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live from the ministry copia noise compilation
#since my prequelle chapter one is here i might as well post this one too#genuinely such a fun performance i can’t even begin to tell you how much i’ve watched it in the last 2 years#big fan of how grainy they made the video that’s such a fun effect#the band ghost#copia#live from the ministry#commontalk
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Showing off my colored Ghost vinyl. I also have most in plain black
1 - Opus Eponymous
2 - Infestissumam
3 - If You Have Ghosts
4 - Meliora
5 - Popestar
6 - Ceremony & Devotion
7 - Prequelle
8 - 7IOSP
9 - Impera and Live From The Ministry
10 - Phantomime v.1
#the band ghost#opus eponymous#infestissumam#if you have ghosts#meliora#popestar#ceremony and devotion#prequelle#seven inches of satanic panic#7iosp#impera#live from the ministry#phantomime#vinyl#colored vinyl#vinyl collection
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Night of the Living Terzo
Chapter 3: It's Been a Long Time Coming...
By: @toastyems and @moshicorn
























#the band ghost#cardinal copia#papa iii#papa terzo#prequelle#night of the living terzo#tales from the ministry#fan comic
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spending time with that good little boy



#hc yap time:#she didn't keep the lord of the shore in vivarium#bc WHAT DID YOU SEE HIM HE'S HUGE HE NEEDS FAR MORE SPACE#so ministry workers could do nothing about him#(they took all other creatures from vivariums after they knew there used to be a graphorn in the school)#he lives peacefully at his home shore#she doesn't want any pets atm because feels guilty#but she loves animals and magical beasts#so she visits hit at clagmar coast sometimes#hogwarts legacy#hogwarts#hogwarts legacy screenshots#ps5 screenshots#hogwarts legacy mc#amberlyn salters#graphorn
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like omfg this was on obama's book list ... its giving fanfic soo heavily LOL. girl ur telling me this woman got high profile interviewed for a super secret job dealing with time travel & the ministry has probably planned so thoroughly the best way they can think of to introduce these old timey people to the present. like they made sure you know all that & then are like "oh yeah and they HAVE to live in an apartment together btw that's key to the plan" nevermind that he's from a time when you probably wouldn't even socialize with single women let alone LIVE WITH ONE THAT YOU DON'T KNOW it's giving there was only one bed its giving oops sorry we accidentally booked a couples package. but it's like the CIA doing this.
#this premise would be so much less goofy if it were gay actually. like plausibly the ministry should have picked a man for this job. or#vice versa if they had assigned her to a woman & turns out the historical figure is gay & finally has the opportunity to live their life &#explore that in the present day. still fanfic but you see how that's less goofy. cuz anybody could be a bit gay from the past & it doesn't#make me question the plausibility of this organization. i also thought this was not gonna be jumping straight into the romantic tension but#it kind of is. and again im not actually hating on this book i just need to readjust my expectations cuz i thought it was time travel with#decent side salad of romance but it might be romance on a placemat of time travel......#reading journals#again im literally 20minutes in still so who knows but i loooove to judge prematurely & more importantly love to post
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youtube
#Snape vs Snape#severus snape#ministry of Magic Songs from gringotts vault#this song have lived in my head song around 2011#harry potter fandom#death eaters#people can change#Youtube
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Somehow in the year 2025 (cursed year), my least hot, most lukewarm, stalest take of "I just don't think we should end protections for and then deport completely legal refugees back to the countries that will, in many cases, kill them" is still too controversial and radical and "liberal leftist woke."
I'm so tired.
Anyways here's a link from World Relief for calling Congress about it. If you want.
#that link may be from before the supreme court decision but it still does the same thing#ragamusings#cursed timeline experience#my heart lives down in my shoes and i can't even ask the people in the ministry i partner with#to join me in prayer and in action bc they're so polarized by political talking heads
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Night of the Living Terzo
Chapter 2: Nailed It!
By: @toastyems and @moshicorn
#the band ghost#cardinal copia#papa iv#papa primo#papa secondo#papa terzo#prequelle#night of the living terzo#tales from the ministry#fan comic
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For your ask post:
If they were ever granted one wish, what would they wish for?
Sighs in wistful lactose intolerance, "to eat a cheesecake." 😔
#rp#wren speaks#wren tries to be funny#writing the rest OOC bc Wren is very unlikely to say any of these out loud 😆 It's going to get a bit convoluted from here#and I really want to take this chance to add something more in depth instead of just something quippy as usual#a little backstory tidbit#Ok so Wren was born in Dublin but her family moved to Belfast#a violent and overcrowded city with deteriorating conditions at the time HL takes place (I did my history homework lol)#at some point Wren's childhood was plagued with riots and arsons#it's why she dislikes the spell Incendio 🔥#yet even since attending Hogwarts#her parents for some reason insist on staying in Belfast#more than anything Wren wants her parents to see sense#that whatever academic or business pursuits they have aren't worth risking their lives every time they leave the house#and maybe convince the Ministry into relocating her parents to Hogsmeade#or at least somewhere nearby in Scotland where she can keep an eye on them#but her parents are as stubborn as a mule#and they don't write to her often#Wren has no choice but make do with the occasional letters from home#then go to bed every night riddled with anxiety#thinking whether her family made back home safely#😃
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oh fuck this too,,,,literally growling???? hello???? you can't just do that and not expect it to live rent free in my mind
#i rewatch live from the ministry like. probably too much#my honey bun 🖤#what do you have to say doll?
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today is the day i found out about unit 731. as i scrolled down the wikipedia page - gosh, and to think it all started from a random reference in an instagram reel! - scrolled past paragraphs of paragraphs of testimonies of descriptions of gruesome tortures and experimentation literal tears of shock and horror came to my eyes and when those subsided i filled with a furious, furious, furious rage and i am still fuming.
and my only question is, why don't people talk about this.
like yes! we all know about the Nazis and their horrific gas chambers but this - the experimentation and gruesome killings of almost three hundred thousand men, women, children - how does no one know about? we need dialogue and we NEED accountability and it makes my blood absolutely boil to keep discovering these ugly parts of history that everyone is eager to tuck away bcs it is so, so, so ugly and shocking and i literally cannot comprehend how some humans can be so good and kind and some are ??
how depraved and inhumane must you be to commit such atrocities so coldheartedly and mechanically for "research" (and here i would list them but i'm afraid tumblr will censor) and how disgustingly greedy and self-interested and pitiless must you be to grant immunities and pardons to the perpetrators for the sake of acquiring that research !!!!!
#and the ministry of japan kept trying to remove it from the history textbooks#the us secretly absolved leading doctors and commanders involved#people who literally rped the prisoners to kill time in between dissecting live children and rearranging organs
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(I'm gonna co-opt this for my ship, even if the ship isn't present, sorry)
So, while Voldemort's chilling on the back of Quirrell's skull, he overhears Harry casually mentioning the cupboard, he saw the oversized clothes and the malnutrition when Hagrid took Harry to Diagon and they passed Quirrell in the Leaky, he finds out that Harry asked Dumbledore to stay at Hogwarts and was rejected. And while he doesn't want to help that little Potter bastard out at all, he absolutely wants to wreck Dumbledore's day and take some petty satisfaction from thwarting the headmaster's plans to send some other orphan back to dire conditions.
So after the philosopher's stone thing goes awry and he has to bail on Quirrell's scorched corpse, he possesses some low-ranking ministry peon and reports the abuse to someone in front of Fudge.
Who would absolutely use the opportunity to take Dumbledore down a peg and drag his name through the mud of public opinion.
So Harry is no longer forced to live with the Dursleys (jury's out on whether whoever they leave him with is better for him...), but absolutely no one is acting because they actually give a fuck about him. They're all in it together to give Dumbledore shit.
Harry unites magical Britain and defeats a powerful nuisance. Just. Not the one Dumbledore intended.
Harry Potter AU where someone sees Harry in his cousin’s over-sized clothing with his underfed body and hears him casually mention the cupboard in which he sleeps and calls the fucking police
#dumbledore's bad decisions come back to haunt him#voldemort regains a body and takes great amusement from publicly insinuating himself into the ministry power structure#and no one listens when dumbledore tries to caution against vee#meanwhile harry is flying around on a broom and eating regular meals somewhere#living his best life
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it's almost fish fry season!!!
#i don't like fish much myself tbh but i live in a pretty culturally-catholic area bc of primarily catholic immigrants a century ago#and this is its own season in our regional calendar it seems#it looks like my church is going to one at a catholic church just a five minute walk from my apartment so i mayyy go to one#i keep trying to get the campus ministry to hold one as a fundraiser but they haven't quite got my vision yet#“we're not catholic” money is money!! fish is fish!!#and beaver is beaver 🦫
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Night of the Living Terzo
Chapter 1: Where Are They?
By: @toastyems and @moshicorn
to be continued in chapter 2…
#the band ghost#sister imperator#cardinal copia#papa iv#prequelle#night of the living terzo#tales from the ministry#fan comic
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if you leave something behind (you gain something too.)
pairing: bucky barnes x multiverse! reader summary: you’re a TVA agent—meant to observe, never interfere—but you fall for him in every universe. every iteration. every version of james buchanan Barnes. and across centuries, across collapse and convergence, that love stays. steady. inevitable. written into the code of the multiverse like a rule it can’t break. (multiverse!) inspired by past lives (2023) and the ministry of time. for an expanded explanation and playlist, click here. word count: 15.7k content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem reader, heavy angst w/ a happy ending, oral (f and m receiving), creampie, piv, praise, overstimulation, hair pulling, breast worship, use of pet names, mentions of death and loss
This is it.
The glamorous, sparkling career of a TVA precision-field agent.
Emphasis on “precision.” Emphasis on “field.” Emphasis, mostly, on “agent,” because the term “analyst” was deemed too misleading after what happened in 1806 Prussia (one rogue spreadsheet, a very confused Napoleon, and three weeks of bureaucratic bloodshed).
You’re not like the Minutemen, stomping into timelines in those tactical chic jumpsuits, pruning anomalies with the self-satisfaction of people who still think “delete” is a solution. You’re not an auditor—thank God—squinting at branching event charts and muttering about entropy coefficients over cold tea.
No. You’re the needle. The thread. The hand that sews.
Your job is surgical. Your presence is a whisper. Where others correct by erasure, you correct by inclusion. You enter the timeline. You become part of it. You don’t push the dominoes over—you walk by, breathe funny, and trust the air will tip them just right.
There’s no glory in your work. No medals. No mission logs, either.
Everything you do is redacted—even from you. You carry the residue of other people’s lives under your fingernails, and sometimes forget which memories belong to whom.
Sometimes you wake up choking on grief that was never yours. You learn to live with that.
It’s the first thing they ask you in training, during the psych filters: Would knowing the future help you grieve less?
No one answers yes. Not honestly.
You understand now why. There’s no solace in foreknowledge, just the burden of it. Knowing that someone dies doesn’t stop you from loving them. It just makes every moment feel like a countdown.
You specialize in delicate convergences: moments in history so precariously balanced that a sneeze in the wrong direction could avalanche into centuries of collapse. Your handlers call them “softpoints.” You call them “the edge of the knife.”
Sometimes you’re a midwife in 1421. Sometimes you’re the barista who smiles just enough to make a physicist reconsider her route to work. Sometimes you’re a corpse at the right place, the right time, to remind a man of the past he keeps trying to forget.
Right now, you're really fucking hungover.
You started having the dream again.
Not a dream, exactly. A memory with the edges worn smooth. At first it came in pieces—clipped sounds, filtered light, the low hum of something old and mechanical beneath your feet. You dismissed it. Just timeline residue. A misplaced echo.
But it kept returning.
Always the same: a red-brick apartment building. New York—no file, no mission tag—in winter. Brooklyn, more specifically, from your view of the bridge. You’re on a stoop. Someone calls your name and you turn just in time to see a shadow disappear around the corner. A laugh rides the wind, low and familiar.
You wake up before you follow. Every time.
Your mouth tastes like floor polish and betrayal. Your eyes open one at a time, not out of coordination, but protest. Your skull seems like it's determined to play a high-stakes game of ping-pong against itself.
You groan.
This is how your days usually start.
You sit up slowly, bones cracking like old film reels, and assess the carnage around your quarters.
Clothes: on the chair, on the floor, one boot in the sink.
Timepad: blinking faintly on the nightstand, still charged.
Your hair is somewhere between “ungovernable” and “formerly respected.” You run a hand through it and immediately regret that decision. Your reflection in the tiny wall mirror is a damning indictment of last night’s choices. Smudged eyeliner. A smear of something neon-orange near your jawline. You shower quickly — TVA-issued water pressure: inconsistent, ironic. You pull on a button-up and slacks instead — neutral, inoffensive.
You’ll blend into whatever century they throw you into next. For now, you settle for looking like you might belong in the TVA cafeteria line.
By the time you lace your boots (twice — the first attempt ends in a mild panic attack and a missing sock), the hangover’s down to a dull roar. Your breath smells like expired mint gum and broken dreams, so you down two cups of black coffee and chew on one of those flavorless temporal hydration tablets like it might save your soul.
You do your job. Reliably. Unremarkably. The way they like it.
And sometimes you drink enough that for a few hours, you don’t remember how you got here. Or how you’ve always been here.
You toss your timepad into your holster, slap a mediocre patch on your face to cover the worst of the under-eye shadows, and mutter something vaguely threatening at your own reflection.
Time to go.
Three mugs deep into lukewarm cafeteria coffee that tastes like regret and the glue holding office furniture together, you’re hunched over yet another Form G-17 — “Suspected Non-Nexus Deviation: B-Class Branch.” Your fourth this week. You’ve logged more hours categorizing existential anomalies than actually interfering with any, which is particularly unusual, for you anyway. You've been dormant for much longer than you're used to.
The previous G-17s included such branch classics as “cow develops rudimentary consciousness,” “Steve Rogers blinks twice during a televised 2013 speech instead of once,” and “Loki starts a book club.” (Unauthorized self-improvement remains a hot-button issue.)
This one, though—this one’s different.
The case file reads:
CASE FILE: #616-BE0 MISSION CLASS: Softpoint Convergence LOCATION: Siberia, USSR DATE: February 1955 SUMMARY: A low-grade temporal softpoint has been detected. Origin ambiguous. Energy output consistent with pre-convergent instability. Divergent potential is not yet sufficient to trigger a Nexus Event, but the timeline is exhibiting signs of local timeline ‘fraying.’ Mission parameters suggest passive stabilization through presence, not correction. Duration: 3 hours. Environmental hostility high. NOTES: Embed into local context. Observe anomaly behavior. Maintain temporal camouflage. Apply Softpoint Integration Protocol if deviation escalates.
You stare at the file.
Cold, quiet dread coils low in your stomach. Siberia. February. 1955. No glamour in that assignment—just ice and silence and the kind of untraceable damage that leaves timelines limping.
Across from you, Casey is organizing his pen caddy by weight again. You catch a glimpse of the sticky note on his lunchbox: “Please do not eat my croissant. Please.” The second “please” is underlined three times.
You stole that croissant yesterday.
Honestly, he should thank you. It was a little dry.
You turn your eyes back to the file and eye the temperature index: -43°C. S. “Oh good,” you mutter to no one. “Toe amputation weather.”
You stand, suit creaking as you shift, and tug on your tie with practiced resentment. You snap your timepad into place on your wrist. The UI pings with a mild hum — dull orange light, sanctioned and soulless.
Casey looks up.
“Heading out?” he asks, hopeful. He always wants your desk when you’re gone. You have the only chair that doesn’t squeak like a dying goose.
“Yup,” you say. “Brad flagged something ‘mildly interesting.’ We’ll see if it’s another raccoon wasted off shrooms.”
“Or a bear,” Casey offers.
You click your timepad open, keying in the Siberia coordinates. “Or a hallucinating bear.”
Casey nods gravely.
The door opens, temporal energy flaring in its signature burnt-orange halo. You take one last swig of your bad coffee, grimace as it hits your tongue, and mutter, “Let’s go see what broke this time.”
Then you step through.
The light swallows you whole.
And you forget, for a second—just a second—that you were ever anything else.
EARTH-616 | SIBERIA, 1955
The walls groaned when the wind pressed against them. Not urgently. Not like they were in danger of collapse. More like an old man muttering in his sleep.
You didn’t trust the ship, not entirely. It had been retrofitted for temporal operations, but barely—still more icebreaker than chronal vessel. The insulation was patchy in places, and every vent exhaled a little breath of cold that bit at your ankles. If the TVA had a top-shelf of deployment crafts, this wasn’t on it. This was bottom-shelf. Dusty. Dinged up. Probably cursed.
Still. It was warm. Warm enough.
Outside, Siberia stretched like a battlefield already lost. White, endless, blank. Indifferent to watchers, to wanderers, to time itself. It didn’t care that the threads of history bent here. That the TVA had deemed this place a convergence zone—a softpoint where multiple outcomes were forming brittle overlaps. No Nexus spike yet. But something was pulsing.
You leaned back against the wall and let the thermos rest against your chest. The rhythmic thump of the engine hummed through your bones. You liked that. The vibration reminded you that you were still solid. Still here. Still someone with a job to do.
Observe. Do not interfere.
And yet. A flicker on the monitor caught your attention.
Unidentified movement—Quadrant C. Low thermal. Not vehicle. Not patrol. One heat signature. Steady. Moving through the storm.
Human-shaped. Probably.
You didn’t move yet. Just watched. Let it crawl across the display while you listened to the wind.
You checked your timepad again. No nexus flare. No spike. But there was a pulse. Faint, irregular. Like the anomaly was alive.
You didn’t believe in fate. But you believed in gravity. In the way some people pulled history around them like cloaks. This place? It felt pulled.
The door behind you hissed open, then shut again with a metallic shudder—just a shift in cabin pressure, but your body went still anyway. One hand tightened around the cooling thermos; the other hovered near your holster. Not paranoid. Just prepared.
You took a breath. Let it sit in your lungs like steam.
The blip on the monitor moved closer. Still slow. Still steady.
Somewhere out there, in that wide, white nowhere, something was walking toward you.
Before you can focus or fixate on the blip, you hear the bang. It’s not the ship groaning this time. Not the distant thunder of ice shifting. This is close. Inside.
Then the ping.
INTERNAL SECURITY BREACH: SECTOR 7 – SUB-HOLD ACCESS. UNAUTHORIZED MOVEMENT DETECTED.
Of course. Of course it’s the hold.
You didn't run. Running was noise, panic, a rookie move. Instead, you moved swiftly and fluidly, silent as frost.
The corridor narrowed as you descended, metal groaning beneath your boots, the walls sweating condensation from the sudden temperature drop. Ahead, you heard clear sounds of intrusion—boots scraping against metal, something sharp and metallic snapping like bone.
Voices shouted orders in Russian, clipped and urgent.
You pressed against the wall outside the sub-hold entrance, flicking your wrist to pull up the heat signatures on your timepad. Four—no, five—distinct signatures flickered on screen, scattered and frantic, like dropped matchsticks.
Far more than the single blip you'd tracked earlier.
You move anyway.
Quiet. Calculated. Not to neutralize—just to see.
Inside, the hold is chaos: crates overturned, equipment flickering, something sulfuric in the air. A soldier stumbles into your path, disoriented, eyes wrong—like the mind inside doesn’t fit anymore. You sidestep, smooth and practiced, letting him fall without intervention. Another crashes through the smoke and doesn’t even register you.
Your breath clouds the air. The hold smells like ozone and rust and something sharper—like old blood sealed in with frost. And then you see it.
In the corner of the hold, something hums—low, persistent, and thoroughly annoying. Not a cryo chamber, thank god. You've had enough encounters with frozen bodies this fiscal quarter.
Instead, it's a pulse field generator—standard TVA gear, uncomfortably grafted onto mid-century Soviet tech. You frown deeply, which is practically your default expression at this point. This thing was supposed to be dormant.
According to the updated log, this thing is officially a Temporal Dissipation Node—a fancy TVA euphemism for a safety valve that bleeds out timeline tension. Supposedly passive, no-contact. The kind of setup they drop into delicate softpoints, relying entirely on subtlety and minimal human interaction.
This node, however, isn't subtle at all. It's malfunctioning, stuttering irregular pulses instead of smooth ones. Perfect. You crouch, eyes narrowing as you spot obvious manual overrides and Soviet tampering. Wonderful. Someone's been messing around inside the casing.
“Great,” you mutter under your breath, tasting bitterness that has nothing to do with your morning coffee. “No wonder they didn’t send backup. Needed someone expendable.”
Before you can fully embrace the gravity of the situation, the far wall explodes inward in a decidedly dramatic fashion—metal screeching, smoke filling the room. You whip around, baton raised instinctively, already calculating how much paperwork this will generate—
—and freeze.
Because someone's standing there. Just standing. Breathing hard, like he ran the whole way here through the ice.
His hair is long and damp at the ends, curling slightly where the frost is starting to melt. His clothes are frayed at the edges—standard-issue Soviet combat gear, only half-zipped, soaked through. There’s snow clinging to the edges of his sleeve. His stance is wide, solid. Familiar in a way that makes your blood run cold.
But it's his eyes that hold you still.
Not the metal arm, titanium and deadly. Not his sharp-edged stance, nor the rifle slung almost forgotten across his back. It's the eyes—pale blue, intensely focused. Clear. Too clear.
Just staring.
Like you’re an answer to a question he hasn’t been able to phrase. Like he’s seen you before and forgot until now.
And maybe—you freeze, stomach folding in on itself—maybe you forgot too.
The Winter Soldier. James Buchanan Barnes.
It’s not recognition, exactly. Not full-blown. But something in you shifts, quiet and tectonic. The sensation of stepping into a half-remembered dream. Or maybe it's the ache you’ve been waking up with lately, the dream you can never hold onto, just shapes and colors and a voice you almost know.
You’ve heard plenty about Bu—the Winter Soldier from hushed whispers in break rooms and blurry security footage in restricted archives. Never once did you picture him looking so… aware.
At the TVA, he’s quietly regarded as a tragedy. Not a threat, not a glitch—just a sorrow too persistent to be useful. His story, in every version they’ve managed to scrape together, is one long unraveling. Grief braided into duty. Identity shredded and rebuilt, over and over, never the same way twice. He’s the man who keeps losing himself and somehow finding his way back—bloodied, wrong, resilient.
Maybe that’s why he doesn’t replicate well. His story’s too heavy to echo cleanly across timelines. The trauma calcifies too early or never forms at all. He fractures, or fades, or dies too soon. The man doesn’t scale. Whatever makes him who he is—the loyalty, the guilt, the staggering, stubborn will to keep trying—it’s never quite transferable.
The few variants that do emerge feel more like flickers than full lives. Glimpses. Reverberations. None of them last long. Some of them are never quite right.
In all your missions, all the cautious mentions of him across different centuries and realities and debriefs and documents, you’ve never actually met any versions of him.
Not directly. Not face-to-face. You’ve seen the aftershocks he leaves behind—cratered timelines, corrupted code, confused agents muttering about ghosts with metal arms. You’ve traced the outlines of his story across so many fractured worlds, each one slightly wrong. The scent of smoke where he should’ve stood. A silhouette in archival footage. A name carved into a resistance wall in a language long dead. But never him. Not until now.
It should be insignificant. It shouldn't matter. There should be no correlation, not even a twinge of paths intertwining.
Except now he’s standing in front of you, and it feels like being struck clean through the chest with something invisible and ancient.
In one smooth movement, he dispatches a soldier—a precise blade across the throat. No wasted motion. No hesitation. Then his eyes sweep the hold again, landing on you and locking in place like he couldn't stand to take his eyes away.
You take in the rest of him.
His face is younger, but that's to be expected. Well, not young, exactly—but preserved, like a man caught mid-sentence and left on pause. Strong jaw, a haunted set to his mouth, cheekbones that look sculpted more by winter than by genes. He looks like he hasn’t shaved in a week and hasn’t cared in far longer. You run a mental calculator, it must've been only about a decade since… the thing.
But it’s the eyes again—flicking over you, sharp and clinical. Blue, frostbitten, edged with something you’d almost call suspicion, if there wasn’t so much… exhaustion in it.
And finally—his silence. Not blank, not confused. Just... watchful. Like he's seen this play out a hundred times already. His head tilts slightly. Just a fraction. Like he’s cataloging the shift in your body language.
Realization hits you with an unpleasant jolt: he’s uncertain. Of the timeline. Of the mission. Of you.
Whatever brutal conditioning was poured into him hasn’t fully rebooted yet. There’s still too much of the man bleeding through the programming. His breath’s too ragged. His movements, a fraction too slow. His gaze—not vacant, not robotic, but… blinking too hard. Like the world’s coming in too fast, too bright, too much.
Your timepad buzzes insistently, a sharp vibration at your wrist—twenty minutes and some change until convergence. You lower your baton slightly, resigned, and open your mouth.
“Look—”
But your sentence is abruptly cut short as a shadow drops from the walkway above, gun raised. Before you can react, a powerful arm wraps across your mouth, hauling you sharply back against a solid chest. The bullet punches into the floor exactly where your head had been, sparking furiously.
“Quiet,” he rasps. His voice is rough-edged, wind-scoured—hoarse from disuse or screaming into nothing or god knows what else. The metal arm presses lightly against your abdomen. Not pinning. Just… grounding.
You nod. One deliberate motion. A signal that you understand. That you’ll play along.
There’s a beat—one heartbeat, maybe two—before he releases you. The contact disappears like breath off a mirror. Quick. Clean.
Two more figures drop from above—armed, definitely not TVA or Soviet. Fantastic. A third-party complication. Just what this mission needed.
Bucky moves first, a blur of ruthless precision. You watch him take down an attacker effortlessly: elbow, weapon disarm, throat strike. Smooth, clinical, deadly poetry.
The air shudders again—an ugly crack in the hull overhead. Your timepad screams: fracture line detected. asset instability threshold imminent. Everything’s shaking. You grab his arm and mutter, “We have to move.”
He hesitates—but only for a second.
Then he runs.
You don’t speak as you sprint through the corridor, ducking falling beams and sparking lights. He stays close. Too close. Like he’s guarding your back on instinct. Like he hasn’t figured out yet that you aren’t the one who needs protecting.
You hit a collapsed hallway and double back, darting into a maintenance shaft. The walls here sweat condensation. Bucky’s chest is heaving from exertion, breath coming too fast.
You glance back.
He’s stopped.
He’s leaning a hand against the wall, eyes shut. Not from exhaustion. From something else.
His metal fist clenches tight—so tight the plating groans—and he presses it to his temple like he’s trying to block something out. His whole body shakes, just once. A full-body flinch. Like his brain’s short-circuiting.
“Hey,” you say, softly now. No command. Just presence. “Hey.”
Nothing.
“Bucky.”
It slips out before you can catch it.
And it works.
He startles. Freezes. His eyes snap open—and they find yours instantly.
Something ancient and aching floods his expression. Not anger. Not threat. Just confusion. Recognition. Fear.
Not of you. For you.
His lips part like he’s going to speak—but no sound comes out.
You move toward him. Slowly. Hands up. Nonthreatening.
You reach him slowly, each step cautious, deliberate. His back is against the bulkhead now, shoulders rigid like he’s trying to hold himself together through sheer force of will. You stop just short, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body.
The lighting flickers, painting sharp angles across his face. For a moment, he looks nothing like a weapon. He just looks... young. Tired. Worn raw from too many ghosts.
“I’m not here to hurt you,” you say quietly. “I swear. I’m not.”
His jaw twitches. His eyes won’t leave yours. That look again—like he knows you. Like he’s trying to dig the truth out of your face with nothing but instinct and desperation.
“I know this place is loud,” you continue, softer still. “I know your head must feel like a war zone right now. But you’re doing fine. Better than fine.”
A sharp breath. His fingers twitch at his side, metal knuckles flexing like he’s fighting the urge to reach for you. Or to run. You’re not sure which would be worse.
And then the timepad on your wrist pulses—a slow, resonant tone. The kind it only makes when a divergence has been successfully reabsorbed. You glance down.
CONVERGENCE REDIRECTED. NEXUS THRESHOLD STABILIZED.
Of course. That’s what this was. The system was waiting for the moment he didn’t break. For the second he chose not to collapse, or kill, or disappear. A single, improbable outcome unfolding exactly as needed.
It was him. He was the pulse.
You let out a shaky exhale. The node in the hold must’ve gone inert—no more timeline bleed, no more irregular pulses. Outside, the storm’s intensity drops by half in minutes. The hull creaks as pressure stabilizes. Everything’s slowing down. Calming.
It’s over.
The right call now would be to leave. Every protocol you’ve ever memorized is screaming at you to disengage, to extract clean, to leave no mark and make no memory.
But.
You’ve already—fuck, you’ve already. The moment he looked at you like that—like you were familiar, like you mattered—it was over. You are so utterly, catastrophically screwed.
“I don’t know what they told you,” you say, and your voice barely clears your throat. It’s quieter now. Gentler. Like you’re afraid of scaring him back into whatever shell he crawled out of. “About this place. About this mission. I don’t even know if you’re going to remember this tomorrow. But I wanted you to know—”
You don’t finish.
Because he speaks.
“Will I see you again?”
The words are soft. Barely voiced. Like he had to haul them out of someplace deep and rusted shut. They land heavy—denser than sound has any right to be. It knocks the breath out of you.
You blink. “What?”
He steps forward—just one measured step—but it’s enough to change the air between you. Close now. Close enough to see the uneven skin at the corner of his mouth, the wind-chapped crack at his lower lip. Close enough to notice how his left hand shakes, barely-there tremors betraying the tension he’s trying to lock down.
He doesn’t say it again. He doesn’t need to.
You could lie. You could make it easier. There are a dozen lines you’ve used before—smooth, forgettable, safe. But you don’t reach for any of them.
Instead, you smile. It’s lopsided, weary, born of too many years being the one who leaves first. It’s your shield and your surrender, both.
“Only if you start talking more,” you say, a half-hearted tease wrapped in something much more fragile. You flip open your timepad as the breach activates, casting soft gold light against the hallway walls.
The portal hums. Warm. Waiting.
But your heart’s a thunderclap now. Relentless. You’re already tucking away the tilt of his head, the way his gaze softened—not like surrender, but like a question. Like maybe he’d found something in you worth staying awake for.
And you know better—god, do you know better—but your feet don’t move. You hesitate. Just a second. Just enough to feel it. Then you step through.
You don’t look back. You never do.
But the image of his eyes—ice-clear, impossibly human—follows you like a ghost you didn’t mean to keep.
.
You wait for the hammer to fall.
You expect it in the usual ways—a recall order, a message from Oversight, a polite but unambiguous invitation to report to Subsector 8 for disciplinary review. You expect the breach notice, the system ping that says unauthorized designation use or noncompliant field contact, maybe even timeline contamination: agent-induced.
You expect something.
Because you said his name.
Because you looked at him like a person, not a variable. Because you touched him. Not in passing—not incidental. You chose to.
You’ve seen people get demoted for less. Scrubbed out. Timeline reassigned, memory wiped, consigned to desk duty or worse—shunted into the Void or the Nullspace, that softly brutal end-of-line where broken things go to dissolve.
And you—you—let your guard down in the middle of a convergence zone and called the Winter Soldier by his name. That’s not oversight. That’s not mission drift. That’s a lapse.
And yet… nothing happens.
Not a single alarm. No reprimand. No haunting message from Internal Realities. No pulled credentials. No veiled threats in Performance Management.
Instead, your timepad pings three days later with a new assignment.
Business as usual.
You run it back a dozen times, trying to parse the angle—waiting for the catch. It never comes. You go on a mission in Year 3830 where the only threat is a sentient vine and a mild temporal rash. You document a collapsing micro-timeline in 1994 Missouri. You sit through three mandatory debriefs and a cross-departmental cultural sensitivity training that somehow lasts six hours.
Nothing.
Just… more work.
You fall back into the rhythm, the TVA's particular brand of unremarkable eternity. The recycled coffee, the endless corridors, the clipped dialogue, the dozens of agents who all look slightly frayed around the edges in the same way. The paperwork is never-ending, the bureaucracy divine in its pettiness. Time moves strange here—like chewing on tinfoil. Sometimes it gallops. Sometimes it forgets you entirely.
But there’s something different now.
It’s you.
You keep seeing him—in flickers and echoes, half-formed thoughts you don’t realize you’re having until they hit the page. You start reviewing your field notes only to find entire paragraphs written in shorthand about the moment he tilted his head. About the way he said Will I see you again?
You shouldn’t care. You don’t care. It’s just a glitch in your focus. Just… inertia.
Still, you pull up his file. James Buchanan Barnes.
It’s a fractured thing. Not quite whole, like someone took sandpaper to the edges. Parts redacted, others duplicated. A timeline that can’t seem to decide if it wants to be linear. No two missions involving him look the same. There are strange annotations. Personal tags from long-retired analysts. Notations like non-repeatable trauma pattern and event recursion index unstable.
Some entries are missing dates.
You read through anyway. Not for duty. Not even for curiosity, really.
You just want to.
And then, one standard TVA cycle later, it lands. Another assignment. This time the seal is embossed in gold—Causal Preservation Division. Low-risk, softpoint reinforcement. Routine.
You flick through the details:
CASE FILE: #456-TH9 MISSION CLASS: Softpoint Reinforcement LOCATION: British Isles, Kingdom of Latveria Borderlands DATE: JUNE 1602 ASSIGNED COVER: Itinerant Herbalist, non-native, licensed under local superstition codes SUMMARY: Objective is limited to passive timeline stabilization: ensure delivery of a restorative tonic to a six-year-old child suffering from swamp fever. This act preserves a familial survival event critical to a downstream medical lineage. Mission does not intersect with major temporal figures. You are not to interfere with core narrative threads. You are not here for Bucky Barnes.
(But the file doesn't say that last sentence. You just write it down anyway.)
You frown at the file. It feels… small. Intentionally. A clean mission. An easy one, all things expected. No soldiers, no storms. Just a timeline that needs a nudge.
Still, you hesitate.
Not because it’s dangerous. Because it’s not. And because part of you wonders—quiet, insistent—if he’ll be there again. Not as the Winter Soldier. Maybe as something else. Someone else.
The TVA says every mission is randomized.
But it never quite feels like that, does it?
EARTH-456 | BRITISH ISLES, 1602
The first thing you register is the smell. Damp earth. Horse sweat. Pine sap and someone nearby frying something questionably birdlike in lard.
Your boots sink into wet loam as the time door closes behind you with a dull sigh. It’s quiet here, beneath the canopy—just birdsong and the faint crackle of something cooking over a badly constructed fire pit.
You scan the clearing.
They call it a "camp," but it’s more aspirational than functional. A few makeshift tents, some scattered crates stamped with the royal crest—recently liberated, if the smashed locks and missing inventory are any clue.
You move quietly, cloaked in the nondescript garb of a traveling herbalist—dirt under your nails, satchel full of fake tinctures, a few well-placed knives.
You watch from the shade of the trees as he crouches beside the firepit, running a cloth along the edge of a short dagger. His hair’s tied back, rough and practical. There’s mud up to his knees and blood on his knuckles, dried like old guilt.
He doesn’t see you, not yet.
Later, after setting up a modest stall in the village square (all intentional smoke and drying herbs, designed to blend in more than stand out), you’re told by a fellow field agent to visit the pub.
“The mead’s surprisingly tolerable,” they say, nudging your satchel. “Also, your contact’s not due for another twelve hours, so don’t just sit there and brood. Blend in.”
You go.
The pub is suspended in a towering yew, three stories up a gnarled trunk, accessible only by a ladder that looks like it hates everyone who uses it. The structure groans in the wind but holds, its branches creaking like tired bones. The inside smells of firewood, old ale, and something herbal—probably the same bitterroot tincture you’ve been pretending to peddle all day.
The mead is surprisingly tolerable. You settle into a booth carved into the wall, lit by low-burning lanterns. It’s warm. Quiet. You sip and let yourself feel anonymous.
Right up until the door slams open in that unmistakably theatrical way only someone with a chip on their shoulder and too much presence can manage.
You look up—and still, somehow, you’re not ready.
He’s changed, of course. That’s the constant.
His hair is pulled back in a low tie, streaked with ash and caught with a bit of red cloth. He wears a leather cloak patched with scavenged velvet. The left arm, impossibly, is still metal—but shaped like something out of myth. Not sleek. Not sterile. Forged. Etched in old runes that flicker faintly in the lantern light.
A blacksmith’s nightmare. A knight's inheritance.
And then there’s the way he moves—like someone used to silence, used to watching the world from its edge and only stepping in when absolutely necessary. He doesn’t walk so much as arrive, and the moment he does, the tavern seems smaller. Quieter.
His eyes—those same pale, searching eyes—find yours almost immediately.
He pauses, mid-step. The look on his face isn’t surprise. It’s that ache of recognition, buried too deep to name. Like catching your reflection in a mirror that doesn’t quite match.
He walks toward you without invitation. Controlled. Coiled. Not hostile. Just inevitable.
“My lady, you shouldn’t be out this late,” he says, voice worn at the edges, smoke-scoured and rough from a life that’s clearly involved too many cold nights and too few comforts. “Not alone.”
You take a slow sip, meet his gaze. “It’s always late here. And rarely alone.”
He studies you. Not just your face, but your posture, your stillness. The way you speak like you’ve been somewhere else too long to fully belong here.
Something flickers in his expression. Not memory. But something adjacent.
He lowers himself into the seat across from you without asking. He’s still damp at the collar—rain, or sweat, or both. He’s got a scar running from his jaw to the hollow of his throat, clean and straight like a blade meant to silence. But his voice doesn’t shake.
“Have we met?”
You offer a small, unreadable smile. “I don’t believe so.”
But he keeps looking. You can feel him doing it—mapping the angles of your face against some invisible sketch, something etched into his bones that refuses to fade.
“You look lost.”
“Just passing through.”
His mouth pulls tight at the corner, like that answer doesn’t satisfy. You can tell he doesn’t believe you—but he doesn’t press.
He nods toward a table in the back, where a small crew drinks from shared mugs and watches the door. They wear scraps of stolen uniforms and carry themselves with the weight of people who’ve stopped pretending they’ll live long lives.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says again.
You glance at them. “Neither should you.”
His silence is telling. It confirms what you already guessed.
He’s part of something. A resistance, sure, but not just that. He’s the center of it. The calm in the chaos. The one who moves supply through enemy lines and burns bridges behind him. His coat bears a crest he’s tried to remove—once royal, now repurposed. His fingers twitch when he’s still too long, and there’s something reverent in how the others look at him when they think he’s not paying attention.
This version of him is no less dangerous. But more visible, somehow. More known. To these people, he’s a savior. To himself, probably a liability.
Always the same story: a man pressed into myth by the weight of his own regrets.
And still, he looks at you with that same protective wariness. Like something in him knows you don’t quite belong here—and wants to guard you anyway.
“Come on,” he says quietly. “I’ll walk you home.”
The words strike you harder than they should. Like something remembered from a dream that felt real long after you woke.
The night outside is so still you can hear the wind whispering between the boughs.
He pauses under the lantern hanging from a bent branch. Looks at you, shadow-draped and silent.
“Why are you here?”
You should lie. You want to lie.
But instead, you say it softly. “Because I said I would be.”
He blinks. The words hit something deep. Maybe he doesn’t understand them. But he feels them.
You step closer. Just close enough to reach up, cup his jaw gently, feel the sharp edge of his breath catch in his throat. And then you kiss him.
The moment your lips touch his, the rest of the world blanks. Not gone—just irrelevant. The pub, the low burn of lanterns, the sound of rain tapping against the wooden slats—it all slips away. All that remains is this.
His mouth is warm, unexpectedly so, and still. Cautious. As if he’s holding still for a test he doesn’t know the answer to.
You’re the one who moves first. Just slightly. Just enough to let it mean something.
And gods—it does.
It means everything you haven’t said aloud. Every hour you spent since Siberia rewatching that moment when he looked at you like he knew you. Every line of his file you traced with your eyes long after you were supposed to close it. Every anomaly he left in his wake, the hollow prints he pressed into timelines like fingerprints you couldn’t scrub clean.
You’d told yourself it was curiosity. Professional interest. A harmless fixation. Just trying to cover your own ass in the event that the TVA catches up to you, foolish, foolish girl. But now you know better.
Because kissing him feels like gravity finally catching up to you.
He doesn’t pull away.
His hand twitches—just once—like he might lift it, might anchor you there with the metal one, or with the other, the one that remembers touch. But he doesn’t. He just breathes against your mouth like he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Like no one’s kissed him like this in years.
Like no one’s ever kissed him like they remembered him.
The kiss is brief. You make yourself pull back before it deepens, before it turns into something hungrier, something you won’t be able to file away as incidental.
But you linger close.
He sends you off with a kiss to your forehead.
You complete the mission in silence.
The child is easy to find—just as the file described. Freckled nose, limp in his mother’s arms, fever-bright. You hand over the tonic with a reassuring word and a warm enough smile to pass for human. The woman weeps when the boy stirs minutes later, the color already returning to his cheeks.
And just like that—it’s done.
Softpoint reinforced. Future intact.
The door opens in a grove just outside the village, where moss curls over tree roots like sleeping hands. Golden light hums at the edges of the breach. You don’t look back. You’ve learned your lesson there.
But as you step through, the last thing you hear—carried faintly on the wind—is his voice.
“I never got your name,” he says into a room that’s not as empty as he thinks it is. Not yet.
.
You try to stay detached. Try to mark each version of him like a data point—distinct and catalogued, filed neatly beneath coordinates and context. But it never works. The lines blur.
There’s the one with the scar over his brow and the wild dog stare, who watches your hands like they’re a threat and touches you like they’re a prayer.
The one in 2049 who doesn’t speak until the third encounter but holds out his hand like he’s known you forever. The one who plays cello in a city that shouldn't exist, who smiles only for children and flinches at thunder. The one who dies before you can reach him. You stay by his body anyway, until the timeline resets.
Each time, it’s different.
Each time, it’s him.
You start to think: maybe he’s not a variable. Maybe he’s the constant. The fixed point the multiverse can’t help but echo. A gravitational pull in human form—tethered to something your soul must have signed onto long before the TVA ever handed you a timepad.
You wonder if the multiverse is trying to teach you something. Or if it’s punishing you instead—showing you every version of the thing you can’t quite keep. Like a lesson in longing, rerun on loop.
You try not to hope. But the hope comes anyway. It always does. Soft and bright, a bruise you press on just to feel.
Then you get your next assignment.
The file is clean. Neat. Sanitized in that way TVA summaries always are—euphemisms in place of grief, percentages instead of people. But you read between the lines. The divergence happened on the train. Or rather, didn’t.
You read it twice. Three times. It doesn’t change.
This Bucky Barnes didn’t fall. The train held. The mission succeeded. Captain Carter rescued him and helped dismantle the remains of Hydra’s European cell before the war even ended. He was never captured. Never reprogrammed. Never dragged through a Hydra chamber like something to be melted down and reforged.
You try to imagine him without the weight.
You picture Bucky Barnes smiling easily, untethered to the guilt of fifty years of carnage he never chose. A man who still cracks his knuckles but not because they ache with remembered pain. One who walks into sunlight without flinching.
You wonder what that would be like.
So you go.
Of course you go.
You always do.
EARTH-838 | LONDON, 1944
You’ve never liked the long assignments.
Short ones are surgical—get in, disrupt or observe, slip out before the timeline notices the echo of your footsteps. This one, though, is different. Your mission folder is three times thicker than usual. Paper-clipped pages in brittle brown envelopes. Dossiers printed on carbon-smudged letterhead. Photographs tucked inside, blurred by time and memory.
You’re embedded with the 107th, slotted in as a specialist from Intelligence, the kind who shows up with forged credentials and a quiet knack for being in the right place just before things go wrong. Your cover holds. Mostly. They think you’re here to coordinate logistics for Hydra base strikes. They’re not entirely wrong.
The first time you see him again, he’s making a sarcastic remark about British rations and butterless toast. He’s not in uniform—just a pressed shirt with rolled sleeves and a cigarette dangling loosely between two fingers, a smear of grease on his wrist. He laughs when Howard Stark tosses a wrench and almost breaks a window.
It’s different sound from what you've heard over the years.
But then Bucky Barnes notices you.
Not all at once. Not like in the stories people tell themselves after the fact—love at first glance, magnetic fate, sparks across a battlefield. No, it starts in pieces. A glance held a beat too long during mission briefings. A muttered thank you when you slip him a replacement knife requisition that definitely wasn’t cleared. The way he starts lingering near your tent in the evenings, offering lazy conversation while the others clean weapons or sleep.
“You always write that fast?” he asks once, elbow braced on the flap of the entrance like it’s casual, like he didn’t cross half the camp just to talk to you.
You don’t look up. “Only when I’m trying to drown out poorly played harmonica.”
He grins. “Hey, Dugan’s doing his best.”
You snort. “His best sounds like a wounded mule.”
He laughs again, quieter this time. You feel it settle between your ribs like a warm coin. It’s nothing. Just noise. You tell yourself that.
Weeks pass like that. Quiet orbit. You take longer walks to the mess hall because he always times his exit to meet you halfway. He asks questions—about where you're from (a place you name off a pre-approved list), what brought you to London (the war, obviously), if you believe in fate.
You lie when you can. You dodge when you must.
But not everything you say is false. You like coffee too bitter and books too sad. You write letters you never send. You don’t sleep well. You’ve lost people.
He listens. He remembers. He starts showing up with extra coffee. Offers to walk you back to your quarters even though it’s technically against regulations. You start lingering in his doorway.
He never pushes.
And you hate it—how much you want him to.
The first time he touches you, it's an accident. Your fingers brush as he passes you a pen. Your skin sparks. It’s stupid, how much you feel it.
He notices.
"You ever get that sense," he says one night in the empty mess, voices low, "that you’ve known someone longer than you’re supposed to?"
Your breath catches.
You laugh it off. "I get that about my dentist."
He grins. But his eyes stay on yours too long.
You’re not supposed to fall in this one.
But God, it’s so easy. So familiar.
Bucky tells you about his family. His sister. The stoop of his childhood apartment and how he used to sneak Steve a flask when the nurses weren’t looking. He draws out your laugh like it’s a map, like he's been trying to find it for years.
And all the while, you feel it coming.
One night, two months in, he walks you back and you don’t stop at your door. You let the silence linger. The city is dark and rain-slicked, war planes humming overhead like ghosts.
"You’re not like anyone I’ve met before," he says, leaning against the wall.
You smile sadly. "You’ve said that to a lot of girls, Sergeant."
"Yeah," he murmurs, voice suddenly quieter. "But none of them felt like déjà vu."
You almost kiss him. But not yet.
The war ends not with silence, but with song.
London spills into the streets like a wound unstitched—men and women dancing in front of blown-out buildings, children painting flags onto brick walls, sailors kissing strangers with the urgency of borrowed time. The city doesn’t sleep. Neither do you.
You’ve stayed longer than planned.
Your official timeline expired a couple of hours ago. But your timepad’s been blinking quietly in your coat pocket since sundown, like a secret you’re not quite ready to confess. For long-term infiltrations, the TVA grants a small window of flexibility—two to three extra hours, soft margin. Enough to wrap up loose ends. Enough to say goodbye without saying it.
Bucky doesn’t know. He’s too busy laughing—really laughing—face lit by the amber glow of the pub sign behind him, arm draped lazily around your shoulders. He’s had two pints and a victory cigar, and you’ve never seen him look so alive.
He’s in his shirtsleeves again, collar open at the throat, hair mussed from the wind. He smells like tobacco and soap and something citrusy he must’ve stolen from Stark’s ration stash. His hand grazes your shoulder as you step outside the crowded pub and into the cool night air. He’s warm, even in the London chill. Always warm.
“I’ve been thinking,” he says, suddenly serious, voice low in your ear.
You turn, startled by the shift. “About?”
He runs a hand through his hair, eyes flicking to the cobblestone street, then back to you. The revelers blur behind you—drunk joy and blurred music, a world gone soft at the edges.
“You could come with me,” he says. "To New York. Brooklyn."
Your stomach drops.
“We’ve got peace now. There’s gonna be rebuilding. A hell of a lot of it. I know it’s chaos but… I don’t know. I thought maybe…” He trails off, then forces a laugh, too bright. “Forget it. It’s dumb.”
You step in close. The timepad at your hip vibrates again—EXIT NODE ACTIVE. TEMPORAL STABILITY REACHED. RETURN IMMEDIATELY. You ignore it.
“Say it,” you whisper.
“I’ll get a job,” Bucky says.
His Brooklyn accent is thick with hope, slipping out between the cracks like sunlight through boarded windows. His voice is rough and low, but urgent—like if he stops speaking for even a second, this moment might collapse under the weight of everything it’s not allowed to be.
“You’re so… so fucking smart it gets me dizzy sometimes. I watch you in a room and—Christ, I’ve seen tacticians, I’ve seen war heroes—but no one moves the way you do.”
He’s closer now, just a breath away, like proximity might be enough to anchor you to this place.
“I’ll get us a place of our own. A tiny walk-up with drafty windows and floors that creak every time you step wrong. The kind of place where no one knows our names, but we’ll learn the neighbors’. I’ll fix the heater when it breaks. I’ll learn to make your coffee the way you like it—two sugars, not too sweet, extra hot. I’ll write it down if I have to. You won’t even have to ask.”
He swallows, his voice breaking just a little.
“I’ll make pancakes on Sundays, even if I suck at it. I’ll burn the first batch every damn week and pretend I meant to. We’ll fight about the dishes and who left the radio on. I’ll learn to fold the sheets the right way, your way. I’ll leave notes on the fridge. I’ll rub your feet when you’ve had a long day, even if you pretend you don’t want me to.”
His eyes are wet now, but he doesn’t blink them away. He wants you to see.
“I’ll build a life where you can rest,” he says, so softly it barely carries over the celebration in the street. “No secrets. No war. Just mornings and bad coffee and a bed we don’t have to leave unless we want to.”
His hand lifts, hovering like he wants to touch you but doesn’t dare. He’s unraveling. And he’s never been more sure of anything.
“You walk around like you don’t belong to anyone,” he whispers. “But you belong somewhere. You belong with someone who sees you.”
His eyes search yours, bright and raw.
“Darling,” he breathes, “I just want—”
You don’t speak. You want to. You want to say yes so badly your teeth ache with it.
Instead, your hand reaches for him—cups his cheek, thumb brushing the scrape of stubble there. You lean in before you can stop yourself.
The kiss is molten.
Not soft, not chaste. It’s everything you aren’t supposed to want: greedy, aching, desperate. It tastes like smoke and honey and war’s aftermath. You can feel the imprint of his hands at your waist, grounding you, like he already knows you’re slipping.
You gasp against his mouth when he deepens the kiss, his hand moving to cradle the back of your neck like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. And you—you clutch at his coat, fingers fisting in the fabric like it’s the only solid thing left in the world. The city roars around you—drunken songs, laughter, heels on cobblestone—but none of it touches this moment. It belongs to you. To him.
He kisses like he’s starved for something he can’t name.
Like every version of himself has been waiting for this.
Somehow, you make it back to his quarters—barely remembering how. The door slams shut behind you and he’s on you again, mouth warm and insistent, hands trembling now as they trace your jaw, your hips, the shape of your spine like he’s mapping it to memory. You let him. You want to be remembered.
“Tell me this is real,” he murmurs against your throat, breath hot. “Tell me I’m not dreaming you.”
You tip your forehead against his, eyes fluttering closed. “You’re not dreaming.”
You pull his shirt free from his waistband, palms skimming over bare skin, warm and ridged with scars you recognize from dossiers—scars you’ve imagined tracing with your mouth, with your hands, in every universe that told you not to.
Bucky's mouth finds the edge of your jaw, your collarbone, the hollow of your throat. Each kiss feels like a confession, like an apology, like a promise. "You're so fucking pretty," he moans into your skin, moving and moving and moving, until you feel his thigh part yours, giving you just the right amount of friction to drive you crazy.
Your shirt's off in turn, and all at once, he drifts down to your tits, cupping them with both palms and burying his face in them. For a moment, your brain short-circuits—he's groaning, tender kisses against your nipples and sucking, nipping at the swell of your breasts. "You taste so good, darling. God, I can taste you all day."
You pull on his hair—hard. "Bucky, please. Give me more."
"Ask and you shall receive."
You're rewarded with a beautiful view of him shedding the rest of his clothes off. You can't—won't—look away. It never ceases to amaze you, how pretty his cock is. You lick your lips as he gives it a stroke, slow and soft and positively ready for you.
Then Bucky leans forward, capturing your lips again with a certainty that makes your heart near burst out of your chest.
Your hand wraps around the base of his cock and you smile when he wrenches his head back, eyes shut in almost agony. Bucking against your hand, like he can't get enough of it. He says your name, and despite yourself, you grin before pulling yourself away from his kiss to lower your head, tongue swiping out to taste what leaks from him at the tip.
"Oh, god," His hands come to twist around your hair, the pull making your eyes water with something delicious, something filled with need. You keep going deeper, until he hits the back of your throat and you both moan. "You're so good to me. So, so good."
He's babbling now, as your lips stay wrapped around your cock and you're pressing the flat of your tongue against his veins, a hand stabilizing you underneath. "Sweetheart, you're perfect. I'm going to—oh, yes, right there—god, I'm gonna marry you. We're never gonna stop doing this. I'm never gonna get enough of you."
You take him there, all the way up, until he's almost to the edge and he has to ground his hands against your cheeks and pull you off. He looks down at you with that goddamned earnest look that makes you fall in love with him in the first place. "Not—not like this. I want to be inside you."
Of course, of course. "Of course, James."
He pushes you onto your back, and you can't help the giddy feeling in your chest, seeing how much of a mess you've made of him. His cock's shining with your spit and saliva, your wetness all over him. When Bucky sees where you're looking, he licks his lips. A preliminary swipe against your folds when you, very intentionally, thrust forward against his hips impatiently.
"So eager."
You glare at him, lips curling even as he takes both of your thighs until he's slotted between them. "There's no need to be a tease—Oh."
He sinks in, inch by agonizing inch, and you're moaning, jaw dropping as his cock disappears inside of you. You're so full. You've never been this full before and it makes you pant, sighing breathlessly, and when his thumb finds your clit, you whine and clench around him. Both of you moan in harmony.
His pace speeds up from there, hard and fast, and it's intensified by the way he looks at you. Eyes dissecting you carefully, trying to remember every expression, every second, every move that makes you keen further into his touch.
"Look at me, baby, please," Bucky growls and you do. "Look at me when you make me come."
You can't look away, feeling the stars gather up behind your eyes as your own orgasm catches up to you—fuck, it's nothing compared to how his release feels inside of you, the warmth, the way he feels so strong under your fingertips. His chest vibrating, mouth falling open in a prolonged, beautiful groan. He pushes himself deeper inside of you, until you feel his release slipping out of you onto the mattress.
You press a kiss to his forehead and let yourself fall asleep like that—him inside of you, tangled up in him.
The light is different when you wake up in the morning.
Soft, pale, almost shy. It seeps through the parted curtains like it doesn’t want to intrude, spilling over the uneven floorboards and up the rumpled edge of the blanket half-draped across your hip.
His arm is still around you. Heavy in sleep. Warm. Bucky Barnes is still asleep.
You don’t kiss him goodbye.
Instead, you whisper something he won’t hear. “I wish we had more time.”
And then you activate the timepad.
.
Time passes strangely in the TVA.
There are clocks, yes. Digital ones on walls, analog ones in desks, internal ones ticking behind your eyes. But none of them matter. Days don’t pile up here—they just... repeat, under different names. Tuesday is a fiction. Sunday doesn’t exist. Lunch breaks happen when the lights flicker just right, and sleep is what you do when your body gives out mid-report.
You stopped counting after the first month. You stopped pretending to count after the second.
Instead, you worked.
Harder than anyone. Longer than anyone. You took missions no one else wanted—scrubbing nexus events off apocalyptic wastelands, ghosting through centuries where empires rose and fell before you’d even finished breakfast. You volunteered for side branches, anomaly audits, recursive sync loops. Anything to keep moving.
It didn’t go unnoticed.
A plaque went up in the Hall of Merit. "Agent of the Month." Your name, etched in fake gold. Mobius clapped you on the shoulder with a proud little smile. Brad brought you the worst celebratory cupcake you’ve ever tasted. (Vanilla. Dry. Sprinkles like gravel.)
You smiled. You always smile.
You don’t let yourself say what you’re really thinking.
That all of it—all the assignments, all the accolades, all the long nights pinning divergent strands back into place—is just inertia. Just mass multiplied by pain. Because you know what happens when you stop moving.
And you’ve tried. God, you’ve tried.
You dodge his branches when you can. You pass them off to junior agents, citing temporal redundancy. You tell yourself it’s not cowardice if it’s protocol. You let yourself believe it, for a while.
Until the file lands on your desk.
CASE FILE: #2149-BE0 MISSION CLASS: Collapse Softpoint Reinforcement LOCATION: Earth-2149 — Brooklyn, United States / Geneva, Switzerland DATE: April 2018 (Post-Outbreak +1 Day) ASSIGNED COVER: Civilian logistics runner, no official alignment, false survivor credentials SUMMARY: Objective is to reinforce critical softpoint during global collapse event: ensure Scott Lang, Peter Parker, and T’Challa successfully board Wakandan quinjet. This evacuation preserves three downstream nexus threads essential to limited multiversal salvage. Do not interfere beyond softpoint parameters. Infected superhumans active.
You stare at it for a long time. You could say no. You should say no.
But your hand moves anyway. Signs the form. Accepts the mission.
No backup. No reassignment.
Just you.
EARTH-2149 | BROOKLYN, 2018 (+1 DAY POST-OUTBREAK)
Out of all the missions you've had so far, you think you hate this one the most. Which is saying something. Zombie apocalypse timelines are the worst.
The air reeks of ash and ozone. You’re used to strange skies by now, but this one feels wrong in your bones. The light doesn’t fall the way it should—too sharp at the edges, like the sun’s been split into shards and you’re walking through the aftermath.
You arrived forty hours ago. Standard infiltration and alignment. The assignment brief was brutal in its simplicity.
Bucky doesn’t make it out of this timeline. He dies at Camp Lehigh. He buys them time.
And you’re supposed to let that happen.
Your first glimpse of him isn’t cinematic. No slow reveal, no stirring strings. Just a sliver of profile through the cracked door of an old deli, combat boots pacing, rifle slung over his back, the metal arm glinting dull and scratched. He’s talking to Parker—low and firm, the kind of voice meant to ground someone younger, more fragile.
When you step into the light, he turns toward you like he was already waiting. Eyes blue, shadowed. Jaw set. And there it is again—that look. Recognition.
Your breath stutters. You don’t say anything. You just nod, like you’ve been here all along. Like you’re meant to be here.
You don’t know if you can watch him die.
Not when you’ve held versions of him in your arms, heard him laugh half-asleep beside a campfire, watched his hands shake after battle and pretended not to notice.
Peter introduces you. A name you chose at random from a TVA list. He doesn’t flinch when Bucky says it aloud. But something shifts behind his eyes—quiet and soft and gone before it settles.
You get through the introductions. Kurt, smiling nervously. Sharon, bloody but unbowed. Okoye nods once at you, sharp and appraising. Happy makes a joke that doesn’t quite land.
For the next two weeks, you stay with them.
You don't mean to get close to Bucky in this one. (You mean it this time. Seriously.) For the first couple of days, you try your best to stay away. You do your best to focus on the mission and he's… he's just another person in the crowd. You think that would make it easier, when he—when he eventually—You can't even say it.
But it happens one morning, anyway—fog pooling low across the park, the air thick with that awful, metallic smell of rot. You’re both on perimeter watch, standing on opposite ends of a shattered greenhouse. He catches you glancing toward the skyline, what’s left of it, jagged teeth against the pale pink sky.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” he says, voice low, scratchy from disuse.
You blink from your thoughts. “In a doomed, post-apocalyptic sort of way.”
He huffs a laugh. Almost smiles. “I was gonna say the same.”
Silence settles between you, but it’s a companionable thing. Not awkward. Not forced.
You speak first this time. “You always this poetic?”
“Only when I’m tired. Or scared.”
You glance at him. “Which is it now?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just shifts his weight, runs a hand through his hair, and says, “Both.”
You don’t touch. You don’t need to. It’s all there in the space between you—heavy with implication. Unspoken, but not unfelt.
You sleep on opposite ends of the same room. He never touches you. Never asks. But some nights you wake up to find his jacket draped over your legs. Once, during a particularly bad storm, he nudged a cracked thermos of lukewarm coffee toward you without a word.
He doesn’t have to say anything. You feel it.
All of it.
And the worst part—the most unbearable—is knowing it’s temporary. You feel the convergence approaching like a bruise beneath your ribs. Two days now, maybe three, before you lose him again. Before he dies. Before you vanish back into the timeline like a ghost leaving no fingerprints.
You try not to show it. You smile when Peter cracks a joke. You run drills with Sharon. You help Kurt fix a busted radio, even though it’s hopeless.
But every time you look at Bucky, your heart tightens in your chest like it’s trying to keep him there.
And then it's here.
The journey to Camp Lehigh was fucking gut-wrenching.
You've lost practically everyone—Sharon, Hope, Kurt, Happy, Okoye. It sits in you like a shard of ice. Not grief—there’s no time for grief. Just weight. Just the bitter gravity of survival. The quinjet is prepped and waiting. The remaining survivors—Peter, T’Challa, Lang’s floating head in a jar—are already climbing aboard. You’ve done everything the mission brief demanded. You met the moment. You held the line.
You’ve done everything the mission brief said—down to the minute, the location, the final headcount. And you… you’re standing beside Bucky.
And still, you’re standing beside him.
Bucky’s chest rises and falls with the kind of steadiness that makes you ache. His metal arm glints in the firelight, streaked with ash and blood, fingers twitching in a rhythm you can’t decipher. There’s soot on his cheek, a rip in his sleeve, and when he turns to you, there’s something too clear in his eyes. Not fear. Not even pain.
Resolve.
You taste it in the back of your throat: the copper of a timeline ending.
“We have to go,” you say softly, not to him, not really. Just to the air.
Bucky doesn’t move.
He turns his head slightly, enough for you to see the hard line of his jaw. The wear around his eyes. There’s something about this version of him—familiar, but not calloused like the others. Still earnest enough to believe in sacrifice. Still sharp enough to choose it without flinching.
You hate that.
“I’ll hold her off,” he says, and you feel something break, neat and irreversible, in your chest.
“No,” you breathe. Too fast, too raw.
His brow furrows. “Someone has to. You said it yourself—if we don’t get the jet off the ground, we lose everything.”
“That doesn’t mean it has to be you.”
He smiles, and it’s that same damn smile that’s followed you across time. The one that says it’s already decided.
“I think it always was.”
You want to scream. You want to tell him he’s not disposable, not fated, not just a name on some cosmic itinerary that keeps getting torn out and rewritten. You want to confess that you’ve met him over and over, and every time he’s left a bruise somewhere deeper.
But the timepad at your hip begins to beep.
MISSION END: T-MINUS 2 MINUTES
You ignore it.
“You’ll make it,” he says gently, like a goodbye.
“No, I won’t,” you whisper. “Not really.”
There’s shouting near the quinjet ramp. Peter calling your name. Bruce waving you over. The others are loading in. You should be there. The moment is closing. The window is narrowing.
You don’t move.
Instead, you step forward and press your hand to his cheek. Your skin is cold from the wind, but he leans into it anyway. His eyes flutter closed for half a second—just long enough for you to memorize it.
Then you kiss him.
It’s not gentle. It’s desperate. Greedy. A kiss that says remember me. Your hands fist in his jacket. His mouth moves against yours like it’s something he’s missed without knowing. You drink in every inch of him—the scrape of stubble, the roughness of his palms against your back, the low sound he makes when you pull away.
“I’ll find you again,” you say. It's a promise.
He nods once. His hand lingers at your waist for a breath longer than it should. Then he turns back towards Wanda.
You watch him go. You always watch him go.
The quinjet door hisses shut behind you. The engines roar to life. The pad at your side flashes, like some sick, fucking joke—
Mission Successful. Extraction in Progress.
You don’t look back at the ground. You’ve learned that much, at least. Looking back doesn’t stop the bleeding. But when the jet lifts, when the trees blur below and you can’t see him anymore—
You swear something rips loose in you.
And this time, you don’t think it will grow back.
.
You’ve seen him in snow.
In bloodied ice, in rusted Soviet hulls, in the shadow of burning quinjets and crumbling castles. You’ve seen him with death behind his eyes and guilt threaded into every line of his face. You’ve seen him careful, methodical. Kind in all the ways no one notices—quiet in a world that demands noise. Someone who doesn’t ask for gentleness, but gives it anyway.
And now you’ve seen him in the dark, too. In 1602, under soot-smudged moons and flickering gaslights, a knife twirling between clever fingers. He hadn’t known you—not really. Not as the woman who’d held his gaze in a cryo chamber. Not as the silhouette slipping into the quinjet before he turned to face the Scarlet Witch. But he’d looked at you like he wanted to.
The thread stays taut between you, no matter the timeline.
So when you get the assignment to go—
It doesn’t land with ceremony. No formal debrief. Just a flicker on your desk monitor, a soft chime that cuts through the static hum of the TVA’s perpetual fluorescent haze. You almost miss it. You almost ignore it. Because everything still hurts.
The kind of hurt that doesn't pulse—it seeps. It rots. You move like you’re wearing someone else’s body, like your own bones are too loud. You haven’t been sleeping—not really.
You open the file with a numb hand. Just procedure, you tell yourself. Just another timeline. Until you see the numbers.
CASE FILE: #616-SV1 MISSION CLASS: Passive Observation LOCATION: Bucharest, Romania DATE: March 2016 ASSIGNED COVER: Independent tenant, upper flat SUMMARY: Subject Barnes, James B., presumed alive and in civilian hiding following HYDRA data exposure and the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D. Timeline approaching critical inflection. Target is not actively breaching; no temporal instability present. Assignment is preventative: monitor for signs of deviation or catalyst behavior.
Do not engage. No interference unless softpoint destabilization occurs.
You let out a sound that might be a laugh. Or a sob. It’s hard to tell.
There’s a reason TVA protocol avoids revisiting timelines. Too risky. Too messy. History isn’t built for recursion. But this—this is a spiral. A closed loop. Like something unfinished trying to write its own end.
And now you’ve been assigned to watch him again.
After all this time. After what you felt splinter through you like glass.
You should tell someone. Flag the conflict of interest. Recuse yourself.
You don’t.
You close the file and begin packing for Bucharest.
EARTH-616 | BUCHAREST, 2016
You land in Bucharest in the dead quiet of early morning, the sky still purpled with sleep.
The city feels brittle—like something trying very hard not to splinter. Your cover’s thin again: traveling contractor, repair work, nothing that draws attention. You rent a room across from a narrow building with stained windows and a faulty streetlamp that flickers at 2 a.m. every night like clockwork.
And you wait.
The first time you see him again, he’s carrying plums.
You’re leaning on a railing, nursing coffee that’s more soot than bean, watching the street in that not-watching way you’ve perfected over decades. And there he is. Gray hoodie, boots worn to the stitching, a canvas bag slung across one shoulder.
He walks like someone trying to be smaller. Eyes down. Shoulders rounded. Every muscle still taut beneath the fabric, but pulled inward. Controlled.
You almost don’t recognize him like this. Then he glances up. Brief. Casual.
But it slams into you anyway.
Because there it is—that flicker. That impossible, unplaceable pull. Like gravity, but sideways. Like someone whispering your name in a language you forgot how to speak.
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t linger. But you feel it. That taut little wire between your ribs goes taut again, humming faint and low.
You’ve seen him across centuries, across madness and ruins and impossible skies. And now, here he is, just... buying fruit.
You observe him for seven days. No contact. No breach.
Each morning, he walks the same path. Plums one day. Bread the next. He pauses at the corner every time—checks the shadows, the mirrors. Still sharp. Still trained. But dulled at the edges like he’s trying not to be. Like he’s tired of being a weapon, and doesn’t quite know how to be anything else.
He never takes the same route home.
You map them all anyway.
There’s a rhythm to his caution. It’s not paranoia. It’s preservation. You know the difference. You’ve watched enough shattered timelines to recognize when someone’s not trying to escape the world—just survive it.
And through it all, you pretend not to ache.
You keep the timepad dim, tucked under your coat like a second heart. The updates are clean. No deviations. No instability. He’s not a threat. Not a spark.
Just a man. Still whole, somehow. Still holding.
But you find yourself watching anyway. Not for fractures or fault lines—but for the quiet, ordinary proof that he’s still him. The way he double-checks his change at the fruit stall. The soft apology he gives a stray dog he nearly bumps with his boot. The habit of pausing in the stairwell, just long enough to listen for another pair of footsteps behind him. You memorize all of it like it’s going to disappear.
You don’t. Of course you don’t.
Until the night you lose him.
It’s raining. Thin, indecisive drops that fall more like static than water. You’re two streets behind, just enough distance to not spook him, when someone yells, and a car backfires, and you look away for a single goddamn second.
And he’s gone.
You circle three blocks. Then six. Nothing. It’s half an hour later when you feel the grip.
Quick, precise. A hand closes over your arm and pulls you sideways—into a narrow alley between buildings that still wear their war damage like it happened yesterday. The wall hits your spine. The air knocks out of you. And then he’s there.
Close. Too close.
Hood down. Eyes sharp. Rain slicking through his hair.
You don’t move. Don’t breathe.
Because he’s looking at you like he’s been waiting.
“You’ve been following me,” he says, voice low, rough. No heat in it. Just truth.
Your mouth opens. Closes.
He tilts his head, studying your face like he’s comparing it to something half-forgotten. Then he says, quiet, like a memory. “Siberia. 1955.”
The words gut you.
“I remember,” he says. “You said my name.”
His name. That night. The way he shook—like his own mind was something turning against him. The tremor in his breath. The metal arm pressed tight to his temple, like he could hold back whatever wave was cresting inside. And then your voice, just a whisper: Bucky.
And it worked.
He startled like the sound reached deeper than his programming. Like it found something still human.
You don’t mean to—but you reach up, slowly, and press your hand over his where it still grips your coat. His fingers tighten for a second. Then release.
You look at him. Really look.
The rain has soaked through everything, and he’s shivering. Not from cold. From memory. His breath ghosts in the narrow space between you, and his eyes—God, his eyes—don’t look like a stranger’s.
It looks like home.
He takes a step back and mutters, “Come on.”
You follow him through back alleys and slick cobblestone streets to a squat building with iron balconies and doors that stick. His apartment is a few flights up, small and clean in the way that feels practiced—surfaces scrubbed, not decorated. A cot, a kettle, a folded stack of shirts too neatly pressed. No photos. No noise.
He doesn’t speak at first. Just watches you watch the space, like he’s trying to guess what you’ll say.
“Not what you expected?” he asks eventually, voice rough.
You shake your head. “No. It’s exactly what I expected.”
He scoffs. Sits on the edge of the cot, elbows on knees. “How do you know me?”
And you could lie. You could stall. But you’re tired of running out of time.
But you’re tired of running out of time. Siberia. The hold. The pulse. The kiss in 1602. The quinjet, the gaslight, the plague-soaked rooftops and the boy who lived because you were there. The mission you botched. The rules you broke. The dozens of timelines where he didn’t make it. The handful where he almost did. The way it was always him. And when you finally stop—when the words have left you empty and open and raw—he doesn’t flinch.
He exhales, long and deliberate. His fingers twitch against his knee. Then he looks at you—really looks, and you can feel the moment shift.
“When I saw you again,” he says, voice quieter now, but steadier, “on the street… it wasn’t like remembering something. It was like finishing something.”
You blink. “Finishing?”
He nods, slowly. “Yeah. Like… you know when you’ve had a song stuck in your head for days? Not the lyrics—just the feeling of it. The rhythm. The echo. And then one day it comes on the radio, and your chest just—unlocks. Like something you didn’t know was broken gets put back together.”
He glances down at his hands, then back at you.
“That’s what it felt like. Seeing you.”
You stay silent, afraid to interrupt the thread he's following.
“At first I thought I was losing it,” he admits. “Some hallucination leftover from Hydra. A ghost memory I couldn’t place. But then you moved, and—Jesus—I knew it wasn’t just in my head. The way you looked at me. Like you knew me. Like you weren’t afraid of me.”
His jaw clenches, not from anger, but from something deeper. Held longer.
“I’ve seen that look before,” he says. “Fear. Disgust. Pity, sometimes. I’m used to people stepping back. Or pretending they don’t see me. But you… you didn’t flinch. Not even in the alley. You looked at me like I was—” He falters, and then tries again. “Like I was real. Like I had a name worth saying.”
Your chest aches.
He laughs, a short, unsteady breath. “God, and hearing you say it again—Bucky—like it was the first time all over. I don’t know why that hit so hard. But it did. It felt like… like I’d been underwater for years, and suddenly someone opened a window.”
You don’t say anything.
You’re still trying to breathe around the weight of him.
“I don’t remember everything,” he says. “Not clearly. Flashes, maybe. Cold metal. Smoke. That light—on your face, in that hallway. But I remember how I felt. I remember peace. For like… five seconds. It was the only thing that made sense.”
His gaze flickers to your lips, then back to your eyes.
“I think I’ve been looking for that feeling ever since.”
You don't answer—not with words. There's nothing left to say that would hold the weight this moment needs. So instead, you cross the small stretch of floor between you, slow and deliberate, and sink to your knees in front of him.
Your hand finds his, trembling with some emotion neither of you dares to name, and he lets out a sound—half-breath, half-confession—as your fingers thread together.
“Okay?” you murmur.
He nods, once. But it's not enough. His hands rise, hesitant, then hungry—one brushing the curve of your cheek, the other settling at your waist like he’s still afraid you might vanish. Like if he touches you too hard, you’ll be another dream, another phantom gone by morning.
And then he kisses you.
It starts soft, reverent—his lips just ghosting yours, like he's asking permission. But the second you respond, the second you lean in and kiss him back with everything you’ve carried through centuries of almosts, it shatters something in both of you.
He surges forward.
Kisses you again, deeper this time. More desperate.
Your back hits the wall with a muted thump, and suddenly his hands are everywhere—one splayed across your lower back, the other cradling your jaw. He kisses you like he’s starved for it, like he’s trying to map your mouth, your breath, the corners of your teeth. Like he's trying to memorize you from the inside out.
And then—God—he breaks away just enough to kiss the line of your jaw. The soft spot beneath your ear. Your temple. Your forehead.
“You’re real,” he breathes against your skin, almost like a prayer. “You’re here.”
His lips trail lower, find the bend of your knee as you hitch your leg around his waist. He presses a kiss there too, slow and aching, like it means something. Like everything means something.
You’re both breathing hard now, hands roaming, hearts pounding in rhythm too fast to be calm, too synchronized to be coincidence. He kisses your collarbone. The corner of your mouth. The space beneath your eye, where something like grief still lingers.
He's so gentle. Gentle all the way through until he manages to shove you to the bed, kissing his way down the column of your throat and then it shifts. His hands find their way inside your jeans and he gasps, shakily. "You're so wet, fuck—you're so wet. For me?"
You nod, breathless.
It's another slow dance, as he rolls your jeans off, only to quickly find his way back like he can't stand to be parted from you. His fingers find your entrance, the rough pads of them swiftly finding your entrance and spreading the heat, the wetness around, like he's playing with his meal.
Then Bucky brings his mouth, that beautiful, beautiful mouth, to your cunt to replace his fingers and you swear you may have just died. He's so—he's so passionate, devouring you with a hunger until your spine's arching off the bed, your hands tangling in his soft brown hair. He doesn't stop licking and sucking.
"Bucky, please—oh god, please, don't stop."
You get closer and closer to the edge, hips rutting against his jaw. You feel everything so, so deeply. The way his stubble leaves goosebumps in its wake, his hands digging into your thighs to keep you in place—and then, he slides a finger back inside you as he hums, satisfied with the moans he's wrenched out of you.
It's like coming home. Your orgasm's like a strike of lightning, crying out as you release, close to tears as he laps up the rest of your orgasm.
When he finally stands to start taking off his clothes, you've been reduced to nothing more than a boneless heap on his bed. Your knees are wobbling slightly, but you force yourself to get up anyway, helping him shed the rest. "I'm–here. Let me help."
Bucky smiles. Softly.
"You're so sweet. You're too good for me."
You think you lose another shred of your sanity.
The look in your eyes lights something up in him. He joins you back on the bed and you can feel him, the weight of him, and it's all so familiar. He rests heavy on your thigh and your heart feels like it's about to come out of your chest.
"Bucky, please."
His cock slips inside of you, with a gasp and a groan, and suddenly, Bucky's locking his hands with yours. "Promise me you'll stay."
It's almost overwhelming, but he keeps you grounded. There's just so much of him. There's his teeth on your neck, the burn of his stubble on your collarbones, the way he sucks off marks against your skin and looms over you, like he never wants you to leave him again. His strength is addicting, the way he pushes you so close to breaking.
He says your name again. "Promise me."
You tell yourself—you're never letting him go again. You wrap your arms around him like something fierce, kissing him as he thrusts deeply, hitting the spot that makes stars light up behind your eyes. "Bucky—fuck—I—"
Your name falls from his lips with a groan. "Sweetheart, I'm—"
"Me too," You nod, whining when his pace quickens and it—you don't mean to, but it makes you clench around him. "Let go for me. It's okay."
Bucky looks at you, his grip around your hands tightening, and suddenly, it's a rolling wave of pleasure, over and over and over until you're trembling. You can feel him, his warmth, so fucking much of it, it's addicting. He's still groaning, hips thrusting, like he's trying to carve a home out of you.
You’re not sure how long you stay like that—twined together in the stillness, forehead pressed to his, breath shared in the hush of a room that suddenly feels too charged, too fragile to last.
You don’t want to break it. But you have to.
“Bucky,” you whisper, your voice threading through the quiet like a thread pulled taut. “They’re going to try to take me away.”
His eyes snap open. “What?”
You rest your hand against his chest, feel the beat of his heart stutter beneath your palm. “The TVA. They monitor softpoint drift. I’ve pushed too many lines. Stayed too long. This—” You gesture softly between you, “—this isn’t sanctioned.”
He stares at you like he wants to argue. But he doesn’t. Because he knows you’re not wrong.
“Let them try,” he mutters, jaw tight. His hands tighten where they rest on your waist, grounding. Possessive in the way a storm anchors to the sea. “I won’t let them.”
You smile—sad, crooked, fond. “You might not get a choice. But I will. I always find a way back.”
He swallows hard. “You promise?”
You nod. Press your lips to his again—gentle this time, slow and deliberate, like sealing a vow with your breath. Then you whisper against his mouth:
“I’ll come back. I always come back.”
His eyes close for half a second. And when they open again, they’re full of something wild. Unspoken. Undeniable.
“Next time,” you say, voice shaking with certainty, “next time I’ll stay.”
THE NULL SECTOR | TVA DETENTION LOOP C-9
You broke protocol.
Not for the mission. Not for the stabilization of a softpoint. For him. For a man with a haunted gaze and a heartbeat you should never have memorized.
And the TVA caught up to you.
They always do.
They didn’t drag you out of the field. There was no team of Minutemen, no sirens or threat display. Just a pulse through your timepad, a freeze-frame of motion—and then static. You never even got to say goodbye. Just watched as his apartment in Bucharest faded from view. The world around you disassembled. You didn’t fall through time; it collapsed around you.
And then: nothing.
But nothing wasn’t quiet.
Nothing was the absence of coordinates. A place with no variance, no measurement, no entropy. A sealed chamber of cognitive suspension—standard punishment for agents who breach emotional integrity clauses.
They called it “nullspace” in the manual. But that word doesn’t tell the whole story.
Sometimes you remembered his voice. Sometimes you forgot your own. Time didn’t move here. Not in any way that mattered. You floated in it—bodiless, unraveling, stitched together by a thousand what-ifs that all ended in silence. At first, you tried to count days. Then heartbeats. Then regrets.
You stopped when you couldn’t tell which were yours and which belonged to the lives you’d watched but never lived.
You thought of his hand on your back. His voice rasping low when he asked you to stay. The way his eyes crinkled when he smiled—not every Bucky, but that Bucky. The one who knew without knowing. The one who held out hope like it was a knife and an offering both.
Maybe they’d left you there forever.
But something changed.
When the light shifts again, it’s not like waking.
It’s like surfacing—like clawing your way out of a dream that was also a coffin. You blink against it, vision blurred and lungs tight with the phantom taste of ozone.
The TVA fell, you realize. Or maybe it evolved. The pruning stopped. The sacred timeline shattered. The multiverse stretched open like a wound and you—like so many others—were set loose without fanfare.
Just a blinking cursor on a timepad.
You’re on a bench. Clean metal. White walls. No restraints. Just a single timepad laid neatly on the seat beside you, like it’s been waiting.
You reach for it cautiously. No alerts. No directives. No timeline embedded. The screen flashes once and then settles.
“Welcome back, Agent.”
“Status: Cleared.”
“Assignment Log: Vacated.”
You sit in the silence that follows, your fingers trembling.
“You are free to go.”
They’ve never said that before.
There's no debrief. No memory wipe. No analyst knocking at your door to escort you back to a cubicle and a world of recycled coffee and unread reports. Just… release.
It doesn’t feel real. Then you notice the neatly packaged case file.
When you wrench it open, your eyes gaze upon a few simple words. Your name. Not your alias. Not your designation. Your name. Next to a birthplace.
Earth-616. Brooklyn.
And suddenly that dream… that dream you've always had isn’t a metaphor. It isn’t psychic bleed or misaligned memory. It’s real.
The stoop. The red-brick building. The muffled laughter on the wind. It wasn’t timeline residue.
It was home.
You see it all now: the way the sun hit the side of that building in the dream—your building. The stairs you must’ve climbed a thousand times before the TVA unmade you. The shadow rounding the corner wasn’t just any figure. It was him. That version of him. Bucky Barnes in his sergeant uniform, calling for you before you could catch up.
And you never did. Until now.
The words fall into your chest like stones. Every suppressed instinct, every redacted name, every unexplainable ache when Bucky looked at you like you were someone he’d loved in a dream—all of it clicks into place.
You were never a ghost in the machine. You were a person. You were his.
You stare back at the screen of your timepad. At the quiet, singular prompt at the bottom:
“INPUT COORDINATES.”
Your breath shakes.
For the first time in your life, there’s no mission waiting. No protocol. No watchers behind two-way glass. Just the choice you were never allowed to make.
You don’t hesitate.
EARTH-616 | BROOKLYN, 2026
You're not sure when you first fell in love with him. Maybe it was the 1940s, maybe it was in 1602, maybe it was earlier than language and names.
But you’ve always been sure about how he looks in silhouette—how his shoulders hunch slightly when he’s thinking, how his hands twitch when he’s fighting the urge to reach for something he knows he’s not allowed to want.
And maybe that’s why you keep searching for him in the in-betweens.
In lives that never finished writing themselves, in branch timelines that evaporated before they touched soil. You comb through the TVA archives like a woman possessed—not for intel, not even for closure, but for slivers. A timestamp where his name is scribbled in the corner. A blurry photo of someone with his gait. An anonymous field report that ends with, “target disappeared into snow.”
Everywhere, he disappears. And still, you follow.
You love Bucky Barnes the way fire loves oxygen: recklessly, instinctively. Not just for who he is now, but for every life he never got to live.
For the kid in Brooklyn who dragged Steve out of alley fights, for the soldier who fell off a train and was turned into a ghost, for the man who woke up decades later in Wakanda with a name that felt too big for his mouth. You love him for the quiet moments the world didn’t see—chopping wood in the forest, feeding stray cats on apartment balconies, the way his thumb brushes over his dog tags when he thinks no one’s watching.
Bucky, who made you laugh over terrible coffee in a mess hall in 1943. The one who handed you a damp handkerchief in a zombie-scarred train depot, saying nothing as you wiped blood off your hands. The one in 1602 who watched you from beneath a soot-black hood, eyes squinting through torchlight, and still let you pass.
You remember something he once said—maybe it was in 1955, maybe in 2016, maybe in a fever dream. “People like us… we don’t get soft landings.” And you think that’s the tragedy of it.
He has always been built to break. And you—you keep getting assigned to the wreckage.
There’s a concept you came across once, while embedded in a minor deviation out of Seoul, 1957. Not part of the assignment—just a detail on a bookstore receipt someone left behind.
In-yun. Fate through friction. The belief that even a passing graze between strangers means your souls have already brushed, thousands of times before.
It’s nonsense, by TVA standards. Sentiment dressed up as spiritual determinism. No measurable coefficient. No supporting data. But you haven’t stopped thinking about it since.
You’ve crossed paths with James Buchanan Barnes in more than a hundred timelines. You’ve logged the hours, cataloged the events, archived the footage. On paper, it’s coincidence. Strategic convergence. The mathematics of softpoints aligning with the gravitational pull of significant individuals. He is, after all, a heavily-indexed Variable.
But paper doesn’t account for the way he looks at you—each time new, each time the same. Like he recognizes your silence before you speak. Like your presence reads to him not as anomaly, but inevitability.
He's not supposed to remember you. He can’t. And still, he always sees you.
That’s the part that undoes you.
You ache because in every timeline, you find him. In every universe, you lose him.
But you think—no, you know—if you had to live and comb through thousands more universes just to stand in front of him again, in the year 2026, you’d do it. You’d do it a thousand more.
Because even if all he says is, “Took you long enough,” you’d still believe it was worth the wait.
EARTH-616 | BROOKLYN, 2026
The year is 2026. This Earth breathes uneasily in peacetime. Stark’s foundation has pivoted to disaster relief and neural rehabilitation tech. Wakanda opens its fourth embassy—this one in Seoul. Post-Blip survivor benefits have just passed preliminary legislation in three states. And James Buchanan Barnes—former assassin, occasional Avenger—has just won his election for the U.S. House of Representatives.
Redistricting helped. So did the veterans’ vote. So did the way he looked people in the eye when he told them he remembered what it was like to be used, to be weaponized, to be hollowed out and told to smile for the cameras. But mostly, it was him. The myth re-forged as man.
You find him at the VA in Brooklyn. Technically off-duty, technically supposed to be celebrating. But of course he’s here. Rolling up shirt sleeves to take constituent questions. Translating bureaucratic-speak into something that feels like compassion. He looks like a U.S. History textbook illustration—white dress shirt, tie slightly loosened, blazer draped over the back of a chair.
And somehow still the same soul you’ve met in a hundred different guises. The same gravity. The same ache. Like no matter the universe, he’s always trying to make something right.
You step into the lobby, boot heels echoing on tile, and the gravity of him pulls you forward before you’ve fully decided to be brave.
He’s facing away, head slightly bowed in conversation with a nurse, his hair still too long for Washington norms, tucked neatly behind his ears. The sight of him hits low in your stomach—familiar and wild, as always. The sound of his laugh, rare and rumbling, sends a tremor through your ribs.
“Excuse me,” you say, steadying your voice like it’s just another assignment. “I’m a deeply concerned constituent, and I’d like to register a complaint about your policies.”
He turns.
And the moment lands like gravity reasserting itself.
His eyes go wide. Then narrow. Then go soft in that way only you’ve ever seen—like he’s witnessing a miracle he doesn’t trust yet. He doesn’t say your name. Doesn’t need to.
You only just open your mouth to say something else when he’s already in front of you. And then—
He kisses you.
Not tentative. Not questioning. Just real. Like this has always been the ending he was holding out for. His hand cups the back of your neck like he thinks you might vanish again if he doesn’t keep contact. You let yourself press into it—mouth to mouth, memory to body. The weight of the years falling off both your shoulders.
You pull back, breathless. Smiling.
“You came back,” he says, wonder tucked beneath the rasp of his voice. “You came back.”
Your hands are on his chest now, smoothing fabric just to touch him, to confirm he’s real. “Took me long enough,” you echo, and his smile breaks wide and unguarded, rare and all for you.
Then he stills, just a little.
“You staying?” he asks.
You don’t hesitate.
“Yes.”
And that, his laugh, short and disbelieving, his forehead pressed briefly to yours like a prayer, is the softest landing either of you has ever known.
#bucky barnes#james buchanan barnes#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes smut#bucky x reader#winter soldier#thunderbolts#thunderbolts spoilers#bucky barnes imagine#bucky smut#bucky barnes x you#bucky x you#sebastian stan#mdni#marvel#mcu#🎞️ WRITING — me when i write.
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the one with the runaway bride
Pairing: Theodore Nott x Reader
Word Count: 12.1k (damn)
Summary: Sometimes running away from a wedding leads you exactly where you're meant to be — preferably into the arms of a much better guy.
A/N: These fics just keep getting longer and longer. again lowkey kinda hate this and i feel like i made theo heavily ooc but it is what it is ig


Theo hated churches.
He wasn’t particularly religious—never cared much for the belief in some higher power watching over them all. After all, if someone like that did exist, his mother—a devout, gentle woman—wouldn’t have been ripped from the earth so soon. It should’ve been his father, not her. At least, that’s what he’d thought as a boy.
Still, despite his aversion to anything even remotely sacred, he found himself sitting alone in the pews of a quiet chapel. The sun streamed through stained glass, washing the room in warm, fractured color. He didn’t believe in prayer, but he came here anyway. This had been his mother’s favorite place before she died, and somehow, being here made him feel closer to her—like she might hear him, if only faintly.
“Mamma,” He murmured, voice low, “sometimes I truly wonder what my future was meant to look like.”
The war was over, but the silence it left behind was deafening. He spent a lot of time now, wondering about his place in the world. He and the rest of his mates—Berkshire, Riddle, Malfoy, and Zabini—had played a crucial role, working as double agents under Dumbledore’s orders. But because their involvement had remained classified, carefully buried under the Ministry’s politics, they were still seen as Slytherins first. As former sympathizers. As a threat. Pariahs.
It stung. He had done the right thing, when it mattered most. And yet, he wondered if this cold reception was all he’d ever receive.
A few years ago, he hadn't even expected to live this long. His younger self had been certain he’d never survive the war—that he’d be killed for his betrayal of Voldemort and reunited with his mother much sooner than expected. But he had survived. And now, once again, he was adrift.
That’s why he came back here—hoping for clarity, for a sign. But as always, the silence answered him back.
He sighed softly, rising to his feet and tucking his hands into his coat pockets, ready to leave. His shoes echoed against the marble floor as he turned toward the exit.
But before he could cross the threshold, the chapel doors burst open with a loud bang.
Theo blinked.
A vision in white stumbled inside.
Satin, lace, curls escaping from a veil. Breathless. Flushed. A wild gleam in her eye.
His heart paused mid-beat as he recognized the chaos incarnate now standing in the aisle, clutching the skirt of her wedding dress like she’d just escaped a dragon, veil askew, bouquet long gone, and cheeks flushed pink like she’d run from hell itself.
His mouth opened before he could stop it.
“(L/N)?” The name left his mouth before he could stop it, soft and shocked and just a little bit disbelieving.
You looked up, startled — like you hadn’t expected to see another soul inside — and your eyes widened in delight.
“Theodore Nott!” You beamed, chest still rising and falling in heavy breaths, curls frizzing at the edges, voice giddy and strange, “Fancy seeing you here! Gosh, I haven't seen you since Hogwarts! How are you? And the others—Riddle, Berkshire, and the lot? All good, I hope.”
Theo stared at you in complete bewilderment as you keeled over to catch your breath, tugging off your veil and fanning yourself with it like some kind of deranged society lady.
“Merlin’s sweaty balls,” You gasped, dramatic as ever, “It’s impossible to breathe in this damn corset.”
“They’re good,” Theo said slowly, brow furrowed, “I’m sorry, are you in a wedding dress?”
You nodded, breathless, laughing like the question itself was hilarious, “Unfortunately, yes. Bit of a pity I didn’t realize I didn’t want to marry the sorry bloke thirty minutes ago. Would’ve made my escape a lot easier if I wasn’t drowning in fifty pounds of satin.”
He blinked at you, still speechless, hands deep in his coat pockets.
“I mean—” You barreled on, eyes wide and shining, “there I was, standing at the altar, looking at my so-called fiancé, and it just hit me: I cannot wake up to his sorry mug for the rest of my life. To hell with my parents. And society. I don’t want to be a Bulstrode. That name sounds like the arse-end of a toad, don’t you think?”
You paused, eyes narrowing playfully, “(Y/N) (L/N) sounds so much nicer, doesn’t it?”
Theo arched an unimpressed brow, “You know you can get married without changing your last name, right?”
At that, you absolutely lost it—doubling over in wheezing laughter, slapping your knee like he’d just told the funniest joke in history.
“You always were such a crack-up, Theodore!” You gasped between giggles, “Where are my manners? What brings you here today? Certainly not for the wedding, I hope—because, well—” You gestured at yourself, still panting in the middle of the cathedral, “you can probably tell that’s not happening.”
Before Theodore could get a word in, the sound of heavy footsteps thundered down the hallway. Your eyes went comically wide as you pressed yourself flat against the stone wall, wedged just behind the chapel door as it swung open with a bang.
In marched your father—red-faced, sweaty, and breathing like a charging Hippogriff. His eyes locked onto Theodore like he was a bloodhound catching a scent.
“Have you seen a girl in a wedding dress?” He barked.
Theo quirked a brow, gaze sliding—slowly, deliberately—to the right, where you were doing your best impression of a human statue. From where he stood, he could see you mouthing frantic no’s, shaking your head so violently he was almost certain you’d give yourself whiplash. Your hands were flying in wild, desperate gestures, pleading silently.
He turned back to your father, the picture of calm.
“No, sir.”
Your father squinted, suspicious—but apparently not enough to question it. “Well, if you do,” He huffed, already half-turning, “you tell her to march her sorry behind back into that hall and marry the boy, or she’ll be sorry.”
The door slammed shut behind him.
You clutched your chest like you’d just survived a curse, eyes squeezed shut as you slid bonelessly to the floor in your crumpled wedding dress.
“That,” You breathed, “was nerve-wracking.”
You peeked up at him with a grateful look, “You’re a good liar, Nott. Thank you.”
Theo looked down at the breathless, sweaty heap you’d become, still sprawled on the stone floor like a very distressed meringue. With an amused smirk, he cleared his throat, “Well… good luck with everything, (L/N). Let me know if you actually go through with becoming a Bulstrode. I’ll send a wedding gift.”
You gaped up at him in horror as he began to sidestep the tangled mass of satin and lace that was your gown, clearly preparing to leave the chapel and abandon you to your doom. Without thinking, you grabbed his calf—your perfectly manicured nails digging into his trousers, the massive engagement ring catching the light like a cursed artifact.
“What?! You can’t go now! You have to get me out of here!”
Theo arched a skeptical brow, “And why, exactly, would I do that?”
You pointed at him in outrage, still clutching his leg like a deranged bride octopus, “You just lied to my father! That makes you an accomplice. A—A conspirator! You're already implicated!”
Theo looked thoroughly unimpressed, “I could just tell him you were hiding behind the door like a terrified possum.”
You gasped, “You wouldn’t.”
He tilted his head, “Try me.”
Panic glittered in your eyes before you straightened your spine and went full Slytherin, “Fine. You want to play that game? I’ll tell everyone you’re my secret paramour. That you seduced me, took my virtue in the belfry, and that’s why I fled the altar.”
Theo’s mouth dropped open, scandalized, “I beg your pardon?”
You clasped your hands together, expression softening into exaggerated, pleading sweetness, “Please, Theodore. I’m not asking for your soul. Just… apparate me out of here. One quick jump and I’ll be out of your life forever.”
He stared at you. Then sighed.
“Merlin help me,” He muttered, “You’re even more unhinged than I remember.”
“So that’s a yes?”
He offered you a hand, “Only if you swear not to mention the word ‘virtue’ ever again.”
You grinned, already taking his hand, “Deal, my paramour.”
He groaned. Loudly.
Theo stepped closer, one hand sliding around your waist, tugging you flush against him. You blinked up at him, stunned into silence by the proximity. Up close, you finally understood why half the girls in your year had harbored crushes on him. He had that kind of face—the infuriatingly beautiful kind that made your stomach swoop before your brain could catch up.
Then—with a sharp crack—the world twisted out from under your feet.
You landed hard against him, fingers fisting the lapels of his jacket like your life depended on it. Which, to be fair, it had.
Warm sunlight spilled over your face, the bustling sounds of the street around you cutting through the fading disorientation. You blinked. Then smiled.
You were free.
Theo watched you quietly as your eyes danced over every detail—the streetlamp, the baker’s cart, a child chasing a butterfly. Everything ordinary now seemed extraordinary through your gaze. You looked like someone seeing the world for the first time.
“Are you good, (L/N)?” He asked, low and cautious.
You didn’t take your eyes off the street. “A new world’s waiting for me,” You said softly, “It’s… terrifying.”
He didn’t say anything, but his grip around your waist didn’t loosen.
You stood there, trembling fingers still tangled in the fabric of his coat, heart pounding like it was trying to sprint back to the cathedral.
Theodore’s sharp gaze softened as he took in your messy lipstick, sweat-dampened curls, and the way you clung to him like the world had just tipped sideways. You looked like a woman on the edge of disaster—or greatness. Maybe both.
"Where were you planning to go?" He asked quietly.
You blinked up at him, dumbly, your glassy eyes beginning to sting as the reality of what you’d just done crashed over you like cold water.
Oh Merlin.
What had you done?
You didn’t have a house. You didn’t have a job. You didn’t have money of your own. Your entire life had been orchestrated by your father—who’d been all too eager to sell you off to your so-called fiancé—and you’d just thrown a wrench in his perfect little plan.
"I... I hadn’t thought that far." You admitted, voice barely a whisper as your bottom lip began to tremble.
Theo sighed, dragging a hand through his hair, “Bloody hell.”
You started to stammer, trying to save face, “Look—I’ll figure it out. I just needed to get away. You don’t have to—”
“Don’t be dense,” He muttered, “Come on.”
You furrowed your brows, confused, “Come on where?”
“My home,” He said bluntly, “You’re clearly overwhelmed, and you need to breathe somewhere that isn’t a chapel or the middle of a bloody street. You can crash in the guest room. I’ll pour a cup of tea. Or Firewhisky, if you’re feeling rebellious.”
You stared at him, stunned silent, “You’d really do that for me?”
In all honesty, Theodore had no idea why he was doing this for you.
Maybe it was the way your eyes looked—raw and frightened—that struck something in him. He remembered that look. Back when his mother died. Back when he was stuck between two worlds, pretending to be loyal to the Death Eaters while secretly fighting for the other side. When the war ended, and he had no bloody idea who he was without it.
He knew helplessness like an old friend. And though he’d never admit it aloud, he also knew he wouldn’t sleep tonight if he walked away now—knowing you were out there, wandering the streets in a bloody wedding dress or dragged back to marry someone you didn’t love.
“Yeah,” He said finally, “I would.”
You exhaled shakily, blinking back tears, “Okay.”
“Okay.” He echoed.
He held your arm carefully—like you were a glass about to crack—and apparated you both away.
By the time your feet touched down again, you were standing in a warmly lit corridor outside a tall, modern-looking door. Theodore slid a key out of his coat pocket and unlocked it with a click.
“My flat.” He said simply, stepping aside to let you in.
You blinked, glancing around as you followed him, “Wait. Don’t you have a whole family manor somewhere?”
He raised a brow as he tossed his coat onto a sleek brass hook, “Not fancy enough for you, darling? Would you rather go to the five-star resort your family booked for your honeymoon instead?”
You gaped, then closed your mouth, then opened it again—only to come up short, “Touché.”
He chuckled, pushing open the door, “I live in a flat because the manor’s too bloody big for just me. I might move back in when I’m older, but right now? No one needs twenty-three bedrooms unless they’re running a boarding school.”
You rolled your eyes, stepping inside after him, “Just say you’re rich and move on,” you muttered.
You were mid-sigh when your eyes took in the space—and almost instantly, the tension in your shoulders loosened. His flat wasn’t enormous, but it was stunning. Dark hardwood floors, rich emerald and charcoal accents, and floor-to-ceiling windows framed the London skyline like a painting. The air smelled faintly of pine, leather, and something warm—like spice and magic.
Books lined custom-built shelves along one wall, and a record player quietly spun something soft and jazzy in the corner. A massive velvet sofa sat in the center of the open-plan living area, flanked by brass sconces and a few well-kept plants.
Theo disappeared into a side room, leaving you standing awkwardly in your crumpled wedding dress in the middle of his living room. When he returned, he had a folded stack of clothes in his hands.
“I grabbed whatever looked closest to your size,” He said, handing them over with a half-shrug, “Might still be a bit big—but it’s cozy, at least.”
You unfolded the hoodie and held it up. It fell nearly to your knees.
“You’re joking.”
“Or you could stay in your wedding dress. Very sexy.”
You let out a laugh, “You got me again.”
You eyed the clothes, then glanced back up at him, “You sure none of your… lady friends left something behind? Something a bit more...appropriate?”
Theo smirked, unfazed, “I don’t keep a lost and found bin, sweetheart. But nice try.”
You grinned despite yourself, clutching the clothes to your chest.
“Go on,” He added, gesturing toward the hallway, “First door on the right—bathroom’s there. Take your time. Come out when you’re ready. I’ll sort dinner.”
“You cook?”
He looked at you, mock-offended, “I’m Italian.”
“That’s not a yes.”
Theo placed a hand over his heart, feigning injury, “Wow. So little faith.”
You laughed—a real one this time—as you padded off toward the bathroom, the ridiculous rustle of your wedding dress trailing behind you. Hoodie and sweats in hand, feet aching, heart still thudding from everything you’d run from.
But somehow, in the warmth of this space, with the sound of jazz humming in the background and Theo cooking up dinner—you started to feel something you hadn’t felt in a long time.
Safe.
Maybe, just maybe… you were going to be okay.
When you finally emerged from the bathroom, the last remnants of your old life had gone swirling down the drain—hairspray, waterproof mascara, and everything else that once held you together. You felt… lighter. Your skin was clean, your hair damp, and the oversized hoodie you wore—Theo’s—smelled faintly of cedar and citrus. It hung down to your thighs like a dress, and the joggers were barely hanging onto your waist.
The scent hit you first—garlic, tomatoes, fresh herbs—and your stomach let out a traitorous growl.
Theo looked up from the stove, giving you a once-over before turning back to stir the pot. “Look at you,” He said with a lopsided smirk, “Didn’t think my clothes would suit you that well.”
You gave him a smirk and did a twirl to show off the outfit—just in time for the joggers to fall right to your ankles. You both burst into laughter.
“The elastic’s useless and the drawstring’s just for decoration.” You said, tossing the offending trousers over the back of a chair.
“Wouldn’t be the first time I charmed the pants off a woman.” Theo replied smoothly.
You snorted, shaking your head.
He slid a bowl across the island toward you—tagliatelle with a thick, rich Bolognese sauce, steam curling up like it had its own mind.
You took one bite, and your eyes fluttered shut. “Oh my god,” You groaned, “This is… this is unreal.”
He gave a small shrug, “I told you.”
You were already shoveling in another forkful, “I haven’t eaten something that didn’t taste like sadness in months.”
Theo leaned against the counter, watching with amusement, “Easy, love. You keep going at that pace, you’ll make those giant joggers fit.”
You swallowed and let out a dramatic sigh, “Wedding diet. I’ve been living off steamed vegetables and heartbreak.”
He laughed, deep and full, “Well, lucky you. There’s more where that came from. And gelato in the freezer.”
Your head snapped up, “You’re kidding.”
“‘Chi mangia bene, vive bene,’” He said with a smirk, “‘Those who eat well, live well.’ My mamma drilled that into me.”
You blinked, then smiled, “Incredibly smart woman.”
For the first time in what felt like forever, your smile didn’t feel like something you had to fake or force. You sat there, in someone else’s hoodie, with sauce on your cheek and your hair still damp, in a flat that smelled like warmth and comfort and garlic.
Theo reached across the table, brushing his thumb gently against the corner of your mouth, “You’ve got a bit of sauce—right there.”
You blinked, startled by the tenderness of the gesture. His hand lingered a second longer than necessary before he pulled back.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go home?” He asked, quieter now.
You gave him a half-smile, soft but guarded, “Sick of me already?”
His lips quirked, but his eyes stayed serious, “I just mean… are you sure you won’t regret this? People get cold feet. Panic at the altar. Happens all the time, or so I hear. And the longer you stay here—the more real this gets—the harder it’ll be to undo without fallout.”
You sat still for a moment, then set your fork down, appetite forgotten.
“It wasn’t cold feet,” You said, voice low, “I never wanted to get married.”
Theo didn’t interrupt. He just waited.
“My father did. Desperately. He’s been obsessed with bloodlines and alliances since before I could walk. Marrying into the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Like that still means anything in this world.” You let out a bitter laugh, “Somehow that old bastard managed to squirm his way out of Azkaban after the war. And now he’s back to doing what he does best—peddling blood purity and ruining my life.”
Theo’s jaw tensed, but he said nothing.
“I spent months shoving my feelings down, just trying to be the daughter he wanted. The obedient one. Because what choice did I have?” Your fingers curled around the fabric of his hoodie, “But when I was standing there—at the altar, staring down a future I didn’t choose—I realized something. Maybe I didn’t have choices before. But I could make one now.”
Silence stretched between you for a beat.
Then, softly, Theo said, “That was brave.”
You let out a watery laugh, swiping your sleeve beneath your eyes, “Please. Not like you, playing double agent for Dumbledore. Now that was brave.”
He shook his head, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “That was reckless.”
“It was noble. Valiant,” You said, voice steadier now, “Really, the kind of madness only a true Slytherin could be ambitious enough to pull off.”
Theo arched a brow, “Flattery? From you?”
You gave him a crooked grin, “Don’t get used to it. Mine was just… selfish. Desperate.”
He looked at you, the warmth in his gaze soft but unwavering, “It’s good to be selfish sometimes.”
You held his gaze, breath catching slightly when his eyes didn’t waver. There was something weighty in the silence—something soft and unspoken stretching between you, tugging gently at the space that separated your bodies.
Theo’s fingers drummed once against the tabletop, then stilled. Neither of you moved.
Your pulse thrummed in your ears. He looked at you like he was trying to memorize the shape of your face, and for a second, just one second, you let yourself wonder what it would feel like to close the distance.
Then you blinked, cleared your throat, and reached for his plate. “Well. Since you think it’s good to be selfish,” You said, trying to sound casual, “I’m gonna eat the rest of your pasta.”
Theo let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh—or a sigh. Maybe both, “Oi—at least leave room for dessert.”
***
Loud, boisterous laughter was the first thing that dragged Theo out of a half-dream. He groaned, arm flinging over his eyes as the unmistakable sound of his front door swinging open—without ceremony—hit him like a freight train.
“What the—who the hell is making all that noise?” He muttered, voice hoarse as he blinked toward the ceiling.
The culprits were, predictably, already raiding his kitchen like starved hyenas: Draco, Lorenzo, Mattheo, and Blaise, helping themselves to his fresh bread and the groceries he’d actually gone out and picked himself—because unlike those degenerates, he cared about food quality.
He should’ve never given them spare keys.
“For emergencies,” He’d said. “Only if it’s important,” He’d said.
Idiotic. Clearly, their definition of ‘emergency’ included hungover brunches and unsolicited early morning gossip.
“Morning, sunshine,” Draco drawled with an infuriating smirk, already sprawled across Theo’s sofa, eating the hand-picked strawberries Theo had searched three markets to find, “You’re just in time for the morning news”
Theo groaned louder and face-planted into the cushions, “Could you shut up? Some of us are trying to sleep in our own damn flat.”
“Oh, come on,” Blaise said, smirking as he rifled through Theo’s cabinets, “You must’ve heard by now. (L/N). You remember her—Pansy's roommate. She left Bulstrode at the altar. Just ran right out.”
Lorenzo let out a low whistle, “Left Bulstrode standing there like an absolute mug. At the altar, mate. In front of everyone. Just turned and walked straight out mid-vows. I mean—iconic.”
Mattheo, chewing thoughtfully on a stolen slice of sourdough, shrugged, “Serves him right. No way Bulstrode was ever gonna bag a babe like (L/N). He’s got the charm of a wet napkin.”
“And get this,” Blaise said, lowering his voice into a tone of mock-conspiracy, eyes glinting, “Rumor is—she had a lover on the side. Secret romance, hidden rendezvous, the whole nine yards. Some bloke she’s apparently been in love with for ages. No one knows who, though.”
Theo, face still hidden by the couch cushions, flinched.
Blaise squinted at him, “You look... twitchy. Something you wanna share with the group?”
Before Theo could invent an excuse, a sound cut through the room—soft footsteps padding across the floorboards.
The guest bedroom door creaked open.
You stepped out, bleary-eyed, rubbing your face with the sleeve of Theo’s oversized hoodie—his hoodie that hung off your frame like it had been stitched for you. Your hair was tousled from sleep, legs bare, the joggers you’d worn the night before still draped over a chair in the corner, clearly forgotten.
Theo’s eyes flicked up to you for a moment—heart skipping a beat at the sight of your flushed cheeks and mussed hair—but he quickly masked the softness with a cool, unreadable glance.
Every sound in the room died on cue.
You blinked at the kitchen full of frozen Slytherins and offered a sheepish smile, “Um… morning?”
The silence that followed was nothing short of reverent.
Mattheo dropped his toast. Lorenzo’s jaw unhinged. Draco choked on a strawberry. Blaise turned—slowly, dramatically—to Theo with the grin of a man who had just unearthed a scandal.
And then—chaos.
“No bloody way,” Blaise said, pointing an accusatory finger, “You?! You’re the lover?!”
“No, no,” Theo said immediately, sitting up straighter, “She’s not—I mean, it’s not— It’s not like that.”
You nodded, “It’s really not what it looks like.”
“She’s not—” Theo added, standing abruptly.
“We’re not—” You said at the same time.
“Dating.” You both finished in unison.
The pause that followed was only broken by Blaise’s slow, disbelieving laugh, “You two seriously rehearsed that or something?”
Mattheo’s gaze flicked from you, to the hoodie, to Theo’s bedhead and thoroughly disheveled state, “You sly, secretive little bastard.”
“You’re blushing,” Lorenzo cackled, pointing at Theo.
“I’m not blushing.”
“You’re so red your freckles are blending in.”
“You lot need to leave,” Theo growled, yanking the mug out of Draco’s hand.
“Oh, we’ll leave,” Mattheo said, standing with an exaggerated sigh, “Just as soon as we finish processing the greatest plot twist since Dumbledore kicked it.”
“I don’t know,” Lorenzo mused, “This might top it. Runaway bride finds solace in former classmate’s bed—”
“Spare room!” You and Theo barked at once.
“Oh right,” Blaise said, lazily gesturing to you, “Because that totally explains the no-pants situation.”
You threw up your hands, “He doesn’t have any trousers that fit me!”
Mattheo let out a low whistle, “Stars above, I wish I had popcorn.”
Theo’s jaw clenched, “She needed a place to stay. I offered. That’s it.”
“And I accepted. Platonically.” You stressed.
“And Theodore isn’t some adulterous whore,” You added with a sigh, “He’s just an unfortunate bloke with terrible timing who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
The way your voice softened at the end made something twist in Theo’s chest.
“Well, you did good,” Lorenzo said, grabbing another slice of bread, “Bulstrode’s an ugly git anyway.”
You shared a glance with Theo who gave you a soft, barely there smile that was meant to reassure you in a way that conveyed, 'See? What you did wasn't so bad.'
“So what’s the plan now?” Blaise asked, eyeing the two of you over his coffee, “You two just gonna keep playing house?”
“Oi, ease up,” Theo said, casting him a warning look, “Don’t overwhelm her.”
He glanced at you briefly, then added, “We talked last night.”
“Ooo, pillow talk.” Mattheo smirked—earning himself a slap to the back of the head.
Theo rolled his eyes, “We were talking, and I offered to let her stay here. As long as she needs.”
You caught Theo’s eye and saw a softness there that only came out when he looked at you. In that moment, the chaos of friends and gossip faded away, leaving just the quiet promise of safety and belonging between you two.
***
You sat cross-legged on the floor, the open suitcase in front of you spilling out clothes, books, and a few small trinkets you’d brought from your old life. The boxes stacked neatly nearby were still untouched—silent reminders that this was real, that you were here now.
Getting your things back from your home had been easier than expected. You’d slipped in while your father was at work, your heart racing as you moved quietly through the familiar halls. The moment your hand wrapped around your wand—left behind for safekeeping during the wedding—it felt like you could finally breathe again. You packed up your life swiftly, shrinking and sending each box to Theo’s flat before you could second-guess yourself.
“It feels weird seeing all my stuff here.” You murmured, running your fingers over your old Slytherin scarf. A soft smile tugged at your lips as memories from Hogsmeade weekends and late-night gossip sessions filled your head. Back in school, your dormmates used to call dibs on the boys in your year—Pansy obviously claimed Draco, Daphne was hell-bent on Mattheo (she had a thing for bad boys, she used to say). The others squabbled over Blaise and Lorenzo, leaving you with Theo by default. You’d taken it in stride, because Merlin forbid you end up with Crabbe or Goyle. If only sixth-year you knew you’d one day be living with Theo Nott after bolting from your own wedding.
“Like this is really happening.” You said softly.
Theo leaned against the doorway, arms folded, watching you with a look you couldn’t quite place. You let your eyes rake over him—how he somehow made jeans and a simple black long-sleeved tee look sinfully good without even trying.
“Don’t you want to unpack?” He asked after a moment, voice casual, “Make it feel a bit more like yours?”
You shook your head, teeth tugging at your lower lip, “I don’t want to get too comfortable. I need to move out soon, find my own place. Can’t just settle in someone else’s flat.”
Your eyes drifted to the empty dresser and the bare walls, imagining them filled with your perfume bottles, your shoes lined up in the closet, your keepsakes resting in quiet corners of the room. It felt… indulgent. And dangerous.
Theo pushed off the doorframe and crossed the room with that quiet confidence that always made your stomach flip. He crouched beside you, fingers brushing yours as he gently pulled the scarf from your hands.
“Don’t be so pressured,” He said softly, “Take your time.”
Your breath caught at the tenderness in his voice, so at odds with the sarcasm he usually deflected with. His gaze held yours—warm, steady, unflinching.
“What kind of fake adulterous whore would I be,” he added, smirking just a little, “if I didn’t give you a comfortable place to stay while you figure things out?”
You let out a shaky laugh, swatting his arm as your cheeks flushed. The warmth in his eyes made your chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with fear. It felt... safe. For the first time in a long time.
He reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering just a second too long. Your breath hitched. Your heart thudded. And before you could stop yourself, your gaze flicked to his mouth.
The moment hung there—suspended and fragile—until it broke like glass.
Theo cleared his throat and pulled back. You dropped your gaze and fanned your burning cheeks, pretending not to notice the way your entire body buzzed with unspoken tension.
He stood, casting a quick glance around the room before his eyes landed on a box labeled “Bathroom.” With a quiet smile, he bent to pick it up.
“I’ll go put this over there.” He said, voice gentler now even though you both were well aware he could've used his magic to charm the objects in its place.
You watched him go, heart fluttering wildly in your chest, feeling strangely steady for the first time in days.
Strangely at home.
***
Watching Theo get ready for work every morning had become your newest, most humbling routine. In the quiet hours before he left—hair perfectly styled, cufflinks glinting faintly in the sunlight—you were struck with the growing realization that your life was a blank page. And not in the hopeful, inspiring way. No, it felt like staring at an overdue assignment you had no idea how to finish.
When he was home, everything felt a little easier—light conversation over breakfast, quiet companionship in the evenings, his effortless presence filling the flat with a calm you hadn’t realized you craved. But once he was out the door, you were left with hours that stretched out like an endless, silent ache. And with that ache came the inevitable realization: you weren’t here to play house with Theodore Nott. You needed to get your life in order.
Which was why, this morning, you were dressed. Not just dressed—put together. A soft, Chanel-inspired ensemble hugged your form, elegant and mature, polished right down to the glossy sheen of your lips.
Across the table, Theo sat in his usual tailored suit and tie, sipping his coffee while reading the newspaper.
He was a dream roommate—unbothered, polite, attentive without being invasive. He cooked most mornings and evenings, and you handled lunch and dishes out of principle more than anything else. And yet, no matter how well you split the duties, you still felt like a freeloader in silk pajamas. He never asked you to contribute, never brought up rent or groceries or anything at all.
Which, ironically, only made the guilt settle heavier in your chest.
It was unbearable. So this newfound spark of motivation—this desire to prove you could stand on your own two feet again—burned fast and hot.
He was fixing his watch by the mirror beside the door, running gelled fingers through his hair, smoothing it back with that practiced grace. You stepped over, holding his coat in one hand and yours in the other, and offered it to him with a quiet, “Here.”
He murmured a small thanks as he slipped into it, but you didn’t step back.
Instead, you reached up to adjust his tie, fingers deft as you corrected the slight tilt in the knot. “I know you’re just going to mess it up the second you get to the office,” you said, smiling softly, “but it’s driving me crazy.”
You smoothed the tie down gently, fingertips brushing the lapels of his coat. When your eyes lifted, you caught him staring—not at your eyes, but your lips, still slick with gloss from your post-breakfast touch-up, and suddenly it felt like a mistake to stand this close, in this kind of silence, with him looking at you like that.
You met his gaze. Your heart stuttered.
Was he leaning in?
Or were you imagining it—some cruel trick your body played when it got too used to his scent, his proximity, the low hum of affection that vibrated just beneath the surface?
Before you could answer, he inhaled sharply and stepped back, the moment snapping like a taut string.
“Busy day today?” He asked, voice neutral, composed.
You cleared your throat, recovering quickly.
“Yeah,” You said, grabbing your purse and your coat, avoiding his eyes, “I’m visiting Slughorn at Hogwarts. I was always good at potions, and he used to favor me—mostly because I always showed up to those ridiculous Slug Club meetings.” You gave a faint chuckle.
“I heard he’s still teaching and struggling to keep up with his personal research. I was kind of his unofficial assistant in seventh year, so… I’m hoping he’ll consider taking me on. As an apprentice or something.”
You kept your tone light, casual, even though your pulse thudded in your throat. You avoided his eyes as you adjusted the strap of your purse.
Theo held the door open for you, and your heart flipped in your chest like it always did when he did things like that without thinking—like it was natural. Like you belonged here.
“Good luck, (Y/N).” He said simply, his voice low but earnest.
You turned your head slightly, offering him a small smile. The way he was looking at you made your steps falter for just a second.
“Thank you.” You said, voice barely above a whisper.
And then you walked on, heels clicking softly on the marble floor, heart fluttering like mad against your ribs.
***
You practically skipped down the stone steps of Hogwarts, the weight of your nervous anticipation completely lifted from your shoulders. The crisp air smelled of old parchment and damp moss, and for once, you didn’t mind. Your cheeks were flushed, your hands clutching the letter Slughorn had scrawled in excitement after your meeting: an official offer to join him as his private research assistant, with the intent of training you to become a certified Potions Master.
Your heart was hammering by the time you reached Theo’s flat, and you didn’t even knock—just flung the door open and stepped inside, calling his name like a storm announcing itself.
“Theo!”
He appeared from the hallway, towel slung over his shoulder, clearly mid-way through drying his hair, shirt sleeves rolled up, “What? Are you okay?”
You beamed so brightly you could’ve lit the whole room with just the force of it, “I got it—I got the position! I’m going to train with Slughorn! He’s taking me on!”
For a second, Theo just blinked at you, frozen in place. Then your words seemed to register fully and he opened his mouth to say something—but before he could, you launched yourself at him.
Your arms flung around his neck, and he caught you with a startled grunt, stumbling back half a step before wrapping his arms tightly around your waist, instinctively keeping you upright. You laughed, giddy and breathless against his shoulder, your legs kicking slightly off the ground.
“I knew you would.” He said against your temple, voice low and warm and slightly amused, though the hug he gave you was grounding, solid, and real.
You pulled back just enough to look up at him, eyes bright, “I’m going to be a Potions Master.”
Theo’s hands stayed on your waist, his lips twitching into a rare, open smile, “You’re going to be brilliant.”
You didn’t know what possessed you then—maybe it was the adrenaline, maybe it was the way he was still holding you like you were something precious—but you leaned in without thinking and pressed a kiss to his cheek, quick and full of warmth.
Theo blinked, stunned.
You blinked, too, realizing what you just did.
He slowly set you down on your feet, clearing his throat, but the faintest shade of pink had crept up his neck.
"Thank you, Theo." You whispered, looking up at him like he hung the moon in the sky, "For everything."
***
You were halfway through folding the laundry while Theo showered when the door flew open with no warning, the sharp click of heels on hardwood echoing like the cue for a dramatic entrance.
“Surprise, darling!” Pansy announced grandly, stepping into the apartment with a flourish, a pastry box in one hand and designer sunglasses in the other, “I brought macarons from that place you liked in Paris—Theo, you better be decent!”
She strutted into the living room expecting to find her best friend brooding over black coffee, muttering about case files or the Ministry’s latest idiocy.
Instead, she found you.
Her heel halted mid-click. Her eyes went wide, lips parting in stunned recognition.
“(Y/N)?”
You blinked, holding a half-folded jumper, “Hi—?”
The pastry box slipped from her fingers, forgotten as she gasped.
“(Y/N)!”
Before you could react, she barreled across the room, arms wide, heels thudding across the floor. She crashed into you with a hug that nearly knocked you into the couch, her perfume wrapping around you like a familiar blanket as she squeezed you breathless.
You laughed, arms wrapping around her just as tightly, “Oh God, I’m so sorry I didn’t make it to the wedding! I couldn’t get a Portkey in time—I felt awful. I’ve missed you so much!”
Pansy pulled back to get a proper look at you, holding you at arm’s length like she needed to confirm you were real, “Oh, how’s newlywed life treating you? How’s your husband—” she started brightly, then trailed off.
Her eyes scanned your outfit—comfy shorts and an old Quidditch tee—and then flicked to the half-folded laundry scattered across the coffee table.
And that was precisely the moment Theo stepped out of the bathroom.
Shirtless. Damp. Joggers slung low on his hips. A towel around his neck, his hair still dripping.
Pansy blinked. You blinked. Theo froze like a deer in headlights.
Her eyes snapped between you and Theo. Once. Twice.
Her jaw dropped.
“No. Bloody. Way.”
You swallowed hard, “I, uh... I ran from the altar. I’ve been living here for a month. Surprise?”
A beat of silence.
Then—
“You absolute plonkers!” Pansy shouted, whirling around like a furious peacock as the front door opened again and the rest of the boys filtered in—Draco, Blaise, Mattheo, Enzo—all pausing mid-step at the scene.
Theo grimaced.
Pansy turned on Draco with fury, “You ranted to me for an hour last night about Potter’s work ethic, but you didn’t think to mention that one of my closest friends from school ran out of her own wedding and moved in with Theo?”
Draco’s eyes widened, “I thought you knew!”
“You lot are unbelievable.” She huffed, throwing her hands up.
Draco looked caught somewhere between amusement and panic. Blaise choked on a laugh. Mattheo raised his hands in mock innocence.
Pansy, eyes glittering with mischief, turned back to you with an exasperated scoff, “We’re getting drinks tonight. You and I are going to unpack every bloody bit of this madness. And if there’s any scandal you’re hiding from me, I swear to Merlin—”
You gave her a sheepish smile, heart fluttering with the kind of warmth that only old friendships could bring.
“I wish. But I can’t tonight. I’m working with Slughorn now—officially—and I’ve got my first full day tomorrow. Still need to study up a bit. I really don’t want to get fired before I even make it to lunch.”
Pansy’s features softened instantly. She stepped forward, cupping your cheeks with warm hands and smoothing your hair in a way that made your eyes sting.
“Slughorn?” She breathed, proud and a little misty, “You’re working with Slughorn? That’s incredible. I’m so proud of you.”
Your throat tightened, “Thanks, Pansy. God, I missed you. Let’s do a proper catch-up this weekend, yeah? I don’t want to keep you from your homecoming party—you should go have fun.”
She nodded and pulled you into one last tight hug. “This weekend,” she warned playfully, “or I swear I’ll come kidnap you from this flat myself.”
You laughed, hugging her back, “Deal.”
Just then, Theo reappeared in the living room, now fully dressed and slipping his watch onto his wrist. He reached for his coat, but you were already there, stepping behind him to help him shrug it on.
“Don’t you have to be up early tomorrow?” You asked gently, brushing invisible lint from his sleeve.
From behind you, Blaise gave a low whistle.
“Ooooh, listen to that,” Mattheo drawled with a teasing grin, “Wifey’s making sure the hubby gets to bed on time.”
Theo rolled his eyes, already used to these jokes and glanced down at you, a quiet smile pulling at his lips, “It’s just one drink.”
You sighed, half amused, half resigned, “Okay. Just… don’t come home completely smashed.”
“No promises.” He said with a wink, and the door shut behind them seconds later.
***
The bar buzzed with the low hum of chatter, clinking glasses, and a jazz cover of a Weird Sisters song playing over the speakers. The group had claimed a corner booth, drinks in hand, laughter spilling over every few minutes.
Theo nursed a firewhisky, sitting back with his usual composed expression which caught the attention of Mattheo, “Oh, don’t drink that too fast, Teddy boy. You don’t want to go back absolutely hammered to the missus.”
“You lot are ridiculous,” Theo muttered, though a hint of fondness softened his tone.
“Oh, come off it,” Blaise grinned, swirling his drink, “You like it. You’re practically glowing these days. It’s very unnerving.”
“Very domestic of you, Theo,” Enzo added, smirking, “Sharing a flat, cooking her breakfast, letting her steal your clothes—”
“She doesn’t steal my clothes.”
Mattheo grinned, “Mate, I saw her wearing your Chudley Cannons jumper yesterday.”
Theo looked away, clearly caught.
Pansy took a slow sip of her cocktail, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Honestly, I’m shocked you let her stay with you. You’re usually so…” She waved a perfectly manicured hand, “emotionally unavailable. Allergic to company, really.”
Blaise leaned in, eyes gleaming, “I mean hardly a surprise considering how badly gone he was for her back in school.”
Pansy froze mid-sip.
“Wait—what? Who was gone for who?!” she gasped, nearly slamming her glass on the table, voice sharp with disbelief.
The boys blinked in surprise.
“You didn’t know?” Draco asked, brows raised.
“You’re kidding,” Blaise said, laughing, “You always shoved them into group projects and made them sit together during dinners — we thought you were matchmaking!”
“I was!” Pansy snapped, whipping around to glare at Draco, “Because I wanted to go with you, and the other cows in our dorm had already called dibs on Enzo, Mattheo, and Blaise. Theo was just—left!”
She turned back to the table, eyes wide with the horror of missed opportunity, “Don’t you think if I’d known he fancied her, I would’ve shoved them into a broom cupboard and locked the door?”
Mattheo cackled, “That’s so on-brand for you.”
Pansy groaned, dramatically dropping her head onto Draco’s shoulder, “You absolute wankers. If one of you had opened your mouth years ago, that wedding she had a month ago? Could’ve been yours, Theo.”
Theo sipped his firewhisky quietly, hidden behind the rim of his glass. Flashes of you in a wedding dress and veil flickered behind his eyes, a soft blush spreading across his neck. None of them missed it.
Blaise nudged Mattheo, “He’s thinking about it now.”
“Oh, he’s been thinking about it.”
Theo threw his head back, downing the rest of his firewhiskey in one go, “I need another drink.”
***
The door flew open with a crash, nearly coming off its hinges.
“We have arrived!” Lorenzo declared, clearly drunk, arms wide, as if expecting applause.
Theo stumbled in between Blaise and Mattheo, arms slung over their shoulders like a war hero being carried off the battlefield. His shirt was half-untucked, hair a mess, and his eyes—when he managed to open them—were glassy and unfocused.
You poked your head out from the kitchen, arms crossed, “What happened to ‘just one drink’?”
“He drank.” Blaise said simply.
“Like a fish.” Mattheo added.
“Like a moron.” Draco corrected as he strolled in behind them, tossing Theo’s coat over a chair, “He’s your problem now.”
Theo blinked at the sound of your voice and perked up immediately. “Tesoro!” He slurred, trying to walk toward you but very nearly face-planting into the floor. You caught him under the arm just in time.
“Hi, Theo,” You said softly, “Oh gosh you smell like bad decisions.”
“You need to eat,” You added, “Something starchy. Or you’re going to feel like roadkill tomorrow.”
“He never eats when he’s like this,” Blaise said from where he was sprawled over a kitchen chair, “We’ve tried. It’s hopeless.”
“Chi mangia bene, vive bene, remember?” You said softly, probably butchering his mother's saying as you guided Theo toward the table.
That stopped him. His gaze sharpened just enough to find your eyes.
He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours with a quiet breath, “E chi ha te… ha tutto.”
Your heart skipped even though you hadn't a clue what he just said.
Mattheo made an exaggerated gagging noise, “Okay, Casanova, wrap it up.”
Draco, grinning, gave you a mock bow, “He’s all yours. Good luck with drunk Shakespeare.”
As the door shut behind them, Theo was still leaning on you, breathing you in like he needed your scent to stay upright.
“You smell like a distillery.” You said, amused.
“You smell like home.” He mumbled.
Your cheeks warmed, and you pushed the plate gently into his lap, “Eat your toast, Romeo.”
***
The bar was warm and golden, tucked away on a cobbled side street with velvet booths and enchanted candles flickering lazily overhead. You and Pansy had claimed a prime table by the window, cocktails already half-finished and a bowl of enchanted peanuts floating between you, occasionally popping like popcorn.
“I swear,” Pansy said, leaning in conspiratorially, “if Draco mentions his new wand polish one more time, I will hex him bald.”
You snorted into your drink, eyes gleaming, “You wouldn’t. You like running your hands through his hair too much.”
She grinned, “Touché. But I’d still threaten it. Keeps him humble.”
It was the first proper girls’ night out you’d had in what felt like forever, and Pansy — ever the scene-stealing, chaos-bringing goddess she was — made it feel like the war, the heartbreak, and everything in between had never happened.
“So,” She drawled, resting her chin on her palm with a wicked glint in her eye, “Tell me everything. Are you dating? Shagging? Secretly married? Come on, give me the details.”
You laughed, swirling the pink liquid in your glass — some fruity, glittering cocktail you hadn’t tasted since your Hogwarts days. It cooled your fingers while your cheeks burned hotter by the second.
You rolled your eyes, trying to bite back your smile, “It’s not like that, Pans. We’re just good friends. Honestly, I don’t think I’d have made it this far without him.”
“Oh darling,” She said with mock pity, “it’s always ‘not like that’ until you’re wearing his jumpers and catching feelings.”
You opened your mouth to object—but the words caught in your throat. You had worn his jumper. You were catching feelings.
Pansy’s eyes widened. She gasped, clutching her chest with dramatic flair, “No. No way. You like him.”
“I didn’t say that." You muttered.
“You didn’t have to!” She squealed, grabbing your hands across the table, “Oh, you poor lovesick thing. I knew it. I knew it!”
You groaned, burying your face in your hands, “You are insufferable.”
“I’m right, though,” She sang smugly, taking another sip of her drink, “And I actually happen to know that our dear Teddy has been—”
“(Y/N).”
The voice cut through the air like a curse.
You froze.
Pansy’s glass paused halfway to her lips. Her smile vanished.
Your blood ran cold. You didn’t have to look to know who it was — that voice had once lived in your dreams. Now it only haunted your nightmares.
Slowly, you turned in your seat.
And saw your ex-fiancé standing at the edge of your table.
You stared up at him, heart thudding so hard it felt like it might crack your ribs. He looked mostly the same — slicked-back hair that tried too hard to look effortless, a coat more expensive than it was tasteful, and that same smirk he always wore like armor. His jaw was tighter now, clenched like he hadn’t unclenched it in months. His eyes were cold, sunken a little, and mean in a way they didn’t even bother to hide.
“I didn’t expect to find you here.” He said, voice low, razor-edged.
Pansy was on her feet before you could speak, stepping in front of you like a drawn wand. “And yet here you are,” She said, all sugar and venom, “Funny how you manage to show up where no one wants you.”
He didn’t even glance at her. His eyes stayed locked on you, “We need to talk.”
“No, we really don’t,” Pansy snapped, “Back off before I hex your bits so far inward you’ll need a St. Mungo’s specialist to find them.”
“Pansy,” you murmured, brushing your fingers against her sleeve. Your hand was shaking.
He took a step closer, “Just five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”
You rose slowly, pushing your chair back, jaw tight, “Fine. Five minutes. Nothing more.”
“Absolutely not—” Pansy began, but you shook your head.
“I’m okay.”
You weren’t. Not even remotely. But you needed this to end. To really end.
The night air was sharp against your skin, the hum of the city muffled as you stepped into the alley behind the bar. You folded your arms, more out of defense than cold.
“So this is what it takes to find you now?” He said, voice curling with disdain, “Are you selling yourself like a whore on street corners now?”
You exhaled slowly, trying to keep your voice steady, “What do you want?”
He took a step forward, “I heard the rumors. People talk, you know. Especially when a bride vanishes in silk and ends up playing house with that filthy blood traitor Theodore Nott.”
Your lips parted in disbelief.
“I should’ve known,” he sneered, “You always acted so self-righteous. But look at you now — just another slag hopping into the next man’s bed. Must be nice not needing vows to spread your legs, yeah?”
The words hit like a slap, your stomach twisting with fury and disbelief.
“I’m done listening to this.”
You turned—and before you could even brace yourself, he yanked you sharply by the collar and slammed you hard against the brick wall. The air whooshed out of your lungs as your back hit the cold surface, the impact jarring your entire body.
His hands tightened suddenly around your throat, fingers digging into your skin in a cruel grip. You gasped for air, panic surging as darkness edged your vision.
“Don’t you dare think you can just walk away from me.” He hissed through clenched teeth, eyes wild and merciless.
You clawed at his hands, desperate to break free, but his strength was overwhelming, pressing down harder, choking the breath from you.
"Reducto!"
The spell hit him square in the chest, blasting him off you with bone-jarring force. He flew backward, crashing into the far wall of the alley with a sickening thud before collapsing in a heap, gasping and stunned.
Pansy didn’t hesitate.
She stormed toward him like a vengeful shadow, wand leveled between his eyes as he groaned and tried to sit up. Her voice was shaking—but only with rage.
“You filthy little coward,” she spat, every word laced with venom, “Touch her again, and I’ll break every bone in your body.”
He growled, trying to rise—Pansy kicked him flat in the chest, knocking him back to the ground with her heel, “Stay. Down.”
Your knees buckled, the sudden rush of oxygen burning your throat as you slid down the wall, coughing and trembling.
“Whoa—hey.” Pansy caught you, strong and certain, one arm steadying you as the other clutched her wand, “I’ve got you, love. You’re okay. We’re going home.”
And this time, you let her carry the weight.
***
The world spun sharply as Pansy apparated, the crack of displaced air still echoing in your ears. The warmth of her body vanished the moment your feet hit solid ground—wood floors, familiar scents. You were in Theo’s flat.
Laughter and chatter from the living room fell to a jarring halt.
Five pairs of eyes turned in unison: Theo, Draco, Blaise, Mattheo, and Enzo—all frozen mid-conversation, drinks in hand. The moment they saw you, everything dropped.
“(Y/N)?”
Your name left Theo like a punch to the gut.
You were trembling, arms wrapped tight around your middle as if they could hold your ribs together. Pansy still held onto you, as if she wasn’t entirely sure you wouldn’t collapse, and even she looked rattled under the scrutiny of the room.
“That fucker,” She said through gritted teeth, “Grabbed her outside the bar. Slammed her into a wall. Tried to—” her voice faltered, thick with fury, “She couldn’t breathe.”
Theo moved.
Fast.
He crossed the room in three strides, gently brushing Pansy aside like she was made of smoke. Then he was in front of you, hands hovering for a split second before he cupped your face, cradling you like you were something fragile and sacred.
His eyes roamed over your features—your split lip, your glassy eyes, the bruising fingerprints beginning to bloom like violets around your throat—and something in him shattered.
His jaw clenched, fury crashing through him like a tidal wave. He looked like he could tear the world apart.
“I’m fine.” You rasped, voice barely more than a whisper.
You tried to smile—a brittle, curling thing, “I know that probably doesn’t help my case, but… trust me, I’m fine.”
“Don’t do that,” Theo said softly, thumb brushing over your cheekbone, his voice hoarse and tight, “Don’t lie to me right now.”
Your breath hitched.
Draco hovered beside Pansy now, brushing her hair behind her ear as he muttered something only she could hear. She nodded once, giving her boyfriend a soft smile before turning her gaze back to you, eyes gleaming with steel.
Theo gently tugged you forward into his chest.
You didn’t resist.
You couldn’t.
Your limbs had surrendered somewhere between the alley and the flat, and he was warm, steady—home. Before you could stop it, a sob cracked loose from your chest, raw and shaking. Your hands fisted into his shirt like it was the only thing tethering you to earth.
He held you tighter.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, voice trembling beneath the quiet, “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”
The flat was eerily quiet now. One by one, the boys filtered out, their faces grim with the weight of what had just happened.
Mattheo lingered just long enough to press a firm, reassuring hand to your shoulder. His voice was low, steady, almost a promise, “You’re safe now. We’ll take care of everything from here.”
Blaise didn’t say a word. Instead, he gave a slow, deliberate nod to Theo, then to you, his expression taut with barely restrained anger and resolve.
Enzo’s jaw clenched as he glanced at you one last time. “He’s a dead man,” he muttered under his breath before turning away and joining the others.
You barely noticed them leaving. Your world had shrunk to the steady rhythm of Theo’s heartbeat humming against your ear, the comforting warmth of his hand pressing into your back, and the ache lodged deep in your chest — a raw, stubborn pain that refused to fade.
“I want him arrested. Tonight.” Pansy’s voice cut through the silence like ice, cold and deadly calm but laced with a fury that made the room vibrate, “Draco, I’m serious. He attacked her in public. Slammed her against a wall. Choked her until she could barely breathe.”
Draco’s tone was clipped, measured, but the sharp edge of anger was unmistakable, “You have a name?”
“Graham Bulstrode.” Pansy replied without hesitation, her voice razor-sharp and unyielding.
Draco’s jaw tightened, “Consider it done, my love.”
Every word settled into your foggy mind — distant but painfully clear. The tremble in your hands hadn’t stopped, but Theo’s arms wrapped around you only tightened, as if willing to keep the danger at bay. He leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to the crown of your head, a quiet vow whispered without words.
When the door finally clicked shut behind the last of the others, the tension finally broke. The tears you had been holding back surged forward, hot and fierce, tumbling freely down your cheeks. You clung to him, the safety of his presence grounding you as the storm inside began to settle.
You buried your face in Theo’s chest, shoulders trembling as the sobs broke free, wracking your entire body with every breath. He held you through it, solid and steady, one hand gently combing through your hair like he could smooth away the terror still clinging to your skin.
“I’m so stupid,” You gasped, the words catching in your throat, “I’ve—I’ve thought about that moment for the past month. What I’d say. How I’d stand up for myself. I imagined throwing that stupid ring back in his smug face, saying something cutting, something final—but when it actually happened…”
Your voice cracked, guilt burning behind your ribs.
“I couldn’t even speak. I just froze. I have a wand but I couldn't cast a single spell. I let him say all that shit about me—about you—and I... I didn’t even defend you, Theo. I’m so sorry. I'm so useless.”
He didn’t answer right away.
He just held you tighter, like your apology hurt more than anything else that had happened. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet—gentle, but resolute.
“You have nothing to be sorry for.”
His words rumbled in his chest, warm against your cheek.
“I don’t give a damn about what you said or didn’t say to him. You don’t owe me a defense—not ever.”
You looked up at him, blinking through the tears. His eyes found yours, fierce and heartbreakingly soft, like you were something sacred—something he’d never let break.
“And you’re not stupid, (Y/N), or useless,” He said, voice thick with emotion, “You’re incredible. Brave. Stronger than you even realize. And I’m so fucking proud of you.”
His thumb brushed a tear from your cheek as he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead—gentle, grounding, safe.
“He’s not going to get away with this,” Theo whispered, “I promise you.”
You sighed, sinking deeper into him, like you could finally let go of everything you’d been holding in. His arms wrapped around you again, warm and sure.
“Come on,” he murmured, “Let’s treat that bruise. Get you something to eat.”
But you shook your head, face pressed tight against his chest.
“Don’t let me go.”
The silence that followed wasn’t heavy anymore—it was tender, healing. You curled into him like you could disappear there, into the rhythm of his breathing and the thrum of his heart.
“I’m never going to let you go.”
And you believed him.
His heartbeat echoed beneath your ear, strong and unwavering. With every beat, the weight in your chest began to lift—slowly, steadily.
Safe. Loved. Finally, home.
***
A couple weeks later it was raining softly outside, the kind of slow, constant drizzle that blurred the windows and made the world feel far away. You and Theo were curled up on the couch, legs tangled, a blanket lazily thrown across your laps. A half-empty mug sat abandoned on the coffee table beside a crumpled takeout bag. The telly hummed faintly in the background, long forgotten.
“So then she goes, ‘I forgot to run the control,’” You said, exasperated, “and I swear to Merlin, I have never seen Slughorn that mad in his life.”
Theo snorted, one arm draped across your shoulders, twirling a strand of your hair around his finger, “Serves her right for always nicking your freshly ground moonstone.”
“Right? And of course, the one day I’m not there to supervise her, she completely tanks it. It’s not like I was goofing off—I was at the Ministry signing off the paperwork for Bulstrode's trial.” You sighed, “Slughorn knew, so I didn’t get in trouble, but I still have to repeat all her damn trials for the next few weeks. As if I don’t already have enough on my plate.”
“What’s keeping you so busy, Bella?” Theo asked, smiling as he gently unraveled the curl and let it spring back into place, “Maybe I can help.”
“Well, I’ve been needing to check out some apartments. Can’t really leave that to you, now can I?” You yawned, “But if you want, we could go together?”
Theo stilled.
He pulled back just slightly, brows furrowed as he studied your face, “Apartment hunting?”
You blinked, “Yeah… I’ve been looking at places closer to work. Just something small. I mean, I don’t make much yet.”
There was a beat of silence, then, “Wait—(Y/N), are you planning to move out?”
You nodded slowly, suddenly self-conscious, “I mean—I’ve been here for a while now and I love it, obviously, but I didn’t want to overstay my welcome. I figured—”
“You think you’re overstaying?” His voice cut gently but sharply through your words.
You faltered, “Well, I just—”
“You’re not,” Theo said, a little breathless now, like the words had been sitting on the edge of his tongue for too long, “You’re not overstaying. I want you here.”
Your breath hitched.
“I want to come home to you. Every day. Not to an empty flat. Not to a world where you’re somewhere else.”
His hand found yours, threading your fingers together like a lifeline. His voice dropped lower, steadier.
“Stay. Please.” His thumb brushed over your knuckles, slow and sure, “I want to come home knowing the woman I love is safe. Here. With me.”
You stared at him, wide-eyed, the world narrowing to his hand in yours, the soft thunder of rain against the windows, the warmth of his words blooming in your chest like magic.
“What do you mean, the woman you love?”
Theo let out a quiet laugh, a little stunned you hadn’t realized it already. His smile turned lopsided, eyes shining.
“Are you daft, (Y/N)?” He said, voice thick, “I’m in love with you. I’ve been taken with you since we were kids, and I’m still—” He broke off for a breath, like the truth was catching up to him all at once. “Still completely gone for you.”
Your heart did something unsteady in your chest.
“Say it again.” You whispered.
He cupped your cheek with one hand, his eyes never leaving yours.
“I’m in love with you.”
Your heart stuttered. The words lingered in the air between you, delicate and heavy all at once—like the hush after a spell’s been cast.
You didn’t look away.
You couldn’t.
“I’ve loved you for a long time too, Theo,” You whispered, the confession trembling on your tongue, “I don’t even know when it started—when I began falling for you—but I did. And I fell hard. I mean, who wouldn’t?”
You smiled through the softness in your voice, “You’re the kindest, most patient man I’ve ever met… and I’m thanking my lucky stars that I met you on the day of my wedding.”
That pulled a laugh from him—warm, full, and brimming with disbelief. He tilted his head back slightly, grinning like you’d just handed him the entire sky.
You leaned in just a fraction, voice softer now, “I want to stay. Not just in the flat. In your life. With you.”
That did it.
Theo closed the distance, his hands cradling your face as his lips found yours in a kiss that felt like coming home. It was fierce and tender all at once—like a dam breaking, like every moment of yearning pouring out of him in one breathless, burning exhale.
You melted into him, arms winding around his neck, your body pressed close as the kiss deepened—hungry now, desperate. His fingers tangled in your hair, yours fisting in his shirt, both of you trying to memorize the moment, to feel every inch of it like it could make up for all the waiting.
Weeks—months—of unspoken words, of lingering touches and stolen glances, of intimate moments that always ended with breathless silences and aching restraint—crashed into a single breath.
Theo kissed you like you were his lifeline—like he’d been holding back a storm and had finally been given permission to let it break.
You gasped as his lips trailed from your mouth to your jaw, your throat—reverent, hungry, like he was rediscovering you with every breath. “Tell me to stop,” He murmured, voice hoarse with restraint, “Say the word, and I will.”
But you didn’t. You couldn’t.
Instead, you tugged him closer, heart pounding under his palm as your fingers slid into his hair, voice trembling with a dangerous sort of affection, “If you stop, Theodore Nott, I’m sleeping at Pansy’s tonight.”
He let out a low, incredulous laugh—half-choked and fully wrecked—then kissed you again, deeper this time. Certain. Claiming. The rain tapped gently against the windows, forgotten behind the haze of fogged glass and the thrum of two hearts finally letting go.
And when he lifted you off the couch, carrying you down the hall with all the tenderness in the world and not an ounce of hesitation, the only thing either of you could think was:
About bloody time.
***
It was barely 9 a.m. when the front door to Theo’s flat creaked open—again, without so much as a knock.
Mattheo’s voice cut through the quiet, “I swear, if this idiot didn’t do the groceries and we hiked all the way here for his strawberries for nothing, I’m setting the place on fire.”
“I brought croissants.” Lorenzo offered brightly.
“You brought them from my kitchen,” Draco said flatly, “You literally stole them from my counter.”
Theo stumbled out of the bedroom, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, “Do none of you understand the concept of boundaries?”
He was mid-scowl when Blaise’s voice drifted in from the hallway, “Don't you imbeciles think it's too early to—”
And then they all fell silent.
You had just stepped out of the bedroom—the master bedroom this time, not the guest room—bleary-eyed and yawning, wearing nothing but Theo’s hoodie. Again. Hair a little messy, legs bare, looking entirely at home.
Draco blinked, “Déjà vu.”
Mattheo let out a dramatic sigh, “Alright, but like… why is it always the hoodie and no pants? Not that I’m complaining—it’s just, you know what, never mind.”
Blaise leaned against the kitchen island, arms crossed, “So what’s the excuse this time? Sleepwalking? Laundry explosion? Sudden amnesia about how trousers work?”
You didn’t even flinch.
“We’re dating,” You said flatly, tugging the sleeve of Theo’s hoodie over your hand as you rubbed your eye, “And I’m not wearing pants because I had sex with your friend. Good morning.”
Silence.
Four pairs of stunned eyes stared at you.
Lorenzo made a choked noise, “I—okay.”
Mattheo sputtered, hands flailing, “You can’t just say that without warning!”
“You asked.” You replied dryly.
Draco took a long sip of coffee, muttering behind the rim of his mug, “I owe Pansy ten Galleons.”
***
Bonus:
Your heart pounded as you stared at the closed doors, the soft strains of the wedding march beginning to drift through the wood. Your palms were sweaty around the bouquet you carried, nerves and excitement swirling in your chest.
Then, the doors swung open, revealing you in a stunning white dress, your smile bright and genuine as you began your walk down the aisle. The hush of the ceremony wrapped around you like a warm embrace, the aisle stretching ahead lined with friends and family.
A memory flickered through your mind—just a couple of years ago, you had run away from a different wedding down the hall, only to find refuge in this very chapel. It was here that you met your to-be husband, the love of your life.
Your eyes locked onto the man standing across the room, looking impossibly handsome in his tailored suit. His gaze locked onto you immediately, and for a moment, all the noise and bustle melted away. It was just you and him.
Only a few feet separated you now, but something in your heart couldn’t wait. Before you realized what you were doing, you broke into a gentle run—this time towards the groom.
Theo’s face broke into a gentle smile—the kind reserved only for you—as he reached for you. Before you could even think twice, his arms closed around you, catching you effortlessly. Your feet lifted from the floor as he spun you gently, twirling you in a slow, perfect circle.
The world blurred—lights, faces, music—all faded into a whirl of warmth and happiness.
He pressed his forehead to yours, a slow smile curling on his lips as he whispered, "You just can't wait to marry me, can you?"
You laughed softly, breath warm against his skin, "I couldn’t run away—tried it before. Too much work."
His eyes sparkled with amusement and love as he pulled you closer, the world around you fading into nothing but this perfect, shared moment.
***
EXTRA BONUS BECAUSE I CAN HEHEHE:
Hogwarts, Year 6:
You glanced across the potions table, scanning the clutter of ingredients before turning slightly toward the Slytherin bench.
“Theodore?” You said cautiously, holding your crushed lacewing flies with gloved fingers, “Could I borrow the asphodel? Just for a sec.”
He looked up from his cauldron like you’d just asked for his wand. There was a pause. Not rude, not angry—just... blank. Then, wordlessly, he slid the jar toward you across the table. His fingers brushed yours for the briefest moment when you took it. Cold skin. A little spark. His hand recoiled like he’d been burned.
“Oh. Um. Thanks.” You murmured, blinking.
He just gave a short nod, already turning away, jaw tight as he went back to slicing his valerian root like it had offended him personally.
You blinked again, confused, then padded back over to your side of the room where Pansy was lounging against the workbench like it was a chaise lounge in the Slytherin common room.
She quirked an eyebrow, “What was that?”
You shrugged, a slight pout forming on your lips, “I don’t know. I guess he just really doesn’t like me.”
Pansy snorted, “Please. If Theo really didn’t like you, you’d know.”
Meanwhile, across the room, Theo was absolutely not concentrating on his potion anymore. He was staring blankly into the cauldron, stirring too fast, ears tinged pink.
Your hands just touched.
***
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