midnightlvrs

[midnightlvrs]

i’m too selfish for char x char fics i have to be involved or i won’t read it

[midnightlvrs]

Murdering Flicker

poly!marauders x fem!reader

synopsis: when james gets a red panda plushie that looks suspiciously like your animagus form, flicker; your boyfriends start cuddling it like it’s the fifth member of the relationship, you realize there’s only one option left: eliminate the snaggle-toothed fraud before it steals your spot for good.

warnings: plushie violence, petty jealousy, red panda animagus antics, emotional breakdowns over stuffed toys, comedic sabotage, bickering in animal form, destruction of personal belongings, lferal behavior, mentions of hose-related trauma lols, very serious discussions about very unserious things, and a high concentration of barty and flicker causing trouble.

w/c: 5.1k

part of my mini blurb series flicker & the marauders masterlist

It wasn’t, perhaps, that you were a jealous person. After all, you were in a perfectly secure relationship with three men who adored you, and each other, with something close to religious devotion. 

You were, by most accounts, not jealous at all.

Of course, you did feel a tiny bit of something sharp when Sirius let a girl linger too long at his side, her laugh too high and her eyes too bold—but Remus always noticed, always intervened with a cutting remark or a pointed kiss that settled the unease before it ever reached your throat.

You occasionally winced at the way James drew the crowd’s affection like breath—how the stands roared his name with such longing—but then Sirius would leap onto the pitch and announce, in no uncertain terms, that James Potter was thoroughly, irrevocably taken. 

And when anyone dared to flirt with Remus, it wasn’t even your burden to bear. Sirius would bare his teeth in warning, and James would sling an arm around Remus’ shoulders with a grin too sharp to be polite.

No, jealousy had never had much room to bloom between the four of you. One of them always noticed. One of them always shielded you from the sting. It was a seamless, sacred choreography.

Until now.

Because never—not once—had you prepared for the possibility of losing your place not to a person, not to a crush or a fling or even a scandal, but to something far more insulting.

A plushie.

Worse than that: your plushie twin.

Three nights ago, James found it—a red panda plush, soft and round and uncomfortably similar to your Animagus form; Flicker. It even had your tail pattern. It had your ears. It had your bloody face.

Since then, chaos.

Sirius carries it around like a comfort object, tucked under his arm at meals. James insists on tucking it into bed beside him. Remus folds its tiny paws under a blanket like it needs to be warm. They speak to it and cuddle it. 

They have, collectively, decided that this thing is their new favorite companion.

And it’s ridiculous. Genuinely, mind-numbingly ridiculous. You are not jealous. That would be absurd.

Because who, in their right mind, gets jealous of a stuffed animal?

Apparently: you

You’re not jealous. Truly, you’re not. Except you’re now sitting upright in bed, legs curled beneath you, sleeves tugged over your hands, and watching James and Sirius dissolve into helpless laughter as they make Flicker 2 perform a dramatic swan dive off the edge of the mattress and into a pile of pillows.

“She’s not even that cute,” you mutter, quiet but sharp, gaze narrowed at the plush creature sprawled smugly in Sirius’ lap like some royal pet.

James doesn’t look up. “Don’t listen to her,” he says to the stuffed red panda, cupping its little head with such exaggerated tenderness you almost gag. 

“Whatever,” you deadpan.

Remus, from the armchair by the window, glances up from his book without lifting his head fully. “You know, they say jealousy is just misdirected affection,” he hums, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Your eyes snap to him. “I’m not jealous.”

Sirius snorts. “Sounds like something a jealous person would say.”

“It’s a toy,” you snap, sharper than you intend. “A lumpy, snaggle-toothed, oversized dust magnet.”

“It’s Flicker 2,” James says, utterly unfazed. 

You stop listening after James gives the plushie your exact mannerisms, right down to the tilt of the head and the tail twitch, and Sirius howls with delight.

You lie back against the pillows with a huff, crossing your arms. It’s not the plush. Not really. It’s what the plush isn’t. It’s not warm. It doesn’t laugh. It doesn’t ache or bleed or fight or love. It’s not you. But somehow, it’s earned their affection, their touches, their easy warmth.

And you’re watching from the side like some forgotten supporting character.

The pattern begins that night.

When the lights go out and the dorm settles into soft breathing and shifting limbs, you wait until James’ chest rises in the rhythm of deep sleep. Then you slip out of bed with the careful grace of someone far too used to moving in silence. 

Flicker 2 lies nestled between two pillows, its stitched smile undisturbed.

You grab it by the scruff and carry it like a traitor to the far corner of the room. You consider dismemberment. 

Instead, you shove it into the bottom drawer of Sirius’ wardrobe and bury it beneath a pile of leather jackets and a suspiciously spiked belt. It’s harmless, you think. You’re just making room.

By morning, Flicker 2 is back. On James’ pillow, propped up and smiling.

You blink once, twice, trying not to scream.

The next day, you find ink. You don’t spill it, not exactly—you just let the tip of your quill rest a little too long on Flicker 2’s left paw while James is in the shower. It leaves a perfect, blooming stain. You step back and admire it with something that could almost be satisfaction.

That night, Sirius notices.

“Oi, who vandalized Flicker?” James exclaimed, holding the plushie aloft like a wounded comrade. “Her little paw’s all bruised.”

 “Looks like ink,” Remus muttered, already drawing his wand with a quiet flick and a soft incantation.

The ink stains shimmered and faded under his spell, fibers knitting themselves back together. They fixed her as if she were flesh and blood instead of cotton and thread. 

You crossed your arms, annoyance simmering beneath your calm. Because no matter how gentle the magic, it was just making her come back again.

You try again.

One quiet evening, when they’re off at practice and Remus is still in the library, you seize the opportunity. You kneel beside her where she sits propped up on the armchair like she owns the bloody castle. 

You don’t hesitate this time. You grip her side, dig your nails into the seam, and rip.

You tear her open like a bag of crisps and pull out a fistful of her stupid fluffy insides. Just enough to hollow her out a bit, to make her sag, to make her look weak. 

She looks better like this, you think.

You leave her there on the chair, lopsided and leaking, and walk away satisfied.

But that same night, James shows up at the door like some proud first-aid responder, holding Flicker 2 in his arms, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“Fixed her up,” he says, beaming. “Poor thing was coming apart. Must’ve been a manufacturing flaw.”

Manufacturing flaw.

Your hands curl into fists at your sides.

You stare at her. Her stupid perfect little face. Her little paw freshly sewn. Her tail fluffed.

You have never hated anything more in your entire life.

By the end of the week, your strategies escalate to much more violent levels.

You soak her in the Prefect’s bathroom, submerging her entirely in the deepest part of the enchanted tub until her stitching curls and her stuffing clumps. You leave her floating like a bloated corpse and walk away.

She dries off and reappears on the sofa later that day with a pink towel wrapped around her waist. Sirius is beaming. “Remus gave her a little spa treatment. She's glowing.”

You bury her in the compost bin behind the greenhouses, shoving her deep beneath a layer of wet leaves and dragon dung, pressing her down with your bare hands until you can’t see that stupid red fur anymore. You walk away covered in dirt, victorious.

She’s back the next morning. Wearing a handmade leaf crown.

You slip her directly into Peeves’ path one evening after Charms, timing it perfectly as he comes zooming around the corner shrieking with a stolen suit of armor. You watch as she’s trampled underfoot, kicked against the wall, flung halfway down the corridor.

That night, she’s tucked beneath Remus’s arm, a tiny felt bandage stuck to her head. “Poor thing’s had a rough day,” he murmurs. 

You are losing your mind.

You try locking her in a broom cupboard. You try disguising her in Filch’s confiscated items drawer. You try pushing her off the Astronomy Tower at midnight.

She always comes back.

They always find her. Always clean her. Always treat her like she’s not the symbol of your unraveling sanity.

You had tried everything.

Quite literally, everything.

And yet.

She. Always. Came. Back.

Like some stupidly charmed, impossibly smug, emotionally-possessive demonic red panda. With her stitched-on smile and crooked little ears and soft fur that used to make you feel special. 

Which is exactly why you had one last solution.

Or rather, one person who could help you.

So that was why now, at midnight, after the Marauders had long since fallen asleep, you stood by the foot of their bed as Flicker.

The real Flicker.

Tail twitching. Ears pressed back. Body low to the ground, skidding in near silence across the dormitory floor, Flicker 2 gripped between your tiny paws.

This time, you weren’t just tossing her into the trash and hoping for the best. This time you were getting help. You were going to make sure she didn’t come back.

You slipped out through the common room portrait with ease. Being small had its benefits. And as you padded softly through the stone corridors, the plushie swinging from your mouth, your anger pulsed steady and hot under your fur.

Barty was already waiting by the dungeons, leaning against the wall in a rumpled hoodie, wand tucked behind his ear, looking half-bored and half-suspicious.

When he saw you approaching, he blinked, unimpressed.

“Okay,” he said, voice low and scratchy from sleep, “it is past midnight. I am in a freezing corridor. And you—” he pointed to you, dangling plushie and all “—are a red panda. Why have I been summoned to the Gryffindor dungeons by Flicker the Tiny?”

You dropped the plushie with a heavy thud and squeaked at him.

Barty raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you dare squeak at me like that! I don’t speak rodent. Shift back. Come on.”

You shifted, a slow ripple of magic peeling back your fur and curling you back into your own skin, kneeling barefoot in front of him, the plushie still on the floor between you.

“Please,” you whispered, voice cracking. “Don’t laugh.”

Barty’s face changed instantly. The teasing edge fell away, replaced with something sharp and alert.

“Hey,” he said, crouching down in front of you. “What’s wrong, trouble? What happened?”

You looked away, blinking hard. “It’s so stupid.”

“I don’t care,” he said softly. “You don’t look like this unless something’s actually wrong.”

You didn’t mean to cry, but the words came out thick.

“I think I’ve been replaced.”

His brows drew together. “By who?” His voice went dark in an instant. “Was it one of them?” Them referring to your boyfriends, who Barty for some reason refused to say their names.

You nodded. His expression shattered into fury immediately.

“Which one?” he bit out. “Was it James? Sirius? I swear to god, I will break into that dorm and drag them out by their—”

“It’s a plushie.”

Barty blinked.

You looked up at him, red-eyed and desperate. “They’ve replaced me with a bloody stuffed animal!”

There was a beat of silence.

Barty slowly looked down at the plushie lying on the floor.

The flicker of rage on his face stuttered, twisted into disbelief, then something bordering on hysterical confusion. “You—what?”

You picked it up and shook it lightly in front of him. “They call it Flicker 2. It’s got my fur pattern. It’s got my face. They tuck it into bed. They cuddle it. Remus tucks its paws under blankets, Barty. They talk to it. They forgot me.”

Barty’s mouth opened. No sound came out. He looked from you to the plush and back again.

Then, carefully, like he was speaking to someone dangerously unstable, he asked, “And you… you dragged me out of bed, at midnight, because you want to commit premeditated murder on a plushie.”

“It’s not murder if she’s not alive,” you said, deadly serious. 

Barty stared at you for another long moment. Then exhaled, dragging a hand over his face.

“I’m not being dragged into a midnight plushie assassination plot.”

“Please.”

“I’m not—”

“Barty,” you said, quietly, “I’m serious. I can’t do this alone. She always comes back. I need help.”

And maybe it was the way your voice cracked, just slightly. Maybe it was the tears still clinging stubbornly to your lashes. 

Or maybe, just maybe, it was the way you looked at him like he was the only person in the entire castle who could possibly understand this specific brand of madness.

Because Barty Crouch Jr., for all his scowls and sharp-tongued retorts, wasn’t half as cold as he liked people to think. Not with you. Not ever. You were his soft spot, the one person who could match his chaos, beat-for-beat. 

The one person who never questioned the logic behind your most absurd plans—because you shared the same kind of illogical, brilliant, wildly unhinged thinking. 

You were his best friend, his partner in crime, and the only person who had ever made being completely unhinged feel like some kind of rare, coveted language.

He let out a heavy sigh, dragging a hand down his face like he was already regretting the inevitable.

“Fine,” he muttered, standing as he pulled off his hoodie with a resigned sort of grace. 

“But let me make this clear—do not drag me into any more of your unhinged operations. The last time you did, we ended up waist-deep in a honey spill because you insisted on stealing not one, but two jars of honey.”

You straightened, scandalized. “Excuse me—that honey heist plan was brilliant. You ruined it when you got greedy and went back for more food!”

Barty scoffed. “You cannot possibly blame me for that mess. You got us caught by Regulus.”

You raised a brow. “Because you knocked over the entire shelves in the kitchens. On purpose, I might add.”

“I was trying to escape!” he snapped. 

“And for the record, being hosed down like a feral raccoon by Regulus Black is not something I’m willing to repeat. He had a hose, Y/N. A hose. He sprayed me like I was an actual pest instead of using the showers.”

You bit back a laugh, watching the genuine horror pass across his face at the memory.

“If we’re doing this,” he said firmly, voice dropping into the tone he used when he was planning something very illegal and very precise, “we do it right. No witnesses, no mess, and no getting caught.”

You smiled. Relief blooming like sunrise across your chest.

“Thank you,” you breathed, eyes shining as you reached out and squeezed his arm.

Barty rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched. 

Then he glanced down at the mangled plush between you both with the kind of disdain usually reserved for cursed objects.

“I swear,” he muttered, already beginning to shift, magic rippling over him like ink bleeding through parchment, “if this thing comes back crawling into your bed at dawn—I’m calling an exorcist.”

You laughed softly, the sound light and brief, just before your body gave way to fur. Magic rippled over your skin like a warm tide, your limbs shrinking, tail curling behind you in a familiar, instinctive flick. 

In your place stood Flicker.

Beside you, Barty crouched low, already transformed. The raccoon blinked at you with glinting eyes, whiskers twitching with mischief and something bordering on long-suffering patience.

The castle around you slumbered in full.

Stone walls exhaled their ancient silence, torches burned low in their iron sconces, casting dull pools of gold across the stone. Shadows stretched languidly through the corridors, and every creak of the wood or groan of the walls sounded reverent, like the building itself was holding its breath.

You padded behind Barty, your tail swishing with a kind of quiet fury, ears twitching with irritation.

Barty, ever the seasoned nocturnal menace, skidded ahead with casual agility, nose twitching as he paused near the edge of the corridor. 

He turned, chittered something incomprehensible and flicked his head in the direction of the object lying lifelessly on the cold stone behind you.

Flicker 2.

Barty made a sound that was half warning, half sigh, and gestured pointedly with his paw. The message was clear: Let’s get this over with.

You halted, ears pinned, and stared at Flicker 2 like she was some rotting corpse that had just twitched.

You let out a long, pained groan.

Barty chittered again, louder this time, and flailed his little claws dramatically.

You shuffled forward, sniffed her fur once, and recoiled instantly with a sound that could only be described as a dry-heave squeak. Her polyester fur still reeked of James' cologne. Her paw pads were slightly warm. Someone must’ve cuddled her recently.

You side-eyed Barty.

He stared back with the most unimpressed raccoon expression you’d ever seen. 

His little head tilted, then he let out a series of staccato chirps that could only mean, you’re so dramatic, before sauntering forward and scooping Flicker 2 up himself. 

He tucked her under one arm like a football and took off—tail flicking, claws tapping, the plushie bouncing lightly with every smug step.

You both crept through the castle, down the old servant corridors and out through the narrow door by the greenhouses. 

The wind hit instantly—brisk, lake-cooled air that swept over the lawn and rustled the trees in soft warning. Moonlight draped the grass in silver, and in the distance, the Black lake shimmered like a sealed promise.

Barty didn’t slow. He trotted ahead confidently, paws sinking slightly into damp soil, plushie still tucked against him like a thief carrying stolen treasure. 

You followed close, claws sinking in where his had just pressed down, until the pair of you reached the edge of the woods beside the lake.

There, a narrow, skeletal tree bent crooked over the bank. Its branches were long and bare—more scaffold than canopy—and it had that brittle, cursed look that suggested nothing had dared live in it for a hundred years.

Perfect.

Barty paused at the base, gave you a look over his shoulder, and raised the plushie like an offering.

He responded with a huff and began climbing, little raccoon limbs gripping bark like it was second nature. About halfway up, he hooked one branch with his foot, looped Flicker 2’s leg over it, and hung her like a Christmas ornament.

You squeaked in alarm and scrambled up the first branch, stopping a little below him.

You chittered nervously—this won’t work, I’ve tried this before, your sounds said. She always finds a way back. 

But Barty only waved a paw at you, calm and steady.

Then, without warning, he turned back to Flicker 2, tilted his head, and plucked one of her whiskers out with his claws.

You froze.

He yanked out another. Then two from the other side. Then he turned, gave you a glance and began on the eyes.

The first button eye popped off easily. It landed in the dirt below with a soft pat. The second followed, a little more stubborn, but Barty was determined. His claws twisted and dug until it came loose with a snap.

And there she was. Flicker 2. Dangling eyeless from a tree branch, whiskers bald, face misshapen.

It should’ve been satisfying.

But your paws curled around the bark with something like discomfort. The resemblance had always been comedic in motion—oversized ears, too-round eyes, stubby limbs—but like this, damaged and half-stripped, she looked uncannily like you. Like a version of you that had been chewed up, spat out, and left to hang in the wind.

You trembled slightly, ears flattening back, the cold biting now in a way that had nothing to do with the weather.

Barty simply grabbed Flicker 2 by one limp, ruined paw, gave the dangling, eyeless monstrosity one last critical look, and leapt from the tree like a little bandit on a mission. 

You scrambled after him, catching a branch with your claws and skidding down the trunk with a practiced twist, landing in the grass as he darted forward—plushie trailing behind him like a flag of war.

The grass grew wet beneath your paws as you followed him, weaving through the reeds at the water’s edge, leaves brushing your fur like whispers.

Barty didn’t hesitate. He stopped just at the shoreline, lifted Flicker 2 in both paws, and then, with a wind-up far too theatrical for someone his size, he launched Flicker 2 into the Black lake.

She flew through the air in a ragged, half-deflated arc, landing with a faint plop that rippled across the surface. For a moment, she floated—half-limp and waterlogged, her crooked ears sticking up.

Then she began to sink.

Her little stitched body growing heavier and heavier until she disappeared beneath the surface, dragged down into the cold, dark depths of the lake with not even a bubble left behind.

You and Barty stood side by side at the water’s edge, two small, ridiculous creatures watching a plush toy drown like it was the ending of a great epic.

Then Barty let out a victorious chirrup.

You squeaked back in triumph.

You both began circling in little chaotic loops, tails whipping, fur fluffed in gleeful delight. He leapt up and spun, you skidded in the wet grass, both of you yipping and tumbling like wild things. Victory had never tasted so sweet.

Flicker 2 was gone.

Truly, absolutely, unfixably gone.

Eventually, Barty flopped onto the grass, panting, his tongue slightly out as if he’d just run a marathon. You dropped beside him, still buzzing, tail twitching with the kind of joy you hadn’t felt in days. Weeks, even.

After a moment, he pushed himself up and nudged your side with his nose.

Time to go.

You both padded back toward the castle, slipping through the cracks of the world like ghosts. The halls were still quiet, still undisturbed, as if nothing had changed.

By the time you reached the base of Gryffindor Tower, your fur was slightly damp from dew and your chest was tight from the laughter still trapped inside it.

You shifted back first, breathless and beaming, clothes reappearing around your limbs as the last bit of fur faded. Barty was just a raccoon again at your feet, blinking up at you.

Without warning, you scooped him into your arms.

“Thank you,” you whispered, crushing him in the kind of hug that made your knuckles ache.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” you gasped, spinning around and throwing your arms around him, nearly knocking the wind out of his lungs. 

“Barty, I could kiss you. I can’t believe it—Flicker 2 is finally gone. Gone! For good this time!”

He squeaked in protest, claws flailing against your jumper, tail lashing like put me down this instant. But you didn’t let go.

Eventually, with a muffled huff and the dramatic flare only Barty could manage in raccoon form, he wriggled enough to shift back.

“Okay, ow,” he said, brushing grass off his arms, “I helped you commit plushie homicide, not carry your emotional baggage.”

You grinned so wide it nearly split your face and launched yourself at him again.

“Still,” you whispered into his shoulder, “you were the only one who noticed.”

He softened. Just for a second. Pat your back. “Yeah, well. Someone’s gotta keep you from spiraling.”

You stepped back, squeezing his hands before releasing them. The dorm tower loomed above you.

“I’m gonna sneak back in,” you said, hushed. “Before they notice I’m gone.”

“Tell them you went for a walk.”

You laughed. “They’re probably deep asleep.”

Barty smirked. “Go on. Get your cuddle quota. I’ll go make sure Regulus doesn’t roll himself off the bed again.”

You grinned and turned, feet light as air. “Tell him to keep warm.”

Barty raised a brow. “I’ll tell him you said to keep warm.”

You gave him a wink over your shoulder, then tiptoed into the castle, careful not to let your joy wake the portraits.

When you finally slipped back into the dormitory, everything was exactly as you left it. 

The boys were still asleep, Flicker 2’s usual place on the pillow now empty and unnoticed. James snored softly. Sirius twitched in his sleep. Remus had shifted onto his side, book fallen closed on the nightstand.

You crawled into bed, pulled the blankets to your chin, and let out a breath so deep it felt like your ribs relaxed for the first time all week.

Warmth bloomed in your chest, deep and slow and safe.

For the first time in days, you slept soundly.

Morning light spilled softly through the dormitory window, casting a gentle glow over the tangled sheets and the slow rise and fall of quiet breathing. 

You woke with the faint ache of exhaustion nestled deep in your muscles—last night’s adventure with Barty still whispered in your joints—but beneath the weariness there was a profound satisfaction, a lightness you hadn’t felt in days.

The room was warm and familiar. James lay curled beside you, his hair a tousled mess, a lazy smile flickering across his lips as he stirred awake. 

Sirius was still wrapped in the embrace of sleep, a soft snore slipping from him like a secret. Remus sat up near the window, already reaching for a comb and tie with quiet intention.

As the day unfolded, it felt wonderfully normal. The kind of ordinary filled with easy laughter and gentle touches.

Remus approached with a calm, careful attention that was almost meditative. His fingers brushed softly through your hair, untangling the knots with practiced ease, smoothing the way your curls fell around your face.

Then, with a tenderness that made your breath catch in your throat, he took your tie between his long, steady fingers and straightened it with a small, satisfied hum.

He leaned in, lips brushing just beneath your ear, and murmured, “There you go, dovey.”

The words settled into your skin like warmth, soft and grounding, and left your cheeks blooming with quiet color.

Later, you stepped out hand in hand with James, the warmth of his touch a balm to the lingering threads of last night’s tension. 

You walked toward breakfast with the easy rhythm of two people perfectly in sync, the world narrowing to the space between your fingers.

The morning hummed with gentle normalcy until Sirius sat up abruptly, blinking in confusion.

“Wait,” he said, glancing around the room. “Where’s Flicker 2?”

The question sliced through the lightness, and you felt an unexpected pang, a hollow thud in your chest.

You frowned and replied with an edge sharper than intended, “Why do you care about that stupid plush?”

James and Remus exchanged subtle looks, surprise flickering in their eyes.

Remus’s voice was soft but probing. “What’s wrong?”

You shrugged, voice low and almost mumbling, “I don’t understand why you care so much about that toy when I’m right here.”

Sirius tilted his head, eyes kind and earnest. “Well, it’s cute, for one. But mostly… it’s because we love you, Y/N. We can’t have you in your Animagus form all the time. We miss you when you shift.”

James nodded in agreement. “Yeah, it’s like having both you and Flicker with us at once.”

You blinked, the explanation stirring something complicated inside you.

“It’s just…you can cuddle me,” you whispered, voice trembling slightly. “If you miss Flicker I could always shift, no need to replace me with a plush.”

James’s eyes softened, and he reached out, pulling you gently into a hug.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured.

You pushed him away, cheeks flushed, grumbling, “I’m not jealous. And I would never be jealous of a toy.”

He smiled, undeterred, arms wrapping around you again, fingers tracing light patterns on your back. “I don’t care. I want to kiss you.”

You rolled your eyes, but a smile tugged at your lips as he clung to you playfully.

Remus stepped forward, voice calm and reassuring. “No one can ever beat the real Flicker. That’s a promise.”

Sirius grinned, nudging you gently. “Yeah, plushie’s got nothing on you.”

Later that day you nestled comfortably between Remus and Sirius, your body relaxed against Sirius’s warm lap as he cradled you gently, one hand tracing idle circles along your arm. 

Remus was stretched out beside you, his head resting softly on Sirius’s side, eyes half-closed but attentive, his presence steady and comforting.

You cradled a bag of honey biscuits, savoring their sweet stickiness while listening to James, who sat a few feet away, animatedly outlining his latest Quidditch strategies. 

His hands expertly tossed a Quaffle ball up and down as he spoke.

“If I perfect that curve shot,” James said, eyes sparkling with excitement, “no Keeper in the league will stand a chance. Sirius, you’re going to have to watch the Chasers more closely—they’re improving faster than we expected.”

Sirius grinned, brushing his fingers through your hair with tender familiarity. “You’re going to make the Seeker position your own. We’re counting on you.”

You leaned back further, resting your head against Sirius’s shoulder, feeling the warmth of his breath as he spoke low and soft. 

“And I get to watch my favorite red panda keep score.” His voice was a teasing whisper that made your cheeks warm.

Remus, still lying back, smiled gently. “It’s nice seeing you so relaxed, Y/N. You deserve moments like this.”

You glanced up at him, meeting his calm eyes. “I almost forgot how peaceful this can be.”

Suddenly, James’s casual toss of the Quaffle ball went a bit too high. It sailed up, spinning lazily, then tumbled toward the edge of the cliff overlooking the lake.

“James, be careful!” Remus’s voice was sharp with concern. “You’ll lose it over the edge.”

James bolted up, legs pumping as he dashed after the ball. “I’m not losing this one!” he called over his shoulder, breathless but determined.

You watched James sprint, your attention briefly pulled away from the warmth of Sirius’s lips as he leaned down to brush a gentle kiss across your temple. 

You sighed softly, melting into the quiet affection, the taste of honey biscuits still lingering on your lips.

Remus’s voice cut through the peacefulness as he chatted quietly beside you. “Did you finish that essay for Charms yet? I could help if you want.”

You smiled. “I think I’m good, but maybe you could explain that last theory? You make it sound so simple.”

Sirius chuckled softly. “Meanwhile, James is busy saving Quaffles and breaking records.”

You laughed quietly, feeling utterly content — until James came back, panting heavily, clutching the Quaffle ball.

But it wasn’t just the ball that caught your eye.

Dangling from his other hand was a mangled, bedraggled plush — fur drenched in water, whiskers missing and eyes torn out.

“Is that Flicker 2?”

Oh for fucks sake.

[midnightlvrs]

i need him so bad its concerning at this point

[midnightlvrs]

david cornswet clark kent moodboard →

[midnightlvrs]

can we tell i liked superman ♡

[midnightlvrs]

Hi! I read all your work, sorry for the spam. 😭💗

I wanted to know if you could create a story about Animagus User and James Potter! Reader is a little ferret who, whenever she's stressed, transforms and crawls under James's shirt in search of peace.

I love ferrets! They are so cute!

https://pin.it/1TisN2Neh

The Ferret and the Chaser

james potter x reader ✰ 2.1k

synopsis: in which you, a mischievous animagus, turn into a ferret to sneak into james’s quidditch match, and he flies harder with every glimpse of you tucked safely in remus’s arms.

cw: animagus transformation, light suggestive content, mild language, mischief and rule-breaking, emotionally soft james who is too in love <3

masterlist

James Potter had always been reckless, but there were degrees to his madness.

Flying directly into the path of a rogue Bludger was routine.

Starting a snowball fight with Professor McGonagall in the middle of a lecture was audacious, perhaps even borderline suicidal.

But hiding his girlfriend, currently in ferret form, beneath his Quidditch jersey during team practice?

That bordered on lunacy.

Then again, so did his feelings for you.

You had slipped into the locker room nearly an hour before practice began, tail flicking in quiet anticipation, tiny paws making no sound against the worn wooden floor.

James sat hunched on the bench, methodically lacing his boots with the kind of singular focus one might expect from a man preparing for war—or worse, a match against Slytherin. His tongue rested between his teeth, curls in disarray, completely unaware.

Though not for long.

You scurried behind a pile of battered equipment trunks near the corner. It was far from discreet, but you had never needed stealth with James. He had always noticed you.

It was as if his senses were attuned to the particular rhythm of your mischief, his attention drawn instinctively toward you no matter how carefully you tried to hide.

He entered the room with Sirius at his side, both still flushed from warm-up laps, boots echoing across the floor.

Sirius was mid-sentence, speaking animatedly about a new broom model and a wager he had made with Marlene. James was not listening.

His eyes found you instantly.

You should have moved. You had every intention of doing so.

But then he smiled, bright and unguarded, as if he had just unwrapped a long-lost treasure, and you found yourself frozen beneath the weight of it.

“Oh my god,” he breathed, interrupting Sirius completely. “My sweetheart!”

Sirius blinked. “Your what—?”

But James was already crossing the room in three long strides, crouching in front of your hiding spot like you were some delicate, miraculous creature instead of a smug little menace who’d crept in to spy on him.

His hands hovered just a second before scooping you up with the same reverence he gave to a snitch.

“You came to watch practice?” he whispered, grinning as he held you close.

You squeaked in response—a sound that probably wasn’t meant to be flirtatious, but definitely made him beam harder.

“You’re ridiculous,” Sirius muttered behind him. “You do realize that’s still Y/N, right?”

“Yes,” James said without looking away, “and she’s perfect.”

You wriggled in his hands, burrowing under the collar of his jersey like it was your right, and James helped you along, careful not to jostle you too much as he tucked you safely against his chest.

Sirius stared for a beat. “You’re actually going to play with her in there?”

James gave him a look. “Would you tell her no?”

It was almost unfair, the way he loved you in every form you took. Whether you stood before him with soft, shy eyes or curled against his chest as a shivering ferret, teeth chattering from the cold, his affection never wavered.

Human or creature, chaos or calm, James was helpless to resist you.

James sat back on the bench, Quidditch gear half-done, fingers absently stroking along your soft fur as you nestled against the center of his chest.

You’d wriggled your nose into the fabric of his undershirt and were now entirely content, eyes half-lidded, body warm from being pressed against his skin.

“You’re not helping, y’know,” he murmured, voice low, like it was just for you.

“You make me want to skip the match, go steal some biscuits, and nap somewhere with you in my jumper.”

You squeaked. Possibly in agreement.

He smiled, all flushed cheeks and soft brown eyes, curls a mess from pre-game warmups. “Not fair,” he said again, nose brushing yours lightly.

“You’re too cute. It’s unbearable.”

From across the room, the rest of the team was gearing up, shouting, boots clanging.

The captains were calling the final huddle, and Sirius was tossing James’s gloves at him.

“Oi, lover boy,” he said, smirking. “The pitch is waiting. Unless you’d rather snog the ferret?”

James looked up like he’d genuinely considered it. “Don’t tempt me.”

You nipped lightly at his collarbone, as if to tell him go already.

“Alright, alright, I’m going,” he muttered, standing reluctantly. You clung to his shirt as he moved, and he caught you with both hands, cooing under his breath.

“Okay, Plan B. You can’t be running around the pitch like this—too distracting. I’d drop the Quaffle every time you squeaked.”

As he spoke, he crossed to the open lockers, rummaging until he found one of his older spare jerseys—slightly faded but still proud, still bold, still stamped with POTTER in giant letters across the back. He held it up like it was a gift.

“Alright, sweetheart. Hideout time.”

You chittered once, reluctantly letting him lower you into the bunched-up jersey, which he then folded carefully, your tiny head peeking out before vanishing beneath the fabric.

He adjusted you until he was satisfied you wouldn’t fall or wriggle free.

Then, with all the ceremony of a man handing off crown jewels, he jogged to the stands and up toward the front row, where Remus was watching with his usual calm, book in hand even during pre-match chaos.

James pressed the jersey gently into Remus’s hands, eyes softening the moment they landed on you nestled inside the folds.

Remus’s fingers closed carefully around the small, cinnamon-brown head poking out, his voice quiet and full of warmth. “There she is!”

You twitched your nose, blinking up at him, already seeking the comforting heat radiating from his palms.

Without hesitation, you curled closer, tiny paws resting lightly against his skin.

James watched, his grin nearly splitting his face, utterly captivated. “You see that?” he said breathlessly, voice thick with pride.

“That’s my girl.”

Remus smiled down at you, protective and gentle, cradling you as though you were the most precious thing in the world.

You, nestled against the worn wool, were already drawn to the comforting heat radiating from Remus’s lap.

James watched the scene with a grin that made his whole face glow.

His gaze lingered on you—his beloved—in ferret form, and then on Remus, who cradled you with an unexpected tenderness that made James’s heart swell.

With a final scratch behind your tiny ears—an act so tender it seemed almost ritualistic—he reluctantly prepared to leave.

His gaze lingered on you, one last time, curled softly within the folds of his jersey, your bright eyes blinking up at him with quiet innocence that belied the fire beneath.

Mounting his broom with practiced ease, he cast a glance over his shoulder.

“Take good care of her, Moony,” he said, voice rich with affection and just a hint of mischief. “She’s a handful when she’s grumpy.”

The squeak you offered in reply was sweet, almost pleading, and James gave in without hesitation, scratching behind your ears once more as if you had trained him long ago to obey your every whim.

The match itself was relentless—a whirlwind of speed and skill, a cacophony of cheers and shouts.

Gryffindor versus Slytherin was always a clash of titans, and today was no exception.

James soared across the pitch with the confidence of a man who belonged to the sky. His hair whipped wildly in the wind, the crimson and gold of his jersey trailing behind him like a banner of defiance.

His voice rang out as he barked orders and laughed with the reckless joy of youth, the weight of the game resting heavily on his shoulders, yet never breaking his spirit.

But beneath every dive and turn, beneath every chase of the Quaffle, James was propelled by something far more personal than victory or glory.

Every time his eyes flickered to the stands, they found Remus sitting quietly, composed as ever, clutching that unmistakably lumpy red-and-gold jersey in his lap.

The sight stoked a fiercer fire within him, urging him to push harder, fly faster, and guard with fiercer determination.

When the final whistle blew and Gryffindor emerged victorious, James was already moving.

He abandoned the post-game celebration, the customary handshakes, and congratulatory smiles.

Instead, he tossed his broom to a startled teammate and dashed up the stadium steps like a man possessed.

Remus scarcely looked up before James came to an abrupt halt in front of him.

His hair was damp with sweat, cheeks flushed with exertion, and his eyes blazed with an intensity that made it clear the match had been won for reasons far beyond sport.

“Where is she?”

Remus raised an eyebrow, peeled the jersey open, and revealed the smallest, happiest-looking ferret in all of Scotland.

“She hasn’t moved,” he said dryly. “Wouldn’t stop squeaking every time someone scored.”

James let out a delighted laugh and scooped you up like you were something sacred, pressing his nose to your fur.

“I won,” he whispered against your cheek. “Told you I would.”

You nuzzled against his jaw and made a tiny, smug sound that made his whole body go soft.

He carried you through the quiet castle corridors, the jersey draped carelessly over one shoulder, your small form cradled to his chest like a treasured secret too precious to expose.

The halls were nearly deserted now; most students still lingered in the stands or were spilling into the Great Hall to celebrate the match’s end.

But James’s world had shrunk to the space between his arms and the gentle rise and fall of your breath against his heart. Nothing else mattered.

With a swift kick, he swung open the door to his dorm, closed it firmly behind him, and strode toward his bed in long, purposeful steps.

You stirred in his grasp, paws stretching delicately, fur gleaming faintly in the lamplight.

Before he could even settle you down, you shifted—fluid and effortless—back into your human form. Warm, alive, radiant in his arms.

He blinked, momentarily stunned by the sudden change, and then laughter bubbled from you—soft, breathless, utterly joyous—as you cupped his flushed face between your hands.

“You won,” you whispered, eyes sparkling with triumph and something infinitely tender.

“I did,” he replied, voice thick with disbelief and adoration.

You smiled up at him, teasing. “All for me, then?”

James’s grin widened. “Don’t be daft. You’re the reason I don’t fly like a maniac and end up in the infirmary.”

You laughed softly, brushing a stray curl from his forehead. “Good to know I’m your grounding charm.”

He squeezed you gently. “Grounding and distracting, all at once.”

“Mostly distracting,” you countered, voice playful.

He leaned down, voice dropping to a murmur. “Maybe, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Then you kissed him.

It was all sunlight and rushing wind, adrenaline and quiet victory entwined.

Your fingers curled in the collar of his jersey as his hands tightened around your waist, anchoring you to himself, as if you might vanish like a dream.

You kissed him like you had lived every moment of that match, every dive and turn, wrapped in the singular certainty of your love.

And he kissed you like you were the prize he had fought for all along.

When you finally pulled back, your foreheads rested together, and his smile—warm and certain—made you feel as though you were the only girl in the universe.

“You’re my good luck charm,” he murmured.

You raised a brow playfully. “Even as a ferret?”

James chuckled, his eyes gleaming with earnest affection. “Especially as a ferret.”

You laughed, leaning into his chest as he flopped back onto the bed, still holding you close like he had no plans of ever letting go.

And maybe he didn’t. James Potter was reckless, yes, but he was constant, too. Stubbornly, foolishly constant.

And for now, wrapped in his arms, your nose tucked into the warm crook of his neck, you wouldn’t have it any other way.

[midnightlvrs]

Drown Me Gently

pairing | new!avenger!bucky x siren!reader

word count | 6.6k words

summary | a half-siren joins the new avengers, hiding centuries of shame beneath skin that was never yours to begin with. but when bucky barnes sees past the danger to the devastating loneliness underneath, the monster you fear you are finally begins to unravel.

tags | THUNDERBOLTS* SPOILERS, (kind of ig) unprotected sex, comfort sex, emotional intimacy, hurt/comfort, emotional angst, identity crisis, soft!bucky, dark past, trust issues, body horror (light), self-hatred, non-accurate siren mythology, mutual pining, reader backstory, deep emotional healing, sensual tension, dark past, post-trauma connection

a/n | chat, I've literally had this fic in my drafts for almost a month. I lowkey don't know if I like this or not, anyway tell me what you think about it, because I'm second guessing. also based on this request

taglist | if you wanna be added to my bucky barnes masterlist just add your username to my taglist

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

You barely had a chance to take a seat before the interrogation began.

“Do you have gills?” Yelena asked, leaning forward like she was inspecting a specimen. “Or do they only show up when you're wet?”

You blinked. “Um—”

“Wait, hold on.” Ava cut in, arms crossed. “Do you eat people? Like, in a sexy way? Or like… teeth and blood?”

“Neither?”

Bob’s eyes lit up. “But hypothetically, if you were shipwrecked, would you rather lure sailors to their deaths or just vibe on a rock singing Adele?”

“I don’t—”

“Also,” Alexei boomed, squinting at you. “How do you have babies with tail? Is it like seahorses? Or salmon?”

“Why would it be like salmon?” Ava muttered.

“Maybe she lays eggs,” Bob said thoughtfully. “Do you lay eggs?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. This had to be a test. Some kind of extremely unorthodox hazing ritual.

“I’m sorry,” you finally managed. “Are these actual questions or did you all just watch The Little Mermaid before I got here?”

Walker, inexplicably sipping a protein shake at 8am, nodded solemnly. “So... do you explode if you drink salt water?”

You stared. “I'm from the ocean.”

“And what about chlorinated water,” he asked, completely serious.

Yelena snorted.

Before the next round of nonsense could begin, a voice cut through the chaos.

“Alright, that’s enough.”

You turned. Bucky stood in the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable. His eyes settled on you for a beat too long.

“Give her a second to breathe before you start asking about mating rituals.”

“Thank you,” you breathed.

He moved past the others, walking toward you with measured steps. You hadn’t realized how tense your shoulders were until he got close enough that the rest of the room seemed to dim around him.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, but couldn’t help the tiny smile tugging at your lips. “Do you ask all the new recruits about their reproductive methods, or just me?”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Only the ones who are rumored to eat people.”

────────────────────────

A Few Days Later

You sat on the edge of the couch like a guest who wasn’t sure if they were invited or accidentally wandered in. Your posture was perfect, hands folded neatly in your lap, gaze fixed somewhere safe—like the TV that no one had turned on.

Yelena flopped down beside you with the grace of a feral cat. “You don’t talk much,” she observed bluntly. “Which is fine. Some of us overshare to make up for our emotional repression.”

“That’s just you,” Ava said from the kitchen, balancing a tray of chips and something that might’ve been experimental dip.

“Correct.”

Alexei hovered behind you, inexplicably trying to angle a photo of his dog toward your face. “This is Misha. He was trained to kill before he was housebroken. You would get along.”

“I’m… sure he’s lovely,” you replied politely, offering a tight smile.

Bob sat cross-legged on the floor like a camp counselor. “Okay, but seriously. Do you want anything to eat? We’ve got empanadas. And tofu stuff. And I think someone tried to make brownies.”

You shook your head. “Thank you. I’m not hungry.”

“No fish?” Walker smirked. “Or is it just... men on the menu?”

The room went dead quiet for half a second. Ava groaned.

“Really?” Yelena muttered.

“I’m a vegetarian,” you said quietly.

Walker blinked. “Wait, really?”

“Yes.”

“That’s even more terrifying,” Bob said thoughtfully. “You choose not to eat meat. Yet you still eat men. For sport, right?”

“I do not eat men.”

“Sure,” Ava said with a shrug. “But if you did, it’d be poetic justice. Like, ‘Oops, your ship tried to colonize my homeland, now you're lunch.’”

You gave a tight-lipped smile again, but the joke didn’t quite sit right. They didn’t notice the way your gaze dropped or how your fingers fidgeted slightly at the hem of your sleeve.

Except Bucky.

He leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, eyes on you in that quiet, unreadable way of his. Watching. Not judging. Just… observing. Carefully.

“You always like this?” Ava asked, circling to sit nearby. “Polite. Mysterious. Quiet. Like a goth librarian who also knows how to drown people with her mind?”

You hesitated. “I try not to make people uncomfortable.”

“You don’t,” Yelena said, popping a chip into her mouth. “We’re uncomfortable by default. It’s a trauma response.”

“You’re basically the least weird person in this room,” Bob added. “Which is suspicious in itself.”

That earned a small laugh from you—surprising even yourself. Heads turned, and you flushed faintly under the sudden attention.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” you said.

It wasn’t much. But it was something. A sliver of trust cracked open just enough for light to slip through.

And across the room, Bucky eyes softened.

It had started with snacks and sarcasm. Someone had turned on a movie. Bob was quoting every line with annoying precision. Ava kept tossing popcorn into Walker’s protein shake. For a while, you had almost forgotten to be cautious.

Almost.

“Okay but seriously,” Yelena said, elbowing you gently, “you’ve got to let us see it sometime. The thing. With your voice.”

You hesitated. “It’s not something I do for fun.”

“But it’s, like... mind control, right?” Walker asked, overly casual. “Like Jedi mind tricks, but with falsetto?”

You glanced around. Ava watching with narrowed eyes, trying to read you. Bob leaned forward, too curious. Yelena still too close. Even Alexei had stopped mid-story. And Bucky—still across the room, still silent.

“It’s not mind control,” you said slowly. “It’s... influence.”

The air shifted.

“My voice can influence people. Not just emotion. Thought. Action.”

The joking stopped.

“And I can sense... intention. Urgency. Fear. Hunger. The things people hide.”

Then softly you added. “It’s not always... voluntary.”

There was something fragile in your voice then. Not a confession, but a warning.

Your gaze dropped to your hands, fingers curling in your lap. You could already feel it. The subtle recoil in their posture. Not loud, but enough. Enough for your pulse to tick faster, warning you.

“Damn,” John muttered. “So you just walk into a room and feel everyone’s business?”

“I try not to,” you replied, softly.

That landed harder than you meant it to.

The silence that followed was heavier than any you'd felt all day. Thick with the kind of unease you’d learned to recognize long before you joined this team. Not fear. Not rejection. Just... awareness. The realization that your power wasn’t theoretical anymore. It was here. With them. Listening.

You felt the wall go up in them before they even realized they were building it.

So you did what you always did. What you were best at.

You retreated.

Your shoulders folded in. Your body went still. Not dramatically. Not enough to cause a scene. Just... quieter. Smaller. Like someone sinking slowly beneath the surface of the sea.

No one said anything.

But from across the room, Bucky watched you carefully—jaw set, brow furrowed—not at you, but at the room. At the shift. At how fast they’d gone from teasing to tiptoeing.

And you?

You didn’t need to read anyone’s mind to feel how far away you suddenly were.

────────────────────────

Later That Night

The wind was soft out here. Almost warm, brushing past your bare arms with the gentleness of something that wasn’t trying to take anything from you. You sat curled on a narrow bench, knees pulled to your chest, chin resting lightly on them.

You hadn’t meant to be found. That was kind of the point.

So when the door behind you slid open, your heart sank just a little. Until you heard his footsteps. Quiet. Measured. Familiar now.

Bucky didn’t say anything at first. Just moved beside you slowly and sat down, leaving a respectful distance between you.

“I figured you might be out here,” he said, voice low. Like he didn’t want to scare you off.

You didn’t look at him. “Why?”

“You didn’t say anything.”

The corners of your mouth turned up, barely. “Didn’t know I was supposed to.”

“You’re not. Just... noticed.”

For a while, you both sat in silence, the kind that wasn’t awkward. Just... open. A space you didn’t have to fill.

“I didn’t mean to make them uncomfortable,” you said finally. Voice soft. Still watching the stars.

“You didn’t,” he said automatically.

You turned your head, just a little. “You felt it.”

He paused. “I felt them realizing they don’t understand you yet. That’s different.”

You shook your head slowly. “It’s okay. I’m used to it.”

His eyes flicked to you. You didn’t see the way they narrowed.

“I know what I am,” you continued. “People don’t have to say it. I can feel it. The moment it shifts. That little breath of fear when they realize I can reach inside their heads without asking. It’s not wrong. I am what they think I am.”

You looked at him then, just briefly. Enough for him to see the resignation. The calm acceptance that only comes from long practice.

“A monster,” you said quietly.

His jaw clenched, barely. You saw it, even if he tried to hide it.

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.”

“It’s not.” He turned toward you fully now. “You think you’re the only person on this team who’s scared of what they’ve done? What they’re capable of?”

You didn’t answer.

“You think any of us have clean hands?” His voice stayed even, but there was a tightness to it now. Not anger. Something closer to frustration. Or pained. “Ava’s killed for hire. Yelena was trained to be a weapon since she could walk. Walker…” He paused. “You saw the headlines.”

He let the silence hang for a beat.

“I spent seventy years hurting people with no choice. With no soul. If anyone here knows what it means to be used, to be feared—it’s me.”

You blinked. “That’s different.”

“Why?”

“Because you're human.”

He stared at you. Then, quietly, “And you're not?”

You didn’t respond.

The wind picked up. You turned your head back toward the night.

For a long moment, neither of you said anything.

Then, softly, “You scare them a little. Yeah. But not because you’re a monster.”

You glanced at him.

“They just don’t know you yet. And people fear what they don’t understand. But that doesn’t mean they won’t try.”

You looked down at your hands, where your fingers were laced tight together. Like you were holding something in.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“I know,” he said.

And you believed him.

Not because his words were kind, but because they were quiet. Steady. Because they didn’t ask anything of you.

Because he didn’t look away.

And for the first time since you joined this mess of a team, you didn’t feel like a weapon waiting to be triggered.

You just felt... seen.

────────────────────────

Abandoned Shipping Yard

It was supposed to be a clean extraction. In and out. Minimal resistance. Ava had scoped the perimeter, Yelena laid out the breach pattern, Walker was already ten paces ahead being Walker, and Bucky had given you a nod just before the comms went live.

You were ready. Or you thought you were.

The cold air clung to your skin as you moved through the corridor of rusted containers. You kept to the shadows, as always, listening more than speaking, watching more than acting. A quiet presence, there when needed—never more.

The first wave of hostiles came fast—mercs, jittery and underpaid. Nothing the team couldn’t handle. You barely had to use your voice.

But something changed.

Second floor. A new group. More organized. You didn’t see them until they’d already flanked Alexei. You reacted before you thought—instinct firing faster than strategy.

They raised weapons.

And you hummed.

Not loud. Not full. Just enough to stop them.

A sound low in your throat, rich with warning and pressure and pull. It rolled over the air like a tide, a siren note pitched directly into their nerves.

They froze.

Then they turned.

Not toward Alexei.

Toward each other.

Guns half-raised. Hands twitching.

Confusion swelled, slow and dangerous. One man dropped his rifle. Another started crying. A third turned to face you like he couldn’t remember why he was holding a weapon at all.

Then Walker’s voice shouted through comms: “What the hell was that?!”

A sharp click—a trigger cocked.

Bucky got there first.

He shoved the last merc down before he could swing his weapon back around, snapping a zip tie around his wrists with clinical precision.

“Clear!” Yelena called from above.

“Room’s secure,” Ava confirmed, quieter, voice tinged with something more cautious.

You stood in the center of the room, throat tight, breath short. The air still trembled faintly with the residue of your voice.

Everyone was looking at you.

No one said anything.

Until Walker.

“Was that you?” he asked, not angry—just stunned. Like he’d seen lightning strike too close. “What even—what was that?”

“I didn’t mean to—” you started, but your voice wavered.

“That wasn’t just noise. That was... influence, right? You turned them on each other?”

“No.” You swallowed. “I didn’t mean to. It just happened. They were going to shoot Alexei, I—”

“But it wasn’t controlled,” Walker said sharply. Not cruel, just assessing. Calculating risk. “What if they’d turned on us?”

That stung. More than it should have.

“I wouldn’t,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean to—”

“She said it was involuntary,” Bucky cut in, stepping forward. His voice didn’t rise, but it carried weight. “She stopped them. That’s what matters.”

“She also almost made a guy kill himself,” Walker muttered.

“She saved Alexei,” Bucky said firmly, turning toward the others. “We’ve all lost control before. Don’t pretend we haven’t.”

You stood silent, heart pounding, the aftermath of your own power still vibrating under your skin. The others started moving again—resetting, clearing the area, checking gear. But they gave you space now.

Too much space.

You barely heard the rest of the debrief. Your voice was gone, locked behind clenched teeth. Guilt wrapped around your chest like a vice.

You walked ahead in silence.

No one stopped you.

────────────────────────

You hadn’t even taken off your boots. You sat on the floor, back against the wall, arms wrapped tightly around your knees like they might keep you from slipping any further into yourself.

The door creaked open softly.

You didn’t look up.

But you knew the sound of his steps.

“Thought I’d find you here,” Bucky said gently.

You didn’t respond.

He came closer but didn’t sit. Just leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed loosely. Watching. Waiting.

“I lost control,” you said after a long moment. “They’re right to be wary.”

“They’re wrong,” he said simply.

“You didn’t see their faces.”

“I saw yours.”

You glanced up, surprised.

“You looked like you were trying to tear yourself in half,” he said. “Because you cared more about hurting them than saving yourself.”

You looked away again.

“They don’t understand what it feels like,” you said quietly. “To have something inside you that people fear. That you can’t always lock down. That might one day hurt someone—even if you don’t want it to.”

His expression shifted. Pain, recognition, something deeper.

“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

You looked at him then. Really looked.

The softness in his face, the tension in his shoulders—he knew. He knew.

And still, he was here.

Not afraid. Not flinching. Just... here.

You exhaled shakily.

“I think I made a mistake joining this team.”

“No,” he said. “You didn’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ve been watching you,” he admitted. “And not because I’m waiting for you to snap. I watch because I see you trying. Every damn day. Even when they don’t notice.”

Your throat tightened.

“You don’t scare me,” he added. “None of this does. You do more to hold yourself back than most of us ever have to.”

Silence.

Then, softly: “You belong here. Even if it takes them time to see it.”

────────────────────────

The Next Night

Bucky wasn’t looking for you.

That’s what he told himself.

He told himself he was going for a walk. That his muscles ached. That the silence in his room was too sharp around the edges tonight.

But when he passed the door to the training pool and saw it slightly ajar, lights off, humid air curling into the hallway like a whisper—he knew.

Of course it was you.

He stepped inside quietly, the heavy door hissing shut behind him. The sound echoed across the still water.

“Hey,” he called out softly, scanning the dark. “You left the lights off.”

He moved toward the control panel instinctively, fingers brushing the switch.

“Don’t,” came your voice.

Not a shout. Not even stern. Just quiet. Low.

Carried like a ripple across the water, echoing from somewhere deep in the pool.

He froze.

“…You okay?” he asked, softer now.

A pause.

Then, “Yes.”

But there was something in the way you said it—like you were holding your breath inside the word.

The pool was a long, Olympic cut of black glass. He could barely make out your shape beneath the surface—a flicker of motion in the far end, a slow shift of shadow.

“You’re in the water.”

“Yes.”

The silence stretched again, heavy but not uncomfortable. He stepped forward, letting the heat of the pool air wrap around him.

“I thought maybe you’d gone,” he admitted. “After yesterday.”

There was a sound, something like a soft splash. A flick of fin, maybe. Movement, not retreat.

“No,” you said. “I just needed to be… this. For a while.”

He squinted toward you, his eyes adjusting to the dark. It took a moment, but then he saw it—just barely. The curve of your back breaking the surface. The subtle gleam of something slick and scaled beneath the low ambient light.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t stare. Just stayed still.

You exhaled slowly, the sound barely above the waterline. “I’m not hiding.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“I just don't want to be seen like this. Not… yet.”

He nodded, even though you probably couldn’t see it. “Alright. Then I won’t look.”

And to his credit, he didn’t.

He turned away slightly, gave you space, let you move without watching. But he still stayed. Because you hadn’t told him to go.

Because, maybe, you wanted someone to stay.

“I’m not human the way you are,” you said after a while. “Not just physically. Sometimes I feel like I’m wearing skin that doesn’t belong to me.”

He breathed in slow. “I know that feeling.”

“Do you?” you asked, not unkindly. Just tired.

Bucky shifted his weight. “I’ve worn a lot of masks. But yeah. There are days where I look in the mirror and don’t see someone who belongs anywhere.”

The water rippled quietly.

“Then you understand why I needed to be in the dark tonight.”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

A pause.

“You ever wish you could just… stay like that?” he asked gently. “Who you are in here. Not the version you have to show everyone else?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Then, “Sometimes I think the version they see is the monster. And this—the water, the dark, the scales—that this is the real me.”

“And is she the monster?”

“No.”

Then you added, softer, “She’s worse.“

The words sank like stones.

You waited for him to back away. To excuse himself. To do what most people did when they saw behind the illusion.

But he didn’t.

“You’re not a monster,” he said, steady as stone. “Not in any form.”

You let out a breath—half bitter, half broken. “You should be afraid of me.”

“I’m not.”

“You should be.” A sharp breath. “Especially you. After what you’ve been through. After what it’s like to have your mind twisted, your will taken—I could do that to you. Without even trying.”

Silence.

You expected him to leave. You preferred him to leave.

Then a soft rustle.

You heard it before you saw it—fabric sliding off. The quiet thud of boots meeting concrete. A belt unhooking. Then another sound: the shift of weight, the hiss of disturbed water.

Your head turned sharply in the dark. “What are you doing?”

Bucky’s voice came low and calm. “Showing you I’m not afraid.”

His bare feet met the water first, then his legs. He stepped slowly into the pool, each movement careful, deliberate—like he was approaching a wounded animal. Like he knew you might vanish if he moved too fast.

You froze.

The lights stayed off.

The water rippled gently around him, catching faint echoes of motion from where you were submerged.

“You can’t even see me,” you said.

“I don’t need to.”

Your voice trembled. “You don’t know what I look like like this.”

“I know what I feel,” he said. “I know it’s you.”

He moved further in, the water reaching his ribs, his breath slow, steady.

You stared across the dark, at the shape of him—a silhouette against nothing. Vulnerable. Unarmed. Open.

You whispered, “Why?”

He paused, standing still in the middle of the water.

“Because you’ve spent your whole life trying not to scare people,” he said. “Trying to keep yourself small, quiet, contained. And no one’s ever just... let you be.”

You blinked.

Something deep inside you shifted.

“I’ve been used too,” he said softly. “Controlled. Hurt. Turned into something I didn’t recognize. And I’m still here. Still fighting to believe I’m not what they made me.”

The ripples between you both softened. Fewer waves. Less space.

You whispered, “You’re not.”

“Neither are you.”

For the first time in a long time, you felt like you could breathe.

Not in the way you did above water—but in the way that didn’t hurt.

“You shouldn’t trust me this much,” you said, a final warning. One last barrier.

“Maybe,” he said quietly. “But I do”

The water between you held its breath.

You didn’t move at first—didn’t trust the trembling in your limbs or the sharp edge of your pulse. But Bucky stood still, waist-deep, facing the other side of the pool, like he wasn’t waiting for danger—just for you.

So you moved.

Slowly. Silently. The water embraced your form the way it always had—your real shape, the one you kept hidden beneath flesh and clothes and fear. You glided like breath, like tide, like instinct. Your tail made no sound. Your scales caught no light. You were the shadow beneath the surface, and he didn’t flinch.

Not even when you came close.

Close enough to touch.

You hovered at his back, watching the curve of his spine rise and fall with every breath. Water clung to his skin, catching faint glints of motion—your motion—as you lifted a hand above the surface.

And touched him.

His shoulders tensed at first, just barely, but he didn’t pull away.

Your fingers were cool against his skin—webbed, slick, foreign. The pads of them brushed along the ridge of his shoulder blade, then down the line of his arm.

Still, he didn’t turn.

So you did it again.

This time, both hands—light and deliberate—placed just above his hips, fingertips resting at the base of his spine, gently urging.

He let out a slow breath.

And turned.

The water shifted as he faced you.

He still couldn’t see all of you—darkness and depth obscured your form—but he could feel you there. Close. Solid. Real.

His hands came to your waist, cautious, reverent. His thumbs brushed faint ridges along your sides—faint scales you hadn’t hidden, soft flesh beneath them. He could feel the texture of you, alien and familiar all at once.

You let him look.

Not completely. Not yet.

But enough.

You tilted your head up, and he bent just slightly toward you. His face a breath away, eyes searching yours in the dark.

“I see you,” he whispered.

And he did.

Not a siren. Not a monster. Not an aberration.

Just you.

The water lapped quietly around you, the two of you suspended in the dark.

Bucky was so close now. Close enough for the heat of his body to ghost across your skin despite the coolness of the water. Close enough that the contrast between you—his warmth, your chill—felt like static between touching wires.

He looked at you then, fully. His eyes locked on yours, no hesitation. Just slow awe.

You saw the flicker of realization behind his gaze.

Your eyes—icy and deep, nearly luminescent in the dark—weren’t human anymore. The pupils too sharp, the color too unnatural. You didn’t try to hide it.

And still, he whispered, breath brushing your mouth,

“I’m not afraid of you.”

Your lips parted, not to speak, but just to feel that warmth.

Then he leaned in—deliberate, drawn, inevitable—and kissed you.

The first touch was slow, hesitant only in reverence, like he was afraid of breaking something sacred. His lips were warm—so warm—pressing softly against yours, testing.

You didn’t hesitate.

You kissed him back, and the pull was instant. A current dragging you both under.

His hands rose, one settling against the back of your neck, the other at your waist, anchoring you to him. You opened your mouth against his—slowly—and his tongue slipped inside with a soft groan that vibrated low in his throat. You tasted him: salt, metal, heat, something earthy and real.

He tasted you: cool and mineral, like sea-salt and secrets, ancient and raw.

His tongue tangled with yours in deliberate strokes, slow and deep. It wasn’t frantic. It was exploration, mouth against mouth, breath mingling, like he was learning you piece by piece.

Then he felt them.

The faint edge of your fangs—barely exposed as your body stirred with instinct and desire.

He didn’t pull away.

He kissed you harder.

And you let him.

Your webbed fingers curled into his hair, claws grazing his scalp just enough to make him shiver. His hand slipped lower, across the slick curve of your back, dragging you flush against him in the water. Your tail brushed his legs—he felt the ripple of it, powerful and sinuous—and instead of flinching, he leaned into it.

He deepened the kiss with a quiet groan, tilting your head just enough to taste more of you, to chase the sharp edge of your teeth and the soft gasp you gave him when he sucked on your bottom lip.

He wanted more. You wanted.

But the kiss said it all: this wasn’t hunger.

It was surrender.

And when he pulled back—only slightly, his forehead resting against yours, both of you panting, breath fogging between mouths—his voice dropped again, rough and reverent.

“You’re not a monster.”

You trembled in his arms, not from cold.

And for the first time, you let someone hold you without fear of what they’d find in the dark.

The kisses evolved—mouths moving in rhythm, breathless and hungry, like they’d been holding back for far too long. The water around you rippled with every shift of your bodies, your bare skin slick against his, every nerve alive.

Bucky’s hands slid lower, smoothing over the firm plane of your back where slick, textured scales had shimmered moments ago. But now—he felt it.

They were fading.

His lips broke from yours just enough to murmur, breath hitched, “You’re changing…”

Your forehead pressed to his as your hands threaded through his wet hair. “I can’t stop it,” you whispered. “When I feel—”

He kissed you again, cutting the words off with a gentleness that said you don’t have to explain.

The transformation was slow, intimate.

You felt it first in your hands—your fingers unwebbing, reshaping. Human again. Your claws softened, becoming skin. You ran them down his chest, gasping softly at the warmth, the roughness of him against the new smoothness of you.

Bucky’s hands wrapped around your waist as you shifted again, the powerful muscles of your tail twitching, tensing—then separating.

Legs.

Human.

Bare.

You wrapped them around his hips instinctively, pulling him closer, water lapping between your bodies, heat blooming between where his skin met yours.

His breath caught, hard, sharp.

You were soft and solid and real in his arms, human now but still you—something wild and full of want beneath the surface. He kissed down your jaw, tasting salt and skin and a thrill he hadn’t felt in years.

His voice, low and rough, ghosted along your throat: “You don’t have to be afraid.”

You shivered in his hold, lips brushing his ear as you whispered back, “I’m not.”

And for once, you weren’t.

Not of what he’d think. Not of what you were. Not even of what you wanted.

Just the sound of your shared breath, the gentle churn of the water, the beat of two hearts finally in rhythm.

Your legs wrapped tighter around his waist as he held you against him, his hands roaming—slow, reverent, learning every curve and shape as if memorizing what it meant to have you.

Not to claim.

But to be allowed.

The warmth of him bled into you, his mouth trailing over the column of your throat, lips parting around your skin as he kissed lower—slowly, like he wanted to taste every shiver.

Your fingers dug into his shoulders as his mouth returned to yours—hungrier this time. Tongues sliding together with unspoken urgency. He groaned into you, low and rough, when you rolled your hips into him beneath the water.

The sound you made—half gasp, half moan—hit him like a shot to the spine.

His hands cupped the back of your thighs, holding you up, keeping you close, guiding your body so you fit around him perfectly. The heat between you sharpened, pressed tight through soaked fabric and wet skin, every movement stoking something deeper.

There was nothing frantic.

Only build.

Only the slow, sacred pull of yes.

The kiss deepened until there was no air between you. His chest pressed to yours, heat meeting the coolness of your skin, fingers curling along your ribs, tracing the path where scales had once been.

You tilted your head back as he kissed his way down—jaw, neck, collarbone—tongue flicking against the hollow of your throat. Each touch lit up something low in your belly, and when you whispered his name, he froze just long enough to look at you.

Eyes dark, lips parted, hands still reverent.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice hoarse, wet strands of hair clinging to his brow.

You nodded, breathless. “Yes.”

Bucky’s mouth returned to yours with hunger barely tempered now, his kiss pulling sounds from your throat you didn’t know you could make—not songs, not power. Just want.

He guided you back through the water, hands steady at your waist, until your spine met the edge of the pool wall. The tile was cool against your back; he was warm and solid against your front.

His fingers brushed along the curve of your ribs, then up—slowly—tracing the faint shimmer where scales had retreated. He explored each new inch of you with careful reverence, like he was learning you with his hands, like every discovery mattered.

Your breath hitched as he slid one palm beneath the water, low across your hip, then between your thighs—fingers ghosting over the softest part of you with a touch so achingly gentle you shivered.

He swallowed the moan that left your mouth as his other hand found your jaw, tilting your face up so he could kiss you again—deeper now, tongue claiming, teeth grazing your lip.

You gasped, fingers curling around the back of his neck as your legs tightened around his hips, urging him closer.

He groaned, low and wrecked, as he pressed his body into yours fully—his arousal hard against you, his mouth dragging kisses down your throat as you arched into him.

“God, you feel like…” he murmured, unfinished, overwhelmed, pressing his forehead against yours.

Your hand found his chest, feeling the steady, pounding rhythm beneath the scars. “I feel like what?”

He looked at you like you were unreal. “Like something I’ve never deserved. But I’m not letting go.”

He reached down again, guiding himself into you with aching care.

When he pressed into you—slow, stretching, deep—your mouth parted in a soundless gasp, nails sinking into his back as your body opened for him.

The sensation was molten. Your body slick and ready, still half-wrapped in water, and every movement felt amplified—rippled and weightless, like being made and unmade in slow motion.

He held still inside you for a beat—his breath stalling, eyes locked on yours.

“You okay?” he whispered, thumb brushing your cheek.

You nodded, voice caught in your throat. “Don’t stop.”

So he moved.

Rhythmic. Deep. Rolling his hips into you with intense precision, like he wanted every thrust to be a memory etched into your bones.

You clung to him as you rocked together, lips never far, gasps exchanged like prayer. The water splashed gently around you with every movement, hiding and revealing, sheltering and exposing.

And when you came apart in his arms—body shaking, breath hitching, fingers tangled in his hair—he followed seconds after, groaning into your skin as he buried himself in you one last time.

Afterward, he didn’t let go.

He just held you, still wrapped in warmth and water, as if grounding himself in the shape of you—your real form, your chosen form.

And you stayed there, arms around him, mind quiet for the first time in days.

────────────────────────

You lay together outside the pool, still dripping, the tiled floor beneath you warmed by residual heat from the water and each other.

Bucky’s body was solid and relaxed beneath yours, your head resting on his chest, your arm draped across his ribs. His breathing was slow now, steady, one hand lazily tracing your back—his fingers brushing the faint outlines of where your scales had shimmered.

He didn’t speak for a while. Just let his fingers explore you softly, as if mapping something sacred.

Then, voice low, “So… the other you. The form in the water. Is that the real you?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Your breath pushed gently against his skin, your eyes half-lidded with calm.

Then softly, “Both are the real me.”

He didn’t move, but you felt the weight of his silence.

You lifted your head slightly, just enough to brush your lips against his—light, unhurried, a kiss not driven by need but by quiet affection.

A moment passed before you added, “I’m half-human. Half-siren.”

His eyes opened, and he tilted his head to meet your gaze, brows furrowed—curious, but not skeptical.

You sighed, a faint smile ghosting your lips. “Tale as old as time. Sailor meets siren. Siren gets curious. Doesn’t immediately murder him.”

That made him huff a quiet breath against your temple.

“Sometimes… they mate. Rarely. Just to understand. Or because something stirs in them they don’t expect. The sailors rarely survive the interaction. Then they return to the sea.”

His fingers paused at your spine.

You shifted your weight slightly, eyes locked on his, and said quieter still:

“This time, the siren left with a baby.”

His breath caught, just barely.

You looked down.

“And that baby got left behind on land. Half-breed. Too human for the ocean, too strange for the shore.”

He said nothing.

But his hand moved again—this time higher, threading through your hair, cupping the back of your head gently as if trying to hold that pain, that truth, without crowding it.

You exhaled slowly, resting your forehead against his collarbone.

“A monster on land. An abomination in the sea.”

The words hung between you like steam, curling and vanishing before they hit the air.

Bucky didn’t try to correct you. Didn’t rush to wrap those words in comfort. He just moved—his hand smoothing up your back, across your hair, anchoring you to his chest. Holding you like it was the only thing he knew how to do.

His hand never left you.

Now, it moved with a new purpose—his touch slower, more intentional, tracing the skin between your shoulder blades.

You stiffened slightly.

He’d found them.

The scars.

Faint, old, but still jagged—slashing diagonally across your back in places that seemed more symbolic than accidental. He ran a thumb along the longest one, slow and careful.

“They match,” he murmured.

Your brow furrowed. “What?”

“Your claws,” he said. “From before. In the pool. The shape of them.” He traced another line. “These look like what they’d leave.”

You were quiet for a long moment.

Then you whispered, “They did.”

“You mean—?”

“The sirens,” you said softly.

He froze. “Jesus.”

You pushed your face gently against his shoulder, hiding from the look you couldn’t bear to see on his face—pity, horror, heartbreak, you didn’t know which would be worse.

“I didn’t belong here,” you murmured. “On land. Never really fit. So I thought—maybe the ocean would feel like home. Maybe they would understand.”

His hand stilled on your back.

You swallowed. “They didn’t.”

You pulled in a shaking breath, voice tight but steady. “They said I was soft. Weak. That I smelled too human. Felt too much. That I’d taint their species if I stayed.”

A beat.

“They tried to tear the human out of me.”

Bucky closed his eyes. His jaw tensed beneath your hand where it rested on his chest.

You whispered, almost bitterly now, “All the myths are true. They are monsters. They don’t love. They don’t feel. They don’t keep anything they can’t control.”

Silence.

Bucky’s fingers paused again, still tracing the old scars like they were something sacred. “You survived them,” he said quietly. “That says more about you than them.”

Your breath hitched, then came slow and shallow.

“I didn’t just survive them,” you murmured. “I tried to be like them.”

He stilled.

“I thought if I let go of everything human in me, they’d let me stay. If I stopped feeling… stopped flinching when they hunted. When they—”

You stopped, your throat tightening.

Bucky’s eyes were open now, watching you with more than concern. With something like dread.

“I tried,” you said, barely above a whisper. “To become what they were. To be unfeeling. A real monster.”

Your fingers curled slightly against his chest. “I even did it. Their way. Took ships off course with my voice. Lured them close. And I fed.”

His hand faltered.

“I ate humans,” you said, the words fractured, sharp. “So they’d accept me.”

Silence.

The worst kind.

Bucky didn’t move. He didn’t breathe, but you felt his body tense underneath you—hurt, not at you, but for you.

You turned your face further into his shoulder, shame crawling up your spine like ice.

“But it never worked,” you whispered. “I was still too soft. I felt everything. Even when I tried to bury it.”

His arms wrapped tighter around you—gently, but with purpose.

“I couldn’t keep it down,” you continued. “The guilt. The screaming. The way they laughed at me for choking on blood.”

Your voice cracked. “Meat makes me sick now. Just the smell of it.”

He breathed then, long and broken.

You could feel his heartbeat under your cheek. Steady. Solid. And somehow still here.

The silence between you became thick. Not with judgment, but with something worse—your own shame.

You whispered, barely audible, “I became something I hate. I wanted so badly to stop being an outcast, I turned myself into a real monster. And they still didn’t want me.”

You closed your eyes. “They didn’t need to kill me. I did that myself.”

Bucky exhaled slowly, his hand sliding up from your back to cup the back of your head again. He didn’t say it’s okay. He didn’t say you’re forgiven. He didn’t try to rewrite your past.

He just held you.

Because there are wounds too deep for words.

Because you had already condemned yourself, and he knew the last thing you needed was someone else trying to absolve what you hadn’t even survived emotionally.

Still, his voice reached you, low and rough and real,

“I hope someday you'll understand that you were never the monster in that story.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t believe it. But you didn’t pull away, either.

And for now—that meant something.

our girlie:

Bucky Barnes Taglist:

@Ruexj283 @muchwita @fayeatheart @Leathynn @thealloveru2 @person-005 @princeescalus @lilac13 @solana-jpeg @jeongiegram @winchestert101 @s-sh-ne @n3ptoonz @avgdestitute @xamapolax @Finnickodairslut @honeyhera29 @macbaetwo @rafespeach @bythecloset @ashpeace888 @buckmybarnes @c-grace56 @ozwriterchick @slutforsr @novaslov @xamapolax @theoraekenslover @user911224 @Tafuller @luminousvenomvagrant @sgtjbbhasmyheart @yvespecially @snake-in-a-flower-crown @mencantaleer @shellsbae00 @theewiselionessss @Madlyinlovewithmattmurdockk @avivarougestan @xoxoloverb @superlegend216 @lori19 @sired4urmama @writing-for-marvel @thriving-n-jiving @ogoc-19 @fckmebarnes @excusememrbarnes @its-in-the-woods @barnesonly

those who couldn't be tagged are in bold :(

[midnightlvrs]

henry cavill you are OVER

[midnightlvrs]

superman taught me i’m not loving and kind to others in my full potential

[midnightlvrs]

having sooo many dirty thots about my fav nerd atm

i just know his southern drawl would peek out at times n catch you soo off guard bc he never usually lets it slip but damn is it sexy

[midnightlvrs]

David Corenswet as Clark Kent in Superman

[midnightlvrs]

okay I can’t.

THE ARMS!!!! THE HAIR!!!! THE FACE CARD!!!! THE WHITE T SHIRT!!!! 😩😩😩

[midnightlvrs]

night's so blue

clark kent x fem reader / 4.5k

it's rare for two reporters to be assigned to the same movie. how convenient that you already have a good relationship with clark. or, this is too good to be true. it isn't a set-up, right?

— co-workers to loves, stupid cute movie night, hint of everyone knows

— title from somethin stupid by the sinatras. clark kent u are so dear to me...

Your side grows cold when Clark shuffles forward to the counter. 

“Ready?” he asks, smile sweet and kind of sheepish as he clutches a large bucket of popcorn to his chest. Your face warms at the sight of his broad hand covering half of the bucket’s tacky design. 

“Yeah,” you say, returning the favor with a grin of your own. Something in Clark’s face shifts, goes soft. “I’m great.” 

Moving in unison, steps synchronized, you and Clark make your way down the hall of the theater. The carpet masks the sound of your footsteps, but it does nothing to quell the sudden leap of your heartbeat. 

Clark clicks his tongue absently, speaking slowly to avoid a stutter. “‘Descender’ is actually the movie I wanted to see the most this year.” 

“Really?” 

“Yes. So, I think it’ll be a hundred times better seeing it today with you.” 

—

Here is the thing: you and Clark Kent are co-workers. It’s as simple as that, a three-syllable word that describes your entire relationship in the most perfectly inaccurate way. 

Autumn is beginning to chase the tail-end of summer in Metropolis, which means that all the interns are gone, and now work needs to be picked back up by the actual staff, most of which have been slacking. 

(To clear any allegation: no, you are not a slacker, but a hardworking journalist for the Daily Planet who is a shining example of diligence. Your eyes are always glued to your monitor, unless... Well, unless a certain tall man stumbles into the office, spewing excuses for his tardiness or sudden disappearance. What—is people-watching not a valid hobby anymore? 

If anything, point fingers at Steve Lombard.) 

It just so happens that you and Clark were the only two without assignments at the time.  

Naturally, the Chief (don’t tell him you said that) lumped you together on this movie review article. Truth be told, you were already saying yes before he even mentioned that all expenses would be paid for by the Planet. 

So yeah, you might be a little desperate, and you definitely have an unnoticeable, tiny crush on your co-worker. 

Who knows what the Chief would say about that, but everyone else at the Planet can agree that if there was one guy who could exceed a woman’s standards, it would be Clark Kent, and he’d do it with flying colors. 

Exhibit A: when he stopped by your apartment thirty minutes ago, sweet in a way that felt too good to be true. Too good to be just co-workers for any other person, but Clark Kent isn’t any other person, and it’s just in his nature to do so. 

“Hi.” Clark’s voice is breathy, pitched just above his typical baritone, like he just ran up five flights of stairs or got flown in via Superman Airlines. He almost calls you Miss, good manners kicking in before you remind him with an eyebrow raise. 

You take him in, the rumpled sweater he fills in nicely and dark brown slacks that hug his thighs and all. His hair is messy, windswept; there’s only a slim ring of blue in his eyes, obscured behind his thick glasses. 

Secretly, you wish he would show up to work like this every day. Hell, if Steve can clock in with that stupid polo and khaki combo, then Clark can wear something other than the outstandingly polite grey suit. 

Not that you hate it, but...it just hides so much of him. You wind your fingers a little tighter around the strap of your bag, just now realizing how big he truly is—a revelation that hadn’t come until you opened that door. 

He holds out a small bouquet of tulips. They’re a little ruffled like he is. Clark says something about running into a florist on the way, how he thought about you. 

And then he smiles with hope filling the pockets of his dimples. 

Swallow. Your pathetic heart starts doing somersaults. His cheeks blush with the same pink that blooms in the tulips. 

“Are you—” you take the flowers, lay them on the table in your foyer, and think better about teasing him for showing up like he’s about to take you out on a date “—uh, that’s so sweet of you.” 

He shrugs, speaking a little fast, “It’s nothing. I just thought you should have something nice.” 

“Still...” you trail off, looping a finger into the ring holding your keys together. 

“Oh, I could carry your bag for you while you do that.” 

“Clark, you're going to give me cavities for being spoiled like that.” 

Still, you’re so endeared by how earnest he is as you lock the door and make your way down the hall. 

Clark walks one step behind you and holds the elevator even though it’s just opened. He’s so polite; offering to hold your things, standing a respectable distance away with his hands clasped together. 

You don’t realize that you’re staring, lost in your daydreams, until you blink and woah—his eyes are inches away, wide pupils ringed with the sea. Your throat gutters into the grey area between desert dry and choking on spit. 

“Sorry if I scared you.” His apology is soft, gentle, like the touch he’s pressing to your cheek. “You had something on your face.” 

He pulls away to show you his thumb. There’s eyeshadow powder smudged over the strange, not-quite-typical swirls of his fingerprint. 

Clark says, “It’s a nice color. Suits you.” 

And then you think you might have blacked out, because you only remember walking past the doorman and the metro ride in little fragments. Must have been the way your brain started shorting like livewire when Clark’s warm knuckles brushed against the back of your hand. 

Then there’s Exhibit B, five minutes before the previews started (Clark hates to be late, you learn, and he loves the trailers so he can add more movies to his watchlist). 

You’re standing in the line for popcorn, the warm smell of an oven and butter soaking the air. The carpet is stained, stiff beneath your soles in the way only old movie theaters can be. You wouldn’t have it any other way, though. 

Clark is next to you, still slouched as ever, except he has a slightly different energy about him tonight. It’s hard to place your finger on it, but if you had to pick a word, it would be ‘unguarded.’ 

Making small talk while you wait, you ask him about his previous assignments. All of which you have read—he’s brilliantly well-written that you’re kind of jealous—but you needed something to talk about before you exploded into a million pieces on the floor. At least you’d die to the sound of Clark’s voice. 

“The last time I wrote for Entertainment, I reviewed an Italian restaurant on Olive and Jefferson,” he says, nodding to himself. Eyes trained just past your temple, Clark lets a small, shy smile dawn on his face. “It’s the best I’ve had in the city.” 

That’s debatable, because you’re pretty sure the nice restaurant on Fifth and Main is better. Clark argues, though it’s weak, that the taste could be an atmosphere thing. 

You shake your head. “No, really—their linguine is to die for. Like, it would make Batman smile.” 

He laughs softly. “Well, there’s always next time.” 

Flip-flop in your heart again—next time. 

The moviegoers before you peel away to the pick-up counter. Clark looks at you, you look at him. Your hand starts creeping toward your bag. 

It’s a mad rush to the cashier. His card is wrestled out of his pocket; you’ve got your phone ready to tap. 

“One bucket of popcorn, please,” you blurt, tapping your foot as you eye the way Clark’s credit card is held in his right hand, poised to strike. Firmly, you decide that you will fight before you let your chivalrous, hot co-worker pay and further cement himself in your heart. 

The ring-up is slow, almost excruciating. In slow motion, you watch as one of the workers scoops white-golden blooms into the bucket and crosses the floor. Each footstep takes a lifetime. 

Just as the cashier finishes typing your order, Clark has his card sliding into the reader—lightning-quick, blink and gone. Transaction complete. You’re stunned as he quickly signs off with his index finger. Your phone barely had the fighting chance to even move an inch. 

You scowl, lightly nudging his arm. Usually, something like that would set his clumsy curse off, but he doesn’t even budge. Weird. “Clark, you do know that all this is paid for, right?” 

He hums. “I don’t mind filling out the reimbursement forms.” 

You don’t really know what to say to that. “That’s…weirdly cute of you.” 

With a shrug, the left corner of his mouth lifts. The action makes a muscle in his cheek scrunch up, and suddenly all that fills your mind is the image of his dimples. Deep-set, and pretty, too. 

“I…don’t know what you mean.” 

And then he moves to grab the bucket off the counter. 

—

You aren’t a stranger to being in proximity to Clark. 

Your desks share a short cubicle wall. Lois drags you to dinner night with Jimmy and Clark, and for some reason, she loves to sit next to the former and join him in giving you weird, expectant looks across the table. Mr. White always puts you on the same byline, like now—you already share a desk, he had grunted, staring down a front-page draft, so you should be a good team already. 

On a less professional note, he’s always been the guy you can rely on. He operates like clockwork. Every day—in the office by nine; late after lunch break; taking a few days every month to see his parents; clocking out with you. 

He told you, once, that his mom would love you. It hadn’t meant much then, other than three days straight of dreaming about seeing his hometown and waking up tangled in your sheets, frazzled. 

But now, things are kind of different. 

This isn’t like awkwardly bumping elbows at the table in that midscale restaurant Lois frequents when she’s short on cash and needs a place to think and talk out a new lede to her friends. It’s not standing up and crashing into each other because Clark always forgets to go the other way, and this isn’t routine either. 

This...feels like a date. A looming in the back of your mind, handholding across the armrest, fireworks in your stomach date.  

The theater is still bright when you enter, hardly populated by spectators. There’s a teenaged couple of girls sitting in the far-right corner, one of them having her legs thrown over the other. 

You don’t know how that works. Looks uncomfortable, crammed into a little boxy space. 

They giggle over something on their phones, and the girl with her legs on the bottom of the stack puts her hand on her partner’s knee, rubbing her thumb in a circle as they grin at each other. 

Is there some sort of love virus in the air or something? Because that would be a great explanation as to why you want so much more than you usually do with Clark. Want to hold his hand. Want him to put his hand on your knee and— 

Clark taps your shoulder, breaking your miles-long stare. 

“Are…you okay?” 

“Yeah,” you stumble, fingers coming up to touch your neck. Self-conscious, you give him a crooked grin. “I’m excited too.” 

“Oh,” he says. You decidedly hate him and his stupid big build and stupid soft sweater and stupid little ‘oh’ that makes your stupid heart start tap-dancing. “That’s great to hear.” 

Awesome. Like all times, Clark is oblivious to the world—that being the rat-tat of your stomach doing a sharp kick. 

It’s a true blessing that he doesn’t have the power of super-hearing. Who knows what you’ll do if he did…embarrass yourself, probably. You want to crawl into a hole and die. 

“Which row?” you ask, already beginning to scale the steps. 

“J12 and 13,” he responds, trailing behind.  

You didn’t know it was possible for a person to have a five-foot radius of body heat, but you suppose that it’s one of the quirks he always seems to be surprising you with. It also isn’t helping when a flicker of warmth lights in your stomach at the sight of his slacks straining against his thighs. 

Another unwarranted thought about Clark Kent. You really need to get a grip on yourself. 

Row J. Sliding between the seats, you search for number 12 and 13. 

You clear your throat to soften the sudden dryness that’s come to it. “So, tell me about the movie.” 

Clark shuffles in like he’s walking on stilts, nearly falling into the wrong seat twice before righting himself. You’re surprised he hasn’t spilled a single piece of popcorn. 

“It’s—think of Star Wars, but with a robot kid who’s—well, his entire existence is looked down on,” he manages, bucket clutched flush to his chest. He stalls for a second, eyebrows tilting the slightest bit inward. “And everyone wants to kill him, but he’s just a kid who feels too much.” 

A little stunned, you hold Clark in your stare. “Wow. That kind of sounds like Superman.” 

You think to slap yourself for saying that. Fuck, that’s stupid. 

He laughs then, a half-scoff with the corners of his mouth turned up. Left side higher than the right, you note—as usual. “Yeah. Just like Superman.” 

You don’t go deeper into the nuances of Superman’s existence, despite having an expert in getting interviews with the hero standing right next to you. Instead, you sit down in a silence broken only by sparse fits of giggles from the girl couple in the back and the occasional boom from an adjacent theater. 

People filter in slowly as the previews start. You train your eyes on your hands like Clark as the trailers play, not sure what to do with the conversation being left at that, and the bucketful of still-hot popcorn between you doesn’t help. 

He coughs first. You look up, and he’s already standing, washed with the colors of a movie screen. “I just realized. We don’t have napkins.” 

“Oh,” you say, stupidly. A flash of pink—Clark's tongue comes darting out to wet his lips, and it’s gone just as quickly. He fiddles with the cuff of his sweater, antsy, thumb and index rubbing the soft material. “You’re right.” 

“I’ll be back in a minute,” he tells you. 

“And I promise I won’t finish the popcorn.” 

A small, awkward smile. You feel the nails of endearment drive deeper into your heart. 

Then he slinks back out of the row, knocking into the back of a seat as per usual, nearly stumbling down the stairs. 

You hide a grin behind the back of your hand. He’s so cute runs circles in the back of your head, and then you catch yourself. 

Co-workers, remember that. 

—

He tells the truth, so you keep your promise. The popcorn remains untouched. 

Retrieving napkins only takes a minute (and a half), which is enough time for your phone to buzz with a notification that Superman has just beat the shit out of an asteroid and still had the time to rescue a classic cat-in-a-tree. He also flew over Meteor Stadium and signed baseballs for three kids. 

Naturally, the staff group chat blows up. 

You’re halfway through a quiet, incredulous laugh at Jimmy’s message—just saying, Bruce Wayne kind of looks like Superman—and Lois’ response—hell no, he’s from Jersey—when he returns. Clark looks a little more puzzled than he was a minute ago, hair messier and glasses sitting crooked on his nose. 

Clutched in his hand are five or six napkins as he sits back down. His slacks—those damn slacks—hug his skin like a secret he’s only showing you now. You want to bite something. You might have something that comes first to mind too, and if anyone suggests that it’s Clark, you’re going to silence them. 

Back to the real world…now would be nice. 

In the time it took you to give him a once-over and stare, Clark has taken to lightly bouncing his knee and rubbing the cuff of his sweater. You think to hold his hand, just so he doesn’t ruin the knit. 

“Do I have something on my face?” he asks, words hesitant. His right hand reaches up to touch his jaw, feather-light. 

“No,” you say, too quickly. “I zoned out thinking about Jimmy’s text.” 

Clark frowns. “Jimmy?” 

Turning your phone to him, you scroll through the huge wall of heated debate between the photographer and Lois. His face is lit by the screen, a square of light that makes his eyes shine ever brighter. 

Somersault in your stomach. Ba-dump. Heart crashing into your ribs. 

He lets out the same quiet, incredulous laugh you did, lashes fluttering. “Bruce Wayne can’t be Superman.” 

“I know, right? He’s just…I can’t see it.” 

Shaking his head, Clark smiles and shifts to relax in his chair. “Yeah. Can’t see it.” 

The theater is fuller now. You can’t even see the couple from earlier, already lost to a sea of people sitting down. Premiere night effect, you suppose. 

What’s surprising is that the seats next to you and Clark are empty, on both sides. No one is sitting behind you either, or in front. It’s just a little bubble for the two of you here. 

The chatter rises a little louder, then stops as the lights dim, and the PSA about distractions begins. 

You think it’s kind of funny. To have your phone on silent and tucked into your pocket and still have something to watch. 

Clark is mesmerized by the opening credits. The camera pans out to a sun peeking out from behind the curve of a globe, a tiny flash of white-yellow before the music swells. Then, cut to a shot of clouds parting to reveal a sprawling city of pure tech, and his mouth stays open for a whole minute at the opening credit sequence. 

You watch the first five minutes through the reflection in his wide gaze, a rush of adrenaline flickering in your chest at every dart of his eyes as they chase details across the screen. Clark doesn’t reach for popcorn until the pace starts picking up.  

“I think we’re getting close to my favorite scene.” Clark’s voice, deep and quiet, is closer than you expected it to be. You turn your head to him, and even in the dark of the theater you can see his eyelashes fluttering inches away from your ear. 

“Yeah?” you whisper, an uncontrollable grin rising on your face. You reach for him and gently nudge his chin with your knuckles, turning it back to the screen. He complies, easy. 

Sometime between a corny one-liner and a roar of laughter in the audience, you bump hands with Clark’s at the bottom of the popcorn bucket. He chuckles a little louder then, and you tear your eyes off the screen to look at him. 

He’s sneaking a glance at you from the corner of his vision, face uncrinkling with the tail end of his laugh. Your heart flares, ribs scorched. You feel a little struck, warm under the collar. 

Fingers smearing at the corner of your mouth, “Something on my face?” 

“Nothing,” he mutters, eyes strikingly blue and—you just noticed—somewhat alien. “This movie’s just surpassing my expectations.” 

—

The sky is settling into a deep blue by the time you step out into the night. 

(Clark spent an extra five minutes taking pictures of every poster he found interesting, muttering to himself as he noted them down for future reference.) 

It’s unexpectedly chilly at this time. Though you’re wearing a sweater, you can’t help but rub lightly at your upper arms. Without a word, Clark shuffles a little closer, body heat radiating off him like a furnace. 

Bubbles are still fizzling in your stomach at the memory of the accidental touches you shared with him. You bite your cheek, a grin already urging at your face. 

“You were right,” you tell him, shoe soles scuffing on the pavement. “His story really reminded me of Superman.” 

He exhales through his nose—a pleased sound. You train your eyes away from his face, of course. How else would you get home safe without exploding on the street? 

Cars rush past the sidewalk, sending slipstreams of wind that cut through the knit of your sweater. Fighting a shiver again, you pick up the pace to the nearest crossing light—about ten paces down, blinking with that red hand in the distance. 

Clark says your name then. Quiet and gentle, like he always is, but now there’s the slightest inkling of something more solid lying beneath it in a weirdly familiar way. This is of utmost importance, says a voice in your head. 

“Yeah?” 

A car horn blares right past you, but the sound is lost to a watery filter that rushes into your ears. Only Clark’s voice is clear when he says, “I have something to tell you.” 

Your stomach does a somersault as you turn. 

He’s looking at you with a softness to his eyes, the same one he had when you were sneaking glances at each other. He’s also standing up straighter, the barrel of his chest swelling. You want to bridge the distance and shake him by his freakishly broad shoulders. You also kind of want to kiss him. 

You shrug, a small smile coming to your face. “What?” 

Clark swallows. Gulps, really, so hard that you can see the outline of his Adam’s apple bob. Then he steps forward with a breeze that comes downwind—smells like clean, sweet hay, archived newsprint, and sun-dried linen washed in citrus detergent—and pats your shoulder. 

“I’m...” he starts, chewing his cheek like he’s doubling back. You blink, and his shoulders are closing back up, neck slumping forward. “I liked spending time with you tonight,” he decides, holding your eyes earnestly. 

“Me too,” you say, nodding too fast. Something still bugs you, the question of why his attitude seemed so familiar poking at the back of your mind. 

His mouth warbles into a semi-straight, relieved smile; the habit of tilting his lips has never really been kicked, and you don’t want it to. Your stupid insides flip at the sight, heads over heels, and you try not to swoon at the quick glimpse of the tip of his tongue as he wets his lip. 

“Is it weird that I want this to happen again?” Clark’s warm hand, still on your shoulder, squeezes lightly. Not hard, but just enough to ground you. 

You reach up for it, sliding your fingers around his big palm. He’s a lot warmer when you’re skin to skin. His nails are short, healthy; there are faded calluses on the side of his finger from holding a pen for too long. You wonder about the rest of him, and then you wonder about him around you. That sets off a whole different tangent in your mind, one you won’t work through until you’re alone in your apartment and have a wall to vent at. 

Holding his hand, you decide to throw caution into the wind. “Are you free next weekend?” 

“Yes.” It’s thunderclap-quick. 

“That’s—great,” you stutter, face blooming with heat at the fact that you’re basically asking him out. Holy shit, you’re going on a company-sponsored date. “We could try that Italian place I was talking about.” 

“Of course.” 

“But I get to fill out the reimbursement form this time.” 

“Sounds good.” 

Just to tease, “And you’re Superman.” 

“Sure!” he blurts, circuits practically bursting and sparking out of his ears. “I mean—I couldn’t possibly be...him.” 

You laugh, a course of giddiness rushing through your veins. He’s ridiculously endearing, shaking his head with ears dyed pink, pupils blown wide, and glasses slowly sliding down his nose as he stumbles over his words. 

“I’m kidding, Clark.” 

A long exhale from him, hissed through the teeth as embarrassment flickers over his features. “I knew that...” 

—

It’s hard not to start kicking your feet the moment you crash onto your bed. 

Ever the gentleman, Clark had walked you up to your apartment. Your knuckles brushed in the elevator. He giggled—giggled!—at a shitty joke you stole from the internet. 

Then he stared at you from the other side of the door with sick puppy eyes as he said goodnight. His face was still red. 

“Holy shit.” Your whisper echoes in your empty apartment. This might just be your new favorite phrase. “Holy shit.” 

Fragments start coming back to you at full strength. The smell of buttered popcorn at the theater. How his eyes glinted with that weird, otherworldly blue when the movie’s colors splashed all over his glasses. The feeling of his hand in yours—warm, and right. The scary, exhilarating way your head spun when you discovered that he was already looking at you. 

The loud buzz of your phone cuts through your schoolgirl-giddy daze. You fumble around your bag for it, pulling it out to reveal PERRY WHITE branded on the pixels in bright white. 

Holy shit. 

“Hi, Mr. White,” you rush, phone clutched tight in your fingers. You can just see his stern face in front of you, beard bristling as the embers of his lit cigar flare. “If you’re calling about what I think you’re calling about, I am starting my first draft right now and I will share it with Clark in a second—” 

Someone snorts on the other end of the line. 

...That’s not your editor-in-chief. The impersonator speaks with their hand over the receiver, and you can hear the muffled back-and-forth with another person in the background. It sounds like a young man, voice still kind of pitched, and a woman with a serious tone. 

Oh, they can’t be serious. You squeeze your eyes shut until spots start dancing in your vision. 

Come on, you always get the phone. 

Hissed: Do you wanna be an accomplice? 

Yes, actually, I do! 

Fine. 

Rough scratch—a sound that only comes when a phone gets passed around. The two culprits mutter to each other for another second or so; you catch something like ‘or else I’m gonna do it’ before the man’s voice comes blaring through your speaker. 

Jimmy’s voice is shit-eating as he sings, “So, how was your date?” 

You roll your eyes, flopping back down onto your bed with a groan. “Of course, it had to be you two. I’m going to tell the Chief this time, I swear.” 

Now it’s Lois’ turn to pitch in. “Oh, he’s in on it too.” 

The wide grin that splits your face can’t be helped. Despite the meddling of your co-workers, who must feel like masterminds at this point, you’re kind of thankful. You just cling to the infinitesimal sliver of hope that they won’t sidle up to you at the coffee machine with suggestive looks. 

“You three are so lucky I don’t have a lawyer.” 

—

notes. im spilling my guts rn i saw the prime premiere. yea my broke ass stole someone's amazon account and dropped real money to get a jumpstart on clark brainrot LOL ૮◞ ⸝⸝ ◟ ྀིა

++ if u enjoyed please let me know!! i love feedback ;)))

[midnightlvrs]

loser boyfriend who says "golly" "what the hey dude" and "gosh darnit"

[midnightlvrs]

yesss gm chat

[midnightlvrs]

Just saw Superman in theatres tonight and feeling very much like I need to write a fic immediately. David Corenswet… the man that he is. I’m going insane! Maybe I’ll write something, we will see. Give me some requests/ideas if you think of any.

Feeling very normal about this, promise. 😀

[midnightlvrs]

Me watching all the new fanfics of Clark Kent/superman come to life finally.