#I have got to stop looking at old posts and threads

[bearforcecaptions]

The fence should have stopped him. It was old, sagging in places, a rusted barbed afterthought nailed between sun-bleached posts — but Brett, cocky and flush with frat bravado, didn’t hesitate. He swung a leg over, narrowly missing the wire snagging his khaki shorts, and dropped to the dusty ground on the other side with a grunt. His tank top clung to him with sweat, neon pink and obnoxious under the Arizona sun. He was sunburned, thirsty, and pissed. Kyle and Ricky had convinced him to take this shortcut, and then promptly ditched him with a dead phone and two useless directions: “Head toward the big windmill and you’ll hit the road.”

The “big windmill” was nowhere in sight. Just rolling golden scrubland, a broken water trough in the distance, and a barn that looked ready to collapse under the weight of its own memories.

He didn’t hear the man approach until the voice came, slow and low, cutting through the hot wind like steel dragging on gravel.

“You’re a long way from where you oughta be.”

Brett spun. A figure stood near the barn, his silhouette cut clean against the setting sun. As the man stepped into view, Brett’s breath caught.

He looked young and strapping and stern — like the land had simply grown itself a guardian. The man wore a sleeveless ribbed wife beater tucked into worn jeans, the fabric stretched over a chest that had never missed a day of labor. His arms were thick with muscle and forearms dusted with dark hair. His jeans were sun-faded, tucked into brown work boots dulled by years of use.

A wide-brimmed brown cowboy hat sat firmly atop his head, casting a shadow over a face that was both weathered and commanding. His jaw was square, his cheeks lean, and his most defining feature — a thick, big beard, grown there with purpose. His dark brown hair peeked out from under the hat, close-cropped and practical. His eyes were a sharp steel-blue, and they scanned Brett with calm, unflinching weight.

Brett lifted his hands automatically. “Hey, I wasn’t trying to cause trouble. Just passing through — I got lost, alright? My friends—”

The man didn’t blink. “You trespassed. Ain’t no ‘just’ about it.”

Brett tried to grin, to charm. “C’mon, man, I’m just a college guy. Big misunderstanding. I’ll be gone in two seconds.”

The man stepped forward and pulled something from his back pocket. Not a gun — a coin. It shimmered faintly in the dying light, etched with strange, swirling patterns that hurt Brett’s eyes if he looked too long.

“’Fraid that ain’t how this works.”

And then he flicked it.

The coin hit Brett square in the chest.

Everything cracked.

The air around him warped like a mirage. Heat surged through his skin and down to the bone. He stumbled, gasping, as a prickling fire spread through every nerve. His tank top burned away into curling black threads, which rewove themselves into something heavier, coarser — a button-down shirt, sky blue, thickly stitched and sun-dried. Pearlescent snaps popped into place across a swelling chest.

His shoulders pushed outward with a jolt, followed by his arms bulking rapidly, his biceps swelling beneath the sleeves. His traps rose, neck thickening, torso reshaping itself into the dense, square build of a working man in his prime. Not a gym body — something real, something earned.

The hair on his chest and arms darkened and thickened in waves. His skin bronzed, sun-kissed and rough. His hands itched and flexed — the fingers grew broader, his palms callusing over, knuckles gnarling slightly with age and strength. Dirt seemed to settle into his skin like it belonged there.

His shorts crumbled away, threads separating into dust as denim climbed up his legs — thick, faded jeans that hugged powerful thighs and stretched over solid calves. His waist widened, belt threading itself into place, complete with a big square silver buckle etched with the initials W.C. His shoes split apart as his feet grew and shifted. The leather boots formed up from the ground, climbing to his shins with weathered grace.

His face was last. His jaw widened, cheekbones sharpening. His brow thickened, nose growing broader. A thick mustache burst across his upper lip, dark and commanding, with streaks of gray. His chin remained clean-shaven. His hair retreated slightly, dark brown and flecked with silver, cropped short beneath the now-familiar white cowboy hat that settled on his head like it had always been there.

His features deepened with age — late fifties, strong, steady, weather-tested. No panic now. Just a long, grounding breath.

He didn’t remember being Brett. There was another name that fit better now. The one that was on his flashy belt buckle: Wade Carver.

“Pops?”

The voice came from behind, casual and close.

“You headin’ to the west pasture, or should I hitch the trailer?”

He turned toward the voice.

A young man — broad-shouldered, tan, late twenties maybe — approached with a water bottle in hand and a baseball cap pulled low. His plaid shirt was tied around his waist, jeans smeared with grease from some forgotten chore. He walked like someone who knew the land, but hadn’t yet been broken by it.

Wade — Pops — nodded. “West pasture,” he said, adjusting the brim of his white hat. “We’ll ride the fenceline. Coyotes’ve been bold lately.”

His son grinned, already heading toward the truck.

Wade took a moment. He looked out over the horizon, where the scrub met the sky and the wind moved like something alive. The barn still needed fixing. The south fence needed another post. He flexed his hands, feeling the leather of his gloves.

There was no memory of neon. No dorms, no frat boys, no Brett.

Only sun, soil, and sweat.

And his son, waiting by the truck like he always had.

As Wade climbed into the passenger seat, boots scraping the floorboard, he felt the steady thrum of the land settle in his chest. The truck rumbled to life beneath him. He tugged the hat a little lower, smiled just faintly.

Everything was exactly as it should be.

Everything had always been.

[fallen-goldfishcracker]

haters will be like "oh, I'd like Wyll better if he wasn't like x" and then x is a pivotable part of who he is and what makes him so compelling and is impossible to change without just making him a entirely different character. my guy. what.

[marlynnofmany]

In the interest of not derailing this already-long-and-awesome thread, here are some more details! (Paging @sparrows-corner and any other interested parties.)

So in my first semester of college, I took an Intro to Psychology class. I didn't expect anything special; it was just one of those general education courses that everybody was supposed to take at some point. But it turned out amazing.

What the general public didn't know at that point was someone in the college administration had screwed up and forgotten to assign a teacher to this class. Until a week before class. When several students emailed to ask why that detail was missing in the online listing.

The administration panicked, scrambled for someone-anyone-omg-who-can-drop-everything-and-teach-this-class. They called recently-graduated owners of Masters Degrees in teaching.

They found Sandy.

She was qualified and available, and much older than the average recent grad, with the confidence to go with it. This was still a daunting task, though, and she agreed on one condition: that she team-teach the class with a friend of hers who was still working on finishing his degree.

Having no other choice and seeing no real problem with this, the administration agreed. And thus was born the most glorious educational comedy act in my entire academic career. The two of them were a delight. They knew all the stuff they needed to teach, and they knew a great deal more, and they delivered lectures in a way that had everyone paying eager attention. It was great.

This friend, by the way, was awesome in his own right. While Sandy was a curly-haired white lady around middle age, Wayne was a black guy who (1) dressed in impeccable suits and (2) had cerebral palsy.

I think a lot of 18-year-old minds were quietly enlightened about a few things just from watching these two banter back and forth, one with joints more wobbly than the other. Wayne told a memorable anecdote at one point about stopping by a grocery store in sweat pants instead of his usual classy wear. The cashier asked some gentle question about what he spent his time on, assuming that he had some sort of carer following him around. The expression on her face when he told her that he taught college was one I'll never forget, and I didn't even see it.

Anyways, at the end of this semester, the two teachers asked a few of us smart kids if we wanted to be TAs (teaching assistants) for the next semester. Since most of us had already become friends during the make-a-group-and-discuss-things portions of the class, this sounded like a party that would look good on our records later. And it really was.

I TA'd for that class a few times in a row, with my buddies and the two very cool teachers. We met up outside of class for holiday parties and everything.

And, since this was during the time the Lord of the Rings trilogy was first coming out in theaters, we all dressed up in costume and went to an early screening together.

Wayne drove. His handicap placard meant we got to park at the front, which was pretty awesome.

Now, I'd met people before who knew more LotR lore than I did, but they all paled in comparison to Sandy. As I said in the notes on that other post, she shared some stories of her youth with us. When she was fourteen, she ran away to join a hippie commune. She already knew fluent elvish, and she used that to help the commune's drug-runners stay out of the clutches of the cops, by translating their drug notes into a language the cops couldn't read. With a start like that, it was unsurprising that she still knew elvish now, along with all sorts of fascinating deep lore.

She had a limited edition book that looked shockingly expensive. She made beeswax candles for all the TAs as holiday gifts, with our names written on them in elvish. I still have mine somewhere.

I haven't heard from any of these lovely people in a long time, since college moves on and so does life, but I will treasure those memories forever. I hope Sandy and Wayne and the others are doing well. They deserve the best.

[nhmkhnh]

LUXURIOUS. 

PAIRINGS: DOM!GRAYSON X SUB!FEM!READER

WARNING(S): lowercase, explicit content (minors & men dni) 

TAGS: gentle!grayson ;; sugar mommy!grayson ;; size kink ;; strap-on sex (r.receving) ;; voice kink ;; orgasm control ;; marking kink ;; fingering (r.receiving) ;; office sex ;; after care. 

navigation. 

1. grayson met you by accident at a council party. you weren’t even supposed to be there—just a low-level assistant running errands. but she noticed you. the way your eyes lit up at the chandeliers. the cheap heels you clearly borrowed. the glass of water you clutched instead of wine. she noticed everything.

2. she offered you her coat that night. not because you asked, but because she saw you rubbing your arms at the tram stop, refusing a ride because you didn’t want to trouble her. that was the moment she decided: you’d never need to feel cold again.

3. her money is quiet—but limitless. new phone? already delivered. rent? she bought your whole building. designer heels you only glanced at through a window? in your size, waiting at your door, with a handwritten note:

“wear these for me tonight, sweetheart. i’ll be home late. —g.”

4. grayson is so fucking soft with you. no one believes it. not the cops. not the council. she speaks with steel, commands zaunites and piltovans alike—but she kneels when she takes off your shoes. she kisses your wrist like you’re porcelain. she calls you “my girl” like it’s sacred.

5. she loves watching you eat. like, borderline obsessed. orders you food she knows you love, watches as you take that first bite, always with a smug-ass smile. sometimes she’ll say things like:

“i work too hard for you not to eat like a queen.”

…as she wipes the corner of your mouth with her thumb.

6. possessive sugar mommy af. you post a picture in a cute dress she didn’t buy? you’ll get a message in 3.2 seconds:

“where’d you get that?” you respond, teasing. “a friend gave it to me.” her next reply? “i’ll be over in 20. take it off.”

7. you’re her weakness. one pout, one sigh, one slightly sad text, and she’s leaving meetings early, gun still holstered at her hip, just to hold you in her arms and tuck your head beneath her chin.

8. she spoils you with intention. not just random stuff—she remembers what you say in passing. that childhood candy you mentioned once? she has it imported. you said your old blanket got lost in a move? she commissions an identical one. grayson is detail-oriented as hell.

9. she hates seeing you work too hard. if you have a job she thinks is beneath you, expect her to show up at your workplace one day, lean against the doorframe in her tailored coat, and go:

“pack up. you’re not working here anymore. i already paid your boss to let you go.”

(you pretend to be mad. you’re not.)

10. sugar mommy in the streets, beast in the sheets. you better believe this woman can throw you over her shoulder like it’s nothing and pin your wrists with one hand. she’ll buy you roses and then wreck you on 1,000-thread-count sheets. always rough and reverent.

11. she’s got a whole drawer of lingerie she bought for you. color-coded. lace. silk. she doesn’t make you wear them—she asks with that low voice of hers:

“put this on for me, baby.”

…and you always do.

12. she sometimes brings you to fancy events on her arm. the looks people give when grayson, in all her power and elegance, walks in with the prettiest little thing holding onto her bicep like a prized gem?? you love it. she loves it more.

13. grayson smells expensive. tobacco, clean leather, sandalwood, and warm wine. you cling to her coats when she’s gone. you steal her undershirts. she doesn’t mind. she tells you to take whatever you want—

“everything i have is yours, sweetheart.”

14. she sends you voice notes. deep, gravelly ones when she’s working late. “i miss you, little thing.” “don’t wait up.” “touch yourself if you need to—i’ll make it up to you when i’m back.” you play them on loop until she’s home again.

15. you’re the only softness she allows herself. she might be sheriff, might lead with fire and steel—but she melts the moment you crawl into her lap, kiss her throat, and whisper “i missed you.”

grayson would set the whole world on fire to keep you warm.

smut bonus.

1. grayson has a size kink.

she’s taller, broader, stronger—and obsessed with the way you look curled up beneath her.

“look at you… so tiny under me.”

she’ll stretch your legs wide with one hand and use her hips to pin you still, murmuring about how you were “made to be taken care of”—as she grinds slow, deep, and possessive into you.

2. she lives for strap-on sex.

leather harness. thigh holster. her favorite one is thick and curved just right, matching the press of her fingers when she edges you open for it.

“relax, baby. i’m not done spoiling you yet.”

she’ll tease you until you’re begging to be filled—and only then will she sink in, all slow and loving like she’s feeding you wine.

3. her voice when she talks you through orgasms? unholy.

gravelly, low, damn near feral when you’re about to come. she’ll growl against your neck, lips hot and teeth grazing:

“that’s it, baby—let go. give it to me. c’mon, that’s my good girl.”

you always come harder when she talks. she knows it.

4. grayson adores marking you.

hickeys. scratch marks. lipstick on your thighs. bruises shaped like her palms.

and when she takes you out in public the next day, she’ll gently fix your collar to just barely hide the bite on your throat—then smirk when you flinch every time her hand brushes your waist.

5. she loves using her fingers.

thick, experienced hands that always know what to do. grayson can finger you with such maddening control—slow, deep curls that keep you hovering on the edge forever.

“what’s the rush, sweetheart? i’ve got all night… and you belong to me.”

if you beg? she might let you come. might.

6. she’s the type to fuck you in her office.

desk pushed back. coat still on. you bent over the polished wood, panties pushed aside, her hand covering your mouth while she rocks into you from behind.

“quiet now, little thing. you don’t want the whole precinct hearing who this pretty cunt belongs to, do you?”

(spoiler: she wants them to hear.)

7. post-sex aftercare is everything.

grayson kisses every spot she marked. draws you a bath. feeds you fruit from her fingers while you sit on her lap, boneless and blissed out.

“you did so well for me, baby.”

she makes sure you know that even when she fucks you like she owns you—she treasures you like gold.

so obssesed with her 😋 please let this woman make her way into my life please.

[lqveharrington]

In Sickness & Health | R.L.

summary: you and remus after a full moon <3

pairing: remus lupin x fem!reader

includes: fluff, comfort, normal post full moon things

a/n: i’m in love with him :(

“Hey, Moony,” you murmured, settling onto the edge of his hospital wing bed. Your fingers gently threaded through his hair, careful not to press against any fresh bruises or reopen wounds. His hair was soft despite the sweat from the full moon’s toll. “How was tonight? Sirius told me it was… bad.”

“It wasn’t too bad,” Remus replied, though his voice was strained, and the attempt at nonchalance didn’t quite mask the pain lacing his words. He shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position on the stiff white sheets, but winced as he moved. “Jus’ got a little out of hand, that’s all.”

You frowned, your gaze lingering on the fresh scar just above his eyebrow. Without thinking, you brushed a few strands of hair away and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of the wound. His skin was warm beneath your lips, radiating both the fever of healing and the exhaustion of survival. “I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“It’s not your fault, dovey,” he murmured back, eyes still closed, breathing shallow.

“But it is,” you sighed, your voice cracking under the weight of guilt. Your fingers found his hand, lacing through his as your thumb sought out the steady beat of his pulse—a quiet reassurance that he was still here. Still breathing. “I shouldn’t have gone with Lily and Dorcas earlier. I should’ve been there when—”

“Stop,” Remus cut in gently, squeezing your hand to pull you out of the spiral. His amber eyes opened, hazy but sincere, locking onto yours. “You know it’s not your fault. These things… they happen. I’ve been dealing with this my whole life, yeah? Tonight was just a rough night, nothing you could’ve prevented.”

But you couldn’t shake the ache in your chest. Couldn’t stop the image of him curled on the hospital bed, covered in fresh scars that would never fully fade. You bit your bottom lip, emotions swirling, and brought his hand to your lips, pressing a tender kiss against his knuckles. “I’m still sorry.”

He chuckled, though it came out more like a breathy exhale. “I’ll get Madam Pomfrey to kick you out if you don’t stop with all this guilt,” he teased, squeezing your hand again. His eyes softened. “Besides… you’ll be here to help me afterwards, yeah?”

“Of course, Rem,” you nodded, voice thick with emotion.

He smiled—small, tired, but genuine—and tilted his head just enough to look at you properly. His gaze narrowed playfully until you finally cracked a smile, the tension in your shoulders easing just a little. Heat bloomed across your cheeks, the weight of worry momentarily lifted by his warmth. Remus shifted again, letting out a slow sigh as he tried to settle his battered body. You reached up to run your fingers through his tousled hair once more, the rhythmic motion calming both of you.

“Think you’ll be able to attend classes by Monday?” you asked softly. “We’ve got those tests in Charms and Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

He hummed thoughtfully, leaning into your touch like a cat basking in the sun. “We’ll see… Might just have to fake my way through them. Not like Flitwick hasn’t seen me half-asleep in class before.”

You glanced at the old clock hanging above Madam Pomfrey’s office door and sighed. “You should rest,” you murmured, though the last thing you wanted was to leave him.

“Dovey,” he mumbled, voice low, “you need to get to bed, too.”

You nodded reluctantly, pressing a lingering kiss to his forehead. His skin was warm, his pulse steady beneath your fingertips. “Do you want me to bring anything tomorrow? A change of clothes, books… chocolate?”

“Just yourself,” he grinned, eyes fluttering shut. “The boys already made grand plans to raid my side of the dorm for me.”

“Figures.” You rolled your eyes but smiled. Squeezing his hand one last time, you whispered, “Goodnight, Rem.”

“Night, love.”

As you slipped out of the hospital wing, the cool corridors of Hogwarts seemed colder than usual, the stone walls echoing with your thoughts. You kept replaying the night in your head—the ache in his voice, the scars on his skin—and you hoped, with everything in you, that he wasn’t downplaying the pain.

Remus spent most of the weekend recovering, pushing through the stiffness and soreness until, by Sunday afternoon, he managed to hobble out of bed with his cane, taking slow, measured steps. You stayed by his side every moment you could, abandoning weekend plans with the girls without a second thought. James and Sirius, of course, had already tried to rope him into plotting pranks, but Remus waved them off with a lazy grin. Next time, he promised. For now, he just wanted quiet.

The two of you ended up by the Black Lake, settling beneath the sprawling branches of a tree that overlooked the shimmering water. The late afternoon sun dipped toward the horizon, casting streaks of gold and pink across the sky. Remus lay back with his head in your lap, eyes closed, his breathing even as you idly ran your fingers through his hair.

“Did your dad make this?” you asked softly, tracing the intricate carvings on his wooden cane. The designs were delicate, swirling patterns framing his initials at the top—R.J.L.—surrounded by tiny etched stars.

“Yeah,” Remus nodded, opening his eyes halfway. “He started working on it after… after he realized how much I was struggling to walk after full moons. Didn’t say much—just handed it to me one morning.”

Your fingertips brushed over the stars, heart tugging at the thought of the quiet, steadfast love behind each carved detail. “It’s beautiful,” you murmured. “And it suits you.”

He chuckled, the sound vibrating softly against your leg. “I’ll owl him that. He’ll be pleased someone appreciates his handiwork.”

The two of you fell into a comfortable silence, broken only by the gentle lapping of the lake and the distant calls of students on the castle grounds. Remus turned his head slightly, letting the fading sunlight warm his face. For a moment, you saw beyond the scars and fatigue—to the boy who loved books, who smiled despite the weight he carried, who found peace in the little things.

“Help me up?” he asked after a while.

“Of course.” You shifted, careful as you helped him sit up. His muscles tensed under your hands, but he didn’t complain. Steadying him, you passed him his cane. He gripped it firmly, testing his balance.

“Thanks, dovey,” he murmured, his gaze catching yours. There was gratitude in his eyes—deep, unspoken, and profound.

You smiled, falling into step beside him as you wandered back toward the castle, the horizon painted with the colors of the setting sun. Whatever challenges lay ahead—tests, pranks, full moons—you’d face them together. Always.

The following week passed in a blur of classes, missed notes, and whispered conversations between you and Remus when Madam Pomfrey wasn’t hovering over him. By Tuesday morning, he was finally released from the hospital wing—still sore, still leaning on his cane, but stubbornly insistent on returning to classes despite your protests.

“Professor McGonagall’s going to have my head if I miss another Transfiguration lecture,” he grumbled as you walked beside him, his pace slow but determined. “Besides, I’ve already got Sirius taking notes for me. Not that I can read half of his scribbles.”

You snorted. “You’d have better luck asking a Hippogriff to write in cursive.”

Remus chuckled, the sound warming your chest. Even with dark circles still under his eyes and his movements careful, it was good to see him returning to his usual self—sarcastic comments, fond exasperation at his friends, and all.

By Wednesday afternoon, he was exhausted. You could see it in the way he slumped against the library table, one hand lazily turning the pages of Advanced Defensive Spells, the other propping up his head.

“Rem,” you whispered, nudging his leg under the table. “You’re not going to absorb any of that if you’re half-asleep.”

“M’fine,” he mumbled, though his eyelids drooped.

“You’re reading the index,” you pointed out.

He blinked down at the book. “…Shit.”

Smiling fondly, you reached over and closed it for him. “Come on. Fresh air might wake you up.”

Reluctantly, he let you tug him away from the library and out toward the Black Lake. The March wind was crisp, biting at your cheeks, but the sky was clear—a perfect gradient of pale blue bleeding into amber as the sun started its slow descent. You walked in comfortable silence, his arm occasionally brushing against yours.

“Here,” you said, guiding him to a familiar spot near the small cliff overlooking the water—the same place you’d been the weekend before. The grass was still damp, but neither of you cared. Remus sat with a quiet sigh, stretching out his legs as you settled beside him.

“I don’t deserve you, you know,” he murmured after a long pause, voice soft and a little too serious.

You turned your head toward him. “Where’s that coming from?”

He shrugged, gaze fixed on the shimmering surface of the lake. “I know how hard this is for you. Worrying. Waiting around for me to pull myself back together after every full moon. Most people wouldn’t bother.”

“Well, I’m not most people,” you replied, nudging his shoulder. “And you don’t get to decide what I can handle.”

His lips quirked into a half-smile. “Stubborn.”

“Pot, meet kettle,” you shot back, and he laughed—really laughed—head tilting back, eyes crinkling. It was a sound you wished you could bottle up and keep forever.

Falling into a companionable quiet again, you watched as the sun dipped lower, casting golden ripples across the lake. Seagulls cried overhead, distant and fleeting.

“You know,” you started, tracing random patterns in the grass, “I don’t stay because I have to. I stay because I want to, Remus. You… you matter to me. Scars and all.”

He went still beside you, the weight of your words settling between you like a warm blanket. Slowly, cautiously, his hand found yours in the grass. Fingers entwined, familiar and safe.

“I’m lucky to have you,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

“And don’t you forget it,” you teased, though your cheeks burned.

The sky bled into a soft lavender as the first stars began to peek through. Remus leaned against you, his head resting on your shoulder. “This… this helps,” he murmured. “Being with you. Makes it easier to breathe.”

You smiled, resting your head against his. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

The wind picked up, sending ripples across the lake and rustling the trees behind you, but neither of you moved. For now, the world could wait.

Here, in this quiet pocket of Hogwarts grounds, with his hand in yours and the stars beginning to glow above, everything felt… right.

And you’d hold onto that feeling—for him, for you, for as long as it took.

©lqveharrington - all rights reserved. do not copy, translate or share my work on other media platforms

[clairewritesfanfics]

Villain Creation System Chapter 5

Pairing/s: Invincible x Reader x Invincible Variants

Author's note: It feels forever since the last time I published a chapter. Anyway, I apologize in advance for any grammar mistakes or missing words or other editing mistakes. I'm posting this at four in the morning and I'm groggy as heck. I'll fix any mistakes when I wake up again in... I dunno, six hours? edit: Geez I really was groggy when I wrote this, look at that many "mistakes" 😭

CHAPTER 4: Just Cut Their Red Thread of Fate   Series Masterlist <<read the synopsis and trigger warnings first>>

The digital sprout on your phone has grown into a digital tree in the past twenty-four minutes and fifty-eight seconds. You watched the timer hit zero–it played two short rings, signaling that it was time for a break.

Amber groaned as she stretched her arms over the table, laying her cheek on the handouts you insisted that she print. “God, finally.“

“Refill?” Your lips pursed towards the empty coffee mug she pushed towards the window.

“Nah, if I drink anymore I won’t be able to sleep later.”

You nodded and picked up your frappe, all pink and sparkly. According to the barista, it was tradition to have a unique beverage for every quarterly exam week. This princess glitter concoction was this week’s special. You planned on trying everything The Mug could offer. It was fun.

“I can’t believe someone actually ordered that thing, does it even taste good?”

You pried off the plastic cover and used your straw to scrape off the remaining whipped cream. “No, it tastes exactly like it looks like.” It was like sipping on a cotton candy. Just pure sugar.

“Then stop slurping it.”

“It would be a waste not to finish it, and besides, the carbs help me think. Makes studying easier.” You were going to regret having this much sugar when you crash out eventually, but that is future you’s problem. 

“You know, I’ve been thinking about this but ever since we first met, I think I’ve only ever seen you take notes on your notebook or typing in your laptop. You’re like a study addict,” she teased. “What’s your secret to getting into the groove?”

You shrugged. “I just like how simple it is.”

“Simple?” She gawked.

“I work hard and I get rewarded.” 

Amber observed you for a moment. You wondered if she thought you were lonely, because if she did then you’d be offended. No one forced you into your bubble, you genuinely enjoyed school. Life was predictable in the world of academics. If you study for a test, you get a high score. There was beauty in its simplicity. Comfort, even.

“You know,” Amber said, “My sorority sisters and I’ve been planning a party for after the exams, you should come.”

“A party?” You’ve been to parties in your past life. The delightful ones were with close friends, but the rest? Mandatory crap. You smiled so much your risorius muscle must’ve hypertrophied in your old body.

[Host, this may be a good reconnaissance opportunity.]

I know that, you hissed back inside your mind. You and Amber weren’t exactly buddies, and despite your repeated interactions, you could never bring yourself to inquire about Eve or Mark. This college party was the window of opportunity you have been waiting for.

With a heavy heart, you grinned at Amber. “Sure, I’d love to go.”

Your phone sent out two short rings. Break’s over.

Amber threw her head back, a disappointed sound left her throat. You smiled for real this time.

***

“22 out of 30.” A deep line formed between Amber’s eyebrows when you finished checking her mock test. 

“That’s… not good,” she whispered.

You put away your red pen. “You got 73% of the questions right, that is a major improvement from your past scores.” Originally, she could barely get past 50%.

However, instead of feeling relief, Amber continued to stare at the red x’s all over.

You knew that look. 

You tried to find the correct words. Amber was a hard worker, and she was a star student in her high school, but college is different. 

You drew awkward circles on the table as you spoke, “Listen, the minimum passing level for the biochemistry exam is 65%, you got this.”

But your statement just made her brows knit closer together.

Before you could say another word, a familiar clean scent wafted into your nose.

“Room for one more?” Mark asked, holding his usual order of black coffee and eggdesal. 

You and Amber regarded him with surprise, followed by mild annoyance.

“You don’t mind, do you?” He added, gesturing around him; the place was packed full of zombified young adults. “You know what exam week does to coffee shops.”

Amber crossed her arms. “Seriously, when did you start hanging around coffee shops?” She glanced at you and briefly explained, “Mark hates dining at cafés.”

“What? You’re joking.” 

“It’s true.”

You turned to Mark, who simply shrugged.

“What can I say?” He smiled at you. “Something about this place is different from the others.”

Amber’s eyes darted between the two of you, the gears in her head rapidly turning. 

She put her hands on the table and stood. “Mark, can I talk to you for a second? Alone?”

“We can just chat here.”

“I–”

Her phone vibrated, interrupting her. She checked the sender. 

“That Kyle?” That was the name of Amber’s boyfriend. “He’s got perfect timing.”

She shot Mark a glare and began packing her things. “This isn’t over,” she warned. 

“Sure, sure.”

Amber sent you an apologetic look. “He’s already a few minutes away, I–”

“It’s fine. We’re already done, anyway.”

She nodded, glared at Mark again, and hurried out of her seat.

You waited for Amber to disappear through the wooden door before looking at Mark, who wasted no time filling the empty chair.

He wore a black long-sleeved top and a pair of ripped jeans. His hair looked darker tonight, it was damp, like he went straight to here after a fresh shower.

You spoke with the system and demanded to know why it didn’t warn you that he was in the area.

The system, who got bored listening to you drone on about the pentose phosphate pathway and decided to read the Kama Sutra (“for research” it claims), had only realized what was happening when Mark Grayson started hitting on you. It could only avert its gaze and whistle in response.

So much for having a nigh-omniscient divine artificial intelligence as an assistant.

Irritated, you turned your attention to the grinning Mark in front of you.

“Why don’t you like eating at cafés?”

“Amber was exaggerating.”

“I see. Well, you can have the whole table. See ya.” It was your turn to start packing.

“Hey, hey, wait, I just got here.”

“So?”

“Ow. At least have dinner first?”

“Mark,” you said, cocking an eyebrow at him, “it’s already twelve in the morning.”

He checked his watch. “Oh.” He looked at you. “Don’t you have, I dunno, notes to digitize or something?”

“No.” You were already on your feet. “Tonight was reserved for tuto–” you caught yourself, “–for studying with Amber. With her gone, all that’s left to do is go home and get some rest.”

His shoulders fell.

Your heart tinged with something akin to guilt. Building a relationship with him is important, but you were expecting a sugar crash any minute now, one that will definitely make you lose affinity points.

However… 

A sad pretty boy was hard to ignore.

The system started eating popcorn. Its older colleagues claimed that popcorn tasted best when witnessing drama. Watching its Host struggle with emotions brought it inexplicable bliss.

It played a melancholic violin and used its holographic ability to project dog ears onto Mark’s head.

[What are you going to do now, Host? Are you planning on turning your back on such a handsome, crying face?]

Clicking your tongue, you sat back down, prompting Mark to look up.

You crossed your arms and asked, “Is the yogurt parfait here any good?”

He tilted his head.

“Yeah,” he replied, confused.

You refused to meet his gaze.

His peach lips then parted into a bright smile. “One parfait coming up.”

[Ding. Affection: 29%. Darkening: 6%.]

The system spat out its popcorn and rolled around laughing with its hypothetical body. 

Mark was not beating the masochist allegations in your mind. 

[Technically, Host, I think it would be more appropriate to call him a submissive.]

Who cares?!

You exhaled.

Hey…

[Yes, Host?]

Does he look sad to you tonight?

[His facial expressions and body language haven’t changed much so to me he is the same as usual. What would make you think otherwise?]

Just a feeling, you thought, watching his back as he leaned closer to the cashier, likely flirting again.

[Is the Host jealous?]

You scoffed.

Why would I be jealous? He flirts with everyone.

[If you say so.]

You could feel the little brat smirking. If it had a physical body you would very much like to chuck it to the nearest garbage can, or maybe an open fire. 

While you were in the middle of conjuring the best way to execute your system, Mark returned with a large yogurt parfait.

“Your midnight snack, madam.”

“Ew.” The hair on your neck stood at the title. “Never call me that again.”  You would rather he call you–

“Whatever you say, princess.”

Tsk.

[Pft.]

Mark swiped several tissue papers from the dispenser on the table and wiped the parfait spoon before handing it over. 

When you reached to take it, your fingers grazed his. It was brief, barely a feather’s touch, but it sent warmth up your arm and to your chest.

[Affection: 30%.]

You decided to focus on eating your parfait.

Mark had a similar idea, preferring to eat his egg sandwich without making a peep.

The silence between you was filled by the faint cacophony of students typing on their laptops and scribbling on their tablets, the clinking of metal and ceramic and glass, and an instrumental rendition of Blues in the Night. 

Barring the circumstances that brought you here, this was nice. If you ever found someone before you had died, would you have spent your free time with him in a coffee place like this one? 

In life, the closest you’ve ever been to romance were books and dating sims, and those things have irreversibly warped your standards.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Mark broke the silence, dipping the rest of the bread in his coffee.

You wanted to snap and tell him that you were too exhausted to think, that he should’ve just taken his order to-go or eat alone like a grownup, but you don’t.

You snuck a glimpse of him. Dark circles haunted his . He seemed paler, too. 

“I was just thinking about what constitutes an ideal date.”

His face brightened. “Are you finally going to let me peek into that brilliant brain of yours?”

“I’m not brilliant.”

“Amber would beg to differ, and so would Professor Harper.”

“Amber?” You understood Professor Harper, but why Amber?

“Yeah, she talks about you a lot, says you’re really smart.”

“You talk about me?”

“Sometimes.”

“With Amber?”

His grin turned wicked. “Jealous?”

You could hear the system restraining its amusement.

You ignored the ticking in your eye and took a big scoop of parfait. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

He reclined on his seat. “Got any questions for me? Besides Amber, I mean.” Great, now he was laughing at you. Excellent.

“I have nothing to say to you.” You had a lot, actually. You wanted to know about his mom, his missing dad, whether or not he has met Eve. You wanted to be done with this mission world. You wanted to be done with all of this.

“Are you sure?”

You paused. “Actually, I do have a question. Did you finish reading that book?”

Brown  widened with surprise, then they twinkled. “‘That book’? Sweetheart, what do you take me for? I finished Professor Harper’s entire reading list.”

Your jaw slacked. “That… is impressive.” Although maybe the reading was to compensate considering how he’s been missing class the past week.

He made a hair flipping motion. “I know. Brains, beauty–is there anything I can’t do?”

“Eat alone in a coffee shop, apparently.”

He chuckled dryly.

[Ding. Affection: 27%. Darkening: 6.3%.]

You inhaled too fast and the slender spoon got sucked inside your throat. Both hands flew over your neck as you squawked out for help. 

[Host!!]

Mark vanished from across the table and was instantly by your side. He bent you forward and struck you between the shoulder blades once, twice–

The spoon shot out of you and bounced three times on the table.

Mark’s voice came out softly, “You okay?” 

Before you could answer, the whole floor applauded. 

Blood rushed to your cheeks and you became hyper-aware of the protective palm on your back. 

You looked up and saw his eyes overflowing with concern.

“Princess?”

You felt like throwing up.

***

Good news: You didn’t throw up. You apologized to the staff and promptly left.

Bad news: Mark followed you out.

“I’m walking you home.” There was no room for negotiation in his tone as he took your bag from you. You reluctantly let him because you had a feeling that any protesting wouldn’t have stopped him from trailing after you.

It’s not like you didn’t appreciate the offer. After all, it doesn’t matter how prestigious a university is, there is always a chance of getting attacked on campus property. But after your little scene, you truly wanted to be alone, as in, may the ground crack open and swallow me whole alone.

But now he was with you, and he hasn’t spoken a word since you two left The Mug. Silence was nothing new between you and Mark, in fact, what you liked about him besides his uncontested physical appearance was the fact that he also enjoyed quiet moments when they were there.

That being said, you weren’t sure whether you preferred this… this soundless noise over his endless teasing. 

When two people get into an argument and one of them leaves to cool off and then gets hit by a car, that’s an accident. The two people are innocent, they shouldn’t feel shame–but the one who didn’t leave the house to cool off is still going to somehow blame themselves.

Logically, you understood that there was nothing wrong with what happened. It was an accident. But reason alone cannot stop emotion.

“Mark,” you said, still looking forward as you walked.

“Yeah?”

Your mouth opened and closed, and opened and closed. You regretted saying his name. It hung in the air and now the silence grew louder. 

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye. His lips were twitching.

Son of a–

You planted your feet on the ground, prompting him to stop walking too. “You’re laughing? You’re actually laughing?”

To his credit, Mark actually tried to keep his poker face for a little longer. His tongue pushed against the inside of his cheek until he couldn’t contain himself.

“Pft–”

[Pfft–]

Two very different beings from two very different planes of existence united together in a chorus of wild belly laughter.

You missed the quiet already.

“It’s not that funny,” you mumbled, feeling hot.

“I’m sorry–I–I’m sorry but it is.”

[He’s right, Host, it was quite the sight. If he didn’t save you in time your death might have been nominated for an award.] 

The system nodded to itself, pleased. It knew its Host had potential! Unintentional death by spoon would have been one for the books.

You waited for Mark to calm down into mere huffing. “Are you done?” 

He wiped a tear and stood up straight. “There’s never a dull moment when you’re around, princess.”

“Wow. Thanks. That almost sounds like a compliment.”

“It is one. I’ll keep giving you compliments until you can tell immediately.”

“That won’t be necessary.” You continued walking. “Let’s go.”

You didn’t have to look to know that his gaze was on you. You had a hunch he was smirking too.

It was annoying how fixated he could get with you, but you tolerated it better now. Dare you say, you even enjoyed the attention, though you would sooner stab your own hand than admit that to him or anybody else.

The system, who realized its Host is not immune to human romantic feelings: (ㅅ´ ˘ `)

Not. A. Word.

[Whatever you say, Host.]

You yearned for the sweet embrace of your bed, so upon reaching your building, you grabbed the straps of your backpack and swiped it away from Mark. “Thanks for walking me.”

“You know, I’d be happier to hear that if you didn’t sound like a robot.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I’ll store that information for future assessment. This robot will not keep you any longer–”

His fingers wrapped around your wrist weakly.

You were about to give him what for when he stated, “I play bass in a band.” 

Oh, yeah. “Indigo Muse, right?” 

His next sentences came in rapid succession. “We got a gig this Saturday, at a club called Wisteria, and I know you hate concerts but I’d really like it if you came and watched us.” 

Brown eyes pleading, his smirk was nowhere to be found. This was unlike the confident man you’ve come to know. 

He was desperate, bordering on pathetic.

It was…heh…cute.

The system froze.

Mark watched your reaction, but your face was unreadable. 

“It’s an open invite, you don’t have to–”

“I’ll go.” You squeezed his hand. “Just email me the details.”

Recovering from surprise, he also recovered his smirk. “Who uses email?”

“It’s easier for us robots to keep track of information with email than text message.”

You let go before he did, fingers sliding past each other, unwilling to part.

“Good night, Mark.”

You turned on your heels. “Don’t forget that email. I’m not going anywhere unless I’m sure about the dress code.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You didn’t have any energy left to correct him.

[Ding. Affection: 32%. Darkening: 6.3%.]

It wasn’t until you managed to trudge back to your unit and fell on the mattress did the system speak up.

[Host, I would like to apologize.]

For what?

[It would seem my putting dog ears on a sad Mark Grayson has awakened something in you.]

taglist: @weponxwrites @ratkidcalledallie @qxuanii @lilacoaks @gluttonousriceflour @phisen

Disclaimer: The images used in this post do not belong to writerclaire. They were lifted from the following sources:

Invincible flying

Alternate Invincibles

CHAPTER 6: Square Root of a^2+b^2   Series Masterlist

ദ്ദി(｡•̀ ,<)~✩‧₊

MAIN MASTERLIST

Any questions for the author? Ask here.

[moniquill]

Thread ported from Facebook, via

PK: Ive been thinking about this comment a lot today …. Kind of all over the place with it. (And this is just me thinking and rambling. Everyone is allowed to fee how they feel and I’m not saying I’m totally right…. Perhaps I’m way off in some ways but, these are just my thoughts as of right now……)

1. I was thinking of how some people think we shouldn’t wear sealskin. I’d always thought it was such an a-hole-ey opinion but, once someone I know and respect asked why I thought it was ok to ware fur and I said well for one thing when you kill an animal to eat it, it seems like it would be wasteful to throw away the skin when you have a use for it. I think a lot of people must believe that most animals are being killed for only one part of them. (Although I/we don’t always use the skin)

2. Once I saw a picture of people with a dead giraffe that they killed and my instant thought was something like “eeee they killed a giraffe”. I’m embarrassed to admit that I was so quick to be judgey but I was. However I was quick to correct myself and tell myself that probably/hopefully they now have 3 years worth of giraffe burgers in the freezer. (Maybe they were unethical tho…. I don’t know… I don’t know anything about giraffe hunting but, I shouldn’t have been so quick to turn up my nose at something I know nothing about.

3. Once my uncle tagged me in a picture where his daughter just got a nanuk and someone from the city told me that polar bear should only be hunted in the old traditional way with darts/unak….. and I was thinking after “man, imagine he’d witness that scene with darts and dogs vs with a rifle … what way would he call more “humane?” (Not that traditional hunting is not humane because people do their very best to make it quick for more than one reason but, with the evolution of ways of hunting and modern ways people are often able to be more safe and more efficient. And hopefully not wasteful tho.)…..: speaking of “safe” and “traditional ways”….. yes we want to preserve practices and knowledge but, Geeze I’m not gonna take my kids in boat without a life jacket now-a-days. And I’ll take running water over buckets. I’m just saying that we don’t have to reject everything modern or not invented by Inuit in order to embrace our culture.

4. I feel like harvesting an animal from nature is far less cruel than raising a pig in a cage knee deep it its own poop. (See I’m being judgy again cause I don’t know how pigs are raised ….. “slaughter house” seems to be pretty descriptive tho.). I’ll look it up after this post to educate myself better. And I realize there is many different paths to fattening up a pig.

….. I dunno I’m just rambling. When I told my husband what I posted in response to that persons comment he said there was a time when he would have voted to attack the person but he said why don’t you educate her.

Well….. laugh first , educate second I guess. Haha

And really this is just my thoughts. I’m certainly not perfect and I live a very modern life in Ontario …. me and my family do our best to keep my children familiar with our home and have them visit often and stay long but, as my dad says “our culture has to be practiced to be strong”…. It makes me sad to be contributing to weakening the youths connection to land based lifestyle but, we all do our best in any way we can….

If you are feeling some kind of guilt like that, I think we need to tell ourselves that we are doing our best …. Not use it as an excuse but, use it so that we don’t feel shame.

Ok. I need to stop going on and on and on. lol.

Reply by Gokomis' Creations: Colonizations main objective is to assimilate everything Indigenous. By telling us that our traditional ways of harvesting, living and healing are wrong is just another form of assimilation. Just another form of assimilation to make us feel shame and drop our beautiful and incredible culture. But we need to remind these colonizers that leave these awful comments, “Indigenous people have been living sustainably and living in harmony with all of the creators gifts since wayyyyy before colonization. I’m pretty sure it’s not us that is causing all of this damage. It is colonization. It is colonial ways that are making these impacts. It is colonization that caused the over fishing and over harvesting in general. Not us indigenous people. We have been living sustainably and in harmony with Mother Earth for centuries even millennials before colonization.

[broidobe]

𝔞𝔵𝔩 𝔯𝔬𝔰𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔞 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔤 𝔤𝔦𝔯𝔩𝔣𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔫𝔡

requested

𝓼𝓸𝓷𝓰 𝓻𝓮𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓭𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷 ᡣ𐭩 𝓼𝔀𝓮𝓮𝓽 𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓵𝓭 𝓸 𝓶𝓲𝓷𝓮 𝜗𝜚 𝓰𝓾𝓷𝓼 𝓷 𝓻𝓸𝓼𝓮𝓼

⁎⁺˳✧༚guns and roses masterlist

the second you two went public, twitter/X threads were FERAL. “she was born after use your illusion,” “what do they even talk about,” “he’s dating someone the same age as sweet child o’ mine”—and axl hates it. not cuz it bothers him, but because he knows it upsets you.

i’ve been called worse by better people, he says, scrolling past the comments with a deadpan expression.

yeah?

yeah. like, you should’ve seen what kurt used to call me. now that was mean.

he’s so defensive over you.

like he’ll be chill 99% of the time, but if anyone dares make a disrespectful joke about your age or imply you’re a gold digger or trophy—he’s going nuclear. zero hesitation.

she’s not with me for money," he’ll growl in an interview. "she has a degree, a career, and a better handle on life than i did at thirty. grow up.

you tease him CONSTANTLY about being old.

you’ll say stuff like omg you were alive during the cold war? and he’ll glare at you with fake betrayal.

you little brat.

me?? i’m just a baby, remember?

yeah, and i’m about to put you in time out.

(but secretly? he lives for your sass. keeps him sharp.)

you steal his sunglasses and band tees all the time.

and he just lets you. he acts annoyed but he loves how you look in them.

you post a mirror pic in his vintage 1988 tour shirt and he comments “keep it.”

then sends you a text five minutes later:

wear nothin’ else when i get home.

he buys you vinyls and rare music memorabilia like love letters.

this is an original pressing of black sabbath’s first album. i got it in ‘71. it still plays.

you’re giving this to me?

you’re mine, aren’t you?

(dies)

lowkey insecurity moment from YOU?? yes.

you overhear some fans say you’re only with him for fame, or that he’s just having a midlife crisis, and it eats at you a little.

you don’t say anything, but axl notices.

you’re quieter. won’t meet his eyes. smile’s a little dimmer.

so he sits you down and goes

you know why i’m with you?

...why?

because you look at me like i’m still me. not just… axl fucking rose.

you are axl fucking rose.

no. with you, i’m just axl. the dumbass who forgets where he left his phone. the guy who can’t stop writing songs at 3am. yours. and that’s all i wanna be.

(you sobbed. admit it.)

on stage he’s SO MUCH WORSE.

he’ll make eye contact with you in the crowd and smirk like the devil himself.

dedicates “you could be mine” to you with that glint in his eye.

you’re bright red. the crowd goes nuts. he thrives.

he tells the guys you saved his life.

not in a dramatic, rom-com way. in the quiet moments.

she makes me wanna stick around.

like. not just for the band. or the fans. but... life, y’know?

and they all get it. and they’re so glad he found you.

he spoils you, brags about you, kisses your forehead like he’s saying a prayer, and goes a little crazy every time you wear red lipstick.

you bring youth back into his world.

he brings depth into yours.

together, you’re chaos and comfort.

[sosickastro]

Indulgence: Chapter 2

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

BTS x chubby reader

Poly Bts x Chubby Reader, Soulmate au and Idol au

Summary: Poor broke and isolated mc gets the chance to go to a concert with an old high school friend, with hoping to find their soulmate and see the biggest boy band in the world. A new shocking reality hits her while at the concert.

Chapter Warnings: degrading thoughts, poor writing and grammar, gender confused reader, anxiety, mc being a loner, mentions of weight insecurities, swearing, fat phobia, etc (let me know if I miss anything)

A/N: second chapter omg I actually wrote it in a decent time span, I want to say thank you for the support for the first chapter! I will try my best to keep up with posting chapters, etc, etc, As we all know, Grammarly is my lord and savior, but even they can't fix my awful spelling mistakes, so let me know if anything is wrong or just ignore it for the sake of the story.

word count: 2,034

(Thank you Corinnecousins on Pinterest for this picture)

Perviously on Indulgence:

"Then for the first time in my life, I felt a tug, anxiety filled my stomach as I froze in my tracks, and my heartbeat went through the roof as I looked down at the red thread I usually forget about, it loosened. Holy shit I am near my soulmate. Holy shit. Lauren notices that I stop walking and now staring at my pinky finger asks me “Are you okay?” I initially looked around the bus station, there were a lot of people walking around, too many to see where the string goes. “Is it your soulmate?” Lauren asks me again. I couldn't speak, my mouth dry as I gave her a shaky nod. But unfortunately just as it loosens it quickly tightens again, meaning my soulmate either left or is on a bus going further away from me. “I wonder if he felt it” I questioned out loud, looking at Lauren with shaken eyes. She sighs, almost equally disappointed “Come on Clare is waiting for us, we don’t want to keep her waiting.” Lauren tells me, grabbing my hand and basically dragging me to the exit. I can’t stop staring at my red thread, there's hope. There is always hope. Now I at least can find comfort that he is in the States, and not in Korea or Russia or anything far away. "

We make it to Clare’s car, she smiles at me as this is our first time meeting. I put on a smile as I tried to push through all the emotions I was feeling at the moment. But it is more complicated than I’d like to admit. The man I moved halfway across the country for is now somewhere in the city that’s only 3 hours away from my 4-year hellscape of a college.

 I let out a deep sigh as I looked over to Lauren and Clare, who were having a quiet conversation themselves. Clare nodded at something Lauren said, a look of concern and slight confusion filled her eyes, and spread across her face. “I’m fine yall— let’s get going before I hear another kid scream their head off,” I tell them with a slight chuckle, hoping that I’m schooling my face well enough to at least look like I’m fine as well as my typical dry humar distractes them from the imdending breakdown I am bout to face in tminus 10 seconds. 

Lauren eyes me up and down while also looking deep into my very soul to see if I’m lying to her. Clare shrugs, “I agree.” Lauren seems to give up her soul searching and nods her head. In silence that was not completely awkward, we got into Clare’s small car. I shove my bag and myself into the back seat, hoping that the fabric of the cheap seats swallows me whole.

 After 30 minutes of awful pop music from the local radio station, – Clare saying something about “keeping up with the latest music” – Clare’s occasional road rage and cars honking, we reach a small street lined with small shops and other downtown “hippie” and “local” boutiques. As God was on our side we found a decent parking spot with little to no casualties, though I was pretending not to feel the curb that Clare drove on top of.

 As the other two girls make their way to one of the many shops we will visit, I try to find it in my very core to move and get out of this stupid, beat-up car, but my every soul has died and been replaced with a mopey version of myself. I keep asking myself, “Would I ever have that chance again? To be that close to him?” The feeling of hopelessness seems to seep into my bones and takes over into my soul as I feel myself falling deeper and deeper into the pit of despair. A gust of wind hits my arm, making me shoot up in shock I yell at Clare as she laughs at me hanging off the open car door. “Come on, man, Lauren is dying to check out this new shop.” I rolled my eyes and finally found the courage to step out of the car; the car isn’t stupid, just my feelings.

 I breathe in the cold air as I match my footing with Clare, following her mindlessly as we catch up with Lauren, who is currently star-struck over this shirt. “Guys, what! Look at it!” Lauren practically screams at us, I laugh at her as I feel myself letting go of its tight grip on the soul-crushing reality. Maybe spending some money and indulging in giving the greedy company my mind, body, and soul is what I need at the moment.

 The rest of the afternoon is spent with Lauren dragging Clare and me around the street, jumping and hopping from one store to another. I found a few tops that were cute and appropriate for the concert but as for pants my fear was proving to be true as none of the shops had my size, or like any normal sizing I mean come on even the chubby girls like to overconsume, and spend all their money on a pair of jeans. 

“Isn't this so cute!” Lauren yells into my ear as I lazily glance over the rack of tops. I throw on a smile as I examine the clothes “Oh yeah, it fits you.” She smiles back at me before her eyes start analyzing the shirt once again. “I’m going to ask Clare what she thinks,” before I can respond Lauren already walked away from me. I sighed but smiled nonetheless, as I went back to looking at the mildly ugly and small tops in front of me, 

“You shouldn’t be here,” a small but pitchy voice says to me. I turn my attention to the owner of the offending voice, only to see a short girl who looks like she would be blown away by a strong gust of wind. I swear to all that is holy, if this goes in the direction I think it is, I’m gonna hole myself up in my room for the next decade. “Excuse me?” I ask the lady, confusion dances across my face as I tilt my head down at her to get a better look, black jeans, black top, and oh- look! A name tag, great, she works here. 

“I’m saying,” her pitchy voice raises a notch as she scoffs at me. “You don’t belong here, none of these sizes will fit you.” She gives me a once-over before crossing her arms and staring up at my face. Yup this went exactly how I was expecting it to. Look, I’m not a Karen or anything of the sort, so the following things I say don’t represent me at all. My eyebrow raised in amusement at her sheer audacity, but two can play this stupid game. 

“Oh, really now? I’m sure your manager or other coworkers would love to hear that you're being rude to a customer just based on their weight.” I give her a fake pout. Her eyes widen at my words, “I’m sure this establishment prides itself on being fat-phobic to their customers, so maybe you will finally get some recognition. Oh! And this interaction will make you get that pay raise you have been hoping for!” I fake excitement in my voice, but I am channeling all the sarcasm I have collected over the 19 years of my life. 

 She starts to stutter as her eyes are wide as dinner plates, her hands come out in front of her, trying to fix her comment she made about me as she fails over and over to come up with something to smooth over her mistake.  Another employee walks up to us, “Is everything okay over here?” The employee is an older woman and much more secure with herself. I smile at her, “Actually, no, this employee over here was telling me to leave this establishment because of my weight, and I feel very disrespected,” the said offending short girl’s body regrets itself as she turns to the older woman, trying to explain and justify herself. Again, I am not a Karen of any sort, but I am not going to let myself be disrespected by this Barbie regret just because she is insecure and projecting it onto strangers. 

The older woman smiles at me, ignoring her. “I’m very sorry she said that towards you, honey, by no means do her words represent the company and what we stand for. Rest assured, this behavior will be dealt with.” I gave the older employee a polite smile, thanking her as she took the younger girl to the back of the store. Once they left, I let out a deep sigh. Look, just because I handled that well doesn’t mean I wasn’t blowing up on the inside.

I scan my eyes around the store, spotting my two friends over the accessories. Taking another deep breath to steady myself, I make my way over there, I just need to turn off my brain and have fun. I can’t let comments like that get to me. For the next hour, we went to two different stores. I managed to find some pants that make up a complete outfit for the concert. I felt more giddy, as maybe the world isn’t so bad when you have a new outfit to wear and show off. Us three stopped at this small cafe for a late lunch and a breather.

 Lauren took the liberty to fill me in on the latest gossip and drama going on in her arts school, as Clare and I just ate peacefully. “Oh hey, what happened back at the bus station?” Clare asks me once Lauren’s gossip train slowed down, I cursed internally, as I was hoping not to think about that again. I shake my head, “It was my soulmate, the string was so tight like he was right there next to me. I was freaked out by it” I explained to her my body shrinking on itself as I reminisced on the feeling of being so close to him. Clare gave me a look of sympathy as she shared some comforting words with me.

 “Holy shit-“ Lauren’s voice breaks through my self loathing as the said girl is starting at her phone like it personally offend her, me and Clare exchanged confused looks “What’s wrong?” I ask Lauren carefully, but as soon as I speak, she shoves her phone into my face. I had to squint my eyes to adjust to the screen as I read the headline on a news article

 ‘BTS THE BIGGEST BOY BAND HAS A 8TH SOULMATE?’ 

“holy shit?!” I shout out as well as I take Lauren’s phone to read through the article quickly to make sure it wasn’t some clickbait but as I read more of it, statements from Bighit and Namjoon himself explain the situation. I passed over the phone to Clare as I stared in disbelief. Their soul group isn't complete? Does this mean that ‘SoulTies” is wrong, or did they just not know? But these guys are on a world tour right now. How are they just now discovering they have an 8th soulmate? 

“Wait, guys, did you read this part?” Clare questions us as she scans her eyes over the phone, “According to the leader of BTS, Kim Namjoon, also known as RM, Him and one other member felt a tug and their red string tightened when at the bus station in the city, where they are performing this Saturday.” Clare finishes reading the segment of the new article. 

I think my brain stopped working at that moment. A million thoughts raced into my head all at once, and the main one is “Could I be their soulmate?” but theres no way, there's no way I am the person. Besides, it's nearly impossible as well since we probably were at the bus station at two different times. There was no way two members of BTS where at the bus station and didn't cause a huge commotion. “Do you guys think we were at the station at the same time as them?” Lauren asks us, there is a childlike amusement in her voice, but Clare, thank god, shuts down that thought immediately. “There's no way, we would have seen a bunch of armies going apeshit as well as a million security guards and paparazzi.” I hum in agreement as I finish up eating.

“Well, maybe we should head to your guy's places since it's getting late.” I changed the topic to hopefully not down Laurens' hopes to much. The other two girls agreed as we packed up and paid for our food. We walk down the once busy streets, now its just a few stray people going home like us. When we came into view of Clare's beat-up car, I sighed in relief. Today was fun, a lot of it if I dont think about how much money I just spent, but there is still this nagging feeling in my chest that something is wrong, and that my soulmate is closer to me than I think, and with the article? I dont know what to think at all, I just want to enjoy the concert and leave this stupid city. 

.

I watch as our soulmate gets into the back of her friend's car, and my chest aches as I see the small pout on their face. Soon, you will be with us. 

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

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[intrepidacious]

time after time [9]

series summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 12.9k

chapter warnings: suicidal ideation in a time loop context; general angst; in many ways, this is a callback chapter but also a step forward; is exposition a warning? please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: i wasn't sure i was gonna post tonight until like an hour ago but hey, it's friday 13th and i'm feeling lucky 🫶🏼 we're in the home stretch now folks

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

nine: out of the past

Home smelled like dish soap and warm cookies.

From your childhood, you remembered that sweet scent wafting from the kitchen to every adjourning room until it knocked on the front door from the inside, welcoming you in its embrace. You never appreciated it as much as you should have, then; maybe children never did. But when the bad days found you, later, you recalled that smell, and it offered a bit of comfort to you, no matter how dismal your surroundings actually were.

At the Compound, smells didn’t linger. No matter how many trays were left out to cool, the air purifier kicked in way too soon and got rid of all sugary traces that tried to stick. It did break your heart a little, but you didn’t know enough about vents to try to mess with them.

The Tower was different, though; a lot of its functions hadn’t been overhauled since 2016, and because all FRIDAY systems were still getting regular service updates, it was simple enough to make minor adjustments to the rest of the set-up. Not that you were baking a lot these days. It was nice to think about it, though. To return from a grueling closing shift and let your nose guide your way home.

Today, it guided your way towards disaster, instead.

"Why are you trying to burn down my kitchen?"

"I got bored," Bucky said, reaching into the oven with his bare hand. You flung up your arms automatically before you realized it was the left one.

You quickly crossed them in front of your chest instead, squinting at the smoking tray. "What are you doing?"

"Making an offering," he muttered distractedly, slapping the crisp pastries with your only good dish towel. "What’s it look like."

You were going to kill him.

"Did your landlord take away your oven for safety reasons or why exactly aren’t these charcoals Made in Brooklyn?" You still hadn't changed the door codes, so you couldn't exactly accuse him of breaking in. It was deeply annoying. "Do you know what time it is?" you said instead.

"Twenty-two forty-five," he said, completely ignoring your first question and not really answering the second. "So you don’t want rugelach?"

"Love rugelach. Prefer them edible."

Maybe you could salvage this. It’d been a long day already, but you’d had quite a lot of coffee and a few minutes should suffice to stop most of the smoke, right?

Otherwise, it’d just linger.

You let out a sigh. "Gimme a sec."

"Could you not—"

With one swift, practiced move, you reached behind and pulled on the thread, teasing time backwards little by little. You watched Bucky return the cursed tray to the oven, his motions jerking, like an old tape that’d been rewound too many times. You found yourself moving into the hallway again, backwards, your shoes returning to your feet, your bag—

Your grip slipped, and you tumbled straight into the coatrack, pulling several hangers noisily down with you. Your ankle twisted with a cracking noise that made tears well up in your eyes.

Great. Just great. Exactly how you’d wanted your evening to go.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Grimacing, you glanced at the time on your phone. You’d barely made it back four minutes. You’d been aiming for six.

"Just take your damn rugelach out of the oven, idiot," you called out sharply.

They still smelled kind of burnt, but not as bad as before. Wincing, you threw your sneaker at the wall to gently roll your foot. It had already started swelling, but at least it didn’t seem broken.

With a relieved sigh, you wiped your cheeks and leaned against the wall to catch your breath. When you opened your eyes again, you flinched backwards, bumping your head.

Today was a dumpster fire.

"What?" you said through gritted teeth when Bucky kept staring at you with raised eyebrows. "This was your fault."

"I magically pushed you into the wall?"

"You just demonstrated your impeccable baking skills. Ow, fuck." Maybe you should just spend the night on the floor. It seemed like the best idea right now. "Why are you bored?"

You didn’t really expect him to answer, but it was the most interesting tidbit of your reset conversation, and you’d promised to share those things.

"Did I say that?" he asked, squatting in front of you. He looked tired as well. There was a long tear through his shirt that you hadn’t noticed earlier. "Why’d you keep your fall?"

"I didn’t keep it," you said disdainfully. "That was a one-time occasion. I overestimated how much energy I had left for my reset."

His frown deepened. "Does that happen a lot?"

"Sometimes," you shrugged. "It’s not like I have a floating health bar I can check every time, you know."

"Sounds impractical."

You huffed. "For once, I agree with you."

He had a pensive look on his face, and you didn’t know what to make of it. Finally, he blinked back into the present and held out his hand. "Come on, Twelve. You should go to bed."

You were too exhausted and aching to question any of it, then. The fact that in all this time since you were introduced, he’d never offered to help you before; or that this was the first time he’d given you that nickname. You didn’t want to ask when you did notice, afterwards, and you couldn’t come up with an explanation on your own until you got a little more used to his military speak, and you remembered what he’d said to Sam.

I’m keeping an eye on her.

You were the danger that was standing right in front of him, and he knew it. He made sure to keep reminding you of the fact that you weren’t to be trusted; that he was watching you.

Then, you remembered telling him about your longest jump backwards being eleven minutes, and you started resenting the nickname a little more. Because no matter which reason was the right one, deep down, you couldn’t fault him for thinking that you weren’t, could never, be good enough.

That was later, though. Right then, you just took his hand.

* * * * *

It doesn’t make any sense.

His hands are still wrapped around your wrists, a light pressure on your pulse. His touch is the only thing tethering you here, cold and warm fingers, and that look of his that you can’t even begin to describe.

I never hit the ground.

"What do you mean," you say quietly, barely a question. "I saw you fall. The loop reset."

That’s how it goes, no matter what else happens. No matter what you do.

"But it reset before I hit the ground," he interrupts your looping thoughts, and there it is again. That awful, useless hope in his eyes. "I don’t remember dying. It didn’t hurt."

You freeze, unable to look away from it. From him. "So, this past week, you always …"

Up until this moment, it hadn’t truly sunk in that Bucky becoming aware of the loops would also mean he’d recall dying; every aspect of it. The pain, the frenzy, the desperation.

Your unwillingness to witness his last moments any longer.

"Doesn’t matter now," you hear him say through a layer of fog and nausea, and how the fuck does he keep doing this? You crave getting that glimmer of optimism back, the sense that there’s another option to explore, a new angle to twist things around in your favor. "We found our loophole."

You blink several times. "What do you mean?"

"Think about it." His thumb swipes across your wrist, gently, and the band tingles. "No more pointless missions that put you and Sam in danger. No more wasting time on trying to save me when it never works out. I can reset us on my own terms."

It’s like something cracks inside you, releasing a cold rush of dread into your bloodstream. "No," you say, "no, that could’ve just been a glitch, we don’t know what’s going on. We have no control over any of this."

Bucky’s face hardens, the triumph that split his mouth into a grin only moments ago a distant memory. "You mean, you don’t."

"Didn’t you just tell me that suicidal behavior can’t be our solution?" you say, unable to hide the bitter edge in your voice.

"That’s different." He drops your hands, finally, as if he’s just noticing he’s been holding onto them this whole time. "You know it’s different."

You can recognize the self-loathing radiating off him all too easily. Useless.

"Forget it," you say, shaking your head. "I won’t let you."

"You won’t let me?" Somehow, he still sounds vaguely amused, and it’s making your blood boil. "Then what’s the alternative, we keep meandering around while I continue to get myself shot every day?"

"I don’t know! Let’s think about this for, like, five seconds."

"I’ve thought about it. And if my options both lead to the same result, anyways, I’d rather choose the one where I at least get somewhat of a say."

Your nails dig into your palms, a sharp, familiar pain. "So you want to, what, pick a time of day where you’re just calling it quits and you plummet to your death?"

"And why not?"

You let out a shrill sort of laugh. "What if it doesn’t work more than once?"

"And what if it does?"

Again, again, he looks at you and something in his gaze shatters. You hate this, and you hate yourself, but you’ve been here before. Hope is the thing that kills him.

"Right," he continues. "You’d rather we keep pretending that nothing’s wrong, like we don’t already know how this day is going to end."

"That’s not fair."

"Nothing about this is fair."

You notice it, then: the fury quietly burning behind his eyes; not with you, necessarily, though you wouldn’t blame him for that, either. No, this is a different kind of rage, one that simmers in the background and hides in the darkest corners, constantly rattling to be let out of its cage. His hands are balled into tight fists now, a single concession to this emotion. It doesn’t seem enough.

Now that you think about it, you wonder if you’ve ever actually seen Bucky Barnes angry.

Annoyed, yes. Frustrated. Pissed off. But those are surface feelings, bubbling up quickly, comparatively easy to live with; nothing like the raw anger that you’ve just caught a glimpse of.

That’s the kind of feeling that, when continually swallowed down, eats you up alive.

So you raise your chin, and you say, "Fight me."

He reflexively moves backwards. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." You get up slowly, wiping some more blood from your nose. The band around your wrist is still tingling. "Or are you scared?"

In all those months you’ve known him, Bucky’s refused to spar with either of you, even though you know for a fact that Sam’s asked several times. He’s not even bothered to come up with a flimsy excuse, just stared blankly and said, "Nope."

"He knows I’d wipe the floor with him again," Sam’s told you in a whisper loud enough to be heard across the living room. If you recall correctly, that was the same night he found white cat hairs all over his bed and had to do laundry at midnight.

Now, Bucky watches you stretch, his gaze intense, calculating. "I don’t want to fight you," he says, but there’s some leftover edge to his voice; more than that, there’s curiosity.

"Bullshit," you reply lowly, tilting your head.

He unlaces his shoes and you smirk.

"Fine." He climbs into the ring, rolling his neck. "What do I get when I win?"

You circle each other on the mat, eyes never leaving each other’s faces. Bucky’s eyebrow is still raised in amusement, a silent challenge for you to make the first move.

"In your dreams, Barnes," you say, and then you do.

He sidesteps your first kicks as easily as a gust of wind, a grin twitching in the corner of his mouth when you follow them with a punch that’s aimed at his stomach but lands on his right arm without much force. The next one doesn’t even graze him, his movements too quick for you to do any damage.

Despite that, he lets you herd him to the other side of the ring, even though you feel it’s more him leading you. Like he’s waiting to see what you’re going to do and is left continually unsurprised. No matter the swirl of confused feelings in your gut, you want to wipe the increasingly smug look off his face.

"Come on, wolf boy," you huff as your foot hits empty space once more. "You’re not gonna hurt me."

His stance changes in a split second, and you barely manage to duck away from his first swing. He’s still holding himself back, you can tell, but the way he holds himself changes from casual defense to downright predatory. You swallow heavily.

"I wouldn’t be so sure about that," he says.

In one quick move he slaps your fist to the side again before his vibranium fingers curl around your neck. He doesn’t put any pressure on it, but your spine still goes rigid as he holds you there for a moment, his gaze slowly dropping down every inch of your body in a way that feels familiar. His thumb twitches with a flutter of your pulse.

He leans in until he hovers right next to your ear and your breath hitches. "And it’s White Wolf."

With a twist, you move out of his hold and aim another kick behind you. It’s not hard enough to hurt—honestly, you’re a little too distracted to put much force into it right now—but he does let go of you with a low chuckle.

Even after that, it’s useless. Every single move you try, Bucky seems to anticipate. It’s like he’s able to tell where you’re about to try to hit him before you even know it yourself.

"Your posture’s terrible," he remarks, blocking your foot again. It sends a jolt of a memory through you.

With the right training, you can use your own weight to your advantage in a fight.

You don’t think you’ve had the right training, exactly, but you’ve certainly never been in better physical shape in your life.

"Thanks," you say, and you think, what the hell.

You feign a punch down, and when he lowers his torso to follow your movement, you turn it into a wonky handstand, yelping as your momentum sends your legs flying forward quicker than anticipated. You feel one of them collide with Bucky’s back, and he huffs in surprise as he staggers, his arms wrapping around you like he’s not sure whether to stop your fall or get you off him. Either way, you both plummet over and into the mat.

There’s a groan from underneath you. "Y’alright, doll?"

"Great," you pant, untangling your legs from his neck but not moving off him quite yet. Instead, you lean forward and press his shoulders to the ground. "One—two—three, yay, I win!"

He gives a short, disbelieving snort of a laugh, and something hot rushes through you again.

The next moment, he flips you both over, catching one of your hands and pinning it to the mat while the other is pressed down by his elbow. Your head is spinning, Bucky’s grin wicked and so close to your face you can feel his breaths fan over your mouth.

"You were saying?"

Your brain short-circuits.

He seems to recognize something is off, because the naked glee in his eyes is slowly, gradually replaced with something else, something you can’t quite name because there’s not a single coherent thought left in your head. You’re acutely aware of the dried blood under your nose. Of a freckle next to his upper lip.

Inhale. Exhale.

And then—

"Am I interrupting something?"

Another rush of heat washes down your body as Bucky takes another couple of seconds to look at you, frowning, like he’s just remembering that you were fighting before all this. Then, he rolls off to the side.

"Go shower, Twelve."

And just like that, the moment has passed.

You push up to your elbows and watch as he ducks out of the ring without so much as another glance at you, an avalanche of your thoughts returning all at once. When you turn to look at Sam, his arms are crossed and his expression seems way too stern and cap-like for this time of day.

"A word?" he says when Bucky shoulders past him, and for some reason you feel like you’re in trouble.

* * *

You stay in the shower until the mirrors fog up and your fingers turn wrinkly, trying and failing to scrub away whatever just happened. It’s like you can still feel him only inches away from your face, hovering, searching. Almost as if he’s waiting for something.

I’m guessing you’ve tried the Groundhog Day option?

Fucking hell, you need to get a hold of yourself right now.

This … training session was a mistake, a miscalculation on your part. Maybe you’ve started losing your mind a little bit after the first couple dozen loops. Lesson learned: find another way to get Bucky to let out his well-earned ire.

One that doesn’t involve him on top of you.

Think you could handle my charm, Y/L/N?

You let the water hit that tense knot at the back of your neck and let out a long sigh. This iteration of today has barely even started and you’re ready to delete it from existence.

Of course, you realize, then, that won’t be quite so easy this time around.

There’s a certain numbness that, according to the heaps of time loop media you’ve consumed early on during all this, seems inevitable when you’re always, always the only person in the world to continually remember the things that happen. Maybe it’s even worse for you, since there once was a time where reversing uncomfortable situations was something you did on the regular. Looking back, those little corrections seem like a preamble for what you’re going through now. Today is a video tape that keeps skipping on the rewind, reliable only in its endless monotony.

It makes you stop considering the long-term consequences of your actions, since there never are any; everything is bound to repeat, with no regard to what you may have done or said that one time during loop number eighty-whatever. Who would remember, except you?

Or so you’ve thought.

The green band around your wrist catches the light and you stare at it for a long time. It shimmers in the steam of the shower, an almost beautiful sort of gleam to it, like it’s gleeful in reminding you of your latest disastrous mistake.

I’m getting Bucky out of this.

As usual, you didn’t do your job as well as you should’ve, and now you’re having to face the consequences of that.

Real stubborn fucking consequences with distractingly blue eyes, that are apparently intent on driving you batshit—

"What was that?"

"Nothing," you mumble, crossing your arms in front of your chest, tapping your fingers one by one. Bucky rolls his eyes for the twenty-eighth time in as many minutes.

Which you know for a fact, since you’ve not let him out of your sight once. Not as he’s rummaged through the fridge with his usual scowl, not as he’s channel-hopped through a couple of lackluster morning shows, not as he’s spent a couple of minutes playing with Alpine before she hopped off his lap to go do whatever cats do. You don’t particularly care today.

If he's so keen on dying, fine, that's his prerogative; but not yet. Not on your watch.

You just need to come up with another solution before he can do anything stupid.

"Are you gonna spend your whole day like this?" he asks, irritated. Good. He doesn’t have a monopoly on staring.

"Depends," you reply. "Got any plans this morning?"

Twenty-nine. That has to be some sort of record.

"Not if I'm gonna be trailed by an overeager barn owl."

"How dare you. And that's Miss Barn Owl to you." You're aiming for lucky number thirty, but no luck. Instead, he lets out a huff.

"I'm not gonna change my mind just because you're annoying, you know."

"When have you ever," you mumble. If only your useless mind could draw anything but a blank.

Endless loop. Saving each other. Threaten Loki. Blow yourselves up. Upon the wielder’s death, the timeline will—

"Twelve …"

You shake your head, your nails biting into your skin, and Bucky cuts himself off, a muscle in his jaw feathering.

Your gaze wanders. He's all sharp angles this morning in his gloves and the leather jacket, like he’s dressed in black armor concealing all the parts that should be gone, bruised, bloodied, broken. A mundane shield anyone else wouldn't even take conscious notice of, because this is just what he does.

Not lately, though. Not at home, not on Friday.

So how many weapons is he hiding right now?

"Okay, we are getting into Annabelle territory."

Out of the corner of your eye, it looks like Sam’s lost some of the ramrod Captain America energy he was radiating earlier. Bucky’s not told you what kind of words were exchanged, so you’re left to chalk it up to another TAG.

That doesn’t calm you even a little bit.

"How's your nose?" Sam asks, leaning against the back of Bucky’s couch.

"Mostly in shape, I think." You dab at your nostrils and it still hurts a little, but there’s no more blood. "How’s your speech?"

"Mostly in shape, I think," he echoes with a lopsided grin that unexpectedly stings.

Again, you can’t help but yearn for a timeline more permanent than this one. Every day Sam writes that speech, and every day he frets about the details for hours and you can’t tell him that he’s always going to end up smashing it. That’s not how this is supposed to go.

"Have I told you lately that I really appreciate you?" you tell him instead.

His eyebrows raise in mild amusement. "Did you take the good painkillers?"

"I’m serious," you protest, even though you may have. "You’re a good friend and a good cap, and you should be told more often."

Sam blinks, glancing at Bucky as if he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"Don’t look at me, bud," he replies. "She’s right."

There’s a couple of moments before Sam shakes his head. "Y’all are Looney Tunes today and I think it’s some sorta ploy, so I’m gonna finish this speech and you’re gonna leave."

"Are you kicking us out?" you ask.

"Yup."

"It’s our apartment," Bucky says.

"I don’t care. Shoo. Come back when you’re normal."

Bucky doesn’t move an inch, even as he has to hide a grin when Sam keeps shoving his shoulder, mumbling to himself about needing room to think, and you have an idea. A bad one, perhaps, but it might just work for your purposes.

"I know what we’re gonna do," you tell Bucky and get up from your couch, grabbing your bag.

"That so?"

You hum, pressing the button for the elevator. "But first, we’ll have to steal a car."

* * *

It’s odd to be back.

Everything about it feels wrong.

You used to know this place like the back of your hand and now it’s like you’re looking at it through fun mirrors, making the image all twisted. The Compound is both bigger and smaller than you remember, and the reality of it makes your heart twinge.

Rubble lines the driveway. You’re both silent as the borrowed car shakily bumps around the curve leading up to where the main building used to be. Your fingers drum a nervous rhythm against the dashboard as you look outside. The branches that used to hang low and cast a soft shade over your head now litter the ground.

New ones are already sprouting, though.

Time hasn’t stopped, not even for this battlefield, and that fact makes you feel better and worse at the same time.

Through the open window, the air smells like hot grass and cement. No one’s working today, of course, but the repair work’s been going slow, anyway. There are no new Avengers to house, and Pepper Potts has had more pressing things to do. You wonder if Morgan’s old enough to be in kindergarten yet.

The car slows until Bucky turns the engine off, parked next to a particularly large piece of debris. You take a deep breath before you trust your legs not to buckle underneath you when you climb outside.

The one and only other time you were here after it all happened, you were still amped up on morphine and grief and you barely felt anything at all at the sight of your home of almost five years lying in ruins. Now, you have to grind your teeth, hugging your arms around yourself in a sorry attempt at comfort.

You used to spend hours reading underneath that tree that’s been cleaved in half. If you squint, you could still point your gaze to where your windows would have been.

Yours.

"This feels strange."

You turn to look at Bucky and find him staring at a spot near the tree line, looking out at the lake.

"Yeah," you say, clearing your throat. "Me too."

The look that passes his face is one you haven’t seen in a while, oddly similar to the one you recall him giving you on your bathroom floor. It’s gone within seconds, but it leaves its trace.

The big hall that had housed the time machine is still mostly rubble, and you’re glad for it. You don’t know how Bruce ever managed to get the pieces out and make them work again; you don’t like thinking about it and you would bet Bucky doesn’t either.

You inhale your grief once more and let it out in one long, shaky exhale. Then, you roll your aching shoulders. "Alright," you tell yourself, lifting your chin up to blink against the bright July sun.

It should be autumn by now.

Every step towards the Campus ruins makes something coil inside your chest, something painful and hot and angry. Good, you think. That’s why you’ve come, after all.

"Remember that game Sam used to play?" you ask and your voice comes out both sharper and softer than you expect. "If you could go any place, any time?"

Bucky doesn’t answer immediately, and for one shocking moment you wonder whether you’d jumped away all of Sam’s terrible attempts of camaraderie.

"My ma used to say that home’s not really a place."

It’s a peace offering, you think, or maybe just his way of showing that he understands what you’re trying to say. Of course he does.

You bite the inside of your cheek harder. "Smart woman."

The site in the center of the former entry hall seems as good as any. No reinstalled roof that could cave your heads in, no loose cables lying around to fry certain jinxed super-soldiers to death.

"She was." Bucky stops a couple of steps behind you as you scan your surroundings for what you’re going to need. Luckily, whoever’s responsible for this part of the site isn’t as cleanly as the ULTIMATUM lab guys; everything’s been left right where someone was using it on Thursday. "So, what are we doing here, exactly?"

You blow the cement dust off a pair of slightly singed safety glasses and hand them to him. "Fuck shit up."

He stares at you. "Sorry?"

"Nope." You continue rummaging through the work tools that are lying about. "No more apologizing. That’s the point. We’re stuck in a damn time loop and absolutely nothing we do matters, so we’re going to fuck some shit up."

"Is this you telling me you’ve finally lost your marbles?"

You pull out a crowbar. "I’m telling you I’m furious and I need to break something, and I think you do, too."

He crosses his arms in front of his chest. "Yeah, I don’t think so."

"Come on, Barnes. You must’ve had the urge to just destroy something before." You swing your lever around for emphasis. "What’s the worst that could happen?"

You wince right after you say it, recalling the last time someone’s said that to the both of you. Bucky’s face stays blank, unreadable.

"Someone gets hurt," he says quietly, making it sound like a prediction. Haunted.

"No one’s gonna get hurt," you say, putting on a second pair of glasses. "Look around! No one here except us. And you know what—helmet." You adjust your hair and plop it onto your head. "See?"

"You look ridiculous," he says dryly.

"Thank you." Perhaps your appeal would be more effective if you weren’t already struggling to close the damn latch of your helmet. Unfortunately, your safety glasses are making everything fit a little funky, and you can’t seem to find the right—

"Geez, let me—just hold still for a sec."

You swallow and tilt your head up, trying not to look at his face when Bucky takes a step closer. His fingers brush the tips of your ears as he readjusts the damn goggles, trailing down to your chin. You suppress the urge to shiver when you realize he’s finally taken his gloves off again.

His touch is rough and light and way too close to your pulse point.

The helmet clicks into place and you shake yourself out of your stupor. You hold up your crowbar like a challenge.

"How about we make a game out of it?"

He deliberates, his mouth set in a thin line, slightly blurred by the polycarbonate. "What do you have in mind?"

"Pry of truth," you say. "You name the thing that gets your hackles up, you get to smash something. And you’re not allowed to say me."

"I don’t like that rule."

"That’s a shame. I’ll go first, then."

You narrow your eyes at an old glass bottle sitting on a bench next to the site. "I’ll never be able to listen to any song by the fucking All-American Rejects ever again."

The bottle smashes beautifully and a rush of adrenaline charges through your veins.

"Your turn, Buck."

You look over your shoulder and freeze for a moment, because he’s shrugged off his jacket, putting it on a work table nearby. Smart, you belatedly think, giving himself a bigger range of movement and you the opportunity to ignore his bare arms.

Get a damn grip.

You hold out the crowbar. "Time to get angry."

"You won’t like me angry." He takes it anyway, and you huff.

"Whether I like you or not has never stopped you before."

His jaw twitches. He mutters something to himself before the pry lightly hits the bench and the whole thing flies away. A startled laugh escapes you.

"Out loud, next time."

"My bad," Bucky says, throwing you the crowbar.

"You’re a cheat," you shake your head, pulling back for another swing. "I’m fucking sick of this weather."

More glass shatters when a bunch of tools and containers go flying off the work table with a couple of strikes.

"I already knew that."

"My bad."

There’s a moment where Bucky flashes a quick grin at you, but you recognize something ignite in him. He slams his vibranium fist into some of the brick stones piled up nearby and they fly into little pieces.

He flexes his fingers slowly, a lost look on his face. "Sometimes I can almost forget that this isn’t …"

You swallow, gripping your crowbar more tightly. "I want nothing more than to stop this loop for good, but it also terrifies me."

Crash. Tools and parts and leftover items smash on the rubble ground as you strike them over and over again, splinters flying off in all directions. You ignore the pain when they hit you, and the sounds of more things breaking behind your back, focused only on the next thing in front of you. Each small destruction that’s under your control.

When you’re done, your breaths come out fast and shallow, your anger at yourself, at your situation, escaping you in desperate pants. Because this is your worst secret yet, isn’t it? More terrible than any growing feelings and long-forgotten truths, this nagging fear of what’s next.

As terrible as the loop has been, it’s at least predictable. Who’s to say that what’s after isn’t worse than this one day? What of every other way the future could break your heart, kill those you care about, burn this world to the ground? If nothing else, Friday is the devil you know.

But you can’t stay; and you wouldn’t want to, anyway. That’s the contradiction you’re stuck in.

Your fingers are wrapped around the pry so tightly it hurts, and you force yourself to take a deep, shuddering breath. Then, you turn around, and your eyes widen.

Bucky’s moved farther away from you, as if to make sure not to put you in his path of destruction. In it, no stone’s been left unturned. Work tables are flipped, machines dented and cracked; the newly put-up drywall a couple of yards ahead has several cracks and holes running through it.

He’s a swirling storm of piled up fury and anguish, and you’re the sole witness to his wreckage. It’s quiet, in a way, with a finality to the brunt of each throw, each hit. Like he’s been waiting for this implicit permission to let go a very long time.

Slowly, the dust settles, leaving him alone at the center of it all, the only thing still standing among broken pieces.

"I keep—" he starts, his head still lowered, shaking. "I keep telling myself that I’m no longer the Winter Soldier, but I don’t think it’s true."

You don’t respond immediately; you’re not sure he’d want you to. Taking off your protective gear is a lot easier than putting it on, and you blink against the sun behind him. It leaves his face in shadows.

"What do you mean?"

"Look at me," he spits, every syllable ringing with despair.

"I am," you say quietly, and you are, you are, you are.

And right then, you feel yourself slip, because the truth is that seeing him like this doesn’t make you like him any less than you do seeing him with relaxed shoulders and sun spots across his chest. It’s just a moment or two before you catch yourself, but you’re sure that if he’d looked at you right then, he’d know.

He hesitates, his jaw tight. "I still hear his voice. I keep thinking like him, wanting to act like he would. What if I do? What if one day, I can’t control it?"

You clear your throat. "Can I say something?"

He nods.

"Of course you still have parts of him in you. It’s your past. You can’t get rid of that. That’s, unfortunately, not how it works." You take a couple of steps closer, your shoes dragging on the rubble. "But it doesn’t make you a bad person, either. It wasn’t your fault."

"I’m supposed to stay in control."

"Aren’t you?" you ask. "I mean, you hear the voice, but do you ever act on it?"

He meets your eyes, then, vehemently. "I would never do that."

You nod, not surprised in the slightest. "What does your therapist think?"

He scoffs. "Not much. He called it intrusive thoughts."

"Hm. That’s really concerning," you say, tilting your head. "You’re being a normal human."

Bucky frowns when you come to a stop in front of him, his eyes swimming with confusion.

"Everyone has those thoughts sometimes," you continue, holding up the crowbar again. "Like, I could hit myself with this. Or you. That doesn’t mean I’m gonna do it. Your thoughts just happen to have a particular flavor to them."

He grinds his teeth. "What if I like being him? When I have these thoughts, my mind is clear. Quiet. Focused. That’s why—"

"What?"

He shakes his head, looking behind you at the rubble surrounding you both. His shoulders deflate at the wasteland before him, and you desperately want to reach for him.

"You’re one of the good ones, Buck," you say, not moving an inch. "Despite your past. Because of your past. It doesn’t make you any less …" Loveable. "You know that, right?"

A beat passes.

"Keep remindin’ me and I might." He clears his throat. "Your turn, Twelve."

It still stings, unexpectedly so. You half-heartedly throw the pry at a couple of bricks, missing by a mile and not caring one bit. You’re out of anger for now.

"I really hate it when you call me that," you admit.

"Why?" he asks, the surprise in his voice genuine.

"Because it makes me … you know how I feel about my powers. It’s like you’re reminding me how I’m not good enough, every time you say that."

Bucky’s gaze on you burns in your neck. "That’s what you think?"

"What else am I supposed to think?" you ask, rolling your eyes. "You said you wanted to keep an eye on me, back when—”

"I think you’re better than you’re telling yourself."

You twist your rings around your fingers, one by one. The space on your pinkie is still empty. "No, I’m not."

"Yes. You are." His boots crunch as he takes a step closer. "You told me eleven minutes on your best days? That’s bullshit."

"It’s not," you huff.

"Remember Marylebone? How much did you jump then?"

London seems like years ago, with July getting stuck. It was another extraction mission, and it went well enough—if you ignored Redwing getting shot to bits, that is. Which you usually did.

"Maybe three minutes," you mumble. Not exactly a span of time to write home about.

"But how many times did you do that?" Bucky insists. "How many times did you hold time still during that?"

Your skin prickles. "That’s different—”

"Not really. Not according to your rings, it’s not. They’re just different aspects of your powers. Also, you made a fucking time loop out of nothing."

"One that I have no control over, remember?"

"Not yet."

You shake your head, pulling your arms around yourself. "How did this turn into you giving me a pep talk?"

"You’re …" He sighs and drags a hand through his hair. Little pieces of dust get stuck in it, and you find yourself wanting to brush them out.

"Likewise." How could he be so positive about all the things you disliked about yourself most while not doing the same for himself?

Bucky picks up another brick from the pile next to you, weighing it in his hand, and something about the movement catches your eye, the sunlight just so that …

"Wait!" you say.

He freezes.

You drop to your knees and start digging through the rubble, pushing the bricks aside and ignoring the cuts you get on your hands until—

"Holy shit," you whisper.

"What’s that?"

It’s stuck underneath a pile of debris, the accumulation of nearly two years of being stuck and forgotten, but somehow, it’s still here. Covered in dirt and a little tattered at the edges when you finally manage to pull it out, but still.

"That’s my invisibility cape."

"You have an invisibility cape?"

"Had," you correct, inspecting it more closely. "I didn’t know it survived."

"For the love of—d’you think you might’ve mentioned this before?"

"I didn’t think it was important."

"Twe—" He pinches his nose with two fingers and lets out a long, slow breath. "Does it still work?"

"I don’t know."

"Well, go on then."

You flap it a few times to get the worst of the dust off, then pull it over your head and watch your body disappear. It’s as much of a journey to the past as you’ve managed throughout this loop, and an incredulous giggle escapes you.

Bucky has a peculiar look on his face as he looks just to the right of where you are.

"You trust me, right?" he says pensively.

It occurs to you that he’s never asked you that before, and so you nod even though he can’t see. "I trust you."

"I have an idea."

* * *

"For the record, I hate your ideas."

"Noted," Bucky replies out of the corner of his mouth, tucking his cap deeper into his face.

You nervously tap your foot, peering at the building on the other side of the street. Bleecker Street isn’t all that busy at this time of day, and even though you're fully hidden by your cape, you can’t help but wish for more of a crowd to hide in. You reach for the amulet around your neck.

"What if something goes wrong?" you murmur.

"It won’t," he says calmly. "You said Sam’s already tried and no one’s there today. Plus, we have more or less infinite tries for this, remember?"

You do, unfortunately. Even though you’d really prefer a better, more elaborate plan to break into the New York Sanctum in much the same way as you did the public library, you don’t think they have a Supreme burglar alarm or anything of the sort. Picking the front door lock, it is.

Annoyingly, Bucky even knows you well enough to understand you don’t want to be seen within a hundred yards of any time wizard territory; hence, the game-changing cape.

You wish you’d kept the damn thing in the dirt.

"You don’t know what they’re capable of," you say quietly.

"True, I don’t. But you do." He waits for a couple of people to pass by before risking a glance in your general direction. "Come on. I would never let anything happen to you in there."

You hate these sunglasses. They make it impossible to tell how he means that.

Before you can voice another reason why you should better head back and go get ice cream somewhere, Bucky’s already moving across the street. Cursing under your breath, you rush to follow him, bumping against his arm to make your presence known.

The tiniest grin flickers in the corner of his mouth, and for a moment you enjoy getting to stare at it without him noticing. Then, you take another step and the air around you changes.

If there was any kind of active warning system, you can pinpoint the exact moment it would have alerted. It’s like you’re entering an invisible bubble that surrounds the building, the air growing just a fraction colder. It’s not the temperature that makes you shiver, though.

Magic hums within the very walls of the house. This energy is different to what you remember, but still similar enough you have to bite your cheek hard to keep concentrating on the task at hand.

You swallow down the bile in your mouth and turn your back on the heavy oak door to make sure no one notices that Bucky isn’t, in fact, struggling with a key but instead breaking and entering in broad daylight.

I knew you’d be back, a voice just behind your shoulder seems to whisper, and you flinch. All those years, and still …

Finally, you hear a quiet click and the door creaks open.

"You with me?" Bucky mutters.

Your nails dig into the palms of your hands. "Let’s do this."

177A Bleecker Street is quite a lot bigger on the inside. In many ways, it looks just as you expected, solemn and intricate, all wooden paneling and marble floors that block the sounds from the street outside. Heavy couches sit along the far walls, framed by doorways. A gigantic staircase leads to the upper floors, spreading out into a gallery.

However, something about it feels … unexpected. The energy you’ve already noticed outside is sparkling like electricity, like a fuse ready to be lit, like fireworks waiting to explode, unprecedented and ever changing. Alive.

For some reason, it’s not all that scary.

Pure magic fills your lungs with every breath, and yet it’s just a house. Dust particles are dancing in the blurry light. Your shoes squeak a little on the stone floors.

Bucky takes off his sunglasses, blinking to readjust to the dim light in here. He takes stock of his surroundings much more quickly than you do, zeroing in on the upper levels.

You hold your hood with one hand as you crane your neck. From your position hovering just behind him in the entrance, you can make out the shapes of a few large shelves.

Bingo.

You’ve agreed that despite Strange’s flakiness, he’s already shown you the books most relevant to your situation that the Sanctum library has to offer. Therefore, if not a reading room, you’re looking for any other magical items that might give you a helping hand, maybe some sort of power boost.

To be honest, you’re hoping for a portal to simply step through and finally leave this day behind for good, but you’d settle for a clue.

Bucky’s fingers twitch ever so slightly by his side. Without thinking, you reach out and wrap your pinkie around his. He doesn’t look at you, but he gently squeezes your finger before pulling away, putting his hands back into his jacket pockets.

He left his gloves in the stolen car.

The stairs creak when you sneak up behind him, but the house remains silent. There’s only the omnipresent hum of electric magic, which gets even stronger when you get closer to the shelves you’ve spotted. It’s calling out to you, but not in the way it did outside; this is a softer whisper, more alluring, more curious. Could it be? it says. I’ve waited so long.

You find yourself trailing off, moving a few paces towards the far wall, your heart pounding a wild rhythm. The shelves are made of glass-paneled dark wood, arranged in a spiral pattern. Their contents look rather unassuming in the pale sunlight falling in from the large circular window, museum-like if not for the absence of proper labeling: a couple of old daggers and wands, dull gemstones, shards of pottery, all carefully bedded on crimson velvet and then left for dust.

None of it screams Gateway Out of Here.

Maybe, you think, you could try to hold a few of these gems in your hand and see what happens, do a couple of gestures to coax your powers back. If only there was one of those rings that—

Behind you, shots are fired, and then something heavy crashes to the floor with a resounding shatter. The thrall breaks.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, to think you’d be safe just because you couldn’t be seen. To think that Bucky would be fine waltzing into a place like this without any real protection, just because you’ve been led to assume it’d be abandoned. You’ve stepped right into the trap, and it’s snapped shut immediately.

You spin around, your hands flying up automatically as if there’s a damn thing you can do.

Time doesn’t freeze, but you wish it would.

Bucky’s tangled in a web of rust-colored twines that curl around his arms, his torso, his neck, cutting off his air flow. His gaze is wild, flitting around the room, searching for you even in your invisibility, a silent command in his eyes: Run.

His gun’s dropped to the floor at his feet, right underneath the tendrils winding their way up his struggling legs. You fall towards it, reaching out right as you’re yanked backwards and the eldritch magic catches hold of you, too. Their otherworldly glow makes shadows dance across the dark shelves, ghostly and distorted.

"I suggest you show your face now," a voice says right behind you.

You can tell the hood is ripped off your head because Bucky throws himself against his bindings again. They tighten even more around him, and he chokes, his eyes still glued to you.

He does it again.

"Please don’t," you cry, "not like this, please stop it!" You’re not even sure who you’re pleading to, your fingers twitching, but there’s nothing you can reach out to, the magic in this place forsaking you again.

"You," the voice behind you says sharply.

Any moment, you should wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

You’re slung backwards and you scream because you can’t see Bucky anymore, can’t do anything except hang there, helpless, eye to eye with the Sorcerer Supreme.

"Zealot," he says, venom in every syllable. "I thought you’d died."

"I’m not," you gasp, the very word stinging. "Please, you need to let go of him."

"I don’t think so. I ought to banish you to the Dark Dimension like the rest of you."

The magic around you starts spinning, surrounding you in a dizzying blur of orange and gold. Your blood rushes in your ears as you feel something pull at your very consciousness, harsh and terrifying, and you’re not waking up, you have to wake up, you—

"We’re facing an Incursion!" you shout, hoping anyone can hear you over the mad cacophony of energy. "Please, there’s no time, call Stephen Strange!"

And then, with a final sputter of color, everything goes black.

* * *

The last time you woke with the smell of Sanctum magic in your lungs was the day Thanos snapped.

Wait. Rewind for context.

Your mother used to call it a gift, but for most of your life, your powers had felt more like a curse.

Sure, they had their uses, sometimes, but at what cost? Most of the time, you couldn’t control them, so when you got older, you tried to hide them instead, as best as you could, to pretend they weren’t there at all. You just wanted to be normal.

But your powers didn’t like that.

Ignorance was a vicious circle: The more you tried to suppress the magic coursing through your blood, the more unpredictable it became, flinging you through the timeline without any regard to your sanity. It was a struggle to control even a fraction of what was happening to you.

You knew you needed help.

The London Sanctum was the only one you were aware of, then, the one safe haven for people who were struggling with things beyond their control. Your mother had told you about it many times.

One can never be too wary of their promises, though, honey, she’d close the story every time. They like to forget them when it’s more convenient.

You never asked how she knew so much about the Sanctum and its inhabitants. Mothers just know things when you’re a child.

Maybe you should’ve listened to her warning more closely, but you were young and overwhelmed and out of options, and so you left familiar faces behind and traded them for a silver lining. For the hope of finally controlling this power that was set on destroying your life.

Time itself.

That first day, you were sitting in the Sanctum's courtyard, looking at the other recruits with wide eyes, to the glimmering portals that, they told you, could bring you to the other side of the world in a single step. For the first time in your life, you were surrounded by magic; it wasn't just your secret burden to bear, it was all around you.

Like an offering, they brought the stone to you that day, suspicion clear in their eyes, and you trembled in your bones knowing that everything would finally be fixed, now. Surely, everything would be fixed. You could feel the energies pulsating from that unassuming little gem, mixing with your own powers, sending apprehensive shivers down your spine.

Yes, you thought, stepping closer to it with your hand outstretched. You can fix this.

It was the one and only time you could recall not remembering anything at all.

You'd lost a few seconds at most, but when you blinked back into consciousness, your head was pounding and the time stone had been snatched away from you once again, safe in its golden cage. You'd never see it again.

How peculiar, you caught a whisper, then another, like voices born out of every nightmare you'd ever had, and you tried jumping back to find out what you'd missed, but your powers didn't obey you.

You let yourself get soothed by the empty promises you'd been warned of, but magic would never seem that light or gentle to you again as it did during that first afternoon.

For a while, things got better anyway.

You studied with the Masters of the Mystic Arts while they studied you. They provided you with all sorts of amulets and cuffs that kept the random jumps under control, but they either couldn’t figure out how your powers came to possess you, of all people, or they just didn’t want to tell you.

Time is sacred, they used to teach, and your very existence went against that premise. You were unpredictable, a variable that could never fit into their precious calculations and theories of the grand, sacred timeline, no matter how hard they tried. You found yourself using your powers even less than before, just to stop them from talking over you.

Impossible girl, the Ancient One used to call you, and you hated it.

Of course, she wasn’t making a reference. She just thought you impossible, along with everyone else.

You went along with it for a couple of months or so before you got tired of trying to do something, anything, and you wanted to go home. That was when things shifted.

You’re not a prisoner, they kept telling you, and it was true, in a way. The doors were always open, and your cuffs weren’t shackles. There were just certain rules to learning, particularly in these important early stages of the process. Rules to who goes where, and what to do, and what to wear at every hour of every day, and also the food all tasted the same, like sad mash of whatever vegetables they were able to find that week, but no. You weren’t a prisoner.

That was just life, here, and everyone else seemed fine with it, so what was your problem, exactly?

You were tired and terrified, and everyone told you that there was something about you that just didn’t make sense, which you could’ve told them from the start if only someone listened to you. Everything seemed pointless.

It was no wonder, then, that when Kaecilius and his band of lunatics offered to take you under their wing, to give you a cause and a reason to use your powers, you thought your luck might finally turn.

You’re such a special girl, they’d tell you. Such a special, clever girl. This is a great thing, you know. It’s your talent to make things right, make them the way they should be. You, my dear, are invaluable.

If it sounded too good to be true, that’s because it was.

Kaecililus’ definition of help, it turned out, meant subjugation; or at least the attempt of it. Do as I tell you. For once, your strangling limits turned out to be a blessing in disguise.

What a disappointment you are.

There were no grand speeches. No fanfare, no declaring you a nuisance; you felt the sentiment, anyway. The special, clever girl was a useless waste of time, after all, and was left behind as such. Never good enough. Not deserving of everlasting life.

Not that you wanted any part of that.

You faded back into oblivion again, unable to leave and unable to stay, stuck somewhere in between in the background where you were met with endless whispers and suspicion, doing your part and eating your mush without complaint. What else were you to do? People didn’t leave this place, after all, not before they understood what they came here to find.

Unless they suddenly started applying to your situation, you were fantastically uninterested in any more lectures.

It took a very long time for you to figure out that you could limit the random time jumps by using your powers as much as you could, small skips and halts to the point of exhaustion. If there was nothing left to use, you reasoned, your body couldn’t act without permission. Slowly, you were able to return their trinkets one by one until the only piece you had left was the one you’d brought from home; silver and black tourmaline. Putting it on again was a small relief.

You were still in London when the world was decimated.

The air was heavy and burnt with dust. It was all that was left of so many. The cries of those left behind dried up quickly, leaving a deafening silence in their wake. That was the part you most remembered in years to come: the smell, and the silence.

You were ready to disappear, too, and when whatever fate there was decided to spare you, you took matters into your own hands. The confusion and panic had raised your adrenaline, and the world stopped easily at your command.

It didn’t take you long to grab the few belongings you had left, to shove them into the wooden box every room was outfitted with, and to turn your back on your prison. You found the portal that would take you closest to home, and you stepped through.

You’d never been lucky for long, though. When you arrived, the front door was locked from the inside, and the television was still running, day and night, with no one left to turn it off. You shouted and knocked and rang the doorbell anyway, until your knuckles hurt and your voice got hoarse, and then you noticed that the name above the door was wrong. Time had once again passed unexpectedly, and this place you'd once called home did not belong to you anymore.

You were a nobody now, just like you’d wanted.

Right?

Right.

…

Anyway.

The first time you met Natasha Romanoff in person, a few weeks after the Snap, she only had to look at you for a couple of seconds to be able to read you like a book.

* * *

When you’re finally done, your voice is hoarse and your palms are bloody. You can tell both Wong and Strange are staring at you, but the only person you look at is Bucky.

He’s leaning against the invisible wall of his cell in the Sanctum’s undercroft, meeting your gaze in grim, unreadable silence. He hasn’t looked away from you once during your whole monologue.

You feel drained, turned completely inside out, presenting your most vulnerable parts for everyone to see; and yet, you keep looking at the one person in this room who’s going to remember any of it, calmly and unwaveringly. It makes your head swim, but you can’t keep looking away.

That me then, you think, your hands tapping a quiet rhythm on the cool stone floor. Disappointed?

A pity, you suppose, that you never did get an answer to that particular question.

To your surprise, Strange is the first to break the silence. "Well, then. You think that’s enough to let them out of there?"

Wong mutters a response you don’t understand, but something flickers in front of you for just a moment, and one blink later, Bucky’s in front of you. He wordlessly holds out his hand.

You don’t hesitate before you take it.

Time slows in a way that’s entirely imaginary as he pulls you back to your feet. Every inch of your skin that’s touching him turns hot and cold at the same time.

If it had been his right hand, you wouldn’t have dared to gently squeeze it before finally letting go.

Bucky looks like he wants to say something, but before he gets a chance to even open his mouth, Strange clears his throat. Not for the first time, you want to set his cloak on fire.

"It’s a good thing you came here."

"Oh, yes," you say. "Thanks again for the warm welcome. What fun we’ve had."

"You did break in," Wong says. "Over the past couple of months, we’ve had to be particularly careful when it comes to unexpected visitors. For what it’s worth, though," he adds, "I am sorry."

There’s an honesty to his voice that you appreciate, though not as much as Bucky staying a half-step in front of you during this whole conversation.

Strange claps his hands. Out of the corner of your eye, you see a tea set appear on the sad old desk that’s been pushed against one of the dungeon walls. "Best not to dwell on it," he says, his cloak gently flapping at you. "May we take a look at your necklace?"

You hesitate. You’ve not taken it off in years, not even to sleep or train. It’s been what’s successfully hidden you away from anyone trying to find you or your powers.

Now that you’ve revealed all of yourself, though, you suppose there’s no point in denying him.

You place the necklace in his palm and he murmurs something. It starts glowing in gentle amber colors.

"It should do," he says to Wong. "Do you want the honors?"

"Here’s what I don’t understand," Wong says, ignoring him. "All of this could’ve been avoided with a few controlled time slips."

"A few what now?" you say.

"It’s the act of reversing time not for the whole universe, but for one small part of it. Even he could do it after just a few months," he says, nodding his head at Strange, who lifts an eyebrow.

"Look at you condoning going against the laws of nature."

"Shut up and do your job. Away from my carpets, this time."

"Your carpets, is it?" Strange says, his cloak flapping impatiently. His gray eyes bore into you one final time, assessing you, you think, or maybe silently telling you something you don’t understand. Then he turns and starts ascending the stairs again.

You wrap your arms around yourself. "I’ve not had months of training," you remind Wong.

"Not that first time," he replies. "From what you’ve told us, though, your training in the astral plane has progressed immensely. You should have much more control over your powers than you ever have before."

"So you’re saying I could do it now?"

"I’m saying there’s at least a chance. May I?"

You fiercely ignore Bucky glancing at you, holding out your arm. The symbols around your wrist buzz and glimmer when Wong murmurs something, his hands hovering over your skin. The smell of magic grows more potent as gentle wisps of light travel along your arm, poking at the loop.

Warm fingers wrap around your other hand this time, and you realize you’ve been shaking.

"With the time anomaly persisting, it will continue getting stronger with every repeat of this day," Wong continues out loud as he’s working. "It will eat away at the fabric between realities until things start to slip through, and then it’s only a matter of time until this one collapses entirely."

You swallow. "What things?"

"People. Places. Memories meant for other timelines. Playing with the fabric of everything is a dangerous pastime."

"It’s not like we’re doing it on purpose," Bucky speaks up for the first time. Your hold on his hand tightens.

Wong glances up at him. "Unfortunately, Sergeant Barnes, there are some rules that don’t care about intent."

"So what if it does?" you say. "Collapse, I mean. You know about me now, can you not portal or time slip us to another reality, let this one disintegrate? It’s cursed, anyway."

"Apart from the fact that that’s not how portals work," Wong says dryly, "that’s a reckless idea. All realities are connected in one way or another. One imploding like this might have disastrous consequences on the entire multiverse."

"This is about the whole sacred timeline thing again, isn’t it?" You roll your eyes. "Who came up with that, anyway? What makes our existence so damn special? I mean, there are endless possibilities out there, aren’t there? An infinite number of realities. Who’s to say we’re more real than the rest of them?"

"Magic, as a whole, is always a balancing act." The symbols return to their place just above your skin, tingling. Wong rubs his hands, looking at you. "Ask your actual question."

"I’m not supposed to exist here, am I?" You’re grateful for the fact that Bucky is still holding your hand, even though you don’t know why he would. It anchors you. "I switch between realities every time I jump back in time, right? So this one isn’t actually mine at all."

"Has anyone ever taught you about the Infinity Stones?"

Had they? You’d learned more about the stones at Campus than you ever had during your time at the Sanctum, but even then—knowing how to find a thing and understanding it aren’t the same thing.

You shake your head.

"The powers held by the stones are interconnected. You don’t just control time, your powers have an influence on space and reality by their very nature as well. You can’t just separate one from the other. Tea?"

You stay silent as he pours it into several mugs and offers you one. It’s steaming hot, and it smells almost exactly like the one you were offered in the astral plane; only with a dash of cinnamon.

"The thing is," Wong continues, blowing on his tea, "in a way, we all hold the same kind of power. These other worlds, they exist alongside this one, all the time, and each time we make a decision, our consciousness merely slips between them. That doesn’t make the ones we left behind more or less ours."

"But the stones got destroyed in our reality," Bucky says.

"There’s that thing called the first law of thermodynamics."

Bucky’s thumb traces an absentminded line along the back of your hand, and you have to hide a shiver. "Energy can’t be created or destroyed, it can only change its form."

"That’s exactly right. So you see, even though the stones may be turned to dust, they’re not gone. Otherwise, our reality—or any like it, in fact—wouldn’t continue to exist."

"That wasn’t my question, though," you argue. "The power of the stones still exists, whatever that means. That’s great. What does that have to do with me? Or with this loop, for that matter."

"You draw from the time stone’s energy more than the other’s," Wong replies. "Since the stones don’t exist in their physical form anymore in our reality, you are pulling the necessary energy from others in which they are still intact, at the moment of using your powers. You’ve been able to jump greater temporal distances more easily before, am I right? Before the stone was crushed into pieces?"

You’re about to deny it, but then he adds, gently, "When you were a child, maybe?"

Memories of repeated accidental time jumps rush through your mind. Memories of getting stuck in the same couple of minutes for hours on end, finally getting out of it after what had felt like years and yet not feeling any different at all.

It’d never made you feel so exhausted, then.

You’d never put it together consciously because the first time you tried using your powers after the Snap, you you’d already been exhausted for so long. You’d blame a lack of practice, of proper technique or attention or adequateness; a lack of freedom to use them however you wanted without feeling prying eyes watch your every move.

Later, you’d mostly blame yourself.

Bucky’s hand slips out of yours and you are brought back to the present again. The tea has gone tepid in your cup when you take a sip; it makes your eyes water with its bitter sting.

"What I’m trying to say is this," Wong continues. "There’s no right or wrong answer to whether you actually belong in this reality, because we all shift between related realities constantly. What you’re doing is unusual, yes, but not unheard of. And it certainly doesn’t mean you shouldn’t exist. Quite the contrary. I’ve found that everything and everyone of us has a purpose here."

You nod, your throat still clogged up.

"The loop," Bucky says. "How do we go about undoing it?"

We.

"It comes back to how it was created in the first place. With internalized magic like yours, the kind used on yourself instead of externally, it comes back to the emotions we feel when we reach out to the stones. They’re essential in what they help create."

Your mind replays the first time you’ve watched Bucky die in front of you. To that desperation, the guilt, the shame. And hidden underneath, still unnoticed, still pushed down, perhaps …

"Here you go," Strange says, returning your necklace. The tourmaline is warm to the touch, humming with newly imbued magic. "Whenever you’re ready, this should do the trick. You might get a bit light-headed."

You both stare at him. "This gets us out?" you ask, your voice cracking.

Strange frowns. "What? No."

"I told you," Wong says with an edge of impatience, "that’s not how portals work."

"Technically not a portal," you mumble, putting the pendant on again, feeling it pulsate warmly against your chest.

True to Strange’s words, you immediately feel a little dizzy with a rush of concentrated magic that has nowhere to go. Even though you’re seated, you have to grasp for Bucky’s arm to keep your balance.

"I’ve imbued the necklace with some of my own powers and linked it more closely to your person," Strange continues, and you dig the nails of your unoccupied hand into your palm to pay attention. "It should help you focus your powers more directly once you’re back in the astral plane and allow you to break the loop in time. Mind you, it’s merely an amplifier, not a quick fix. It might still take a while."

"How much time do we still have before the loop starts to disintegrate?" Bucky asks. Smart question. He’s so smart.

"You’re already past that point, Sergeant Barnes," Wong says, and it sends a chill through you. "But we’ll do our best to help as much as we can. I will set up some wards that should bypass my own consciousness and buy you some more time."

"Thank you," you say quietly, blinking quite a lot. "For all of this."

He nods, slowly, measuring you up, but not in the way you’re used to; for once, you appear to meet expectations. "Good luck, Miss Y/L/N. Let us know how these matters resolve."

"You doing okay, doll?" Bucky chuckles on your way up the stairs. It’s the first time he’s smiled even a little bit all afternoon. He should do it more. Why doesn’t he do it more?

It takes you a bit to notice you’re still holding onto his sleeve. "I’m great," you say. "Superb, really. Did the floor sway like that earlier? Seems like a safety issue. What time is it? I hope Sam’s alright."

"Maybe you should take that thing off again, hm?"

"No no no," you say quickly, immediately tripping over your own feet. Before you plant on your face in the middle of the entrance hall, Bucky manages to hold out his other arm to catch you. "Whoops."

"Very convincing," he says dryly, but there’s something akin to fondness in his eyes when he looks at you.

"You have the prettiest eyes," you tell him with a sigh, "did you know?"

"And you are quite literally drunk on power." A fascinating shadow falls over his face as he steadies you; it mostly reaches his cheeks. "Let’s hope that’ll fade once you get back to the astral plane or else you might just as well kill me yourself."

"I never want to do that. I don’t want that. Do you think I want to kill you?"

"If you did, now’s your chance." He huffs. "Wouldn’t blame ya."

You stare at him, at his oddly bright blue eyes and his self-deprecating scowl and at the way he’s still holding you upright, and then your lightheadedness makes you do something very, incredibly, outrageously stupid.

You kiss him.

It barely takes a moment to make you realize, like a shock of cold water, what it is you’re doing. Bucky freezes when your lips brush against his. They’re so soft.

You immediately jolt your head back, your heartbeat loud enough to reverberate in your ears, "Fuck!"

His eyes are so wide and so blue and he’s still holding your elbow, and so you yank your arms away and tumble backwards just as he says, "You’re not—"

But you’re still falling.

And then, with a start, you wake up.

* * * * *

"You have a lot of empty rooms," Sam said when he found you on one of the couches in the living room area, curled up to watch some Netflix.

You shrugged. "Guess Stark anticipated more people’d be left to use them after … everything."

"And it’s just you?"

You let the question sit for a moment, for some reason looking at your dish towel. "Yup," you replied finally. "Just me."

Sam nodded, apparently lost in thought.

"So yeah," you continued for some reason, "if you’re in the city and need a place, feel free, I guess."

You didn’t expect much to come of it. After all, Sam had his own apartment all the way over in D.C., and you honestly didn’t expect to see him much once this mission was over.

You told yourself that for the first five missions before you accepted that maybe he’d continue asking you to tag along.

In the end, it hadn’t been him who needed a place, anyway. It was Bucky.

He didn’t tell you the particulars about why he had to leave his Brooklyn apartment; you assumed he’d had to leave, because there was truly no other explanation why he’d choose to move in with you, of all people.

Then again, you hardly ever saw him, and if you hadn’t seen him bring an overnight bag and a withering houseplant on the weekend he’d settled in one of the upstairs bedrooms, you wouldn’t have known another person was living in the Tower at all.

Well, that and the food mysteriously disappearing from your fridge now.

Sam was the one most weirded out by your living situation, even though you were absolutely positive it’d been his idea in the first place.

"What did you expect?" you asked, handing him his usual coffee cup. "That we’d immediately become besties just because we share a kitchen?"

"It’s unnatural," he shook his head. "Do you communicate with each other at all?"

"Sure. Sometimes I leave post-its on the fridge and when I come back, they’re in the trash."

"One day, one of you is gonna outweird the other. I just hope I’m out of town." He bit into a rugelach and started coughing. "Jesus, what did you put in these?"

"Ask Bucky. He’s doing a whole midnight baking thing at the moment. I think he’s trying to take the Tower for himself by smoking me out."

Sam decidedly pushes the cookie tin farther away from him. "You’ve not asked him, then?"

"Again, he doesn’t respond to my post-its."

Truthfully, you were still mad at him. How were you supposed to wallow in peace if someone was constantly ignoring your personal space? There were only so many times you could flee into the blissful loneliness of the void.

In other words, you didn’t notice for a very long time that you didn’t seek out the quiet nearly as much anymore these days.

"Hey, Ratatouille," Sam said. "I was gonna tell you both, actually."

It was good progress that made you not flinch quite as much anymore when a cupboard opened just behind you. In fact, you didn’t even move a muscle.

On your second try.

"I was gonna tell you both, actually," Sam said again, taking a sip of coffee. "CIA wants us to quit the ULTIMATUM case."

"What?" you both said at the same time.

"Why?" Bucky asked irritably. "Sharon already sick of your face again?"

Sam threw a piece of rugelach at him. "I don’t think it was her call. But it means I gotta head to Virginia for a while and give them a full debrief so they can do their own 'internal investigation', whatever that’s supposed to mean. After that, we’re on our own."

"I don’t like this," Bucky said.

"Neither do I," Sam replied. "But I’m hoping to get some information out of them while I’m down there."

"So that’s just it?" you said. "They tell us to stop and we just have to drop everything?"

"Officially, yes."

Bucky crossed his arms. "When you say 'we’re on our own' …"

"I don’t trust these people," Sam said. "I want to know what they’re trying to keep hush. But you," he nods at Bucky, "have been pardoned for less than a year, and you," he nods at you, "don’t officially exist. I can’t guarantee either of these things will stay that way if we go against official government orders. So if you want an out, this is it."

You looked at Bucky, and for the first time, you didn’t find any challenge in his eyes. He simply looked at you, letting you make the call first.

Maybe it was a dare in and of itself, but you couldn’t help yourself. Your curiosity had been sparked.

"If you’re waiting for me to chicken out …"

For a fraction of a second, something like a smile made his mouth twitch. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

chapter ten

thank you for reading!! you can follow my library blog @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications 💚 also please consider leaving a comment, it literally helps my motivation so much to hear from you!!

[loveshotzz]

My name’s Elvira, but you can call me tonight

steve harrington x eddie’sbestfriend!reader

Melt With You

summary: A cancelled movie night, Steve’s first high, and a realization you weren’t expecting.

wc: 2.7k

warnings: my blog is 18+ but this will be pretty safe for work. takes place in 1988 when Elvira Mistress of the Dark came out. post season four but no mention of the upside down, fem!reader, mentions of weed smoking, mentions of being stoned and being high for the first time, mutual pining, cuddling.

A/N: first I want to dedicate this to @bewilderedbunny for pointing out that Steve Harrington is Bob coded which made me fall even more in love with him. You can also thank @dr-aculaaa for putting this brain worm in my head where it spiraled and then she entertained it again and it spiraled some more. p.s. I know her movie macabre was cancelled in 86 but brought back in the 90’s but let’s pretend.

mini series masterlist -> chapter two 🎃

Steve was close. Too close.

His thigh is warm pressed against yours, long legs spread wide taking up most of the room on the couch. The cedar that clings to the threads of his maroon sweater mix with the old spice that he’s almost sprayed too much of, and you’re surprised at how much you actually like it. You blame it on the joint you both shared, and you do it again when his socked foot touches yours from under the blanket draped across your laps and your heart rate kicks up a few beats. This was just Steve, your new friend. Eddie’s new unlikely friend.

The living room in your apartment is dimly lit in a mess of Halloween colored string lights strung up along your walls that Eddie helped you hang up last week on the first official day of fall. They fill the small space in bursts of warm orange pumpkins and tiny purple bats while Elvira Mistress of The Dark glows from the screen of your TV in front of your couch. The couch where Steve is still sitting too close. 

The flicker of your candles dances across your walls and you’re tempted to blow them all out when they keep catching the corner of your eye. Maybe that's why you can't focus on the movie you were so excited about. The movie you raised a big fuss over when the group canceled your weekly night in favor of dates and work. The movie Steve still offered to watch with you saying he had no plans anyway. You really contemplate it when you realize it’s filling your living room with the kind of smell that’s eerily similar to the one embedded in the leather of the BMW you recently started getting more rides in.

When Steve laughs you can smell the berry on his breath from the Red Vines he can’t stop eating, his fingertips glisten from the half finished tub of popcorn on the coffee table. His arm brushes the length of yours when he leans forward to toss the almost empty pack of candy with the rest of the snacks and your stare immediately finds the sliver of tan skin revealed to you when the maroon hem rides up. Stomach flipping when you spot more freckles than the ones that seem to dot the endless expanses of his perpetually sun kissed skin. 

“Wow, she’s funny!” He snickers like he just got a good surprise, leaning back into the cushions. “I didn’t know she was so funny.”

The shift in his weight makes the couch dip, bringing you closer to him. Shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. Why is your chest tight?

Turning your head, you meet his blood shot, heavy lidded gaze and lazy smile that pushes up his pink cheeks. You don’t think you’ve ever seen Steve Harrington so content. So relaxed. It might have something to do with the fact that the joint you both shared was his first.

“Beauty, humor and brains? How could you go wrong?” You grin and it makes the amber in his eyes light up.

“Yeah,” He stares at you for a second longer than he’d have the guts to on a normal day before adding with a sigh “tell me about it.”

There was something different about the way he was looking at you tonight, and it makes your palms sweat. The fly away honey strands that stick out wildly by his ears look softer than normal too. Why do you want to find out? Clearing your throat, he raises his eyebrows up at you in an unphased offering of his attention.

“How are you doing big boy? You coughed quite a bit earlier.” His gaze narrows at the nickname letting you know that Steve was still very much in there.

“I think it’s perfectly normal for someone who hasn’t smoked before to cough when they take an accidental big hit,” he challenges, his sock covered toes finding yours again seemingly on their own, “and to answer your rudely asked question, I’m having a very nice time.”

He tries to keep his face straight but the smile that stretches a mile wide across yours makes him snort, the whites of his perfect teeth blinding in the dark when you wiggle your feet with his. 

“Good, I wouldn’t want Robin to come hunt me down or something.” You giggle leaning back letting your own high relax you into the couch.

Your eyes find Elvira’s generous cleavage on the screen as you try to ignore the feeling of Steve’s hand touching yours when he scratches his thigh and again when he leaves it there. 

“Robin won’t care, it’s Nance you gotta worry about. Worry wart Wheeler.” The nickname rolls off his tongue too easily and makes you both stop, letting the sounds of the towns committee trying to get Elvira out fill the silence before you both fall into a fit of laughter.

It was the kind of laughter that left hot tears streaming down your faces as you leaned even further into each other trying to catch your breath, only for one of you to mutter ‘worry wart wheeler’ when the other would finally be holding it together just to start all over again. By the time it was done, and the last few chuckles subsided, his head had found a new home on your shoulder with his forehead buried in the crook of your neck. 

The smell of his hairspray, and the soft flyaways you’d wondered about tickle your nose with his hair pressed to your cheek. Your socked feet stay tangled together as you try not to think about the size difference and that stupid saying you’d heard in middle school, and you definitely try not to think about how the tip of his pinky bumps into the side of your hand and how you don’t hesitate to hook it with yours.

Cozy. Too Cozy.

There’s a comfortable silence that falls between you both when your attention is finally brought back to the movie and you wonder if he’s having the same existential crisis as you at how good this feels. Eddie would never let you live it down. You and the hair?! Steve’s amused hum breaks you out of your train of thought and you already know you’ll have to watch this again when you aren’t so…distracted. 

Elvira and Bob are fighting with a monster she accidentally concocted inside of a pot instead of the casserole she was trying to make, and his finger tightens around yours when Bob almost loses the fight before he shakes against you with a chuckle. The longer the movie goes on, the more you start noticing Steve’s similarities to the hunk who stole the Mistress of the Dark’s affections, mumbling an ‘oh my god’.

God dammit, you have a crush on Steve Harrington.

The weed makes the realization floor you more than it probably would on a normal day, because you aren’t blind, anyone could tell you how handsome the former king of Hawkins is. But no one could have warned you about how soft he is, especially right now with sleepy eyes and messy hair that smells like pine and too much hair product. They wouldn’t be able to tell you how big of a dweeb he is, or as Robin affectionately calls him a ‘dingus’. They also don’t know how good of a friend he is to anyone who’s lucky to have him, like refusing to let you spend the night alone and watching a movie he knew you were excited about just because he’d actually listened when you talked about it for weeks, even saving you the first copy in Keith’s possession. 

Too bad you’ve barely retained any of it. 

As if he could hear your thoughts, you feel the slight turn of his head and the heavy weight of his stare on the side of your face. You try not to give yourself away and keep your gaze locked on the TV where the town has Elvira ready to be burned at the stake, and Bob has to rescue her. You have to resist the urge to roll your eyes, the universe just rubbing it in now. 

The side of your body he’s been leaning against starts to go numb, and no matter how much you want to stay exactly like this for whatever is left of the night, the need for circulation becomes too much. Your eyes flick down to his that haven’t haven’t wavered and that slow happy smile spreads across his pink lips when they meet. 

“You doing okay, honey.” The nickname he’s called you sarcastically in arguments sounds different when it’s wrapped in affection like this. 

“Not that I’m not enjoying -,” nerves make your throat close up and you have to clear them out before you finish, “not that I’m not enjoying this. My arm is just kind of going numb.”

Heat rises to your cheeks with embarrassment that you know is misplaced, and his eyes go wide when your words click. His reaction is fast despite the smoked joint that's snuffed out in an empty coke can on the table when he pulls away. The warmth of his body that’s invaded what feels like every inch of yours for the last hour is gone and the tightness in your chest worsens now that you miss it. Stupid crush. Stupid blood flow. 

“Oh my god, sorry, sorry, I was just so comfortable I wasn’t even thinking.” There’s stress in his tone that you haven’t heard all night and you decide that you hate it, he’s always stressed.

“Hey,” Your fingers curl around his bicep, and it flexes under the thick material of his sweater when his eyes meet yours, making you forget how to speak for a moment, “if we lay down on our sides we’ll - we’ll be more comfortable?” 

Your heart beats loud in your ears after you throw out your suggestion fully knowing there’s gotta be less than twenty minutes left of the movie at most. 

“Yeah, we can do that, like, big spoon?” He points to himself, with eyes as red as his cheeks before pointing to you with a small grin, “little spoon?”

You bite your bottom lip to contain the smile that threatens to break across your face, and it only makes his grow. 

“Yeah, just like that Harrington.” You giggle and you don’t miss the kind of glint in his eyes that sparkles because of it.

“Harrington? I thought I was big boy?” He mocks with fake offense, clumsily clambering back onto the couch letting himself fully extend.

His socked feet almost hang off the armrest but the problem is quickly solved when he turns onto his side leaving just enough room for you. One of his big hands patting the cushions in an invitation that makes you both laugh. 

“I thought you hated that nickname?” you tease, butterflies that never existed before erupting when he watches you with soft eyes climb into the spot next to him.

Your head lands in the crook of his elbow, amber and spice enveloping you while one of his long fingers curl around your hip not hesitating to pull you flush against his chest like he missed you. Maybe you weren’t the only one with a wandering mind tonight. 

“I don’t,” he agrees, lips coming up right next to your ear and you wonder if he can feel the shiver that runs down your spine, “but I kinda like it when you say it.”

Your body curls into him when you giggle with a throb in your core that makes your thighs press together. Steve chuckles, hooking his chin over your shoulder and his feet find yours at the end of the couch like they did under the blanket. Grabbing the throw off the floor, you drape it back over the two of you when you both finally get situated. 

He feels like he’s everywhere and it’s even harder to concentrate like this, especially when all his fingers are laced with yours now. The pad of his thumb rubs circles on the top of your hand, and you can feel the way his cheeks push up into a grin every time something makes him laugh. You spend the last bit of what’s left of the movie tangled up with him like this, and neither one of you try to move when the credits roll or when the screen goes black. 

The air buzzes with the kind of tension that’s laid dormant until there’s nothing to distract you from it anymore in the new silence. His breath fans hot across your neck while the strokes of his thumb get slower, adding a little more pressure to the muscle there, and feels good enough to have your eyes flutter closed. 

Maybe it’s the darkness of your living room, or the way the tip of his nose starts to trace the shell of your ear but you get the surge of confidence you need to turn around and face him. Steve doesn’t protest at all, letting you move with the kind of ease that makes you wonder if he was waiting for it all along. The small smile on his face tells you he absolutely was.

The new angle has you looking up at him from under your lashes, while his hand that held yours all night covers the middle of your back bringing you to his chest, getting you just as close as before. Your legs slot together while warm lights flicker across his face, they bounce and reflect off the lingering glaze that coats his eyes. Embers burning in a mossy ground. 

It starts to feel like Steve Harrington wants to kiss you, and you’d be lying if your said you didn’t want him too.

“Hi” You whisper, the corners of your lips pulling up because they can’t help it when he looks at you like this.

“Hi” the rich honey of his voice comes out low as he dips his head down to rest on his forearm right above yours.

The tips of your noses are dangerously close to touching, and you swear you hear his breath hitch when your feet find his again. Holding his gaze, you silently dare him to read your mind so you don’t have to say it out loud. You do it first.

“I had a lot of fun tonight.” You try not to think about how it sounds like something you’d say at the end of a date.

“Me too, I’m uh -“ a puff of hot air fans across your face when he laughs, and you notice his first sign of nerves all night, “I’m glad I didn’t make a fool of myself or anything.” 

“I have to say I’m impressed, you handled your first joint like a pro.” Your hands dare to run up his chest, plucking a piece of lint from the threads of his sweater. You feel the way the muscles in his stomach flex for you, and you have to bite back your smirk.

“I had good company is all.” He hums, the blunt ends of his nails scratching along the dip of your back, before whispering “Is this okay?”

Your eyes flutter shut with contentment you haven’t felt in a while, your whole body melting into his with a mumbled ‘mmmhm’

“Does Elvira have any other movies we could watch sometime?” His question makes your eyes pop open, and he tries to look as nonchalant as possible before adding, “you know just me and you.”

“Not a movie, per say but she has a show I like to watch where she does funny commentary on B rated horror films.” Your two feet trap one of his between them playfully to try and ease the nerves he shouldn’t have, earning you that megawatt smile that’s made half the ladies in Hawkins swoon. 

So, Steve Harrington wasn’t a mind reader.

“That sounds like fun,” He lets out a relieved sigh that you didn’t know he was holding, close enough now for your noses to touch.

“Yeah? You wanna come have fun with me?” You tease, but it comes out sounding like a double entendre that makes your skin heat up, especially when Steve closes his eyes and groans. The nails that scratch your back freeze as he tries regaining some semblance of self control. Licking his lips, he exhales a breath out of his nose before he speaks,

“Abso-“

His answer gets cut off by the sound of your front door slamming open, followed by the bellowing voice of the only other person who has keys to your apartment.

“I’ve come for boobies and I brought beer! Better late than never am I ri- Whoa, whoa, WHOA, what is going on here?” Eddie’s shock is quickly replaced by amusement, dimples poking deep holes in his cheeks when he grins wildly as he takes in the two of you on the couch.

What was going on here?

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for scamming my ex out of an extremely valuable virtual pet?

🐓🥤to recognize. This might be a very long post with a lot of added context for a very niche hobby and a very small actual conflict.

I religiously play a virtual pet site called Chicken Smoothie. It's a pretty old site as far as virtual pet games go, starting back in 2008, so there is a pretty solid established site economy. Just for some context, Every pet on the site has a rarity, ranging from "OMG So Common" to "OMG So Rare", being the most common and most rare respectively. But there are rarities within those rarities, where some OMGSRs can be worth more than others based on species and demand. For example, an OMGSR dog from 2008 will be worth more than an OMGSR rat from 2008 despite being the same highest rarity and year, because people prefer the dogs over rats. These pets can get extremely valuable. You can't sell them for real money (according to site rules, but of course there's a black market), but the site has its own virtual currency you can buy (with real money) and trade for called Chicken Dollars, and you can also trade a valuable pet for other valuable pets. It gets very complicated, with the community coming up with its own set of value terms each pet can have. I'm not getting into specifics there, that's not important.

Every year, on December 18th, CS has gift boxes you can adopt from. These gift boxes can contain any rare pet from any previous year, including special "Unreleased pets" that you can only get from these Dec 18th boxes, with a very slim chance. These unreleased pets are some of the most valuable and rarest in the game.

Recently, I had seen my ex posting on the forums. I didn't know he had an account, he had made it within this year, long after I got the fuck away from him, and I only knew it was him because he uses the same username everywhere. This person had groomed me, physically abused me when we were together (we no longer live anywhere near each other, thankfully) and has always been emotionally manipulative. He does not know I play, and he wouldn't recognize my account as me. I took a note of his account and left it be for a while, until December 18th hit and I took a peek at what he had got. And what he got was one of the new Unreleased pets, which currently at the time of writing this only looks like a box of cereal. (Most pets on the site have growth stages.) And even better, all his groups were open for trade, so I took a chance and sent an extremely terrible trade. I told him that this pet would only be a recent rare, and I offered him a "Very Rare" rarity (but not very valuable) pet from 2018, telling him I was overpaying. (In the CS community, this is known as Ninjaing, and it's Not A Good Thing To Do). I didn't expect him to accept it, I at least thought he'd be smart enough to ask in the trade advice thread that is literally pinned on the home page for December 18th, but he didn't. He took my word for it and accepted the trade, and now I own an unreleased pet that will eventually end up as an OMGSR.

What I did was not a bannable offence. He will not get his unreleased pet back. The CS mods are laughable at worst, incompetent at best, and don't do anything to stop scamming. They have an "eh, sucks to be you, sorry, be smarter next time" mentality when people get scammed (Which is insane because there are literal single digit aged children allowed on this site!!!)

After taking a bit to think about it, I do feel a bit guilty because I really would not do this in any other circumstances. I hate scamming. I did what I did out of anger and contempt, and I do feel a bit guilty because in essence, I scammed a new player that didn't have much else and didn't know any better.

I'm still keeping that unreleased cereal box no matter what though

What are these acronyms?

[skzstannie]

That One Time on the Ferris Wheel...

ATZ-> Yunho x Reader

genre: fluff, strangers to ??? wc: ~1,400 cw: none, just tooth-rotting fluff

summary: perhaps stepping out of your comfort zone is beneficial sometimes, especially when there are cute boys involved

A/N: I've had this written for forever, but in honor of scoring tickets for the Chicago show in July (VIP nonetheless 👀), I've decided to post it. Anyone else gonna be there???

Happy Scrolling! | Masterlist

"We should so go on the ferris wheel! That would be so fun," your friend grasps your arm tightly at the sight of the huge spinning wheel of doom in front of you.

"I don't know, it looks kinda old. Are you sure you want to go on that?" you reply, an uneasiness present in your voice.

"Oh please, don't be a wuss. Look at all those little kids in line to get on."

"And every single one of them is braver than I'll ever be. Now, let's go get a corndog then get out of here. It's too hot to be standing out here all day," you turn to walk towards the food tent, but your friend has other ideas.

"Oh no you don't. I'm getting you on that ferris wheel, even if it's the last thing I do." She tugs you in the opposite direction, full steam ahead right towards the line.

"Why are you so adamant about this anyway? I didn't know you were so passionate about ferris wheels," you sigh, crossing your arms over your chest.

"I'm not," she says, pulling her phone out of her back pocket to scroll on Instagram.

"Okayyy," you drag out, not satisfied with her short answer, "Then why are we here?"

"Because, you are the most boring person I know-"

"Okay, ouch?"

"Give me a break, I haven't said anything you don't already know," she says pointedly, raising her brow. "Anyway, if this is the first step to getting you out of your comfort zone, then so be it."

"Is this a mission of yours now? To try and get me out of my shell? For your information, I'm very cozy in my shell and would prefer to stay in it," you sass back, pushing her phone down so she'll look at you.

"Stop acting like this is such a big deal. It's literally not," she rolls her eyes this time, seemingly annoyed with your reluctance.

Your friend has always been an extrovert, a social butterfly if you will. You've known each other your whole life, and it's always been the same way. She'd make friends for the both of you. If there was one of you, there was both of you. Sure, it got annoying being constantly overlooked, by girls and guys alike, but it was your own fault. If only you could be more outgoing.

"Fine, you don't have to get an attitude about it, though." You pull out your phone, busying yourself by scrolling through countless threads on Twitter.

You guys stand in line for about 20 minutes before it's finally your turn to get on the ride. You step on the rickety metal landing first as the ride director brings the next cart around.

He opens the door for you and you step in, expecting your friend to be right behind you. However, you see that your friend is off to the side, outside the gate.

"Single rider?" the man asks you, a bit of amusement in his voice.

"No, my friend is right-"

He cuts you off abruptly, "I don't really care," you scoff at him, folding your arms over your chest. You stand to get out of the cart, as the only reason you were going to ride in the first place was because of your friend, but now you see her walking away towards the bathrooms.

Before you can get a foot outside the cart, a tall man steps in front of you and into your cart. The ride director slams the door shut and the ride begins to move while you're still standing. You gasp as you lose your footing, falling into the man next to you.

"I'm so sorry," you say, adjusting yourself in the seat next to him as opposed to on his lap like you were seconds before. "That guy was so rude." You look up at the man next to you, and your blown away by how ridiculously handsome he is. With dark brown eyes and fluffy brown hair, he looks like he'd come right out of a movie.

"That's alright," he chuckles, giving you a soft smile. "I'm Yunho, it's nice to meet you."

"Y/n," you reply with a little nod. Your gaze travels down to the ground below you, and you immediately tense seeing how high up you are already.

"Were you trying to get off before?" he asks. You feel his gaze on the side of your face, and you peel your stare from the grass and turn to face him.

"Yea, my friend was supposed to get on with me, but she got out of line right before we came on."

"Well that's not very nice," he frowns.

"She's...she's a character for sure. I've learned to live with it. I don't always understand the things she does, but we've been friends for forever. I'd hate to give that up over such petty stuff," you explain.

"It might not be petty if it makes you so scared," his eyes never leave yours as he speaks, his gaze soft.

"I'm not that scared, it's really ok," you comment, brushing off his concern.

"Your white knuckles around the safety bar say otherwise." He reaches over and gently lays his hand over yours.

You blush at that, the way his hand feels over both of yours, the way his warm, calloused fingers brush the back of your hand.

"Ok," you admit, "I might be a little scared." You let out a nervous laugh.

"Do you want to hold my hand? It's ok if you squeeze it tight, I'm pretty tough" he says the last part jokingly, but it becomes apparent to you that his initial question was serious as he lifts his hand off of yours, offering his open palm to you.

You feel yourself blush a deeper shade at that, but give him a shy nod in response. You untangle your fingers from the bar and intertwine them with his. His hand engulfs yours, the size difference apparent.

"Thanks," you're able to get out. You can't help the shy smile that encapsulates your lips.

"No problem," he replies before the silence envelopes the both of you again. It's surprisingly comfortable as you feel the light breeze blow through your hair. It's a beautiful summer evening, the sun shining brightly as it starts to set in the sky. Clouds litter the horizon, and you can feel the dew in the air as it begins to settle.

"You know," Yunho starts, breaking the quiet that surrounded you, "I only got in line behind you guys with hopes I could talk to you."

Your bashful smile returns to your face, and your tempted to bring your free hand up to your cheek to cover up. "Well, it looks like it worked, huh?" You turn to face him, meeting his eyes that have been subtly trained on your face for the majority of the ride.

"Yea, it did, and I even got to hold your hand," he smiles back at you, his dimples popping from his cheeks.

Your speechless at that, not having a response. Maybe your friend was right, you do need to get of your comfort zone more often.

"I was actually wondering if I could maybe get your number?" he asks, tilting his head like a cute puppy would.

"Sure," you answer all too quickly, shrinking in on yourself at the readiness of your reply.

"Here," he hands you his phone, a new contact page already brought up.

You put your number in, along with your name before handing it back to him.

Before you know it, your cart is next to get off. The man from before opens the door for you guys, paired with a gruff, "Get out." Your hesitant to release Yunho's hand from your grasp, but when he stands from his seat, you know it's time.

You both let go and walk outside of the gates.

"Well, Y/n, I'm kinda glad your friend left you to go on the ferris wheel alone," he says.

"Straight to the point, I like it," you laugh.

He gives you the cutest smile before saying, "I'll text you." He turns and walks off, and you're immediately met with the desire to see him again, and soon. Your heart flutters as his head turns around to look at you once more, a smirk adorning his face.

"Sorry, I really had to use the bathroom," your friend startles you as she appears seemingly out of nowhere beside you. "Now, who was that?"

"Just some guy who sat next to me, no biggie," you brush her off as you both start heading towards the food tent together, intent on getting yourself a corndog before the fair is over.

An hour and a full stomach later, you feel the breeze is cooler than it was earlier, and you realize that you miss the warmth of his hand already.

[voylitscope]

This post about fic length came across my dash. It got me thinking about how many truly incredible Stucky fics under 5k I've read — specifically about the short fics that have broken and/or healed my heart.

So, I made this quick rec list of 10 under 5k Stucky fics that are deeply heart-affecting and emotionally devastating.

(There are so many beautiful, moving, and painful fics in this fandom that come in at under 5k. In the interest of keeping this list to 10 fics, these fics are all also canon/canon-divergent.)

💔 Cheat Days | chicklette | Mature | 2,033 words | Pre/Post TWS

Quote I'm unwell about:

Only on the very worst days – when he is tired and sore and hurts all over, hurts inside and out. Sometimes it’s the fight that does it, his need to be held, to be loved after throwing himself on the line. Other times it’s something else - something more cruel – a joke that he knows Bucky would find hilarious, a movie that Bucky would have loved, a book. Sometimes Steve is just so goddamned lonely that he feels like he’s going to come out of his skin. Then he has what he calls a cheat day. A day when he closes up his apartment and uses the coin, and sighs into Bucky’s embrace.

💔 029. Mirror | aimmyarrowshigh @aimmyarrowshigh | Mature | 2,400 words | Pre-War

Quote I'm unwell about:

“I wanna sit at his bedside when he’s sick,�� Bucky says finally. “And buy him hot dogs at Dodgers games. And uh… I guess, I wanna…” He exhales and looks down, away from Mrs. Rogers’ eyes. They’re too much like Steve’s and Bucky’s never said this out loud, not even to him. “I wanna get an apartment for the two of us and curtains that close, and I want to teach him how to dance to Cole Porter records. I want to finish all his stupid fights. I want… I dunno. A lotta impossible things.” Sarah’s voice is so soft. “Like what?” “I want to see him grow old,” Bucky mutters. “Right beside me. I want it to be a hundred years from now and look to my right and see Stevie standin’ there.” He blinks away the heavy wetness in his eyes.

💔Not the Needle, Nor the Thread | steebadore | Explicit | 2,017 words | Post-TWS

Quote I'm unwell about:

"Okay, sweetheart, okay," Bucky whispers, running his thumbs over Steve's brow, his wet eyelids, down that bumpy, ungainly nose--the only physical evidence that Steve is a flawed human and not a figure cut from marble. If you asked Bucky what he loved most about Steve, he might say something like his goddamn earnest heart, or those too beautiful-for-spacious-skies eyes, but really it was this: the bump on Steve's nose, put there by Bucky himself, age eleven. Selfish, maybe, but Bucky never pretended to be otherwise these days. He doesn't know why the serum didn't fix that--Bucky likes to think it couldn't. Steve always said how it didn't change anything, just amplified what he already had, and what he had was Bucky's mark on him, down to the bone. This one's mine, it said. You cannot have him. Not the whole of him.

💔Through the notches in your spine | caughtinanocean | Explicit | 4,460 words | Post-TWS

Quote I'm unwell about:

Maybe Steve was right to worry, and maybe he's not ready and—he's breathing too fast, and Steve's going to notice any moment now, going to stop and leave. Steve lets go of Bucky's hand to stroke the side of his face, tender and soothing. He leans in to give Bucky a soft kiss on the lips, and Bucky doesn't feel so panicky anymore. He's with Steve. Steve is inside of him, as close as someone could be, and nothing bad could ever come of that. Bucky wills himself to focus on the moment, to watch Steve's face, soft with affection, to relax and enjoy this. “'s like it's my first time all over again. How many people get a shot at that twice?” Steve groans. He looks flushed and giddy and bright, and Bucky's inordinately proud that it's his words and his body making Steve glow like that. “I'm gonna make it way better for you this time.” “Our first time was bad?” Bucky asks, trying not to sound crushed, even though he feels it a little.

Steve traces Bucky's jaw and down the line of his neck to caress his chest. “No, our first time was perfect. We had no idea what we were doing, but it was perfect.”

💔A History of Birds | OddityBoddity | Not Rated | 2,580 words | Post TWS

Quote I'm unwell about:

“I don’t remember,” he says. Steve holds his breath. “I don’t remember telling anybody about that.” It’s like there’s something stuck between his lungs, like something’s pulling them apart in his chest. “You mean about the bird?” he whispers. Bucky looks at him. Not staring, not really, but looks at him like Steve’s looked at paintings before. Like he’s trying to work out how it’s done. “That little bird,” Steve says quietly. When he speaks, he speaks like the words are a spell or a prayer. Like the words are going to reach into Bucky the way his name once did. Like they’re going to catch his arms and pull him up to safety. This secret they both kept. Something so little, so inconsequential that no one has touched it.

💔You Will Meet a Stranger | spitandvinegar | Mature | 3,081 words | Post-TWS

Quote I'm unwell about:

"Steve," she says, unruffled. "He needs someone who'll look at him without pining for who he used to be."

Steve sets his coffee cup upright again. He mops up the mess with a napkin. "Honestly," he says, "All I ever pine for is for him to look back."

💔This is the place | dharmashark @dharmasharks| Explicit | 4,654 words | Canon divergence

Quote I'm unwell about:

With a metal hand there, under the small of his back, Steve might as well be weightless. It’s terrifying. For Steve to be so fragile in ways that Bucky isn’t, and might never understand. But Steve has never been afraid, has never shrank away. Not ever. Not even when Bucky could have—when he would have—when he almost hurt him—Steve had only balled his fists and locked fierce, red-rimmed eyes on his. Steve is fragile; he is unbreakable. Bucky’s memory is full of contradictions.

💔i've seen my share of trouble and i've held my weight in shame | inevitablemeow  | Teen | 4,166 words | Post-TWS

Quote I'm unwell about:

Bucky is a ghost, still, in the wind so far they haven’t been able to find him. It’s been six months since the helicarrier, and Steve hasn’t lost hope, not fully, but he’s slowed his search. Seeing this heart, knowing that all the others are his, has that hope roaring back to life. They’re his. They’re all for him.

💔sorrow sings a song in me | unicornpoe | Teen | 4,425 words | Post-TWS

Quote I'm unwell about:

Bucky’s note is on a thick piece of cardstock, and the words are a little more steady, this time. STEVE, IT HELPS ME TO READ THESE THINGS. I THOUGHT IT MIGHT HELP YOU TOO. I MISS YOU. I WANTED TO CRAWL UNDER THAT BLANKET WITH YOU, BUT I DIDN’T KNOW IF I SHOULD. I DON’T THINK I’M GENTLE ANYMORE, AND I WANT TO BE GENTLE WITH YOU.

💔more than anything | jehans | Explicit | 2,938 words | Pre-War

Quote I'm unwell about:

Steve is a reckless asshole who Bucky loves unconditionally and wholeheartedly, and when Steve is quietly undoing him in their bed, loving on him openly and indulgently the way Bucky doesn’t always let him, it becomes difficult to keep pretending that Bucky wouldn’t go to the ends of the earth for any of Steve’s whims. But mostly, what makes him so honeyed in these moments is the way Steve transforms. When he climbs on top of Bucky, all of Steve’s usual, too-close-to-the-surface anger drains out of his eyes, clearing away into pure blue skies of utter adoration. It’s an honesty that Bucky cracks under, breaking open the clay of mundanity and allowing him to shine brightly under Steve’s hands.

Fic rec series

[fleurilyy]

Luck

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Part Two

Summary : You'd always been close to the Snow's, especially Tigris. You lived beside them, starved with them during the war, and helped feed them after. You've also had a crush on Coriolanus for forever.

Warnings : Reader is kind of evil, definitely shares Coryo's views they just try hard not to show it. The mask tends to slip though.

Word Count : 10,961

A/N : This was originally posted on my old tumblr account and is on Ao3 :) This is also my longest fic ever.

Thank you to @lemkay-luminary and @sepptember for proofreading way back when

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Your family, the Rose’s, had a similar standing to the Snows. Maybe that’s why you got along with Tigris so well. You knew what she was going through, you understood her day to day struggle. 

Tigris and you were pushed to be friends by your parents, before the dark days. You were two years younger than her, but still, the two of you became inseparable, especially after your parents gained back their fortune and moved into the penthouse beside theirs. Sometimes you thought you spent more time in their home than your own, after your money came trickling back.

Most of the time you spent your allowance on the Snow family. Your parents pretended to not know. You constantly bought Tigris new thread, buttons, or fabric. She refused to let you buy anything expensive; so you would go to a shop, buy the cheapest things you could find, and give those to her. Then, the two of you would sew together, usually giving the pieces to the Grandma’am or to Tigris’s cousin, Coriolanus. 

Coryo was in your year at the academy, so you spent a great deal of time with him as well. You were pretty close with him too, though you wished you were closer. 

The night before the Reaping and the Plinth Prize, you got home late. You had to lug dinner, your school books, and buttons all the way across town by foot. 

When you arrive home, you open your bedroom door to find Tigris sitting by your bed. 

She gets up and gives you a hug. “Is that bread?” She asks, glancing into your bag. 

“And stew! Come, sit.” You walk into the room and over to your table. Tigris follows suit, adjusting her robe slightly. “Is everyone asleep?” You start pouring the stew from the canister into bowls.

“Yes, your sister was already asleep when I got here and your parents stopped by thirty minutes ago to say goodnight.” You nod and hand her a bowl. “Thank you! You’re my favorite.” 

“You’re welcome! I have the buttons we needed too. Where is the shirt?” 

“Oh, it’s in my bag.” She nods to the purse sitting by your bed. She stands up and gets the shirt swiftly. You take it from her and unfold it, it looks nearly perfect. The buttons are just the missing piece. 

“This is perfect! Beautifully done, T.” 

She blushes. “Stop! It’s really your doing. That is the thread you gifted me. And these buttons are going to outshine everything else.” The way she said it made you instantly believe it. 

The rest of the night, you and Tigris slowly sew on each button. Trying different stitches in order to find the perfect one. Once you did, you lay the shirt down on your couch, and nod off to sleep, your last thoughts were of Coryo. What would he think of you helping with it? Would he smile in that one way he does sometimes? You couldn’t help but grin at the thought.

The next morning, you woke up earlier than usual with Tigris. You had to look your best today, even though you weren’t in line for a Plinth Prize, you knew there’d be plenty of pictures taken if Coryo wins it, and he will. You took the rest of the bread with you as you went to the Snow’s penthouse, just two houses down.  

“Have you seen Tigris with my Father’s shirt?” You hear Coryo ask as you walk through the door. 

“No.” The Grandma’am replies. 

“Coryo?” Tigris calls out as she walks through the foyer. You trail behind her. 

“Tigris?” Your classmate finally comes into view, shirtless. You look away. 

“I’m sorry we’re late.” Tigris apologizes.

“It was my fault, my first alarm didn’t ring.” You say with a frown. “But! We did it!” You gesture for Tigris to get the shirt, she does. 

“Well, we did something.” She hands it over. Coryo starts putting it on.

“I think it’s gorgeous.” 

Tigris looks at you, clearly thankful for the compliment. “It’s beautiful.” 

“Best cousin ever, and best friend ever.” Butterflies erupt in your stomach, you don’t let them show. “Tell me everything.” 

“Where do I start? I told Fabricia, at work, that she needed to bleach her white curtains and I slipped in the shirt while she did it. And of course we have Y/N to thank for the buttons.” 

“How much were they?” He asks, furrowing his brows. 

“Don’t worry about it. Think of it as an early graduation present.” You brush him off. 

“Oh. Did you find the potatoes? I boiled them for starch and you should really eat something today.”

He shakes his head. “Save them for Grandma’am.” He buttons the last button. 

Tigris grins, and fixes his collar. “You look so handsome! Grandma’am! Come see!” 

“Coriolanus Snow, future president of Panem,” Tigris joins. “We salute you.” You and Tigris both salute Coryo. 

Later, you and Coriolanus walk into the academy shoulder to shoulder. Clemensia, Coriolanus’s class partner and a classmate of yours, comes up to you two.

“Why, Coriolanus Snow, Y/N Rose.” 

“Clemmie.” Your friend replies. 

“Are you two sweating?” 

“It’s reaping day, we gave our drivers a day off.” You reply. 

“Ugh! Those ingrates should be begging to chauffeur you around today.” Clemensia replies, not looking at you once. “Just don’t forget I was your class partner while you’re gloating over the Plinth Prize.” 

“Prize? Please.” Coryo shakes his head. “I just want to serve Panem.” 

She hums. “Hungry?” 

“Cook served steak for breakfast, we had to throw half out.” She seemed to believe his lies. 

“Shame on you, Coryo. Don’t you know that they’re starving out there in the districts?” The three of you walk in. A friend of yours, Juno Phipps, calls you over. 

“I’ll see you soon, Coryo. You’ve got this.” You squeeze his shoulder before walking over to Juno . 

A moment passes before the bell rings and you have to rush into the veiwing room. You run over to where Coriolanus is standing with Sejanus. 

“…There’s no plinth prize today.” You overhear. Sejanus walks away. You go up to the blonde. 

“What just happened?” 

Coryo’s jaw tightens. “He said there was no prize today.” Your heart shatters for him. 

“Come on, the reaping is starting.” You place your hand on his arm. “Today, Coryo. There’s no prize today.” You emphasize. He glances at you and nods. You drop your hand and walk in, Coryo following.

You sit down right as Dr. Gual starts speaking.  

“How tantalizing to see all your shining young faces on this auspicious day.” She starts. “I am Dr. Volumnia Gaul, your humble gamemaker, in charge of the War Department and all its affiliated concerns. I’ve broken free of my laboratory today, to examine you, the leaders of the next generation. I won’t be around forever, after all.” She laughs. “And now to that end, I am honored to introduce you to the creator of the Hunger Games themselves, Dean Casca Highbottom.” Your dean steps up, clearly high on morphling, but then again when is he not? 

He clears his throat. “Select students, faculty, and of course, Dr. Gaul, I have summoned you all here today for the 10th annual Reaping Ceremony in which we choose two children from each district to throw into the Capitol Arena to fight to the death in the Hunger Games.”

He gestures to the top students, sitting in front of the room. “And here sit.. our own twenty-four top prospects all waiting to hear the results of hard study in this prestigious institution.” 

He pauses. “Eager to learn who’s won that Plinth Prize, no doubt. And a golden future. However, I am here to tell you that there’s been a change this year. One final assignment to prove your worth. Because… the esteemed citizens of the Capitol have grown bored of the Games and simply aren’t watching anymore. And if the games are to continue there must be an audience. So, Head Gamemaker Dr. Gaul has stepped in to… incentivize patriotic values with her own unique flair, starting with you. The Plinth Prize will no longer be determined by who has the best grades.” 

The top students burst into a mixture of confusion and anger. “But by who is the best mentor in the Hunger Games. This is a brand new role. As the reaping progresses live, I will allocate each district tribute a capitol mentor behind the scenes, one who must just persuade them to perform for the cameras.” 

Someone calls out. “Obviously, the best mentor will be the one who’s tribute wins the game.” 

Arachne, an insufferable blonde girl, replies; “What if I get a pathetic runt girl from one of the poor districts, like 8 or 12? They’re just going to die in two minutes like they did last year and the year before.” 

“Your role is to turn these children into spectacles, Ms. Crane. Not survivors. Victory in the games is only one of our considerations. Your entire future rests on this last project. Oh, and I must tell you that anyone caught cheating to give their tributes an unfair advantage,” He laughs. “Will just not have any future at all.” The reaping music starts. “Oh! Here we go. Let the reaping begin.”

Dean Highbottom grabs cards and starts reading off the mentor to each tribute as the tributes are chosen. You zone out until you hear Coryo’s name. District 12, girl. Lucy Gray Baird, to be exact. The tribute walked to the stage, stuffing a snake into a girl’s dress on the way there— you wished you could’ve seen it, but the cameras panned away. When Lucy Gray got to the stage, she stood in front of the mic, and started singing. 

“You can’t take my past. You can��t take my history.” The room erupted in noises of confusion. “You could take my Pa, but his name’s a mystery. Nothing you can take from me was ever worth keepin’. Nothing you can take was ever worth keeping.”

“Singing? Is she out of her mind?” Arachne yells. Your eyes don’t stray from the screen. 

“Can’t take my charm. Can’t take my humor. You can take my wealth, cause it’s just a rumor. Nothing you can take, was ever worth keeping.” Lucy grabs the mic. “You can’t take my sass. You can’t take my talkin’. You can kiss my ass!” She lets go of the mic, making it thud, as she turns around to the peacekeepers. The room laughs at her. 

“Well, she’s mentally ill.” The blonde remarks. You all get up, you decide to wait a couple steps behind Coryo as Dean Highbottom speaks to him. 

“At least.. since the assignment is to turn them into spectacles.. at least Lucy Gray already is one.” You offer to your friend as the dean walks away. 

“Let’s go home.” He says instead. You frown, but start walking with him anyway. 

Once your at the Snow residence, Coryo tells Tigris everything, you chime in from time to time to add on.

 “He’s sabotaging us.” He looks at Tigris, and then to you. “That girl’s not going to win these games. You saw her. She’s underfed, unstable.” 

“The dean said it’s not just about winning.” You say.

“Everything is about winning. If not the Games now, then the crowd. Lucy Gray won’t survive a minute in that arena.” 

“So that means we have to make every second before then count.” Tigris says. 

The blonde nods. “I’ll get her to sing again.” 

You snort. “I wouldn’t sing a note for you, if I were her. I wouldn’t do anything at all, unless I could trust you.” Tigris nods.

“She’s district, Y/N.” He sighs. “She knows we hate her, and she wants us dead. How am I supposed to get her to trust me?” 

“Imagine it was your name that they pulled, and you had just been ripped out of your home. I’d just want to know that someone still cared about me out here.” Tigris says, softly. “Don’t discount her just because she’s district, Coryo. You might just have more in common with her than you think.” That is the difference between you and your best friend. She is so kind.. and you are.. you.

Coryo nods and stands up. “I think I know what I need to do.” He walks into his room with a short farewell. 

“What do you think he’s going to do?” Tigris asks. 

You furrow your brows. “If anyone knows, it’d be you.” Your best friend shakes her head. 

“I may know him the best, but you two are basically the same people. What would you do if you were him?” You think for a moment. What would you do? 

“Meet her at the train station.” You say with a nod. “Get her to trust me, and sing. Her singing is probably the only way he’s got a chance of winning.” 

“You’re right.” 

You sigh. “I just hope he is too.” With that, you stand up. “Well, I better get home. Love you, Tigris.” Your best friend stands up and hugs you. 

“I love you too, N/N. Have a good night.” 

You grab your bag which was on your chair and put it on your shoulder. “You too.” 

The next morning, you wait for Coryo outside like you usually do, but when there was no sign of him five minutes before class started, you sprint to class. 

You sat down next to Sejanus like usual. His face is full of confusion when Coriolanus doesn’t follow you. 

“Where’s Coryo?” 

“I don’t know, but I’ll be giving him an earful for not telling me I didn’t have to wait outside.” You whisper in response. You didn’t want all your classmates hearing the anger in your voice, but Sejanus knew you, and besides, it wasn’t the first time Coryo made you mad. 

He laughs. “Sure you will. I’ve never seen you actually yell at him. He gives you one look and you melt.” 

You gape at him in offense. “I do not!” Sejanus goes to reply, but Dean Highbottom walks in, stealing all attention. He turns on the TV at the front of the room. It flicks on revealing Coriolanus and Lucy Gray Baird standing in a cage, holding hands. You are suddenly even angrier than before. 

“…But this dress was my Mama’s, so it’s extra special to me.” Lucy says, showing off the skirt with her free hand. 

“Mhm, and she’s in District 12?” Lucky, the reporter asks.

“Well only her bones, darlin’, only her bones.” Everything about her infuriates you. Her voice, her smile, her hair. “Do you know my mentor? Say’s his name’s Coriolanus Snow and clearly, I got the cake with the cream, ‘cause nobody else has even bothered to show up.” You curl your fists in your lap. 

“Did the gamemakers tell you to jump in the cage with them?” 

“They didn’t tell me not to.” You put your tongue in your cheek. ‘Didn’t tell you to hold her hand, either.’ You think to yourself. “They just said it was a mentor’s job to introduce our tributes to the citizens of Panem. And I thought, well, if Lucy Gray is brave enough to be here, then why shouldn’t I be, too?” Lucky hums.

“For the record, I didn’t have a choice.” Lucy Gray adds. 

“For the record,” Lucky looks at a couple of Peacekeepers making their way to the cage. “I think you’re about to be whisked away, young man.” Before you could see anymore, the camera pans away, following Lucky as he signs off. 

Thirty minutes later, Coryo waltzes into the classroom, he gives you a smile and you barely hold back a scowl. 

“Your little excursion was in violation of about five different Academy rules, Mr. Snow.” Dean Highbottom says. “Chief among them, endangering a Capitol student.” Coryo stops in his tracks, about to sit down in his seat beside you. 

“What, who?” 

“You. I’m moving for the Gamemakers to disqualify you immediately.” 

Coryo sits down. “You said we had to get our tributes to perform, not that we had to stay away.” 

“I’ll add insubordination onto the list.” 

“Holding her hand, Coryo, introducing her to people, you make it look as if we’re one and the same as those people.” Clemensia spits. Although you agree with her, you stay quiet. 

Sejanus scoffs. “Coriolanus didn’t show those people anything that they didn’t already know—“

“I don’t need your help, Sejanus.” 

“—That the tributes are human beings. Just like us. That’s why nobody wants to watch the games. It’s because people know deep down that winning a war 10 years ago doesn’t justify starving people’s children, taking away their freedom, their rights.”  

“Snow fell down in the cage. It fell in the cage, but landed..” You look over to see Dr. Gaul in the doorway. She wears the same smug smile she always wears.

“On stage.” Coryo finishes her riddle. 

“You’re good at games. Maybe one day you’ll be a gamemaker like me.” 

“If the games continue at all.” Sejanus mumbles.

“Oh they’ll continue with performances like young Mr. Snow’s in that zoo. And I came here to ask your star mentor a question.” We all wait in anticipation. “What are the Hunger Games for?” Instead of waiting for Coryo to reply, you turn to the book on the table and read, blocking out the sounds of Sejanus and Dr. Gaul arguing. 

After class, you leave as quickly as possible, ignoring Coryo as he tries to stop you. When he stops, you glance back to see him frowning at you. A pang of guilt racks you, but you continue walking away. You knew it’d be bad to confront him now, you were more angry that Lucy Gray got his attention so quickly than anything. And you knew Coryo would see that.

You are able to avoid him until you are on your way to lunch, and he pulls you into a classroom. 

“Why have you been avoiding me?”

You sigh. “I’m hungry, Coriolanus. I know you are too, let’s go to lunch, please?” You move to open the door but he moves in front of it. 

“What is your problem?” 

“What’s yours?” 

“My problem is that you’re ignoring me! And you didn’t defend me to Highbottom!” 

You roll your eyes. “You told Sejanus not to.” 

“You’re not Sejanus.” 

You scoff. “Yeah well you were treating me like him.” 

Coryo scrunches his face up. “What?” 

“No warning this morning? I waited outside for you for thirty minutes.” You start. “And imagine my surprise, when I finally do go to class, that you blew me off for some district scum!” You spit. Coriolanus stares at you in shock. A second passes before you realize what you said. “I didn’t.. they aren’t scum, I didn’t mean that.” You rush out. 

“You did mean it.” It’s like a switch is flipped, and you can’t help but feel drawn to this side of him. A smirk slowly appears on his face. He takes a step towards you. “You know how much I need the prize, Y/N. Forgive me for not telling you?” He takes another step, and you back up, crossing your arms. “You know I’d never purposely blow you off for Lucy Gray.” He reaches his hand up to your face. A foreign gesture. Butterflies erupt in your stomach. “Why don’t you come to the zoo with me later?” He gives you his signature smile and you melt. 

With a sigh, you nod. “Fine, whatever.” 

“Come on, wouldn’t want anyone catching us here alone, rumors may start.” You squint your eyes at your friend, was he flirting with you? “Lunch?” He offers you his arm, and you loop your own through it.  

In the cafeteria, you and Coryo sit at a table across from one another. You eat in silence, while Coryo tries to put food in his pocket. 

“Trying to fatten that girl up so you can finally start taking bets?” Sejanus asks, sitting in the other chair at the table.

“You think they’ll give those kids a scrap if we don’t give them a reason to do it? How do you think your tribute will have a chance if he can’t eat?” You reply, defending Coryo. 

Sejanus looks at the blonde boy. “I see you’ve already gotten back into Y/N’s good graces.” You roll your eyes, Coryo smiles slightly. Sejanus turns back to you. “He was my classmate, back in 2.” 

“It’s not your fault it’s him.” 

“See, I know. I’m so blameless, I’m choking on it.” He looks at his tray. “My Father bought him for me, you know, at the Reaping, just so he could show me that I could never go back..But being Capitol is going to change me.” He admits quietly. 

“So do something about it.” You say.  

“Quite the rebel.” Sejanus jokes. 

“Oh yeah, N/N’s bad news.” Coryo says with a nod. You laugh.

Later, you and the boys go to the zoo. Sejanus immediately tries to talk to Marcus, while you and Coryo look for Lucy Gray. 

“Lucy Gray!” The blonde calls out as you approach the cage. “This is Y/N Rose, a good friend of mine.” 

“Well hello there, Y/N.” It takes everything in you to smile. 

“Hi, quite a show you put on at the Reaping. Beautiful voice.” 

She tilts her head to the side with a smile. “Oh stop, you’ll make me blush.” Coryo pulls the food out of his pocket. “That for us? Jessup!” You furrow your brows. What was she doing? 

“I’m not hungry.” A boy, the other tribute from 12, replies. 

“Do you think I can’t hear your stomach growling, Jessup Diggs? Come on.” Jessup gets up and takes half of the food, and then sits back down. 

You wince, seeing a nasty bite on his neck. “What happened to his neck?” You ask.

“A bat bite. The first night on the train, he didn’t sleep a wink the whole journey ‘cause he was keeping the bats off me so I would get some rest.” Noble. ‘Is he not aware of the whole fighting to the death thing?’ You wonder. 

“Can you take it?” You look over to see Arachne taunting a tribute. “Come on, try harder than that.” 

“One thing I learned in twelve, is that hunger is a weapon.” She gestures to Arachne. “Your friend over there sure knows it.” 

“She isn’t our friend.” Coryo says quickly. 

“She’s poison with perfect teeth.” You roll your eyes. 

“Are you going to share everything that I give you with Jessup?”

“Why? You think I ought to build up my strength so I can strangle him in the arena?” She laughs. “Not exactly my forte.” 

“I might have a chance to help you, make some suggestions to the gamemakers. I might even be able to get the audience to send you gifts in the arena. Food and water to keep you going.” He pauses. “You just have to try singing again to win people over.” 

Lucy Gray crosses her arms. “I don’t sing when I’m told, I sing when I’ve got something to say. Besides, I’ve seen your arena, there’s no place to hide.”

“What’s your point?” 

“The guards say you get money if you get more people to watch and you say you wanna help me, so which one is it?” You look at Coryo, wanting to hear his answer. Knowing he would say he wants to help her, but hoping that he’d crush her instead. 

“Both.” You look down to conceal your smile. 

“One more time!” Arachne yells. 

“I’m not playing this game.” The tribute replies.

“Come on!” 

“You shut up.” She growls.

“Uh.. No, thank you. I saw you staring.” 

“Please.” 

“Give me something. I’ve been sitting here for 15 minutes!” 

“Always thought there was plenty of food in the Capitol.” Lucy Gray says, staring at Arachne and the tribute. 

“You know, one time, during the war, I ate a whole jar of paste just to take away the ache.” You look at Coryo sadly. You remembered that day, 

“How was it?” 

“Pasty.” You smile. 

“That little one, she’s so sweet. So young.” Lucy Gray points at a young girl sitting on a rock. “Something about her reminds me of my cousin Maude Ivory. I can’t stand to think of them without me.” 

“I’m sorry.” Coryo replies. 

She gives you both a pained smile. “You two seem like a good match.” 

You shake your head. “Oh— Well—“ 

“Thank you.” Coryo interrupts you. You glance at him, but his face gives nothing away. You aren’t sure what was happening with Coriolanus, was he trying to hint at something?

“Come on, just take it.” Arachne taunts again. This time, the tribute takes the bottle, and breaks it. She then uses the broken bottle to slit Arachne’s throat.

You gasp. “Oh my—“  You grab onto Coryo, He pushes you behind some peacekeepers as he runs for Arachne. “Coryo! Stop— What are you doing!?” Fear racks your body, and your eyes fill with tears as the peacekeepers start firing without a target. The tribute that slit Arachne’s throat fell, being shot at least twice. Peacekeepers forcefully remove Coriolanus from Arachne while others grab her body. You run over to Coryo and hug him tightly. “A-Are you okay? Were you shot?” You pull away and scan him. 

“I’m fine, were you hurt?” You shake your head and hug him again. 

That night, you sat on the Snow’s couch, Tigris’s arms around you, completely silent. 

“It’s starting again. This is how it begins, the war.” The Grandma’am says. 

“It was my fault.” Coriolanus replies quietly. “I suggested that we meet the tributes.” 

“You’re just lucky that your songbird didn’t peck out your eyes, too.” 

“She’s not a rebel, Grandma’am. She’s just a girl.” Tigris argues.

The old woman laughs. “Trust me, that one hasn’t been a girl in a long time. Outside this Capitol, they’re savages, one and all. However they may smile, she will use you. You must use her too, or you’ll end up dead in the trees like your Father.” You reach out and put a hand on Coryo’s shoulder. He doesn’t react, and the four of you sit in silence for a moment. 

“I should go home, see my parents.” You give a pained smile. “Can’t spend my whole life here.” Tigris smiles at you. “I’ll stop by tomorrow with dinner.” You stand up, giving Tigris a quick hug, and then giving the Grandma’am a kiss on the cheek. 

The next day was even worse. All of the mentors went to the arena with their tributes, and after five minutes, the arena was bombed by rebels. You didn't even know until Sejanus came knocking on your door hours later to tell you that Coriolanus was injured. You ran to the hospital. 

“Tigris!” You whisper-shout when you walk in. She quickly stands up and rushes over to you. “How is he?” 

She engulfs you in a hug. “Okay. Nothing is broken.” You let out a breath of relief. You let go of her and walk to the side of his bed where two chairs were. You sit in one of them, Tigris going to sit in the other. You look at him sleeping soundly, he looked fine.

A tear falls down your face, but you quickly wipe it away. “How long has he been asleep?” 

“Couple of hours, he passed out after Lucy Gray saved him.” Your neck snaps to Tigris. 

“She saved him?”

Your best friend nods. “Something collapsed on his leg, she lifted it for him, got him out.” 

You furrow your brows. “I’ll be back.” You kiss Tigris’s cheek. “There’s food in my bag, eat some?” She nods. You rush out, heading straight for the zoo. 

“Lucy Gray!” You yell when you get there. It was starting to get dark, so there were more peacekeepers than usual. “Lucy Gray Baird!” You call out again. Finally, the girl pops her head up from behind a rock, her face morphs into confusion when she sees you, but she stands and walks towards you. 

“Y/N? What are you doing here?” 

“You saved him.” She nods slowly. Tears pool in your eyes again. “They said he may not wake up until tomorrow.” The tribute deflates. 

“Well.. I appreciate you telli—“

“Do you need anything?” You interrupt, swallowing your pride. 

“Well.. Coriolanus said he’d get me a guitar for the interview tomorrow night.” You nod. 

“I’ll get it for you, and if he doesn’t make it to the interview I’ll have Sejanus, he’s the boy from 2’s mentor, give it to you.”

“I appreciate that, but, aren’t I competition? Why would he help me out?” 

“Sejanus doesn’t see things like we do. Plus, his tribute escaped, he’s already lost the prize.” 

“Okay then. I appreciate you, Y/N Rose.” You nod. 

“Sleep as well as you can.. I know it’s hard on the ground, but..” You pause. “Coryo needs this prize.” Lucy Gray cocks her head to the side. 

“Don’t you mean I need to win the games?” 

You shrug. “They go hand in hand.” 

“Hm.” She nods. “You have a good night, Rose.” You turn around with a wave, and head back to the hospital. 

“Where’d you go?” Tigris asks as you sit beside her. 

“Zoo. Needed to make sure Lucy Gray was taken care of.” She nods. “Has he woken up yet?”

Tigris smiles. “For a minute. He asked about you.” 

You glance at Tigris, trying to not sound so eager. “What did he say?” 

“He wanted to make sure someone had told you, and then he wanted to know where you were. I told him you ran home to change.” 

You nod.  “Thanks.” You look at the clock on the wall. It was already eight. “If you want to go home, you can. I know you have work tomorrow. I’ll stay here.” 

“Are you sure?” 

You nod. “I told my Mom I would be at yours all night.” 

“You’re an angel.” She hugs you. “Get some rest, N/N.” 

“You too.”  

Tigris came back a few hours later so you could actually go home and change, but then she had work. You sit with Coryo all day. Your Mother stops by around three to drop off some food. 

“Are you coming home tonight?” She asks. 

You glance up from the food. “Probably not, doc said Coriolanus would be up soon, so I’ll probably help Tigris look after him tonight. She does work, so she’ll need to rest.” 

“The Games are tomorrow, Y/N. You need to get some rest too.” 

“Oh! Speaking of, Lucy Gray needs a guitar for an interview. It’d be a shame to buy a new one since.. Well, since she won’t be around to enjoy it. Would you mind getting Tessa’s and giving it to Sejanus when he goes?” 

She tilts her head to the side. “Does your sister know about this?”

“She will when you tell her?” You scrunch your shoulders up and give her a smile. 

Your Mom huffs. “Fine. What time will Sejanus be at the house?” 

“In an hour.” 

“Okay. I love you.”  

“Yeah, you too.” She leans down and kisses your cheek, you return the gesture, she then leaves. 

Two hours later, Sejanus walks in. 

“Y/N? Hey.” You glance up from the pants you’re sewing.

“Oh, hello, Sejanus.” You place the pants on the table beside you, carefully placing the needle on top. “Why aren’t you at the interview?” 

He shrugs and sits down beside you. “Wanted to watch it with him, I guess. And you. You guys are my best friends.” ‘What? He barely knows me.’ You think to yourself. You smile. 

“Oh, alright then.” You grab the remote and turn on the TV. The interviews were about to start. 

“Has he woken up yet?” 

“Once last night. I was at the zoo, but Tigris was here.” 

“Speaking of, where is she?” 

“Work. Did you get the guitar?”

 He nods. “Yes! Lucy Gray is ready.” 

You give him a small smile. “Good. Thank you.”

He shrugs. “I want him to win the prize. I dunno how I’d survive University without you both.” You nod and turn to the TV, the girl from district 3 was being interviewed. She was the first, since all of the tributes from 1 and 2 were dead or, in the boy from 2’s case, on the run. 

You and Sejanus watched in silence until the girl from 11 came on stage, and Coryo started stirring. 

“Coryo?” You stand up and stand at the edge of his bed. He slowly opens his eyes. 

“Y/N?”

You grin. “Coryo! Right on time, Lucy Gray is almost up.” You nod to the TV. 

“How’re you feeling?” Sejanus asks, standing. 

“Fine, really. So, they’re actually going on with the Games?” Sejanus nods. “Wow.” 

“I first met this young lady in the zoo not too long ago,” You glance at the TV, Lucky was about to introduce Lucy Gray. 

“She’s coming on.” You tell them, sitting down on the edge of the bed. 

“From District 12, Lucy Gray Baird! Get over here with that guitar, you songbird!” Lucy Gray walks on wearing your sister’s guitar. 

“Did you get her that?” Coriolanus asks. You glance back and smile.

“I went to thank her for saving you, she mentioned you were going to get her one.” He smiles back at you, searching your eyes. “You’re very welcome.” You wink and turn back to the TV. 

“…We fell on hard times, and we lost our bright colours, you went to the dogs and I lived by my charms.” Lucy Gray sings. The donations start going up. 

You reach back and place a hand on Coryo’s forearm. A moment passes, as you watch the donations pile up, Coryo slowly moves his arm and slots your fingers together. Butterflies erupt in your stomach. 

“…So who will you turn to tomorrow, I wonder? For when the bell rings, lover, you’re on your own.” 

“It’s working.” Coryo says, breathing a laugh. 

“Of course it is.” You look back at your friend with a grin. “Snow lands on top.” 

He smirks. “Snow lands on top.”

The interview ends and Sejanus leaves soon after, leaving you alone with Coryo. 

“I brought you food, it’s cold now, but I can get it heated up for you.” You tell your friend as you turn to him. 

“Y/N, thank you… For everything you’ve done to help me.”

 You smile and squeeze his hand. “You and Tigris are my best friends.” 

“You’re my best friend too.” He hesitantly sits up. “Will you help me get home?” 

“Sure, you need to get some rest, big day tomorrow.” You stand up. “I’ll go tell a nurse.” 

The next day was the start of The Hunger Games. You got up especially early so that you could have breakfast at the Snow’s and then go with Coriolanus to watch the games. 

“Tigris? Coryo?” You call out, entering the penthouse. 

“Hello, Y/N.” The Grandma’am says from the table. 

You walk over with a smile. “Good Morning! How did you sleep?” 

She shakes her head. “I barely slept. Whispers of another rebellion keep me up.” 

You give her a sympathetic look. “I’ll keep you safe if there is one. You can come with me to my family’s bunker.” The Grandma’am gives you a wary look as if you couldn’t be trusted. She did that with everyone these days, although she had yet to do it to you too.

“Good morning!” You hear Tigris say as she leaves her room. 

“Morning. I brought food.” You open your bag and pull out containers.

“Of course you did.” She sits down beside you. “How did you sleep?” 

“Fine, I’m nervous for today.” Tigris frowns, as if she’d forgotten what today is. Coryo steps out of his room a second later. 

“Good Morning.” He sits down beside The Grandma’am, giving her a kiss on the cheek. There are circles under his eyes. 

You give each of them a portion of the food you brought. “Someone didn’t sleep.” You tease. 

“I went to see Lucy Gray last night.” 

You furrow your brows. “After I left?” He nods. Why would he do that? “Too bad you didn’t tell me. I would’ve loved to see her one more time.” Tigris’s eyes flicker between you two. 

“You don’t think she’ll win?” No. 

You smile sweetly. “Of course I do, Coryo. But when she does she’ll be shipped back to 12. We’ll probably never see her again.” Coryo seems to believe you, and sinks into his seat. Your stomach aches from jealousy. 

A few minutes pass, and once all of you are done eating, you stand. “Well, I think we ought to be on our way.” Coryo nods, and stands up as well. “See you soon, T.”

“Have a good day, I’ll be watching from work!” Tigris stands up and gives you and Coryo each a kiss on the cheek. 

When you walk downstairs there’s a car waiting for you like usual. You slide into the backseat and Coriolanus follows. Once you’re both buckled, you close the privacy screen between you and the driver. 

“Why did you go alone last night?” You ask suddenly. 

Coryo raises his eyebrows. “I felt like I needed to tell her thank you, like you did.” 

“All alone at night?” You chastise. “Did you learn nothing from Arachne? You could have been killed!”

He scoffs. “They’re in a cage.”

“The Peacekeepers aren’t.” 

“The Peacekeepers aren’t going to shoot me.” 

“Not purposely but they’re awful shots! You saw what they did when Arachne was attacked, why did you put yourself in that position?” 

He sighs. “I was giving her something.” He admits. “She isn’t going to win on her own, so I gave her something, is that what you wanted to hear?” 

You blink at him in surprise. “What did you give her?”

“It’s best if you don’t know. If Highbottom finds out I don’t want you dragged into it.” 

“But I want to be dragged into it. Coryo, do you know what they’ll do to you if they find this out?”

Your friend scowls. “Of course I know. But this is the only way I have a chance at winning.”

“Coryo, you’ve already completed the assignment. Lucy Gray is a spectacle.” 

“You and I both know he won’t give it to me unless she wins so just forget about it.” You frown and scoot closer to him, laying your head down on his shoulder.

“Maybe I should just save up my allowance for a while and I could give it to you–”

“No, Y/N–”

“It wouldn’t cover the whole thing but it’d make a dent in the tuition at least.”

“No. I’m not letting you do that.” 

You can feel tears filling your eyes. “Then Lucy Gray has to win. I won’t survive The University without you.” 

He grabs one of your hands. “She will.” 

You walked into The Academy hand in hand with Coryo, you tried to let go before you got out of the car, thinking he wouldn’t want people to see, but he just picked it back up. 

When you walked into the room the games were being viewed in, Dean Highbottom walked up to you. “That friend of yours, Plinth,” He starts, nodding to Sejanus who was talking to another classmate of yours. “You might want to find him a seat near the door.” He grimaces before walking away. 

“Weird.” You mumble. 

“Coryo, Y/N!” Sejanus calls. He walks up to you both. 

“Hey.” Coryo replies, his face stone. 

“How’re you doing? You alright?” 

The blonde nods. “Better.”

Sejanus grimaces. “Tell me this will be over quickly.” The screen in front of the room turns on revealing some tributes. 

“We should take our seats.” You say. You turn to Coryo with a smile. “Good luck.” You squeeze his hand and then walk over to the viewing stands. 

“Everyone, as you know, we’re about to go live.” Lucky starts. “Just because you’re not hosting doesn’t mean you're off the hook, help me! Don’t get lost behind your screens. No yawning, no gum chewing, keep your chins down, heads up, shoulders back, and smile! It's why we have teeth.” He grins. “Okay, ready? We’re gonna start guys. Five, four, three, two…” An orchestra plays and the cameras turn on. “Good morning, I’m Lucretius “Lucky” Flickerman. A man who needs no introduction. Weatherman, amateur magician, and today, I’m honored to say, first ever host of The Hunger Games!” Everyone breaks into applause, you join in, clapping unenthusiastically. “In my hand, an envelope, sealed. My prediction, the winner, will be opened by me, at the end of the big show’s end.” He brings his hand up to his ear. “We’re getting word… alright, we’re about to start! We’re starting everyone! Happy Hunger Games!” He turns to the students. “Remember, when your tribute dies, get out.”

You can hear the Tributes entering the arena, and reluctantly walking to their marks. Then, you see something else. Marcus was tied up, half dead, in the middle of the Arena. You gasp with the rest of the room. 

Sejanus stands up in shock. “Marcus!” He yells.

Lucky grimaces. “Guess we can all sleep better now that we know he’s off the streets!” 

“You’re monsters!” Sejanus shouts at the Dean. “All of you!” He runs out. The countdown starts at ten. You sit up straighter. 

“Jessup! Jessup!” Lucy Gray shouts. You furrow your brows. Everyone around her started running to the pile of weapons in the middle of the Arena. 

“What is she doing?” You mumble. Reaper, the biggest tribute, runs straight at Lucy Gray with a scythe, but she ducks. Then Coral, the girl tribute from 4 runs at her with a trident. She dodges the first and second blows before backing up and dodging the third, causing Coral to impale another tribute through the stomach. 

One of your classmates leans down and throws up. You scrunch up your face in disgust. 

Two tributes were already dead. Lucy Gray rolls off of the rubble, narrowly missing an axe swung by the boy from 7. She stands up and manages to get away from two more strikes before someone throws a knife, hitting the boy's arm. Another knife is thrown way too close to Lucy Gray. 

She looks around, finally finding Jessup across the arena. She screams his name again and climbs on top of the rubble, knocking out one of the other tributes with her elbow once she gets up. She rolls off the other side, making brief eye contact with Coral, who pulls her trident out of someone’s chest. 

Lucy Gray reaches Jessup and pulls him up, shouting about how they had to go now. Some of the other tributes already started chasing them, but Lucy Gray manages to run into some of the tunnels, dragging Jessup with her. 

“They’ve gone underground quickly, but we’ve prepared for this!” The cameras switch and you can see Lucy Gray again. 

They run through the tunnels, checking all the doors that they pass. Every single one is locked.

“What you’re seeing now, is a live feed of security cameras.” 

“C’mon..” You grip the bench. 

Coral and her group enter the tunnels, and Lucy Gray starts frantically looking for some hiding place. She finally gets through a small entrance on the bottom of a door, then, she pulls Jessup through it. 

Two other tributes are found by Coral’s group in the tunnels. They are slaughtered on sight. 

“Do you think they’re done?” One of your classmates asks. 

“Looks like it.” Lucky turns to the cameras. “To the children watching, that was violent, horrific, and disgusting.” He turns to the girl that threw up. “Ms. Phipps, please, if you’re going to vomit, do it off camera.” He gives her a pitiful smile and then looks at the camera. “Thirteen tributes still remain. Reaper still looming large on top of the charts, while Coral and her pack try to make a play. Six tributes gone in minutes. If they keep it going up at this pace, we’re gonna be outta here in no time!” He then starts giving the weather report. 

You stand up and walk over to Coryo’s seat, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“She survived the worst part of the games, who's to say she won’t survive the rest?” You give him a lazy smile which he returns. 

“Rose, back to your seat. The rules for spectators are very clear.” Highbottom reprimands. You nod at the dean and squeeze Coryo’s shoulder before walking away. 

You stay there until 8, when all viewers are forced to leave.  You give Coryo a small wave and a smile before you leave, he only waves in response. He looks exhausted. 

At midnight, Dr. Gaul shows up on your doorstep. 

“You need to come with me, now.” 

You squint your eyes. “Why?”

“It’s about your friend.” 

Your brows furrow in concern. “Is it Coryo? Is he okay?” Was he caught? Was Dr. Gaul here to bring you in for questioning?

“Mr. Snow is fine, it’s Sejanus Plinth that’s in trouble. I don’t know how he broke in, or who he bribed, but Sejanus Plinth is currently in The Hunger Games arena and I need you and ‘Coryo’ to get him out.” 

You sigh. You always did have a feeling this ‘friendship’ with Sejanus was going to end up costing more than it’s worth. “Fine. Let’s go.” 

Dr. Gaul ends up taking you to a car that Coryo was already sitting in. She doesn’t blink twice when you sit next to him, or when he holds your hand, something that’s become a daily thing at this point.

When you arrive at the arena, you and Coryo are ushered through the gate. You both wince at the turnstile as you walk through it, it was loud enough without the voice announcing, “Enjoy the show” for all of the tributes to hear. 

Coryo pulls you closer to him and you put up no fight. You walk towards Sejanus as fast and as quiet as you can. You’re incredibly paranoid, frantically looking around you at all times. 

“Thought they’d send my Ma.” He murmurs when you get close.

“We wish they had.” You reply, venom lacing your voice. Sejanus didn’t even flinch. 

“You guys need to go.” 

“We’d like to, we really would. But we promised we’d get you out.”

“Why?” 

“Because you're our friend.” Coryo says. You want to say ‘Speak for yourself!’ but you don’t. 

“I had to do this. I had to go where the cameras are.” His voice breaks. 

“Do you actually think anyone is watching this?” You butt in. “Gaul cut the feed.” 

“Tributes kill you in here and she’s just going to say it’s the flu.” Coryo’s tone was startling. It was vicious. You barely had a chance to react when you heard a footstep. “You need to decide right now. Do you wanna fight these tributes, or fight for them? Because if you’re going to make real change, you have to stay alive.”

“How can I make any change from out there?”

“You’re rich, and smart, and you care.” You reply shakily. You need to get out of there. Every bone in your body is screaming at you to run. 

Coryo nods. “You’re the only one in that class who stood up to Gaul, right?” You can hear metal scraping, and though you try to convince yourself it wasn’t a knife, you still cling to Coryo’s arm. “We’re dead right now if we don’t leave. Come with us, spend your Father’s money on some good, or just be another dead body in Dr. Gaul’s war.” You can’t open your mouth to voice your desperation to leave, so you continue to look around. “Trust me, please.” 

Then you hear it. A boy tribute was shouting at you as he ran towards you with a knife. 

“Run!” Sejanus yells. You book it to the exit, but you were the slowest out of the three of you. Coryo’s grip on your hand remained tight as you all ran. 

As you get to the turnstiles, the tribute grabs your other hand, causing you to scream. He plunges his knife into your hand making blood spray everywhere, and you barely acknowledge it before Coryo grabs a plank of wood and hits the Tribute over the head. He hits him with all his force four times. You weren’t sure which one was the killing blow. You didn’t think about it for long, either, because as soon as Coryo started to pull you again, you realized that the knife was still in your hand, and blood was still gushing from it. 

You lean on Coryo in the car ride to Dr. Gaul’s office. You can barely stay awake, but both your friend and the esteemed Gamemaker insist that you stay conscious. Something about blood loss. You scarcely remember anything leading up to your arrival at Dr. Gaul’s office; Just that you were given some blood in an IV, stitched up, and given some morphling for the pain. Thankfully, you were right as rain once the adrenaline went down. You were exhausted, yes, but back in your right mind. 

You walk outside of Dr. Gaul’s office to find Coryo waiting on a couch. 

“Are you waiting on me?” You ask. He looks up at you, as if he hadn’t noticed you yet. You tilt your head at him, but he just stands up and walks over to you. 

“You’re okay.” The blonde places a hand on your cheek, you lean into it. 

“I am. I’m very tired, and my hand hurts, but I’ll be okay in the morning.” 

He lets out a breath of relief. “Good. That’s good.” 

“Don’t you have to get back to the Academy?” 

He nods. “I’m going to walk you home first.” 

You shake your head, but a smile tugs at your mouth. “You don’t have to do that.” 

“I do. You lost a lot of blood, and I won’t be able to forgive myself if something else happens to you.” 

You furrow your brows. “Coryo.. This wasn’t your fault.” 

“I should have told her not to send you in.” 

“You think she would have listened to you?” You laugh. “You’re charming, Snow, but I don’t think your smile can capture Dr. Gaul.” 

He smirks.“What’s this about my smile?”

You roll your eyes to try and seem annoyed, but your smile betrays you. “There’s the Coriolanus I know. Welcome back Mr. President, I missed you.” 

“Happy to be back.” 

You giggle. “I’m sure you are.” His eyes flicker to your lips. You lean in slightly, begging him to kiss you. He listens to you. It’s three seconds long, you wish it lasted forever. Butterflies flew in your stomach, dancing in joy. 

“You have no idea how much I’ve wanted to do that.” He whispers. 

You snicker. “Please, I’ve had feelings for you since I was twelve.” You accidentally confess. 

Coryo’s smirk grows. “Really?��� 

Your face drops. “No. I never said that.” 

“Which part? That you have feelings for me, or that you’ve had them since you were twelve?” You cringe. 

“Yes?” 

“Oh well, no going back on it now.”

“I think there is.” 

“I’ve had feelings for you since I was sixteen.” 

You tilt your head to the side in faux surprise. “Only two years!?” You shake your head. “You have some catching up to do.” Coryo laughs, and leans in to kiss you again. You reciprocate immediately. 

You walked back to the penthouses hand in hand, something that Tigris immediately clocked when you stepped into their home. Previously, Coryo waited till you were outside to pick up your hand. She gave you a secretive grin, saying that she needed you to tell her everything, you gave her a nod. 

“Why are you back so late?” Tigris asks you. 

“Dr. Gaul sent us in the Arena tonight, Tigris.” You let go of Coryo’s hand to take off your coat. You look at him in time to see his face fall at the mention of the arena. How could you have forgotten what he had to do there? You silently curse yourself.

Tigris’ face suddenly gets serious.“What?” 

You and Coryo sit across from Tigris. “To get Sejanus out.” 

“What happened, are you guys okay?” 

Coryo replies this time. “I killed one of the tributes. A boy.” You grab his hand again. 

“That must have been awful.” She says, grasping her chest. 

“It was.” He pauses. “Then it felt.. powerful.” You don’t respond, but he sees something shimmer in your eyes. Something that tells him you’re not afraid of him. 

“Coryo,” Tigris starts, he finds the total opposite response in her eyes. “I know you want to be like your Father, but what I remember most about him, was that in his eyes, the only thing there was hate.” She pauses. “You don’t have to pay the same price to survive. You can be good.” Coryo scoffs. “You are good. Believe that, believe me.” 

“I’m going to go back to the Academy.” He stands up, giving you both a kiss on the cheek before leaving. 

“What was that? Holding hands, kissing on the cheek? He doesn’t usually do that.” 

You smile slightly, looking at your lap. “I dunno. Lately things have been different, he’s been holding my hand a lot.. and today he killed that tribute for me.” 

“What?” 

You nod and hold up your bandaged hand. “I think his name was Bobbin? He stabbed my hand when we tried to leave.. Then he was on the ground, and Coryo was over him with a plank of wood. Next thing I know I’m walking out of Dr. Gaul’s office.” You leave out the kiss. The timing wasn't right. 

“Wow. I’m so glad he was there.” Tigris pulls you in for a hug. “I’m even happier you’re okay. I couldn’t stand to lose you.” 

The next morning you were back at the Academy as soon as they let people back into the viewing room. You aren’t allowed to talk to Coryo this time, but he nodded to you when you walked in, and you smiled at him as you sat behind him.

“Wakey, wakey, my Capitol friends! I’m Lucky Flickerman and welcome to day two of The 10th Annual Hunger Games! Now, while most of you were getting your sleep last night, something scintillating happened. Bobbin from District 8, slaughtered. Which one of these beasts killed Bobbin? Well it doesn’t matter. Reaper is still at the top of the boards,” 

As Lucky drones on, a classmate of yours Lyssie, pipes up. “Why aren’t they showing us who killed the little boy? It doesn’t make sense, he was killed right there and there are clearly cameras surrounding him.” You tense up as she wonders aloud. She was Bobbin’s tribute. 

“They said they were old, Lyssie. Probably just another one of Coral’s gang.” Festus replies, shrugging. 

The cameras cut to Lucy Gray and Jessup, still in the same spot they were when you left last night. Jessup gasps, waking up Lucy Gray. He starts frothing at the mouth, and you furrow your brows.

“What did you do to me?” He asks. 

“Nothing!” Lucy Gray yells back. 

“Lyssie, what is he doing?” Coryo demands. 

The girl stares at the screen in confusion. “Something’s wrong. He wouldn’t turn on her like this.” Lucy Gray stands up and starts running, leaving the room she’s in, and the tunnels. 

“Go to the stands.. Go to the stands!” Coryo shouts at the screen. 

“Stop running! What did you..” Jessup groans. “What did you do to me?” Lucy Gray starts to run across the arena. 

“I didn’t do anything!” She reaches a pile of debris and starts climbing one of the collapsed pillars. It flicks to Jessup’s face again, as foam drips out of his mouth, he starts to climb the pillar too. 

“The foam! The posters from the war— Rabies!” You yell, barely being able to construct a sentence. 

“Y/N is right. Send him water.” Coryo tells Lyssie. 

“Wait what?”

“You remember those posters in the war?” She nods. “Rabies makes you afraid of water. Send him a drone.” 

“It’ll scare him!” That was true. Yesterday, the only drone that was sent went haywire, dropping the water on the tribute. 

“Yes, away from her. Jessup is done, Lyssie, you’re the only one who can get it right to him.” She bites her cheek, but looks down at her computer and selects the water. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing to be proud of.” The drone flies in. 

“What’s wrong with me? What did you do to me?” Jessup gets dangerously close to Lucy Gray, but the drone hits him, breaking the bottle of water, and splashing all over him. He backs up off of the pillar with a scream. Lucy Gray climbs down and leans over him. 

“Jessup? I’m not going anywhere, okay? You watched over me, now I’m going to watch over you. Sleep, Jessup, sleep now.” The boy whimpers.  

Suddenly, Coral’s group enters the middle, slowly walking towards Lucy Gray. They circle her, spouting taunts. 

“Oh look at that, the pack doing what it does best. Packing it in.” Lucky narrates. “Lucy Gray is cornered, Mr. Snow going for his communipad.” You look at Coryo’s screen to see him sending ten waters to Lucy Gray. The drones fly in, hitting the group. A bunch of the waters break, causing dust to stir in the air, and broken glass to be thrown everywhere. Lucy Gray runs over to a fan, maneuvering it open, and then shutting it. 

“These drones aren’t very good.” Coryo says, acting innocent. You grin. 

“Hey! You can’t attack the tributes!” Festus yells.

“I’m just sending water.” 

You look back at the screen. Lucy Gray leaves the air duct, running to the water, and placing down the one she brought with her, dumping out all the rest. She ran back to her hiding place immediately. Coral was killing the girl from District 2, while her group watched. When she was done, she walked over to the water. One of the other Tributes held the last one in his hand, about to take a drink. 

“Hey, do you really think you deserve that water, right now, Tanner?” A sound from across the arena interrupts them. Wovey, another tribute, ran into the tunnels. “This should be fun.” Coral says as she runs after her. The group follows her. 

Once the door to that tunnel shuts, Dill, the youngest tribute in this Game, limps out from behind some debris. 

“Ah, what do we have here? Oh! It’s Ill Dill, tuberculosis on legs.” She goes to the water and takes a sip. A second passes before she starts coughing, a common plague with her. This time, however, she doesn’t stop. She coughs, and coughs, until blood splatters from her mouth, and she falls back onto the ground, dead. You put your hand on your chest, to seem upset. 

Reaper jogs up to her, calling out her name. He leans down over her for a moment, shaking her, crying. When he stands up, he brings her body to the center of the arena, he goes around bringing every body over to the center, piling them. He then gets up and walks over to one of the flags hanging, grabs it, and pulls. It falls down with ease, you weren’t even sure how it managed to stay up throughout the bombing.

 He lays it over the bodies and falls to his knees. “Are you going to punish me now!?” Reaper screams into the sky. “Are you—“ 

“Capitol students,” The screen switches to a different broadcast, revealing Dr. Gaul. “I’m afraid I must interrupt our Games to announce a tragic loss, one that affects us all. Felix Ravinstill, the son of our beloved president, has, this morning, succumbed to his injuries sustained in the rebel bombing. Out there in the districts, they will be celebrating this young boy's death as a triumph. I will not allow my Games to give our enemy such a victory. I swear to you, here and now, before the sun goes down tonight, a rainbow of destruction will engulf our arena. Even if it means there's to be no victor in these Games.” You furrow your brows. Coryo stands up, making eye contact with you before he looks at the Dean. 

“I need to see Dr. Gaul immediately.” He didn’t say anything else before he left the room. You frown before turning back to the screen.

Thirty minutes later, Tigris arrives. Her hair was nicely curled and she wore a pink pantsuit made of dreams. She must have borrowed fabric from her boss, Fabricia.

“You look beautiful!” You say with a grin as you hug your best friend. 

“Oh please, you should look at yourself.” She sits down beside you.

“I don’t hold a candle to you.”

She shakes her head. “Where’s Coryo?” 

“He went to see Dr. Gaul, he’ll be back any minute.” 

“Why’d he go see her?” 

You shrug. “I expect we’ll find out in a few minutes.”

As if on cue, Coryo rushes back in seconds later. “Lucy Gray, is she okay?” 

“She won’t be for long.” Festus replies. 

“Wait, what’s wrong with Treech?”

You look at the screen, Treech suddenly starts coughing, just like Dill did before she died. You didn’t think anything of Dill’s death, but Treech was fine before. When he coughs up blood and falls to the floor, you know what happened. Coriolanus gave Lucy Gray rat poison. That’s why she left a water bottle. She must have put some in the water. Your mind is swirling with potential scenarios, if you’ve already found this out, Dr. Gaul definitely has. 

You hear the wind start blowing, causing you to snap back to reality. Something was being lowered down into the arena, and Lucy Gray was finally out of the air vents. The huge cylinders get set down, and the drones fly off. They start to crack, before both cylinders break, and millions of colorful snakes fall out. You gasp. 

Wovey comes out from her hiding spot, curious as to what everyone was so surprised about. “Is it over now? Can we go home?” The snakes went after her immediately. 

“Wovey!” Reaper cried. “Wovey, no!” The little girl screams as the snakes wrap around her legs and bite down. 

The arena bursts into chaos. Everyone remaining was taken by the snakes, all but Lucy Gray, who sat on the mountain of debris with snakes covering every inch of her body as she sang. They weren’t hostile towards her. 

“It’s over! Dr. Gaul! Dr. Gaul you need to get her out of there!” Coryo screamed at the Gamemaker. 

You stood, going over to Coryo. “Dr. Gaul, let her out, she won, you have to let her out.” 

“It’s over!” The entire room shouts at her. 

“Get her out.” The Gamemaker finally says. 

“Yes!” The room cheers. You jump into Coryo’s arms, hugging him tightly. 

“You did it!” You yell. You pull away and grab his face. “You did it, Coryo! You won!” He laughs. 

“I won!” He places his forehead against yours, before backing up and giving Tigris a hug as well. 

Later that night, you, Coryo, and Tigris opened a bottle of champagne in their living room. 

“To Coriolanus Snow, winner of The 10th Annual Hunger Games!” You toast clinking your glasses together before taking a drink. 

Tigris finishes her glass in one drink. “Okay, as much as I’d love to continue celebrating, I have work tomorrow so we’ll have to celebrate this weekend.” She stands up, kissing you both on the cheek. “Goodnight! Congratulations, Coryo.” 

“Goodnight, T!”

“Goodnight.”

The second she disappeared behind her bedroom door, you set down your glass, then took Coryo’s to set his down as well. 

“What are you doing?” You look at him, and lean in to kiss him. His hands instinctively go to your waist, and yours go to his shoulders. This kiss is longer than your previous ones, you savor each other as you move in sync. 

When you break, giddy grins take over both of your faces. “I wasn’t able to do that before.” You say with a small shrug. 

“Maybe you should do it again, you know, to make up for it.” You roll your eyes but lean in again.

Two hours later, you and Coryo were laying on the couch, silently looking at one another as you traced his features. “You’re so handsome, Coryo.” 

“Thank you.” He cusps your cheek. “I don’t deserve you.” He whispers with a frown. “You’re so good, and I’m so.. awful.” 

“If either of us are awful, it’s me.” 

“You’re not awful.” 

“I am. I didn’t even flinch when you killed that boy in the arena. I was.. happy that you defended me. And that’s only a bit of it.. I am rotten. You and Tigris are so much better than me.” Coryo sits up, causing you to also sit up, basically all the way on his lap.

“Not only did I kill someone, but I felt good while doing it. And I can’t tell myself I wouldn’t do it again. Especially if I’m defending you in the process.” He confesses. 

“I think I’d do the same for you.” You reply. 

You went home a few hours later, completely exhausted. You slept until twelve the next day, when Tigris barges into your room, yelling that Coryo is to be shipped off to District 12 in the morning. Your heart drops.

[httpvomitello]

Can we have like a Lee (TWD) fem Y/n whose been a resident in Jacksons for years, and actually was the one who originally found Ellie first. She took care of the girl as a kid but then they got separated. Would be nice if she managed to get along with Joel until both of them fall for each other. A made family.

Hellooo, i hope you like it ~ ♡

The Ones We Keep .｡*･ﾟﾟ

Summary: Years before Joel Miller ever met Ellie, you found her. Just a scared little girl in a torn world, and you did your best — fed her, protected her, taught her to fight and survive.

joel miller x f!reader

You’d been in Jackson three winters.

By the time Tommy pulled Joel through the front gates, you were already knee-deep in your usual patrols, hauling a busted fence post out near the south edge. Life had become routine — or as routine as it could be when the world had ended.

You didn’t expect anything that day.

Definitely not her.

“Patrol’s back!” someone shouted.

You looked up from the post, sweat on your brow and mud on your boots.

Three riders.

Two men. One kid.

The kid—

Your heart stopped.

“Ellie?”

Her head turned. Scanned the courtyard. She wasn’t looking for anything in particular—

Until her eyes landed on you.

And everything else fell away.

"Y/N?” Her voice cracked.

You didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

She dropped her bag and ran.

Straight into your arms.

And you collapsed into each other, both of you shaking, breathing hard, holding on like you were afraid the other would disappear again.

“I thought you were dead,” she sobbed.

“I thought you were gone.”

“I tried to wait. I swear I did.”

“I should’ve come back.”

Neither of you let go.

Not for a long time.

Joel stood back, arms crossed. Watching.

Your name had come up once before — when Ellie was half-asleep on some motel floor, mumbling about a woman who used to hum lullabies while sharpening knives. Joel had thought it was a dream.

Guess not.

Tommy leaned in. “You know her?”

Joel’s jaw tensed. “Ellie does.”

Tommy smirked. “She’s one of ours. Found her three years ago half-starved and mean as hell.”

Joel didn’t say anything. But he looked again.

You were different from most in Jackson. Carried yourself like someone who’d fought through hell and didn’t apologize for it. He could tell by the way you crouched when Ellie spoke, the way you scanned every inch of her like you were checking for wounds.

That wasn’t just friendship.

That was something older. Deeper.

And Joel, for the first time in a long time, felt… uncertain.

That night, you stayed with Ellie. She wouldn’t let go of your hand, even when Maria offered fresh sheets.

Joel watched you both from the doorway, silent.

“I’ll take care of her tonight,” you said softly.

He didn’t argue.

He didn’t know how.

You and Joel didn’t talk much the first few days.

He was guarded. Distrustful. So were you.

But Ellie was a thread — the one thing you both wrapped your lives around. She pulled you together without even trying.

It started with small things. You walking with them to the stables. Him fixing your busted radio without being asked. You offering your last cigarette when he looked ready to snap.

Trust came slowly.

Then one day, Joel caught you tucking Ellie in on Maria’s porch, your voice low as you told some old story she still remembered from before.

She laughed like she hadn’t in weeks.

Joel stared.

You caught his eye.

“She’s tougher than she looks,” you said.

He nodded. “Got that from you?”

You shrugged. “We’re all built from someone.”

Ellie started calling the three of you a team.

“My weird apocalypse parents,” she joked once, scarf pulled over her nose, snow crunching underfoot. You snorted.

Joel nearly choked on his coffee.

But she wasn’t wrong.

Somehow, you — with your patched-up jacket and aching heart — had managed to crack Joel Miller’s armor. Not with charm. Not with softness. But with a quiet kind of strength that mirrored his own.

And he found himself wanting to be around you.

Not just for Ellie.

But for himself.

You didn’t expect to care about Joel Miller.

At first, he was just Ellie’s… something. Guardian. Luggage handler. Whatever it was that kept them moving toward Jackson.

But it didn’t take long to figure him out.

He watched everything. Said little. Trusted no one.

You recognized the signs — you'd worn them yourself once. That deep-buried ache that only surfaces when you're finally safe enough to feel again.

And Joel Miller? He was starting to feel again.

Especially around you.

It was a patrol that changed things.

You weren’t meant to be paired up — a last-minute reshuffle after one of the newer kids came down with frostbite. Joel didn’t even look at you when you saddled your horse beside his.

“Try not to talk too much,” he muttered.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you shot back.

The cold outpost outside the valley ridge was a solid three-hour ride. Just you, him, and the wind slicing between pine trees.

You rode in silence. Mostly.

Until you hit a downed tree across the path and dismounted to check the ground.

Joel followed, gun out, eyes sharp.

Then he noticed your limp.

“You alright?”

You paused. “Old scar.”

He didn’t press.

You liked that about him.

The cabin was half-frozen. You took first watch while Joel built the fire.

He didn’t complain once, but the way he flexed his shoulder told you he was sore.

“Give it here,” you said, nodding to the wood bundle he’d dropped.

“I’ve got it.”

“Joel.”

He stopped. Handed it over.

You knelt by the fire. Lit it. Watched the flames catch.

When you turned, he was staring.

“Didn’t think you’d still be here,” he said quietly. “After what you lost.”

You didn’t ask how he knew.

Probably Ellie. Or Tommy. Or just the way you carried yourself.

You met his gaze. “Didn’t think you would be either.”

Something passed between you then. Not sympathy. Not pity.

Recognition.

Like two wolves eyeing one another after circling the same wound for years.

Later, you sat by the fire, shoulder to shoulder.

Joel said nothing, just passed you a flask from his jacket.

You took it. Sipped. Passed it back.

"Ellie," he said, almost too quietly. "She talks about you."

You raised an eyebrow. "Good things, I hope."

He smirked. "Says you taught her how to shoot. And how to gut a rabbit."

You smiled faintly. “She used to gag.”

“She still does.”

Silence again. But softer this time.

“I thought she was gone,” you said. “And I hated myself for it. For leaving.”

Joel didn’t flinch. “We all left someone.”

You glanced at him. “Yeah?”

He looked at the fire. “My daughter.”

It was the first time he said it aloud to you.

You didn’t reply, just laid your head on his shoulder, smiling slightly as you felt his warmth.

He didn’t pull away.