#i suppose this is enough of an idea for now though

[nerdycheol]

A Seat Across from You

☘︎ pairings: choi seungcheol x reader [afab]

☘︎ warnings: strangers to lovers(?), fluff, a lots and lots of slowburn, reader is annoyingly dumb, miscommunication, too much running away & avoiding

☘︎ wc: 9.5k

(a/n): FOR YUKI'S 100 MILESTONE EVENT!! do check out everyone else's work too, they're all are amazing!! I had sm fun writing this. thankyou lexi (@ikeukiss ) for this amazinnggg banner <33 also thankyou to the ones who brainstormed ideas with me calli (@hhaechansmoless), yuki (@eclipsaria) daisy (@flowerwonu) ily'all smm :3 it was originally supposed to be this long, but i wanted to make it as natural as possible :| so forgive me and hope you like it ;) this is not proof read so ignore slight mistakes. tagging alaska (@cherry-zip) because i love them

playlist recommendation 🎵: traingazing-sam wills, sunny-rocco, from the start- laufey, dive- olivia dean, fool-kidsnot$aints, fall in love-jukjae, lily of the valley- daniel, l-o-v-e -rocco, hold me never let go- rocco

(inspired by traingazing- sam wills)

dividers by @cafekitsune

i’d love to hear your thoughts, i love reading your comments and seeing your reblogs! 💗

DAY 1

Morning comes the same way it always does — too soon, too cold, too reluctant to let you ease into it.

You woke up ten minutes late today. Not enough to send you into panic, but just enough to make the morning feel a bit rushed. Your sweater slightly mismatches your coat, but you tell yourself it’s fine. Your bag feels heavier than usual, though you can’t remember adding anything new to it.

The streets are damp from last night’s rain, and a few early risers move with purpose, clutching coffee cups like lifelines. You walk the familiar path to the station, following the same cracks in the pavement you always do.

The train is late today. Two minutes, maybe three. Enough to remind you that the world doesn’t run on your schedule.

When it finally arrives, you step in, immediately greeted by the usual low murmur of conversation, the shuffling of feet against the floor, the faint scent of someone’s too-strong cologne. You shift your bag higher on your shoulder, scanning the car for a spot, eyes moving without much thought.And that’s when you see him. He stands by the farthest door, one shoulder pressed against the glass, gaze turned outward.

You don’t know why you pause. Maybe it’s the way the early light spills across his face, casting faint shadows along the bridge of his nose and his sharp jawline. Or maybe it’s the way he seems entirely detached from the rush around him, earphones in, lost in something only he can hear.

He wears a brown high-neck sweater, the kind that looks soft even from a distance. One hand is tucked into his pocket, the other wrapped around the strap of a worn black backpack. His expression is unreadable—not bored, not impatient, just… distant.

You don’t think he notices you.

It’s silly, the way you keep looking. He’s just another passenger, someone you’ll probably never speak to, never know. But still, you watch him for a moment longer, as if memorizing this version of the morning before the spell breaks.

A man steps in front of you, shifting to adjust his briefcase. The moment lasts only a second, but when you glance back.

He’s gone.

You blink, scanning the space where he had been, but now, it’s empty.

For some reason, the thought lingers as the train lurches forward. You shake it off, exhaling softly. It’s nothing. Just another passing commuter, another stranger among many others.

As you grip the pole tightly, you wonder

Will he be here tomorrow?

DAY 2

The train doors slide open with a mechanical sigh, and you step in. Your usual spot is taken today by an older woman clutching a canvas tote, her head tilted forward in light sleep. So you move a little further down, fingers curling around the overhead rail.

And then you see him. You don’t mean to look, not really. But there he is again, standing in the exact same place as yesterday — leaning against the glass panel near the doors, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. Today, a book rests in his grip, fingers idly turning a page as his gaze flickers across the words.

You wonder, briefly, if he ever misses his stop. If he ever gets so lost in thought that he forgets where he’s going.

The thought lingers for a second too long.

A jolt in the tracks sends the train swaying, and you glance away quickly, feeling oddly self-conscious. It’s nothing. Just another passenger in the sea of strangers.

And yet, when you step off at your stop, you catch yourself glancing back. Just once.

_

DAY 10

It’s been ten days since you first saw him. Ten mornings of stepping onto the same train, gripping the same pole, and watching him from the corner of your eye.

Every day, he’s there — leaning against the glass panel, the same sky-blue book in his hands, which makes you wonder if he ever really reads it. His hands are always in his pockets; sometimes, his gaze turns toward the window.

You don’t know when you start expecting to see him.

He’s just supposed to be another passenger, another face in the blur of morning commuters. But now… now, the moment you step onto the train, your eyes move without thinking, searching and waiting.

The next day comes like all the others. But lately, there’s one thing that makes the mornings feel less mundane. 

You find yourself on the platform, scanning the crowd before you even realize what you’re doing. Maybe you’ll never know his name, never exchange a single word, but that doesn’t stop your mind from conjuring a thousand possibilities, fleeting thoughts that leave you restless.

The train arrives with a familiar hum, and as you step inside, your eyes instinctively seek him out.

There he is.

Standing in his usual spot, clad in a high-neck sweater and loose-fitted trousers. But today, something is missing — his book.

Instead of reading, he simply watches the city blur past, his reflection faintly mirrored in the window. One hand is tucked into his pocket, the other grips the strap of a worn brown suitcase.

And then his head tilts slightly.

For a brief second, a flicker of something unfamiliar stirs in your chest.

Is he looking at you?

The thought unsettles you more than it should. Your fingers tighten around your phone as you glance away too quickly, pretending to check the screen. A silly reaction. He’s probably just lost in thought, staring past you like people often do.

Even as you tell yourself that, the feeling still lingers.

DAY 11

You’re not a superstitious person. You never believe what people say about black cats crossing your path bringing bad luck. On the contrary, you feel good things happen to you when you see a black cat.

And weirdly enough, the man on the train feels like your black cat. It’s not that he actually brings good luck. It’s just that your day seems a little better whenever you see him.

Today, you oversleep. Miss your alarm. Burn your toast. Everything feels five steps behind as you shove your shoes on and fly out the door, heart pounding at the thought of the impending scolding from your manager for being late.

You’re breathless. Disoriented. Out of rhythm.

The train is already at the platform by the time you arrive, and you squeeze in just before the doors seal shut.

But it’s okay, you think — as long as I see him.

And then, your gaze lifts instinctively.

He’s not there.

Your eyes dart across the carriage — once, twice, again. Nothing. Just faces you don’t recognize. None of them are him.

Your heart sinks, and it shouldn’t. You know it shouldn’t. People have lives. Schedules change. Trains get missed.

Still, you lean your head against the glass, suddenly aware of how loud everything feels in his absence. The usual quiet thrill has dulled.

You spend the ride staring out the window. Trying to mimic the way he does it. Trying to imagine what he sees in the blur of grey buildings and sleepy streets.

It doesn’t work.

You get off at your stop and walk a little slower.

Funny, how much space a stranger can take up in your head.

_

DAY 13

Today, you see him again. And somehow, that alone makes you feel like the day might not be so bad after all.

You can’t find a seat in the morning rush, so you claim a spot near the door, your shoulder resting against the cool glass panel.

Just like any other day, he enters.

Today, he’s in a dark blue satin shirt tucked neatly under a black trench coat. He takes his usual place across from you, setting his suitcase down by his foot before pulling out the same sky-blue book he reads every day.

You squint slightly to catch the title — Ikigai. You make a quiet mental note to buy it later.

The train halts at the next station, and a new wave of commuters pours in. The space tightens. You try to brace yourself, but the crowd pushes you forward.

Your shoulder bumps into someone — him.

You freeze, flustered, about to apologize when he looks up from his book.

“Are you okay?” he asks, voice deep and smooth like velvet.

You nod, maybe a little too quickly, mumbling a quiet thanks before turning your face away, hoping the heat on your cheeks isn’t too obvious.

And then he smiles. A perfect little curve that deepens into a dimple.

Oh man.

If you weren’t in deep before — you are now.

DAY 20

It takes a whole twenty days for him to finally notice you.

Like any other day, he enters the train and occupies his spot near the door. This time, you happen to be standing beside him. Like clockwork, he pulls out the book, slides the bookmark free, and holds it between two fingers; eyes moving smoothly over the pages.

The train screeches to an abrupt stop between stations, and the lights overhead flicker once before settling into a dim, humming glow.

Around you, the usual groans begin. A man sighs dramatically. Someone taps their foot like it might make the train move faster. The lady next to you mutters something under her breath about being late again.

The volume of your earphones must be louder than you think, because he looks at you and asks, “Laufey?”

You let out a sigh, glance at your watch to check the time, and look up instinctively because he’s here today too.

Just in time, his gaze lifts and finds yours. The corner of his mouth quirks up, and you can’t help it — you smile back.

Not entirely sure he’s talking to you, you pull out one earbud and mumble, “Sorry?”

He gives a little smile before repeating the question — and god, that damn smile will be the end of you.

You don’t put your earphones back in. Somehow, it feels rude now. Your gaze flickers around the coach, searching for something, anything to keep the conversation going.

“Ikigai! I’ve read it. It’s nice,” you blurt out, nodding toward the book in his hand.

“Really?” he says, sounding pleasantly surprised. “I haven’t met many people who really understand it. It’s nice to find someone who appreciates it. What part did you like the most?”

Idiot. Why would you say that? 

You haven’t even finished the book. You bought it on a whim, sure — but gave up halfway through because it was too dense for your brain to grasp at 10 p.m. on a work night.

“Uhh… the… the living part.”

What the hell does that even mean? Could you make a bigger fool of yourself?

“That’s… interesting,” he replies, polite but clearly unconvinced. You can feel the moment your credibility starts slipping away.

“I mean, I really like the concept behind it,” you add quickly, grasping at straws. “You know, the idea of ‘the happiness of always being busy’… things like that.”

You let out a nervous laugh, hoping it masks the rising panic. He’s still looking at you, curious. That unnerving kind of silence that feels like he’s trying to decide whether you’re genuinely insightful or completely full of it.

Just when you’re about to change the subject or fake a sudden phone call, he smiles again. A little smaller this time. Softer.

“That is a nice thought,” he says, his voice warm now. “I think that’s what I liked too.”

You blink. He’s letting you off the hook?

Relief floods through you, and you feel yourself relax just a little, your shoulders easing out of the tense shrug you didn’t even realize you were holding.

“You probably understood it better than I did, though,” you say with a sheepish grin.

“Maybe,” he says with a shrug, “but I haven’t finished it either.”

“You’re evil,” you mutter under your breath, just loud enough for him to hear.

You stare at him, stunned for a beat — then laugh.

Of course he hasn’t. Of course he let you sweat for a full minute before throwing you a lifeline.

He chuckles, and the sound settles somewhere low in your chest.

For the rest of the ride, you don’t put your earphones back in.

DAY 30

You finally get to know his name. Seungcheol.  It suits him, you think.

You’ve started greeting each other every time you meet. You don’t talk much, just small conversations here and there about your day, the weather, or whatever comes up.

At some point, you admit you gave up on Ikigai because it was a bit too complex for your “small brain,” as you put it. He laughs at that. Really laughs but ever since, he’s taken to explaining parts of the book to you whenever you meet.

And you can’t help but think… if you’d known him during your college years, you probably would’ve passed every exam with flying colors.

You find out that he works in finance and surprisingly, his office is near yours. The revelation makes you wonder why he never gets off at the same station as you, but you don’t ask.

Some things feel too delicate to question just yet.

One morning, you notice a small Captain America keychain dangling from the zipper of his suitcase — a new addition. Curious, you ask if he likes Marvel.

He laughs, shaking his head. “My nephew stuck it on and insisted I keep it. I haven’t really watched many of the movies.”

You gasp dramatically, loud enough that a few passengers turn to look. “You’ve never watched Marvel?!”

He winces, grinning. “Maybe one or two? I don’t remember much.”

From that moment on, your train rides take on a new rhythm. You start explaining the entire Marvel storyline, movie by movie, diving into characters and chaotic timelines, your hands animated and your eyes bright with excitement.

And Seungcheol? He listens. Really listens — eyes on you, smile tugging at the corners of his lips, occasionally asking questions or teasing you gently when your passion makes you trip over your own words.

_

DAY 40

Lately, Seungcheol starts getting off at the same station as you.

The first time it happens, you shoot him a curious glance, unsure if it’s just a coincidence. But when it happens again, and then again, you can’t help but ask.

“Sorry if it seems like I’m intruding, but… why didn’t you get off at the earlier station?” you ask, brows slightly raised.

Today, as the train slows to your stop, you notice he doesn’t move toward the doors like he usually does.

Instead, he waits beside you.

He catches your glance and smiles casually. “I used to get off early to grab coffee. Their brews were the best I’ve ever had.”

“So… no coffee today?”

He shrugs, hands tucked in his coat pockets. “I woke up early to get it before the train. That way, I could ride with you.”

Your heart thumps a little. Not enough to show on your face, but enough that you feel it in your throat.

You look away, trying to hide your smile.

“Ah… well,” you say lightly, “must be some really good coffee.”

“Second best part of my morning,” he replies without missing a beat.

DAY 46

Walks with Seungcheol are part of your routine now.

You used to drag yourself out of bed to start the day, but lately, you wake up on your own even before your alarm rings.

You learn he has a dog. Kkuma. A pretty little Coton de Tuléar with soft white fur and a habit of stealing the spotlight. He goes on evening runs with her every Sunday, and almost without fail, he sends you a picture afterward. Kkuma, dressed in a tiny hoodie or a frilly bow.

At some point, the two of you exchange numbers. It starts with simple texts — “I reached safely” and “See you tomorrow” — but quickly grows into something more.

Now, you text nearly every day, even though you see each other just as often.

And while Kkuma is adorable, you can’t help but zoom in just a little to catch a glimpse of the man holding the leash, his messy sunday hair. The hint of a smile he doesn’t realize he’s wearing.

__

It’s pouring today.

You’re already halfway to the subway when the first drops begin to fall. Too light to worry about, at least at first so you keep walking, brushing damp hair from your face as the drizzle picks up.

Seungcheol boards the train two stops after yours. And the moment he enters, his eyes scan the crowd searching until he sees you. Then he makes his way over.

You talk about your weekends — easy conversation, soft laughter. It makes the ride feel quicker than usual.

When you step out of the station, you realize you forgot to check the weather. The rain’s still coming down, steady and unrelenting. You don’t have an umbrella.

Seungcheol, like some savior from a drama scene, wordlessly opens his umbrella and holds it over your head. You offer to carry it, but he refuses. So you ask to hold his suitcase instead.

But a few steps later, he stops. With his right hand, he adjusts the umbrella and then with his left, gently pulls you closer, tucking you beneath the canopy again.

You walk side by side, shoulders brushing now and then.

After the third time, you shift slightly away, not wanting to invade his space.

Your arm brushes his.

“If you get sick,” he says, eyes forward, voice casual, “who am I supposed to go to work with?”

You don’t say anything, just look up at him and smile. But you don’t move away either.

DAY 50

You and Seungcheol start growing closer.

It isn’t just morning walks anymore. Sometimes, you stop by a café after work, sit across from each other with drinks in hand and talk about everything and nothing. You walk home together too, shoulders bumping every now and then, especially when the sidewalk narrows.

If one of you is running late, the other waits—no matter how crowded the station gets.

Even the metro rides become something you look forward to. You talk about dinner plans or what shows you’re binge-watching. Some days you just share a playlist, sitting in companionable silence as the train rocks gently beneath your feet.

The evenings are always busier than the mornings. Too crowded to sit together, too loud to talk. So you both end up standing on either side of the door, listening to the same song through your AirPods, synced through Bluetooth. It becomes a little ritual.

Still, you hate the space between you.

It’s silly. Just a few feet. But Seungcheol has this quiet warmth to him—like being near him makes the train feel less suffocating, the day a little lighter. And on the days when the coach is packed and you have to stand apart, you miss that.

Then, one day, you fish into your bag and pull out your wired earphones instead.

Seungcheol notices immediately. “What happened to the other ones?”

“Oh… um, they broke,” you say, not really looking at him.

He doesn’t ask anything else. Just smiles and reaches for one side of the wire, placing the left earbud in his ear while you take the right.

You stand side by side that day, close enough that your arms touch. Close enough to hear him hum under his breath. And when the train jolts forward suddenly, he reaches out instinctively to steady you—fingers curling briefly around your wrist before letting go.

Neither of you say anything about it. You just stand there, sharing music.

And somehow, the ride home feels shorter than ever.

That night, after dinner and a long shower, you flop onto your bed and reach for your phone.

No messages.

You stare at the screen for a moment before opening your playlist—the one you listened to with Seungcheol on the train.

You scroll down and tap on one song. The one that was playing when his fingers brushed yours.

You don’t think too much about it—you just send it to him. No caption. Just the link.

A few minutes later, your phone buzzes.

Seungcheol [11:47 PM] good taste also… I liked this part the best [audio snippet attached]

You play it. It’s the chorus.

Your phone buzzes again.

Seungcheol [11:48 PM] reminds me of train rides and someone hogging the right earbud 👀

You smile, cheeks warming.

You [9:49 PM] i offered to switch sides you’re the one with territorial issues

Another reply, instantly.

Seungcheol [9:49 PM] fine, next time I’ll hold the wire hostage

You laugh, phone resting against your chest.

DAY 69

You don’t expect to see Seungcheol on a Sunday.

Today is supposed to be all about the Han River. There’s a lantern festival happening, something your friends have been buzzing about for weeks. If it were up to you, you’d spend the entire Sunday curled up on your couch, binge-watching Friends for the third time this year.

But your friends are determined. They show up at your apartment in full force, barging in with iced coffee and snacks. Apparently, they don’t trust you not to cancel again.

And honestly? Fair enough.

Last year, you claimed you had “urgent office work.” The year before that, you said your grandmother was sick and needed to be taken care of. 

(Sorry, Grandma. You’re doing great. I love you.)

So here you are dressed, dragged out, and mentally preparing yourself to be social for the next few hours.

Your group decides to head to the river early to avoid the crowds and grab lanterns before they sell out. After a long walk under the sun, everyone is tired and hungry, so you volunteer to run to the convenience store and grab some ramen.

What you don’t expect is to bump into Seungcheol doing the exact same thing.

And judging by the surprised look on his face, he doesn’t expect to see you either.

He lifts a hand in a small wave, his voice matching it in volume. “Hey.”

You open your mouth to respond, but before you can, Jihyo appears at your side, arms full with four cans of beer.

“Oh, hello,” she says, giving Seungcheol a polite nod before turning to you. “Who’s this?”

“Oh, we go to work to—”

But Seungcheol doesn’t get the chance to finish.

“You go to work with someone?!” Jihyo gasps dramatically. “Wow, didn’t think you had friends outside of us.”

Before you can react, a blond-haired man strolls up to Seungcheol’s side.

“Cheol, there’s no space outside.”

“Then we’ll just sit here—” Seungcheol begins, but Jihyo is faster.

“You guys can join us!”

“Oh, that would be lovely,” the blond man grins. “Sitting with pretty ladies and eating good food? Count me in.”

“Jeonghan—” Seungcheol starts, but again, Jihyo cuts him off.

“This is going to be so fun!”

Just like that, she walks off with Jeonghan, chatting like they’ve known each other for years. You can’t help but envy her a little, for how effortlessly she talks to new people.

That leaves you and Seungcheol standing alone, both a little thrown off but smiling anyway.

You exchange a glance, share a quiet smile, then follow after the two of them, side by side.

By the time you all finish eating, the sun has dipped low in the sky. The festival is about to begin—lanterns being unpacked, children running around with glowing sticks, couples picking spots near the river.

You and Seungcheol haven’t talked much since the ramen store encounter. Not because anything is wrong, but because suddenly, things feel… different.

Awkward in a new way.

Even though you’ve known him for a while now, even though you’ve shared coffee, playlists, and half your mornings—something about seeing him here, outside your usual rhythm, throws you off.

You keep catching each other’s eyes and looking away just as quickly, only to glance back a moment later. Each time your eyes meet, he gives you a small smile. You return it, cheeks warm.

The boys couldn’t buy the lanterns because all sold out early, so you decided to share yours.

The six of you split into groups to light and lift the lanterns—Jihyo and Nayeon pair up, Jeonghan and Joshua team together, and that, of course, leaves you and Seungcheol.

You sit on the grass with the lantern between you, a set of markers in hand.

“Should I draw something meaningful or just… stars?” you ask, uncapping a pen.

“Stars are meaningful,” Seungcheol says, kneeling beside you.

You smile and begin sketching— tiny stars, a moon, a little ramen bowl in the corner for fun. Seungcheol adds a small Kkuma doodle near the bottom. Your hands brush once. Neither of you moves away.

When it’s finally time to lift the lantern, you both stand, holding it gently between you. Around you, dozens of lanterns floating into the sky, glowing orange and soft against the inky blue.

“Ready?” he asks, glancing at you not at the lantern.

You nod. “One, two, three…”

You let go.

And for a second, your gaze follows the lantern.

But his stays on you.

The sky is dark and clear, making every light stand out sharply. Lanterns float up one by one, glowing softly in warm shades of orange and gold. They move slowly, carried by the breeze, flickering light. The river below mirrors them perfectly, like the sky has dipped down to meet the water. It’s calm, almost still, just the soft rustle of grass and the low hum of people watching in silence.

The sky sparkles above you, but you feel the warmth of his eyes more than the lantern lights.

_

Later that night, back home, your phone buzzed with a message from Jihyo.

It was a photo.

You and Seungcheol standing shoulder to shoulder, watching the lantern rise. The light from the flame illuminated your faces, casting a glow that made the photo look straight out of the Tangled movie.

Then another message follows.

Jihyo [11:59 pm]  you & your lover boy 💗

You roll your eyes, already typing a response.

You [typing…] “it’s not like that—”

Before you could even hit send, another message pops up.

Jihyo [12:00 am]  “and don’t even try to say no. i’ve seen the way you look at each other.”

You stare at the screen, speechless.

Because, maybe you don’t really want to deny it.

DAY 70

Jihyo’s words stay with you the whole night. You keep reaching for your phone, opening it just to stare at that photo again. You don’t see it, the so-called look Seungcheol is giving you—not the way Jihyo describes it.

Still, it’s enough to keep you tossing and turning, caught between curiosity and denial.

When you wake up, there are faint dark circles under your eyes. You even stare at yourself in the mirror, wondering if it’s actually possible to get dark circles overnight.

You start your day later than usual. Not because you oversleep. No, you’ve been awake for a while—but because you’ve been trying to avoid Seungcheol. You time your routine to reach the station half an hour late, thinking—no, hoping he’s already gone.

You aren’t ready to face him. Not after everything in your head starts sounding like Jihyo’s voice.

But of course, life has other plans.

Seungcheol is still there—standing on the platform, eyes scanning the crowd like a puppy trying to find its owner. And when he finally spots you, his face lights up instantly. He waves too eagerly, too wide and jogs over to meet you.

“Oh! Seungcheol,” you say, caught off guard.

“Hey!” he grins. “I was this close to calling you.”

“Why didn’t you go?” you ask. “Won’t you be late?”

“It’s fine,” he shrugs. “Just a few minutes.”

“Seungcheol. I was thirty minutes late. That’s not just a few minutes.”

He smiles, almost like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“I wanted to go with you.”

And just like that—your heart does that stupid thing again. The thing where it thumps in your chest a little too loudly, like it’s trying to remind you you’re not as unaffected as you pretend to be.

You look away, down at your shoes, anywhere but at him.

Because Jihyo might’ve been wrong about the look. But you aren’t so sure about yours.

_

When it’s time to get off work, you make some excuse that you have to stay over longer because of some pending work and ask him to not wait for you.

To which he replies with a pout emoji and an ‘okay’ with it.

DAY 74

Over the next few days, you try to avoid him—subtly. At least, you think it’s subtle. But apparently, you aren’t as discreet as you’d hoped. Because on the third day, Seungcheol texts you, asking if you are avoiding him, if anything is wrong, or if he did something wrong.

You stare at the message for a long time, guilt creeping in.

You don’t mean to hurt him. Truly, you don’t. But the space helps. You need those few days to gather your thoughts, to figure out what’s going on inside your own head.

And somewhere in that quiet, you realize something.

You might actually like Seungcheol.

Not just the morning walks or the shared playlists or his little smile when your eyes meet. Him.

And now, all you can do is hope—really hope that Jihyo has been right all along about the way he looks at you.

So you decide not to avoid him anymore. And also maybe try to come clean about your feelings.

_

DAY 75

You wear your pink skirt and a white off-shoulder top today—the one Jihyo swears makes you look like an angel. You wake up extra early, wanting to take your time getting ready. Something different from your usual pencil skirt and tucked-in blouse. A little blush, soft liner, your favorite lip tint. Nothing too dramatic, but just enough to make you feel… pretty.

Because today, you decide. You are going to confess to Seungcheol.

You are nervous, no doubt about that. But mixed in with the nerves is something else—something bright and fluttery. A little thrill at the thought that this could be the day everything changes.

It feels like either the last day you’ll see Seungcheol as just a friend… or the last time you’ll ever see him.

When you reach the station, he’s already there. He hasn’t noticed you yet, which gives you a quiet moment to take him in.

He looks good. Too good for a regular weekday.

A crisp black shirt tucked into slate grey pants, sleeves rolled up just enough to show his forearms. His hair is slightly messy, like he’s been running his fingers through it while waiting. He has one hand in his pocket and the other holding a coffee, eyes scanning the platform casually.

You walk over and gently tap his shoulder.

He turns, smiling. “Hi—”

Then his eyes widen slightly, his smile freezing for a second before softening into something warmer.

“Woah… you look amazing. Is there any occasion today?” he asks. “Wait, is it your birthday?”

You shake your head, shy. “No. I just… felt like wearing this.”

He tilts his head slightly, still smiling. “Well, you look really pretty.”

You mutter a quiet thank you, cheeks already heating up. Before you can say anything more, the train arrives, pulling into the platform with a gust of wind and that familiar screech of brakes. You both step in together, falling into your usual routine—music, small talk, the shared comfort of standing close.

Later, as you walk out of the station toward your offices, Seungcheol glances over.

“Hey… would you mind coming with me somewhere after work?” he asks.

“Where?” you ask, surprised.

“I need to buy a gift. For someone.”

You blink. Is he buying something for you? But that doesn’t make sense. Why would he take you along to pick your own gift?

Still, you nod. “Sure.”

—

You manage to finish your work quickly and leave the office earlier than usual. Outside, leaning casually against the building wall, is Seungcheol—head tilted down, focused on his phone.

He looks effortlessly handsome. Same shirt from the morning, sleeves pushed up a little higher now, hair ruffled even more from the long day. He glances up as you walk over.

“Hey,” you greet, and he slides his phone into his pocket.

“Hey,” he replies, smiling like he’s been waiting for you.

You fall into step beside him, the two of you making your way to wherever this little errand of his will lead.

The shop is located on the corner of an alleyway. No wonder you’ve never seen it before. Inside, it’s small but cozy, filled with shelves lined with candles, handmade accessories, tiny notebooks, and other gift-y things that feel both thoughtful and random. Seungcheol walks ahead, scanning the displays carefully. You trail behind, heart beating just a little too fast.

He eventually makes his way to the counter and leans in slightly, speaking to the worker.

“Do you know what would be a good gift for a lady?” he asks, voice polite.

The worker looks up. “What age range are we talking about?”

“Around 25?” he replies casually.

You don’t wait to hear the rest.

You quickly turn away and wander to the far end of the shop, pretending to browse a shelf of overpriced bookmarks.

Your stomach drops.

Of course he’s taken. Why wouldn’t he be?

You feel like an idiot. A man this kind, this funny, this good-looking—how could he possibly be single? You scold yourself internally for even letting the idea of confessing take root.

You don’t know what you feel more—embarrassed that you almost made a move, or heartbroken that he’s already someone else’s.

Maybe you should be grateful. At least you haven’t actually said anything. You can still keep the friendship. Things can stay the same.

Right?

Even if all you want right now is to go home, bury yourself in a blanket, and scream into your pillow.

DAY 87

You start avoiding Seungcheol again. This time, it isn’t subtle.

You don’t reply to his texts. When he messages asking, “Are you avoiding me again?”, all you can bring yourself to respond is a simple, “I’m sick.”

Technically not a lie. Just… not the whole truth.

You begin leaving for work fifteen minutes earlier than usual, hoping to slip away before he even reaches the station. On top of that, you start taking the women’s coach—just in case he happens to come early too.

It is ridiculous, you know that. But the thought of seeing him, knowing what you know—or rather, what you think you know is too much. You don’t trust yourself to act normal, and you don’t want him to see through you.

So you do the only thing you can think of. You disappear from his mornings. Even if it breaks your heart to do it.

—

But what you don’t expect is to walk through the door and see him there.

You decide you hate Jihyo.

She texts you earlier saying she and Nayeon are going out for drinks with some people, and asks if you want to come. You have been a mess for days—mopey, overthinking—so you figure, why not? A night out might help. Distraction can’t hurt.

You freeze just a few steps inside the bar, hand flying out to grab Jihyo by the wrist.

“What are they doing here?” you hiss, nodding toward the trio of familiar men at the bar counter—Seungcheol, Jeonghan, and Joshua, laughing over drinks like they have no idea they are ruining your life.

“Oh, I invited them,” Jihyo says with a shrug, like she just asked them over for coffee.

Your jaw drops. “How? How did you even get their numbers?”

“I exchanged numbers with Jeonghan the other day,” she says simply, brushing past your panic like it is nothing. And before you can protest, she is already walking over to greet them smiling, waving, completely unbothered.

You don’t have the energy to chase after her.

The rest of the night is a blur of noise and lights and everything-you-wanted-to-avoid crashing into you all at once. Seungcheol tries to talk to you more than once, always gentle, always a little concerned, but you keep brushing him off, pretending you don’t hear, pretending someone has called your name.

You laugh louder than necessary, drink more than you should’ve, and cling to Nayeon’s arm like it is a lifeline.

By the time it’s time to leave, you can barely stand without holding onto something or someone.

And when the drinks start to hit, you get drunk. Properly drunk.

Because maybe if your head is fuzzy enough, you’d stop remembering the way he looks at you in that photo or the way he looks at you right now.

Your head feels heavy, and your voice comes out slower than usual. Jihyo and Nayeon aren’t much better off. They giggle as they sling their arms around each other, tipsy and carefree. The problem is—they live in the same direction. You don’t.

Even in your dazed state, you can vaguely make out Seungcheol speaking to Jihyo.

“I’ll drop her home,” he says, voice calm and firm.

“YOU’RE THE BEST—thank you!” Jihyo shouts, completely unhelpful, before stumbling away with Nayeon, leaving you behind.

You stare at Seungcheol, swaying slightly, hugging your bag tightly to your chest like it is some kind of shield. He walks ahead, opens the passenger door to his car, and turns back to you with a tired sigh.

“Can you please get in?”

You blink at him. He raises an eyebrow. You don’t move.

“I’m not kidnapping you,” he adds dryly. “Just trying to make sure you get home in one piece.”

You hesitate for another beat before finally moving, sliding into the passenger seat with a clumsy thump. He closes the door behind you and circles around to the driver’s side.

“Can you put your address in the GPS?” he asks once he is settled.

You fumble with your phone, hands still trembling a bit. Eventually, you manage to type it in and pass it to him.

The car pulls out onto the main road, and for a while, there is only the hum of the engine and the soft sound of the air conditioning.

Then he rolls the window down a little.

The cool night air hits your face, it helps for a moment. You close your eyes, breathing in deep. The nausea settles just a bit, and your thoughts start to line up again, one by one.

Still a mess, still confused. But slowly sobering up.

You ask him to drop you off a little farther from your house—somewhere down the road, away from your actual address.

But, of course, Seungcheol doesn’t listen.

He stops the car right at the bottom of the slope that leads up to your place, shifts into park, and turns to you.

“Stay here,” he says gently, before getting out of the car.

You blink, confused, until you see him circle around and open your door for you. He holds out his hand.

You hesitate, but your legs aren’t steady enough to argue. You let him help you out, his hand warm around yours. He doesn’t let go even as you both start walking up the quiet slope together.

The silence between you stretches for a few minutes, just the sound of your shoes on the pavement and distant insects chirping in the dark. You aren’t sure if it is the alcohol still in your system or the storm in your chest, but eventually, you break the silence.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” you ask.

He glances at you, eyebrows pulling together slightly. “What do you mean?”

You exhale slowly, avoiding his eyes. “You know it’s not exactly gentlemanly to lead on a lady when you’re already in a relationship.”

He stops walking.

“…What relationship?” he asks, voice cautious.

You keep your eyes forward. “The bag you bought the other day—it was for her, right? Your girlfriend.”

He says your name softly. Then again, firmer. “Look at me.”

You do. Slowly.

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” he says. “In fact… there’s someone I like.”

Your heart sinks anyway. Just hearing those words “someone I like” even if it isn’t someone he is with, it still isn’t you.

You look away. “Then go tell her. Why waste all this time on someone who you won’t like back?”

Your voice drops to a mumble at the end, but he still hears it.

He squeezes your hand, just enough to make you look at him again.

“You’re the one I like”, he says.

You don’t know if it is the alcohol or the months of slow-burn tension finally snapping but you lean in.

“No,” he holds you back by your shoulders. “Not like this. Not when you’re drunk. Not when you might not remember.”

Your lips part in protest, but nothing comes out. Your face crumples instead, and without another word, you turn around and start walking ahead.

“Just go,” you mutter. “I’m fine. You don’t have to follow me.”

He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t call out to stop you. But he doesn’t leave either.

He stays parked at the bottom of the slope. Watches you unlock your door. Waits until you step inside. Stays there until the lights in your house turn off.

You don’t know what exactly you’ve done.

But one thing you are sure of. The ghost of tonight is going to haunt you tomorrow.

DAY 90

You were right.

You don’t remember everything that happened last night. Bits and pieces come to you in flashes—your head pounds every time you try to force the memory. You vaguely recall leaving the bar, Seungcheol’s car, walking up the slope...

The more you try to piece it together, the worse your headache gets.

You pop some ibuprofen, hoping it will dull both the physical ache and the mental chaos. It doesn’t do much, but it helps just enough to drag yourself out of bed and into work clothes.

When you finally make it to the station, still feeling like your brain has been put through a blender, you spot him.

Standing exactly where he always does—except now, just the sight of him sends your stomach into a spiral.

You freeze in place.

Few memories flash by. You remember asking about the gift. You remember accusing him of leading you on.

Oh no.

Oh god.

Did you try to kiss him?

Before you can figure out how to vanish into thin air, Seungcheol is already walking toward you. Calm. Collected. Way too composed for someone who might’ve been kissed by a drunk mess.

He reaches into his pocket and holds out a hangover medicine to you.

You blink. Then take it with a quiet, “Thanks.”

“About yesterday…” he starts.

Panic flares.

“Nope,” you blurt. “I mean—OH LOOK! The train’s here, let’s go!”

You practically speed-walk past him and into the nearest compartment like your shoes are on fire.

The entire train ride, you keep a very safe three-foot distance between you and Seungcheol, standing awkwardly near the door like you don’t even know him. You avoid eye contact like it is your job. If someone had drawn a chalk line around you, it would’ve been labeled “emotional damage containment zone.”

You have no idea what to say or what he wants to say. But whatever it is… you aren’t ready.

_

DAY 94

You had, against all odds, successfully dodged the talk with Seungcheol. And honestly? You were kind of proud of yourself.

Sure, it wasn’t the most mature move, but avoiding awkward emotional conversations? You were practically a professional at this point.

Not that he made it easy.

He still waited at the station for you, even though you started leaving earlier than usual in the hopes of missing him. On the train, you avoided any and all eye contact like your life depended on it. And despite that, when evening rolled around, you’d still find him waiting outside your office building, casually leaned against the wall like he hadn’t been ghosted for a week straight.

You’d just mumble something about needing to finish up emails and hide behind your monitor.

Even your coworkers had caught on.

“Your handsome man is downstairs again,” one of them would say with a teasing grin.

“You shouldn’t keep a man that fine waiting. It’s rude,” another would chime in.

But today… Seungcheol clearly decided enough was enough.

As you walk out together after work, the sun just starts to dip low in the sky. He glances sideways at you and asks casually, “Do you like cafes or parks better?”

You blink. “Huh?”

“The vibe, I mean. Like if you had to pick. Cafes or parks?”

You furrow your brows, confused but grateful he isn’t bringing up that night.

What you didn’t realize, of course, is that he wasn’t just making small talk—he is trying to figure out where you’d feel more comfortable. Where you’d feel safe enough to finally talk.

Which, honestly? Is kind of really sweet.

The park is quiet this time of day—just a few people jogging, some kids chasing each other near the fountain, the sky turning that soft, cotton-candy shade of evening.

You aren’t sure how you got here, really. One second you’re walking with Seungcheol, and the next he is leading you toward a bench under a big tree, acting like this is just another casual detour.

Except… you know it isn’t.

You sit beside him, not too close, not too far. Your hands rest in your lap, picking at your sleeves. You can feel your heart beating in your throat.

Seungcheol doesn’t speak for a while. He just sits there, hands resting loosely on his knees.

“I thought you were mad at me,” he finally says.

You keep your gaze ahead. “I wasn’t.”

“You avoided me like I had the plague.”

You let out a breath—part laugh, part guilt. “I panicked.”

“Why?”

You hesitate. “Because I remembered bits and pieces from that night. I thought maybe I said or did something I shouldn’t have.”

There is a small pause.

“You didn’t,” he says. “Nothing weird happened. Except maybe how fast you ran off afterward.”

You smile despite yourself. “I was embarrassed.”

“Why?”

You glance at him, then look back at your hands. “Because I started overthinking things. You were just being nice, and I made it weird.”

He is quiet again for a moment. “I wasn’t just being nice.”

That makes your heart skip a little, but he doesn’t press it.

Instead, he nudges your foot lightly with his. “Anyway, I just didn’t want it to be awkward.”

You nod. “Yeah… me neither.”

“Cool,” he says, leaning back slightly. “So… we good?”

You look at him, and something about the way he is watching you makes you feel lighter.

“Yeah,” you say. “We’re good.”

The conversation shifts to safer topics after that. You stay on that bench for a while longer, talking about random things—the weird subway ad you both hate, the café with terrible coffee he swears he only likes for the muffins.

And just before you leave, he glances at you and says, casual as ever, “Hey… let’s hang out next week. Like, properly.”

You blink. “Like… outside the train?”

It isn’t like you haven’t seen him outside other times, but this time it might be just you two. You and him.

DAY 99

The days passed quicker than you imagined.

You and Seungcheol still took the train to work together every day, but somewhere along the way, those commutes turned into something more. You started stopping by cafés on the way. Tried out that dinner place that had been all over your feed. Even ended up at an arcade once—half-tipsy from drinks at a pojangmacha tucked into the corner of some quiet street, laughing so hard you nearly cried when he lost to you in a dance battle.

Today, you stood on either side of a fogged-up train door.

Absentmindedly, you doodled a tiny smiley face on the glass with your finger. When you looked up, you caught Seungcheol doing the same—drawing a tiny heart just beside your smiley.

You didn’t say anything. Just smiled to yourself the rest of the way home.

Later that night, as you were drying your hair after a shower, your phone buzzed.

Seungcheol [9:13 PM]      hey!! can we meet tomorrow?

You blink. Sit down on your bed and quickly type back:

You [9:13 PM] (indented) sure!! where tho??

It takes him a minute to reply.

Seungcheol [9:14 PM] (indented) there’s this garden café near dongmyo… it’s quiet and pretty at night. 7pm?

You bite your lip, smiling at your screen like an idiot.

You [9:17 PM]     sure 😊😙 see you then!

DAY 100

You are nervous as hell. You are sitting on one of the corner seats at the café, fiddling with your hair, smoothing down your skirt, rubbing your hands against your thighs like it will somehow calm your heartbeat.

Now you sit in that café, trying not to look at your phone every five seconds. He isn’t late. You are just early. Painfully, ridiculously early.

You dress up more than usual today—okay, a lot more.

A sheer, light mocha-brown ruched blouse with soft, billowy chiffon sleeves and a deep V neckline. A high-waisted, dark chocolate brown maxi skirt with a gentle drape and ruched detailing at the hip. You even do a winged eyeliner—after three failed attempts. You check the mirror at least ten times before finally forcing yourself out of the house.

Five minutes pass.

Then the bell over the café door chimes, and you instinctively look up.

There he is.

Seungcheol walks in, dressed in a warm chocolate-brown crew neck sweater and cream-colored corduroy pants. His hair bounces slightly as he moves, and somehow, he looks even better than you remember—soft and put-together and annoyingly, heart-flutteringly handsome.

You stand up as he reaches the table, and he gives you a breathless smile, holding out a small bouquet—white lisianthus and garden roses, sprinkled with baby’s breath.

“You’re early,” he says, just a little out of breath, eyes scanning your face and outfit in a way that makes your skin buzz.

You nod, shy, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. “So are you.”

He chuckles softly. “Guess we’re both a little eager, huh?”

And just like that, the nervous weight in your chest lightens, bit by bit.

Dinner is perfect.

Seungcheol insists you try everything. Every time you so much as glance at something on the menu, he tells the waiter, “We’ll have that too.” Your table is overflowing with plates by the time the mains arrive, and you lose count of how many times he leans forward to ask if you are full, if you like it, if the dessert is too sweet.

He keeps spacing out mid-sentence, staring at you with this dazed, boyish look before shaking his head and mumbling, “Sorry, what were we talking about again?”

You tease him for being distracted. He claims it is the lighting that makes him space out. You know it isn’t.

And even though he laughs and looks like he has everything together, you notice the way he fidgets with the hem of his sleeve when he thinks you aren’t looking. How he checks his phone screen just to lock it again.

After dinner, the two of you step out onto the quiet street.

The rush has died down. The air has cooled just enough to make you pull your cardigan tighter. Street lamps cast soft glows on the pavement, and the sounds of the city fade to a distant hum—just footsteps, laughter from across the block, and the occasional car passing by.

You walk side by side. Close, but not touching.

Until he stops walking.

You turn to him. “Cheol?”

He looks nervous. Palms in his pockets, shoulders drawn in slightly, eyes fixed on the road like he is rehearsing something in his head.

Then he looks at you.

“I know this is random,” he starts. “Well—not random, but kind of sudden? Or maybe not. I mean, it’s been a hundred days. That’s a lot. But also not enough, I guess, to say something like this—but it also feels like it is.”

You blink. He isn’t making much sense.

Seungcheol takes a breath and scratches the back of his neck.

“What I’m trying to say is…” He looks at you, really looks at you. “I like you. Like—really like you. More than a ‘train friend’ or a ‘text you memes at 11PM’ kind of way. I think I’ve liked you for a while now, and I kept waiting for the right time, and then today just feels like it. Because it’s special, right? A hundred days. And I—”

“Seungcheol.”

He keeps going. “—I mean, I didn’t want to make it weird, and maybe this is weird, and I’m talking too much—”

You step forward and wrap your arms around him.

He freezes. Then melts. His hands hover for a second before resting gently on your back, holding you like he doesn’t quite believe you are real.

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes. “I like you too.”

It is quiet for a moment. His eyes search yours like he is waiting for you to take it back, like he has to double-check that he heard you right.

You smile. “I was kind of hoping you’d say something.”

A quiet relieved laugh slips from him.

Then, softer, “Can I kiss you?”

You nod.

Seungcheol steps in close, one hand resting lightly on your waist, the other hovering just beside your cheek like he is scared to touch you too fast. His gaze flicks from your eyes to your lips and back again, as if he is memorizing you right here, under the soft yellow glow of the streetlamp.

His fingers finally brush your jaw, a soft touch, careful—like you are something delicate. Your heart thuds in your chest, loud enough you’re sure he can hear it.

Then, slowly, finally, he kisses you.

His lips are warm, soft, hesitant at first—testing the waters, afraid to mess it up. You tilt your head and lean in, and that’s all the reassurance he needs. His hand slides to the small of your back, pulling you a little closer, and he kisses you again—this time deeper, more certain.

There is just the feel of his lips on yours, the quiet rhythm of his breath, the faint scent of his cologne—something warm and woodsy that makes your knees go weak.

When he pulls back, just enough to rest his forehead against yours, neither of you say a word. Not yet.

The night is quiet around you, just the hum of distant traffic, the glow of streetlamps, and the soft sound of your breaths mingling in the small space between you.

He finally speaks, voice low, like he doesn’t want to break whatever this is.

“Do you know what today is?”

You smile. “A hundred days.”

He nods. “A hundred days of you. Of seeing you on the train. Of wanting to say more, stay longer.”

You blink up at him, heart full.

“I want more,” he says, thumb brushing your cheek. “Not just another hundred. I want all of them. Every day.”

You lean in, kiss him one more time.

And as you stand there, in the middle of a quiet street with the man who used to be just a stranger on the train. You think the next morning, the train will still come.

And this time, you’ll be boarding it—hand in hand.

BONUS - SEUNGCHEOL’S POV (DAY 1)

The train pulls in, slowing with that familiar screech of metal. Seungcheol leans against the glass panel, one hand in his pocket, headphones in, watching people come and go.

Then she steps on.

He doesn’t recognize her — she’s new, at least to him. She looks around for a moment; the seats, the windows, the slow-moving scenery outside. There’s no rush in her expression, just quiet observation.

She finds a spot across from him, steadying herself on the rail as the train lurches forward. For a while, she just watches the buildings go by, eyes calm, thoughtful.

Then she pulls out her phone, scrolling through something, expression soft and unreadable.

He looks away, pretending to focus on the song playing through his headphones. But it’s hard not to notice her — how she stands a bit straighter than everyone else, how she seems almost peaceful even with the crowd pressing around her.

She doesn’t look at him. Not once. Or so he thinks.

Still, he catches himself checking.

And then the train keeps moving, same as always.

He hopes to see her tomorrow too.

join my permanent taglist

[sweetcalebb]

hii I love ur work bookie!!

brat tamer caleb nsfw? looks around nervously ..

Brat tamer Caleb ! ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊

wc: 2.6k

a/n: hi bookie!! LOL no need to be nervous 😏 thank u so much!! that seriously means so much to me ‹33 hope this was okay. i can totally see caleb being a brat tamer, but only if u wanted him to be bc that man is DOWN BADD. like otherwise he would totally give in.

as always, DM me, comment, or send another ask if u wanted something else! i won't get butthurt. if anything i just get an excuse to write caleb more

——

Everything was completely fine. You were completely fine.

Until Caleb rolled his sleeves to his elbows and leaned back in his chair like he didn't know exactly what that would do to you.

Maybe you were a little desperate, but that wasn't news. You were always desperate for Caleb.

You shifted closer, brushing up against his side like it was just some innocent gesture. "Calebbb."

Caleb grinned, leaning down to hear you over the clinking glass and passing conversations. "Pipsqueaakk."

You pursed your lips and batted your eyelashes. It was an overused look, but one that always won Caleb over—he claimed it was "too pretty to resist."

"Aren't you a little bored?" You trailed your heel up his shin under the table, the touch drawing out a small chuckle. He knew that move. Knew that look.

"Mm.. maybe a little," he admitted. "But it'd be rude to leave a dinner you're supposed to have with your friends."

You frowned, leaning in even closer. Who cared about modesty anymore? Caleb looked too damn good to not be bending you over the table right now.

Alright. Down, girl.

"C'mon." You nudged him lightly. "We can just say a quick goodbye and be done."

But he still wasn't budging. If anything, he was liking this, letting an amused little grin tugging at his lips.

You chewed your cheek. What an ass.

"Please?" You brushed your lips against his ear, the gesture innocent enough to pass off as nothing. "I need you."

Caleb watched as you sat back. Oh, you were going all out.

The thought made him laugh. He loved you like this. Loved how desperate you were to be put you in your place. "You're being naughty tonight."

You sucked your lip between your teeth, shifting uncomfortably in your seat.

"I'm sorry, Pips," he huffed, shaking his head and taking a small sip of his drink, "but I think you can wait a little."

"Caleb—"

"You really wanna act all needy in front of your friends?" Caleb mused, casting you a sideways glance. Any protests you had left instantly melted away. It was hard to think when Caleb looked at you like that—all smug and sharp like he already had you exactly where he wanted.

"Just sit pretty. You'll get what you want in a little."

You huffed.

Just sit pretty?

No. No, absolutely not. Caleb had never resisted that look. Why the hell was he starting now, when you needed him so badly it hurt?

You crossed your arms and sat back in your seat, your eyes darting over your friends who all looked completely unbothered—laughing, drinking, eating.

God.

They had no idea that Caleb had just denied you.

And that you were going to make him pay.

The rest of the night you teased him.

You trailed your fingers up his thigh, flashing him an innocent smile when his eyes darted towards you. Sharp. Suspicious.

You didn't stop though. Instead, you brought your hand higher, stopping dangerously close to his groin. And when he didn't even flinch, you went higher. His hitched little breath was your cue to pull back.

Two could play this game.

You pulled your dress a little too low to expose more skin. You brushed your ankle against his more suggestively. You texted him the filthy things and watched as he read them, then spread his thighs subtly and shifted in his seat.

You were getting to him.

Deny as he might.

But he never broke. No. Caleb was too cool for that. He could give your leg a warning little squeeze and murmur dirty promises in your ear, but he didn't break.

Not even on the car ride home.

You sat there, elbow resting on the window and legs squeezed together.

"Tired?"

You blinked, glancing over at Caleb. He wasn't looking at you. Not then, anyway. But you saw it, heard it—the little upward curl of his lips and mocking lilt in his voice.

You sucked in your cheek. "Mmn. No, I'm feeling great. Actually," you shifted, squeezing your legs together a little tighter, "I think I'll help myself when I get home."

Caleb tensed slightly, his grip on the steering wheel tightening. "Play nice, Pips."

"I am playing nice," you hummed, turning your gaze back out the window.

Caleb let out a disbelieving laugh. You were annoyingly stubborn and he loved that. You gave him the perfect challenge. The perfect chase.

"Maybe I shouldn't."

Caleb's eyes darted toward you again. "What do you mean?"

You met his gaze again, lips soft and sweet, curled into the cute smile that told him you were up to.

"I'm just so—" you sighed, arching your back off the seat. Not too dramatic. Just enough to look real. "I'm so pent up. I don't know if I can wait 'till we get home."

Caleb scoffed. "You wouldn't."

You shouldn't.

You knew what he'd do to you when you got home. How'd he'd put you back in your place and God, if that isn't what you were asking for all night.

"I would," you murmured, eyes glued to him as you pulled your dress up and bunched it around your stomach.

Caleb let out a stuttered breath. But he didn't speak. He couldn't. Because were you seriously about to get off in front of him? In his passenger seat? To taunt him?

The answer was a resounding yes when he heard the first, slick slide of your fingers over your swollen bundle of nerves.

And you just smiled, lazily rolling up into your touch. Caleb's eyes narrowed.

THAT was it.

You finally had him.

You could feel it.

Without warning, he swerved onto a different street, pulling into an empty, dimly lit parking space, and turned the engine off.

"Get in the back." He stared at you, his chest falling and rising just a little too quickly. "Now."

A small part of you wanted to put up more of a fight. Reject him the way he'd so rudely done to you this evening. But the bigger, more needy part of you was already scrambling to the back seat.

You watched with bated breath as Caleb slipped out of the car, only to slip into the back seat with you.

He didn't tease or wait, just grabbed you and pressed you into the window. You gasped, hands grasping for something to hold onto.

Caleb leaned over you, his stomach pressing against your lower back as he murmured into your ear. "You're lucky I love you so much, you know?" He dragged his hand down your leg, then back up to slip it between your legs, and pressed two fingers against the damp fabric of your underwear.

"I could've made you wait 'till we got home, but I'm taking care of you right now."

You whined, helplessly nudging your hips back against his hand. "Thank you."

You didn't care how breathy or pathetic you sounded. You needed Caleb now.

Caleb huffed, nudging your panties to the slide to run his fingers through your drooling cunt. "Don't thank me yet."

But your body was already doing that, fluttering around nothing, begging for him to do something. And when he finally did, you nearly buckled.

You would've collapsed into the window if he hadn't been holding you.

"You're so wet," he awed, rubbing slow, deliberate circles over your puffy clit. "Were you like this the whole dinner?"

"Yes," you moaned out, your body jolting when he teased your entrance. It was barely the tip of his finger, but you were desperate and overeager. Any touch had your mind spinning.

"Naughty girl," he breathed, dipping his finger in your clenching hole for a second before pulling out and going back to rubbing.

You whined, pushing your hips back again.

You thought you had him.

That he was finally giving you what you were begging for all night.

Until he pulled his hand away.

"Uh-uh."

You breathed out a shaky sigh.

No, no, no.

Why was he stopping?

"Caleb—Please."

"Nope."

You fought every cell in your body not to push your hips back again. You knew you'd find nothing, but it was like instinct.

"You don't get to take after tonight. You just get to look pretty while I do this." His fingers found your slick folds again, but he didn't move. Not yet. "Understand?"

You bit your lip.

Caleb nipped at your ear. "C'mon, baby. Understand?"

"I understand," you whimpered.

"There you go." Finally, he started moving again, rubbing you in maddening little circles. He knew just the way you liked it. Knew you liked to be teased just a little.

So he'd slip his finger down and pump a finger in. Slow, steady, then go back to your clit when you thought you'd had enough.

But you weren't getting enough.

"Caleb, this isn't fair," you exhaled, dropping your head against the window like that might ease the ache between your legs.

"No? You don't think so, Pips?" He mused, words a little breathy.

Your skin prickled at the teasing lilt you heard. You knew it was pointless, but you shook your head away, the movement slow and pathetic.

"What isn't fair is you thinking you have the right to anything after you were touching me and sending me those dirty texts all night," Caleb gritted out, plunging his fingers in and curling them to hit that perfect spot inside you.

You gasped, unable to help the way your hips jerked back. "Yes! Oh, God!"

For a second, you had some semblance of relief before he was pulling out again.

"Pipsqueak... I thought I told you to keep still."

"You..." You paused, a whine tearing from your throat when he went back to the same agonizing movements on your achy clit. "You didn't explicitly say to stay still. You just—you just told me to look pr—"

"Don't get smart with me unless you want me to stop completely." His breath fanned over your neck. "And I really don't want to stop."

"Please don't stop!" You sunk your nails into the leather seat. "I'll be still. Promise."

Claeb groaned, moving his fingers slightly faster now. Maybe it was a reward, or maybe he just couldn't help it. You didn't know. Didn't care. He was moving faster and that's all that mattered.

Your breath left in uneven pants as the heat in your stomach coiled tighter and tighter with each pass of his fingers.

You were close.

So close.

Caleb was hitting all the perfect spots, circling the little bud between your thighs like he knew your body better than he knew his own.

You were almost there.

Just a little more.

Your lips parted with a silent gasp.

Then—

He stopped.

Gently eased his hand away and started pumping you, slowly.

You nearly cried. "No, no, no. Caleb—" You bit your lip to keep the pathetic sound from tumbling out. "Ca–Caleb, please! Just—I—"

"Shh, you're okay."

If you hadn't caught the mocking edge in his voice, you would've melted at the sweet words.

"Next time, don't tease me if you can't handle this."

You sighed, the sound breaking off on a whine. Your window was all fogged up, sweat and tears clung to your cheeks. You were a mess, and Caleb was completely fine. Teasing you. Feeling you, like you weren't losing your goddamn mind.

"I won't do it again," you blurted. "Just let me come. I wanna come..!"

Caleb huffed out a quiet laugh. "A brat and a liar." He slid his slick fingers back in your throbbing cunt, giving you just enough to make your toes curl, but not enough to push you over the edge. "Suchh a naughty girl today, huh?"

"'Mmno! I promise!"

Caleb sunk in knuckle deep and started curling his fingers, brushing over the spongy spot that made you see stars.

"Ah-ahh," Caleb murmured. "You know how I feel about broken promises."

"Caleb—P-please! Pro–promise!"

He laughed again, the sound making you clench around him. "You're making this worse for yourself, Pips."

You were close again. He was touching all the right spots, curling and uncurling his fingers in a way that made your eyes roll to the back of your head and your thighs tremble around his hand.

"You're close," he rasped, listening to the obscene squelch that told him you were so worked up it hurt.

You grit your teeth, nodding.

So close again.

He had to give it to you this time. He had to. You earned it, right?

Fucking wrong.

Just when you were about to come, he pulled away. Again. Fingers slick and warm.

Your whole body was screaming for release. He couldn't leave you like this. He wouldn't.

"I'm sorry!" you cried. "I'm sorry I teased you! Please let me come!"

"Yeah?" Caleb brought his fingers back to the mess between your legs and tapped them playfully against your slick flesh. The sound it drew was sinful. "I don't believe you."

"Caleb—!"

"Show me how sorry you are." Slowly, he pushed his fingers back in. "Fuck yourself on me."

Your breath caught in your throat. "I—I can move?"

Caleb's fingers twitched, eager to watch you lose yourself. "Mhmm. You can move."

"I can come?"

"Yep. Move, cum, whatever you want—as long as you do the work. Can you do that, Pips?"

You didn’t even answer—you were already grinding down, fucking yourself on his fingers like you needed it to breathe. You were moaning and panting on every filthy slide of his fingers.

"You look so pretty like this." Caleb gawked, watching every shift and twitch of your hips as you sank on his fingers over and over again. "Using my fingers to get yourself off—Fuck—"

He bit his lip at the little curse slipped out. He wanted to keep up the facade of indifference, but it was impossible when you looked and felt like that.

"Faster. C'mon," he rasped. "Don't you want it?"

"Mm'yes! I want it!" You didn't miss a beat. You moved faster, filling the car with your moans and cries.

The corners of your vision blurred as you chased down your orgasm like a woman possessed. You didn't stop. Didn't hesitate, not even when you felt your arms shake and your head lull forward against the glass.

"Caleb! I'm—Yes! Oh, God!"

"That's it. Right there, right there," Caleb encouraged.

And then you were finally coming.

Your orgasm ripped through you with a guttural cry. Your body twitched, wave after wave of arousal gushing around his slender fingers.

Caleb held you through everything, making sure you didn't collapse against the door when the aftershocks finally washed over you.

"Hey, you okay?"

When you didn't answer, panic flared in his chest. Had he been too mean? Did he hurt you?

Caleb shifted, sitting back and holding you in his lap.

"Hey, Pips."

"Mm."

He sighed.

"Don't do that to me. Are you okay?"

You didn't answer, just lazily curled into his chest and wrapped two shaky arms around his neck.

Caleb instantly melted into you, peppering your head with kisses. "You did so good, pretty."

You gave another quiet hum in response and he chuckled. "Are you sure you're okay?"

You nodded. "I'm.. very okay."

Caleb smiled. "Good." He pressed another kiss to your head. "Wanna stay like this for a bit?"

"Please."

He huffed. "Anything for you."

—

taglist <3

tags: @exe-toby @seungkwansflower @floatinginaer @halfawakeblobbu @heartyluv @starryeyed-apple @asiatic-apple @walrusbreath @sylvieisoffline @awquaz @purpleamethyst25 @pinksaiyans @beaconsxd @haleaf @politefawn @colonelpantysniffer @villainessobsessed @lioria @inlovewithsylus @tired7o7 @justwinginglife @itsmysmut @bitewiththis @littleboomerang @aenishas @honeymoonfleur @stargirlygirl @peachlycheetea @calebsbabyapple @goochfiddler99 @lewdcifer778 @minivia @bidisasterforevermore

[metamatronic]

Is arnold like... an owl avatar? It's a very nice detail if so!

He is! I mentioned this briefly, but it’s supposed to be an reference to the Baby Owl/Owl Mask in the Moon.Exe program, which is where he’s been stuck (with Fiona/M1) for the past 40+ years. More detailed explanations of why the owl / Arnold & Fiona’s relationship below:

So there’s some interesting lore attachment to the Baby Owl in Moon.Exe—namely that 1.) it represents David Murray and 2.) that Sun kills it and cooks it??? for some reason???

Separate of the *actual* lore though, (i assume it’s alluding to the idea that M1 killed David and you’re playing as M2), I’m choosing to interpret the scene as Fiona projecting David onto Arnold (by giving him the mask), and forcefully forgetting anything that doesn’t line up with that narrative (cooking the real baby owl).

Fiona desperately misses her child, and doesn’t really remember what David even acted like anymore—so she chooses to believe that David acts—or would have acted—like Arnold, a man who she perceived as willing to sacrifice his own life to help her and Edwin fix M2. Because of this, she starts passively viewing Arnold as her son (hence him being personified as the owl in the Moon.Exe program).

Now this is problematic for a number of reasons—it infantilizes Arnold, warps her memories/perception of the real David, and is ultimately putting Arnold in the very bad position of trying to live up to the memory of a kid who never really grew up enough to have character flaws.

But Arnold is also a very neglected and taken-advantage-of character himself, and I imagine having some sort of caring, maternal presence would probably be very calming for him given the circumstances, so I think he didn’t really put in effort to try and correct the situation or set boundaries until it was waaaay to late to do so. Anyways, I’m sure that won’t explode horribly later.

anyways. rant over.

[jezuschristsuperstar]

This is going to be my last post about it. And I’m going to hold your hands when I say this- squeeze them lovingly and all: Sydcarmy is never going to happen. Almost everything that they have said about this show off screen has been true (groundhog day, these two contemplating breaking cycles, Carmy not quite getting back with Claire- even though their ending implies that they will very soon) so they were right about there being nothing between these two lol. We weren’t duped or swindled: we actively refused to listen. And perhaps it was because of the chemistry between the two main characters. But if you were here before season 2, Ayo was relentlessly mean about the idea of the ship- and then over time that became her actively making fun of it by saying shit like they’re getting married. To her now in show saying that interpreting their dynamic as romance is childish. Even Jeremy himself has constantly said that there is no romantic implications between their characters, and he spoils EVERYTHING. All that… all what we were witnessing, was just the intensity of their chemistry- and that speaks volumes. It’s a shame we will never see it go any further.

And anyways… seeing the BULLSHIT that Sydney went through this season. Her finally realising that she wants to do this with him in spite of it all, just to be left high and dry???? And yes, Carmy leaving is the best thing for him to do and everything was already pointing in this direction, the funeral set up an exit (whether for the entire restaurant or him) perfectly. But if you also actually care for Syd as a character, you’d understand that what he did to her was fucked and near evil (over exaggeration but it still wasn’t good). Yes the gesture is loving- it shows that he respects her, trusts her, and loves her enough to pass on something so sentimental and special to her. HOWEVER, this is like your elder sibling banging up a toy he was supposed to pass down to you and giving it to you with a leg missing, and eye missing, and it’s fingers all chewed up. The restaurant is well run down, they still don’t have the money for it- he is aware of her fear of failure and insecurity that stems from her business failing and plunging her into financial ruin. He knows how fucked her credit is, but proceeds to do it anyway. And it’s because of that that she can’t even be happy about it. Now she can’t even trust him to help them into the clear because he has never really been there for her WHEN IT COUNTS. Why would she trust him to be there for her now? And seeing all this, beyond all their cuteness. The literal crux of their relationship- why would I want Sydcarmy to happen? It would ruin her, because Carmy is not yet in that place to be what she needs. Carmy is not yet HER peace, even if he is her family. Ayo was right when she jokingly said Sydcarmy can happen perhaps in like the fifth or sixth season/ in a world where they are both therapised and both working towards improving their mental health, but it’s television- who would really want to see all that happen only for them to get to that point? The show (although it has now seemed to also forget this fact- seriously? Deducing Tina’s arc to a fucking pasta dish, Storer I will BEAT YOU. There is no reason for good story to solely come from a special episode) is about other people too.

I do feel like there will be a fifth season- because that didn’t feel like an open ending. Or at least is wasn’t on par with the one that we saw in the first season (when the writing was good and the direction was good and the story was compelling and yada yada yadaaaaa). But if it does happen, I really don’t expect for there to be romantic sydcarmy. Just platonic and messy sydcarmy, which is a sexy dynamic within itself. And if I do end up being wrong about this, I still do feel they will pull a ‘clairecarmy’ in the sense that their relationship will be open for interpretation/ there is a heavy implication that they will go there with their relationship off screen.

It’s unfortunate but what can we do at this point. Still engage in fanon, keep on enjoying the fics- however, if you are still in the line for canon sydcarmy, I beg of you… please please step out in the name of your sanity. Because it’s like repeatedly touching a hot stove even when you are told not to lol. IT IS AN ACT OF SELF HARM. And crashing out over this next year after two consecutive years of BULLSHIT will only make you look stupid.

[redandgreyscale]

Currently thinking about Rosekiller going on an awkwardly formal “first date” because they got convinced they needed to and they just stare at each other like ‘I hate this’

I got super carried away, why do you even let me do this things :') anyway this turned out quite long I love my babies!

This needs to be perfect. Barty needs it to be perfect.

He's never been all for formal pureblood courting protocols, always hated the mere idea of it, finding a girl, getting her to a fancy place and giving her an expensive gift, getting her to go out with him, eventually marrying and having kids... All of it sounded awful.

But now. Now he's dating Evan, and their first date needs to be perfect.

They go to a fancy restaurant his father always praises and he puts on his most formal clothes, though not a full suit, he is wearing a fancy shirt and a tie, all black, elegant. His hair is not the mess it usually is, and his face is shaved and clean. He feels... Not himself, but it can't matter.

Barty sits alone on the table and goes through the wine section of the menu. He doesn't understand anything, and weirdly orders something he's seen his father drink before.

Evan gets there soon enough, and Barty's breath catches when he sees him. He is not wearing a tie, but he is wearing an elegant button up, made of some flowy material and with an obnoxious amount of ruffles on the neckline, he can see gold accessories on his hair, neck and fingers. Barty frowns. Evan hates rings.

"Hi"

"Hi" Barty gets up hurriedly and pulls Evan's chair out for him to sit.

It is as weird as you'd expect. Too formal. Too clean.

"You look different" Evan says, something similar to a smile pulling on his lips.

"You're wearing rings" Barty says back, because he can't stop focusing on it.

They try to order something, the names of every dish too posh, with ingredients they don't even know how to pronounce, and then, the food arrives. They stare at it.

"Is that..." Evan starts, looking at the plate.

"I think it's still alive" Barty adds, his eyes not leaving the octopus legs moving. He has no idea what he's ordered, but apparently it's this.

They look at it, wide eyes and confused expressions, and then look at each other.

"Maybe we could try a place we know better..?" Evan suggests, Barty hates to admit he's failed miserably, because this was supposed to go well, it was supposed to be perfect, it was supposed to— "Bee?"

"I wanted this to go well" he admits in a small voice, now avoiding Evan's gaze.

"We don't need all of this for a great first date" Evan's hand grabs his over the table, and Barty looks at him again. "This is the first time I even see you wear something so formal, what makes you think I'd love this more than my everyday Barty?"

"You're wearing rings" Barty repeats it, practically cries out, like that can explain everything he's trying to say. Evan smiles and nods in understandment.

"Yeah, I am" Evan squeezes his hand "how about we get out of here, we get something normal to eat, you get rid of your tie and I get rid of my rings?"

"Sounds better"

That is exactly what they do, Evan ruffles Barty's hair as soon as he can and makes him promise to never brush it again. They get pizza, eat in a park, sitting on a bench and still laughing at the strange-alive food they almost had. Barty puts on every single ring Evan takes off even if gold isn't his color, and Evan hangs Barty's tie around his neck even if it doesn't match with the rest of his clothes. And this is easier. Better. This is them.

[intrepidacious]

time after time [10]

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: 12.2k

chapter warnings: another mystery gets revealed; canon-typical violence; grief; angst and miscommunication but also a surprising amount of fluff; oh, and time-fuckery. i've missed my time-fuckery 😈 please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: it's not friday but i got a new haircut and we're in the endgame now (if you'll excuse the pun) so let's do this

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

ten: about time

You liked the anonymity the big city granted you, even though most days, New York felt almost crushingly huge. The crowds swallowed you up and spat you back out again, feeling dizzied and hollow. Sirens wailed and traffic buzzed and life around you hummed in constant cacophony.

But more people meant a better chance of flying under the radar, and that was exactly what you wanted.

No, what you needed.

Even more so now that you were back in the vicinity of the limelight.

"You know," you said as the building caved in on itself, walls going up in flames one by one. "Sometimes I wonder why anyone still lives in this place."

Sam snorted.

"Seriously," you said, taking your place between him and Bucky again. "Rent is outrageous, the streets are crowded, and every other week another catastrophe happens that insurance companies will weasel their way out of covering. So what’s the point?"

"You didn’t grow up here, did ya?"

You weren’t used to Bucky reacting to your rhetorical questions at all, let alone without venom in his voice. Most of the time, you were sure he tuned you out entirely.

"Why," you said in lieu of answering.

He shook his head. "I’ve been gone a long time and there’s a lot of things that changed, but there’s a feeling you get … that’s still the same. Can’t find that anywhere else."

Like home, you thought with a familiar pang in your heart.

"Can I ask you something?" you asked, kicking a pebble as you were walking. It flew across the sidewalk, landing just in front of Bucky’s shoes. He stepped over it.

"Is there a world in which you’re not gonna if I say no?"

"Do you believe in fate?"

He frowned, clearly not having expected that kind of question. But it tugged at you still. Always had, like a whisper in the back of your mind; what if you chose wrong? What if you irreparably ruined the way things were supposed to go? What if—

"I don’t," Bucky replied.

"Me either," Sam said. "I mean, millions of possible worlds and this is the one we get? I don’t want that to be fate."

You turned towards him. "What if the other options are way worse?"

"Like what? Wait, no, don’t answer that. I’m having an alright day."

"Don’t wanna think about how we might all be puppets pulled by invisible strings with no free will to speak of?"

"Y/N," Sam said, the levity from his tone missing now, tilting his head.

To your right, Bucky’s hands were clenched at his sides, his back very straight. Shit.

A wave of guilt rushed through you, unexpected and brutal, thoughtless, "I didn’t—"

"It comes down to choices," he said, very calmly. "What we are and aren’t able to do. What we know. Who we trust."

You swallowed heavily and dropped the idea of attempting a redo. In all likelihood, it wouldn’t have worked, anyway. "You know, Steve said something similar when I asked him once," you said instead. "About people and choices."

Bucky pushed his sunglasses up his nose. "I bet he did."

Maybe fate, in that one case, would’ve been a kinder option.

For a second, you tried to imagine a universe in which the past had worked out differently; where the Soldier never inhabited that dark place at the edge of Bucky’s mind.

You would’ve gotten along great, you know.

You tried to imagine it for a moment; meeting him back in a time before, walking through the streets of New York City side by side in silence with an easy smile on his face. You doubted he ever smiled at all now.

Besides, there was no point in imagining universes that never would’ve been, anyway. Out there, there was a world in which he’d died a happy man, years or decades ago, and you … you’d still have been alone, just as you were now, floating between realities. Staring at thin air and wondering about what could never have been. That was the only thing constant in your life, the one certainty amidst mediocre decisions and timeless space.

Maybe fate was just an ugly torture; or a sorry consolation.

"Right," you said as the wall of journalists rounded the corner. "I’ll see you back at the Tower."

Bucky clapped Sam on the back. "You got this, Cap."

"You’re both assholes."

You dispersed in opposite directions, and you pulled out your headphones as you headed towards the nearest subway station, putting your playlist on shuffle.

"A long, long time ago … I can still remember how that music used to make me smile …"

It punched the air out of your lungs, and for a moment you stopped in the middle of the street, the world around you pausing in shock. Your vision blurred as slowly, movements and noise returned around you, people bumping into you and cursing as you stared at your screen, the song stuttering back to life note by note.

To your own surprise, you found you were smiling.

Happy accidents, indeed.

* * * * *

It’s never happened, you tell yourself. You’ve gotten quite convincing over the past half hour. Dodge Sam’s kicks, feign to the right, ignore the fact that you just kissed Bucky.

Your rush of Sanctum-induced energy has burned down to a simmer at the very back of your mind again, and even though you should probably examine that and its implications, you’ve not been able to focus all morning.

It’s fine. It’s fine. He’s not going to say anything about it because it’s never happened.

Why, then, when he says your name, does it make you want to bolt?

"Y/N," he says again.

You let out a breath. "Barnes."

This was a mistake. You should’ve just stayed in your room. Should’ve packed your things and just left, moved to Canada, or maybe asked for asylum in Kamar-Taj. Surely, Wong would’ve taken pity on you a second time.

Then again, what good would any of that have done? The loop would never let go of you that easily.

The symbols around your wrist tingle, and you fight the urge to scratch. You can feel that Bucky is staring at you, but you can’t look at him. You can’t.

"You done?" you say with faux lightness. "Don’t worry, I know which towel to take."

Pretend is what you’re good at. No matter how tiring it is, you’ve done it all your life. There’s no other way to cope with realities that are no longer real.

Unfortunately, Bucky’s never been inclined to let you get away with lying. "Stop it," he says now.

He sounds tired.

You slip out of the ring, keeping your head down, refusing to yield, "I’ll see you for coffee?"

His hand closes around your wrist and you freeze mid-step. "We need to—would you please look at me?"

You square your shoulders and finally turn to face him. His eyes are wide, intense, pinning you down like you’re a rare kind of butterfly. Your heart skips a little, and you hate yourself for it.

"We need to talk about this," Bucky says.

You hide a wince. "Do we have to?"

"Yes! You—" His cheeks are tinged a soft shade of pink, but you can’t tell if it’s from his run or frustration. You’re certain he’s never looked at you like this before, bewildered and almost betrayed—"You kissed me."

The sentence drops a chasm between you, reality mended against its will. It’s not real, but it was; and you’re not the only one that remembers.

"I know," you say quietly.

The admission conjures the memory again in even more horrific detail. You can still feel the way his entire body froze up against yours, blood curdling in your bones as the scene replays over and over again. You’ve only just started to become friends on equal terms, and now you’ve gone and thrown something like that at him.

What a colossally stupid thing to do.

Bucky’s hair is mussed, like he’s run his hands through it repeatedly. He searches for something on your face, and you cannot tell for the life of you what he sees. "And it reset the loop."

You blink. So that’s what this is about. Inadvertently, you’ve found the most ill-timed literal loophole of the century. No one died during the last Friday; you didn’t even have to go on the mission or throw yourself off a building. The solution, it appears, is as simple and as complicated as a kiss.

Truly, there couldn’t have been a worse way to make him aware of your feelings.

Then again … what does Bucky know, really? Nothing. He’d caught you in a moment of weakness, is all. A temporary madness. Not a big deal at all. So why make it one?

Your feelings aren’t his burden to bear.

"Look at it this way," you say, with a too-bright smile. "We found a way around you catching a bullet at the end of every day. It’s not like it has to mean anything."

You want to take it back almost as quickly as it comes out, but there’s no way for you to take back the things you say anymore. You both know that, and you let it hang in the air for a while.

Bucky swallows. "Well, did you know that this would happen?"

You want to laugh. Out of all possible reactions he could’ve had, you didn’t see this one coming. "How on earth would I have known that?"

His eyes flit between yours, confirming your honesty. "I don’t know, I’m just—this is a lot to process."

Ah. Ah.

You bite the inside of your cheek so hard you can taste iron. "Take your time, then," you say and turn to leave, but he still doesn’t let go of you.

"Twe—Y/N, come on, give me five seconds here."

"No, it’s fine." An odd kind of hurt rushes through you, making every sentence come out sharp and poisonous. "I love the fact that you were immediately willing to jump off the roof every day but the thought of us kissing is something you need to think about. It’s not like I’m asking you to marry me."

"I know that," Bucky says, his flush darkening, "but call me old-fashioned in that I don’t generally like kissing people transactionally."

So you’re people now.

"You’re old-fashioned," you confirm, freeing your hand from his grip. "This isn’t fun for me either, okay? But since this is literally a matter of life and death, I think it’s a damn good compromise. We don’t have to make this a whole thing."

"Well, maybe it should be a whole thing."

"What does that even mean? This doesn’t change things, not really."

"This changes plenty. You think you like me, don’t you." It sounds like an accusation.

You take a half step towards him. "Why are you saying it like that?"

"Because you don’t, actually."

With a pang, you remember before. The constant bickering, the passive-aggressive notes, your rolling eyes and his glaring. Before, when your feelings were easy and surface level, when developing a crush on James Buchanan Barnes would have seemed as likely as receiving a Nobel prize.

Or unraveling reality because he took a shot that was meant for you.

In hindsight, it shouldn’t have taken you this long to decipher what had tenderly started a very long time before Bryant Park. It was there already, in every time you’ve waited for him first thing in the morning, in every cup of coffee and desperate attempt to save him. You see him stone-faced in the quinjet, picking the lock of the public library, guiding you over broken pieces of glass on your bedroom floor, sitting down on the couch next to you, every version of him on this day already so deeply nestled into the very core of your heart that it’s hard to believe it might’ve ever been otherwise.

And so you say, "Of course I do."

"No, you don’t," Bucky says, that tick in his jaw reappearing. "This is just—I don’t know, trauma bonding."

For the first time since the loop started, you actually do want to kill him. "Oh, get a grip, Barnes."

"We’ve never spent this much time together—"

"We fucking live together—"

"—let alone the fact that this whole situation is a nightmare—"

"—and even if we didn’t, I don’t understand what your problem is right now—"

"—so you’re bound to think there’s more to it than—”

"—and also can you stop telling me what I think?"

You stare at each other, unblinking, both of you daring the other to break the silence. Finally, Bucky relents.

"I’m just saying that you wouldn’t be … acting this way if we weren’t the only two people that are aware of what’s happening to us."

You shake your head, slowly. "That’s not true."

His logic is flawed, but can you fault him for that? You’re used to being the person that remembers; you’ve had so much more time to make up your mind, on Friday and all the days that came before.

"You can’t stand me, remember?" Bucky maintains, his back straightening. "Because I do."

"Things changed."

"No." He presses his lips together. "No, not this. You’re wrong. You don’t … like me."

Your shoulders slump, but you don’t look away from him, even as your cheeks burn. "I do."

Even as he backs away from you and your heart aches so badly you want to scream, even as his wide eyes freeze over, slowly, as he regards you in all your fucked-up, sweaty glory. Expecting rejection doesn’t take away from the pain as it happens in real time; and yet, you find yourself meeting it with your head held high.

Somehow you know that even if you had access to your powers right now, you wouldn’t reach for them.

"You can’t do this to me right now," Bucky says, voice devoid of any emotion. "It’s not real."

You let out a joyless laugh and step up to him again. This time, he doesn’t retreat; only watches you with careful, vacant eyes as you put a hand right over his heart. It’s racing under your touch. "Does this feel not real to you?"

He swallows. "It’s temporary. This world is falling apart."

It always is, you think. You don’t say it out loud, though. Instead, you blurt, "We should go out, then."

Something flashes in Bucky’s eyes, gone as quickly as it appears. "What?"

"Out," you repeat, your cheeks flaming. "While were not getting shot at."

"Are you—are you asking me on a date?"

"I’m not actually sure," you say, dropping your hand. "But I can’t keep letting you die, I just can’t. And if that’s the way that you … that we …"

You’re being stripped naked under his unwavering eyes, and you just don’t know what it means. The band around your wrist hums lowly through your blood as you dig your nails into the flesh of your palms.

"If we want to figure this out—whatever this is—we should spend more time together."

"Time," Bucky repeats tonelessly.

"You know what I mean. I mean, maybe you’re right. Maybe we’ll find out we’re never going to get along, but at least I don’t have to watch you die for a couple of loops. Like I said, it doesn’t have to be a big deal," you reiterate, your throat tightening. "Other than you not having to get shot every day. And who knows, maybe we’ll end up as friends after all this."

"Right," Bucky says, frowning. Not budging. The tips of his ears are burning.

There’s a flicker behind his eyes, like he’s keeping himself from saying something else.

Tell me.

Hope is a terrible, dangerous thing, and it only gets people hurt.

"Fine," he says at last. "Let’s try."

* * *

"Big lesson number one: All the time travel in the world can’t make someone love you."

Out of the corner of your eye, you steal a glance at Bucky. He doesn’t seem to notice, his eyes calmly focused on the screen, his expression neutral, his back very straight.

You keep twisting your rings around your fingers and waiting for the blood to stop rushing quite so loudly in your ears.

Your run of terrible ideas, it seems, continues on as you pretend to be invested in the movie while hyperaware of Bucky’s presence next to you. The two of you are next to each other on the same couch, much like you were during the fireworks; only this time, you’re very careful not to touch.

This is what you get for stupid suggestions: awkward silence and the sinking feeling of regret. After all, isn’t more time stuck together kind of the last thing the two of you need right now? Shouldn’t you be doing something to try to end this, once and for all?

Because although you’ve already spent a lot more time with Bucky during these past couple of Fridays, you’ve not done it aimlessly since you lost an afternoon at Bryant Park.

That look on his face he got during that loop is long gone, lifetimes away, and you can’t decide if it’s better or worse that he doesn’t even remember getting it in the first place.

Still, it’s remarkably similar, in some ways. The quiet ease you feel next to him, despite it all. The slight frown between his brows as the movie continues blabbering on in the background. This mix of uncertainty and reassurance rushing through you, making your heart rate go up.

Tell me. What? What did it mean, then? What would it mean, now?

It doesn’t matter. This doesn’t mean anything. It cannot mean anything. You’ve established as much.

Alpine slinks around the couch table and jumps up onto the sofa next to you, pawing at your arm until you let her climb into your lap. She doesn’t settle, exactly, but she keeps tracking the movement of your hands with her head. It distracts you for a while, and you smile as you readjust your position to scratch her head.

She smells a little like Bucky.

"This is so stupid," you finally say. Normally, it’s easy for you to poke fun at the inaccuracies of time travel movies, but this one is … different. You’ve always had a soft spot for it, even though you could never point out why. Maybe it’s the underlying melancholy of its rules that connects to the very core of you.

Right now, though, the characters on screen are having marathon sex and you want to die.

"You’re the one who picked it out," Bucky reminds you, taking a sip of his coffee.

And yeah, fine. In your defense, though, all of his suggestions were at least seventy years old and you had to veto with something to avoid another Hitchcock, or worse, a silent film.

Alpine is still restless in your lap, tapping the inlets in Bucky’s arm like they’re a piece of thread she’s playing with. Without warning, she jumps right over, landing in the crook of his elbow with feline precision.

Unexpectedly, Bucky winces, picking her up with his other hand and putting her down on the floor. She lets out an accusatory cry, bumping her head against his leg.

"Are you okay?" you ask.

"It’s fine," he hisses, looking the opposite of fine. "It happens sometimes. It’s the, uhm." He rolls his shoulder. "Not all the connective tissue healed properly."

"Can I do anything?"

"No, it’s okay. You might wanna just … this is kinda gross."

He grabs the metal arm by the joint and gives a sharp twist. With a whirring, metallic sound, it detaches from its socket, fingers frozen in their strain. It thumps onto the space between you on the couch, and Bucky sighs as the weight disappears from the old scars hidden under his shirt. He doesn’t look at you as he rubs the aching muscles, his jaw tensing even more at the pressure.

You watch him as softness blooms painfully in the pit of your stomach, warm and fond and impossible.

"I’m disappointed," you say at last, your voice cracking ever so slightly.

His fingers halt for just a moment before digging into his skin even more tightly. "I know it’s not—"

"I’m waiting for the gross part," you interrupt him. "I thought you’d have blood bags installed that were gonna explode or something."

An incredulous huff of a laugh escapes him. "That’s your definition of gross?"

"Don’t forget I’ve watched you die literally dozens of times," you remind him, tracing the golden lines laced through the vibranium. It seems less invasive, now that they’re not attached to him. "And I like your arm," you add quietly.

Bucky keeps looking at the screen, but you know he’s watching you out of the corner of his eye. You can feel it.

"It’s grotesque," he says.

"It’s impressive," you correct, absent-mindedly reaching for his pinkie. "But that tracks."

He stays silent for so long, you almost start to believe he’s not heard you at all. Finally, though, he clears his throat and asks, "Is he ever gonna tell her he’s a time traveler?"

It takes you a moment to remember the movie. "I don’t think so."

Bucky nods, producing the small notebook he always carries from his back pocket. "He’s a dick."

You snort and return to your side of the couch. "I know, right? We can watch something else if you want."

"Nah, it’s fine." He flicks through his notebook, jotting something down in the back.

"Do these keep?" you ask when he pockets it again.

"They don’t," he says simply, redirecting his attention to the screen.

You hum, attempting to lure Alpine closer with a shiny bit of chocolate wrapper. She’s decidedly uninterested.

"Were you so bored with the play you decided to ask me to marry you afterwards?"

"Something like that."

"I haven’t even asked," Bucky says and you flinch.

"Huh?" you say, a little shrilly.

"How are you feeling?"

"Oh. Yeah. Mostly normal again, I think."

His gaze flits to your hand as it goes to play with the pendant around your neck before returning to your eyes. "Anything … weird?"

You kissed him you kissed him you kissed him you—

"Not really." You clear your throat.

"I think you’re right, by the way," Bucky says.

"About what?"

He keeps staring straight ahead, his pen tapping against his thigh. "It doesn’t have to mean anything."

Even though it was your suggestion in the first place, it stings a little. You can’t help it.

"If Wong’s right, we’re already running out of time," Bucky continues. "We can figure everything else out once we’re out of this loop, but for now we should just focus on getting this right."

You hesitate. "You’re making it sound like we haven’t been doing just that all along."

"What do you want me to say?"

"I don’t know."

There’s something you’re missing staring you right in the face, but the problem with going through the same day so many times is that you’re running out of things to do. There’s only so much to do in these limited few hours you get before it all starts over again, because everything apart from the two of you stays the same every time.

Bucky’s arm glints in the morning sun like it’s threaded with gold string, his shoulders relaxed, and a different memory stirs in your mind.

That’s a lot of dedication when you could’ve just asked.

"What would you normally be doing right now?"

Bucky raises an eyebrow. "You trying to get rid of me already?"

"No. I’m saying you’re usually more unpredictable."

"Thank you."

"Not really a compliment. Sam has more going on on every given day than the two of us combined, but at least he’s consistent. You’re the one with no hobbies."

"What do you do for fun then?"

"I … Fuck you."

If you didn’t know better, you’d think he blushes.

"So, say there’s no time loop today, no mission, you have no memory of any of this shit. Normal July 4th. Where are you going?"

"Where am I going?"

"Before you remembered, when I didn’t tell you that you were going to die, you always disappeared for hours every morning. And then after Sam’s speech, you were gone again until the mission."

It’s another piece of the puzzle that you’re still missing.

Bucky contemplates you, taking another sip of coffee. His mouth does the little twitch again. "And you’re telling me you’ve never asked me that before?"

"Oh, I did," you reply. "A lot. I also tried following you once and you called me a shit spy."

"Well, you are." There’s a hint of a smile in his voice when he reaches for his arm. "Get your shoes, then."

* * *

It’s a long train ride down to Brooklyn, but it doesn’t feel like it. You manage to get a seat after a few stops, and because Bucky hasn’t said a word to you since you were standing on the platform, you take to watching the people around you.

It’s exciting, in a way, to be in a new space for the first time in a while. Not to know exactly what’s going to happen next. You’ve been making little pockets of time for yourself every now and again, walking different routes home after getting coffee or varying the time at which you leave, but it’s not the same as venturing into a different part of the city. There’s been too much going on for you to have even considered that.

"Are you going to tell me where we’re headed?" you ask after a while, when he has to step over your legs to make room for a stroller.

"Now where’d be the fun in that?" he answers, and then he turns silent again.

A small child is hugging a Mickey Mouse plushie to their chest and pointing at the window, wailing loudly. A girl with a septum piercing and at least three tote bags over her shoulders manages to maneuver a cello case and a scooter onto the carriage, leaning both against the back of some seats before taking out her phone and calmly starting to scroll. An elderly lady watches the whole affair, mumbling to herself disapprovingly, then resumes her knitting.

You catch Bucky already looking at you when you glance up at him. Something about it makes your cheeks heat and turn away quickly.

You remember that his government-issued apartment used to be somewhere near Flatbush, and you have a fleeting thought that this might be where you’re headed, even though that doesn’t really make sense. He still doesn’t make any attempt to move when you pass it by, continuing to stare out the window, his gloved hand wrapped tightly around the handrail above your head.

Finally, the train rolls to its last stop, and you make ready to get off with the rest of the passengers.

"Coney Island, huh?" you say as the heat on the platform slaps you across the face.

"Coney Island," Bucky repeats affirmingly. His hands are back in his pockets, and he doesn’t elaborate, even though you notice the significance in the way he says it.

Two words titling another subchapter in the mystery book that is James Buchanan Barnes.

You follow the masses streaming towards the water and a sigh dislodges from your throat. It’s been way too long since you’ve properly heard the ocean.

The beach is already swarming with people despite the fact it’s not even noon yet, filled with raucous laughter and music playing, but the sound of crashing waves is unmistakable. It fills you with a sense of longing, though for what you’re not sure.

Bucky keeps his hands tucked away as the two of you stroll along the boardwalk, dodging people left and right, until you have to grab hold of his sleeve in order to not get pulled away. His shoulders tense slightly, but he lets you, leading you towards the pier as if he, too, feels the pull coming from the sea.

You can’t figure out the look on his face. It’s like a weight has fallen off him when you left Manhattan, despite the crowds being considerably more dense down here, and yet there’s an anticipatory tension to his frame that you’ve only seen him assume in combat.

You clear your throat and he washes his face off it. "Is it usually like this?" you ask.

"It used to be not quite so bad," Bucky says, which isn’t quite what you asked. "Not this loud at least."

"What?" you shout teasingly. It earns you an eyeroll.

Thirty, you think. Took him long enough.

"We used to come here every summer," he continues, bending down to pick up a perfectly round pebble from the side of the road and weighing it in his hand before slipping it into his pocket. "Ate hot dogs until we were sick. Rode some of the rides if we could afford it. You know them fortune teller automatons? My sisters were obsessed with that."

Maybe you should recount the days you’ve been stuck in the loop, because this feels like an early birthday present. You hold on tightly to his sleeve, not wanting to interrupt the unusual flow of words. Bucky’s smile is miles away. Decades away.

"Becks came with us every year on the fourth, even when she was little. The twins never liked crowds much, but Rebecca loved it all. The noise and the excitement." His mouth tilts up in a grin. "One year, she was desperate for one of those giant stuffed teddy bears you can win," he says, nodding at one of the booths up ahead, "but we were all down to our last couple’a dimes, so she pretended she didn’t want it after all. Steve went, 'Hold on a minute', and he somehow won her that damn bear with two shots."

"Always the hero," you say quietly. Somehow, he hears you through the commotion.

"Yeah." He stops walking, then, leaning against the metal railing of the pier, letting the people flow past you. "The two of us would come here every year before the war, rain or shine, unless one of us was sick."

Nostalgia makes him seem younger, despite the tired eyes and the stubble on his cheek; or maybe this place is its own sort of time capsule and he’s just filling in that space he used to occupy.

"He kept it up." You’re not sure if you should tell him at all, if it helps or if it only makes this day a little more painful. But you figure that if it was you, you’d want to know. "During the Blip, he was always gone for his birthday. Only came home in the evening, I never asked why, though. I figured he just wanted—what?"

Bucky’s snickering. "You know today isn’t actually Steve’s birthday, right?"

"What?"

"He panicked during one of those press tours they had him do in ’41, said his birthday’s on the fourth. Everyone just ran with it without double-checking." He shakes his head. "I mean, Captain America born on Independence Day? The headlines practically wrote themselves."

"But—when’s his actual birthday then?"

"January 4th. Punk made himself half a year older than he actually is."

You laugh. "Of course he’s a Capricorn. That makes so much sense."

Bucky looks at you with raised eyebrows. "Was that a cap pun?"

You shove his arm and immediately regret it when your elbow hits vibranium. "That was terrible," you say. "The point is, he didn’t forget about your tradition."

"That was a while ago, though. 'Specially for him." He ducks his head. "I don’t know. I just wanted to see if …" He huffs mirthlessly. "Don’t think I’d even really want to see him. Not sure what I’d say to him if I did."

"How about, 'Hey, I’m stuck in a time loop, nice to see you?'"

He smiles as you lean against the railing next to him, your shoulders almost touching. "He’s done with that life. It’s fine."

You don’t know how he bears it. Being left behind already hurt bad enough for you, and you only knew Steve a couple of years, or maybe not at all. It sounds too painful, to be forced to keep wondering what if.

"I disagree," you say.

The silence that follows should be heavy, but the sea swallows it up; and so it floats. Around you, life goes on. People are shouting and fighting and laughing. Over at the boardwalk, a couple of buskers are just starting their set. A familiar melody drifts up to you, and it makes your heart ache a little, even though it’s not sad at all. It reminds you of Nat’s smile.

You watch the shadows that you cast over the water and you think, Dance with me, but you don’t say it out loud. You don’t want to ruin this moment.

So instead, you close your eyes and you breathe it in.

* * *

You spend what feels like hours at the pier, ebbing and flowing alongside the crowd in companionable silence, the only two people alive that are aware this day is like a snake biting its own tail; beautiful and sharp-teethed.

"Do you think we should head back?" you ask finally.

"You wanna head back?" Bucky says in lieu of an answer.

"We should. What if something happens to Sam again?"

He watches you, contemplating something for a moment, before he says, "He’s not gonna go without us today."

Torres’ message comes back to your mind, the lack of urgency in it. It seems, in the beginning, you’ve gotten a lot of things wrong, and you’re only just starting to chip away at those miscalculations.

Another memory, again of that day in the park.

I’m good, I didn’t end up going …Wanna just go home?

Home.

If the mission doesn’t have to happen today but you always go anyway …

"Do you ask him to go?"

He doesn’t answer, but you know his face so well by now.

"Oh, Bucky."

"Mission’s the easiest way to shut my mind up." He laughs dryly. "So, you see. Nothing about this is your fault. I pushed the first domino. Everything else happened after that."

You tug on his sleeve until he looks at you. "If I’m not allowed to blame myself, then you aren’t, either." Something twists in your gut. "Does that mean we’re not going on the mission today?"

The other question, the one you’re not asking, hangs in the air. Bucky swallows.

"It’s still early," he says.

"Right." You turn around and lean against the railing, looking at the booths on the other side of the pier. "Well, we’re here."

"I’m not riding the Cyclone with you."

You shudder. "Yeah, no thanks. Do people actually willingly go on that death trap?"

"Some idiots do," he smirks.

"Well, that’s not how I’m gonna go down, so no. I was thinking something like that." You point in the direction of one particular stand you walked past earlier.

Bucky follows your line of sight. "I thought you didn’t want any shooting today."

"That was before I saw that I could win a giant stuffed dragon."

"You know you can’t cheat, right?" He falls into step besides you with familiar ease, his hands back in his pockets.

"Let me rephrase that. That was before I saw that you could win me a giant stuffed dragon." You smile innocently and he laughs.

"I got banned from these things in ’36 but I’m sure you got this, sweetheart."

You nearly trip over your own feet as heat spreads in your chest. Bucky turns and looks at you in amusement.

You force yourself to ignore it, even though your heart is beating wildly. "That’s such a brag."

"Maybe I just want to see how your aim’s coming along."

Not at all, as it turns out. You walk away from the shooting gallery fifteen minutes later with a little plush keychain that looks like a sleeping bear, pouting.

"You could’ve helped me out," you grumble. "Instead of acting like they have your picture still up there ninety years after the fact."

"You never know. Besides, this is … cute."

"Oh, shut up, Barnes."

The keyring clacks against the back of his hand as it magnetically sticks to it. Your fingers brush as you keep holding onto the little bear. Bucky shakes his head.

"Besides," he says, gently tugging you along with the keyring still stuck to him. "You couldn’t have kept him."

He’s not wrong. Everything around you is set in stone in a way that permanence itself has lost all meaning. How can things ever be expected to change in a closed experiment?

You look around and marvel at all these lives around you, happening in just this way every single day in this loop, and yet this is the first time you’re truly aware of them. All these small, magnificent people around you, and yet it still boils down to the two of you.

"Listen, Y/N …" Bucky clears his throat, not looking at you as you keep walking. "There’s a dance to these things, and I’m not … you and me, we’re not …"

His cheeks are a dark shade of pink.

"I don’t think I follow," you say slowly.

"No. Of course. It’s just that … you should know …" He trails off again, mumbling something in Russian.

Your head is already whirring from the constant noise of the past couple of hours, but your heart is pounding faster again, something irrational like hope spreading wild and dangerous in your chest. He regards you with a sidewards glance, his eyes darkening like you’ve seen several times before now, the corner of his jaw twitching in that way of his; and so it’s easy to say it.

"Tell me."

You’ve asked him over and over, time after time, and you still haven’t gotten an answer. Weeks, months of this question that’s entirely meaningless in the grand scheme of things and yet refuses to leave the back of your mind.

Bucky’s mouth opens and closes, like the words are on his tongue but he needs to contain them just a little longer. His eyes trail over your face and off to the side, settling on something with a frown. "You have a …"

Thinking it’s a bug, you look at your arm and blink.

There, just below the elbow, someone has written four words in careful, slightly wonky letters. You don’t have to twist your arm to read them; you’ve done it many times.

No self-deprication. Скажи ей.

Familiar and slightly smudged under the heat of the afternoon sun, like they’ve been there all along. Like you’ve never washed them off your skin at all.

Memories meant for other timelines.

"Sorry." Bucky exhales slowly, then drags his other hand through his hair. "Think you’re up for another stop?"

Once again, you’re no closer to finding out what on earth he’s wanted to tell you all these times.

"Depends," you say, reminding yourself that you have no right to be disappointed. "Is there going to be coffee?"

"I’ll buy you some on the way." He takes a look at his wristwatch. "We have one last stop."

* * *

When you get to the cemetery, the sun is just setting on the horizon and the gates are locked. It doesn’t faze Bucky in the slightest. He just continues walking along the fencing until he reaches a couple of newspaper boxes lining it.

"After you," he says.

You stare at him. "No."

"Yes."

"You realize this is so illegal, right?"

Bucky shrugs. "I’ve done this dozens of times and they’ve not caught me yet. I’ll give you a lift."

"Again, I hate your ideas."

You place your foot into Bucky’s interlaced hands and only wince slightly when he propels you up. You come to a wobbly halt on top of the box, grabbing onto one of the spikes to keep your balance.

Bucky’s arm brushes your side when he climbs up next to you and nimbly jumps down on the other side of the fence. You sigh.

"You couldn’t have just busted the lock?"

"Probably." He opens his arms. "Come on. I’ve got you."

With a murmured curse, you take the leap. You crash into him, stumbling, his hands steadying your shoulders. You inhale involuntarily, letting yourself be surrounded by his presence for a moment before stepping away.

"I got it," you mutter.

You walk in silence as Bucky leads your way. Above your heads behind you, a passing N train rattles by.

It’s a beautiful sight, even though it’s sad. Rows upon rows of gravestones lined up as far as the eye can see, with paths crisscrossing between them.

Finally, he halts close to a spot in the shadow of an evergreen tree. You step up next to him to read the names on the stone, recognizing only the last one right above the inscriptions on the bottom.

REBECCA PROCTOR BARNES, 1926-2024

You remember the time right after he moved into the Tower; the odd hours, the baking, the candles, the silence, the long hair. The tear in his shirt. Your heart twists in regret, your mouth dry.

Bucky’s lips move with words you don’t hear, and then he pulls off his gloves and takes something out of his pocket, bending down. You recognize the pebble he picked up at the beach. He puts it down on the gravestone, then straightens again.

You reach out for his hand and squeeze it in silent condolence. Instead of letting go, he interlaces your fingers. His hand is warm.

Several minutes pass before he tugs on your hand again, pulling you to a bench a few steps back. You’re not sure what to say, and so you stay quiet, biting the inside of your cheek until Bucky bumps his shoulder against yours.

"I think this might be the longest time you’ve shut up since I met you."

You scowl at him. "I was trying to be respectful."

A small grin flits across his face. "There’s a first time for everything."

Another train passes resoundingly, an oddly mundane sound in such a solemn place; still, it adds to it, in a way. It makes you think of putting your loved ones on a train, then waving them good-bye; just for now.

"Where are your parents?" you ask softly.

"Back in Indiana. They moved to take care of my dad’s parents and then stayed to manage the house and all that." He closes his eyes. "I’ve not been there since I was fifteen years old, but I still remember the way the trees smell in summer right after it’s rained."

"And the twins?"

"Mira got married, moved out of state, died while I was in cryo. Jo was in a car crash in ’58. Apparently, she drove races."

You settle your head against his shoulder. "Did they have children?"

"Miriam did. I have a great-niece who’s an architect in Seattle."

"Fancy."

"Right?" He sighs. "It was always Becks and me, though, when we were kids."

"Do you come here a lot?"

"Not as often as I thought I would. But it’s good to remember things."

"Tell me about her."

You can hear his smile when he speaks again, and it’s almost better than seeing it. "She was exactly the kind of little sister you’d read about in novels. Pigtails. Sweet. Annoying as hell." He chuckles. "One time when she was nine, she ate so much cotton candy she was sick all over Steve’s shoes. And that made him sick."

"Gross," you comment, which makes him huff in amusement. Good. "You must miss her a lot."

"Yeah. I do." He hesitates for a moment, then adds, "You’d have liked her."

The admission blooms in your stomach, warm and wistful at the same time. "Somehow, I don’t doubt that."

"Do you have siblings?"

You sit up straight again. "What?"

Ask me tomorrow.

"What?" Bucky asks.

"Why did you ask me that?"

He looks at you like he just can’t figure you out. "I don’t know, it seemed appropriate."

"It’s just … you asked me before. In the loop."

"I have?" His brows knit. "Is it important?"

You hesitate, then shake your head. This day has been full of surprises you can’t make sense of; what’s one more? "I guess not."

"Well?" He looks at you expectantly.

"When I grew up … let’s just say super powers don’t exactly run in the family."

It comes out slower this time, your memories of the past, and Bucky listens just as carefully. You twist your rings around your fingers, over and over again.

"When you can do what I can do … even with my family around, I never felt like I could actually be a part of them. They never really understood what my powers meant and I … I think it scared them. Which I get now, after a shitton of therapy, but try explaining to a six-year-old why her dad never really talks to her."

"That’s horrible."

"I know. But I’m fine now." Strangely, unexpectedly, you find that you really mean it, too. "And then after that … I mean, you know. Those five years I had at the Compound were the first time I felt like I had a real family. We were all kind of broken together."

Bucky stays silent but you can tell his attention is still focused on you.

"I wasn’t in a very good place when you and Sam found me. I’d just lost everything. But then … that mission happened, and I was needed again even though you despised me—"

"I didn’t—"

"—but the truth is, fighting with you was the most fun I’d had in a long time."

"Ditto." He’s still looking at you as if he’s searching for something. As if he didn’t know all your secrets now. Finally, he looks away, clearing his throat. "It’s getting dark."

You nod. "Give me one second."

He watches you let go of his hand and walk back towards Rebecca’s grave, pulling out your keychain and setting it down as well. It looks like the little bear is resting its head on Bucky’s pebble.

The look on his face is heartbreakingly unreadable when you return, and it makes your insides clench in desperation. You come to a halt in front of him, wrapping your arms around yourself.

"We won’t make it ’til midnight," you say.

"Probably not," Bucky agrees.

"And I don’t want to have to go on that mission."

"Me neither."

Your eyes lock.

"Are you going to lose your mind again?" you say quietly.

He looks at the ground between you, hands hidden in the pockets of his jacket again. "No promises."

You swallow heavily. The anticipation makes you near dizzy, even though you’ve agreed that this doesn’t mean anything.

Your breath still hitches when his lips fan over yours, barely touching at first, just hovering, testing the waters. Like either of you have anything to lose. It’s making your stomach flutter.

In the end, you’re the one who leans in properly. You intend for it to be a short peck, but it’s just too tempting to linger, careful, soft, slow. He tastes like your coffee order: a little sweet and a little bitter.

You could see yourself becoming addicted to it.

The thought makes you break the kiss, your hands still on his chest. You can feel his heartbeat through the fabric of his shirt.

Bucky’s eyes open heavily, dark and blue and confused. His cheeks are flushed. "We’re still here?"

You are. You’ve made a fool of yourself. He’s going to die, anyway.

In a panic, you take a step backwards, blinking, wrapping your arms around yourself. Between one blink and the next, you realize you’re sitting in bed, the sun in your face, FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume.

Your lips are still tingling.

* * *

Something has shifted.

You can feel it in the air, humming like it did at the Bleecker Street Sanctum, vibrating with something akin to anticipation. The colors of the astral plane, warped and peculiar as they always are, feel sharpened, more insistently vibrant in their hue.

What now? the walls seem to ask, curling towards you as soon as you’re not looking at them directly; a presence hovering over your shoulder, close enough to feel its strange, otherworldly heat.

You reach for your necklace and feel its magic pulsating slowly and steadily, reassuring you. These ghosts cannot harm you in here; not yet, at least.

And yet, you feel this place quivering with kaleidoscopic impatience, straining against some invisible malevolence unraveling its very core with needle-pointed talons.

Playing with the fabric of everything is a dangerous pastime.

The symbols around your wrist are prickling, and when you examine them more closely, you notice they have started to lift off your skin, sitting there loosely like a worn-out bracelet.

"Y/N!"

Between one blink and the next, you’re squinting at an unforgiving midday sun, and you tumble backwards against a solid chest. Bucky’s arms come up to steady you as you take a gulp of air. It feels like you’ve been holding your head underwater.

"What are you doing up here?"

Slowly, confusion settles into your bones as you take a look at your surroundings. Somehow, you’ve gotten up to the roof again.

"I don’t know," you gasp, twisting in his hold. You can feel your pulse rushing through your ears. "I don’t remember."

You’ve not been able to forget anything in decades, and now it’s like that easy cord of memory has been snapped at some point between the astral plane and here. Gone, like that time has never existed in the first place.

Bucky studies you carefully, his face sober. His hands firm around your forearms, grounding you. It’s what does it, you’ve realized. The loop doesn’t snap back as long as you’re touching.

That doesn’t mean anything, though.

The important thing is, you’ve not woken up blood-soaked in nearly a week.

"You wanna go back downstairs?"

For a moment, the sky turns wild behind his head; you smell magic and fire as purples and greens and oranges swirl around in lazy, misty clouds, the stars glittering impossibly at the corner of your vision.

Bucky’s grip on you tightens and it all fades away until nothing remains but the intense blue of his eyes. You wonder if he might’ve noticed the colors, too, if he’d just looked away from you.

"Yeah," you whisper. "Yeah, that’s a good call."

His gaze flickers down and then leaves you, and it makes you want to restart the loop right then and there. Or at least have him look at you like that again.

It can’t mean anything and you know that, but if hope kills him, then let it break your heart into a million pieces. You welcome the ache. It’s much better than the alternative.

Curious, how you used to feel like you’ve known him for so long, through textbooks and newspaper articles and anecdotes told on long Campus nights. It’d always been hard for you to recognize the person from those stories in the man who was living just a few doors away from you and emptying your fridge. Hell, most days it was difficult to even imagine him capable of a smile.

But things are different now.

Over the course of this one, endless day, you’ve met a side of Bucky you’d barely believed existed before. A gentler person than he usually lets on, even towards you. Funny, too. Stubborn and capable, vicious, loyal, brave. So much more than meets the eye at first, not just the memory of a person, but a real, breathing, flawed, wonderful human being.

He’s got no clue, you think, how easy it is to fall in love with him.

"You wanna go back downstairs?"

You stare back at him, and a shiver runs down your spine. His brow starts to furrow, and so you nod. "Sure."

There’s no time to overthink this, especially not if time starts acting up again. And so you ignore the nausea in your stomach and the fact that, when Bucky holds the door up for you, the sun catches one of your rings in a way that gives it a soft emerald sheen for just a second. When you try to reach out for your powers, anyway, there’s that same surge of emptiness you’re already so familiar with.

Another fluke, then.

Or even more things that are starting to slip through reality’s cracks.

"So you’re both stuck in a time loop," Sam says skeptically.

"No way," Peter pipes up, eyes wide and astonished. "Like Palm Springs?"

"Really? Palm Springs? What’s wrong with Groundhog Day?"

"What, like—like the musical?"

Sam looks at you accusingly. "Who’s the kid again?"

"You gotta get with the times, bud," Bucky smirks, absent-mindedly scratching Alpine between the ears.

"That’s the million dollar question," you reply, turning to look at Peter. He’s tapping his fingers against his leg, his gaze flitting between the three of you. "Because whenever we tell you about this, you’re not surprised that we know you, you’re surprised we remember you."

He chuckles awkwardly. "Is there a difference?"

"There is," Bucky says.

"You’re not aware of the loop," you continue, tilting your head, "so you might be a symptom of it starting to break down."

"Thank you?"

"It would explain why you think we would know you. Maybe you’ve slipped in through some other part of the multiverse."

"Oh," Peter says, blinking. "Oh. Sorry, I didn’t—no, that’s not what’s happening here."

"I know this is a lot."

"It’s not. I mean, I get what you’re saying but this is not a multiverse problem in—the way you’re thinking."

You’re starting to get a headache. "So you are aware of the time loop?"

"No! That’s all—wow. I’m, uh, look …" He coughs, sitting up a little straighter. "So we’ve actually—it’s a bit more complicated than that because, well, there was this—"

"Ever been to Germany, kid?" Bucky interrupts.

All three of you turn to stare at him. Alpine continues to clean her paws.

"I … yeah, once," Peter replies, a curious look on his face. "Through an internship, why … why?"

Bucky nods, his expression unreadable. "He’s a dead end."

"Hey!"

You glance at Sam, but he frowns at Bucky, too. "How do you know that?"

"Call it a hunch."

"Wanna share with the group?" Sam deadpans.

"I’m good."

You rub your temples with an exhausted groan. If Peter doesn’t have anything to do with the loop brushing against other realities at all, you’re quickly running out of ideas. And time.

You manage a vaguely apologetic smile when Peter comes up with an excuse to leave, then continue to stare blankly at your own hands, twisting your rings around your fingers over and over again. They remain relentlessly black.

What’s the point, you think, and not for the first time. What the hell are you supposed to do when every path you start on leads you back in a damn circle like that stupid snake swallowing its own tail?

It used to be a comfort to know you’ll make it out of the loop somehow, but geez, you’d love to be as certain you’d succeed in getting Bucky out as well. And, ideally, not destroying the whole multiverse in the process.

Unfortunately, that outcome seems less likely with every Friday that passes. You’d have to make your move soon, but you don’t know what it is. You don’t know how. Even with the majority of the pieces of this day laid out, you still can’t make out the big picture. You don’t have all the answers.

So what’s the fucking point?

"Okay," Bucky says, leaning over the back of the couch until he can look at your face upside-down, "what the hell is going on with you?"

* * *

"I really don't think this should be our priority right now."

"And I think I definitely want a distraction," you say. "How do you feel about sage green?"

"I don't recall," he says pointedly, and you immediately regret your new honesty policy.

"I'm fine, I promise," you say, putting another paint bucket into your shopping cart. You’ve decided that since nothing fucking matters, you’re going to repaint the living room. "Careful, or I'll start thinking you worry about me."

"Will you stop pretending like you don't know I do for one second?"

You ignore him, staring at the shelves intently. "How about lilac?"

"Y/N," he says in that tone.

"Bucky," you echo.

"You're doing the thing again."

"What thing?" you ask, choosing a particularly ghastly shade of canary yellow just to spite him.

He grabs the wiring of your shopping cart to stop you from escaping into the next aisle. "Look at me."

So you do. "I’m fine, Buck."

It’s just that you’re skirting towards an emotional breakdown the likes of which this loop has never seen before. No big deal.

"What are we doing here? Literally, why are we here?" The metal squeaks as it dents between his fingers. "What are we even trying to do if you won't let me in?"

"What do you want me to say?" you ask in exasperation. "That I'm terrified? That I don't know what's happening? You know that already. I've never been an enigma to you. I remember every detail of my life in full technicolor, and it's been exhausting, but this … forgetting things, that's worse."

"You think I can't relate to that?" Bucky says, and your fingers twitch. Old habits.

"That's not fair."

"Neither is you saying we’re in this together and not acting like it. Why are you still trying to carry everything on your own?"

"Because it’s my responsibility—"

"No, it isn’t," he interrupts. "Even if I did die that first time, it still wouldn’t be your responsibility or your burden."

"Burden?" you say thinly. "You think your life is a burden?"

"Twelve."

There's a pull in your stomach at the old nickname, even though you know its intended meaning now. It's making you realize he hasn't used it since your trip to Avengers Campus. "Don’t Twelve me right now."

"Where is everyone?"

You turn around.

The aisles surrounding you are completely empty, like the few other shoppers that have been in here with you have just vanished off the face of the earth. You frown, leaving the cart behind to look around the corner. The store feels bigger, somehow, now that no one else is here. Your steps echo on the laminate flooring; in the distance, there’s some tinny music playing through the speakers, but there’s no other sound.

"I don’t like this," you say.

"Stay right there," Bucky says, stepping up next to you.

You scowl at him. "Did you just pull a gun out of your pocket? Do you always bring that thing when you go shopping?"

"I don’t," he says. "Do you usually wear your tac suit?"

"I’m not—" You look down. "Okay, something is very, very wrong here."

The aisle has grown in length, like you’re walking through an endless, brightly lit tunnel lined by bare shelves. When you look back, it stretches just as far in the other direction, the exit barely visible on the horizon. In a way, it’s very dreamlike, reality warping to create this odd alternative of itself.

"Stay behind me, at least," Bucky says, raising his weapon. He’s still in his civilian clothes, but a stern look has washed over his face.

"In your dreams, Barnes."

He rolls his eyes.

There’s only one way to go and so you continue walking, the aisles crossing yours continuously seemingly leading nowhere. Finally they disappear altogether as the shelves morph into a sort of avenue which shrinks down even more, the lights dimming. Your feet hit granite.

"This is impossible," you say.

"I think this is what Wong meant," Bucky replies grimly.

"We need to go back right now," you say, but when you turn to look over your shoulder, there’s only darkness and stone. "Bucky—"

He pushes you out of the way as a shot sounds through the tunnels, and one moment later you’re swarmed by white jackets on all sides. You curse, rolling to the side and reaching for the knife on your thigh. It’s not there.

"We need to get out of here!" you shout, using your fist instead. Your pendant pulsates around your neck, but when you reach for your powers, there’s still an invisible wall barring you from using them.

"I thought you wanted to pick out paints," Bucky yells back.

"I don’t understand why you’re so mad about the—"

"I watched Groundhog Day."

If it could, time would freeze. You’re begging it to. "No."

"Yeah," he says, shooting at a white jacket. A spray of blood speckles their uniform. "It’s funny. A little fucked up, if you asked me, but when you get to the crux of it—"

"We’re not having this conversation again," you say, punching another one of them in the face. "We’re not."

"Why not?" Bucky demands. "I’d love to have been a part of it as well."

You let out a frustrated scream. "It’s not gonna work like Groundhog Day."

"You don’t know that. Unless you’re not telling me something."

"For fuck’s sake," you yelp, barely evading a knife aimed at your stomach, "do you really think I’d keep it from you if I had slept with you?"

Bucky twists the gun out of someone’s gloved hands and shoves it into yours. "You’re keeping something from me and I want to know why."

You’re back to back now, both of you trying to catch your breath. With the moment of surprise gone, your opponents are circling you now, waiting for your next move.

And you find yourself breaking.

"Your ma liked Voltaire," you say. "Your favorite ice cream flavor is mint chocolate chip and your favorite coffee order is mine. If you drink it black, you do this thing with your mouth that I’ve never seen anyone do, and it’s weirdly sweet." You let out a breath. "You have a fucked-up sense of humor, which I think is great, and you watch Hitchcock movies even though you don’t particularly enjoy them, which is just so stupid, and I’ve never met anyone who gives better hugs than you. Satisfied?"

You can feel him straighten behind you. "You’re deflecting," he says.

With a frustrated groan, you shoot at the next white jacket breaking formation. "Maybe I want things to be as simple as a damn movie as well, but they’re not. It’s fictional. Four o’clock!" You duck and Bucky hits the one coming from the side over the head with his arm. "It’s a bunch of writers coming up with a bullshit idea of love saving everyone’s problems once again. The girl falls in love with the guy, the loop ends, la-dee-dah-dah, day over."

"Yeah, that’s way more absurd than what’s happening here."

"Well, clearly it’s not fucking worked out so far, so if you have any other suggestion, I’m all ears."

A beat passes.

You bite the inside of your cheek hard, forcing yourself to stay vigilant. It’s out there now. You need to get out of here.

Bucky sounds very far away, even though he’s right there with you. "What are you saying?"

Your vision swims slightly, and you blink through it. Shoot. Kick. Protect. "Don’t," you say, shaking your head. "Don’t play stupid with me right now, I swear—"

"Y/N—"

"It doesn’t matter, alright? It doesn’t change shit because we’re still stuck in this nightmare that keeps getting worse, and it doesn’t matter what I feel because you don’t feel the same way anyway, and I’ve just been trying to—"

"I do."

You fall silent, staggering on your feet at the emotion in his voice.

"I do," he repeats. "I have."

"What?" Your voice cracks on that single word.

His magazine runs out and he throws the gun away, cursing under his breath. "You think every movie should be ten minutes shorter, as a rule. You don’t really like your job, but you’ve also never sat still for a minute in your life and you’d rather be miserable than ask someone else for help when it comes to money or, well, anything. You hate being alone with your thoughts, but you also wouldn’t admit that with a gun to your head."

Like magnets, you turn at the same time, reaching for each other. There’s blood on his nose. Your hands are shaking.

"I’ve been in love for you for months now and it’s been literally fucking killing me."

Tell her.

The tear falls.

"So stupid," you whisper.

He looks at you in that same way he has countless times before; you’ve never been able to put your finger on the emotion in his gaze, but now you know. You know.

And then a shot rings in your ears and you sit up in bed, the sun in your face, music blasting,

"—when I’ve known this all along—"

Your door slams shut behind you as you run across the hall to the elevator, repeatedly hitting the button to go down.

"Are you okay?" Sam shouts from the doorway just as the doors ping open.

"Fine!" you shout back, naked feet almost slipping as you hammer on the button to go to the lobby.

You can’t wait for Bucky to get back. You’re going to have to find him. Surely, he can’t be that far from the Tower anymore. Maybe you should’ve changed out of your pyjamas, you think on your endless way down, besides, you don’t know at all which direction to go, unless—

The doors slide open to reveal Bucky on the other side, panting. His blue eyes lock onto yours immediately, mirroring your own feelings of terror and hope.

"You still remember, right?"

"Yeah," he says, and your last resolve crumbles to pieces.

You both move at the same time.

It’s a little like having your powers back, because the world around you stops and ceases to exist. Nothing else is real except Bucky’s arms coming around you and pulling you into him, his mouth crashing into yours, your back pressing against the elevator wall.

Nothing about your previous brief, careful kisses could have prepared you for this one. It’s desperate. Neither of you is holding back anymore, all things laid out in the open and expressed in every starving touch. You want to live in this moment forever, breathing him in, swallowing every sound he makes.

When you finally have to come up for air, you involuntarily tighten your grasp on his hair, your eyes shut tightly, afraid you’ll be zapped right back to your bed. Instead, you feel Bucky chase your lips with his own, breathing heavily, his arms still steady and firm around you.

You look at him through heavy-lidded eyes, soaking all of him in. "Don’t let go," you whisper.

He steps even closer until your chests are fully touching, and he catches you easily when you wrap your legs around him.

"Never," he mumbles into your mouth, and then he kisses you again.

* * * * *

There was a package on the kitchen table.

It was addressed to you, which was concerning since you hadn’t actually ordered anything. Even if you had, you’d have used a fake name and had it sent to a p.o. box.

You’d rather be overly cautious than risk getting caught over a clothing delivery.

It wasn’t a very large package, only about the size of a shoe box. Still, you didn’t know what to make of it. You just stared at it from a safe distance.

"Are you gonna open it with your mind?"

You flinched slightly at Bucky’s voice right behind you. "You did this," you said sharply.

He crossed his arms, looking at you with something like a challenge in his eyes. "Do you wanna look inside before you kill me?"

Frowning, you ripped the package open to reveal a metal container. When you put it down on the counter, the locks unlatched with a low hiss. Inside, there were six simple, perfect black rings in differing sizes.

You turned to Bucky again. "What is this?"

"They measure fatigue. At least that’s what they’re supposed to do. May I?"

You were stunned enough to nod without thinking, watching him take one of the smaller rings out of the box. He reached for your hand and slid it onto your pinkie. It was a perfect fit, cool against your skin, just like his vibranium palm. You could feel your pulse rushing in your ears.

The ring turned a beautiful emerald green on your finger.

"Mazel tov," Bucky said. "You appear to be awake."

Your mouth was very dry. He was still holding your hand. "Who did you tell about me?"

"No one. Only that I know someone whose abilities are tied to their energy, and who could use a way to track that more easily." He dropped your hand and leaned against the counter, observing you. "So you’ll be able to tell how many redos you can manage without fainting."

Your thoughts were racing, confusion and awe taking the place of your left-over anger. You put another one of the rings on and watched it turn green on your finger.

"Thank you," you finally whispered. "You don’t know what this …"

Bucky nodded as if he did. "Consider it a peace offering."

"You—this is—can I hug you?"

He looked stunned for a second, stunned and maybe something else, but then he tilted his head and you wrapped your arms around him before he could take it back. It was a bit weird at first, awkward and stiff, until then he carefully put his arms around you, too, gently pulling you in.

Oh, you thought, this is nice.

Bucky’s head was touching yours and the scent of his shampoo made you slightly dizzy. When you let go of him, there was a strange look in his eyes, one that made you take half a step back with an embarrassed chuckle.

"You’re a good hugger, Barnes," you said.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t look away, either.

That’s what made you do it: that look. You didn’t know what to make of it, and suddenly you didn’t feel ready to let go.

"Consider it a peace offering."

You looked at your hands. The ring on your pinkie had maintained that glorious shade of emerald green, but the other had turned black. You laughed a little.

"This is incredible," you told Bucky earnestly. This time, you didn’t stumble over your own words. Instead, you watched his face. "Can I give you a hug?"

It wasn’t just surprise that passed over his features, but you couldn’t pinpoint the other thing. His arms enveloped you again and you sighed a little, burying your nose in his shirt until the warm smell of him was all you breathed in. It was just you and him in that moment, and your ever wandering mind was strangely soothed by that thought.

You didn’t let go when you had last time. You just stayed where you were with your eyes closed, letting Bucky rub the lightest circles on the flat of your back. He could probably feel your heartbeat, but for some reason you didn’t care.

"For the record," you mumbled after a while, "I’m thankful, but I’m also still annoyed with you, so this doesn’t change anything."

You could feel him hold back a surprised chuckle and it made you giddy even as he drew away.

"Wouldn’t expect anything else, doll." He takes another step back as if he’d only just noticed how close you were still standing. "Anyway, at least now we’ll know whether bringing you along will actually be useful."

And there it was, albeit with the usual venom in his voice. Maybe he really did mean it as a peace offering. You were willing to believe it for the time being.

"You’re a strange man, James Buchanan Barnes," you said quietly, shaking your head. Hiding your smile.

"Says the time witch."

You gasped in mock surprise. "Did you just call me a witch? Does that make me one of the Big Three?"

Bucky groaned. "It’s not a thing."

You ignored him. "I want a giant black hat for my birthday so I can scare little kids on Hallowe’en. Ooh, and a cauldron. Sam!" You turned to face the opening door. "Bucky finally admitted it!"

"Admitted what?"

"That I’m one of the Big Three!"

"Big three pains in my ass, maybe," Bucky muttered, the tips of his ears turning red.

"There’s just three?"

"Shut up, Sam."

You slipped on the rest of your new rings in delight and watched them each turn a slightly darker shade of green. The one you’d put on earlier stayed black, though, at least for now, as if to remind you the moment had happened.

It wasn’t breaking your promise, you told yourself. After all, he hadn’t shared anything with you at all. If anything, it had been the other way around.

It was just going to stay yours until you figured out what it meant.

chapter eleven

thank you for reading!! you can follow my library blog @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications 💚 also fun fact, my chapters are long enough to crash my drafts whenever i try to post so if you made it to this point, please do consider leaving a comment and/or a reblog. i don't get anything else out of writing this, and i really do love every single one of them.

[silverwings920]

The Winning Ticket

a/n: @aventoru just posted a series idea of bllk boys and summer dates (link). i was immediately enamored with the idea of taking kaiser to an arcade, so i requested that

...but then i couldn't stop thinking about it, so uhhhhh... here's my take:

The two of you are sprawled on a comfortable sofa, the low light of a movie you’ve both lost interest in flickering across the room. It’s late, and the comfortable silence is a rare commodity in your whirlwind relationship.

You shift, propping yourself up on an elbow to look at him. Kaiser’s eyes are closed, but you know he isn’t asleep. You can see the faint twitch of his long eyelashes against his cheek.

“You know,” you begin, your voice a soft challenge in the quiet room, “for all your talk about conquering the world, you’re surprisingly conventional.”

One of his eyes cracks open, a sliver of brilliant blue fixing on you. A slow, arrogant smirk begins to form on his lips. “And what is that supposed to mean, Liebling?”

“It means,” you say, leaning a little closer, “that our dates, while lovely, have been… predictable. A fancy dinner, a walk through a perfectly manicured park, another fancy dinner.” You poke his chest lightly with each example. “Where’s the ‘impossible’ you’re always chasing?”

He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound. “Are you saying my company isn’t enough of a thrill for you?” He captures your hand, his fingers lacing with yours. “Careful, you might hurt my feelings.”

You roll your eyes, a smile playing on your own lips. “Please, your ego is impenetrable. I’m simply suggesting a little… friendly competition. A wager, if you will.”

Now, both of his eyes are open, gleaming with interest. “I’m listening.”

“We each plan a date. No hints, no spying,” you say, giving him a pointed look. “And we see who can come up with the better, more… inspired experience. The winner gets undisputed bragging rights and… let’s say, the loser has to do whatever the winner wants for an entire week.”

Kaiser’s smirk widens into a full-blown, predatory grin. “You’re on. Prepare to be so astounded you’ll be begging to concede before my date even begins.”

“We’ll see about that, Kaiser. We’ll see.”

---

In the days leading up to the date, Kaiser is relentless. He’ll text you at odd hours with casual questions. “What’s your opinion on opera?” or “How do you feel about heights?” Each attempt to glean a clue is more transparent than the last. You meet for coffee the day before your scheduled date, and he leans across the table, his blue eyes intense.

“Just give me a hint,” he says, his voice a low purr. “What should I wear? Is it a black-tie affair? Are we wrestling crocodiles? I need to be prepared to excel.”

You take a slow sip of your drink, enjoying his frustration immensely. “You’ll be fine in your usual clothes. Just bring an open mind and prepare to be humbled.”

He scoffs, leaning back in his chair. “Humbled? By you? Unlikely.” He narrows his eyes, a thoughtful look crossing his face. “You’re enjoying this far too much. You're a menace, you know that?”

You just offer him a sweet, innocent smile. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

---

The day of your date arrives, and when he sees you, the confidence hasn't left his features. The ride there is filled with a playful tension, and though he pesters you for information, you refuse to divulge any of your plans. When you finally pull up to a building buzzing with neon signs and pulsing with sound, his confident smirk falters for the first time.

The cacophony of the arcade hits you the moment you walk in—a symphony of chimes, buzzers, and digitized explosions mixed with the smell of stale popcorn, sugar, and the faint metallic tang of ozone from the machines. Kaiser’s initial reaction could be a subtle wrinkling of his nose, a flicker of disdain in his eyes as he takes in the chaotic, colorful scene.

“An arcade,” Kaiser says, his tone dripping with a carefully constructed layer of condescension. “How… quaint.”

You just grin, grabbing his hand and pulling him further into the neon-lit cavern. “Come on, your imperial majesty. You mentioned you’ve never been.” You look at him, your expression softening slightly. “Everyone deserves to experience the magic of cheap thrills and sticky floors at least once.”

The memory you're referencing—a rare, off-the-cuff comment he made about being a “stray brat” no one would let near their machines—hangs unspoken in the air between you. He doesn't acknowledge it, but you see a flicker in his eyes.

“Consider this part of your worldly education.” You lead him to a classic racing game, the plastic seats worn from years of use. “Ever driven a virtual car at 200 miles per hour?”

He raises a skeptical eyebrow but allows you to explain the controls. His first few attempts are clumsy, his meticulously controlled movements from the field not translating to the jerky sensitivity of the joystick. He crashes. He spins out. And for a fleeting moment, you see a flash of genuine frustration on his face.

“This machine is flawed,” he declares, leaning back with a huff.

You laugh, a real, unrestrained sound. “Or maybe you’re just not used to not being perfect at something on the first try.” You start a new game, your movements fluid and practiced. “It’s okay to be a beginner, you know.”

Your words seem to strike a chord. He watches you play, his expression unreadable. Then, he challenges you to a game of air hockey. The competitive fire is back, but this time it’s different. “Prepare to be annihilated,” he declares, slamming the puck into your goal before you’re even ready. “All’s fair in love and war, Liebling.” The game becomes a flurry of frantic motion and teasing jabs, the puck ricocheting wildly across the table. Amid the chaos, a real laugh escapes him—not the practiced, arrogant chuckle you’re used to, but a sharper, more breathless sound that makes something in your chest flutter.

You move from game to game. You explain the simple mechanics of Skee-Ball, and he becomes obsessed with hitting the 100-point hole, calling it a “true test of physics and finesse”. You scream your way through a zombie shooter game, and he boasts about his “impeccable aim and tactical genius”. You show him the patterns of Pac-Man, and he declares the ghosts are “inferior AIs incapable of predicting his superior strategy”. You both fail miserably at the claw machine, and he accuses it of being “a scam of the highest order”. 

The hours melt away in the neon haze, each game bleeding into the next. Finally, breathless and leaning against a silent pinball machine, you both look down at the literal mountain of tickets clutched between you. The only logical next step is to claim your spoils. You make your way to the prize counter, a wall of cheap plush and plastic that looks like a king's ransom under the flashing arcade lights.

“Well,” Kaiser says, gesturing with his chin towards a comically oversized stuffed rose, one that’d be right at home with the rest of your plush collection, “it seems we have enough to claim your tribute.” His tone is teasing, but there’s a soft look in his eyes as he watches you. “I’ll grab us some drinks. Try not to cause too much trouble.”

He walks off, leaving you at the counter. You turn back to the prize wall, your eyes scanning the array of options. The plush is tempting, a silly, ostentatious trophy of your victory. But then, on a dusty lower shelf, something else catches your eye. It’s a small, unassuming snow globe.

You ask the dead-eyed attendant to see it. Inside the glass orb is a snapshot of winter joy: a Christmass tree, a pile of presents, even a little stray dog finding warmth in shining lights, and right in the middle of it all, a miniature soccer ball. It’s him. It’s everything he is to you, the winter he loves, the day he was born, the hurt stray he hides, the warmth he exudes, the sport he plays, encapsulated in a tiny, perfect world.

When Kaiser returns, you’re holding a small, plain bag.

“Decide against the rose?” he asks, handing you a cup of fruity goodness.

You shrug, trying for nonchalant as you pull out a bag of assorted candies and offer him one. “I realized I have absolutely nowhere to put something that big unless I want to sleep on the floor. Got some figures to decorate my shelves instead. And candy, obviously.”

Kaiser gives you a skeptical look but takes a piece of candy anyway, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile. The noisy, vibrant energy of the arcade follows you out into the cool night air, and the car ride to your place is filled with easy chatter and the rustle of the candy bag.

When he pulls up to your building, the comfortable silence settles between you again, different from the one on his sofa. It's softer, tinged with the lingering buzz of the evening. You hesitate for a moment, your hand on the door handle.

“Well,” you start, turning back to him. The small, nondescript box feels heavy in your hands. “This is for you.” You hold it out to him, your voice softer than it has been all day. “Be careful with it. And… open it when you’re alone.” Before he can properly react, and before you lose your nerve, you lean over and give him a quick, chaste kiss on the cheek, then slip out of the car and walk up to your door.

---

Back in his own sterile apartment, the silence feels different. He places the box on his marble countertop, his curiosity piqued. He carefully opens it, his long, nimble fingers unboxing it with a surgeon’s precision.

Inside, nestled in a bed of tissue paper, is the snow globe. He picks it up, turning it over in his hands. He sees the tree, the gifts, the dog, and the soccer ball at its base. It’s a perfect, peaceful Christmas morning. A childhood he never had. A warmth he never knew. It’s a collection of impossible things. He gives it a gentle shake, and a flurry of white snow swirls around the scene, for a moment, a peaceful, perfect little world. 

He almost misses the small, folded note tucked into the side of the box. He unfolds it, recognizing your handwriting immediately.

To my beloved impossibility, Saw this and thought the little scene was just as impossible as you are, so I couldn’t leave it behind. I hope you had an amazing time today, and that this makes you smile. From, your menace p.s. I’m gonna win this bet if you don’t pull out all the stops on your date.

A slow, genuine smile spreads across his face—not his usual arrogant smirk, but something softer, more vulnerable. He looks from the note to the tiny, perfect world in his hand. He thinks about the obnoxious, oversized rose he would have gotten, a trophy for a silly bet. And he looks at what you chose instead.

You didn’t just plan the best date. You saw right through him. He places the snow globe on his nightstand, the only personal object in the entire room, and a jolt of shocking clarity runs through him. It’s not a triumphant bolt of lightning, but a quiet, unfamiliar warmth that settles deep in his chest, unraveling something he hadn't realized was so tightly wound. For a man who orchestrates everything, this simple, perfect gesture has completely disarmed him. He runs a thumb over the cool, smooth glass, tracing the curve of the tiny world you've given him. He doesn’t mind losing to you at all. In fact, he’s already looking forward to planning a date worthy of his menace. The competition had just become something else entirely.

[jabutipiranga]

Ranking every portrait in Hades 2 because why not? (Part 1)

Jen Zee absolutely blasts out of the water again with her designs with Hades II, so I thought it would be fun to try to rank each design based on their accuracy to Greek mythology and overall just my personal vibes.

Since Skelly and Dora (mostly) are original characters, I didn't include them in the ranking.

Polyphemus

I'm likely the only person on this site to have Polyphemus' design as my top favorite, but it's genuinely extremely well-done. I love the blue motifs to indicate his relationship with his father Poseidon (even if the game seems to deny it, strangely enough), the wool on his back making him more imposing and emphasizing his nature as a shepard, and especially the reference to eye motifs present in Ancient Greek art; in special, the apotropaic eye used on ships. Whoever had the idea of associating Polyphemus with the evil eye should get a raise.

Heracles

Another amazing design that I feel is underrated. This is pretty much everything Heracles should look like to make him recognizable. I love how he is filled to the brim with weapons all over his body (including a faithful club design), and particularly how his blond beard fuses with the Nemean Lion's skin. If I could change anything, I'd just add a bow and a quiver as well, since it's likely his most famous weapon aside from the club.

Athena

I love how imponent and vicious this Athena looks. It's always great when adaptations remember that Athena is associated with war more than any other god alongside Ares, and this reflects this very well. I'm just not a fan of how sad the Gorgoneion looks on her shield though; like @sarafangirlart said, Medusa's head is supposed to be frightening, with a terrifying grin and open, bulging eyes. I'd also like her to wear the Aegis, the serpent-trimmed shawl with Medusa's head Athena wears in art, but some sources really do call it a shield rather than a breasplate so that's just me personally.

Demeter

Amazing continuation of her design from the previous game, imagining how this agricultural goddess would act in a war. She looks completely imposing despite being "defrosted", and having a sickle as a weapon of choice fits perfectly. That said, I'm still not a fan of them making Demeter significantly older than the rest of the Olympians, but that's a Hades 1 complaint.

Hades

This design perfectly emphasizes Hades' rugged state: if in the first game his character literally looked down on you, here he is looking directly at the screen, taking away his regal nature. The bright and warm colors of the king of the Underworld go away to be replaced by the brown rags, lightned by a sickly green. The only downgrade is that his new eye-to-eye look makes more clear that Hades does not actually have a beard but rather just a giant mustache, but that's just me.

Prometheus

Another amazing design: the giant scar across his torax, the once baleful eagle sent to torture him now dominating the screen, the blue motifs of the fire, and even the falconry glove replicating the flame on his other hand. I do think the hair could be less puffy, as Greek men would often wear long hair in braids, but I get they were trying to make it look like a fire.

Hypnos

I think this is an upgrade from the first game. While in Hades I Hypnos just looked a little sassy and not much more, here he really looks like Sleep Incarnate, partially because of the mysterious slumber that now surrounds the character. I love how he is surrounded by the flowers poppies associated with the god and carried by two little shades. The sleeping mask is the kind of anachronism that's funny enough to let it slide.

[yannaryartside]

About not respecting your audiences intelligence and time

It’s so fucking funny that the show is failing and getting dragged.

I mean it. It’s so funny to me. Not out of spite (well kinda) but this is not a shipper note. It’s about author intention vs audience.

This show was praise by critics and audiences. The dialogue, the themes, everything was raw and interesting, but mostly, intentional. I’ll say both in s1 and s2 there is not a second waisted

But this last two seasons could have been one. Definitely.

There is also the shipping component. I was talking to @alwaysshipping1 about the possibility of sydcarmy being created later in the development of the show. I do think Sydney was introduced like a possible love interest. But I think storer was not planning having Carmy end up with anybody when he pitched the show, the idea of sydcarmy could have come from executives as a way to bait audiences into watching such a emotional heavy show (it definitely feels like baiting right now)

Let’s pretend for a minute Claire is supposed to be Carmy’s endgame. I don’t believe it but lest go with it. She maybe have been written badly and then acted awfully by Molly. I liked her previous work so if she is not indeed playing Claire as insufferable as she comes across, then…

At some point and author has to be mature enough to revise their capacity of delivering the message they intended. If is not clicking, rubbing it all again is always gonna feel like betraying your audience intelligence. You cannot make fixes to a character after having them for almost 20 episodes, unless you address the things that were previously misrepresented by your writing, that has happened. They stir into making Claire feel shallow/sus for two seasons and then they make her a lot more human (at least to me) this season, and still feels wrong because the things that bothered me about their relationship are never address as bad things. And yet, they only managed to make her more human by her expressing her hopes and fears about their relationship, her personality is still shallow as fuck.

But lest pretend there is Claire twist coming. Maybe she hooked up with Michael idk. Maybe she is indeed a narcissist and that’s why she sometimes displays lacks of empathy (seeming shallow) and has this need to be pleasant with everyone out of the need of being praise.

Even though, this show took the indulgence of waisting people’s times. Maybe the network got greedy. Maybe Storer wanted to display more symptoms of cptsd or complete what I suspect is a “suicide arc” in the sense Carmy had to loss all the parts of himself that he used to hide from his issues, the job, his skill, the relationship, his family. I have more thoughts in that but to get to the point…

Mental health arcs are incredibly difficult but they are manageable. This show is not failing because is about mental health, it’s because things that have been set since s1 and s2, the cleaner in writing, have still not been closed or properly address. Blaming the shippers for hating the show is bonkers, is not like Ted lasso was bagged because tedbecca didn’t happen, The Punisher was still top tier even when the main ship was set as platonic for a fourth season.

Mr Robot was a show about a hacker with extreme mental issues and a victim of CSA, and the show was fucking excellent, also without delivering on a promised ship. Plenty of sydcarmys have said: coupling characters doesn’t have to be the point

You are supposed to give payoffs and promises constantly. Again, this last two seasons could have been one. And the audience must be respected, if you had to rewrite Claire, you had to do it fully. All the things that the audience loved were eliminated or disorganized and the things people disliked are getting even more featured.

Even if all the issues with the character do have payoff, THEY ARE BASICALLY LEAVING IT ALL to the fucking last minute. A whole season of all payoff. How was the audience ever gonna be willingly invested in that?

[witless-winion1]

“Shit!” Odysseus squawked, covering his head with his arms as he ran for cover, Polites a few steps behind and ducking underneath every other tree.

“Such language for a future king,” Ctimene shouted at her brother, her grin undimmed by the raindrops that were pelting down harder, faster, larger by the second. Behind the rest of the group, Eurylochus tripped over a tree root and barely managed to catch himself before faceplanting in the squelching dirt that was quickly turning into mud.

“I don’t want to look like a sopping wet cat, ‘Mene! How far are we from the castle?”

“At least two miles!” Eurylochus called over the rumbling thunder, catching up and running between Polites and Ctimene.

“Hang on, I know a place we can use for shelter!” Polites looked around frantically, then grabbed the nearest arm and tugged it off in a different direction, maybe eastward.

“Hey, ow, you’re pulling my arm!” Ctimene complained loudly, glancing back at the other two- Eurylochus grabbed Odysseus around the waist, simply picking him up for efficiency’s sake, and hauled ass after Polites, who knew the forest best of all of them.

It took a few minutes of ducking under branches and frenzied shouting at each other, but Polites finally found a small area where a portion of a mountain had a small cave. Polites waved Ctimene inside and stood at the entrance until Eurylochus caught up and headed in, with a loudly-complaining Odysseus tucked under his arm.

“Okay, you can put me down now!” The prince squirmed until his release, where he huffed and rubbed his stomach. “You two are far too fond of manhandling royals.”

“You two are unharmed, though?” Eurylochus confirmed, looking at Ctimene’s arm as she sat down on the rough rock, to which she simply nodded and started wringing out her braided hair.

Odysseus sat down as well with a sigh. “I guess. Nice save with this little hideout, though, Polites. How’d you find it?”

“Just exploring,” Polites responded, sitting beside him as the rain started really coming down, echoing off the cave walls making it hard to see farther then ten feet past the entrance. It was just tall enough that Eurylochus could stand- not without ducking his head- but wide enough for all of them to comfortably stretch out.

Polites shook his head like a wet dog, making Odysseus groan and shove at him as Eurylochus settled down opposite them with Ctimene, who was laughing at their shenanigans. “I know, convenient! Doesn’t even have critters in it. And probably minimal bugs.”

“Minimal,” Odysseus muttered, looking around the shadows.

“But there’s some!” Ctimene chirped, while turning and holding up something long and fuzzy on her finger. Polites leaned forward to look at it in fascination, while Odysseus groaned and scooted away.

“If you’re sure that’s not venomous,” Eurylochus muttered, watching Polites and the Princess admire the squirmy caterpillar thing together.

“No idea!” Ctimene grinned. “I wonder if it’s supposed to be here. Shouldn’t it be outside?”

“Perhaps it’s seeking shelter from the storm just as we are,” Polites muttered. “Look at those pretty spots..”

“So pretty. I’m naming her Haydes,” Ctimene hummed. “But isn’t it still too cold in here for her?”

Odysseus groaned comically, shuffling deeper into the cave to get away. Eurylochus eyed both him and the caterpillar roaming up Ctimene’s wrist.

Polites seemed enthralled at both the name and his idea. “Perhaps…let’s build her something to keep her warm.” He reached over near the front of the cave and picked up some leaves that had blown in, dotted with rain but holding shape. Ctimene contributed one of the ribbons in her hair.

Odysseus shook his head at them, rubbing his arms. “Saps. It’s a bug. Throw it out in the rain and let it die.”

“Or we could do that to you,” Ctimene retorted with a glare at her brother, as she and Polites started building a little house for the caterpillar.

“It’s not cold enough for me to die out there,” Odysseus scoffed, crossing his arms and crossing the cave to Eurylochus now, who was sitting and watching the bug enthusiasts. “Right, Eury?”

“It’s enough so that I’m sure you’d get a miserable cold,” Eurylochus offered, looking at Odysseus as the prince leaned on his side. “What?”

“You know you’re super warm. Keep me safe from the cold,” Odysseus muttered, almost pouting. Polites chuckled as they put the finishing touches on the little house of leaves, a tiny tent held together by ribbon, as he tried to encourage Hyades to go inside.

Ctimene glanced over at her brother and their tall friend. “I’ve heard quite a bit from Odysseus that you’re like a human fireplace, Eury.”

“Shut up, Mene.”

Eurylochus cleared his throat, shifting and finally allowing Odysseus to lean into his right side. “I’m told that I do run warm.”

“Sounds great.” Polites got up and sat down beside Eurylochus, leaning unashamedly on his wide chest. “It is kinda cold in here.”

“And we are all damp, don’t want to get sick.” Odysseus grinned, waving his sister over where she crouched beside the leaf tent. “Come on, Mene. Eurylochus is a gentleman, aren’t you?”

“I, uh-” it took a moment for Eurylochus to come up with a proper reply that wouldn’t sound too proud or dismissive. “Ahem- I try my best.”

Ctimene nodded as if she knew this already and joined them, squeezing in between her brother and Eurylochus. Odysseus complained at being forced aside, and relocated to Eurylochus’ lap, which naturally led to a seating dispute between the siblings. Polites rolled his eyes as the two bickered over the warmest spot against Eurylochus. The seating himself felt he was growing quite warm in the face.

“Enough,” he groaned. “Polites on my left, Odysseus on the right, and Ctimene, if it’s not too improper, can sit on my lap. How’s that?”

Ctimene shot a smug grin at her brother and settled down over Eurylochus’ thighs. “Fine by me.”

Odysseus grumbled. “I’ll sit on Polites’ legs, between you. Too cold in here to only have one side warm.” He scooted around and glared at Polites until the latter laughed and pulled the prince into his open arms for a hug, leaning against Eurylochus. The royal siblings met eyes for a moment, and when they seemed to silently agree that this was a good outcome, collapsed against each other and their respective seatings.

Polites laughed and wrapped his right arm around Eurylochus as they all leaned together into what was basically a large, slumped pile. “See, nice and cozy. Now we just gotta wait the rain out.”

Eurylochus nodded in agreement, trying to keep his breathing even as the princess laid her head below his chin. “How long do you think that will take..?”

“Twenty years,” was Odysseus’ muffled reply, echoing somewhere between Polites’ shoulder and Ctimene’s head.

“Sounds perfect,” Ctimene agreed. “Let’s invite Hyades.”

“Let’s not-”

[angeliteeyes]

Platonic Yelan + Sibling Reader Headcanons

Inspired by a comment from @loveliyuelesbians . Thank you for this lovely idea!!

◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇

- Prepare for trouble... and make it double! Being her partner in crime—or whatever it is your jobs are—naturally leads you to having an air of mystery and mischief around you at all times. Random citizens of Liyue may not know who you are exactly, but they're well aware that messing with you is probably not the smartest idea.

- Like her, you've got a glorious array of identities in which you often disguise yourself as. Even those close enough to exchange words with both you and Yelan rarely notice your shared bloodline. It's for the better, you suppose, seeing how much of an advantage it offers during investigations.

- Her lackadaisical attitude towards work unfortunately seems to have rubbed off on you. At least, that's what you two let people think. Admitting to others about your hereditary health issues wouldn't exactly fit your images, you know? In the end, you two often only have each other to truly sympathize with your shared troubles, sharing knowing glances when a mission's dragged out far further than either of you would like.

- It's true that, by nature of your profession, you've gotten rather skilled at keeping secrets. Unfortunately, she's gotten even better at figuring them out. You can't seem to hide anything from her, even if you try desperately to for the sake of avoiding embarrassment or potential teasing. It's a good thing that she takes so many naps, at least. That way, you still have a minor shot at setting up surprise birthdays for her and the like without being caught red-handed.

- Archons help anyone who's foolish enough to play games with you two. Whether it's dice, cards, or any other measure of "luck" (you'll let your opponent believe that's all it is for now), time and time again, you both always seem to come out on top.

In the event that your opponent is one another, though? Now that's where things really get interesting. Just like a scripted battle, you two wind up neck and neck, attracting the attention of any who are lucky enough to watch from the sidelines. Who wins in the end? Well... that depends. How far are you willing to go—or, should I say, cheat?

- Despite her often oppressive persona, when it comes to you, her vibe tends to soften quite a lot. If you're lucky, you might even catch her acting childlike. Things like her pouting over losing a game against you, being caught off guard by sudden birthday celebrations, or even her getting misty-eyed when you take a little too long to come back from a dangerous mission.

Of course, if you ever try to draw attention to any of those temporary bouts of weakness, she'll just shrug and play the whole thing off. It's convincing, too, so much so that if you were any less used to her clever tongue, you might actually believe her. Good thing you don't. It's wonderful ammo for teasing.

- You know how uneven her haircut is? Yeah, that's your doing. A long time ago, she suffered the misfortune of getting some gum stuck in her hair (also your fault) and well... There wasn't exactly time for her to sit down and let an actual professional take care of it, so you two did your best with what you had. Thankfully, if how long she's kept it like that is anything to go off of, she doesn't seem to mind.

- Yelan's not afraid to give you tough love sometimes. Of course, you are special and important to her, so she doesn't wish to go too far. Still... She knows better than anyone else just how much danger your line of work puts you in. If she catches you trying to overdo it—or even worse, already having done so—be prepared for her to chew you out. It hurts to see you upset afterwards, but hey, better than not seeing you at all.

- The weight of the blood that runs through your mutual veins is not lost on either of you. Its history, troubled yet heroic in equal measures, shapes each and every action you take. Each twist of fate feels predestined, as if your DNA simply will not allow you two a simple, peaceful life. That's alright, though. As long as you have each other's company, you can confidently say that whatever your future holds won't be boring.

[nthspecialll]

What makes me sad is the fact that misinformation still holds such a huge weight in every fandom specifically the red dead redemption two fandom. Like people talk about their“2nd love interest“ being Charles, but that rockstar scrapped the idea. I believe that it takes the responsibility away from rockstar as a company, not wanting to risk losing money on having a gay character and instead placing the blame onto the developers or fandom while it was proven to be false, and that the “claim“ from rockstar was either a troll or someone who just got their misinformation while I’m not sure now which was true the whole charthur was literally proven to be false and that it was never in the works. No hate to Charles or charthur of course but I cannot stand miss information.there’s one thing to have normal discourse, but to see people get mad at people talking about the actual second love interest, and still believing something that was proven to be false to be true true kinda makes me sad. I truly hope that the person who claimed to be a rockstar affiliate or whatever it was was coming from a good place and not a homophobic troll but sadly, I don’t believe that. It was literally proven that the second love interest was supposed to be Eliza, the mother of Arthur’s child. While that idea was also scrapped pretty early on, it was proven to be confirmed, and we do have voice lines in the game files as to even prove it as well as comment commentary, telling the story of how Arthur was supposed to lose his child early on as to have a different storyline in the game. It also annoys me whenever people get mad when someone says very kindly that hey Eliza wasn’t our first wife it was his baby mom while we don’t know a lot. It doesn’t seem like they necessarily loved each other, but it seemed more like a one time thing, and obviously that they seem to be somewhat able to go on, but that was Mary that Arthur loved more or less. I truly love this fandom. I’ve been a part of it for a long time, and I met my partner through it and it’s sad me whenever people claim false things either us to troll and to please the homophobic alpha guy side of the fandom or to take away accountability for rockstar not daring to go too far (aka having a gay charctger who’s sexuality or implied sexuality not being fully straight not played for jokes only) and risk loosing a sliver of money. 

firstly, congrats on the partner, how does it feel to live my dream /HJ

But yeah I do agree, it was proven to be false, but with Eliza I will say something, I watched an interview with Roger a long ass time ago where he was asked who it was meant to be, and Roger said he didn't know, it never got far enough along to become a more solid idea. So I don't think they meant Eliza, or maybe Roger just got confused by the question. I mean they have been though like 6 years of planning, there gotta have been a lot of ideas throwing in and around throughout the time.

I also like the fact you point out Rockstar not wanting to make a gay character too open, which is true. Bill is gay, but it is like implied and at the same time he isn't the most likable character and you can if you want also argue against it. And the only two characters where you can like not at all argue against it, are two you gotta search for it.

Also yes, there was little evidence of Arthur really... loving Eliza, in the demo at least he seemed to not have a too smooth realtionship with her.

[boopiemadz]

popular!girl x loser!travis studying/doing hw together after school then they get carried away???? (so basically fluff turned smut lmao) absolutely fcking obsessed with this series btw🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

!Populargirl X !LoserTravis

"A little carried away." (blurb)

WARNING: This story contains NSFW content! This does include smut so beware!

(collection masterlist)

You never thought English homework could be the start of something. But there you were - sitting on your bedroom floor, highlighters, scribbled notes, and open copies of The Outsiders spread out between you and Travis Martinez, who looked very much like he had no idea what to do with himself in a girl’s room.

It had started a few weeks ago, when your English teacher paired you two for a big essay project. You, the popular girl who floated through hallways, and Travis, the quiet guy who mostly kept to himself and somehow always knew the right answer in class but never raised his hand.

At first, you offered to meet at your place mostly for convenience, and maybe because you were curious. He was strange in that mysterious way, like someone always halfway through a thought he didn’t know how to say out loud.

Now, he sat stiffly on the floor near your bed, hunched over a notebook, pretending to be more focused than he actually was. His back was straight, legs crossed too carefully like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to relax. His gaze darted from his notes to your bookshelf, to the pink throw pillows on your bed, to your soccer medals hung on the wall. Like everything was too personal, like he wasn’t sure what to do with your world now that he was sitting in the middle of it.

“You can sit on the bed, you know,” you said, smirking as you stretched your legs out, your back resting against the wall.

He shook his head instantly. “I’m good here.”

You laughed softly, not pushing it. “Okay, floor it is.”

He scratched the back of his neck. “I just… don’t wanna, like, mess anything up.”

“It’s a bed, Travis. Not a museum.”

But you liked how flustered he was. It was endearing in a way you hadn’t expected.

“So,” you said, breaking the silence, flipping through your annotated pages, “symbolism in The Outsiders. What do we think?”

Travis furrowed his brow and mumbled something about sunsets and divided worlds. He was actually good at this once he started talking, even if he stumbled through his thoughts.

Each day after school, he’d show up at your house - sometimes lingering in the doorway like he wasn’t sure he was supposed to be there. You’d wave him in like always, and he’d follow you upstairs with quiet reluctance before sitting in that same spot on the floor.

Over time, he got more comfortable. Not by much, but enough to lean back on his hands while you brainstormed aloud, or joke about how awful your teacher’s taste in literature was. He still avoided the bed like it was forbidden territory, though sometimes his arm would brush yours when you passed him a notebook or reached for your drink.

You started to notice things about him. Like how he drew little shapes in the margins of his notes - quiet doodles of abstract monsters or angular faces. Or how he looked up at you when he thought you weren’t watching. Like he couldn’t help it.

One afternoon, you had been sitting with him on the floor rereading a passage. You let your head fall back onto the bed for a second, eyes fluttering closed for just a second too long.

“You okay?” His voice was quieter than usual.

You peeked one eye open. “Just tired.”

There was a rustle, and before you could ask, he pulled off his hoodie. For a second, he just held it, like he wasn’t sure what to do. Then, gently, he leaned forward and draped it over your shoulders.

You blinked. “You looked cold,” he said, barely above a whisper.

You nodded, curling deeper into the dark green sweater. It smelled like laundry detergent and something unmistakably him. “Thanks”

As the deadline got closer, the sessions got longer. He stopped glancing around your room like he was trespassing and started slipping off his shoes by the door without being asked. Your shared conversations wandered from symbolism to music, to movies, to things you never told anyone else. And even when there were silences, they weren’t uncomfortable anymore. Just full.

And then - one evening - the light from the window started to fade, painting your room in shades of warm gold. You were side by side on the floor now, leaning over a book spread open across both your legs. You reached forward to point out a passage.

Your elbows brushed. You both froze.

You turned to him slowly, and there he was - close, so close - looking at you with startled eyes and parted lips like he wasn’t sure if he should apologize or breathe.

“Sorry,” he muttered, his voice cracking slightly.

But he didn’t pull away.

“It’s okay,” you said, your voice soft, your pulse wild.

His hand stayed near yours, just an inch away on the page. The air between you hummed, your knees almost touching. You reached out, barely thinking, and your pinkie brushed his.

He looked down at your hands, then back up at you. His gaze flicked to your lips, then your eyes again.

And slowly he leaned in. He kissed you. Just barely. Just once.

Your breath caught. And then you kissed him back. Shy. Gentle. Warm.

You both lingered for a moment, breaths mingling, eyes locked. Then Travis jerked back suddenly, face flushing red. "Oh god, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have..." he stammered, looking horrified.

You blinked in surprise at the sudden change. "Hey, it's okay," you said softly, reaching out to take one of his hands. "I kissed you back, remember?" You smiled reassuredly at him, trying to ease his obvious discomfort.

He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "Yeah, but...I don't know what came over me. I just...you looked...and I..." He trailed off, looking more and more flustered by the second.

Poor Travis, so awkward and unsure. It was almost endearing, in a clumsy sort of way. You knew you had to take the lead again to get him out of his head. So you leaned in slow and pecked his cheek softly, right where it was still burning red. "There," you murmured. "How about now?"

Travis swallowed hard, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your mouth. "I...uh..." He seemed at a complete loss for words.

You decided to take pity on him and leaned in to brush your lips against his once more - a real kiss this time, not just a teasing peck. Travis stiffened for a moment before relaxing into it, his hand coming up to cup your cheek as he kissed you back. It was shy and a little clumsy at first, but growing in confidence and intensity with each passing second.

When you finally pulled back, both of you were flushed and breathing a little harder. Travis looked dazed, his eyes glazed over and his mouth parted slightly. "Wow..." he murmured, more to himself than to you.

You couldn't help but grin at his awestruck expression. "I take it that means you're okay with it then?" you teased softly, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

Travis blinked a few times, trying to clear the haze from his mind. A slow smile spread across his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that made your heart skip. "Yeah...yeah, I'm definitely okay with it," he said softly, but with a newfound confidence in his voice.

Feeling emboldened, he leaned in again, slowly, teasingly, he closed the distance, capturing your mouth in a deep, sensual kiss. Your lips moved against his in a lingering caress, savoring every contour.

Travis's hands slid up your sides, coming to rest on your ribs. He held you close as he kissed you back, his tongue tracing your lips, seeking entrance. You parted them for him with a soft sigh.

He walked you backwards until started to climb the edge of your bed, and you tumbled down onto the soft mattress, pulling him with you. Travis hovered over you for a moment, his eyes dark and intense as he gazed down at your flushed face

Travis leaned down, bracing himself on his elbows above you, he looked at you with an intensity you hadn't seen before, his gaze roaming over your face and lingering on your lips. "I've wanted to do that for weeks," he confessed softly, his voice low and rough.

You bit your lip, pulse racing at his admission. "Why didn't you?" you breathed, reaching up to brush a lock of hair off his forehead.

He shrugged one shoulder, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. "Didn't think you'd want a loser like me kissing you," he muttered, glancing away briefly before returning his intense stare.

You cupped his cheek, turning him back to face you. "You're not a loser, Travis," you said firmly, your thumb brushing the arch of his cheekbone. "You're...you're really cute."

Travis blinked, surprise flashing across his face before a slow grin spread, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that made your heart flutter. "Cute, huh?" he repeated, a hint of teasing in his voice.

You nodded, smiling up at him shyly. "Mhmm. And really good at kissing," you added,

Travis gazed down at you with those earnest, hopeful eyes, his hand sliding to rest on your hip. "Y/N, I...I really like you," he said softly, his thumb rubbing small circles on the fabric of your shirt. "A lot. And I think...I think I want to take this further, if you do too."

He swallowed nervously, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "But I gotta ask...is this okay? Or would you...would you rather I stopped?" His brows knitted together in concern, his eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation or doubt. "Just say the word, and I'll back off. No pressure, alright?"

You gazed up at him with a soft smile, reaching up to cup his cheek. "Keep going," you murmured, thumb brushing his jawline gently. "I want this too, Travis. I want you."

His eyes widened briefly before a slow, relieved grin spread across his face. "Oh. Okay then," he breathed, leaning into your touch. "In that case..." He kissed you again, deeper.

Travis fumbled with the hem of your shirt, his fingers tangling in the fabric as he tried to tug it up and over your head. He paused, looking down at you with a sheepish grin. "Uh...like this?" he mumbled, fingers brushing against your cheeks as he finally got your shirt off and tossed it aside. His eyes widened as he took in the sight of you in just your bra, a pretty pink flush spreading across his cheeks. "Wow...you look...wow," he breathed.

His hands hovered uncertainly over your chest for a moment before he tentatively reached out to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over the lace of your bra. He squeezed gently, not quite sure how to touch you, but eager to learn. "Is this...am I doing this right?" he asked softly, glancing at you with hopeful eyes.

Travis leaned down to press clumsy kisses along your collarbone, his lips and nose brushing against your skin. He nuzzled into the swell of your breasts, his breath hot and ragged against you. "You smell so good."

He fumbled with the clasp of your bra, fingers fumbling and trembling slightly. It took a few tries before he finally got it unhooked, and your breasts spilled free. Travis's eyes widened as he took in the sight of you, lips parting in awe.

"Wow," he breathed, his hands hovering uncertainly over your bare skin. Sheer admiration shone in his gaze as he drank in every dip and curve. Travis's fingers fumbled with the button of your pajama pants, his knuckles brushing against your skin as he popped it open. He hooked his fingers into the waistband and tugged, dragging your pants and panties down your legs and tossing them carelessly to the floor.

His eyes darkened as he took in the sight of you, now bare beneath him. Hesitantly, he slid his hands up your thighs, thumbs rubbing soothing circles into the soft skin. "You're so beautiful."

Travis leaned down to press open-mouthed kisses along your hipbones, he worked his way up slowly, taking his time, until he was hovering just above where you needed him most.

He glanced up at you, cheeks flushed and eyes hopeful. "Is this okay?" he murmured. "Tell me if I should stop." His thumb brushed teasingly over you, not quite touching where you wanted him most.

Travis was a virgin, after all, and it showed in his unsure touches and hesitant kisses. But there was a sweetness to his clumsy affection, a tender reverence in his caresses. 

Travis slid two fingers inside you, groaning softly at the feel of you gripping him. "Like this?" he breathed out, thumb rubbing faster circles around you as he felt your hips start to buck up against his hand.

He could feel you fluttering around his fingers, your breathing growing heavier. He leaned down and replaced his thumb with his tongue, dragging it through you and moaning at your taste.

"Please, Travis," you gasped out, one hand holding onto his hair. "More. I need more." You were panting now, head thrown back against the pillow as he worked you over with fingers and tongue.

Travis growled softly against your skin, the vibrations making your toes curl. He curled his fingers just right and you let out a sharp gasp, hips bucking up against his hand. "Please, Travis," you whimpered, "I need...I need you inside me." You reached down, grasping him under his pants.

Travis shuddered, a low groan escaping his lips. "Are you sure?" he breathed out, struggling to maintain control as he ached to bury himself inside you.

"Please," you begged, looking up at him with hazy, lust-filled eyes. "I want to feel you, all of you." With a low, guttural groan, Travis couldn't resist any longer. He gripped your hips and thrust forward, burying himself to the into you.

He held still for a moment, letting you adjust to the feel of him. Then, slowly, he started to move, pulling outbefore thrusting back in, harder this time. He set a steady, deep rhythm, his hips rolling against yours with each powerful stroke.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels digging into his backside as you urged him on. "Yes, Travis," you gasped out, nails raking down his back. Travis could feel your body tensing, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. With a cry of his name, your nails digging into his shoulders, your back arched spasming around him pushed Travis over the edge.

With one final, hard thrust, he buried himself as deep as possible inside you and let out a guttural moan. As your orgasm crashed over you, Travis felt you clenching rhythmically around him, urging him closer to his own release. At the last second, he pulled out with a strangled groan, his climax hitting him hard. Travis shuddered and gasped your name, exhausted he collapsed beside you, one arm wrapped possessively around your waist as he struggled to catch his breath. "That was...incredible."

A/N-

Normally dont write smut but im ovulating BAD rn and gave in... prob wont write lots in the future but this is for you freaks out there.

[whimsymoonpages]

chapter 20. the nightmare before christmas

cw: light sexual tension, mild language, group relationship dynamic, trying on horrible costumes, sirius is the dragon's arse

the bell jingled above the door as you, sirius, james, and remus stepped into the muggle halloween store. you blinked against the blast of plastic and cheap candy smell—so different from the dusty magic shops you were used to. sirius immediately grabbed a glittery goblin mask off a shelf and held it up with a mock-shudder.

"who thinks this is scary?" he asked, holding it at arm's length. "this looks like something a child made during arts and crafts."

james snorted, picking up a cardboard troll costume with googly eyes barely hanging on by glue strings. "more like a toddler's fever dream. how are we supposed to terrify anyone wearing this?"

you laughed so hard, nearly dropping the broomstick you'd grabbed from the corner to sweep up later. "i don't get it. why do muggles make their monsters look like they're straight out of a cartoon?"

sirius grinned, tossing the goblin mask onto the counter. "because they're adorable idiots."

remus glared at you all. "this is half of my culture you lot are talking about!"

"sorry, moons," james peeled back a rack of plastic witches' hats covered in glitter. "so what's the plan? classic creepy witches? silly vampires? zombies?"

remus shrugged, though you could tell he was already calculating logistics. "maybe something practical, easy to move around in..." he glanced at sirius, who was now wearing a sparkly cape festooned with fake cobwebs, "i can tell that idea will be vetoed."

"of course it's vetoed," sirius said, flicking the cape dramatically like he was about to cast a curse. "i'm the king of unpractical."

"impractical, siri." you snickered as you plucked a feathered hat off the rack and tossed it on your head. you struck a mock regal pose.

remus smiled, coming closer and gently setting a wide-brimmed witch's hat over yours, his fingers brushing your hair as he adjusted it. you froze for a moment, cheeks heating, and he caught your eye with a soft, quiet smile. "looks perfect," he said just low enough for you alone. the moment is ruined by a horrible gasp.

"oh. my. gods." sirius breathes, holding up a ridiculous inflatable dragon costume. "okay, real talk: we have to try this on."

"no way," james said, laughing incredulously. "there's no way four people fit inside that."

"of course there's a way," remus grinned, clearly seeing sirius' vision. he began crawling inside the tail end. "i claim the head."

"i'm obviously the arse," sirius declared, wriggling into the back piece.

"neck," you said, already scooting into the middle.

"damnit!" james pouts, squeezing in next to you.

you can only imagine how ridiculous you all look. remus' head poked out as the dragon's snout, twitching with every laughing breath. james struggled to keep balance as the wobbly middle, his arms flailing as he tried to hold the costume together. you barely managed to keep upright as the neck, and sirius wiggled the tail end so hard, his part of the costume toppled over.

"i look ridiculous," sirius groaned, but his eyes sparkled with amusement. he huffed from his spot on the floor, blowing his now messy curls out of his face.

"no, you look majestic," you teased, reaching down to ruffle his hair. you don't miss how he leans into your touch.

"don't touch the arse," james warned, laughing. "it's a sensitive spot."

"too late," remus said dryly.

"how'd you even get back there?!?"

"we all know,the arse is prone to collapse." sirius deadpans.

you all tried on more costumes after that—james in a squeaky spaceman suit, sirius daring to squeeze into a sparkly fairy outfit with wings, and remus eyeing a set of simple cloaks and hats.

sirius accidentally set off a hidden sparkler in a wizard hat, causing a harmless but startling burst of sparks that sent everyone ducking. he grimaced and tried so hard to hide in a rack. somehow, he didn't grimace as hard as remus.

you and james ducked into the tiniest dressing room you'd ever seen, the walls practically closing in as the door clicked shut behind you. the air was thick, the faint scent of old fabric mixing with your own nervous energy.

"wow," james whispered, "i think this is the official smallest fitting room in england."

you laughed softly, but the sound was swallowed by the close space. you reached for a long, dark wizard robe hanging on the rack and held it up against yourself. james did the same, standing right behind you, his chest nearly brushing your back.

"think this will do?" you asked, glancing over your shoulder to find his body inches from yours.

he smirked, voice low and teasing. "only if you promise not to hex me if i look better in it than you."

you turned fully toward him, and suddenly there was nowhere to step back to. the walls pressed close on all sides, your bodies almost tangled. your height difference looks crazy in the mirror. james, standing at a cool 6'4, made it hard for your face to be anywhere except his firm chest when you face him. the soft fabric of the robes brushed against your arms as you both fumbled with the clasps, hands occasionally grazing in the cramped space.

james' eyes flicked to your lips, then back to your eyes, the teasing fading into something warmer, more serious. "you're distracting me," he admitted with red cheeks.

you swallowed, heart hammering. "maybe you need a distraction."

his grin returned, slow and slow-burning. you both stood still for a moment, the world narrowing down to just the two of you, the heat of your closeness filling the tight room. james' hand found your waist, fingers light but sure, and you leaned in just a little. just as your lips start to brush, you hear sirius calling for you.

"weasel! i have the perfect costume for you!"

you finally step out of the tiny dressing room, your heart still thudding from how close james was. he's right behind you, grinning like he just won a secret battle. sirius raises an eyebrow from across the aisle, wearing a crooked wizard hat and cape half on, clearly judging your "wizard look."

"well, well," sirius smirks, "if it isn't the newest dark wizard and his loyal right-hand man."

james shoots him a playful glare and speaks in a low, grumble of a voice. "it is i, the dark wizard, who will hex you right here in muggle land."

you laugh, still feeling the warmth from the moment, and sirius saunters over, adjusting the cape dramatically. "you know, this is all well and good, but I think we need something a little more...dramatic."

remus holds up a simple black cloak and shakes his head. "if your vision of dramatic is that blasted dragon costume, count me out."

"oh, come on, moons, that was a masterpiece." sirius waves his hand like he's dismissing a minor tragedy. "besides, we need to push the boundaries of ridiculous. i won't be upstaged by barty crouch junior!"

you wander over to a rack of hats, grabbing a wide-brimmed, feathered pirate hat and plopping it on your head. sirius instantly materializes beside you, pulling a pirate's eye patch from the rack. "pirates?" he suggests, flashing you a crooked smile. "dangerous, edgy, and a little mysterious."

you grin and turn to james. "what do you think? should we sail the high seas instead of fighting dragons?"

james chuckles, pulling on a battered leather jacket he'd found nearby. "as long as there's treasure involved, i'm in."

"i HAVE to be captain blackbeard."

guess who said that. guess.

remus picks up a bowler hat, turning it over in his hands thoughtfully. "i don't know why i'm even here."

"because you like us." you say, catching his eye as he quietly places the hat on your head again, gently brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. you blush, the moment slower this time, softer, and remus catches your smile with one of his own.

"okay," james pants, trying to pull a plastic mask off his face. "but seriously, what are we going to be?"

"something coordinated," you say, catching remus' gaze. "got to appeal to everyone, don't we?"

you all smile, the excitement bubbling for the party ahead. suddenly, james snaps. "ARE WE DAFT! i know exactly what we're going to be!"

"this idea better be good, prongs." sirius says as he puts his pirate costume away.

"you've guessed it!" james exclaims happily, gripping sirius' shoulders in his big hands. "i will be prongs!"

"moony," he points to remus.

"weasel," he points to you.

"padfoot," he points to sirius, who points to himself and mouths, 'me?'

"and prongs!" james' arms outstretch into a star pose.

oh brother.

previous next

taglist: @daydreamandforget i had to go stereotypical marauders costume for you, boo.

if you'd like to be added to the taglist, comment or send me a message!

[spinnydino]

˖ ࣪⭑ caught in memories

summary: nat and her team are hanging out at the mall & its all calm until she she's someone that reminds her of her father.

cws: she/he little!nat, they/them big!brother van, negative self talk, nats home life & swearing

The mall on a Saturday in New Jersey was hell with a food court, but that was all it was, right?

Until Nat saw him. The same posture. Same movements. Same energy, radiating off this man who resembled her father in all the wrong ways. That same cold, careless weight in the way he stood. What the fuck.

Nat decided she wanted—no, needed—to run. She didn’t know where to. Just away. Away from him, right this second.

So he did. Somehow, his legs had led him to the stupid bricked wall behind the mall, today its purpose was to give nat some privacy.

He dropped down onto the probably disgusting floor without thinking, his body already curling in. He pulled his knees to his chest, thumb to his mouth. Just like that, he was eight agian. He was back there.

This was supposed to be fun.

She wasn’t supposed to be acting like this.

This was supposed to be a fun hangout with her team.

She wasn't supposed to be a child anymore.

She wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

She wasn’t supposed to act like this.

why can't she just be normal?

His hands were shaking. His thoughts were loud and fast and made no sense at all. Nat had no idea how long she had been in there, slowly spiraling, until “Nat, you in here?” Van’s voice cut through his poor, scared mind.

Thankfully for Van, Nat wasn't too far. “Hi, buddy,” they said softly, sitting opposite of Nat, careful not to scare or disturb him any further. Nat looked exactly how he had looked the day his dad died. Small. Thumb in mouth. His eyeliner streaking down his cheeks.

“I’m fine. I am. Just—h-he looked like my dad. Like… fuck. Like I was seeing a ghost or some shi—” she confessed around her thumb, voice cracking in places, clearly using the swear words to seem bigger than she felt. “Oh, Nat,” Van cooed. “I’m fine,” she said again to prove her point, right before Van pulled her into a hug.

“You’re okay.” Van’s arms tightened just a little. Not enough to trap. Not enough to scare. Just enough to hold. Just enough to keep him from spiraling again. Nat’s breath hitched. He wanted the comfort so badly, but he didn’t know if he was accepting it 'right'

“I’m fine, Van,” she mumbled again, though the words were half swallowed by the side of Van’s hoodie and the thumb still stubbornly stuck in her mouth.

Nat didn’t sound fine. He sounded eight. And furious about it. But Van didn’t argue. They just continued slowly rubbing his back. Just like they had that day his dad died.

Nat started babbling about something clearly distressed, eager not to seem stupid. Trying to prove he was normal. Van gently shut it down. “You don’t have to explain, bud” they said quietly, hand still moving gently against her back.

Nat started again, faster now, shaking his head in that fast, messy way that meant he wasn’t ready to stop. “I… I aren’t stupid! I know it wasn’t him. I just. I just” he took a deep, breath. “I want him to go 'way, Vannie. Stay d-dead.” He whispered the last part like it hurt to say.

Then, louder but no steadier this time, “I want him to g-go. Make me stop feeling like a little fucking child.”

Van let go of Nat just enough to look at her while speaking. “You aren’t there anymore, Nat.” A soft smile played on their lips, a gentle one. Just safe. “You’re just… scared. Scared and dealing with the aftermath.”

Nat let out a sound, something between a relief and cry. Then he buried his face again. Still sucking on his thumb, but he felt lighter this time. "Thank you, Vannie."

[eexomei]

I’m so autistic (diagnosed ofc) and I hate how in the game Abigail says “I remember you and Mary playing dominoes”—

— Because what about the timeline!! Rockstar what the hell? Give us a clear timeline, I think I’ve had it figured it out then this happens. 😩

I just don’t think that they could have ever met in camp, since I doubt that Mary would have been in their camp, even more since it seems like Arthur and Mary hadn’t talked for years, and that the last time they spoke it wasn’t pleasant. As well as I assume that it was intended for Mary to have had been married for some time at least, then once again, with rockstar messing up the timeline I’m not so sure. Then I just don’t think Mary ever knew about Eliza and Issac because like most people I personally have seen takes and also think that the most logical and implied thing is that it happened as a one night stand, AFTER Arthur was basically heartbroken for some time after Mary “I know I said a lot of things, and I meant them I suppose, at the time.” (her words, not mine.) and told him that she was engaged.

Like don’t get me wrong, I think Arthur slept around before that as well due to the historical context, but since it’s implied that Arthur is celibate due to his self loathing/guilt over having ‘ruined’ or unable to ‘save’ his child and the mother of said child from being killed, aka he couldn’t provide and protect them due to his actions as an outlaw. Sure, he did try according to him and he wasn’t a complete deadbeat, but obviously it wasn’t good. No shade to Arthur, I really like him. We all know how much Arthur loves and believes in the era’s gender roles, and how much of a belief and value he puts on his own role as a provider and protector, for the gang in this case since he doesn’t have a traditional family. Then the fact that he is the gang’s enforcer goes hand in hand with that but it’s both connected to each other, I believe. However, wouldn’t it be strange if Arthur fathered a child on accident from a one night fling, probably freaked out when he found out about it somehow, ended up still trying to do somewhat right by them by visiting every now and then, (obviously not enough but for an outlaw the bar is in hell lol) only to find them having been killed when he was gone for a measly five dollars — by men that were most likely just like himself aka outlaws and ‘bad men’. That probably didn’t help his own self loathing, and he said that it hardened him, which is probably what made him go from being more like Sean to his even more sullen self that we all know and love. He’s also a mean drunk and I assume that it probably got worse after that as to cope with the pain. Now, no shade to Mary, I genuinely had a huge crush on her back in 2020, but in my belief as someone who genuinely has looked into her character as a hyper fixation and from a historical standpoint — I highly doubt that she would see an outlaw, who’s not only extremly angry and a drunk as to cope with such a loss, but also be aware of the loss of said outlaw’s child and be like “wow, I want him.” I wouldn’t blame her if she did but that seems so far fetched for her character, though then again they seemed to be together when they were both very young — which also makes me believe that Issac must have happened after Mary and Arthur breaking up, since Arthur still was pretty young but didn’t seem to be as young since he said to Rain’s fall, “Hell, I guess I was too.” when he told her that Eliza was just a nineteen year old kid, which implies that Arthur probably was a bit older but not as young. Then we literally have no idea how long Mary and Arthur was together, nor when Arthur found out about Eliza being with child/having given birth to Isaac. 

I just don’t see how Arthur would even be able to fall in love and dare to dream about a future with someone if he had not only accidentally fathered a child he couldn’t care for, but also then potentially having somewhat recently lost said child and the child’s mother by being away from them (once again he blames himself) and having outlaws (people like him) rob and murder them. 

I’ve seen people with their headcanons as this, and genuinely I’m curious what you all might believe because this is the one timeline that makes the most sense to me;

Arthur is a young outlaw, acting like Sean somewhat even if he’s still a bit more ‘bruteish’ and ‘sullen’ as according to the robbery report he keeps by his bed.

He somehow meets and gets with Mary.

Their relationship is pretty rocky due to the uncertainty of the future and obviously the social conditions that Mary has as a woman back then end vice versa. 

Mary chooses or rather is pressured into to believing that Arthur isn’t good enough for her/her family more so, and either chooses to break it off or just gets arrenged to be engaged to someone else while in a relationship.

“I know I said when we last spoke and I was going off to get married, that we would not speak again.” happens 💔 not sure if they were broken up by then or if that was the nail in the coffin. 

Arthur is probably heartbroken, most likely drinks to cope because I mean, he’s always seems to have gotten a bit too into alcohol in most opinions. 

He might be in a slump of self wallowing and pity, as well as missing Mary ofc.

Someone, most likely Dutch (given by how he looks at the letter from Mary in chapter four.), tries to cheer him up by taking him to go out and get a woman to warm his bed. 

Arthur slowly gets back to normal, ends up drunk sometime and has the fling with the waitress Eliza.

Somehow gets her pregnant.

Finds out about it sometime later? Not sure if Isaac was already born by then or not when he found out. 

Tries to somehow do right by them by showing up and staying for a few days every now and then.

Finds out that they’re dead and had been killed by men just like him and that he had ‘failed’ them.

Basically isn’t the same, he’s hardened and like rockstar had planned to in early development when they planned to have Isaac die in colter — Arthur is even more angry, menacing and probably is fucking crazy with rage as to cope with the guilt and sorrow. 

He somehow mellows out a bit by the years but remains hardened ofc, he’s basically his own number one hater and basically throws himself into the one thing he’s built up as to protect his heart, and what his reputation tells him that he needs to be which is a ‘dangerous brute of an enforcer’. 

The game happens :3 

Then it’s the historical standpoint, understandably Mary is a high society woman who’s never had to be personally involved with women like the women in the gang. At least so we can assume from the way she talks and acts, as well as her standing in society. She even does look down on Arthur even when he uses his skills as to help her, once again that’s not something I can fault her for even though it is annoying to say the least, however it’s not necessarily perceived as mean to her at least due to how it makes sense as for the historical aspect, but I personally do judge it and I do believe that it’s strange that people can’t see the nuance that it is obviously unfair of her to do, it isn’t a crime duh for her to feel that way nor is it a crime to point it out or openly dislike it, it’s just the history standpoint that’s important to take into account.  Which then makes my point that I highly doubt that Mary would be okay with being in a relationship with someone who’s not only an outlaw, but an outlaw who ‘slept around’ with ‘those women’ since Eliza was technically considered a working woman since being a waitress was also looked down upon by higher society in general, but also had a child with that woman by accident and couldn’t be there as to save them from their fate. This isn’t to criticize Mary for potentially feeling that way, since I’m just pointing out the historical significance of her thoughts. Then again if Arthur had later opened up to Mary about that, and Mary hadn’t known about it from the start, I believe that Mary would still stay with Arthur but that it would more likely or not help plant that seed of understable doubt of Arthur and his future. 

So, as to why I don’t believe that they would get on, is how Mary wrote ‘and those girls or whatever the polite term is’ — she’s obviously trying to be polite but I also got the quite clear meaning that she was frankly disapproving and maybe even a bit snarky towards them, which one again giving her place in society at the time wouldn’t be anything but expected, and as we can see Mary isn’t just some goody two shoes but she is a person who can be snarky etc, just like anyone else, which is another reason to why I love her. Then we have Abigail, who obviously doesn’t like to be reminded of her past too much and probably feels insecure since she clearly has had a rough life, more likely than not had no other choice but to do those things as to survive and all that societal judgment basically having her be considered less than. And how Abigail also does believe in gender roles, given the time as well, and clearly wants to have a normal ‘proper’ life as we can see how she longs for even more in the epilogue. Before it seemed more due to how she wanted it for Jack, which I believe is a huge factor, but I do believe that we can see signs of Abigail wanting that for herself as well even in the early chapters of the game… 

Which is also why I think her and Arthur get along quite well. Because she’s grounded ‘enough’ due to her rough life but also has that want to follow societal expectations for women which Arthur ofc also does and expects other to want to do. So, I personally don’t think that either of Mary nor Abigail would have been that comfortable with each other or around each other; especially if it was before Jack was born and Abigail still did work as a prostitue.

Then it’s the damn timeline again, because I’m one of the people that believe that Abigail didn’t sleep with the whole gang. With some men in the gang? Probably. Since it seems to be implied that she might have done so as to earn her place there, and Arthur’s taunt which may have been completely just a cruel jab, that she was the ‘most popular on nickel night’ (OUCH ARTHUR WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM LEAVE HER ALONE.) and with John believing that Jack might not have been his. Do I think that John mostly believed so as to feel less guilty about being a deadbeat? Yes, definitely, I think he told himself that as to justify his behaviours. Do I believe that he also seemed to believe so due to him knowing that Abigail was a prostitue/former prostitue and had some stereotypical views? Yes. Do I believe that there might have been times Abigail slept with someone else in the gang? Maybe, I don’t think she did so as she seemed to have been portrayed to having stopped as she fell in love with John. But I’m not sure. 

So, I think Mary would have been scared and uncomfortable, obviously ignorant to Abigail’s plights but probably not by choice. Maybe it would be somewhat by choice, since it was practically seen as a good thing to look down upon working women back then, and obviously Mary had a lot of pressure on her as a higher middle class/high society woman. So, I don’t necessarily blame her for that, of course. Maybe Mary was younger and in need of some much needed excitement since her home life was most likely not too idyllic, probably ‘boring’ and with a lot of pressure on her, especially if her mother was gone by that time as well. I also think that since her father seemed to hate Arthur’s guts from the start, that it would be hard for Mary to disappear for hours as a young woman, with her father suspecting that she must be with Arthur aka a man he deems to be terrible for their reputation and not good enough for their family. Maybe her father was also a drunk back then, but it seemed to have been more of a newer downwards slope in the game, but it could have been a bit milder back then but still present. Then I also don’t think that Mary and Miss Grimshaw would get along, as Grimshaw herself states that she never liked her, because obviously Grimshaw is quite harsh on women. No fault to Miss Grimshaw, since I believe that she just had it rough and is insecure, due to societal pressure especially on an older woman like her, and that she had been engaged at a point etc. So, if I was Mary, I would probably be pretty scared to be around Miss Grimshaw in ‘her’ camp. Then I also think that Arthur would have started to feel insecure as their relationship continued, since once again Mary’s father made it very clear what he thought of Arthur and Arthur, being a firm believer in the cult of domesticity aka gender roles of the time, and even shown to have in later days be a bit insecure about not living up to the expectations of a man of his age at the time, which was shown in his reaction from the Lagras woman you can help, who teases him about not having a house and Arthur gets defensive and butthurt.

And it seems like Mary, not even in the current time of the game’s timeline, doesn’t stand up for Arthur, which I don’t fault her for because of history etc, but she also defends her father’s treatment and justifies it — even when she needs Arthur to use his ‘skills’ to help her out, with the mess her father has gotten them into. Mary doesn’t even reassure or stand up for Arthur when it’s just them two alone, which shows how she’s obviously very much under a lot of pressure and control, and probably due to herself believing that her father has a point. 

Once again, no hate to Mary.☝️I get it. 

So, I don’t believe that Mary and Abigail would have gotten along too well, not due to themselves really since I do believe that when they’re actually able to be themselves without under the soul crushing pressure of society — I think that they could have gotten along. Abigail can be quick to anger, and Mary is very defensive of her choices, but I don’t think that they would have been like fighting or anything lmao. I think they would feel threatened in their respective ways, and that at most they might act angry behind their backs if they had a disagreement or if either of them felt attacked since Abigail would probably stand up for herself if Mary had accidentally said something out of just curiosity or ignorance that would be deemed as offensive. 

To make a long story a bit shorter;

We don’t even know when Abigail joined the gang, expect for that it’s been at least four years since that’s how old Jack is. And I don’t believe that Mary had only been married for four years before the game’s timeline, not because I wouldn’t like it because I frankly think that it didn’t seem like she had a chance to be with Barry for too long… But because it makes no sense for Mary and Arthur to be ‘so very young’ just four years back, in a relationship with Arthur taking her with him to visit their camp at times, then meet Abigail who’s even younger, break up, not speak for years all under a four years timeline. Even if that’s plausible technically, it makes it even harder since Arthur was able to not only be in a relationship with Mary in that time, but then also had the time to loose a child he had with a fling, which the child seemed to have been around Jack’s age when he passed — and for him to then basically go crazy and then calm down a bit, and for the games main timeline to take place.

I don’t really think about ‘what if another life we’re together’ when it comes to Mary x Arthur — I think about that when it comes to Mary x Abigail because in another life, without sexism and such a big societal impact, they would have been besties :((