could — short, sharp, official.

Your stomach dropped.

Before you could react, the door swung open and there she stood: Peggy Carter. Polished. Beautiful. Imposing.

"Captain Rogers," she said briskly, her British accent crisp as cold air. "You're needed for training immediately."

Captain Rogers.

You staggered back like you’d been gut-punched. You barely even heard the rest of what she said. Orders. Departure times. Uniform fittings. None of it mattered.

Because you knew.

You knew, deep in your bones, what Steve had just signed himself up for.

He wasn’t just going to fight. He was going to leave you, too. Just like Bucky. Just like everyone.

“Your breaking your promise.” You say lowly, knowing that it wont change anything. He had always been enough for you, but you had always known Steve wanted more.

You watched Steve glance at you, guilt and longing flashing across his face — but he didn’t argue. He didn't hesitate. He turned, gave you one last look like a promise he didn’t know how to keep, and followed Peggy out the door.

The door slammed shut behind him.

The sandwich still sat on the floor, forgotten. And you stood there in the middle of the room, surrounded by the pieces of a life you could feel slipping through your fingers.

Temporary Allied Medical Tent, Night

Bucky woke with a gasp, jerking upright so fast the world spun. The scratchy sheets clung to his sweat-drenched skin, his head pounding, ribs aching from where they’d been broken and half-mended with rough bandages.

At first, he thought he was still dreaming. Still there, in the freezing dark, strapped down, hearing the sick whine of Hydra's machines in his ears.

But no. The air smelled clean — like antiseptic and wet earth. There were cots, soldiers moving around, some with clipped British accents.

He was safe. Alive. Free.

He choked on a breath, scrubbing his hands over his face. You. Steve. He needed to find you both. Now.

He swung his legs over the side of the cot — wincing, but forcing himself upright — when a shadow blocked the lamplight.

"Bucky?"

That voice.

Bucky's head snapped up.

Steve stood there.

Except it wasn’t Steve. Or not the Steve he remembered.

The kid he'd protected, the kid who used to wheeze after climbing three flights of stairs — he was gone.

In his place was a soldier. A man.

Broad and strong, uniform stretched across muscled shoulders.

Bucky stared, his mouth open. "No," he rasped, his heart pounding in disbelief. "What the hell did you do, punk?"

Steve's face crumpled a little — like he'd been hoping for a different reaction.

"I had to, Buck," he said quietly. "I had the chance to make a difference."

Bucky shoved himself to his feet, ignoring the burning protest of his battered body. He grabbed Steve by the front of his damn fancy jacket, glaring up into those familiar — and yet so unfamiliar — blue eyes.

"You were already making a difference," Bucky growled. "You were already enough, Stevie. You were enough."

Steve didn't fight him. Didn't even lift a hand to stop him. His heart breaking at hearing that again.

"I couldn't stand by anymore," Steve said hoarsely. "You were out there, suffering — and I couldn't do a damn thing."

Bucky's breath caught, his grip loosening. A thousand emotions ripped through him — fury, guilt, helpless love. He yanked Steve into a rough, desperate hug instead, slamming their heads together in the way they used to when they were kids after a rough fight.

"You stupid son of a bitch," Bucky whispered, voice breaking. "You’re supposed to stay alive, Steve. Not throw yourself on the damn fire. I was trying to not leave her alone."

Steve hugged him back just as hard — like he needed the grounding too.

And for a second, it was just them.

Just them.

But of course it couldn't last.

"Captain Rogers," came a voice from the tent opening — crisp, professional, cutting.

Peggy Carter.

Bucky stiffened the moment he heard her.

She stood there, pristine and polished even in the mud and blood of war, her eyes flickering from Bucky to Steve with a tight nod.

"We need to debrief immediately," she said, like it was non-negotiable.

Steve hesitated — and Bucky saw it. Saw the pull in him. Saw the guilt.

But he also saw Steve take a step back.

Away from him.

Following her.

Bucky watched, his throat burning.

In the end, Steve barely spared him a final glance before disappearing out into the night with Peggy.

The tent flaps fluttered closed behind Steve and Peggy, the sounds of their voices quickly swallowed up by the clatter and hum of the camp outside.

Bucky stood there for a long moment, frozen. The ache in his ribs was nothing compared to the one opening up in his chest.

He lowered himself back onto the cot heavily, scrubbing a hand over his face, feeling older than he ever had. Older than his twenty-some years should allow.

It felt like he had lost something just now — something he didn’t know how to name. He wasn't stupid. He saw it. Steve had changed — not just on the outside, but deep down where Bucky couldn't reach him anymore.

The worst part was, Bucky had wanted to see him shine. He had prayed for it, asked for it when no one was listening. He just hadn’t realized it would mean Steve might not need him anymore.

Swallowing the grief clawing up his throat, Bucky slumped forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

His hand brushed against something stiff tucked into the breast pocket of the ragged shirt they'd clothed him in after they found him.

Frowning, he pulled it free.

It was worn from travel — the edges bent, the ink slightly smudged — but he would know it anywhere.

It was a photograph of you. Smiling that secret little smile that was only ever for him and Steve, your arms draped around both their necks from behind in the tiny apartment they used to share. Before the world cracked open.

Bucky stared down at it, his fingers trembling. The rush of emotion was immediate and gutting.

You hadn't left him. Even when he was half-mad with fever and bruises and blood, somehow you had stayed close. Close enough to tuck a memory of you next to his heart.

His vision blurred, but he didn’t wipe at the tears. He let them fall.

He thought about you — about your stubbornness, your reckless love, the way you always insisted on being in the middle of everything, even when it was dangerous. He thought about how fiercely you loved both him and Steve. How you would never give up on either of them, even when they gave up on themselves.

Bucky clutched the photo tighter until the corners bit into his palm.

You were still out there. Waiting. Needing him.

And even if the whole goddamn world changed — if Steve grew taller than mountains and Peggy Carter marched in like she owned the future — Bucky would not lose you. He would claw his way back to you with blood in his mouth and broken hands if he had to.

He pressed the photo to his forehead, breathing you in like a prayer.

"I’m coming home to you, doll," he whispered fiercely, voice shaking. "I swear it."

For the first time since waking, the fire lit inside him — battered, but not broken.

And he would not break.

Not when you were still out there holding pieces of his heart in your hands.

(Cramped handwriting, smudged in places where the ink bled from his unsteady hand)

Doll,

I don’t know if you’ll ever see this.

I don’t even know where you are right now.

Maybe you’re back home, keeping that tiny apartment together with the sheer stubbornness you’ve always had. Maybe you’re with Howard Stark and his fancy machines, rolling your eyes every time he flirts because you know he ain’t got a chance in hell.

Maybe you’re somewhere else entirely.

But no matter where you are, I need you to know something.

I’m still me. I’m still yours. I didn’t leave you, not by choice.

The was has taken a lot from me. Took pieces I don't think I'll ever get back. But what they couldn’t touch — what they never even came close to breaking — was you. The thought of you.

The way you laugh even when you’re mad. The way your hand always found mine without looking. The way you made me and Steve believe we were something better, something worth fighting for, even when the whole damn world said we weren’t.

You are still my light in all this darkness.

And I swear to you, no matter how much dirt they throw over me, no matter how deep they try to bury me, I’ll keep digging my way back to you.

I see Steve now — taller, stronger, shinier than he’s ever been. And I’m proud of him, I am. But sometimes I look at him and it feels like we all grew up when I wasn’t looking. Like I blinked and everything we had shifted under my feet.

I’m scared, doll.

Scared that when I finally make it home to you, you’ll be standing on the other side of some line I can’t cross anymore.

Scared that maybe I'm not enough after what they did to me.

But God, even if I’m not enough, even if I’m a broken man walking home on bloody feet — I’ll still walk. For you.

I love you.

I love you and Steve more than I know how to say.

You’re my whole damn heart. Always have been. Always will be.

Wait for me if you can. If you can’t... Just know you were the last thing I thought of before I fell asleep and the first thing I’ll be chasing when I wake up.

Yours, Always, — Buck

Bucky wakes up with a start,  the sheets next to him cold and empty.

For a second,  disoriented,  he thinks maybe you just went to the bathroom,  or down to the kitchen for coffee. But then he sees the note on your pillow,  folded neatly,  your handwriting staring back at him.

Bucky swings his legs over the side of the bed,  the cold floor grounding him for a second. He grabs his jacket,  sliding it over the worn henley he slept in. He glances once more at your note,  folding it carefully and slipping it into his pocket like a talisman.

He doesn't know exactly what he's going to say to Steve.

Doesn’t know if it will even matter.

But for you, for the family they almost destroyed, he has to try.

Because you deserve to know that Steve never stopped loving you.

And maybe, just maybe,   if Bucky can help mend this broken bridge,  you’ll believe it too.

his heart drops into his stomach before he even reads it.

The words are simple,  but he knows you too well ,   knows the way you hide your pain in the spaces between your sentences.

He sits there for a long time,  just staring at the paper in his hand.

He knows you’re hurting. Knows you needed space. But still,  the thought of you out there alone ,   carrying all that weight ,   it guts him.

Because he remembers. He knows better than anyone how Hydra didn’t just hurt you physically ,   they carved into your mind. Planted doubts like landmines that you're still stepping on,  even now.

He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes,  breathing slow,  trying to keep the panic from overtaking him.

You’re strong,  he reminds himself. You’re strong,  and you know how to ask for help now. You’re going to be okay.

But it doesn't stop the ache. Doesn’t stop the part of him that feels like he failed you again.

Because all he’s ever wanted ,   all he’s ever wanted ,   was for you to feel safe.

And last night,  when you broke apart in his arms,  he saw how deep the scars still run.

Bucky leans back against the headboard,  staring up at the ceiling,  and the helplessness curdles into something else. Something sharper. Something decisive.

This isn't just about you.

This is about Steve.

This is about the wedge Hydra drove between all three of you ,   and how it's still there,  festering like an old wound that never healed right.

He can't sit here anymore. He can't keep pretending it’ll fix itself.

It’s time to talk to him.

Really talk. No walls. No shields. No half-truths.

Bucky swings his legs over the side of the bed,  the cold floor grounding him for a second. He glances once more at your note,  folding it carefully and slipping it into his pocket like a talisman.

He doesn't know exactly what he's going to say to Steve.

Doesn’t know if it will even matter.

But for you,   for the family they almost destroyed,   he has to try.

Because you deserve to know that Steve never stopped loving you.

And maybe,   just maybe,   if Bucky can help mend this broken bridge,  you’ll believe it too.

Brooklyn, 1944You're on your knees in Howard Stark’s cluttered storage room, surrounded by half-taped crates stamped with PROPERTY OF STRATEGIC SCIENTIFIC RESERVE when you find it.

The letter.

Folded, worn at the edges, stained with something dark that might be mud. Or blood.

It falls out of a half-empty duffel bag Howard had tossed aside, the one he kept refusing to let you help him with. He must not have known it was even there.

You stare at it for a second, heart hammering so loud you can't hear the rain anymore.

The envelope just says your name. Nothing else. Just your name in a hand you’d know in your sleep.

Your hands shake so badly you almost rip it trying to open it.

You read it once. Twice. Three times. Your chest caves a little more each time.

And then you’re sitting there, crumpled on the dusty floor, pressing the letter to your chest like if you squeeze it tight enough, it'll somehow pull him back to you.

You don’t even realize you’re crying until the tears start soaking the page.

Howard finds you there eventually. He doesn’t say anything at first — just watches you with a kind of awkward pity he rarely lets anyone see.

You hear him clear his throat after a minute.

“I... I didn’t know it was in there,” he says. His voice is softer than usual. Stripped of the usual cocky tilt.

You scrub at your face furiously, embarrassed. "I know."

You stand, your knees aching, your whole body feeling brittle, stretched thin by months of fear and exhaustion and loneliness you haven’t let yourself name.

"I'll finish packing up the rest," you say roughly, tucking Bucky’s letter into the inside pocket of your worn jacket, right over your heart. You don't wait for Howard to argue.

You can't afford to cry anymore today.

You move like a ghost for the rest of the afternoon, stacking boxes, checking lists, triple-checking inventory Howard doesn’t even pretend to care about. He leaves you mostly alone.

Every once in a while, you catch him watching you. Like he wants to say something but thinks better of it.

Good. You don’t want apologies or pity or half-hearted promises that it'll be okay.

You already know better.

You know Steve’s not coming home the way he left. You know Bucky might not come home at all. You know that wherever they are, Peggy Carter is right in the middle of it — shiny boots and sharper smiles and perfect timing.

And you — You’re stuck here, a shadow of a life you built with them, trying to keep it from crumbling while the pieces slip through your fingers.

You miss them so much it aches.

But Bucky's letter — That raw, bleeding thing you keep tucked against your heart — It reminds you why you're still standing.

Because somewhere out there, he's still fighting his way back to you. And you made him a promise. You'll be here when he does.

No matter how long it takes. No matter how much it hurts.

You will be here.

For him. For Steve. For the family you built out of scraps and stubborn hope.

Barnes Household — Early Morning, 1944

The world outside is still and gray when Winnie finds you.

You’re slumped over the kitchen table, head resting on your folded arms, a cold cup of coffee by your elbow and the soft, worn letter clutched tightly in your hand like a lifeline.

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands there in the doorway, her robe pulled tight around her thin frame, her hair mussed from sleep. There's a sadness in her eyes that cuts deeper than anything you've seen yet — that quiet, helpless sadness of a mother who’s already lost too much and fears losing more.

She crosses the kitchen soundlessly, slippers scuffing the floor. The kettle rattles gently as she sets it on the stove, but she doesn’t reach for you, not yet.

She knows better.

You sniffle quietly into your sleeve.

You hadn't meant to fall asleep here.You hadn’t meant to fall apart at all.

When the tea is steeped and the soft clink of the cup hitting the table wakes you fully, you finally lift your head.

Winnie slides a warm mug into your hands without a word. She sits down across from you, folding her hands neatly on the table, like you’re just two friends catching up and not two broken souls trying to pretend the world isn't falling apart.

For a while, it’s just the two of you breathing in the early morning hush.

Then — so gently you almost miss it — she speaks.

“You don’t have to be so strong all the time, sweetheart.”

Your throat closes up. You blink hard, but the tears are already spilling over, slow and silent.

Winnie reaches across the table and cups your face in her hand, thumb brushing over your cheek in that soft, maternal way that you barely remember from your own childhood.

"I know you're scared," she says, voice thick but steady. "I'm scared too. Every day." She smiles, small and trembling. "I miss my boy so much it hurts."

A broken sound escapes you — somewhere between a sob and a laugh.

You lean into her touch, your hands shaking around the tea cup.

“I’m trying,” you whisper, voice cracking. "I'm trying to hold everything together. For you. For the girls. For Steve. For Bucky. But I don't— I don't know if I can do it anymore."

Winnie scoots her chair closer until she can pull you into her arms.

You go willingly, burying your face in her shoulder like you used to when you were small and scared of thunderstorms.

She rocks you gently, humming some old lullaby under her breath, smoothing your hair back from your forehead like you’re still her kid too.

"You don't have to hold it all by yourself," she murmurs. "We’re family, darling. We share the weight."

You cling to her tighter, your chest heaving with all the grief and fear and love you’ve been carrying alone for so long.

And for the first time in months, you let someone else help hold you up.

Even if it’s just for a little while.

Later That Afternoon — Barnes Kitchen

The house smells like cinnamon and brown sugar, the kitchen windows cracked open to let the cool spring air breeze in. You and Winnie stand side by side at the counter, dusted in flour, rolling dough between your palms.

It’s a rare, quiet moment. The kind you didn't realize you missed until you were living here — tucked into this tiny, noisy, love-soaked house like you belonged.

Winnie hums under her breath, a song you don't quite know, while you arrange neat rows of cookies on a battered old baking sheet.

"Did I ever tell you," she says, voice light, "about the time Bucky tried to make me a birthday cake all by himself?"

You glance over, smiling already.

"It was the middle of summer," she goes on, her eyes crinkling fondly. "So hot the butter was melting right outta the fridge. He was just a little thing — maybe eight — but he wanted to do it all without my help."

You can picture it easily — a scrawny little Bucky, determined and stubborn and proud.

"He mixed everything in a cereal bowl 'cause he couldn't find the big one," Winnie chuckles. "Forgot the sugar entirely. Burnt it black as coal. I ate every bite with a smile on my face."

You laugh, wiping your hands on a dish towel.

"Sounds about right," you say, heart tugging sweetly at the memory.

Winnie watches you for a long, soft moment. Then she reaches over and squeezes your wrist, grounding you.

"I need you to know something," she says, voice low and steady. You look up, startled by the seriousness in her tone.

"I don’t know what we would've done without you." She squeezes your wrist again, as if to make sure you’re really listening. "Moving in here. Helping with the bills. Helping me keep the girls' spirits up. Working yourself half to death... You've been a blessing, sweetheart. To all of us."

Your chest aches with how earnestly she means it. How much it matters to her — even if you thought it was just what you had to do.

"I’m just... I’m just doing what Bucky would want," you say, voice rough. "What Steve would want."

"No," Winnie corrects gently. "You’re doing what you want. Because you love them. And you love us. And don't you ever let yourself forget that."

You duck your head, blinking fast as the tears sting again.

Winnie leans over and presses a kiss to your temple, motherly and fierce.

"You're family," she whispers. "Always."

You nod into her shoulder, breathing in the smell of cinnamon and warm linen and something so achingly safe it makes you want to cry all over again.

For the first time in a long while, you let yourself believe it.

The elevator ride feels endless. Bucky watches the numbers climb,  heart pounding hard enough he swears he can hear it echoing in the tiny space.

He hasn’t seen Steve in a few days ,   not really.

And now,  standing in front of Steve’s old door,  he hesitates. His fist hovers midair,  knuckles trembling.

Come on,  Buck. For them. For her.

He knocks once,  sharp and quick. There’s a pause. Then the door opens,  and Steve's standing there,  tired,  wary,  older somehow.

They stare at each other for a beat too long. Neither speaking. Neither knowing where to start.

Finally,  Bucky shoves his hands deep into his jacket pockets and mutters,  “We need to talk.”

Steve steps aside silently,  letting him in.

The room is neat,  Spartan,   everything in its place. Just like Steve. Everything always in its place,  even when the world’s falling apart.

Bucky paces once,  then turns to face him.

He doesn’t know how to sugarcoat it. Doesn’t want to.

“She's gone, ” Bucky says bluntly. “Left a note. Shes at an emergency therapy meeting.”

Steve’s jaw tightens,  but he doesn’t say anything. Just crosses his arms over his chest like he's bracing for impact.

“She’s not okay,  Steve, ” Bucky presses,  voice rising with the swell of emotion he’s been choking down all morning. “And it’s not just ‘cause of Hydra. It’s not just because of what they did to her body,   it’s what they did to her mind.”

Steve finally speaks,  quiet but steady. “I know they hurt her.”

“No.” Bucky shakes his head,  stepping closer. “You think you know. But you don’t. You don’t understand the way they twist you up inside.”

He sees Steve flinch,  just slightly,  but he barrels on.

“She’s not that girl anymore,  Stevie, ” Bucky says,  voice cracking. “She’s not the one who could walk into a room with her head high and her heart open. She’s not the one who would come running to you first whenever something was wrong. They beat that out of her. They ripped it out of her. And now?”

He swallows hard.

“Now she’s standing in front of you with her hands shaking and her heart breaking,  and you’re just,  ” he gestures helplessly,  “you’re waiting for her to fix it. Like she always has.”

Steve's face tightens,  pain flickering in his eyes.

Bucky steps closer still,  dropping his voice low,  almost pleading.

“She doesn’t know how to reach for you anymore,  Stevie. She’s scared you don’t want her. That you couldn’t want her after what they made her do.”

Steve’s breath catches audibly,  and Bucky knows the words hit their mark.

“She thinks she’s ruined, ” Bucky says,  voice fierce now. “She thinks you see the blood on her hands before you see her. And no matter how many times I tell her she’s wrong,  it’s not enough.”

He draws a shuddering breath.

“She needs you to come to her. You. Not just me,  not anyone else.”

He rubs a hand down his face,  suddenly exhausted.

“Every day you wait,  you’re losing her a little more. And if you don’t move now,   if you don’t show her that she’s still yours,  that you still love her,  no matter what,   you’re gonna wake up one day and realize she’s too far gone to reach. Because at this point she truly believes that you wont love her.. Dont love her anymore.”

The room is suffocatingly quiet.

Steve sinks down into the armchair by the window,  burying his face in his hands.

For a long time,  neither of them speaks.

Then finally,  brokenly,  Steve says,  “I didn’t know. I just... I didn’t know how bad it was. I thought she was just clinging to you because you understood.”

Bucky’s heart aches at the raw guilt in his voice,  but he doesn’t let up.

“You weren’t supposed to know, ” he says gently. “She didn’t want you to see how much she was hurting. She didn’t want you to look at her different.”

Steve looks up at him,  eyes red-rimmed.

“I could never look at her differently, ” he says,  voice thick. “She’s... she’s everything.”

Bucky crouches down in front of him,  grabbing his shoulder.

“Then you need to prove it,  Steve, ” he says. “Not with words. Not with speeches. With action.”

He squeezes once,  hard.

“You need to go to her. Before she convinces herself it’s too late.”

Steve nods,  once,  shaky but determined. “Today,  as soon as shes back.”

And Bucky finally lets himself breathe.

Because for the first time in what feels like forever,  there’s a sliver of hope cracking through the darkness.

Somewhere in London, 1944 — Behind the Bar

The night air is cold and wet, the cobblestones slick underfoot. A low fog rolls between the narrow alley walls, swallowing the sounds of the city until it feels like just the two of them in the world — Steve and Bucky — standing in the dim halo of the bar’s back light.

Bucky’s hands are jammed deep in his coat pockets, shoulders hunched like he’s trying to make himself smaller. Steve’s standing in front of him, arms crossed, jaw tight.

"Buck," Steve says, voice low, careful. "You gonna tell me what’s going on, or am I supposed to keep pretending you don’t hate me now?"

Bucky flinches, just a little. "I don’t hate you," he mutters, eyes darting away. "Don't be stupid."

"Then what is it?" Steve pushes, stepping closer, just close enough to be suspicious if someone walked by. His voice breaks, just a little. "Talk to me."

The words hang there, heavy. Bucky’s breathing hard like he’s been punched. For a minute, it looks like he won’t answer. Like he’ll just turn and disappear into the dark.

But then, Bucky rips a hand out of his pocket, scrubbing it through his hair in a rough, frustrated gesture. And when he speaks, his voice sounds like it’s been scraped raw.

"I don’t know who I’m supposed to be anymore," he says. "I don’t know what we are anymore."

Steve’s face twists, hurt flashing across it, quick and sharp. "You’re my best friend," Steve says hoarsely. "You're my family. You're—"

"—Yeah, sure," Bucky cuts him off, laughing hollowly. "Until she calls for you."

Steve goes rigid.

"You think I don’t see it?" Bucky goes on, voice rising despite himself. "The way you look at her? The way you listen when she talks?"

He’s breathing hard now, almost shaking. And the words keep spilling out, years and years of fear and doubt and love clashing all at once.

"Back home, it was different," Bucky says, softer now, almost pleading. "It was us. Even when we were dead broke, even when you could barely stand on your feet — you chose us."

Steve’s hands clench at his sides.

"But here?" Bucky’s eyes shine, and not from the rain. "Here, you’re Captain goddamn America. And I’m just... some guy you used to know."

Silence.

The only sound is the distant hum of music spilling from the bar door, muffled and wrong.

"Buck," Steve says, stepping closer, reaching out — but Bucky flinches away like he’s been burned.

"You don’t get it," Bucky whispers, voice cracking wide open. "I spent years thinking I was the one who wasn't good enough for you. I thought — someday — you’d both wake up and realize you deserved better."

Steve’s chest is heaving now too, guilt and heartbreak carved deep into every line of his face.

"And now," Bucky says, blinking hard, a single tear slipping free, "I’m just waiting for you to choose her. Choose... a life that doesn’t have to be hidden away in the dark. A life where you don’t have to pretend you don’t love who you love."

Steve doesn’t say anything for a long, shattering moment. Just stares at Bucky like he’s trying to memorize him. Like he’s realizing, for the first time, how broken he really is inside.

Then, finally, Steve moves.

He grabs Bucky’s face between his hands, rough and desperate.

"Don’t you ever think," Steve says, fierce and shaking, "that there is a world where I would ever leave you. Or her. Ever."

Bucky’s mouth wobbles, and he hates himself for it.

"You say that now," he whispers. "But what happens when the world finally sees you the way they do now? Captain America. America's golden boy. And me — just some nobody who’s too afraid to even touch you in public."

Steve presses his forehead to Bucky’s, breathing ragged.

"I don't care what the world sees," he chokes. "I care about us. About you. About her. That’s all that matters."

And then — without thinking, without hesitating — Steve kisses him.

It’s not careful. It’s not sweet. It’s desperate. Fierce. Terrified.

Because Steve knows — really knows — that if he doesn’t, if he lets this moment pass, he might lose Bucky forever. Might lose the only thing that ever really mattered.

Bucky stiffens in shock — just for a second — before his hands are fists in Steve’s coat, dragging him closer like he’s drowning.

They break apart panting, staring at each other with wide, panicked eyes.

Steve knows exactly what he’s done. Knows if anyone saw — if anyone heard — they’d both be court-martialed, maybe worse.

But looking at Bucky now — seeing the wreckage of him, and the tiny flicker of hope buried deep behind the fear — Steve knows he would do it again a thousand times over.

"I’m not going anywhere," Steve says again, voice breaking completely.

Bucky leans his forehead against Steve’s, eyes squeezed shut. Neither of them dares move. Neither of them dares breathe too loud.

For a moment, all the war, all the terror, all the hiding — it falls away.

And it’s just them.

Two boys who just want to go home.

Late 1944

The knock on the door comes late. Too late for any good news.

You’re still half in your uniform from working with Howard’s team, still smelling faintly of machine oil and dust. You almost don’t hear it over the clatter of rain against the windows.

But something — something in your bones — tells you before you even open the door.

When you do, you find Steve standing there.

Not Captain America. Not the bright, shining symbol the world sees.

Just Steve. Small again, somehow. Smaller than he should be, even in that broad new body of his. Soaking wet. Hat crumpled in one hand. Eyes bloodshot and rimmed with a kind of hollow devastation you’ve never seen in him before.

You don’t say anything. Can’t.

He steps inside automatically, water pooling at his boots. He looks like he’s barely holding himself together, like one wrong move and he’ll shatter into a thousand pieces.

You’re already shaking when you close the door behind him.

"Steve?" you whisper.

He tries to speak — you see it. His mouth opens. But nothing comes out at first. Just a thick, broken sound that slices through the room like a knife.

You cross the space between you in two steps, hands reaching for him, desperate to fix it somehow — to make it better the way you always have.

But Steve catches your wrists halfway, like he needs to feel you to even get the words out.

"I’m so sorry," he croaks, and just like that, you know.

Your knees give out. Steve catches you, pulling you into his chest, crushing you against him like he can shield you from what he’s about to say.

"It was the train," he forces out, voice wrecked. "We were trying to get Zola — Bucky, he — he slipped."

You’re shaking your head violently, like if you deny it hard enough it won't be real. "No," you breathe. "No, no, no, Steve, no—"

Steve’s hands are fists in the back of your jacket now, his whole body trembling.

"I tried," he gasps. "I tried to catch him."

You’re sobbing now, ugly and raw and feral, clutching at him like he’s the only thing keeping you from falling into the void that’s opened under your feet.

Steve just holds you, holds you like he’s trying to hold together the pieces of both your hearts at once. He rocks you gently, forehead pressed to the top of your head, whispering apologies over and over again — like they could bring Bucky back if he just says them enough.

"I let him fall," Steve says, voice so soft you almost don't hear it.

"You didn’t," you rasp, even though you can barely breathe through the grief clawing up your throat. "I KNOW you didn’t."

Because somehow, even in this nightmare, you know the truth. If there was a world where Steve could have traded places with Bucky — he would have, without hesitation.

You sob harder, your body wracked with the kind of pain that feels like it might tear you in two.

And Steve — brave, stupid, broken Steve — just holds you tighter.

"I'm sorry," he whispers into your hair. "I'm so goddamn sorry."

You don't know how long you stand there. Minutes. Hours. Maybe years.

The rain beats against the windows like a war drum. And somewhere, deep in your chest, a part of you that once knew safety — that once knew home — finally shatters.

The sobs wrack your body in endless waves.

Steve doesn't say anything else. There's nothing left to say.

He just holds you, grounding you against the terrible, unrelenting grief that crashes into both of you like the tide.

You don't even realize how loud you are until you hear the soft creak of the stairs.

Winnie.

And Becca.

And little Sarah, barefoot and wide-eyed in the dark.

You hear the small gasp Winnie lets out when she sees you — sees Steve cradling you like a broken thing, sees the devastation in both your faces.

She knows.

Of course she knows.

A mother's heart can feel it before a word is ever spoken.

You turn, still clinging to Steve, your eyes meeting Winnie's across the dim hallway.

There’s a split second of silence.

And then Winnie's hand comes to her mouth, and a small, shattering noise escapes her — a wounded, helpless sound — and her knees buckle.

Becca catches her before she falls, both of them crumpling onto the bottom step.

Sarah just stands there frozen, silent tears spilling down her cheeks.

You try to move, to go to them, but your legs won't work.

Steve gently helps you to the couch instead, his hands careful and trembling. He stays close, like he knows if he moves more than an inch away you might come apart completely.

Winnie pulls herself up after a moment, crossing the space between you all and gathering you into her arms like she did when you were a child. "Oh, my girl," she whispers, her voice cracked and soaked in grief. "My poor, sweet girl."

You cling to her, and now it's Steve’s turn to crumble, his head bowing low, shoulders heaving as he tries and fails to hold it together. Winnie reaches out with her other hand and cups Steve’s cheek, thumb brushing a tear away like he's one of her own — because he is.

"You couldn't have stopped it," she murmurs to him, voice fierce even through the tears. "Neither of you could have."

Steve makes a wrecked sound in the back of his throat, and when Winnie pulls him into the embrace too, he doesn't resist.

He folds into it like he's needed it for years.

The five of you sit there in the dim, rain-soaked house, locked in a tangle of grief and love and loss that feels endless.

Eventually Winnie gets up, gathering the girls with her — but not before pressing a kiss to your forehead and Steve’s, whispering: "Stay as long as you need."

You don't even make it to the bedroom. You and Steve end up curled on the battered old couch, wrapped around each other like a lifeline.

Neither of you really sleeps.

Not really.

You drift in and out of restless, broken dreams, waking again and again to the sound of each other's breathing, the too-quiet house, the storm still raging outside.

At one point, in the gray hours before dawn, Steve reaches for your hand under the blanket. You lace your fingers through his without a word.

The two of you lie there in the heavy silence, two hearts trying to survive the impossible weight of the boy you both loved — still love — and who should have been there beside you.

The house is too still when you finally stir awake.

At first, you don’t even remember where you are. Everything aches — your heart most of all — and for a moment, in the fuzzy haze of waking, you almost expect to hear Steve's soft breathing beside you. But when you reach out blindly, the space is cold.

Your chest tightens painfully.

You sit up slowly, the blanket sliding to the floor. It’s still dark out, just the faintest gray light leaking in through the threadbare curtains.

On the battered coffee table sits a folded piece of paper.

You recognize Steve’s handwriting instantly.

With trembling fingers, you pick it up.

My girl, I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you woke up. There’s something I have to do. Something I owe him. I have to end this, once and for all. You — you are everything to me. Nothing else matters anymore. Not the shield, not the war, not the world. Just you. I can’t wait to come home. To build a home. A life with you like we always talked about. I’m sorry for ever making you doubt how badly I wanted that. How badly I still do. I love you more than anything. Wait for me. - Steve

The paper flutters from your fingers, landing softly on the floor.

You sit there, staring at nothing, numb.

You should believe him.

You want to believe him.

But somewhere, deep in the hollow, broken part of your heart, you feel it — the same cold certainty that had settled there the moment Steve showed up with Bucky’s dog tags in his hand.

He’s not coming back.

Not to you.

Not to Brooklyn.

Not to the life you were supposed to have.

You press your hand to your mouth, trying to muffle the sob that tears itself free.

It’s a struggle just to stand — your knees feel like they might buckle under you — but you manage somehow to drag yourself upstairs, into the bedroom you haven’t slept in since Bucky’s letter came. His old room.

You fall onto the bed face first, the scent of home — of Bucky, of Steve, of a life that’s slipping through your fingers — flooding your senses.

You clutch the pillow to your chest, curl in on yourself as tightly as you can.

And you cry yourself back to sleep.

The plane rattles violently around him, the ice below gleaming sharp and endless.

Steve's hands are steady on the controls, even as everything inside him splinters apart.

His heart is pounding, but not from fear. Not from the fact that he's about to die. No — he's thinking about you.

God, he thinks, I’m so sorry.

Your face flashes in his mind — that smile that could light up the damn world, the way your nose crinkled when you laughed too hard. He sees Bucky too — Bucky throwing an arm around you, laughing that wide, boyish laugh that always made Steve feel like everything might actually be okay.

He blinks hard.

The picture taped to the console shakes loose with the impact of another explosion tearing through the belly of the ship. It flutters down and lands against his thigh.

Not Peggy.

You.

It’s always been you.

Your hair messy from the wind, laughing at something he’d said, that soft look you only ever gave to him and Bucky. Home.

The radio crackles.

It’s Howard.

“Cap? Cap, you copy? You don’t have to do this — we’re working on a way to—”

Steve’s voice is calm when he cuts him off, though it tears him apart to say the words.

“Howard… look after them. Please. The Barnes family. And her.”

He swallows, the burning behind his eyes nearly blinding. He forces the words out anyway. “They’re… they’re all that matters.”

The static buzzes back at him.

Steve smiles faintly, a twisted, broken thing.

He angles the plane down, feels the engines screaming against the strain. The ice is rushing up at him now, blinding white and infinite.

He could almost see you there, standing with Bucky at your side, waving him home.

And then — A stab of guilt. A memory.

The hangar. Peggy's lips on his. How he hadn’t wanted it — not really — but hadn’t pulled away fast enough. Because some part of him, selfish and terrified and alone, hadn’t wanted to die without someone.

Now the taste of a stranger was going to be the last thing he ever knew.

Not you. Not Bucky.

Not home.

A single tear slipped free and froze against his cheek as he braced for impact.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered — not to Howard, not to Peggy — but to you.

The last thing Steve Rogers remembered was the memory of your laughter, tangled with Bucky's, warm and sweet and safe.

And then the ice swallowed him whole.

You don't even bother with the elevator. You take the stairs two at a time,  your lungs burning,  your legs screaming — you don’t care. You just need to find him. Need to see him. Need to know.

When you push open the door to your floor,  you almost run straight into him.

Steve.

He's standing there,  breathing hard like he’s been looking for you too. His eyes — God,  his eyes — they’re wide and desperate and broken in a way you haven’t seen since the day the world fell apart.

For a long moment,  you just stare at each other. Neither moving. Neither speaking. The air between you thick enough to drown in.

Finally,  Steve breaks first.

"Come with me, " he says,  voice hoarse. "Somewhere private?"

You nod wordlessly,  throat too tight to speak.

He leads you to the rooftop garden — the one you always loved but stopped visiting when it became too hard to breathe under open skies.

You blink in surprise when you see Bucky already sitting there,  waiting quietly on a bench.

He catches your eye and gives you a soft,  almost broken smile. It’s his way of saying I’m here. I’ve got you.

Steve looks at him,  then back at you.

"You good if he stays?" he asks,  voice low.

You glance at Bucky again. The silent steadiness of him. The way he always feels like solid ground.

You nod again.

So you all sit — you and Steve on the low stone wall that rings the garden,  Bucky a few feet away but close enough if you needed him.

It’s Steve who speaks first.

"I owe you everything, " he says,  voice cracking on the words. "I owe you my life a hundred times over,  and I didn’t even see you were slipping away."

You flinch,  and he sees it — he feels it — but he presses on.

"You were always the strong one. Always the one who held us together even when the world didn’t make sense. And I let that make me blind."

You look down at your hands — at the scars there,  old and new — and try to find your voice.

"You weren’t blind, " you whisper. "You just saw someone who doesn’t exist anymore."

Steve turns toward you sharply.

"That’s not true, " he says fiercely. "You’re still you."

You shake your head,  blinking back the burn of tears.

"I’m not, " you say,  voice shaking. "You don’t know what they did to me, Steve. You don’t know how they... broke me. How they rewired everything in my head until all I could hear was their voices."

You draw a shaky breath.

"They made me believe you would hate me. That you’d look at me and see a murderer. A weapon. Not someone worth saving."

Steve’s whole body recoils like you physically struck him.

"I could never hate you, " he says,  voice rough. "Never."

"But you didn’t come for me, " you say,  the words slipping out before you can stop them. "When I needed you most... I was screaming inside,  Steve. And you didn’t hear me."

The tears finally fall then — hot and angry and raw.

And Steve looks like he’s barely holding himself together.

"I didn’t know how to, " he says,  voice cracking wide open. "I thought... I thought you were okay. You’re so good at pretending. You’re so damn good at carrying it all and making it look easy. And I let myself believe that. Because it was easier than facing how much pain you were really in. Thats MY fault, sweetheart, not yours.”

You hug yourself,  arms tight around your body like you’re trying to hold yourself together.

"I thought if I was strong enough, " you whisper,  "you wouldn’t leave."

Steve moves closer — so close you can feel the heat of him — but he doesn’t touch you. Not yet.

"You could never lose me, " he says,  brokenly. "Not for anything you’ve done. Not for anything they made you do. You’re mine. You’ve always been mine."

You look at him then,  really look at him.

See the tears standing in his eyes. The way his hands are trembling where they’re clenched on his knees.

"I’m not clean anymore, " you say. "I’m not good. Not like you."

And that’s when Steve finally reaches out — slow,  deliberate — and takes your hands in his.

Your battered,  scarred,  trembling hands.

"You think I’m good?" he says,  voice wrecked. "You think I’m clean?"

He laughs — a short,  bitter sound.

"I’ve done things I’ll never forgive myself for. Things I’ll never tell anyone. You know that. You know me."

You shake your head,  but he leans closer,  forcing you to see the raw honesty on his face.

"If you’re ruined, " he says,  "then so am I. And I’m not letting you go. Not because of the lies they forced into your head. Not because of what they made you do."

His grip tightens.

"I love you, " he says,  voice steady now,  fierce with truth. "I love you. The real you. The you sitting right here,  right now. Blood,  scars,  pain — all of it. You’re mine. And I’m yours. If you’ll still have me."

You let out a broken sob,  and Steve finally pulls you into his arms.

You bury your face in his chest,  fists clutching his shirt like you’ll drown if you let go.

He holds you so tightly you wonder if he’s afraid you’ll slip away again.

You feel Bucky come over,  sitting beside you,  one hand resting solid and warm on your back.

The three of you — broken and bruised — but still here. Still fighting.

Still together.

You knew. Long before the knock on the door. Long before Winnie’s soft, worried voice called up the stairs.

You knew the moment the world shifted beneath you — like the ground had cracked open and swallowed the sun whole.

You were sitting on your bed, staring blankly at the crumpled letter Steve had left you — the one you kept rereading even though the words blurred now, soaked and stained from your tears. The one where he promised to come back.

He promised.

The knock sounded again, louder this time, and something deep inside you splintered.

You heard Winnie’s voice again, closer now. Hushed. Frantic. And then the footsteps — heavy boots on hardwood.

You couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.

The door creaked open, slow and hesitant.

"Sweetheart," Winnie said softly, and then stopped like the words wouldn't come.

Behind her — Howard Stark.

But he wasn’t grinning like he usually did, that stupid cocky tilt to his mouth.

No — he looked broken.

His hands were trembling as he pulled off his hat, wringing it between his fingers like he could strangle the grief out of it.

He stepped into the room like he was stepping onto sacred ground. Like he was afraid he'd shatter you just by breathing wrong.

"Hey, kid," he said, voice cracking like he hadn't meant it to.

You didn’t answer. You just stared at him — at the misery carved into his face — and everything inside you knew.

Howard's mouth opened once. Twice.

Nothing came out.

He finally crossed the room and dropped down to his knees in front of you, still clutching that stupid hat like a lifeline.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

Your whole body locked up. Froze like you could hold this moment back if you just didn't move. If you just didn't hear it.

"I'm so, so sorry, kiddo. He— Steve— he went down with the plane. There—there was nothing we could do. He saved everyone. He— he saved thousands."

You blinked at him. The words didn't make sense. They were just noise — a buzzing in your ears, a pounding in your skull.

"No," you said, and it barely sounded human. "No, no— no, you’re wrong, he promised—he said—"

Your hands were fists in the bedsheets now, clutching so tightly your knuckles went white.

Howard was crying openly now, fat tears streaking down his face as he reached for you, but you pulled away, stumbling back like he'd struck you.

"You're lying," you gasped, but even as you said it, your voice broke down the center.

Winnie was crying too, you realized distantly — muffled sobs against the doorframe as she pressed a hand to her mouth, trying to stay quiet for your sake.

The girls were there too, hovering behind her. You could hear their tiny, choked whimpers.

It hit you all at once. The crushing, unbearable weight of it.

Steve was gone.

Steve, who kissed the top of your head and called you "trouble" with a smile. Steve, who held your hand when the world got too cruel. Steve, who looked at you like you hung the stars in the sky.

Gone.

The sob tore out of you so violently you almost didn’t recognize it as yours. You collapsed forward, fingers clawing at the empty space where he should have been.

Howard caught you before you hit the floor, wrapping you up against him like he could somehow shield you from it. You didn’t fight him this time. You couldn't.

You screamed. You screamed into his chest until your throat was raw and the sound turned into broken, gasping sobs.

You hit at his arms, his shoulders, hating him for saying it, for making it real — and he just held you tighter, rocking you back and forth like you were a child.

"I'm sorry," he kept whispering. "I'm so goddamn sorry."

You didn’t know how long you stayed like that. Minutes. Hours. Maybe days. Time didn’t exist anymore. Only the hole in your chest where Steve had lived.

At some point, you felt Winnie sit beside you, her arms wrapping around both you and Howard, her own tears soaking through your sweater.

The girls crawled into the bed too, curling against you like they could keep you anchored here. You let them.

You let them because you had nothing left to give. Nothing left to fight with.

You cried until your body gave out, and then you just lay there, empty.

A ghost in your own skin.

Howard stayed the whole night, sitting on the floor by your bed, keeping vigil like he could somehow protect what little pieces of you remained.

And in the shattered darkness of your mind, one final thought echoed:

I should have told him one more time how much I loved him. I should have held on tighter. I should have—

But it was too late.

And the world would never be the same again.

The funeral was small. Intimate. Painfully quiet.

Howard spared no expense, of course. He insisted. Two marble headstones, side by side — Captain Steven Grant Rogers and Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes — names carved into the stone as if somehow that could make it feel real.

You didn’t cry at the funeral. You couldn’t. You were numb. Frozen inside, like your body knew if it let go even for a second, you’d shatter into a thousand pieces too small to ever put back together.

Winnie wept openly, her shoulders shaking as she clutched the folded flag they handed her, and you held her hand so tightly your knuckles ached. The girls stood on either side of you, clinging to your arms, their tear-streaked faces turned toward the graves like they still didn’t believe it either.

Howard stood off to the side, solemn and silent, his hat pressed against his chest. He didn’t say a word — just watched you with those sharp, knowing eyes.

As the final words were spoken, you stepped forward, laying a small bouquet between their graves — lilies and white roses, the flowers Steve once said reminded him of home. You pressed your palm to the cool stone and whispered, so softly only the wind could hear:

"I love you both. I'll keep going. I'll make you proud. I swear it."

And then you turned and walked away because if you stayed one second longer, you weren’t sure you’d ever move again.

Life didn’t stop because you broke.

You went back to school, dragging yourself to classes on trembling legs, your brain sluggish and slow from the weight of grief. You worked at the labs with Howard, throwing yourself into research and experiments, helping him build what felt like impossible dreams because at least when you were elbow-deep in blueprints and formulas, you didn’t have to feel.

You bought a house — a sweet place with creaking floors and a wide front porch. You moved Winnie and the girls in with you because there was no way in hell you were leaving them alone, not after everything.

Between the money the government gave you for Steve's service — and Bucky’s to his mother— and the steady work with Howard, things were… okay.

On paper.

You paid the bills. You kept good food on the table. You went through the motions.

But inside, you were still dying. A little more each day.

The bed you slept in was too big and too cold. The nights were endless stretches of staring at the ceiling, feeling the emptiness claw at your chest. The mornings were worse — waking up and remembering all over again that they were gone.

You stopped smiling. Stopped laughing.

Some days, you barely spoke at all.

Winnie worried. The girls worried. Howard knew.

He saw it — the way you moved like a ghost, your hands steady and precise at the lab bench but your eyes hollow and distant.

So he started working. Something reckless. Something desperate.

Something that could keep you from crumbling into dust.

The night he offered it to you, you were working late again, hunched over a table full of notes and half-assembled gadgets.

Howard set a glass of whiskey down in front of you and pulled up a chair, rubbing his hands over his face like he wasn’t sure how to even start.

"I’ve been working on something," he said, voice unusually soft. "I wasn't going to say anything yet but... I think you deserve the choice."

You blinked at him, too tired to muster more than a vague hum of acknowledgment.

He hesitated, then slid a thick file across the table toward you.

Inside — notes. Diagrams. Chemical compounds. A different kind of super soldier serum.

Not Erskine’s. Not the government's.

Howard's.

His hands trembled as he spoke: "I know it’s not what you need — nothing can fix… this," he said, glancing briefly toward the empty seat beside you. "But it could help you survive it. It could give you strength. Healing. Time. Whatever you decide."

He paused, meeting your eyes.

"You don’t have to be stuck in that pain forever, kid. I don’t want you to just survive. I want you to live."

You stared down at the file, the words blurring together as your throat closed up.

For the first time in months, you felt something stir inside you — something more than the endless ache.

Hope. Terror. Grief twisted into something sharp and desperate.

You didn’t know if you could live without them. But maybe... maybe you could try.

For them.

For the family still depending on you.

For yourself.

Your fingers tightened around the file.

And for the first time since that awful, hollow day — you let yourself believe that maybe — just maybe — this wasn’t the end of your story after all.

You did it. You went through with it.

Howard worked carefully, meticulously, hovering over you like a mother hen. The serum wasn’t dramatic like it had been for Steve — no explosive growth, no blinding light. It was subtle. Almost disappointing, in a way.

For days afterward, you didn’t feel anything except maybe... lighter. Stronger. Healthier in a way you hadn’t even realized you were missing.

The bruises from working long shifts in the lab vanished almost overnight. The ache in your joints — from long hours bent over blueprints and prototypes — disappeared.

You looked in the mirror and realized your eyes were clearer. Your skin brighter. Your body a little more... alive.

It took time, but the truth became undeniable: You were aging slower. Much, much slower.

Howard watched you carefully, taking notes, running quiet tests when he thought you weren't paying attention.

After a few years, he muttered it aloud one night, voice rough: "I can't tell if you've stopped aging completely... or if it's just so slow we'll never notice." He looked at you then — really looked — and you saw the guilt swimming behind his eyes.

You only smiled. A small, weary thing.

"Thank you, Howard," you whispered.

Because even if it meant you would outlive everyone you loved — you were grateful for the time it had bought you.

Time didn't stop.

You lived through Winnie’s passing — her soft, frail hands clutching yours, her final breath a whisper against your cheek.

You buried her next to Bucky’s empty grave, the cold winter air biting your skin as you knelt between the two stones, your heart breaking all over again.

You held Rebecca and Sarah through the funeral, their sobs wracking their tiny bodies, too young to understand the finality of death.

You stayed strong for them.

You always stayed strong for them.

Until Sarah got sick.

It started with a fever. Something small. Something treatable — it had to be.

But it wasn’t.

One night she was laughing in your arms, the next she was burning up, her tiny body shaking in your bed. You tried. God, you tried. You ran into the storm barefoot, carrying her through the streets, screaming for help. But it was too fast. Too ruthless.

By the time the doctor arrived, she was gone.

You buried her next to Winnie.

A small grave. So heartbreakingly small.

Years blurred into one another after that.

Rebecca grew into a young woman — fierce and stubborn, with Bucky’s fire and Winnie’s unwavering kindness. She called you her big sister half the time and her second mother the other.

And now — now she was packing. Boxes stacked by the door. Tears in her eyes even though she smiled.

Toddler Tony crawled across your worn living room floor, babbling happily, his chubby fingers clutching a wooden block.

You sat on the couch, arms wrapped around Rebecca as she leaned into you.

"I'm proud of you, Becky," you whispered against her hair, your voice breaking with the weight of it all. "I'm so, so proud of you."

She clutched you tighter, sobbing quietly.

"You always took care of us," she said through the tears. "I wouldn't be here without you."

You kissed her temple, holding her like you wished you could freeze time. But you couldn’t.

Life moved forward — with or without your permission.

And somewhere deep inside — under the grief and the scars — you knew Bucky and Steve would be proud too.

You were still standing. Still loving. Still living.

Even if every step forward hurt like hell.

You loved Tony like he was your own. Every giggle, every stumble, every babbled "Auntie" stitched tiny patches over the endless cracks inside your chest.

You loved Howard too — in a different way. He was your brother in arms, your stubborn, brilliant, pain-in-the-ass best friend. You were family, tied together by years of survival, grief, and the war that never really ended for either of you.

Life was good, in its strange, patchwork way.

But with Rebecca gone — thriving at university, sending letters every week, her world growing bigger and bigger — you felt something shift inside you. Something dark.

It was like you had completed the mission you'd given yourself all those years ago. Protect the Barnes family. Make sure they lived full, bright lives.

And you were... empty.

You smiled for Tony. You teased Howard. You baked pies for the neighbors, laughed at Maria’s jokes, held your chin up high like Winnie taught you.

But every night you sat by the window and stared out at the stars, your heart whispering the same prayer into the darkness:

Please. Let me go home.

You missed them. God, you missed them. It was a bone-deep, soul-crushing ache — a constant hum of loss under your skin.

You missed Steve’s stubborn smile. You missed Bucky’s wild laughter. You missed the way they looked at you — like you were home.

You tried. You tried so damn hard to stay strong.

But Howard saw it. And Maria — bless her — finally cornered him in the lab one afternoon, fire in her eyes.

"She's done everything she promised them she would," Maria hissed, voice low and sharp. "It's time."

Howard resisted. For days, he resisted.

Until he found you sitting on the porch one evening, Tony asleep against your shoulder, tears running silently down your cheeks.

Then he knew.

He took you out to dinner that Friday. The same shitty restaurant you used to sneak into during the war — back when ration stamps barely stretched and Howard bribed the owner with whiskey.

It hadn't changed. Same chipped tables. Same sticky floors. Same jukebox in the corner, warbling old jazz.

You picked at your food, sensing something heavy in the air.

Howard was fidgeting. Stirring his coffee over and over. Looking everywhere but at you.

"Just spit it out, Howie," you said finally, setting down your fork.

He smiled weakly — a shadow of his usual bravado — and leaned across the table.

"I have a new option for you," he said, voice rough.

You blinked.

"What kind of option?"

He took a deep breath. Hands trembling just slightly — not from fear, but from hope.

"I perfected it," he whispered. "The cryochamber. I've tested it. It works. I can put you under... safely. No aging. No damage."

You stared at him.

"And then what?" you croaked.

"Then you wait," Howard said softly. "You wait until we find Steve. Because I know I will. Until we bring you home."

The world tilted.

Tears flooded your eyes before you could stop them.

Howard reached across the table, grabbing your hand, squeezing hard.

"You don't have to keep breaking yourself just to survive, kid," he said, voice breaking. "You deserve to see them again. To be whole again."

You tried to speak — to thank him, to tell him you didn’t deserve it — but all that came out was a choked sob.

Howard just smiled. A sad, brotherly thing. "You’ve done enough."

And for the first time in years — hope flickered to life inside your chest.

You might be going home after all.

Rebecca sat across from you at the little kitchen table you’d all eaten a thousand meals at — her hands wrapped around a mug of cooling tea, her brown eyes glassy with emotion.

You hadn’t known how to start. You stumbled through it — your voice cracking as you explained Howard’s offer, what it meant, what you wanted.

You thought she'd beg you not to go.

Instead, Rebecca reached across the table and grabbed your hands tight, her fingers trembling in yours.

"I understand," she whispered, a tear rolling down her cheek. "I always knew... you were waiting for them."

You choked on a sob, lowering your head.

Rebecca squeezed harder. "You gave up everything for us," she said fiercely. "For me. You gave me a life when mine should have ended with that fever years ago. You loved me like I was yours."

You looked up, tears streaming now, and saw her trying to smile through her own.

"You don’t have to stay for me anymore," she said gently. "You’ve earned this. You deserve to go find them."

You broke then — leaning across the table, pulling her into a fierce, trembling hug.

"I'm so proud of you," you whispered into her hair. "You're everything they would have wanted you to be. Strong. Brave. Good."

Rebecca sniffled into your shoulder, holding you tighter.

"Howard’s gonna take care of you," you said thickly. "He’s made it all legal. You’ll have the house, the money. Everything. You won't be alone."

She laughed weakly, pulling back to swipe at her tears. "You think Tony’s gonna let me be alone?" she teased. The three year old was just as obsessed with her.

You smiled. A real one, for the first time in weeks.

Maybe even years.

The night before you left, you had dinner with the Starks.

It was a small, quiet affair — just you, Howard, Maria, and little Tony walking around, babbling nonsense to his toys.

Howard had cooked. (Well, burned some steaks, but it was the thought that counted.)

Maria poured you a glass of wine without asking, sitting close enough that her knee brushed yours.

There wasn’t much to say.

You talked about Tony. About Rebecca. About the project Maria was working on for Stark Industries.

You laughed when Tony tried to feed his mashed potatoes to the dog. You let the warmth of it — the normalcy — soak into your bones.

After Tony went to bed, Howard got serious.

He pulled out the small packet of documents — your will, your final instructions — and placed them gently in your hands.

"No one’s gonna forget you," he said quietly. "Not ever."

You couldn't speak. Could only nod as you blinked back tears.

Maria stood then, moving to sit beside you, wrapping her arms around you in a tight, unbreakable hug.

"We love you," she whispered into your hair. "You’re family. Always."

You clung to her like a drowning person — knowing this was goodbye in a way that no words could ever fix.

Howard didn’t say much else. Just squeezed your shoulder when you pulled away from Maria, his own eyes suspiciously red.

"We'll see you again, kid," he said. "I’ll make damn sure of it."

The cryochamber was nothing like you'd imagined. It was sleek, shining metal — warm under your fingers, not cold like you expected.

Howard had made it beautiful. Safe.

A cocoon. A promise.

You stepped inside in your softest clothes — one of Steve’s old shirts tucked under your arm, a photo of Bucky and Steve folded close to your heart.

Howard stood at the controls, face pale, hands shaking.

Maria stayed at your side until the very last second — brushing your hair back, kissing your forehead like you were her own child.

"Think of them," she said softly. 

You laid back. Took one final breath.

Your heart was thundering, your hands trembling — but your last thought before the chamber hissed closed around you was them.

Steve’s smile. Bucky’s laugh. Home.

And then — soft, sweet darkness.

For a long time,  you just stay there,  pressed between them — Steve’s arms locked tight around you,  Bucky’s steady hand grounding you like an anchor.

No one says anything. There’s nothing to say yet. Only the sound of your ragged breathing,  Steve’s whisper-soft murmurs against your hair,  Bucky’s thumb stroking slow circles into your back.

When you finally pull back a little,  Steve lets you go only enough to see your face.

You swipe at your wet cheeks,  embarrassed,  but Steve just cups your jaw,  thumb brushing over your skin like you're something precious.

"You don't have to tell me, " he says gently. "You don’t owe me anything."

But you do. You owe it to yourself.

You swallow hard and take a shuddering breath.

"I need to, " you whisper. "I can’t... I can’t carry it alone anymore."

Bucky leans in a little closer,  like he’s ready to catch you if you fall. Steve just nods,  wordless,  steady.

So you start to speak.

[fourmoony]

hiiiii! so i was thinking you could write something about the boys bringing drunk james home and him and reader live together and when he sees her he's so happy and lovey. he just keeps muttering "you're so pretty" and she gets him to drink water and eat something and then gets him to bed. i feel like it would be sooo cute, him being all obsessed w reader!

thanks for requesting, lovely!!

james potter x f!reader | masterlist - 727words

cw - alcohol consumption, smoking, drunk james

James is three sheets to the wind when Sirius drops him off at the front door. Like, literally drops him. Sirius is slim, sleek like a cat, and James is all broad shoulders and brick-like muscles, so you're not surprised when the smaller one huffs a relief when you swing the door open, and then promptly allows James to collapse in a giggling heap right in the door way.

Remus is half-way down the garden path, cigarette to his mouth. He waves half-heartedly, not looking the least bit sorry that he's been less than helpful in aiding James home. It's clear Sirius has carried his best friend the entire way from the Leaky - a ten minute walk from your house.

"He's all yours," Sirius tells you, heaving breaths as though he'd run all the way here with James on his back, "Enjoy."

With that, he turns on his heel and drags Remus off into the night, still smoking his cigarette. You look down at James, who's got a warm hand wrapped gently around the exposed skin of your ankle. He's still giggling quietly to himself, a joke he's yet to let you in on, lying face up over the door jam. It can't be comfortable. Heaving a sigh, you place your hands on your hips and attempt your most stern look, "You need to get up, James."

James groans, his merry giggling coming to an end. He looks petulant, like a child, "Can't."

"Jamie, I can't carry you. Like, physically, I cannot carry you." You worry your lip, James' thumb takes up stroking gently against the ball of your ankle. It's warm, feels nice. Feels like home.

"Okay," He heaves a sigh, rolls onto his stomach and uses the door handle to pull himself up.

He wobbles, almost takes a tumble, but with a hand on the wall behind your head, you steady his balance. You walk rather clumsily to the sofa, your arm around James' waist and murmuring silent prayers that he doesn't topple over because you'd truly have to leave him there for the night, and you'd feel rotten about it.

James collapses onto the sofa with enough might to send it pushing against the wooden floor, an awful scraping noise followed by his murmured, half asleep apology. You leave him with the promise of returning with water, but you think he barely registers it. The door closes with a soft click, and you make your way to the kitchen. James has managed to turn on the television by the time you return, and is clumsily pressing buttons, eyes squinting even with his glasses on.

You make a mental note to scold Sirius for returning him to you in this state.

"Here, swap." You hold the glass out for James, voice soft.

Your boyfriend smiles, giddy and elated, as though he'd forgot you were home, "Thanks, pretty girl."

Even in his inebriation, James Potter is able to bring a flush of pink to your cheeks. You click your tongue, eyes focussed on the TV as you put on James' favourite show. He settles in to the couch, half the glass of water gone, most of it dribbling down his chin. You bite back a laugh, settling in next to him. He smells like beer and cigarettes, but under it all, he still smells like sea foam and bergamot, like your Jamie.

Instantly, his arm wraps around your shoulders, pulling you into him and you go. You'll always go where James pulls you, ever trusting, ever loving. His lips press to the side of your head, movements jerky and sloppy in his state, but he murmurs so softly into your head, you swear it's engrained in his soul to remind you, "You're so pretty, baby."

Your head shifts, gentle eyes meeting his. They're a little glassy and unfocussed, but the love-sick look is there. You press your lips to his, soft and gentle, careful not to move too quickly lest James become nauseous. He returns the kiss with equal gentleness, though his lips taste like beer.

Your nose is wrinkled as he pulls away, his right index rather harshly trying to smooth out the lines. You laugh.

"Love you." You whisper, lips against his cheek.

You feel his lashes flutter, his hand rubbing at the skin of your hip, his lips upturn, "Love you, too."

[psychiatry-and-poetry]

Bindings of Fate

AO3 | Gwyn Week 2025 Masterpost |

@gwynweekofficial

Prompt: Day Three: Tethers - Bonds That Heal (Bonds can come from friendship, family, or the heart. Which of Gwyn's past or present bonds do you love the most? Share your theories, quotes, art, fanfic, moodboards, or headcanons—we’d love to see it all.)

A/N: In my (not so humble) opinion, Gwyn and Az are extremely compatible. They fit so well together, and I have no doubt that they’ll help each other heal. This is something I’ve had stuck in my head for a while…(aka slight overprotective Gwyn)

Word Count: 5,107

Azriel didn’t notice the afternoon sun and how it glinted wonderfully on the Sidra below him, which snaked through the famed Palaces of Velaris. Nor did he notice the merchants and markets in full swing, patrons and regulars scattered along the decks built on the river as they dined, oblivious to what was going on; enjoying their meals.

He landed roughly on the roof of the House of Wind, panting heavily and fighting to keep his eyes open through the blinding pain. It was completely at odds with the scene below. In fact, he didn’t know how he’d even made it here, but he wasn’t about to question a miracle from the Mother Herself. Right now, he was focused on keeping all his guts and blood strictly inside his body where it belonged: a gash in his side, a terrible limp that rendered him nearly helpless, and a torn wing were only some of the major injuries he possessed. Minor cuts and scars peppered his body, which was on the verge of giving out and collapsing at any moment.

“Madja,” he whispered, holding the railings in a death-grip as he fought to stay upright. “I need Madja.” He prayed the House would listen to him despite its reservations to everyone in the Inner Circle save for Nesta. He didn’t have the time to dwell on magical structures and their preferences towards certain individuals. He only hoped the damn thing wouldn’t leave him here to bleed out and die.

At Azriel’s mumbled request, the curtains thankfully stopped fluttering, and the calm, undisturbed feeling that usually enveloped the structure evaporated in an instant. The lights flickered once, and Azriel bit back a vivid curse as he gritted his teeth. Madja wasn’t here. Fuck.

He needed to contact someone. Anyone. Anyone at all who would help him. He racked his mind, now hazy and delirious with the pain, for someone who was both close enough to get to him within the next few minutes and discreet enough so that they wouldn’t announce his injuries to the entire city.

The idea popped into his head with such rapid clarity he would have kicked himself had he not been injured.

Rhys, Azriel called through the passage he and his brothers used to communicate. He could only hope that the High Lord had his mental shields down, or relaxed enough to sense that Azriel was attempting to contact him.

Rhys, I need your help, he tried again. I need Madja. Now. He waited for a few seconds, praying that his High Lord wasn’t in the middle of something important, until a voice, silky smooth and polished, floated through his mind.

What’s wrong? Are you okay?

The worry in his voice was palpable, the edges of it laced with concern.

I’m fine. Just send Madja. I’m on the House’s main terrace. And for fuck’s sake, hurry up.

He didn’t think the last part was necessary, but it was better to be clear when he desperately needed medical attention.

Azriel didn’t know how, but he managed to make his way into the living room and collapse with his back to the couch. His relief was short-lived, however, when he noticed his breathing had turned uneven and ragged. Azriel had seen and tended to enough soldiers on the battlefield that he knew the telltale signs of blacking out. He wasn’t about to stay awake much longer.

Indeed, the world was beginning to turn blurry, and he could have sworn he heard the distinct fluttering of robes and felt the faint scent of water lilies enveloping him before his body promptly decided it had had enough.

Desperately, he grasped at the dagger at his hip, trying with all his might to draw Truth-Teller. He managed to unsheathe the thing with a trembling hand, but the world had gone hazy, then pitch-black as the grave, sending Azriel into unconsciousness.

✦ ✦ ✦

Gwyn found Azriel’s comatose body lying on the living room floor, his blood staining the normally cream carpet a hideous crimson. It was a grotesque sight, one that had bile rising in her throat, but she managed to breathe through the overwhelming stench. It was enough to make anyone gag, but Gwyn had healed more Fae than she could count. It had become second nature to her at the temple, and she had never completely stopped the healing practice even when she’d ended up in Velaris. It was what had prompted Clotho to excuse her from the night service; the High Priestess providing Gwyn with no more details other than a patient was waiting for her who needed desperate medical attention, and that they were currently in the House of Wind.

Despite her rushing up here, it had taken Gwyn a few minutes to orient herself in the unfamiliar space. She had to admit, however, that it was fairly easy to understand once she got the hang of it. All the floors were arranged in the same, classic Velarian townhouse manner: a large living room or other common space in the middle, and smaller rooms branching out over the rest of the floor in a labyrinthine fashion.

During her perusal, she’d stumbled upon a library (smaller than that of the official House’s Library where she resided, of course), a kitchen stocked with food that would last a decent person a lifetime, and a dining room she was sure would fit an entire court.

Nothing short of excellence befitted the nobles of the Night Court.

Thoughts of all the opulence and grandeur had dissolved from her mind, however, upon seeing Azriel’s frame sprawled out at such an awkward angle. His body had collapsed in an undignified heap, bent so awkwardly she wondered how his muscles would recover.

Her initial shock abated when she realised that she had been sent here to heal him, not gawk at the Night Court’s feared Shadowsinger (she did that at training every day regardless).

She rushed towards him, immediately extracting the first-aid kit and other general supplies she’d brought when she’d received the summons from the High Priestess.

In less than a minute, she’d come to a jarring conclusion: Azriel needed to be taken to the hospital wing. Now. There was no chance she’d be able to heal something so substantial without the proper supplies, and it would be better if he was surrounded by professionals.

Gwyn had examined him and patched up the most vital injuries to the best of her abilities; enough for him to be taken safely downstairs, but they were far off from healing properly. Her solutions were makeshift at best, and she didn’t have any time to lose.

She’d never been one to make sudden decisions like this. In fact, she was probably the most indecisive person to walk the Earth. But it was high-stakes, high-adrenaline situations like these where she thrived. Her mind, which tended to overthink to such a concerning degree (it was a miracle how her it hadn’t combusted) quieted in such circumstances, allowing her to make decisions with unflinching, crystal-clear clarity.

Gwyn grabbed his hand, prayed to the Mother that her magic wouldn’t fail her, and winnowed Azriel to the Library.

✦ ✦ ✦

Gwyn was thankful that the High Lord had temporarily lowered the wards for Azriel to be winnowed anywhere should the need arise. She honestly didn’t know how else she’d be able to get a warrior his size down to the Library. She imagined herself asking Cassian to help haul Azriel downstairs, then chuckled at the odd sight that would no doubt raise more questions than what was worth it.

Gwyn worked quickly and efficiently throughout the night, bandaging up wounds, applying salves and examining injuries with such precise concentration all the sounds and sights of the world around her faded.

Indeed, the crackling of the fires, the scratching of quills on parchment and the whisper of the tomes, of pages being flicked; all of it disappeared. All that mattered to her was Azriel; all that mattered was that he survived the night.

Once she was done, she took a nearby chair from the surgical hall, and sat down. There was no way she was going to leave a patient like this in the middle of the night, other healers around or no.

All the priestesses had retired for the night, save for those who were on the night service. But disturbing one in the Mother’s service was considered a sin, and Gwyn would rather screw up her sleep schedule than ruin someone’s sacred time with the Mother.

Their faith was a private and personal thing; she had no business prying into it simply because she was lazy and wanted to nap.

Gwyn sighed. This was going to be a long night.

She managed to catch a few moments of sleep sitting down, but it was far from comfortable. The wood dug harshly into her back, and she was sure her neck had cramped in at least a hundred different ways.

She rubbed furiously at it, grimacing as she monitored Azriel’s pulse for what felt like the hundredth time that night. The hospital wing had devices to monitor vitals, but for the first time since she arrived, she didn’t trust anyone or anything here. She would check Azriel herself, even if it meant that she wouldn’t get a wink of sleep.

48. Fairly low. Not concerning yet, but if it went any lower, she’d have to figure out a way to get it back up.

His breathing was still shallow, but it was better than when she’d found him. He’ll recover. He had to. Gwyn didn’t allow herself to think of the other alternative, nor did she dwell on why, exactly, it was so important to her that Azriel survived.

He’s your teacher, and he’s someone you care about. He’s someone you’ve spent time with. That’s it. You wouldn’t want a friend or an acquaintance or friend to die, would you?

There was a part of Gwyn that screamed at her, telling her there was something more she refused to admit to herself. Gwyn ignored it, like she’d been doing since that day in Sangravah, when she’d first laid eyes upon Azriel.

✦ ✦ ✦

Azriel awoke to bright lights, white linen sheets, and about a hundred different monitors strapped or linked to him. His mind reeled, trying to piece together what had happened but drawing up just short of the events that had truly transpired. It was like trying to remember a dream right after he awoke; the harder he tried, the more he forgot, and it was ridiculously infuriating.

“Azriel. You’re awake.”

He was startled out of his confusion by Gwyn, who stood by the doorway in teal robes and those stunning auburn locks, pinned neatly back as a few locks framed her face. She held a basket of fresh linens in her hands, along with a stacked tray of salves and bandages as well as a troubled expression; brows drawn together and lips slightly pursed.

He only nodded, not trusting his voice to work properly in her vicinity. He told himself it was because he hadn’t used it the entire night, that it would come out croaky and horrible. It was a shitty excuse, but it got the incessantly needy part of his mind to quiet down, if only for a moment.

“How are you feeling?” She asked quietly, still unmoving from her place by the doorframe.

Azriel, much to his chagrin, was now forced to answer and actually use his voice. He cleared his throat, but it did little to combat the tightness now invading it.

“Fine,” he mumbled, not being able to meet her eyes.The fact that someone had had to see him like this…the injuries must have been horrible, then.

A tense silence darkened the atmosphere, condensing the air into something heavier before Azriel broke the spell. 

“What happened? Last night, I mean. I don’t usually come to the hospital wing unless something serious has happened to me. And…how come you’re here?”

Gwyn’s mouth quirked up. “I live here.”

Azriel felt heat rise to his cheeks. Stupid idiot. Of course she did. Did he really have to have the verbal abilities of a blubbering teenager in her presence?

“Of course. But I meant…” He gestured around the room.

“Why I’m your healer, you mean?” He nodded. “I’m a priestess, Shadowsinger. We’ve been trained for more than singing and dressing ourselves in pretty robes.”

Despite the dry tone with which she delivered her last sentence, something in Azriel’s sparked. Small enough that he could have brushed it off as something insignificant, and yet he didn’t. He didn’t want to.

“Really? I was under the impression that you shelved books all day and looked pretty.” The compliant was subtle enough so that Gwyn could ignore it, but there should she choose to accept it.

Gwyn’s ears pinked, but she didn’t lower her chin or look away. “I don’t shelve books all that often. Merrill often asks me for help with her research projects, so I’m normally running around the Library like a headless chicken, attempting to procure books for her.”

“Research? What manner of things do you research?”

“Well, it’s mostly Merrill that does the actual researching bit, I just help her find the materials,” she deflected. “But I wouldn’t be able to explain it to you even if I did know. It’s massively complicated, something to do with the Harp and the Dread Trove and how there might be more worlds than ours.”

Azriel raised his brows in curiosity. “That does sound complicated.”

“But never mind that,” she finished hastily. “We’re not here to discuss the possibility of other universes. How are you feeling?”

He’d been dreading this question since she walked in, and he fell silent as a light frown darkened his expression.

A flicker of something he couldn’t quite place passed over Gwyn’s face, before it disappeared in an instant. She bit her lower lip, brows creasing.

She didn’t answer until she’d entered the room, placed the linens down, and taken a seat beside the bed. “How much do you remember?” She questioned gently, as if afraid that he would forget this, too.

“I…not much. There are bits and pieces from last night, but…nothing solid.”

“Tell me what you do remember,” she coaxed gently.

“Blood,” he said quietly and without hesitation, because that was the part he truly did remember.. “So much blood. I was injured because…” Azriel frowned, trying to remember why, exactly, he’d been injured. What had he been doing?

Gwyn waited for him to finish his sentence. When it became clear that he wouldn’t, that he couldn’t remember, she spoke again.

“Do you remember that you were in the House of Wind?”

Azriel hesitated for a brief moment before responding. “Yes. I made it to the living room after…after I was hurt.”

She gave a brief nod, the movement so imperceptible Azriel thought for a moment that he might have imagined it.

“Good. Do you remember what you were doing before you were hurt?”

“No.”

“Were you away on a mission, perhaps? You had fighting leathers when I-the healer found you.”

Azriel frowned. “Likely. I’m not too sure.”

“Nevertheless,” Gwyn continued. “Don’t stress too much if you can’t remember every single detail. You have an extremely mild concussion, accompanied by another, oh, hundred injuries, but you’ll survive.” Her last sentence was delivered so dryly that it took Azriel a moment for the joke to register.

“I’ve been through worse.”

“I’m sure you have.” Gwyn took his comment in stride. “But that doesn’t mean these injuries aren’t bad. You’re lucky you even made it here.” She wasn’t normally this blunt.

“I’ll be fine,” he protested halfheartedly.

“Not if you don’t rest,” she countered.

With that, Gwyn got up and began fussing over his bandages, prodding and poking at his injuries until he assured her he was fine.

The tenderness with which she treated him had a rare lump of emotion lodging in Azriel’s throat, which he promptly shoved down in a desperate attempt to remain as professional and cordial to her as possible.

There was no denying that there was tension between them, but that didn’t mean he had to act on it. She was his healer, for fuck’s sake. Gwyn was his student, the one he’d trained in hand-to-hand and swordplay until it felt like second nature; talking to her and simply being with her.

Azriel shoved those thoughts out of his mind. He must be well and truly fucked if he was fantasizing about Gwyn when she was healing him. Gods, what a fucking mess. 

He rubbed a hand down his face, a motion which did not go unnoticed by the Priestess. Indeed, he saw her eyes flicking up to him, tracking the moment, then return promptly to the bandages she was changing on his legs.

Azriel could have sworn he saw a small tremble in her hands as she looked away to grab a fresh piece of linen, but it was so minuscule it might as well have been non-existent.

“Gwyn?” He asked, unable to come up with another coherent response.

“Yes?” She said nothing more, not even looking him in the eye, which he tried not to take too much offence to (he wasn’t that ugly, not even when he was injured). She simply knelt down to re-bandage his shin.

“How long have I been out for?”

“Not too long. You slept through the night. It’s…” She glanced at the clock presumably above his head. “Eleven in the morning.”

Azriel flinched. “What? Why didn’t you wake me?”

“You’re hurt,” Gwyn deadpanned. “We don’t wake injured patients.”

Despite her displeasure, which was clear as day, Azriel made to move out of bed. “I need to-”

“What you need is to rest so your body can heal.” She cut him off. “Whatever you think you need to do can wait.”

Gwyn lay a hand on his shoulder and tapped it. The meaning was clear. Lie down.

Azriel huffed but didn’t argue. He knew which of his battles were losing ones, and it was clear he wasn’t winning this particular spar with Gwyn.

“You don’t have to look so distressed about having to stay here for another few days, you know,” she muttered.

“I’m not-”

“I’ll have to get Cassian to restrain you,” she smirked. “And I don’t think either of you will be very pleased.”

At Azriel’s half-glare, she softened.

“I’m asking you to stay because you haven’t recovered. I have no doubt that you’ll want to meet the High Lord, or even go on another mission before you’re fully healed.”

How the hell had she pinpointed that he needed to talk to Rhys?

“I know you, Azriel. I know that you put this Court above your own wellbeing and that you’d rather die before you see anything happen to it.”

Was he that transparent with his intentions directly after a mission? He had to be, if someone who wasn’t a spy, if Gwyn could point something like this out.

“Regardless,” she ploughed on. “You’re a patient for as long as you’re here, and you’ll follow my, or another priestess’ instructions until we deem you healthy. Otherwise, you stay put.”

“Fine.” He rolled his eyes. “Can I get a piece of paper and a pen?”

She nodded, then opened the cupboard next to his bed, rummaging through the top drawer until she drew out a pen and paper. She handed it to him.

Did I really need to be brought to the hospital wing? I’m fine. You and your overbearing, mother-henning tendencies, Rhys. I’m sure whatever ‘injuries’ I had were only a few scratches.

He scribbled a note to Rhysand, then winnowed it away with half a thought. Winnowing people was strictly off-limits in the Library (or anywhere in the House of Wind, for that matter), but the High Lord had modified the wards recently to be able to accommodate winnowing objects in case of emergencies.

His reply came less than two minutes later.

It wasn’t me that asked for a healer last night as he was, presumably, bleeding out on my very expensive carpet.

Azriel did a double-take. How come Gwyn hadn’t mentioned seeing him splayed out on the carpet upstairs? He made a mental note to confront the Priestess later, who had likely left to run some other errands.

How classic of you to care about that unsightly carpet of yours, and not your beloved Shadowsinger.

The reason I sent you down there was precisely because I care about my Shadowsinger. You’re lucky you got a healer in time. Madja was busy, so I asked Clotho to send someone else.

Azriel rolled his eyes. Of course the only person Clotho had been able to find had been Gwyn. He needed to have a talk with her, too.

✦ ✦ ✦

Gwyn was sweaty, tired, and panting from running around the Library all day. She’d spent the better part of the morning caring for Azriel, had a hasty lunch right after the nurses had given him his, then spent the afternoon and evening with Merrill as they debated the likelihood of there existing a world consisting only of humans.

Gwyn had told Merrill that anything could be possible, and that if she’d already proved there were worlds where they could go backwards and forwards in time, there had to exist one where humans were the dominant species, just as Fae were in their world.

Needless to say, she was exhausted, wanting nothing more than a warm bath and a good book to curl up with as she fell asleep by the fire. But she had duties to attend to, the most pressing one being to check up on a certain brooding Spymaster. The thought didn’t fill her with as much dread as caring for other patients did, but she shoved that notion so bar back into her head she wondered how it didn’t pop out of the other side.

Gwyn knocked on the open door to his room, and Azriel’s attention flicked from the book he currently to her. He didin’t say anything, instead going back to reading whatever it was he was so engrossed in. 

She took that as her cue to enter, sitting down by the chair she’d brought in sometime last night.

He still hadn’t shown any signs of acknowledgement.

“The book you’re reading must be truly riveting if you’re refusing to look at me.” Gwyn’s soft sentence punctuated the surrounding air.

With deliberate slowness, Azriel marked his spot in the book and set it upon the nearby table.

“Why didn’t you tell me I was bleeding out last night?”

“Did you remember, or did someone tell you?” She wasn’t going to deny something that was the truth by playing dumb. Far be it from her to do something like that.

“How bad were the injuries?” Classic Azriel, countering her questions with one of his own.

“Answer my question first, then I’ll answer yours.”

“You still haven’t answered my first question,” he insisted. “Why didn’t you tell me I was bleeding out last night?”

“It seemed irrelevant,” she shrugged. “You’re fine now. Don’t tell me you haven’t bled out before.”

“Do you take special efforts to be a pain in the ass of every patient you treat?”

“I’m a pain the ass?” She exclaimed. “Pot, meet kettle.”

Azriel only rolled his eyes.

“To answer your other question, the injuries were bad enough that I had to winnow you down here immediately. I had to ask the High Lord to temporarily lift the wards. There was no other way you’d have survived because there was more of your blood on the floor than there was inside you.”

She didn’t care that she sounded desperate, she didn’t care if he thought her pathetic, but the fact that he was so blatantly refusing to accept the gravity of the situation, along with her stressful day made her see red almost immediately.

“Rest. Your body needs it.” With that, she left the room, made it into her chambers, and promptly collapsed on the bed.

✦ ✦ ✦

It was well past midnight, and Azriel’s insomnia was, once again, acting up. It wasn’t anything he wasn’t used to, but it was irritating, mostly because he couldn’t seem to get thoughts of a certain redhead out of his mind.

The injuries were bad enough that I had to winnow you down here immediately. I had to ask the High Lord to temporarily lift the wards. There was no other way you’d have survived because there was more of your blood on the floor than there was inside you.

Azriel hadn’t stopped replaying those words in his mind. He certainly hadn’t missed the slightest tremble in her voice when she spoke, and the emotion dawned on him, clear as day. Fear. She was scared. For him.

A part deep inside had lit up at that realization, before he clamped down on it and forced the thoughts to dissipate. No. We’re not going there.

He didn’t allow himself to dwell on why she could be scared for him. We’re acquaintances. It’s wishful thinking at best.

Sometimes, he wished his damn body would just listen to him so he could go to sleep.

The next morning, Azriel woke, bleary-eyed and tired, but well-rested enough to function as a normal person. Warm rays of sunlight filtered in through the drawn curtains, and Azriel was almost happy before he realised it was artificial. They were under a red rock, for Cauldron’s sake. 

Yawning, he found that a nurse had left him his breakfast on the nearby table. Cucumber sandwiches and fruit juice. Hm. Shrugging, he took a bite, unable to think of anything better to do. Sending notes to Rhys like they were infatuated schoolgirls was unacceptable; it was likely the High Lord was stuck in some stuffy boardroom and conducting meetings.

He might as well continue reading his novel while he was waiting to be dismissed from the hospital wing.

✦ ✦ ✦

“You’re dismissed. I talked to the High Priestess.” Gwyn’s voice cut through his reverie, and he glanced up at the female waiting by his door.

“No formal goodbye or kind words of farewell?” He teased, a smirk playing on his lips.

She huffed. “Do you want one?”

“I certainly wouldn’t mind one.”

“Oh great Carynthian warrior, the Night Court’s most feared Spymaster and most handsome male, you have been healed and are free to go,” she said, giggling, as she bent to tidy the room.

“Most handsome male, huh?” Azriel’s smile quirked up another notch, and it had Gwyn blushing.

“Don’t be an ass,” she muttered, looking away.

“I would never,” he drawled sarcastically, placing a hand on his chest in mock offence.

“Get out,” Gwyn demanded halfheartedly, shaking her head in amusement, now folding the bedsheets, likely so she could take them to the wash later. 

By that time, Azriel had already got up and changed into the leathers he’d been wearing the day he came into the hospital. Grinning, he saluted Gwyn with two fingers, uttering a quick, “See you at training, Valkyrie,” before turning around and promptly disappearing out the door.

Gwyn sighed, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. Was it hygienic? Likely not. But she didn’t care.

There was a part of her that would now miss having Azriel close to her so that she could check up on him under the pretence of his health. She barely knew anything about the male, and a glimpse into his likes and dislikes, no matter how brief, was more than welcome. Who knew the male was into romance novels? Granted, they were far tamer than the ones she indulged in with her friends, but they were romance novels nonetheless. Yet another thing she hadn’t known about Azriel until she’d seen him so…domestic. Relaxed.

She’d see hi at training, yes, but it wasn’t the same. The friendly jokes they’d shared, the laughter…he didn’t tend to be like that at training. If anything, it was like he put a mask over himself during those sessions, all cold commands and firm aloofness.

She just wished she could see Azriel, and not the face he put on for the world to see.

✦ ✦ ✦

Azriel waited patiently to the side, hands folded behind his back, head slightly bowed. It was common knowledge that the High Priestess greeted you, not the other way around.

Currently, Clotho had her back turned to him, hood drawn as always and magically shelving books while she checked things off a hovering list with her enchanted pen.

Once she’d finished the section she was on, she turned around. Immediately, her pen began writing on a new piece of paper that she’d summoned from the never-ending stack on her desk.

I hope your stay here was satisfactory.

“Yes, it was. More than satisfactory, in fact.” Azriel signed as he spoke. He’d made special efforts to learn signing for his mother, and for a Priestess who couldn’t speak, he always made sure to do both.

A pause settled between them before Azriel spoke again. “I actually wanted to talk to you about my stay.”

Clotho paused, tilting her head slightly. Oh?

“I…out of all the priestesses that were available, why did you assign Gwyn to me? You knew Madja was unavailable, you had the possibility of choosing any other priestess to come fetch me, and yet you chose her. Why?”

A small smile played on Clotho’s lips, as if she were amused at his obliviousness. You know why.

Azriel groaned internally. He’d hoped he could make a short stop at Clotho’s desk before going back up to the House of Wind, but it seemed that he’d be her much longer, thanks to her cryptic answers. Then again, Azriel couldn’t remember the last time the priestess hadn’t given him a roundabout response to even the most straightforward questions, so that was to be expected.

“I don’t. Really,” he added when her smile widened just a fraction of an inch.

I think you do. I also think that you’ve been shoving that thought so far into the depths of your mind that you refuse to consider it at all.

“It can’t be,” Azriel said, dismissing the thought, even as butterflies erupted in his stomach.

Why not?

He fell silent. I thought so, she continued. Think on it. And when you have an answer, you know what to do.Azriel didn’t say anything, instead bowing at the head again and shutting the Library doors behind him with a soft thud.

A/N: We love an accessible Azriel who takes other people’s disabilities into account! I don’t know very much about signing or difficulties with speech or hearing, so apologies for any inaccuracies (even though it’s a small plot point!) I also hope I did the double-POV justice!

[lovendeep-thoughts]

i think he knows

This AU is inspired by the same title by Taylor Swift.

pairing: Caleb x feminine character / feminine reader

word count: 5k

💌: Hi again! I hope I captured Caleb’s characterization well. This one is pure fluff. I hope you enjoy it! < The 'Read More' feature doesn’t work with HTML. I'm so sorry. I didn't know. Please forgive me. >

I had just finished studying. I propped my legs up onto my desk (still a mess of scattered research drafts and empty sparkling water cans) and tilted my chair back onto its two rear legs. A long sigh escaped me as I stared up at the ceiling, letting the weight of everything sink in.

I had finally transcribed, translated, and formatted ten interviews for language validation. Just a few more months and I’d be free from this project and subject. No more dealing with that one infuriating teacher (╬▔皿▔)╯.

I closed my eyes and sighed deeper. My shoulders felt light, like the stress had been physical all along. Maybe it was. I’d barely slept, though all I did was sit in front of a computer and a laptop all afternoon. I’m becoming a couch potato at this point. At least my skin isn’t breaking out. I’m only breaking down. You win some, you lose some.

The top of my phone lit up with a Messenger notification. I leaned forward with a thud as the chair slammed back onto all four legs and grabbed my phone.

I swallowed hard when I read the last message, and my heart skipped Sixteenth Avenue over the idea that he could be there later. I gently set the phone down and spun my chair around to collapse onto my bed.

I buried my face in my pillow and squealed before I could stop it, followed by uncontrollable giggles; the kind that bubbles up from your chest when something is too good to be real. I kicked my legs, sending my slippers flying across the room.

I promptly lifted my head, realizing how utterly ridiculous I must’ve looked. I barely knew the guy. We only met at a coffee shop. He didn’t have anywhere to sit that one evening, so I offered him the seat across from me.

And let me tell you. The scream I almost let out when I heard his voice. Ugh!

Okay, yes! He’s hot. I noticed that before I offered the seat. His name is Caleb, and he is drop-dead gorgeous, like he could model for a streetwear brand or something. He was wearing a black jacket with blue and orange accents. When he took it off and slung it over the chair, I had to look away so fast. His tank top was paper-thin, and I could see the sculpt of his abs through it. I also *ahem* saw his nipples BUT I’m not talking about that. Nu-uh ✌(-‿-)✌. I’m no pervert.

Anyway, it wasn’t his looks that got me first. It was his soft, lyrical smile, a little shy, but with this mischievous undertone, and the playful warmth in his voice. We started with small talk: names, schools, dream colleges, future plans. Then I got way too comfortable and asked him what motivates him to stay fit.

I wasn’t flirting! I swear! I was just curious. I’ve been on a weight loss journey myself ever since I gained 10 kg back in 7th grade from all the stress. I just wanted to know how he kept going, you know? I want a pretty girl summer too.

It wasn’t until he laughed that I realized how personal and coquettish that question sounded.

“Ah! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to…uhm…I was serious!” I waved my hands in front of my face, then just slapped them onto the sides of my face to hide my embarrassment.

And God, that laugh. It was rich and warm and way too easy to drown in. I felt a strange heat in my chest, right where my heart is. I peeked through my fingers and saw his bangs shift as he laughed, his eyes catching the light from the hanging lamp just right, and his head tilted back with ease. It was like time froze and the whole coffee shop melted away. There I was, staring at him, hands now clinging to my skirt like it could keep me grounded.

I shook my head to stop spiraling yet again about that night and reached lazily for my phone to text my friend.

I can come. See you in 20 minutes.

Because I’d need those 20 minutes to pick a dress and put on makeup—not just to cover up how miserable I’d been lately, but maybe catch his attention again, if he’s miraculously there.

I slipped into a simple pink layered off-shoulder dress that floated just above my knees, paired with white heels. I left my hair down and fastened a delicate white floral lace choker around my neck. I’m left with the final dilemma: my bag. It was between my off-white quilted one or the red faux leather apple-shaped bag. Caleb once shared how much he likes apples. It's something we had in common.

I didn’t want to seem desperate just in case he happened to be there tonight… but the apple bag was too cute to pass up.

Apple bag it is.

I texted Julia to let her know I was ready, then gave myself a final spritz of perfume before stepping out of the apartment complex.

The cold hit me the second I left the building, and I mentally cursed myself for forgetting a jacket. But the thought of going all the way back up alone felt more exhausting than the chill. I don't mind it, but I hope I don’t get sick tomorrow.

I told Julia I’d wait outside the coffee shop if I got there first, and I did. I used my phone as a distraction to pass the time, though my eyes kept flicking up and down the street.

A tap on my shoulder startled me mid-tweet about how peaceful midnight air can be.

I turned, and there he was.

Two deep, indigo eyes that seemed to hold entire galaxies in them. My breath was caught in my throat.

“Hi there,” Caleb spoke, a flicker of surprise dancing in his voice. “Didn’t expect to see you here this late. Do you... remember me?”

I blinked a few times to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. “Ah, yeah. Caleb. Hi! It’s nice to see you again,” I tried not to sound breathless.

He stepped back a bit and looked me up and down with a small, amused smile.

“You look good,” he said. “What’s the occasion, little apple?”

My cheeks flushed instantly at that nickname. “My friend convinced me to go out. I’ve been cooped up in my room for a week.” I laughed nervously, covering my mouth with the back of one hand while my eyes dropped to the pavement.

He chuckled with that rich sound I remembered all too well. “It’s pretty cold out here. Do you mind waitin’ for your friend inside?”

I nodded, clutching my bag a little tighter. “Sure, that sounds nice.”

The bell chimed as we stepped into the shop, warmth washing over us. Caleb headed straight for a quiet corner booth and I followed, asking Julia for an update.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him pull out a chair and pause behind it, waiting. I glanced up from my phone, and he smiled.

“Would you like to sit here?”

My eyes fluttered, perfectly in time with the little flip my heart did. He’s such a gentleman, it almost feels unreal. “Thank you.” I caught the soft rise of my cheeks from my own line of sight.

He waited for me to sit before walking around to take the seat across from me. Julia texted back that she was just around the corner, and I replied quickly:

Already inside. Prince Charming showed up.

Caleb looked over at me. “What do you want to order? My treat. We didn’t even get coffee last time since we were too busy talking.”

“You don’t have to…”

“I insist.”

My eyes fell and scanned the menu like I didn’t already know my go-to. “Just an iced black Americano, then.”

“Would you like a cake?”

I hesitated. I’ve been watching my calories lately, but… I hadn’t eaten all day. One slice wouldn’t hurt, I guess.

“How about... a strawberry shortcake?”

His eyes beamed. “Good choice. I’ll get a latte and lemon drizzle.”

He turned to call over a server, just as Julia walked in.

“Julia!” I waved her down, and her face lit up when she saw me.

“It’s been so long!” she grinned, hugging me quickly before sliding in beside me.

“I know. Glad you managed to drag me out.” I rolled my eyes with a grin.

Her gaze flicked to Caleb, then back to me. Her lips curled with realization. “I gather you’re Caleb?”

He chuckled. “Seems like I don’t need to introduce myself. And you must be Julia?”

She nodded, and then, not so discreetly, grabbed my knee under the table—the ‘we are SO talking about this later’ grab.

“I’ve heard a lot about you from her,” Caleb said.

“I hope she left out the embarrassing bits.” She side-eyed me and I averted my gaze.

Julia laughed and introduced herself. After a while, she turned to fish something out of her sling bag. Looking for her phone, probably. Then she angled it toward me.

“Bad time to ditch you?” she asked with a suspiciously innocent look.

“What do you mean? You just got here.” I raised a brow. She wants to leave me right now? How cruel.

“Look at what my boyfriend texted me,” she said.

Boyfriend?? Girl, you do not have a boyfriend.

I squinted at her screen as she held it near my face.

OMG he is sure handsome! I’m making an excuse to leave you two. I’ll be in the vinyl store just in case you need me. Have fun, sis!

I groaned. Was she seriously playing wingman right now? “You actually let your boyfriend text you like that?” I covered my mouth, trying, and failing not to laugh.

She just shrugged, totally unfazed. “He’s being dramatic. You know how he gets when I’m out with someone else.”

I shot her a look, trying to suppress a smile as she tilted her chin up, smirking at me. “That is your type though, right?”

My hand flew out to smack her thigh. “Julia!”

“What?” she said, all fake innocence, then shot a quick glance at Caleb. “Still embarrassed over that?”

Before I could answer, she stood up dramatically. “It’s getting late. Will you be alright?”

“I can handle myself.”

“I could walk her home,” Caleb offered, a little too fast like he didn’t want to seem too eager. I guess he's just like me. This doesn’t go unnoticed by Julia, whose smile turns up significantly. “Only if she’s okay with that, of course.”

Julia gave me a smug look as she backed away. “Talk to you tomorrow?”

I looked up, making my lips as curved as possible. “Sure.”

I watched her disappear out the shop window before Caleb turned back to me with a grin.

“So…” he started, his tone a low sing-song. “You have a thing for possessive guys?”

“Shut up.” I muttered.

“I’m not judging,” he said, eyes gleaming with mischief as he leaned in slightly, resting his chin on his hand. “Just… curious.” His gaze flicked briefly to my lips before settling back on my eyes.

I shifted in my seat, feigning nonchalance. “I just want someone to match my freak,” I shot back, tilting my head while leaning on my chair. I don't know where this confidence is coming from, but a girl's gotta do what she's gotta do.

“Oh?” His brow lifted in a slow and deliberate way. He's trying to peel back every layer of meaning in that sentence. “And how exactly does one do that?”

I crossed one leg over the other. “This kind of conversation requires drinks.”

He smirked. “But you don’t drink.”

I clicked my tongue. “Exactly.”

Our coffee and cakes arrived, saving me from having to elaborate.

“Thanks for the treat,” I said while the waiter was serving the plates on the table.

“I’d love to have dinner with you again. But maybe next time, somewhere with a little more space?”

I rolled my eyes, trying to fight the smile tugging at my lips. “This is your idea of dinner?”

“Isn’t it yours too?”

“It’s midnight, Caleb.”

He laughed as I glared at him. I took my first bite of the strawberry cake and my eyes widened. “Wow,” I mumbled, covering my mouth with a closed fist. “This cake is amazing. Strawberry cake’s a hit or miss for me, but this? You have to try it!”

Without thinking, I leaned forward, holding out a forkful toward him.

Just as I realized what I was doing and started to pull back, he gently caught my wrist and leaned in, taking the bite straight from the fork.

He sat back, dabbing at his lips with a napkin. As if he didn’t leave me speechless right there and then.

“Mmm. You’re right,” he said. “It’s soft and buttery, not that weird rubbery stuff from supermarkets.”

“My thoughts too,” I said. My voice evidently faltering.

He picked up his coffee, the cup looking small in his large hand. There was something so effortlessly magnetic about him, like he wasn’t trying to impress me at all… and still somehow completely was.

And that thought had been looping in my head since that night.

We finally exchanged numbers, and we made plans for tomorrow night, the night after, and another night after that. Somehow, our late-night meetups became a routine. Each one more comforting, more thrilling than the last. He always had a way of making the night feel alive, whether it was with his ridiculous high school stories or his rambling about the new recipes he’d tried, like his latest obsession: braised pork belly and egg stir-fry.

He always insisted on walking me home, no matter how late it got. And once he reached his place, he’d text me that he got back safe and how much he enjoyed our conversation. Every time, without fail.

He’s been acting like everything I never admitted I wanted in a guy—cute and bashful one second, flirty and bold the next. But underneath it all, he’s focused, disciplined, and driven, especially when it comes to his studies and workouts.

One night, I wrapped up my part of our research paper just past 2 AM. My brain felt fried to the neurons, so I decided to get up, stretch, and take a walk to clear my head. I threw on my running shoes, tied my hair up in a lazy bun, and stepped out in a plain white tee and black leggings.

I jogged around the circle park, looping until I hit 5,000 steps. But instead of heading home, my feet took me somewhere. Where else? Of course, it was the coffee shop.

Just as I passed by, the bell above the door jingled. And out walked Caleb.

“Caleb?” I blinked. “What are you doing out here at 3 AM?”

He placed one hand on his hip and gave me that familiar teasing smirk. “I could ask you the same.”

Then he added while looking away, “Woke up late. Needed coffee if I wanna finish my assignments.”

“I just finished writing our paper.” I beamed.

“Congratulations,” he said gently. Then his hand reached out, fingers slipping into my hair as he gave it a light tousle.

“And since you mention that, let’s go somewhere to celebrate. The night is still young.”

“Must I remind you that it’s three in the morning?" I turned to him and our shoulders nearly brushed. "Where we gonna go?” I whispered in the dark.

“Here’s a clue,” he murmured softly near my ear. “Charcoal and meat.”

I smiled, and I followed him as he yapped about his day.

He’s never asked me to hang out during the day, not once. No coffee dates, no lunch breaks. It’s always been midnight strolls, secret meetups under the city lights. I’ve been waiting for him to take that next step—to finally ask me out in the open. But instead, he’s been toeing the line, flirty but vague. So tonight, I decided to take the lead.

“Have you ever thought of modeling?” I asked, biting off a piece of barbecue from the skewer.

He tilted his head, feigning to be in deep thought. “I’d rather save my face for my future lover. Wouldn’t want her getting jealous.”

I choked on a laugh at his blatant narcissistic reply. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“What can I say? It’s your fault for complimenting me too much.” He winked.

“How could I not believe it when it’s coming from a pretty girl?”

“You really know how to work your charm.”

“I only use it on one girl,” he said, eyes steady on mine. “Why’d ya ask about modeling?”

“I have a friend,” I started casually. “She needs someone to model for her parents’ photography business. Thought you might be interested.”

He rubbed his chin. “Hmm. Will you be there?”

“Of course. I want to watch a real photo shoot.”

“Then I’m in. Only if you’ll be my personal assistant for the day.”

I smirked. “Consider it done, Model Caleb.”

A few days before the main photoshoot, Caleb and I dropped by Rozanne’s house, the friend I mentioned whose parents run a photography studio. It was just a quick mock shoot to figure out which angles flatter him most, which settings match his vibe, and what kind of makeup brings out his features best. Rozanne’s parents host an annual event like this, gathering friends and familiar faces for photos they can use to promote their business.

Now, we’re just waiting for Caleb’s last afternoon class to finish.

I’m relieved he wasn’t bluffing when he said he goes to the Aerospace Academy Integrated School in Skyhaven. Its college counterpart is one of the most coveted institutions in the country: a top-tier state university with a reputation for academic excellence and a long list of successful alumni—airline pilots, Nobel Peace Prize laureates, presidents, and award-winning national artists. As hard as it is to get into the college, the integrated high school is even more competitive and stressful. Thousands of applicants fight for a handful of slots. You have to be brilliant, not just academically, but also athletically, artistically, and socially. And, unless you’re extraordinarily gifted, a few key recommendations don’t hurt either.

Knowing that Caleb is that type of student still catches me off guard. Not in a bad way—just... surprising. He’s so effortlessly cheerful, so laid-back, so light-hearted. You wouldn’t expect someone with that kind of academic pressure or background to carry themselves the way he does. Despite being orphaned and raised by a modest, middle-class family, he seems to view life with an unshakable optimism. Too good to be true, almost. He’s got the brain, the looks, and the personality. The only giveaway is the tired puffiness under his eyes when he tilts his head down. I find that kinda endearing.

We’re tucked under the waiting shed, shielding ourselves from the stubborn sun. I originally planned to wear a muted mauve-edged red cardigan to hide my shoulders, but I didn’t expect the heat and humidity to be this relentless. So now I’m sweating through a spaghetti strap sundress I bought on impulse because I couldn’t resist the butterfly print. The brown and violet wings flutter across the soft beige fabric. It’s cute, but it adds to the ten aesthetics in one closet. Istg, my wardrobe has zero consistency.

The staff are busy checking equipment, muttering to each other about the settings and lens angles. Two of them are still stuck in traffic. Meanwhile, I’m lounging beside Rozy, gossiping and clutching my shoulder bag. I packed it with everything Caleb might need for the shoot: tissues, handkerchiefs, alcohol, sanitizer, snacks, a compact mirror, safety pins—you name it. I had no idea what to bring, so I just bought everything last night in a mild panic.

Caleb arrives five minutes past 1 PM.

“Good afternoon,” he greets, meeting my eyes with a softer than usual expression.

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long. Please follow me.”

He leads us toward the room he reserved and offers a casual tour along the way. “This is my homeroom classroom.”

Once inside, he immediately helps the crew unpack gear and adjust the setup. After a bit of conversation with the lighting guy, he excuses himself to change into a fresh uniform and wash up.

He then approaches me, holding out a small bag.

“Can you help me?”

“Alright.”

I’m now standing just outside the boys’ comfort room, ready for his beck and call.

After a few minutes, Caleb opens the door and hands me a plastic bag with the uniform he just changed out of. I tucked it into my tote bag without question.

“Do you have soap? I forgot mine in the classroom.”

“I do. Here you go.” I handed him a new pink beauty bar. I don’t care if it’s too girly for him. It smells good, and it works.

“Do you mind stepping in? There’s no one else here, and most of my classmates have gone home. I just need help making sure I don’t get my uniform wet while I wash my face.”

“You probably should’ve done that before changing.”

Caleb leans back against the sink, giving me that sheepish grin. “My blouse was clinging to me like a koala. I couldn’t take it anymore.”

“Oh, right! I bought a spa headband.” After washing my hands, I dig it out of my bag and show it to him.

“Apple-themed?”

“Yeah. I saw it at the store and just knew I had to get it. Think of it as my thank-you gift for modeling and helping Rozy out.”

I pop open the facial cleanser, pump it three times onto my palm, and work it into a soft foam. Carefully, I bring my hands to his face and start massaging the lather in with slow, circular motions. His eyes never leave mine, and it’s freaking hard to meet his gaze, like it’s too gentle and too direct at the same time. I fumble for a topic to break the silence, but he beats me to it.

“What do you think of me now?”

I laugh. I'm caught off guard by his question. “Smart-ass?”

“That’s all?”

“What do you want to hear?”

“More compliments from a certain little sunny apple.” He tilts his head to the side.

“You don’t get enough of those around here?”

“They don’t mean anything when they come from just anyone.”

I shake my head in mild annoyance. “Stay still.” I rinse his face with as much care as I can, making sure not to soak the collar of his fresh uniform. Once I’m done, I dry my hands and step back to admire my handiwork. His skin looks clean and bright, even glowing.

“All done!” I clap my hands lightly. “Let’s get going.”

Once his light makeup is done, Caleb starts posing around the classroom. The concept is to romanticize the everyday life of a high-achieving student in a prestigious academic setting, still effortlessly good-looking despite the stress. The team is capturing him like a character from a movie.

I zone out for a while, my eyes trailing him as he moves through the classroom, adjusting to the photographer’s cues. He’s completely in the zone, so I take a moment to enjoy the breeze from the window and watch the trees outside sway gently.

“What are you doing, little hamster?”

He’s now behind me. Turns out they’re on a quick break.

“Just admiring your school,” I say without looking away from the trees.

He joins me at the window, leaning on the railing with his elbows. His black tie sways gently with the wind, and his hair tousles perfectly, like a scene from a coming-of-age drama.

I rummage through my tote bag and pull out a tall, rectangular container. “Want an apple?”

“You only packed one?” he asks, leaning in like he’s peeking inside my bag too.

“If you want more, there’s a supermarket nearby—”

“I meant for you,” he interrupts, flashing a grin. “Wouldn’t you rather have this apple instead?” His voice drops just slightly.

“I’m not really that hungry anyway.”

I roll my eyes playfully. “I’m fine. You probably need it more than I do.”

“Then let’s share it.”

I scrunch up my nose. “Won’t you be grossed out?”

“We’re friends now, right?”

I pause, the question lingering longer than I expect. Friends? Just like that? He says it so easily, so casually, like he doesn’t realize the weight it holds in my chest. “Right,” I finally say, keeping my voice as light as possible. I take a small bite, then wordlessly hold the apple out to him.

He doesn’t take it right away.

Instead, his eyes drift up, focused on my hair.

“Can I tie your hair into a ponytail?”

I blink. “What?”

“Your hair’s sticking to your neck. They made you look hot, but I know it’s uncomfortable.”

I snort. “That’s not how you compliment someone.”

“I’m serious.” He moves behind me before I can even answer, his fingers brushing lightly against my shoulders.

“The little girls in my neighborhood ask me to tie theirs all the time. I’m practically licensed.”

“You’re such a sweetheart,” I playfully coo.

“I can be when I want to be.” His fingers sift gently through my hair, combing it back with surprising ease. It’s oddly domestic.

I can’t see his face, but I can feel the care in every motion. His touch isn’t rushed or fumbled. It’s patient. Like he’s done this a hundred times, which he did.

“There,” he says after a moment before he faces me. “All done. Let me see.”

I pull out my pocket mirror, turning it this way and that to catch a glimpse of the back. “Honestly? Better than what I usually do. Not bad, Mr. Neighbor.”

“Told you. Ponytails suit you. It makes your face look longer in a flattering way.”

He finally takes the apple from my hand. His fingers brushed against mine, barely, but I felt it. He takes a bite with his eyes locked with mine.

“It’s sweet,” he says, mouth full but still somehow adorable. He chews slowly, then smiles. “Just like you.”

For some reason, he looks like bread. I have no clue where that thought came from, but it sticks. Soft. Warm. Like fresh bread straight from the oven.

“You’re so corny.” I try to act unbothered, waving him off, but the heat rises to my cheeks anyway. I burst into laughter and had to bend down to clutch my stomach.

“Corny but correct,” he replies with that same lazy confidence, as if he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

I look away, pretending to look beyond the trees, but I can still feel his eyes on me. He has to know. There’s no way I’ve been this obvious and he hasn’t noticed. The way I always show up extra early every night. The way I memorize the little things he says. The way I pack apples and apple-themed stuff, for crying out loud.

The rest of the day flies by as we move from location to location: the gym, the hostel, the garden, the library, the computer lab, the art studio. Sometimes I sneak photos with my phone, wanting to catch the behind-the-scenes moments. Caleb always notices and plays along by exaggerating his poses, smirking without ever looking directly into my camera. During breaks, he comes over to explain little details I’ve been curious about: the paintings in the hall, the model airplanes, the significance of the old tree where his class once camped out after pranking their teacher.

It feels like I’m on a field trip. Or maybe... a date. It makes me feel seventeen again, before the pressure of graduation deadlines and college entrance exams started swallowing me whole. Back when days felt slower and lighter. I’ve never thought of myself as a nostalgic person, but I can’t help missing that peace I had before turning eighteen. My thoughts drift. What if Caleb and I had gone to the same school all along? Would we have gravitated toward each other sooner? Would this softness between us have started years ago? Does he even like me now? I'm not sure, but I can’t have that, can I? I want him.

And I ain't gotta tell him, I think he knows.

P.S.

Rozy told me to check their studio’s website, insisting I’d be very surprised. Not even five minutes later, Caleb texted me the same thing.

You can check the website now. I hope you love it.

At that point, the way both of them were acting? I was seconds away from tearing my laptop in half from sheer anxiety. My heart was pounding like I had just been exposed on national TV.

The page finally loaded… and there it was.

Ten photos on the homepage. And both Caleb and I were in every single one of them.

I froze.

Photos of us laughing, talking, walking together. One by the fountain where I almost fell in, and Caleb caught me, his arm wrapped tightly around my waist as my body tipped backward mid-stumble. The photo captured the exact moment he looked at me like the world had slowed down yet again.

Another showed me drowning in his oversized lab coat, sleeves hanging past my hands, while he doubled over laughing, saying—and I quote—“like a kitten drowning in milk.”

No wonder the day had felt suspiciously light and full of breaks. I thought it was just for good vibes. Turns out, it was all part of their plan.

I texted Caleb right away.

And he called me.

His voice has a slight urgency in it as if he couldn’t say his reason fast enough.

Well… they wanted to romanticize my life, right? That was the only way I could think of doing it. You’re cute in all the photos, so it was actually hard to pick.

There was a pause on the other end of the line.

Do you hate them? I can ask the photographers to go with Plan B. But… I really hope you’re okay with it.