ericshoney

[ericshoney]

The Battle of Earth ~ Avengers

Summary: You love your superhero family and would do anything for them, even if it meant risking your own life.

Warnings: Angst, Endgame spoilers, Natasha's death, injuries, fighting, Thanos.

Reader's age: 16

The air reeked of ozone and despair. Dust, thick and acrid, choked the ravaged landscape, painting the sky a perpetual twilight of grim possibilities. Y/n, at sixteen, was often told she was too young for this. Too young to wield the raw, untamed lightning that crackled at her fingertips, too young to stare down alien hordes, too young to have seen a friend, a sister, fall. But here she was, the youngest Avenger, fighting for a home that was already half-shattered, for a universe that was already half-gone.

Her hands blazed, arcs of electric blue lancing out, frying chitinous armour and sending alien soldiers screaming. Each surge of power was a cry of grief, a silent scream for Natasha. Natasha, who had traded her life for the Soul Stone. Natasha, who wasn’t here, who wouldn’t ever be here again. That anger, that raw, unaddressed sorrow, was a live wire in Y/n’s chest, making her electric powers sing with a dangerous, unstable hum.

“He’s pushing through!” Steve’s voice, strained but unwavering, cut through the din.

Y/n spun, a burst of energy launching her over a pile of rubble. Thanos, a looming gargoyle of pure might, was advancing. The Gauntlet, still empty, was clenched on his massive hand, but his intent was clear. He wanted the Stones, and he wanted them now.

“We can’t let him get near the Gauntlet!” Bruce roared from somewhere already engaging a particularly nasty worm-like creature.

Clint, eyes narrowed, fired an explosive arrow that took out a cluster of Outriders. Peter, a red and blue blur, webbed another, his youthful quips replaced by focused grunts. Tony, his suit battered but his resolve unbent, was already devising a new strategy, his eyes fixed on Thanos with grim determination.

Y/n’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. They were losing ground. Every inch gained cost them dearly. She saw it in Tony’s strained face, in Steve’s exhausted posture, in the sheer numbers of the enemy that seemed to multiply with every fallen comrade. She heard it in the triumphant roars of Thanos’s army, the desperate, fading calls of her own.

A sudden, deafening crack split the air. Thanos had secured another stone. The Space Stone, perhaps, or the Power Stone. The Gauntlet on his hand pulsed with an ominous glow.

“No!” Tony’s voice was a guttural cry. He launched himself forward, ignoring the fire around him, ignoring the danger, aiming straight for Thanos. He had a glimmer of a plan, a desperate, Hail Mary attempt to distract the Mad Titan, to snatch the Gauntlet before all was lost.

Y/n watched him, a slow, sickening dread coiling in her gut. She saw the familiar self-sacrificial glint in his eyes. Tony, her mentor, her surrogate father, was about to do something unthinkable. Something that would cost him everything. Just like Natasha.

No. Not again.

A jolt, sharp and agonising, shot through her. It wasn’t just physical pain; it was the pain of memory, of loss, of a future un-lived. The anger for Natasha, the fear for Tony, for Peter, for everyone, coalesced into a single, burning purpose.

Her electrical powers flared, not just around her hands, but over her entire body, arcing wildly like a broken circuit. It was pure, unfiltered power born of grief and desperation. She moved. Faster than she’d ever moved before, a streak of living lightning.

She intercepted Tony mid-flight, a glancing but forceful impact. He grunted, thrown off balance. “Kid, what the hell—”

Her eyes, blazing with an unnatural blue light, met his for a split second. In that fleeting moment, Tony saw it—the unyielding resolve, the raw, burning pain, the fierce love that propelled her. He saw Natasha reflected in her gaze, and then, a horrifying understanding dawned.

Y/n didn’t waste another second. With a surge of her own energy, she propelled herself towards Thanos, who was momentarily distracted by Tony’s aborted attempt. Her small hand, crackling with raw electricity, reached for the Gauntlet.

Thanos, a flicker of surprise in his eyes, tried to pull back, but Y/n’s electrical energy acted like a powerful magnetic field, drawing her to the Stones. Her fingers closed around the multi-faceted gems embedded in the Gauntlet.

A searing, unimaginable pain exploded through her.

It wasn’t just heat; it was pure, cosmic energy ripping through every cell, every nerve. She screamed, a sound torn from the deepest part of her soul, amplified by the crackle of her own powers struggling to contain the surge. The stones, ancient and impossibly powerful, began to bond with her. Her suit, designed to channel her electricity, became a conduit. The raw, alien energies mingled with her own bio-electrical power, creating a tempest of agony.

Her body convulsed. Blue lightning fused with the rainbow hues of the Infinity Stones, arcing from her very skin, making her a beacon of destructive creation. Her vision swam, blurred with fire and cosmic dust. She could vaguely hear the horrified shouts of her family, the sudden, stunned silence of Thanos.

Too much. This is too much.

But then, a whisper, like the rustle of autumn leaves, brushed her mind. “It’s okay, Y/n. You got this.” Natasha. Her voice, calm and reassuring, though impossibly distant.

Y/n gritted her teeth, tears streaming down her face, not from sorrow, but from the unbearable agony. She focused. She focused on Natasha’s face, on Tony’s worried eyes, on Peter’s earnest smile, on Steve’s steadfast resolve. She focused on the world that was, the one that needed to be again.

“I am Y/n,” she thought, her mind screaming against the cosmic onslaught. “And I am an Avenger.”

With one last, impossible surge of will, she channelled every ounce of her remaining strength, every crackle of lightning, every spark of life, and she snapped her fingers.

SNAP!

The universe imploded in a blinding flash of pure, raw energy. A wave of force, hot and electric, expanded outwards, sweeping over the battlefield, over the collapsing armies of Thanos, over everything. Time seemed to distort, and for a fleeting moment, Y/n felt herself become nothing, and then everything.

Then, darkness. Complete, absolute darkness.

~~~~

The first sensation was a dull ache. Not the searing agony of cosmic power, but a deep, pervasive throbbing that resonated through her bones. Then came the whispers, distant and indistinct. A faint beeping sound. The sterile scent of disinfectant.

Y/n groaned, the sound feeling alien and rough in her throat. Her eyelids fluttered, struggling against a heavy weight that seemed determined to keep them shut. Slowly, painstakingly, she managed to pry them open a fraction.

White. A blinding white ceiling. Familiar. Too familiar.

She tried to move, and pain lanced through her arm. A soft moan escaped her lips.

Immediately, the whispers ceased. A sudden rustle, then a voice, soft and incredibly relieved.

“Y/n? Baby, can you hear me?”

Pepper. Her voice, laced with tears and disbelief.

Y/n blinked again, forcing her eyes open wider. The world swam into focus. She was in a bed, hooked up to monitors, in what looked like the medical bay of the new Avengers Compound. The room was bathed in soft, clinical light, but it was anything but cold.

Faces. So many faces.

Pepper Potts, her eyes red-rimmed but shining with unshed tears, was leaning over her, a gentle hand reaching for her forehead.

Next to her, Tony Stark, looking like he’d aged twenty years in a few days, stood with his arms crossed, a shaky smile playing on his lips. His eyes, usually sharp with sarcasm, were soft, vulnerable, and overflowing with an emotion Y/n rarely saw from him: raw gratitude.

“Hey, kiddo,” Tony managed, his voice thick. “Welcome back.”

Y/n tried to speak, but only a raspy cough emerged.

“Easy,” Peter Parker’s voice, surprisingly steady, came from her other side. He was slumped in a chair, looking exhausted but overjoyed. “Take it slow.”

Bruce, looking rumpled and relieved, stepped forward, a small, knowing smile on his face. “You gave us quite a scare, kid. Your vitals are… remarkable, given what you just went through.”

Y/n looked around the room. Steve, his posture still straight but his face etched with worry lines, stood by the door, a look of profound relief washing over his features. Bucky and Sam were there too, both quiet but their eyes holding a warmth that radiated through the room. Clint, silent and solemn, stood near the foot of the bed, a single tear tracing a path down his weathered cheek. And Scott, still looking a little shell-shocked, gave her a thumbs-up.

Her family. They were all here. Safe.

“Natasha…?” Y/n rasped, the word a struggle, but a necessity.

A palpable silence descended. Clint swallowed hard. Tony’s expression flickered.

Pepper squeezed her hand. “Everyone who was snapped is back, Y/n. Everyone.” Her voice broke slightly. “But… Natasha… she was gone before… before Thanos… she can’t come back.”

A wave of fresh grief, duller now, but still present, washed over Y/n. She had known. Deep down, she had always known. Natasha’s sacrifice was different. But hearing it confirmed, even now, was a fresh wound.

“You did it, Y/n,” Steve said, his voice deep with emotion. “You did it. They’re all back because of you.”

Y/n looked at Tony, a silent question in her eyes. Why me? Why not you?

Tony met her gaze, his own eyes holding a mixture of pain and pride. “You… you just… you just moved faster, kid. And you had a spark. A lot of sparks, actually.” He tried for a weak joke, but his voice cracked. “You saved us all, Y/n. You saved the world.”

Bruce stepped closer. “Your powers, Y/n,” he explained gently. “They’re… unique. The electrical energy, it seemed to, well, distribute the cosmic energy of the Stones. It was still horrific, catastrophic to your system, but it spread the impact. And your will, your sheer will to do it… it bought you time.”

Y/n processed his words, the enormity of what she’d done finally sinking in. She had faced oblivion. She had looked death in the eye and, driven by love and grief, refused to yield.

“Are… are we safe now?” she whispered, the most important question of all.

Tony came closer, pulling up a chair and sitting beside her bed, his hand resting gently on her arm, a silent promise. “Yeah, kid. We’re safe. Thanos… he’s gone. His army… gone. It’s over.”

Peter shuffled closer, a shy, grateful smile on his face. “Everyone’s back, Y/n. Everyone."

Y/n looked from Peter to Tony, to Pepper, to Bruce, Steve, Clint, Bucky, Sam, Scott. Her family. The ones she had risked her life for, the ones who were now here, whole, because of her impossible choice.

A fragile smile touched her lips. The pain was still there, a constant hum beneath her skin, but it was overshadowed by an immense, overwhelming feeling of peace. She had lost Natasha, yes, and that wound would never fully heal. But she had saved everyone else. She had brought them home. And now, she was home too. Surrounded by the people she loved most in the universe, safe and sound.

The silence in the room was no longer heavy with despair, but light with relief, with a shared breath of gratitude. Y/n closed her eyes again, not in pain, but in sheer exhaustion and the profound comfort of knowing that, even after staring down the impossible, she had survived. She was an Avenger. And she was finally, truly, home.

Tags:

@mandmilovehim @riowritesitall @lgbtq-girl @onelesslonelygirlbieber6 @hongjoongsnudes @lateej @mingis-queen97 @fxckmiup

Dividers by: @issysh3ll

[ericshoney]

Support System ~ Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes.

Summary: It's been months since your dad went back to be with Peggy. You knew it would be hard without him, but just as your about to hit rock bottom, Sam and Bucky come back into your life.

Warnings: Possible swearing, angst, low mood, crying.

Reader's age: 18

The dust motes danced in the slivers of sunlight that pierced through the grime on my apartment window, illuminating the general disarray of my life. It had been, what, two months? Three? Time had blurred into a monotonous, gray sludge since the day Dad went back.

I still remembered the feel of his hand on my cheek, the warmth of his smile, the faint scent of old leather and something distinctly him. He deserved it, I’d told myself a thousand times. He deserved his dance, his life, his Peggy. And I meant it, truly. But knowing he was happy didn’t make the silence in the apartment any less deafening. It didn’t fill the gaping hole where his presence used to be.

I’d inherited his (our) small Brooklyn apartment, a space that now felt impossibly large and empty. Every corner held a memory, every creak in the floorboards sounded like his footsteps. For the first few weeks, I’d tried. I really had. I went to classes – history, ironically – I answered texts from my few friends, I even tried cooking those terrible protein shakes Dad used to make.

But the energy waned. The texts went unanswered. The takeout containers piled up in the sink. Today, I hadn't even bothered to get out of bed. The duvet was a comforting cocoon, smelling faintly of stale laundry and self-pity. My phone, long dead, lay accusingly on the nightstand. I’d missed an alarm, a lecture, maybe even a deadline. It didn’t matter. Nothing felt like it mattered.

My stomach rumbled, a dull ache that I could no longer distinguish from the emotional one. I was pretty sure I was out of microwave meals, and the thought of going to the grocery store, facing the world, felt like scaling Everest in flip-flops. This was it, wasn't it? The fabled rock bottom. I pictured myself sinking deeper, the murky water closing over my head. Maybe this was how it ended for the offspring of a legend – not with a bang, but with a whimper and a pile of unwashed dishes.

A knock echoed through the apartment, startling me so badly I nearly fell out of bed. My heart hammered. Who on earth? I hadn’t ordered anything, wasn’t expecting anyone. I burrowed deeper under the covers, hoping whoever it was would just go away.

The knock came again, firmer this time. Then, a voice, deep and familiar. "Y/n? You in there, kiddo?"

My breath hitched. Sam.

I slowly untangled myself from the blankets, my limbs stiff and heavy. My hair was a mess, my clothes were what I’d slept in for two days, and I probably smelt like existential dread. I peered through the peephole. Sam Wilson, looking surprisingly groomed despite having probably just landed from some international incident, stood on my stoop. And next to him, Bucky Barnes, his expression unreadable as ever, but with a subtle tension in his jaw.

They looked like they hadn't seen a friendly face in a while either, but definitely not like they'd spent the last week marinating in their own misery.

I opened the door a crack, just enough to show my face. Sam's usual easy smile faltered slightly as he took me in. Bucky’s eyes, however, sharpened, assessing.

"Hey," I croaked, my voice rough from disuse.

"Hey, yourself," Sam said, his voice softening. "We've been trying to get a hold of you. You, uh, been alright?"

I bit my lip, forcing myself not to look away. "Yeah. Just… busy." The lie felt pathetic even to me.

Bucky stepped forward, his gaze unwavering. "Busy doing what, Rogers? Not answering our calls? Not picking up your mail? Your landlord called Sam, said your rent was late. Again."

My cheeks flushed. Of course, they’d gone straight to the source. Steve had always been so meticulously organised, so responsible. I was doing a terrible job of upholding the family name.

Sam nudged Bucky subtly. "Look, we were in the neighbourhood. Just wanted to check in." He gestured vaguely at the world outside. "You wanna, uh, invite us in? It's kind of cold out here."

I hesitated, wanting nothing more than for them to leave so I could crawl back into my cave. But then I looked at their faces. Sam, with that earnest, worried look, and Bucky, who just looked… tired, but present. They weren’t strangers; they were the closest thing I had left to family, aside from the few remaining Avengers scattered across the globe. They were Dad’s family.

I sighed, pulling the door open wider. "Come in."

The moment they stepped inside, the oppressive silence of the apartment seemed to lessen, replaced by the quiet rustle of their jackets, the shift of their weight. Sam immediately started looking around, not invasive, but with a concerned eye on the pile of boxes, the neglected plants, the general evidence of my downward spiral. Bucky, true to form, just found a relatively clean spot on the counter and leaned against it, observing me.

"You look like hell, Y/N," Bucky said, his voice blunt, but without malice.

I managed a weak, self-deprecating laugh. "Thanks, Bucky. You, too."

Sam cleared his throat. "Okay, so maybe 'busy' isn't quite the word. Look, we get it. It's hard. Steve… he left a big hole."

"It's bigger than I thought," I admitted, my voice barely a whisper. Tears pricked at my eyes, surprising me. I hadn’t cried in weeks. "I just… I knew it would be lonely, but I didn't know it would be like this. Like I’m forgetting how to be a person."

Sam walked over, his expression softening further. He put a hand on my shoulder, a steady, comforting weight. "Hey. You're not forgetting anything. You're just… grieving. And that's okay. But you don't have to do it alone."

Bucky pushed off the counter. "When's the last time you ate something that wasn't from a box?"

I blinked. "Uh…"

"Right. Sam, you got those groceries in the car?" Bucky didn't wait for an answer, striding towards the door. "We're making actual food. And then we're going to clean this place. And then you're going to tell us what you need."

Sam squeezed my shoulder gently. "He's right. Your dad wouldn't want you to be like this, Y/N. And neither do we." He gestured towards the door Bucky had just exited. "We're here. For real."

Looking at them, two men who had lost as much, if not more, than I had, who still stood tall, something shifted inside me. The rock bottom might have been reached, but maybe, just maybe, there were hands reaching down to pull me back up. The thought, alien and fragile, felt like the first breath of fresh air in months.

"Okay," I said, a faint tremor in my voice. "Okay. What are we making?"

Tags:

@mandmilovehim @riowritesitall @lgbtq-girl @onelesslonelygirlbieber6 @hongjoongsnudes @lateej @mingis-queen97 @fxckmiup

Dividers by: @issysh3ll

[ericshoney]

It's my birthday!🐝

[ericshoney]

Got7 Masterlist

Mark Jay B (JaeBeom) Jackson

~ Fun Fashion (Oneshot)

Jinyoung Youngjae BamBam Yugyeom

~~

Tags:

@mandmilovehim @sanaxo-o @hongjoongsnudes @lateej @mingis-queen97

[ericshoney]

Fun Fashion ~ Jackson Wang

Summary: You and Jackson spend the night looking back on some of his early fashion choices.

Warnings: None.

A/N: Dedicated to @mandmilovehim who sends me random reels and TikToks of Jackson's bad hair as an early idol. 😅

The city lights blurred outside our penthouse window, a sparkling backdrop to our haven. Tonight wasn't about red carpets, screaming fans, or gruelling studio sessions. Tonight was ours. Just me, Jackson, a mountain of gourmet popcorn, two dangerously large milk teas, and the vast, often embarrassing, landscape of the internet.

Jackson had his arm around me, pulling me closer on the plush sofa. The dimmed lights cast a warm glow on his face, highlighting the familiar crinkles around his eyes when he smiled. "Alright, babe," he said, his voice a low rumble against my ear, "you ready for this journey back in time?"

I snorted, already bracing myself. "Born ready. Show me the cringe."

He grinned, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he navigated to a carefully curated folder on his laptop – "Jackson's Regrettable Fashion Choices: The Early Years."

The first image popped up, and I instantly dissolved into a fit of giggles. It was from the "Girls Girls Girls" era, a debut-era Jackson with hair that defied gravity. Each strand seemed to have its own agenda, spiked up, out, and in every direction, coloured a rather unfortunate shade of orange-red that clashed spectacularly with his bright, oversized hoodie and multiple chunky chains.

"Oh my god," I choked out, clutching my stomach. "Jackson, what were you thinking?!"

He groaned, burying his face in my shoulder. "I wasn't thinking! I was 19! And that was 'fashion' back then! It was supposed to be edgy!"

"It was... certainly a choice," I managed, wiping a tear of laughter from my eye. "You look like a very enthusiastic, very spiky-haired fruit."

He pulled back, a mock-offended look on his face. "Hey! I thought I was cool!"

"You were adorable," I corrected, pinching his cheek. "Adorably misguided."

He scrolled to the next one, and I gasped, a fresh wave of laughter bubbling up. This one was from an early awards show. Jackson was decked out in what appeared to be an ill-fitting, shiny suit – maybe satin? – His hair was slicked back, but a few defiant strands had escaped, making him look like he'd just run through a wind tunnel. The expression on his young face was earnest, almost painfully so.

"The suit!" I shrieked. "And the pose! You look like you're trying to contain a sneeze while simultaneously levitating!"

Jackson winced. "Okay, that suit was bad. I'll give you that. It felt like I was wearing a plastic bag. And the hair! My stylist was really committed to that 'wet look' phase."

We scrolled on, each meme prompting a new wave of cackles. There was the "A" era Jackson with the bright blonde, almost ramen-noodle-like hair, paired with a patterned shirt that seemed to scream "tropical disco."

"The ramen hair!" I exclaimed, pointing a triumphant finger. "I knew it existed! It's so... fluffy!"

"I felt like a sheepdog sometimes," he confessed, shaking his head. "And it shed everywhere."

Then came a series of "Just Right" era photos. While generally adorable for their bright, candy-coloured aesthetic, even here, early Jackson found ways to be meme-worthy. One showed him with a perfectly round, almost mushroom-cut blonde hair, wearing an oversized, brightly patterned top that made him look like a very fashionable, if slightly bewildered, child.

"You look so innocent here," I cooed, tracing his younger face on the screen. "Like you don't even know what's coming."

"I had no idea," he agreed, leaning his head on mine. "Just trying to survive on set and look good in front of the camera, which, apparently, I sometimes failed at."

The best, or worst, depending on how you looked at it, was a compilation meme. It juxtaposed a glamorous, sharp-suited, current-day Jackson with a series of his most questionable early looks – the spiky hair, the baggy pants, the excessive bling, a particularly memorable pair of sunglasses that dwarfed his face. The caption simply read: "Growth."

I practically snorted milk tea out my nose. "Oh my god, the sunglasses! You look like a tiny fly!"

Jackson dissolved into helpless laughter beside me, his shoulders shaking. "Okay, okay! That one hurts! My stylist said they were 'futuristic'!"

"They were... certainly from the future," I said, catching my breath. "Like, a Mad Max future where everyone has terrible eye wear."

He wrapped his arms tighter around me, pulling me impossibly close. His laughter slowly subsided, leaving behind a comfortable silence punctuated by our soft breathing.

"You know," he murmured into my hair, "it's good to look back sometimes. See how far you've come."

"And how far your stylists have come," I teased, poking his side.

He chuckled. "Definitely. But seriously, it's nice to share this with you. Not having to be 'Jackson Wang, the Idol,' just Jackson."

I leaned my head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. "I like Jackson. Especially the one who can laugh at his ridiculous early-20s fashion choices."

He kissed the top of my head. "You love me. And you secretly loved the spiky red hair."

"Don't push it, Wang," I warned, but a smile was playing on my lips. "Now, about that picture of you in the sequined vest..."

He groaned dramatically. "Oh, no. We are not going there."

But the night was still young, and the archives were deep. And for tonight, that was perfectly fine.

Tags:

@hongjoongsnudes @sanaxo-o @mingis-queen97 @lateej

Dividers by: @bernardsbendystraws

[ericshoney]

💞

like, reblog, and tag @bernardsbendystraws when using <333

requested by @mattswifeyyy & @lvrsturniolo

[ericshoney]

I NEED new sturniolo × sister stories from you

Hi! More are in the works it just takes time :)

[ericshoney]

Classmate ~ Peter Parker

Summary: On a night looking over the city, Peter notices a person trying to break into a store, but when he confronts the person, he realises it's you, his quiet classmate

Warnings: Possible swearing

Reader's age: 16

The city was a sprawling tapestry of shimmering lights beneath Peter, a comforting hum of unseen lives unfolding far below. Perched precariously on a water tower, he savoured the cool night air that whipped through the gaps in his suit. Another relatively uneventful patrol – a couple of snatched purses returned, a cat rescued from a tree (much to the cat’s indignant meow), and a small fire swiftly dealt with. He stretched, the satisfying pop of his back a testament to a night's worth of acrobatics.

Suddenly, a low thrum vibrated through him – his spider-sense, a gentle hum that often turned into a blaring alarm. It wasn't urgent, but it was persistent, drawing his attention to the street level. His eyes, enhanced by the suit's lenses, scanned the block. Tucked away between a brightly lit noodle bar and a perpetually closed antique shop was "The Painted Canvas," a small art supply store. And by its back door, hunched over, was a figure in a dark hoodie, fumbling with something metallic.

Breaking and entering? Peter’s brow furrowed under his mask. He launched himself off the water tower, a silent red-and-blue blur, landing with a soft thud on the fire escape above the suspicious figure. "Evening, my shadowy friend!" he announced, his voice a playful boom, modulated to sound a little more heroic, a little less sixteen. "Having trouble remembering your key code, or are we auditioning for 'Oceans Fourteen' tonight?"

The figure froze, hands still, then slowly, hesitantly, turned around. The hood slipped back slightly, catching the faint glow of a distant streetlamp. Peter’s quip died in his throat, replaced by a cold knot of dread.

It was Y/n.

His quiet classmate. The one who always sat by the window in art class, sketching intricate designs in their notebook. The one who rarely spoke above a whisper but had an undeniable talent for capturing the mundane beauty of the world. Y/n. Here. Trying to jimmy the lock on an art supply store.

Y/n’s eyes, wide with sheer, unadulterated terror, stared directly at him. "Sp-Spider-Man?" they stammered, their voice barely audible. Their face had gone utterly, sickly pale.

Peter’s own heart hammered against his ribs. This was all wrong. Y/n wasn't a criminal. They looked more like a rabbit caught in a predator's gaze. "Y-Y/n?" Peter blurted out, then immediately wanted to kick himself. Idiot, Parker! You just blew your cover! He quickly scrambled to correct himself, hoping the mask obscured his fluster. "Excuse me, citizen, what are you doing trying to gain unauthorised entry into a private business?"

Y/n flinched, then looked down at their trembling hands, where a bent paperclip and a flimsy plastic card lay discarded on the grimy concrete. "I... I wasn't... I mean, I am, but not really..." They trailed off, their shoulders slumping in defeat.

"I left my portfolio inside. After closing. It's for the scholarship competition. The deadline is tomorrow morning. I went back as soon as I realised, but Mr. Henderson isn't answering his phone, and it's my whole application, and I just... I panicked." They gestured weakly at the stubborn lock. "I just need to get it and leave. I swear."

Peter landed softly on the ground, maintaining a vigilant but less confrontational stance. He took in Y/n’s desperate face, the genuine distress in their eyes. A scholarship. An art portfolio. Panic. It sounded painfully, utterly Y/n – a quiet, dedicated student driven to desperate measures. He remembered Y/n talking excitedly about this competition a few weeks ago.

"You realise this is still breaking and entering, right?" Peter said, trying to keep his voice level, even as his mind raced. He knew the art scholarship was a huge deal at school, a potential ticket to a prestigious art institute.

Y/n nodded miserably. "I know. I just... I didn't know what else to do. It represents almost a year of work. It’s irreplaceable."

Peter sighed, a long, weary sound that was almost more Peter Parker than Spider-Man. "Alright," he said, stepping closer to the door. "Stand back."

Y/n’s eyes widened again, this time with a flicker of hope. "You're... you're going to help me?"

"I'm going to ensure no one actually breaks in," he corrected smoothly, leaning in to examine the lock. It was a standard cylinder lock, tricky but not impossible for someone with enhanced dexterity and a flexible web-line. "And that you retrieve your... academic property without causing a felony record or a massive repair bill."

He carefully inserted a thin web-line into the keyhole, manipulating the tumblers with precise, almost surgical movements. His enhanced senses made it surprisingly quick. A quiet click echoed in the alley.

Y/n gasped. "You... you unlocked it?"

"Just checking for structural weaknesses in the security system," Peter mumbled, pushing the door open a crack. "Go. Quick. And don't touch anything else. Seriously."

Y/n hesitated for a second, then darted inside like a startled rabbit. Peter stood guard, his senses alert, ready to pull them out if trouble arose. Through the glass storefront, he could see Y/n moving with purpose, heading straight for a large flat file cabinet. A moment later, they emerged, clutching a large, battered black portfolio to their chest. Their face was alight with relief.

"I got it!" they whispered, eyes shining. "Oh my god, thank you, Spider-Man. Thank you, thank you!"

"Don't mention it," Peter said, swinging the door shut carefully. He didn't lock it again; that was the store owner's problem in the morning, but he made sure it was securely closed. "Now go home. And next time, try a phone call before you attempt a jail sentence."

Y/n nodded vigorously, a small, grateful smile gracing their lips. "I will! Never again. Thank you, really." They gave him one last bewildered, appreciative look, then turned and scurried away into the night, clutching their portfolio like a lifeline.

Peter watched them go, a strange mix of emotions swirling inside him. Relief that Y/n wasn't a real criminal. Concern that they'd been so desperate. And a hefty dose of awkwardness for tomorrow.

~~~~

The next morning in Chemistry, Peter found himself subconsciously tracking Y/n as they entered the classroom. They looked exactly like they always did – quiet, slightly reserved, impeccably neat. They sat down, as usual, two rows ahead of him, pulling out their textbook and a familiar, well-loved pencil case.

Y/n looked up briefly, their eyes meeting his across the classroom. A faint, almost imperceptible blush rose on their cheeks, and they quickly looked away, back at their textbook. But for a fleeting moment, Peter thought he saw a hint of something in their gaze – a shared secret, a silent understanding. And maybe, just maybe, a flash of genuine, though unspoken, gratitude.

Peter grinned to himself, a small, internal smile that no one else could see. Maybe his quiet classmate wasn't so quiet after all. And maybe, just maybe, he'd have to keep a closer eye on them from now on. Not because they were a threat, but because sometimes, the quietest people had the most unexpected, desperate, and utterly human stories.

Tags:

@mandmilovehim @lgbtq-girl @onelesslonelygirlbieber6 @riowritesitall @hongjoongsnudes @mingis-queen97 @lateej

Dividers by: @bernardsbendystraws

[ericshoney]

Another Sister ~ Natasha Romanoff

Summary: After the team receives a new mission on a suspected target, Natasha didn't think there would be any blood relation.

Warnings: Possible swearing, fighting family discovery.

Reader's age: 15

The hum of the Quinjet was a familiar lullaby, but the tension in the cabin was sharp enough to cut through it. Natasha sat opposite Steve, her gaze fixed on the holographic display hovering between them. A grainy satellite image of an abandoned factory district in Queens.

"Our target, has been operating under the radar for the past six months. High-level data breaches, industrial espionage, some low-key sabotage. Nothing life-threatening, but enough to piss off a lot of powerful people. They're good, incredibly good. Ghost-in-the-machine type stuff. We've traced their digital breadcrumbs to this disused factory." Tony informed.

"Any intel on who we're looking for?" Clint asked, checking his bow.

"That's the kicker," Tony replied. "No face, no name, no significant physical footprint. Just a unique digital signature we've code-named 'Phantom Weaver.' We're talking about someone who can slip through classified networks like water. Could be an individual, could be a cell. Our intel suggests a single actor, incredibly skilled."

Natasha felt a familiar surge of professional curiosity. An unknown, highly capable operative. This was her kind of challenge. She'd reviewed the sparse data files. A few vague, blurry public surveillance shots that showed little more than a hooded figure, their face obscured.

The Quinjet touched down silently a discreet distance from the factory. The air was thick with the scent of damp concrete and rust. The building itself was a hulking, skeletal structure of crumbling brick and broken windows, a testament to forgotten industry.

"Splitting up," Steve ordered, "Clint, you take the east perimeter. Nat, Tony, we'll go through the main entrance. Remember, apprehend, don't escalate unless necessary. We don't know who or what we're dealing with."

Natasha moved like a shadow through the derelict corridors, her boots crunching on fallen debris. The interior was a maze of rusted machinery, dark corners, and the ghostly remains of production lines. Dust motes danced in the sparse beams of light filtering through the grimy windows.

"Heat signatures detected," Tony's voice came through her earpiece. "One primary target, central processing area. Also… a few automated defences. Looks like mini-turrets. Our Phantom Weaver likes their privacy."

Natasha smirked. Good. A challenge. She disarmed the first pressure-plate trap with practised ease, then swiftly disabled a small laser grid. The target was resourceful, undeniably.

They converged on a large, open space that had clearly been repurposed. Wires snaked across the floor like digital vines, connecting an array of mismatched screens, salvaged servers, and blinking lights. The air hummed with electricity and the faint, rhythmic click of keys.

And there, amidst the chaotic genius of their setup, was the Phantom Weaver.

She was small, slender, hunched over a bank of monitors, fingers flying across a custom-built keyboard. A mess of dark red hair, almost crimson in the dim light, was pulled back in a haphazard ponytail. She wore worn combat boots, cargo pants, and a faded hoodie.

"Target sighted," Natasha whispered into her comm. "Looks like a kid."

Steve’s eyes widened slightly. Tony hesitated with a repulsor blast poised. "A kid?"

The girl hadn't noticed them yet, consumed by her work. Her face was illuminated by the glow of the screens, revealing a sharp, intelligent profile, a smattering of freckles across her nose.

As Natasha stepped out of the shadows, a loose piece of metal clanged under her boot.

The girl froze. Her head snapped up, revealing startlingly familiar green eyes that widened in an instant of pure, raw panic. Before Natasha could react, she slammed her hand down on a large red button on her console.

The factory floor erupted. Emergency lights flashed red, klaxons blared, and hidden vents hissed, spewing out a thick, disorienting smoke. Small, agile drones, no bigger than dinner plates, whirred to life from concealed docks, armed with incapacitating shocks.

"She's retreating!" Clint's voice cut through the chaos. "Heading for the ventilation shafts!"

Natasha moved, fluid and fast, dodging a drone that zipped past her head. The girl, despite her shock, was incredibly nimble, already scrambling up a pile of crates towards a ventilation shaft opening.

"Stop!" Natasha commanded, her voice cutting through the alarms.

The girl hesitated, glancing back. And in that brief, terrified moment, illuminated by a flickering emergency light, Natasha saw it. Not just the green eyes, but the determined set of her jaw, the slight curl of her lips when she was concentrating, even the way she moved – a coiled spring, ready to strike or flee. It was like looking into a distorted mirror of her own younger self.

A shard of memory, sharp and sudden, pierced Natasha's carefully constructed mental walls. A blurry photo, a whisper of a name from a forgotten file, dismissed decades ago as a ghost. A file that had been buried, erased, impossible.

"Wait," Natasha said, her voice strained, a different urgency in it now. "Don't engage. Stand down."

Steve, mid-lunge after the girl, pulled back, confused. Tony lowered his repulsors. The drones, following their programmer's last command, continued to swarm, but the Avengers mostly ignored them, their attention fixed on Natasha.

The girl, sensing the shift, froze at the mouth of the vent, her green eyes fixed on Natasha's face, a complex mix of defiance and fear warring within them.

Natasha took a slow, deliberate step forward, ignoring the drone buzzing inches from her ear. "What's your name?" she asked, her voice softer than it had been in years.

The girl's chin lifted, a flicker of that Romanoff stubbornness Natasha knew so well. "Y/n," she said, her voice raspy, laced with a New York street edge. "Y/n Romanoff."

The name hit Natasha like a physical blow. The air left her lungs. Romanoff. It wasn't possible. She knew of one sister, not two.

But those eyes. That hair. The impossible, undeniable echo of herself. Fifteen. The trouble-making, the exceptional skill, the operating outside the system, the sheer defiance – it all fit.

"Natasha?" Steve asked, concern lacing his tone, seeing the blood drain from her face.

Natasha ignored him. Her gaze never left Y/n's face. "My name is Natasha." Then, the words felt foreign on her tongue, yet utterly right. "I'm your sister."

Y/n’s eyes widened even further, a fragile vulnerability replacing the defiance. Betrayal, disbelief, perhaps even a flicker of desperate hope. She recoiled slightly, as if Natasha had struck her. "No," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the dying klaxons. "That's… that's impossible. I don't have a family."

Natasha took another step forward, slowly, cautiously, as if approaching a skittish wild animal. "Is it?" she murmured, her voice thick with emotion she hadn't known she possessed. The mission, the target, the apprehension—it all dissolved into nothing. All that remained was a fifteen-year-old girl, her sister, standing on the precipice of a new, unimaginable reality.

The abandoned factory, filled just moments ago with the cacophony of an Avengers raid, fell silent, save for the hum of Y/n's remaining active screens and the pounding of Natasha's own heart. The ghost in the machine wasn't a phantom, but blood and bone, and Natasha Romanoff's world had just been irrevocably, profoundly changed.

Tags:

@mandmilovehim @riowritesitall @lgbtq-girl @onelesslonelygirlbieber6 @hongjoongsnudes @lateej @mingis-queen97

Dividers by: @issysh3ll

[ericshoney]

Birthday ~ Seventeen 14th!Member AU

Summary: It's your birthday so the guys decide to do the classic "forgotten birthday" prank.

Warnings: Possible swearing, smallest amount of angst, crying, fluff, Oppas.

The first thing I did when my alarm chimed at 7 AM was smack it, then roll over and bury my face in my pillow, a wide, goofy grin stretching across my lips. Today was the day. My 25th birthday. I was practically buzzing with anticipation. I imagined the chaotic wake-up call, the chorus of "Happy Birthday!" from my thirteen older brothers, maybe a special breakfast that Joshua had secretly planned.

I flung off my covers and practically skipped out of my room, ready to embrace the day. The dorm was… silent. Unnaturally silent for a Saturday morning. No clanking from the kitchen, no Seungkwan’s loud singing, no Soonyoung practising a new dance move in the living room.

I padded into the kitchen. Mingyu was making coffee, focused intently on the machine. "Morning, Y/n." he mumbled, not looking up.

"Morning, oppa," I said, trying to sound casual, waiting. He poured his coffee. No “Happy Birthday.” Nothing.

Okay, maybe he’s still half-asleep.

I wandered into the living room. Jeonghan was sprawled on the couch, scrolling through his phone, and Wonwoo was reading a book, his usual stoic expression in place.

"Hey, guys," I chirped, making sure my voice was bright.

Jeonghan barely grunted, not even bothering to look up. Wonwoo grunted too, turning a page. My smile faltered.

"Anything, uh… special happening today?" I asked, trying to sound innocent.

Jeonghan finally looked up, raising an eyebrow. "Special? Just practice later, same as always. Why?" He gave me that innocent, slightly too-wide eyed look that usually meant he was up to no good, but right now it just made me feel… confused.

"Oh. Okay." I mumbled, retreating to my room to get ready for our morning schedule.

Throughout the morning, it was the same. Seungkwan complained about having to wake up early for vocal practice without a single "Happy Birthday." Seokmin gave me a high-five for nailing a difficult harmony, but no extra squeeze of the hand, no whispered congratulations. Even Seungcheol who was usually the first to remember everyone’s special days, just discussed our upcoming comeback details with me, his brow furrowed in concentration.

By lunch, a cold knot of disappointment had settled in my stomach. We were at the company cafeteria, and I watched as Jun caught Soonyoung's attention, mouthing something about a new choreography. Not a single glance my way. I picked at my food, trying to swallow the lump in my throat.

Maybe they just forgot? But how could all of them forget? What if it was a test? A hidden camera prank? I kept looking for a camera, a hidden smile, anything. Nothing. Just business as usual.

In the dance studio, Soonyoung was barking instructions, completely oblivious. Dino asked me to spot him on a particularly tricky spin, and I did, my movements stiff. Even Jihoon, usually so observant, was just immersed in his work, tweaking a track on his laptop.

As the day wore on, the initial disappointment morphed into genuine hurt. I felt a weird mix of anger and sadness. Were they really this busy? Or did I just not matter enough for them to remember? It was my 25th birthday, a quarter-century!

By the time we got back to the dorm around 9 PM, I was exhausted, physically and emotionally. The laughter and chatter from the other members felt distant, like background noise. I just wanted to crawl into my bed and hide.

"Y/n, can you grab my charger from my room?" Joshua asked just as I was heading towards my own door. "It's on my bedside table."

I nodded, too tired to argue, and trudged into his room. The charger wasn't immediately visible, so I had to bend down a bit, peering behind his nightstand.

"Seriously," I muttered to myself, a frustrated sigh escaping my lips. "Not a single one of them. Forgetting your youngest member's birthday. This is a new low, Seventeen."

Just as I found the charger and went back downstairs, the dorm went into darkness.

My heart leaped into my throat. "Guys?"

Suddenly, a blinding flash of light, followed by a roar of voices.

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY, Y/N!"

The living room exploded into light. Balloons in every shade of purple and pink filled the air. A huge banner hung across the wall: "Happy Birthday Our Beloved Maknae!" And there they were, all thirteen of them, standing in front of a giant cake, candles flickering merrily, their faces split into wide, triumphant grins.

"Surprise!" Seungkwan practically shrieked, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

My jaw dropped. The charger slipped from my hand and clattered to the floor. My eyes, which had been stinging with tears of sadness all day, now brimmed with tears of overwhelming relief and joy.

"You guys…" I choked out, a shaky laugh bubbling up. "You really… I really thought…"

Jeonghan walked over, a smirk playing on his lips, and wrapped an arm around my shoulders. "You really thought we'd forget our Maknae's birthday? After all these years?" His eyes were twinkling mischievously. "We just had to make it extra memorable."

"We worked so hard to keep straight faces all day!" Soonyoung confessed, fanning himself dramatically. "It was so difficult when you kept looking at us so sadly!"

Mingyu, who I’d thought was just making coffee that morning, pulled me into a big hug. "You should've seen your face when I ignored you. My heart almost broke! But Cheol-hyung said we had to really sell it."

Seungcheol ruffled my hair, looking genuinely pleased. "Happy Birthday, Y/n. You were so good today, you genuinely believed us."

I swiped at the tears now freely falling down my cheeks, a mix of relief, warmth, and a touch of lingering indignation. "You're all terrible actors! And you made me feel so awful!" I playfully slapped Jeonghan’s arm, but it was weak and full of affection.

"That's part of the fun, isn't it?" Wonwoo said, a rare, soft smile on his face. "Now, come on. Make a wish. We’re starving for cake."

As I stood in front of the flickering candles, surrounded by the chaotic, loving energy of my brothers, a warmth spread through my chest that chased away every lingering doubt from the day. They hadn't forgotten. They never would. This was just their way of reminding me how much I meant to them, even if it involved a little pain beforehand. And honestly? It made the "Happy Birthday" feel even sweeter.

I closed my eyes, a genuine smile finally gracing my face. My wish was simple: to always have these crazy, loving boys by my side.

Tags:

@mandmilovehim @hongjoongsnudes @sanaxo-o @onelesslonelygirlbieber6 @lgbtq-girl @lateej @mingis-queen97

Dividers by: @issysh3ll

[ericshoney]

Troublemaker ~ Avengers

Summary: Being a troublemaker teen in the avengers compound is fun until the grownups step in.

Warnings: Possible swearing

Reader's age: 14

The Avengers Compound was less a hardened military base and more a really, really big, ridiculously high-tech shared house. And I, Y/n, age fourteen, was its resident chaos demon. Being the youngest Avenger wasn't just a title; it was a lifestyle. While Iron Man was busy saving the world, and Captain America was, well, Captain America-ing, I was usually focused on more pressing matters, like whether I could sneak extra cookies from the kitchen or if I could rig the common room's giant monitor to play my favourite anime on loop.

I wasn’t a bad kid, not really. I cared about the team. They were my family, even if they were all annoyingly adult-sized and prone to giving lectures. But being fourteen and having the coolest powers on the planet (yes, I do think my energy manipulation is cooler than a super-soldier serum, sorry Cap), meant that rules often felt… optional. More like suggestions. Especially when those suggestions interfered with my highly important personal agenda, which usually involved avoiding chores, maximising screen time, and generally seeing how far I could push the boundaries before an actual adult noticed.

My routine started early, or rather, it started late. While Steve was probably on his third ten-mile run, I was usually still snuggled under my ridiculously soft duvet, ignoring FRIDAY's polite reminders about morning training. “Y/n, Agent Romanoff requires your presence in Gym Delta in ten minutes.” Snooze. “Y/n, this is the final warning before I alert Captain Rogers.” Five more minutes. I’d usually drag myself out, throw on some ridiculously oversized sweats, and make it down just as Natasha was starting to look like she might phase through the floor and drag me out herself.

Training was a prime example of my unique approach to rules. While everyone else was focused and precise, I’d be experimenting. “Wait, what if I charge my shield throw with a kinetic burst then add an energy pulse?” I’d ask, usually right before I accidentally sent whatever I was aiming at spinning off into the rafters. Steve would sigh, Natasha would raise an eyebrow, and Tony would usually be on his comms, muttering something about “another structural integrity check.” Fun, right? For me, absolutely. For them, less so.

Then there were the ‘after hours’ incidents. The compound was huge, full of labs, workshops, and restricted zones. Tony had a habit of leaving half-finished prototypes scattered around his main lab, and I, being me, found it irresistible to wander in, carefully (mostly) touch shiny things, and maybe, just maybe, try to interface my personal gaming console with one of his holographic displays. Bruce would find me sometimes, hunched over a console, humming to myself. He’d just shake his head, a small smile playing on his lips, and murmur, “Try not to break anything, Y/n. Tony gets… possessive.” I never actually broke anything critical, but I did once accidentally reroute the coffee machine’s power to the main comms system, causing a temporary blackout in the kitchen during morning rush. Clint still brought it up sometimes.

My room was another testament to my free spirit. It looked like a small, highly localised hurricane had passed through it. Clothes on the floor, empty snack wrappers under the bed, decommissioned tech magazines piled next to my gaming rig. “Y/n, your designated chore for today is room tidying,” FRIDAY would remind me daily. I’d just hum a little tune and continue my quest to beat the final boss on Level 12. Steve had tried the “cleanliness is next to godliness” speech. Natasha had just walked in, taken one look, and silently handed me a trash bag. Tony had offered to build a self-cleaning robot for me, then rescinded the offer when he realised I’d probably just re-program it to fetch me snacks.

The team, for all their exasperation, were usually pretty chill about it. They saw me as the kid, the one who kept things light even when the world was literally on fire. But lately, the smiles had been getting a little tighter, the sighs a little longer. Tony’s warnings about “respecting the internal network” were more frequent. Steve’s “we need to talk about responsibility” talks were less theoretical and more direct. Even Natasha’s deadpan expressions seemed to hold a hint of genuine annoyance.

The final straw came, as most things do, from a combination of bad judgement and a craving for something utterly trivial. It was late on a Tuesday night. Everyone else was asleep, or at least pretending to be. I was starving, but not for just any snack. I wanted the specific, limited-edition chocolate bars Tony hoarded in his personal, temperature-controlled, bio-metrically locked pantry. Most of the compound’s general food stores were open, but Tony’s private stash required Level 5 clearance. Which I, a Level 3, didn't have.

But I did have a knack for finding loopholes. I knew the compound’s internal network better than anyone apart from Tony, Bruce, and FRIDAY, I figured out a back-door protocol, a half-finished diagnostic pathway Tony had left open months ago, during a system overhaul. It was meant for emergency contractor access, not for a fourteen-year-old on a sugar quest. I slipped through the digital barrier, redirected a few minor security alerts, and, feeling incredibly pleased with myself, bypassed the last lock on the pantry. Score! Three bars of pure heaven.

I consumed my illicit gains in the common room, basking in the glow of my victory and the quiet hum of the compound. What I didn’t realise was that my little "loophole" had, in its own way, caused a very minor, but very persistent, system glitch in the compound’s energy consumption logs. Nothing that would cause an alarm, just an annoying flicker that FRIDAY flagged to Tony as an "unaccounted power drain event," forcing him to spend his early morning hours tracking it down.

The next morning, I walked into the kitchen, a spring in my step, ready to face whatever boring drills Natasha had planned. Tony was already there, nursing a giant coffee mug, looking more tired than usual. Steve was at the counter, meticulously wiping it down, an expression of grim determination on his face. Natasha leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. Clint sat at the table, just staring at me with a knowing look. And Bruce was fiddling with his tablet, occasionally muttering something about "anomalous energy signatures."

“Morning, team!” I chirped, reaching for the cereal.

Tony looked at me over the rim of his mug. “Morning, Sunshine. Had a good night?” His voice was calm, too calm.

I shrugged. “Yeah, fine. Slept great.”

“That’s good,” Steve said, his voice unusually flat. “Because some of us spent the early hours tracking down a phantom power drain in the compound’s Level 5 systems.”

My hand froze, halfway to the cereal box. My mind flashed back to the chocolate bars. Oh. Crap.

Natasha stepped forward, her eyes narrowing. “Turns out, the drain was caused by a very specific, very unauthorised access to a restricted pantry. An access that somehow bypassed internal security protocols that are generally considered unbreachable by anyone without Level 5 clearance or… a very specific, very Y/n-like method of exploiting a diagnostic back-door.”

My cheeks flushed. I opened my mouth to say something, anything, but Tony cut me off. “You know, Y/n, for someone who avoids training with the dedication of a super villain, you put an awful lot of effort into breaking rules. This isn’t the first time. The coffee machine. The gaming console on the training simulator. The time you tried to hot-wire a Quinjet for ‘personal navigation practice’.”

“It was just a chocolate bar!” I blurted out, feeling unfairly ganged up on.

“It’s not about the chocolate, Y/n,” Steve said, his voice firm but not angry. “It’s about responsibility. It’s about trust. We live and work in a place where one misplaced action, one ignored protocol, could have serious consequences. For you, for us, for everyone out there.” He gestured vaguely towards the outside world.

Bruce finally looked up from his tablet. “Your little ‘hack,’ Y/n, while impressive from an engineering standpoint, caused a momentary instability in the localised power grid. Nothing critical, but think what would happen if that instability occurred during a sensitive experiment, or a critical data transfer.”

“We love you, kid,” Clint added, his voice softer. “But you’re not just a kid anymore. You’re an Avenger. That comes with expectations.”

I looked at them, a wall of concerned, exasperated, but undeniably loving faces. My usual defiance faltered. They weren’t yelling. They weren’t grounding me. They were just… disappointed. And that, somehow, hit harder than any lecture.

“So,” Natasha said, breaking the silence, “here’s how this is going to work. First, no tech privileges outside of schoolwork or essential Avenger duties for the next week. That includes your gaming console.” My jaw dropped. “Second, you’re on compound-wide chore duty for the next two weeks. And yes, that includes cleaning Tony’s lab.” Tony smirked. “Third, every morning, you will be in Gym Delta five minutes before your scheduled training. And if you’re late, you’ll be doing extra drills with Steve.”

My stomach churned. This wasn't fun anymore. This was… punishment. Real, actual, responsible-adult-level punishment.

“And finally,” Steve added, his voice softening just a fraction, “we’re going to have a serious conversation every evening about what it means to be a part of this team. No more ‘optional’.”

I mumbled, “Okay.” The fight had gone right out of me.

The next two weeks were… humbling. My room was spotless, which was a minor miracle. Tony’s lab was tidier than it had been in months. And I learned that Steve Rogers had an endless supply of incredibly challenging, surprisingly fun (when you weren't dreading them) training drills. I even found myself arriving early to Gym Delta, just to avoid those additional drills. The evening conversations were surprisingly insightful. They talked about the weight of their responsibilities, the compromises they made, the genuine concern they felt for each other. For me.

It wasn’t like I completely transformed. I still had my moments. I still grumbled about chores and tried to push a boundary or two. But something had shifted. I understood, truly understood, that the "grownups stepping in" wasn't about stifling my fun. It was about making sure I was safe, and that I understood the importance of the team. Being a troublemaker was fun, but being a valued, trusted Avenger? That was even better. Even if it meant no more illicit chocolate bars. For now, anyway. I was still fourteen, after all. There were always new loopholes to find.

Tags:

@mandmilovehim @riowritesitall @lgbtq-girl @onelesslonelygirlbieber6 @parkjihoonsnudes @lateej @mingis-queen97

Dividers by: @issysh3ll

[ericshoney]

Like Father, Like Daughter ~ Steve Rogers

Summary: You don't only look like your father, Steve Rogers, but also act like him too, which Bucky and Sam like to tease him about.

Warnings: Possible swearing, teasing, fluff.

Reader's age: 17

The soft hum of the compound’s internal systems was the only sound accompanying the pre-dawn quiet. My digital clock glowed 5:30 AM, a familiar and welcome sight. I slid out of bed, careful not to disturb the perfect crease in my duvet, and pulled on my running gear.

My name is Y/n Rogers, and I’m seventeen. Most people know my dad as Captain America, but to me, he’s just… Dad. My blonde hair, currently pulled back in a tight ponytail, was the same shade as his, and my eyes, a clear, startling blue, mirrored his exactly. Even without the uniform, I suppose the resemblance was uncanny. But it wasn't just physical.

I always started my mornings with a run – five miles, minimum. Rain or shine, a brisk jog around the compound’s sprawling grounds. It cleared my head, got the blood pumping, and honestly, felt like the right thing to do. Discipline, Dad always called it. “A sound mind in a sound body,” he’d quote, usually with a gentle smile that promised a long lecture if I didn’t know what 'sound' meant.

After my run, a quick cold shower (shocking but invigorating), and then to the kitchen. Most of the compound was still asleep at this hour, which suited me fine. I liked the quiet, the feeling of getting a head start on the day. Today, I was making oat bran pancakes – a recipe Dad had found in an old, dusty cookbook from his childhood. “Good for you, Y/n,” he’d declared, meticulously measuring out ingredients. I usually added a handful of berries and a sprinkle of chia seeds, just to boost the nutrient content. It was a good, sensible breakfast.

As I whisked the batter, making sure there wasn't a single lump, I heard the tell-tale clink-clank of metal outside the kitchen. My shoulders tensed slightly. My peaceful solitude was about to be interrupted.

Barely a minute later, the swinging doors pushed open, revealing Bucky, looking surprisingly spry for someone who usually functioned on pure spite before 7 AM. His metal arm gleamed faintly in the dim kitchen lights. He took a long, exaggerated sniff.

“My, my, what’s that smell?” he drawled, his voice a low rumble. “Is it… health?”

I shot him a dry look, continuing to ladle batter onto the hot griddle. “It’s oat bran pancakes, Bucky. They’re good for you.”

He ambled over, leaning against the counter, a smirk playing on his lips. “Yeah, I’m sure they are. Just like those kale smoothies you churn out, or the way you organise the pantry by expiry date.” He paused, then his eyes twinkled. “You know, your old man used to do that. The pantry, I mean. Drove me nuts.”

Just then, Sam walked in, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand. His eyes widened slightly when he saw me at the griddle. “Morning, Cap Jr.,” he quipped, pulling out a chair and slumping into it. “Up early to save the world, one organic pancake at a time?”

I rolled my eyes. “It’s just breakfast, Sam.”

“Is it?” Bucky leaned closer, inspecting my handiwork. “Last week, I saw you folding your laundry. And I mean folding it. Corners sharp enough to cut glass, everything sorted by fabric type.”

“It’s efficient,” I retorted, flipping a pancake with satisfying precision.

Sam chuckled. “Efficient, she says. Steve uses that word a lot. You know, he once spent an hour trying to explain the proper way to coil a garden hose to Clint. Clint just stared at him with a bewildered expression.”

“I aim for order,” I said, trying to sound dignified, but a slight flush was creeping up my neck. They were relentless.

“Order, responsibility, cleanliness is next to godliness…” Bucky listed, ticking them off on his fingers. “Honestly, Y/n, it’s uncanny. You’re like a miniature, female version of Steve, minus the super-soldier serum… though I wouldn’t put it past you to invent one that’s 100% natural and organic.”

“Don’t tempt me,” I muttered, placing a stack of golden-brown pancakes on a plate. “Do you guys want any?”

“Oh, darling, as tempting as your wholesome, fibre-rich concoctions are,” Sam said, pushing himself up, “I think I’ll stick to my usual bowl of sugary cereal and a gallon of coffee. Got to keep my energy up for… you know, not being a paragon of virtue before the sun is even up.”

They settled at the table, watching me. It was like being under a microscope. I poured myself a glass of water, skipping the coffee.

“Remember that time Steve tried to teach us all how to properly make our beds?” Bucky reminisced, shaking his head. “Said it built character. Took him an hour to explain the hospital corners.”

“I make my bed every morning,” I stated, a little too defensively.

Sam snorted. “We know, kid. We can practically set our watches by your routine. Up at 5:30, run, cold shower, sensible breakfast, then probably an hour of 'strategic reading' or something.”

“Maybe a little light training,” I admitted, a small smile finally escaping. They got under my skin, but it was usually in good fun.

“Light training? You mean like the time you spent an entire afternoon perfecting your form on the punching bag because you said your ‘core wasn’t engaged enough’?” Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Sounds awfully familiar.”

“It’s about self-improvement,” I said, taking a bite of my pancake. It was good. Perfect texture.

Just as Sam was about to launch into another anecdote, the kitchen doors swished open again. And there he was. Steve Rogers. He looked exactly as he always did in the mornings: a simple grey t-shirt, sweatpants, a faint sheen of sweat on his brow from his own workout, and a tired but contented look in his clear blue eyes. He walked with that familiar, confident stride, yet there was a softness around him.

He spotted us, and a slow, warm smile spread across his face. “Morning, everyone,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Oat bran pancakes, Y/n? Smells good.”

My face burned. I knew what was coming. The look Sam and Bucky shared was pure mischief.

“Morning, Cap,” Sam said, slinging an arm around Bucky’s shoulder, a twin to his conspiratorial grin. “We were just discussing Y/n’s… dedication this morning.”

Steve chuckled, refilling his water bottle. “Oh? Anything specific?”

Bucky leaned forward conspiratorially. “Well, for starters, she’s up at 5:30 every morning, goes for a five-mile run, takes a cold shower, and then makes herself a sensible, healthy breakfast. All before any of us even consider dragging ourselves out of bed.”

Steve’s eyes twinkled as he glanced at me. “Sounds like a solid routine.”

“Oh, it gets better,” Sam picked up the thread. “She keeps the pantry organised by expiry date, folds her laundry with military precision, and I once heard her lecturing FRIDAY about energy conservation when the lights were left on in the gym.”

I buried my face in my hands. “Guys, please.”

Steve just watched us, a fond, knowing smile playing on his lips. He walked over to the counter, taking in my perfectly stacked pancakes, the neatness of the kitchen.

“And just yesterday,” Bucky added, warming to his subject, “I found her polishing her shield. Not just wiping it down, polishing it. Like she was preparing it for a parade.”

My Dad finally spoke, his voice gentle, but with that familiar undertone of pride I knew so well. “Sounds like she takes after her old man.”

My head shot up. “Dad!”

He just winked. “It’s true. You’re a chip off the old block, kiddo. And there’s nothing wrong with that.” He ruffled my hair, messing up my carefully neat ponytail. “Now, are there any of those sensible, healthy pancakes left for me?”

I sighed, but I couldn’t help but smile. Bucky and Sam burst into laughter, the sound echoing through the quiet compound kitchen. I might have looked and acted like my dad, but at least I had his sense of humour. Mostly. And a family that might tease me relentlessly, but loved me fiercely. Maybe being Cap Jr. wasn’t so bad after all.

Tags:

@mandmilovehim @riowritesitall @lgbtq-girl @onelesslonelygirlbieber6 @parkjihoonsnudes @lateej @rajah-oliver

Dividers by: @issysh3ll

[ericshoney]

Got your back ~ Peter Parker

Summary: During the fight between team Iron Man and team Captain America, you get injured in a cross fire, but Peter is quick to help you even if you are on "opposite" teams.

Warnings: Possible swearing, fighting, blood, injuries, crying.

Reader's age: 16

The wind whipped my hair as I landed, the metallic tang of jet fuel sharp in the air. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the roar of engines and the sickeningly familiar thud of super-powered impacts. I was sixteen, barely out of high school, and here I was, standing on an airport tarmac, about to enter a fight between heroes. My heroes.

The air crackled with energy, a symphony of escalating destruction. War Machine’s repulsor blasts streaked through the sky, met by Hawkeye’s unerring arrows. Cap shouted orders, his voice carrying surprising clarity above the din. My allegiance was with him – with individual choice, with the notion that power shouldn't be entirely dictated by a government body. The Accords felt… wrong. An iron fist cloaked in bureaucracy.

My own power, the ability to manipulate kinetic energy, felt both exhilarating and terrifying in this environment. I could absorb impacts, redirect force, even generate small concussive bursts. It was a reflex now, a part of me, but this wasn't a sparring match. This was war.

"Y/n! Keep behind us!" Falcon's warning echoed as he zipped past, drawing fire from Vision. I ducked, feeling the heat wash over me as a vibrant green beam of energy seared the ground where I'd stood moments before. My instincts screamed at me to run, but my resolve solidified. I had to help.

I focused, absorbing the raw force of a falling crate that had been tossed aside like a toy by Giant-Man, then channelling it, pushing it away, sending it skidding harmlessly across the tarmac. This was different to anything I'd done before. The sheer scale, the uncontrolled power, it was intoxicating and terrifying all at once.

I saw him then – Spider-Man, a blur of red and blue, zipping around, talking a mile a minute. He was on Tony Stark's side, a kid like me, but already so far out of his depth. I briefly wondered if he was as scared as I was. Then, a blast from War Machine sent me stumbling, and I had to put my full concentration into maintaining a low-level kinetic shield around myself, deflecting the minor debris that rained down around me.

The fight churned into a dizzying kaleidoscope of motion. Giant-Man was roaring, taking on Iron Man and War Machine, while Spiderman zipped between their legs. Hawkeye was launching a barrage of trick arrows, one exploding near Black Panther, who seemed to be everywhere at once. I tried to create a diversion, sending a focused burst of kinetic energy towards a stack of abandoned luggage carts, hoping the distraction would draw attention away from Bucky and Cap, who were grappling with Black Panther.

It worked, for a split second. Then, something went wrong. A stray repulsor blast, meant for someone else, grazed a nearby fuel tank. The resulting explosion wasn't massive, but it was enough. The concussion wave hit me like a physical punch, forcing a gasp from my lungs. I felt my kinetic shield shatter, the protective energy dissipating into nothingness.

Before I could react, something hard and jagged – a piece of metal from the exploded tank, or perhaps a broken piece of tarmac – slammed into my left leg, just above the knee.

A white-hot agony flared through me, so intense it stole my breath. I stumbled, my leg giving out from under me as if it were made of jelly. The world tilted violently. I hit the ground hard, a choked noise escaping my lips. My vision swam, the cacophony of battle fading into a muffled roar, replaced by the ringing in my ears. Blood bloomed rapidly on my jeans, a dark stain against the dusty asphalt. I tried to push myself up, tried to re-engage my powers, but the pain was blinding, debilitating. I was useless. A sitting duck.

"Whoa! Are you okay?!" A voice, high-pitched and laced with concern, cut through my daze. A red and blue blur landed beside me. Spider-Man.

He knelt, his masked face turning to my leg. "Oh, man, that looks bad. Really bad. Like, 'call an ambulance and maybe a really good tailor' bad." Despite the gravity, his voice still held that nervous energy.

"I… I can't," I gasped, pain making my voice raw. "My leg…"

He didn't hesitate. "Alright, alright, deep breaths. This isn't good. You're out in the open. Tony's gonna kill me if I let you get squished. Or Cap. I don't know who's in charge of squishing." He rambled, but his hands were surprisingly gentle as he checked the wound. His gloved fingers were careful, not pressing too hard against the swelling.

"We gotta get you out of here," he decided, looking quickly around. "Hold on tight. This might be a little bumpy."

Before I could protest, he scooped me up, surprisingly strong for his slender frame. He held me carefully, almost tenderly, even as the battle raged around us; a torrent of power and light that flickered across his suit. My head lolled against his shoulder, the world spinning in nauseating circles.

He moved with incredible speed, not a web-slinging dash, not yet, but a frantic, bounding sprint, weaving expertly between stray blasts and giant fists. He muttered to himself, "Okay, okay, just past that crate. No, wait, Vision just blasted that crate. Uh oh. New plan. Big plane! Yes! Safety!"

He deposited me behind the landing gear of a colossal cargo plane, its cold metal surprisingly comforting against my back. "Stay here," he instructed, his voice serious now, all the earlier jitters gone. "Try not to move it. I'm gonna... I'm gonna see if I can find someone. Or, you know, just get this over with." He pulled off one of his web shooters, attaching it to the plane's strut near my head. "If anyone comes near you, just, uh, press this. It’ll make a really loud noise. Or shoot a web. I haven't quite figured that out yet."

He was on the opposite team. He was supposed to be my ‘enemy’ in this absurd, tragic conflict. But he hadn't hesitated. He hadn't asked questions. He had just seen someone in pain, someone in danger, and acted.

"Wait," I managed, gripping his costume, "Why did you…?"

He looked back at me, removing his mask, letting me see his face, "Because it's the right thing to do," he said, simply. "Doesn't matter what team you're on when someone's hurt."

He then went to leave, but stopped, "No matter how this fight turns out, remember one thing." He said.

"What's that?" I asked.

"I've got your back." He answered.

And then he was gone, a red and blue streak disappearing back into the chaos, leaving me alone with the throbbing pain in my leg and the unexpected warmth spreading through my chest.

Tags:

@mandmilovehim @riowritesitall @onelesslonelygirlbieber6 @lgbtq-girl @parkjihoonsnudes @rajah-oliver @lateej

Dividers by: @bernardsbendystraws

[ericshoney]

Secret Child ~ Bruce Banner

Summary: Bruce Banner's daughter suddenly arrives at the avengers compound, leaving the other avengers with a few questions.

Warnings: Possible swearing

Reader's age: 17

Everyone held secrets.

Bruce Banner knew the weight of secrets better than anyone. His own life was a tapestry woven with them – the gamma radiation, the transformations, the solitude he’d built around himself to protect the world, or perhaps himself, from the Hulk. But this secret, the one tucked away in a quiet corner of his heart for seventeen astonishing years, was different. This one wasn't about destruction or rage. This one was about a daughter.

Y/n Banner.

He’d always wondered how the other Avengers would react if they ever found out. The world’s mightiest heroes, who trusted him with their lives, had no idea he’d spent nearly two decades juggling world-saving with clandestine fatherhood. How had he managed it? Carefully constructed alibis, a network of trusted (and very well-paid) ex-colleagues, and Y/n’s own uncanny ability to blend in… and, admittedly, her knack for not blending in, which often led to her needing a new, more remote address. She was a tornado of vibrant chaos, a stark contrast to his own carefully controlled existence, and he loved her fiercely for it. He’d hidden her for her safety, from the prying eyes of governments, from the lingering threats of his past, and yes, from the potential danger of his own volatile nature.

Today, however, his meticulously built facade was about to crumble.

The Avengers Compound hummed with its usual low-level activity. Bruce was engrossed in a new vibration-dampening alloy in his lab, a faint smell of ozone clinging to the air. Tony was probably upstairs, tinkering with some absurd new suit accessory. Natasha was likely honing her already lethal skills in the gym, the rhythmic thud of a punching bag echoing faintly. Steve was undoubtedly out on a run, Clint practising trick shots in the archery range, and Thor… well, Thor was probably eating half the compound’s food supply in the kitchen, judging by the occasional booming laugh. All was relaxed. All was normal.

Then, the alarm shrieked. A piercing, insistent wail that cut through the compound's calm, instantly transforming the atmosphere from tranquil to tense. It wasn't the "perimeter breach" alarm, nor the "major threat inbound" one. This was the "unidentified presence at the main gate" alarm. Annoying, but rarely dangerous.

Bruce scrambled out of his lab, nearly tripping over a forgotten wrench. He joined the others in the command center, their faces etched with a familiar blend of readiness and mild annoyance. Tony was already pulling up the external cameras.

"Who is at the gate?" Tony grumbled, fingers flying across the holographic interface.

The main gate feed flickered into view. And Bruce felt his heart plummet, a sickening lurch that made his stomach churn.

Standing defiantly at the imposing reinforced gate was a figure entirely too familiar. A seventeen-year-old girl, undeniably confident, even a little smug. Dark brown hair, thick and untamed, with a striking, almost defiant streak of wild purple running through the bangs. Ripped jeans, the kind that cost more ripped than whole, an old, faded band tee and a pair of scuffed black combat boots. Her hands were shoved into her pockets, her stance radiating impatience. She looked like trouble, wrapped in denim and an irreverent smirk.

"Hey! Someone gonna let me in or what?" Her voice, though tinny through the gate's comms, was unmistakably Y/n’s – a clear, slightly raspy alto that carried surprising authority.

The five other Avengers – Tony, Natasha, Thor, Steve, and Clint – all exchanged confused glances. Tony zoomed in on her face, a speculative look dawning on his features.

"Who is that?" Steve questioned, his brow furrowed. "She looks… remarkably comfortable yelling at an Avenger-grade security system."

"L-Let her in," Bruce stammered, rubbing his hands together with nervous energy, a habit he only exhibited under extreme duress. His voice was barely a whisper, yet it cut through the room’s tension like a knife.

Tony paused, his fingers hovering over the gate controls. Natasha, ever perceptive, turned from the screen to Bruce, her green eyes narrowing. "Bruce?" she called softly, her voice laced with an unusual caution. "Are you alright?"

"Just… just let her in. I’ll explain. I promise." He practically pleaded, his gaze flicking between the girl on screen and the wary faces of his teammates. The words felt like sandpaper in his throat. This was it. Seventeen years of careful secrecy, undone by a doorbell.

The group shared a look. Tony, always up for a good mystery (and perhaps sensing a new opportunity for blackmail), relented first. "Alright, big guy. Your funeral." He pressed a button, and the colossal gate began its slow, grinding retraction.

Within minutes, the elevator in the main lobby dinged. The doors slid open with a soft hiss, and Y/n strode in, a wild, mischievous smile splitting her face. Her eyes, startlingly green like her father’s when he was… not himself, sparkled with an almost dangerous intelligence.

"Hey, old man!" she called out, her voice echoing a little too loudly in the otherwise quiet common room. She stopped a few feet from the assembled heroes, surveying them with an unblinking intensity that bordered on impudence. "Answer your text messages in between saving the world, will ya? I was stuck in traffic for hours."

The five remaining Avengers turned as one to Bruce, who looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. Tony’s mouth hung slightly agape, a half-formed quip dying on his tongue. Natasha’s expression was unreadable, though her eyes glinted with barely contained amusement. Steve looked genuinely bewildered, his captainly composure wavering. Clint raised an eyebrow, a flicker of a smirk playing on his lips. Thor… Thor just looked curious, a giant, golden retriever trying to figure out a new toy.

"Old man?" Tony finally managed, his voice laced with disbelief. "Bruce, what in the name of Stark Industries is going on?"

Bruce sighed, a long, drawn-out sound of resignation. He walked over to Y/n, placing a hand awkwardly on her shoulder. She shrugged it off with a grin, not unkindly. He braced himself, feeling the familiar hum of gamma energy beneath his skin, though this time, it was from sheer embarrassment, not anger.

"Guys," he began, his voice strained, "this is my… my daughter. Y/n Banner."

A beat of stunned silence.

Then, Thor roared, "CHILD OF GAMMA!" He lunged forward, a booming laugh erupting, his massive hand extending in a gesture of welcome. "So, your progeny also wields the might of the green beast? Truly, a lineage worthy of Asgard!"

Y/n blinked at Thor, her mischievous grin widening. She looked him up and down, then tilted her head. "Gamma? Nah, I’m just extremely good at breaking things. And rules."

"No!" Bruce practically shouted, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "No, she doesn't have any superpowers! She's not a trained assassin, she's not a spy, she's just… Y/n. And she is not a child of gamma, Thor, please!" He shot a desperate look at the thunder god, who merely beamed, clearly delighted by this new development.

Tony recovered first, a slow grin spreading across his face, the humour of the situation finally hitting him. "You… you have a kid, Banner? A whole seventeen-year-old kid? And you've been hiding her? Where, in a top-secret underground bunker with her own personal vibranium crib?" His eyes widened. "Is that why you always needed those 'research trips' to obscure parts of the world?"

"I… I wanted to keep her safe," Bruce mumbled, avoiding eye contact, the explanation feeling woefully inadequate under the collective scrutiny. "Away from… from all this. From the Hulk. From everything."

Natasha finally spoke, her voice calm but penetrating. "Seventeen years is a long time to keep a secret, Bruce. Especially a living, breathing, quite loud secret." Her gaze flicked to Y/n, who was now examining Clint’s quiver with keen interest, her fingers itching to touch the fletching of an arrow. "So, Y/n. What brings you to the hallowed halls of superhero-dom, besides breaking your father's carefully constructed privacy?"

Y/n looked up, a glint in her eyes. "Well, my last home got a little… uncomfortable after I accidentally maybe-sort-of-defaced a local monument with a glitter bomb. And Dad wasn't answering his phone, so I figured I’d come find him. You know, for a place to crash. And maybe to borrow some lab equipment. For… science." She shot a sweet, innocent smile at Bruce, who groaned, running a hand over his face.

"A glitter bomb?" Steve repeated, a hint of amusement in his tone now. "On a monument?"

"It was art," Y/n insisted, pulling out a small, incredibly advanced-looking lock-picking kit from her combat boot. "And besides, this place looks way cooler than any hidden home. Plus, I bet the WiFi is better. So, who wants to show me where the good snacks are? I'm starving, and I think I just picked up a new skill." She gestured with a delicate, yet obviously practised, flick of her wrist at the lock on a nearby storage cabinet.

Bruce felt his carefully constructed world wobble on its axis. His daughter, the chaos agent he’d painstakingly kept separate from his superhero life, was now standing smack-dab in the middle of it, a glitter bomb and a lock-picking kit in her arsenal. He looked at his bewildered, amused, and slightly concerned teammates. This was going to be an interesting new chapter. And he had a feeling it involved a lot more glitter, a lot less quiet, and absolutely no more secrets.

Tags:

@mandmilovehim @rajah-oliver @lgbtq-girl @riowritesitall @onelesslonelygirlbieber6 @parkjihoonsnudes

Dividers by: @issysh3ll

[ericshoney]

Arguments and low blood sugar ~ Brothers!Sturniolo Triplets

Summary: Your blood sugar had been playing up all day, causing your mood to change quickly, but after a small argument with your brothers, leading to them leaving you alone, you body finally caves.

Warnings: Possible swearing, arguments, angst, diabetic!reader, diabetes, low blood sugar, passing out, crying, fluff at end.

Reader's age: 15

Requested by : @brook444r

A/N: I think this is the longest oneshot I've ever written for the triplets 😅

"Nick, move!"

"I'm winning!"

"Throw the shell!"

"Get out of my way!"

You sighed as the loud shouts of your brothers continued. The triplets were home in Boston for a while and you loved it, other than at a time like this.

You still had school and it was test week, meaning you were trying to study as the trio were shouting at each other while playing Mario Kart. You usually didn't mind since they would agree to to try and keep the noise down, but tonight it was too much.

You head downstairs where the three are shouting and laughing in the living room, waving Wii remotes around and pushing each other. It's a funny sight, but you really needed to get some studying done. You barely had anything to eat since breakfast - which was just a cereal bar.

"Guys, can you keep the noise down, I'm trying to study." You called over the noise.

"Sorry bub, we'll try, if Nick gets out of the fucking way!" Chris exclaimed.

You sighed but couldn't help but laugh slightly as you trudged back upstairs to your room. As you did, your head began to spin slightly, making you sit down quickly.

"Just another hour and I'll be fine." You mumbled, grabbing your books to study a bit longer.

However, barely fifteen minutes into you studying again, the three were screaming and shouting even louder this time. You sighed, throwing your book down and ran downstairs once again.

"Will you guys keep the noise down!" You shouted, making the three stop and look at you.

"Woah, calm down." Matt mumbled.

"Yeah we were just messing around." Chris added.

"What's got you in such a mood?" Nick questioned.

"I told you I'm trying to study and all I can focus on is you three shouting and screaming over a game!" You exclaimed.

You took a deep breath as you rubbed your head, feeling clammy all of a sudden.

"We're just having fun, kid." Matt mentioned.

"You're being really loud, it's annoying." You responded.

The three didn't seem to appreciate your sudden comment or anger. Nick stood up from his seat and walked towards you, before stopping a step away.

"Okay we'll head out for food, give you an hour, if we're too "annoying"," Nick said.

Before you could argue, the three left, leaving you in a quiet and empty house - since your parents were out too.

But as you went to head back upstairs for a second time, you stumbled slightly, as you went dizzy again. You took a moment to steady yourself and go grab your phone, seeing it was nearly seven, realising you had missed lunch and dinner.

You then got your Dexcom app up, checking your blood sugar. When it showed the numbers, your heart stopped. 58 mg/dL, with a rapidly falling arrow.

"Shit." You muttered, quickly heading downstairs.

"Need sugar, need sugar." You repeated, stumbling into the kitchen.

Your hand brushed against a box of cereal, sending it crashing to the floor. The noise startled you, making you flinch. Your vision swam.

You leaned against the counter, breathing heavily, trying to focus. Your mind felt like it was moving through treacle. You knew what to do – glucose tabs, juice, anything with fast-acting carbohydrates. But your body wasn't cooperating. Every movement was an immense effort.

You looked at your phone again. 45 mg/dL. The urgent low alarm from your Dexcom had started a low, insistent beep, a sound you usually heard but now felt like a drilling rig in your skull.

Your brothers. You needed them. They always knew what to do.

With shaking hands, you managed to unlock your phone and navigate to Matt's contact. Your thumb hovered over the call. The phone rang, once, twice, three times. Straight to voicemail.

You tried Chris. Nothing.

Nick. Still nothing.

They were probably still mad. Or maybe they didn't hear it over their music, or the car. Tears pricked your eyes, not from sadness, but from a terrifying, primal fear.

The beeping of your Dexcom grew louder, more frantic. Your legs buckled, and you slid down hitting the cold floor with a thud. Her head swam. You could barely hold your phone. The numbers on the Dexcom display were a blur now, the alarm a relentless shriek.

The last thing you registered was the frantic chirping of the Dexcom, and the coldness of the floor.

~~

The drive for food was shorter than intended. A nagging worry started to prick at the triplets. "She didn't look well, did she?" Chris ventured, breaking the tense silence. Matt just grunted, and Nick stared out the window, a flicker of concern in his eyes. Their brief anger had been quickly overshadowed by an unsettling quiet from the house they'd left.

They pulled back into the driveway, the takeout bag forgotten. The house was unnaturally silent. Matt pushed open the front door, the familiar scent of old wood and the absence of noise hitting them. Then they heard it – a frantic, electronic chirping echoing from the kitchen.

"The Dexcom!" Nick gasped, already sprinting. They burst into the kitchen to find you slumped against the cabinets, pale and unresponsive, the small device on your wrist screaming its alarm.

"She's crashing!" Chris yelled, grabbing a juice box from the fridge. Matt was already dialing 911, his voice tight with panic. Nick forced open your mouth, pouring some juice in, desperately trying to get you to swallow. The sight of your limp form, the cold floor, and the relentless beeping brought a wave of gut-wrenching guilt. Their little sister, always so self-sufficient, now so fragile. They had been so mad, so oblivious.

"Hold on, bub," Matt whispered, cradling your head, tears welling in his eyes. "We're here. We've got you."

~~

When you woke up, it wasn't in your own home. It was in the hospital. You heard mumbled voices as you opened your eyes, pushing the blurriness aside and slowly pushed yourself up in the bed you were sat in.

"Hey, take it easy."

You rubbed your eyes and saw Nick, Matt and Chris by your side instantly as your parents were talking to a doctor.

"Hey, what happened?" You asked.

"You passed out, your blood sugars got too low, if we didn't leave the house, you'd be fine." Nick answered.

"It's not your fault, I forgot to eat." You replied.

"It is, we stormed out over something so stupid. We should have stayed and checked on you instead of shouting over a game. We're sorry." Matt said.

Each of them then gave you a gentle hug. All three felt guilt having left you, but you knew from now on, something like this wouldn't happen again.

Tags:

@lgbtq-girl @onelesslonelygirlbieber6 @riowritesitall @sturniolo-fann @mrvlxgrl @lottieluhvs @cl1tlover3000 @melaniesturniolo @lovesturni0l0s @blahbel668  @emely9274 @nicksloverrr @pancjfrjb @luvr4miya @artloo123 @n0aa @sturn-rose @ivysturnss @thetriplets3  @itsjulzandmydiamonds @sturniolos4life16 @courta13 @itsjulzandmydiamonds @sturniologirly @mandmilovehim @slutforchrissturniolo2 @parkjihoonsnudes @sturniolo-szn2 @rajah-oliver

Dividers by : @issysh3ll

[ericshoney]

I just found your account, but wow. Your OT11 snow day + nectar oneshots were so sweet, oh my… just so comforting to read 🥹. You’re very talented, and I love the way you write soft oneshots! I also really enjoyed the baking with Younghoon one, just so cute..

I’ll definitely be sticking around, your work is lovely!!

Hi! OMG, you're so sweet thank you so much! It really means a lot, I'm so happy you enjoyed reading them, more are in the works 🤭 Thank you for your support! 💓🐝

[ericshoney]

She's a Stay ~ Brothers!Sturniolo Triplets

Summary: Whilst visiting Nick, Matt and Chris in LA, Stray Kids happen to be touring, so you get tickets and drag your brothers along.

Warnings: Possible swearing, platonic nicknames, fluff

Reader's age: 15

Requested by : @sabyy

You sat on the famous beige-coloured sofa in your second home, scrolling through your phone. It was a school break for you, so it was time to visit three of your brothers in LA. Nick, Matt and Chris had taken you out shopping and to eat. Now the trio were in various parts of the house as you browsed social media.

As you did, you stopped on a post about Stray Kids, your favourite Kpop group.

Special announcement - Stray Kids pop up show in LA

You quickly pressed on the post, your thumb hovering over the screen. After a quick read of the details you confirmed it was real and not a scam, leading to you running to Nick's room.

"Nick! Nick!"

The eldest triplet, who was also on his phone, looked up as you burst into his room.

"Woah, what's going on?" He called.

"Stray Kids are doing a pop up show in LA!" You exclaimed.

"Okay, hang on a minute. Stray Kids, that Kpop group you love?" He recalled.

"Yeah. Can we get tickets? Pleaseeeeeee!" You begged, making the oldest laugh.

"Let me have a look." He said, making you cheer.

You passed your phone over to him, letting him read the details and hopefully order tickets. As he was, Matt and Chris came into the room.

"We heard screaming and wanted to know what happened." Chris said.

"Stray Kids are coming to LA!" You informed.

"Okay, that explains it." Matt chuckled.

You stuck your tongue out as Nick cheered, "Done! Four tickets to Stray Kids." He said proudly.

"Four?" You recalled.

"Oh babe, you don't think I'm taking you alone do you? No Chris and Matt need to experience this too," Nick replied smugly.

You smiled and laughed as your other two brothers tried to argue, but it was impossible against Nick.

A week later, it was time for the show. The four of you were waiting in line. You were bouncing on your heels as you tried to show your brothers simple moves to some of the choreography.

"Thanks kid, but I'll stick to nodding my head." Matt waved off.

You laughed but agreed, just happy to experience this moment with three of your favourite people.

After a bit more waiting, it was eventually time to go in. You pushed Nick ahead, as he held all your tickets - mumbling how if you had them you'd lose them - and got inside the venue, finding your seats.

"I think someone is excited." Chris teased.

"No shit, this is my favourite group!" You sassily fired back.

"Who taught you to use language like that, young lady!" Chris gasped.

"Um, you guys." You laughed.

Soon, the lights went down and the members walked on stage. You screamed, along with the others in the crowd as they began performing.

Nick, Matt and Chris stood behind you, just admiring your massive smile. They were happy because you were happy.

Tags:

@lgbtq-girl @mattsfavbigtitties @onelesslonelygirlbieber6 @riowritesitall @sturniolo-fann @mrvlxgrl @lottieluhvs @cl1tlover3000 @melaniesturniolo @lovesturni0l0s @blahbel668  @emely9274 @nicksloverrr @pancjfrjb @luvr4miya @artloo123 @n0aa @sturn-rose @ivysturnss @thetriplets3  @itsjulzandmydiamonds @sturniolos4life16 @courta13 @itsjulzandmydiamonds @sturniologirly @mandmilovehim @slutforchrissturniolo2 @parkjihoonsnudes @sturniolo-szn2 @rajah-oliver

Dividers by : @issysh3ll