ghostedbyalex

[ghostedbyalex]

never too heavy - jackie taylor x reader

summary: five times jackie taylor got carried (and one time she did the carrying) warnings: mentions of emotional neglect; canon-typical violence; hypothermia; emotional distress; alcohol use; trauma references; wilderness survival themes; complicated friendships; unresolved romantic tension; grief; mentions of past infidelity; psychological horror undertones | words: 3.363k

main masterlist | yellowjackets masterlist

-x-

1.

The sun’s already dipping low by the time you leave the park, stretched long and gold across the sidewalk, staining everything in warm honey. The air smells like cut grass and distant barbecue, and your shoes scuff rhythmically against the concrete, kicking at cracks and stray pebbles. Jackie trails a few steps behind you, dragging her feet like the pavement itself betrayed her. You glance back. “You good?” She huffs, all dramatic—arms crossed, bottom lip poked out just enough to make you grin. “I’m tired.” “It’s not even that far.” “It is,” she insists, even though it’s the same walk you’ve done together a hundred times—between your house and hers, between school and the corner store, between wherever the two of you happened to decide was the center of the universe that day. Her ponytail bounces when she stomps once, for emphasis. “My legs hurt.” “You didn’t seem tired when we were playing tag,” you tease, nudging a rock with the toe of your sneaker. “Or when you climbed the big slide even though you said it was too scary.” “That was different.” “Uh-huh.” Jackie plops herself right down on the curb, arms folded tighter, chin jutting forward in the way that usually means she’s two seconds from demanding something impossible, like for the sun to set faster or for the clouds to stop looking weird. “I’m not walking,” she declares. You pause. Look at her. Look at the street ahead, then back again. And then you sigh like the weight of the entire world is falling squarely onto your back—exaggerated, the way kids do when they’re secretly delighted by their own kindness. “Alright,” you say, turning around and crouching down in front of her. “Hop on.” Her eyebrows shoot up. “What?” “Piggyback.” You tilt your head, looking back at her over your shoulder. “Unless you wanna sleep on this sidewalk tonight.” She hesitates. You can see it—the way she wants to say no. Wants to remind you she’s not a baby. But pride only goes so far when you’re seven and your legs are jelly and the sun’s going down. “Fine,” she mumbles. Jackie scrambles onto your back, her arms looping clumsily around your shoulders, her legs dangling awkwardly against your sides. She’s lighter than you expect. Warmer, too. Her chin rests on your shoulder, and for a moment the whole world narrows to the sound of your mismatched footsteps and the feeling of her breath ghosting against your ear. “This doesn’t mean you get to boss me around,” she mutters, voice softer than before. “Sure,” you say, adjusting your grip beneath her knees, “but it does mean you owe me an ice cream next time.” Jackie giggles. It’s quiet. Almost shy. But it bubbles up anyway—like she can’t help it. Like the idea of being carried home isn’t nearly as embarrassing as she thought it would be. “You’re weird,” she says. “Yeah,” you grin, “and you love it.” The rest of the walk feels shorter somehow, like the world lets the two of you cheat just this once. Like maybe—just maybe—it knows that some things are too important to wait for tired legs to catch up.

-x-

2.

The field’s empty now, except for the ghost of cleat marks in the mud and a few stray cones Coach forgot to pick up. The sun’s sinking behind the bleachers, smearing everything in late afternoon gold. Your jersey clings to your back, damp with sweat, and your shins throb from a practice that was at least twenty percent running drills and eighty percent Coach yelling “again.” Jackie trails behind, slower than usual. Her braid’s half undone, socks slipping down, one cleat barely tied. Her hands are on her hips in that classic Jackie Taylor posture—chin tilted, chest out, like sheer posture might convince the world she’s fine. But she’s dragging. “God,” she groans. “Why does running exist?” A beat. “Evolution,” you answer easily, not even turning. “You know. Escaping predators. Not starving.” “Cool. So we’re just highly evolved prey.” You grin at that, letting it curve slow and easy across your mouth. But before you can reply, there’s the unmistakable shuffle of someone stepping between you—Shauna. Always Shauna. “You okay?” she asks Jackie, brushing a stray strand of hair behind Jackie’s ear. Her voice is softer when it’s directed at her, careful in a way it never is with anyone else. Jackie leans into it a little, sighing like it costs her something just to exist today. “I’m dying.” “Oh no,” you say, deadpan. “Tragic. Gone too soon.” Shauna turns her head just enough to glare at you over Jackie’s shoulder. That perfect little tight-lipped scowl she saves just for you. You can’t help it—you love poking the bear. Or in this case, the guard dog. “You’re welcome to carry her,” you add, eyebrows lifting, grin tugging wider. “Unless that’s too gay for you.” Shauna’s eyes narrow. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” “Nope.” Jackie cuts in, her voice edged with just enough whine to soften the sharpness between you and Shauna. “Can we not do this right now? My legs actually don’t work anymore.” You glance back, slowing your pace until you’re walking backward in front of them. “C’mon, Jack. It’s like… what, six blocks?” “Six million,” she corrects, frowning like the pavement itself offended her. And okay, maybe you’re supposed to act like you don’t care anymore. Like you aren’t the same kids who used to walk home from the park pretending every sidewalk crack was lava. But some habits… they’re harder to kill than you’d like to admit. You sigh. Loud. Dramatic. “Alright,” you announce, already crouching down. “Get on.” “What?” “You heard me.” Jackie blinks. Shauna looks like she’s deciding whether to throw hands or just combust from sheer irritation. “Oh my God,” Shauna mutters. But Jackie’s already stepping forward, slinging her arms around your shoulders like it’s muscle memory. Her weight shifts against your back—heavier than when you were kids but still manageable. Still her. “I swear to God,” Shauna hisses, stalking behind you. “If you drop her—” “Relax, she’s in good hands.” You flash a grin over your shoulder. “Hey, Jack. Remember when I said you owed me an ice cream for the first time?” “Yeah?” Her breath is warm against your ear. “Make it two.” Jackie laughs. Not the performative laugh she does at parties, or the carefully measured one for the boys. It’s real. Easy. Soft. “Deal.” Shauna grumbles the whole way, trailing behind you like a very judgmental shadow. But you catch it, more than once—the way Jackie rests her chin against your shoulder. The way her fingers grip tighter whenever you pretend to stumble just to make her squeal. And maybe you’re not best friends anymore. Maybe you’re something else now. Something messier. But still… something.

-x-

3.

The forest hums around you—alive in the worst possible ways. Birds you can’t see scream somewhere overhead, and the wind carries this damp, rotting smell that never really goes away. Even when the sun breaks through the trees, it feels wrong. Like light doesn’t belong out here anymore. “Are you coming or what?” someone calls from ahead—probably Van, or maybe Nat. Voices blur together these days. You glance back. Jackie’s fallen behind. Again. She’s limping. Trying not to make it obvious, but you catch the way her jaw tightens every time her right foot hits the dirt. Her sock’s stained dark—probably blood seeping through from whatever blister she’s too stubborn to ask help for. You slow your pace until you’re beside her. Close enough to hear the sharp edge of her breathing. Close enough to feel the way everything in her is pulled tight, like a wire strung too close to snapping. “You good?” It comes out instinctive. Familiar. Almost automatic now. Jackie doesn’t answer right away. Her eyes are locked straight ahead, toward where the others are already disappearing through the trees. “Yeah,” she says. Flat. Distant. But it’s not real. It’s not even close. She’s thinner now—cheekbones sharper, collarbones poking through her borrowed jacket. The kind of thin that comes from weeks of eating almost nothing and pretending it doesn’t matter. And maybe none of this should surprise you. Maybe this was always coming. Out here, the wilderness isn’t the only thing gnawing at everyone—it’s the weight of whatever was waiting back home. All the lies, all the disappointments, all the versions of yourselves you never wanted anyone else to see. Especially not her. There’s something broken between Jackie and Shauna now. Something jagged and raw that neither of them talks about. No screaming matches. No fights. Just this awful, suffocating silence—like they’ve both decided it’s safer not to ask why. But you see it. In the way Shauna won’t look at her anymore. In the way Jackie keeps pretending not to notice. And in the way Jackie walks five steps behind her now, even when her leg’s clearly screaming at her to stop. “Jack,” you say, softer this time, “quit pretending.” She flinches. Not from the words, but from how easily you read her. Then—like a string snapping—“Fuck it,” she breathes out, dropping to sit on the nearest log, scrubbing a hand over her face like she can wipe the whole world away. “I—just—I can’t. My leg’s fucked.” You crouch without thinking. “C’mon. Get on.” Her head snaps up. “What?” “You heard me.” “I—no. No, that’s—no. I’m fine.” “Sure.” You tilt your head, deadpan. “You’re thriving. C’mon.” She hesitates. For a second, pride wrestles with pain. You see it happen—the way her jaw clenches, the way her fingers curl into fists against her thighs like maybe she’ll just sit here until the earth swallows her whole. But survival beats pride. Out here, it has to. “Fine,” she mutters, barely above a whisper. Her arms loop around your shoulders, her knees awkward against your sides. She’s lighter than you expect. Or maybe everyone’s lighter now—starved by both the wilderness and the weight of everything they left behind. You shift her weight higher. “Comfortable?” “Not remotely.” “Cool. Same.” The trail stretches out in front of you, and the chatter of the others grows fainter, distant, like another world entirely. For a while, it’s just the sound of your boots sinking into mud. The creak of her breath against your neck. The occasional sharp gasp whenever you hit a bump or duck under a low branch. Neither of you talks about Shauna. Or Jeff. Or the quiet, festering wound that’s growing wider between them with every passing day. You don’t ask. She doesn’t offer. But somewhere between the broken roots and the empty sky, Jackie lets her head rest against your shoulder. Just for a moment. Just long enough for the weight of pretending to slip—if only a little.

-x-

4.

“You know,” Jackie mutters, stepping over a half-frozen puddle with all the grace of a newborn deer, “when I agreed to come hunting with you, I thought it would be… I don’t know. Less… this.” You glance back over your shoulder, raising a brow. “Less what?” She flings her arms wide. “This. Mud. Bugs. Tree roots that want me dead.” She kicks one for emphasis—bad idea, because she immediately winces and hops once, clutching her ankle. You grin. “That one did look particularly aggressive.” “Oh, bite me.” “Careful what you wish for,” you shoot back, teeth flashing in a wolfish smile. Jackie rolls her eyes, but there’s no real bite in it. Not with the way the corner of her mouth quirks like she’s fighting back a laugh. Truth is, she’s doing better than you expected. Her hands were shaking when you first handed her the gun—when you guided her fingers into the right place, touched her shoulders to line up her aim. But she listened. Focused. Even squeezed the trigger once, though she missed by a mile and nearly jumped out of her skin from the recoil. Still. Progress. “Admit it,” you say, stepping over a fallen log, “you’re having fun.” “I am not.” “Liar.” Jackie groans, but there’s laughter threaded into it. “Okay. Fine. A little. But I am done walking. My legs hate me. My feet hate me. Nature hates me.” “Poor, delicate, suburban princess,” you sigh dramatically. “Guess I have no choice.” Her brow furrows. “No choice to wha—” Before she can finish, you’re ducking down, bracing her legs with one arm and hauling her over your shoulder in one smooth, practiced motion. She lets out the most undignified shriek—half scandalized, half delighted. “Y/N!” “Yep?” you answer innocently, adjusting your grip as you start walking back toward camp, her legs kicking helplessly behind you. “What’s up?” “Put me down!” “Nope.” “This is undignified.” “Sure is.” “Seriously, you can’t—” “Jackie,” you interrupt, grinning so wide it aches, “you just spent twenty minutes arguing with a tree stump because you thought it was a raccoon. I think your dignity left a while ago.” She goes silent for a beat. Then, deadpan: “In my defense, it looked like a raccoon.” “Mmhm.” You can feel her laughing against your back—trying to stifle it, failing completely. It’s a good sound. A rare sound, these days. Out here, joy feels contraband. Stolen. But you’ll take it. You carry her the whole way back. Exaggerate your groaning, make sarcastic comments about her being dead weight, while she whacks your shoulder and threatens violence you both know she’d never actually commit. When camp comes into view, you finally let her down—gently, carefully. She adjusts her jacket, smoothing imaginary wrinkles, nose tipped up like she’s reclaiming whatever shred of dignity survived the journey. “Thanks,” she mumbles, not quite looking at you. You tip your head, nudging her playfully with your elbow. “Anytime, Princess.” And for a second—for just that second—it’s easy to forget how broken the world is.

-x-

5.

You spot the shape before you even understand what it is. Just… a lump in the snow. Still. Wrong. It doesn’t compute. Not at first. The rabbit slips from your hand, falls somewhere behind you, forgotten. Your legs move before your brain catches up. “Jackie?” No answer. Just the quiet crunch of your boots pounding across the snow, and the sudden, suffocating roar of your pulse in your ears. “Jackie—” You drop to your knees beside her. Her skin’s blue. Lips, fingertips, like the color’s been drained straight from her veins. She doesn’t stir, doesn’t shiver—doesn’t anything. “No. No, no, no—” Your hands shake as you grab at her, hauling her upright. Her body slumps against you like a rag doll. Limp. Weightless in a way that feels wrong. “No—” You wedge your arms under her thighs, another around her back. Her head lolls against your shoulder, and that’s when the panic really kicks in—because Jackie Taylor has never been small to you. Never weightless. Never quiet like this. The sob punches out of your throat before you can stop it. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, Jack. Please—please—” You run. Boots skidding, snow slicing at your skin, but you don’t stop. You stumble up the stairs, nearly take the door off the hinges. “OPEN—OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR!” It bursts open before you finish screaming it. Nat. Tai. Van. Voices start overlapping, slamming into each other. “Oh my God—” “Is that—” “What happened?” “Get the fire—get the fire lit!” And Shauna. Shauna is there too. Her face drains of color the moment she sees the bundle in your arms—the realization slicing through her like a blade. “No—” She stumbles forward, hands out like she could somehow undo it, like she could reverse the hours, the words, the fight, the bitter weight of everything unsaid. “No, no, no, Jackie—” You drop to your knees, cradling Jackie in your lap, yanking your coat off, pressing her against you like you can pour your body heat straight into her. Shauna drops too, fumbling for Jackie’s hand. “Let me—let me help—” “Don’t touch her.” Your voice is low but venomous, trembling with something sharp and breaking. You yank Jackie closer to your chest, like Shauna herself might be the cold. “You don’t get to touch her.” “Y/N—” Her voice cracks—splinters. Her eyes are glassy, panicked. “Please—” “Get the fuck away!” You bare your teeth, hands shaking as you fight with the buttons of Jackie’s frozen shirt. “You left her out there—you all—you—” Your throat closes around the words. You can’t say it. If you say it, it becomes real. Shauna flinches back like you’ve hit her. Her hands hover uselessly before she presses them to her face, choked sobs spilling between her fingers. “I didn’t— I didn’t think—” “Yeah. No one did.” Your voice breaks as you tear open Jackie’s shirt, forcing her frozen skin against yours. “Except her. And now look.” The fireplace crackles to life. Someone throws every stick, every scrap they have at it. Shadows flicker against the walls. You rock her in your arms, pressing frantic kisses against her temple, her hairline—anywhere that still feels like her. “No one’s gonna hurt you. Not again. Not ever again. You hear me?” But her skin stays cold. And her eyes stay closed. Shauna kneels a few feet away, hugging herself like she might fold in half from the weight of what she’s done, what they’ve all done. She’s sobbing quietly now—no fight left in her, just terror. “Please, Jackie. Please stay.”

-x-

(+1)

“Come on, lightweight.” Jackie’s shoulder wedges under your arm as you stumble out of the booth, both of you giggling like you’ve just pulled the dumbest prank in the world. Which, to be fair, might not be far off. “You’re the lightweight,” you slur, poking her cheek, almost missing. “I saw you switch to water two drinks ago, traitor.” “Strategic,” she grins, adjusting her grip when you nearly trip over the leg of a barstool. “Someone had to make sure you didn’t end up trying to fight the jukebox again.” “That was one time,” you protest, squinting at the glowing neon sign by the door. “And it ate my money.” Jackie’s laughter bubbles out, breathless and bright. “Yeah, yeah, I know.” She tightens her arm around your waist. “Let’s go, last call’s been over for—” She glances back. “What, like, half an hour?” “We’re the last ones here.” You grin. “Like cockroaches.” “Disgusting,” she laughs, steering you toward the exit, both of you weaving like you’re still on uneven ground. But just as you reach the threshold, her body stiffens against yours. “Wait,” Jackie mutters, almost breathless—not from laughter this time. “Huh?” you blink, trying to focus. She’s staring past you. Up. At the TV bolted crookedly to the corner of the wall above the bar. The sound’s off, but the headline screams loud enough: “TAISSA TURNER ANNOUNCES RUN FOR STATE SENATE.” A photo cycles on screen. Tai. Hair sharp as ever. Smile poised. Eyes… different. The same, but not. Not really. It’s like the air’s been sucked out of the room. You sober five years in the span of five seconds. “Oh… fuck.” Jackie doesn’t speak. Her grip tightens like a vice around your waist, like for a second she’s not sure if she’s holding you up—or if it’s the other way around. Her eyes stay locked on the screen, lips parted, breath caught halfway between disbelief and something colder. Neither of you say it out loud, but it hums thick between you. It’s the first time in years you’ve heard anything about any of them. The first crack in the fragile, messy, years-old agreement you both made without ever putting it into words: we don’t look back. You finally tear your gaze away from the screen, looking at Jackie. She’s already looking at you. Her hand curls tighter at your side. For a moment, neither of you are drunk anymore. Just two ghosts in skin and bone, staring down the past as it rises from the grave. “…Wanna get out of here?” Jackie asks, voice thin. “Yeah.” Your throat’s dry. “Yeah. Let’s go.” And with one last glance at the flickering television, Jackie shifts your weight, squares her shoulders, and carries you out into the night. This time, you don’t protest.

[ghostedbyalex]

stay, once again - agatha harkness x reader

summary: The second and final chapter of this story, where past wounds and present fears collide. After a fragile reunion, you and Agatha navigate the delicate balance between love and heartbreak, learning what it truly means to fight for a future together — and what it takes to let go. warnings: mature themes; emotional complexity; adult relationships; divorce and post-divorce dynamics; emotional vulnerability; anxiety; light sexual content; triggers for heartbreak and mental health struggles | words: 5.013k

main masterlist | marvel masterlist | part one

-x-

The first thing you notice is the light.

Soft, warm, intrusive. Slipping through the curtains like it owns the place — like she used to. Like she doesn’t anymore. It filters across the floorboards, the dresser, the photo frames that no longer hold her face. Just you. And your son.

This house hasn’t been hers in months.

And yet, for a second, your brain floats somewhere between sleep and waking. There's warmth at your back. Familiar. Too familiar.

Then it hits you.

God.

You actually let it happen. You let her happen. Again.

Your pulse quickens, a subtle panic blooming beneath your ribs. You turn, slowly — careful, cautious — and there she is.

Agatha.

Fast asleep.

Her dark hair is a mess against the pillow, strands falling over her face in careless waves. Her mouth, parted slightly, still carries the ghost of something soft, something sinful. Her breathing is steady, deep — the kind that only comes after exhaustion. And... well. After what the two of you did.

Your stomach knots as the memories flood back. Lips on skin. Her hands, god — the way she always knew exactly where to touch, exactly how to pull every sound from your throat. Like muscle memory. Like no time had passed at all.

You swallow hard. Your gaze betrays you, tracing the column of her throat, catching on the faint bruises left behind — purplish marks blooming like wildflowers across porcelain skin. One just beneath her jaw. Another at the curve of her shoulder. And another... lower.

A flicker of heat rolls through you — shame tangled with want, tangled with something else. Something heavier.

You curse under your breath and sit up abruptly, the cold air biting where her warmth once was., pushing the covers off like they burn. Your bedroom — your son’s house now, not hers — feels suddenly too small, too loud with everything unspoken between you.

Outside, the snowstorm has given up. The world is silent. Blanketed. Pretending to be pure. Like the universe is mocking you.

You swing your legs over the edge of the bed, feet hitting cold wood. Her coat is still on the floor. Her scarf. All things that were supposed to be temporary.

Just until the storm clears.

Yeah. Right.

You pull on the first hoodie you can find — yours, obviously — and quietly tiptoe toward the door. Careful. Careful. Don’t wake her. Don’t give her the chance to look at you with those eyes again. Don’t give her the chance to say anything that might make you change your mind.

A floorboard creaks under your heel. You freeze.

Agatha shifts. Breathes in deep. Then settles.

Still asleep.

Your fingers tremble as you twist the doorknob. One last glance — stupid, reckless, inevitable. She looks softer like this. Younger. Less sharp. Less everything that hurt.

But that softness? That softness is exactly how she gets you every damn time.

You slip out of the bedroom, heart pounding, jaw clenched.

God. What the hell were you thinking?

The first thing Agatha notices is the cold.

The second is the emptiness.

She blinks awake, instinctively reaching for the warmth that — just hours ago — was tangled in her arms, pressed against her skin, trembling beneath her hands.

But the space beside her is cold now.

Empty.

She sighs, dragging a hand down her face. Damn it.

You’re gone. Slipped out before she even opened her eyes. Of course you did.

“Coward,” she mutters, voice rough with sleep, dragging herself upright. Not at you. Not really. At herself. For falling asleep. For missing the chance to catch you before the armor went back up.

The bed creaks under her as she swings her legs over the edge — foreign bed, familiar ache.

Her eyes land on the photo frame by the dresser. You. Your son. A version of a life that doesn’t have her in it anymore. Not like it used to.

She stands, stretching, wincing slightly at the ache in her shoulders — the marks, the scratches. Your name still ghosts beneath her skin, even if neither of you dared to say it last night.

Agatha runs a hand through her tangled hair with a groan. Get it together, Harkness.

She pads toward the bathroom, flicking the light on, and stares at her own reflection.

Hair: a mess.

Lips: swollen.

Neck: a battlefield.

“Jesus Christ,” she mutters, leaning over the sink. She brushes her teeth with the spare toothbrush still — mercifully — in the cabinet. She smooths down her hair. Adjusts her shirt. Breathes.

How the hell do you even start a conversation like this?

‘Hey, about the way I ruined your life…’

No. Too much.

‘Remember when we agreed to never do this again? Me neither.’

Closer. Still not right.

A familiar scent hits her before she even leaves the bathroom. Coffee. Fresh. Strong. You always did make it too strong.

Her chest tightens.

You’re downstairs. Awake. Which means… the clock is ticking.

Agatha lingers by the bathroom door a second longer than necessary, fingers tightening at her sides. Then she steel herself and heads downstairs.

The moment she steps into the kitchen, she feels it.

Not the warmth. Not the comfort. Not anymore.

It’s the wall. The invisible, impenetrable wall you’ve built overnight. She can practically see it — the way your shoulders stiffen when you notice her presence. The way your gaze flicks to her for half a second, then back to your mug like she’s nothing more than background noise.

No smile. No softness. Just distance. Concrete. Icy.

Agatha crosses her arms, leaning casually against the doorway. “Morning.”

You don’t look at her. “The snow’s cleared.” Your tone is clipped. Businesslike. “Your stuff’s by the door. Coat. Bag. Boots.”

Ouch. Straight to the point, huh?

“Right,” Agatha hums, pushing off the frame. “I see.”

A heavy silence hangs between you — sharp, suffocating. Coffee drips. A clock ticks somewhere in the background. Outside, the world glitters, fresh and blinding beneath the snow.

Agatha lets it linger. Lets you sit in it. Then tilts her head. “So... we’re really not gonna talk about it?”

That finally earns her a reaction — a bitter, breathless laugh. Humorless. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Oh, come on.” Her voice dips, smooth, deliberate, as she takes a single step closer. “You don’t actually believe that.”

You tense. A flicker of something crosses your face — panic, maybe. A crack in the armor.

Agatha sees it. Smiles.

Another step. Slow. Measured. Like a predator who knows exactly how close it can get before the prey bolts. Her eyes drop — lips, throat, collarbone — trailing over the places she already knows by heart. Places she memorized last night. Years ago.

“You’re really gonna pretend…” She murmurs, reaching, fingertips ghosting against your jaw. Not forcing. Just… testing. “...that there’s nothing left here?”

Your breath stutters. “Agatha—”

But it’s already too late. Her lips brush yours — not a kiss, not yet. Just a featherlight touch. A whisper of contact. Enough to taste the tension radiating off you. Enough to prove her point.

She grins against your mouth, breath warm. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “That’s what I thought.”

Your breath stutters. You should pull away. You should.

But you don’t.

You don’t know who moves first — maybe it’s both of you — but the space between disappears. Her mouth presses against yours, slow at first, testing. Then desperate. Hungry. Familiar.

God, you hate how good it feels. How it still fits. How she still fits.

Fingers twist into her hair. Her hands grab at your waist, pulling you closer, like the fabric of your hoodie is the only thing keeping her tethered to this planet. You part your lips for her without thinking, and the kiss turns messy, deep — teeth, tongue, the kind of kiss that tastes like both a mistake and a lifeline.

Her hands slip under your shirt, palms flat against your skin, mapping you like muscle memory — like she never forgot.

But then—

Then.

She feels it.

The way your body stiffens beneath her hands. The tension in your shoulders. The tremor in your breath — not the good kind.

Agatha stills, breaking the kiss just enough to breathe against your lips. “Hey…” Her voice softens. Concern creeps in. “What’s—”

And that’s when she sees it.

The shimmer in your eyes. The way you squeeze them shut like it might hold back the flood. The way your lower lip trembles.

Agatha’s hands fly to your face, cupping your jaw, thumbs brushing over your cheeks. “Hey, hey. What—what’s wrong?” Her voice cracks — her composure slipping. “Sweetheart…”

You shake your head, gulping down air like it’s drowning you. “I can’t—” The words come out broken. Fragile. “Agatha… I can’t— I can’t do this again.”

Her stomach twists. “Do what?”

“This—” Your voice shatters. A sob punches its way up, and you hate it, hate that she’s seeing you like this. Hate that she’s still the only person who can break you this easily — and the only one you trust enough to let.

“I love you,” you whisper, like it’s a confession, like it’s something shameful. Your hands fist at the fabric of her shirt. “God, I never stopped loving you. I never will. And that’s the problem.”

Agatha swallows hard, throat closing. “Baby…”

Your fingers tremble. “I can’t— I won’t survive going through it again. I don’t have the strength to pick up the pieces a second time. I— I don’t.”

Her heart breaks. Shatters. Splinters into pieces sharp enough to choke on.

Look what you did to her.

She presses her forehead to yours, squeezing your face between her palms like she’s trying to hold you together with sheer will. “No, no, no. Listen to me—” Her lips scatter desperate kisses across your face — your cheeks, your temple, your forehead. “Look at me.”

You try. God, you try. Eyes brimming, throat burning.

Agatha’s voice drops, steady now, soft but fierce. “Nothing is gonna be like before. You hear me?” Her thumbs wipe at your tears. “I’m not here to rip you apart again. I swear to you — I swear on everything — we don’t have to figure this out right now.”

She brushes her lips against your damp cheek. “You take whatever time you need. I mean it. I’ll give you space.”

Her hands slip away from your face, slow, reluctant. “I’ll… I’ll go. Give you time to think. About… about how you want this to go. How you want me to be in your life. Because either way…” Her voice softens even more. “I’m not going anywhere, okay? You and I — we’re tied for life. We have a kid together. I’m always gonna be here.”

She steps back. Just a little. Enough to make your chest ache with the space. “So… I’ll get my things.”

But before she can fully turn —

“Wait.”

It bursts out of you, trembling, helpless. You laugh — shaky, tear-wet, half bitter, half something else — and scrub your hands over your face. “God, you’re such an idiot.”

Agatha freezes. Blinks. “...What?”

“You absolute idiot.” You laugh again — softer this time. Sad. Affectionate. “I don’t want you to go. That’s the problem.”

Her lips part. She stares at you, breath caught somewhere in her chest.

“After everything… I should hate you.” Your voice breaks again. “I should.”

But the truth hangs heavy between you — raw, undeniable.

You don’t.

You never did.

You still love her.

God help you, you always will.

Agatha’s face softens — all sharp edges melting, all bravado gone. She steps back in, closing the gap again, wrapping her arms around you without hesitation, pulling you into her chest like she’s terrified you might vanish if she lets go.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispers into your hair. “Not unless you make me.”

And you bury your face into her neck, fists tangled in her shirt, breathing her in like you’ve spent months suffocating without realizing it.

You stay like that — tangled in her arms, face buried in her neck, fingers twisted in the fabric of her shirt — for what feels like forever. Or maybe not long enough.

Your breathing slows. The trembling eases, just a little. But the ache… the ache stays.

Agatha’s hand runs slow up and down your back, murmuring something soft, almost unintelligible against your hair. Something like “It’s okay… I’ve got you… I’ve got you…” But you don’t fully let yourself believe it. Not yet.

Not without saying this.

Your fingers fist tighter at her sides. Your lips ghost against her skin — her jaw, her collarbone. And then, quietly, almost fragile:

“This is the last time.”

She tenses. Pulls back, just enough to see your face. Her eyes search yours, cautious. “...What?”

You swallow hard. “Agatha, this is your last chance.” You hold her gaze, steady even though your voice shakes. “I mean it. I— I can’t do this again. I won’t.”

She stares. The weight of it hitting her like a punch.

“If you walk back into my life,” you whisper, “you don’t get to leave again. You don’t get to screw it up and come back later. You don’t get another shot. Not after this.”

Her hands tighten at your waist. “Sweetheart…”

“I won’t survive a third time,” you confess, barely audible. “But even if I could… I won’t let you break me again. You don’t get to come in, ruin me, and leave. Not anymore.”

For a second — a terrifying second — she says nothing. Just looks at you like you’ve peeled yourself open, showing her every raw, broken, tender thing inside you.

Then, softly. Steadily. “Okay.” A breath. “Okay.” Another. “I hear you. I hear all of it.”

She cradles your face again, thumbs brushing your cheeks. “And I swear… I’m not gonna screw this up. Not this time.”

Her forehead presses to yours. “I’ll do it right. I swear to you.” Her lips ghost over yours. “If you’ll let me.”

And somehow — God, somehow — you do.

The day becomes a bubble. A fragile little snow globe that belongs only to the two of you. The world outside — the past, the future — doesn’t exist here.

Just the soft rhythm of being near her again.

Cooking together. Stealing kisses between stirring the mashed potatoes and pulling cookies from the oven. Her hands brushing over your hip as she passes behind you in the kitchen — innocent, then not-so-innocent when her fingers linger.

Laughter bubbles up where, for months, there was only silence.

Her lips against yours while you fold laundry together. Her hands sneaking under your sweater while you collapse together on the couch, her body pressing against yours, fitting there like it never stopped belonging.

At one point, her fingers thread into your hair while you both stand under the hot spray of the shower — not even in a rush to turn it into anything more. Just holding. Just existing skin to skin, heartbeat to heartbeat.

A stolen Christmas. A stolen normal.

Until the sound of the front door swinging open.

“Mom?” A familiar voice echoes from the hallway — deeper now than it was a year ago, but still tinged with that teenage impatience. “I’m back!”

You barely have time to adjust the collar of your sweater before William — Billy — steps into the kitchen, snow-damp curls flattened under a beanie, his phone half in his hand.

His eyes land on the scene in front of him — you at the stove, Agatha beside you, sleeves rolled up, shoulders brushing, laughing over something stupid about how she cuts bell peppers.

Billy freezes mid-step. Blinks. Frowns. “...The hell is this?”

You feel your spine straighten instinctively. Agatha, to her credit, schools her expression almost immediately, but there’s a flicker of guilt there — like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

Billy crosses his arms. “Seriously?”

You wipe your hands on a towel, trying to sound casual. “It’s not what it looks like.”

“Oh really? Because it looks like you two are flirting while making dinner together,” he deadpans.

Agatha tries — bless her — a smile. “Hi, kiddo.”

He gives her a look. Not mean. Not angry. Just… wary. Hesitant. Because he loves her — he always has — but he also spent the last few months watching you crawl out of the wreckage she left behind.

He doesn’t trust this. Not yet.

By evening, the snow starts falling again. Agatha lingers at the door, coat in her hands.

“I’ve gotta head back,” she says softly. “Work.”

You nod. Try not to look like it punches a hole straight through your chest.

She smooths a hand down Billy’s arm. “I’ll pick you up for New Year’s, okay?”

Billy hesitates, then nods. Small. Quiet.

When she turns back to you, something gentle softens her face. No theatrics. No drama. Just… tenderness.

Her fingers skim your cheek. “I’ll see you soon.”

And instead of kissing your lips — because maybe that feels like too much in front of Billy — she leans in and presses a soft, lingering kiss to your cheek.

You close your eyes. Let yourself feel it. Just for a second.

When you open them, she’s stepping out the door. But her eyes stay on yours until the very last second.

Billy lingers in the kitchen after Agatha leaves. His arms are crossed, lips pressed into a thin line — the way he always looks when he’s carefully trying to pick his words.

“Hey… Mom?”

You glance up from wiping the counter. “Yeah?”

He hesitates. Runs a hand through his curls. Then:

“Just… be careful, okay?” His voice is softer than usual. “I mean… I love her. You know I do. I’ll always love her.” His gaze flickers toward the door like he can still feel her presence. “But… sometimes she hurts people. Even when she doesn’t mean to.”

You freeze. Your hands tremble just a little. “Billy…”

“No, I’m serious.” His brows knit together. “The people we love… they’re the ones who can hurt us the worst.” His voice cracks at the edges, like he’s saying it more for your sake than his. “I just don’t… I don’t wanna see you go through that again.”

Your heart twists. You cross the room and pull him into a hug, burying your face against his shoulder even as he pretends to groan like it’s so embarrassing.

“I hear you,” you whisper against his hair. “I promise… I hear you.”

A week later.

Snow crunches under the tires as Agatha’s car pulls up the driveway.

Billy grabs his overnight bag, pulls on his gloves, and heads for the door with a quick, “See you, Mom.” But even as he steps outside, he glances back — waiting. Watching.

Agatha’s waiting on the porch. Her hands are shoved in her coat pockets, scarf tucked snug around her neck, strands of dark hair poking out from under a beanie.

The two of you haven’t seen each other since Christmas. Sure — the texts haven’t stopped. Soft good mornings. Pictures of the cat. A “saw this and thought of you” meme here and there. A “sweet dreams” voice note you listened to five times before deleting.

But seeing her now? In person? It feels… heavier. More real.

“Hey,” she says quietly. Her lips curl into something small, almost shy. “Been a few days.”

“Yeah.” You tuck your hands into your sweater sleeves. “Guess it has.”

She shifts her weight, glancing toward the car where Billy’s pretending to check something on his phone, very much not listening (but definitely listening).

“So…” Agatha kicks at a chunk of ice on the steps. “I was thinking… If you’re free tonight, maybe you could come over. Ring in the New Year. You know…” Her voice softens. “Like a family again.”

The way she says it — careful, hopeful — makes your heart squeeze.

You smile. You can’t help it. “That sounds… nice.” But then your smile tilts, a little apologetic. “But… I already have plans.”

Her brows pull together. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Something I agreed to a while ago.” You leave it vague on purpose. Not because you want to play games, but… maybe a little part of you does. Maybe it feels safer that way.

Agatha’s mouth opens like she wants to ask what plans, but she catches herself. Bites her lip. Nods instead. “Right. Of course. Yeah. Sure.”

She leans in — not quite close enough to kiss, but close enough that you can smell her perfume. “Well… Happy New Year, sweetheart.”

“Yeah. You too.”

She lingers for half a second longer than she should. Then turns back toward the car.

Billy throws his backpack in the backseat, closes the door and crosses his arms, looking out the window while Agatha adjusts her seatbelt, her hands gripping the steering wheel a little tighter than necessary.

“So… you’re wondering where she’s going, huh?” He asks, without even looking at her.

Agatha raises an eyebrow, dryly. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t even have to.” He shrugs, biting back a smile.

She gives him a sideways glance, suspicious. “Where?”

He holds the dramatic effect for a few seconds longer, just to tease. “Mrs. Maximoff’s house.”

The silence that follows is palpable.

Agatha blinks. “Wanda Maximoff?”

Billy nods, as if it were obvious. “Uh-huh. Tommy’s mom, remember? Best friend since forever.”

Agatha frowns, staring at the road. “I remember her… She was married, wasn’t she?”

“She was. Vision filed for divorce a while ago,” he answers casually, scrolling through his phone. “She’s single. And honestly…” — he gives his mother an almost mischievous look — “she’s what people call a milf.”

The snap of the look Agatha gives him could freeze any lake in the city.

“William, I swear to God… if you don’t shut up, I’ll leave you in the middle of the snow.”

He laughs. Laughs, really. “I’m just saying, Mom. Just saying.”

Agatha huffs, gripping the steering wheel until her knuckles turn white, as she tries — unsuccessfully — to decide if the cold in her chest is because of the snow outside… or because of this strange tightness that the name Wanda Maximoff has just caused in the middle of her chest.

“—And then, I swear, Mom, the guy from apartment 3B was totally checking her out. I saw it.” Billy grins, legs kicked up on the couch, shoving another handful of popcorn into his mouth.

Agatha leans back, arms crossed, one brow arched so high it might escape her face. “Oh, did he now?” Her voice drips with acid-sweet sarcasm.

“Yup. And don’t even get me started on her coworker—what’s his name? Nathan? Dude’s been bringing her coffee every morning.” He shrugs like it’s the most casual thing in the world. “Suspicious if you ask me.”

Agatha scoffs. “Suspicious like... someone trying to get himself fired for workplace harassment,” she mutters, pretending to check her nails but very obviously visualizing Nathan’s tragic, hypothetical disappearance.

Billy grins wider. “Relax, Mom. She’s fine. She’s... thriving. Honestly, it’s impressive.”

Agatha narrows her eyes. “Watch it, Kaplan. You’re dangerously close to being grounded for life.”

“Pfft. I’m sixteen. What are you gonna do? Cancel my internet?”

Agatha’s lips twitch. “Don’t tempt me.”

Billy chuckles, but it’s clear the sugar crash is catching up. His head starts tipping against the back of the couch somewhere between the third and fourth episode of Brooklyn Nine-Nine. By the fifth, he’s fully out, mouth open, breathing soft.

Agatha sighs, stretching her legs out, barely considering cleaning up the popcorn scattered everywhere, when—

A soft knock.

She blinks. Frowns. Checks the time. 1:14 AM.

Another knock, more tentative this time.

She pads to the door, unlocking it, and—

“You,” Agatha breathes.

You stand there, wrapped in your coat, cheeks flushed from the cold—or maybe something else entirely. Snowflakes cling to your hair. There’s a nervous smile pulling at your lips.

Agatha leans against the doorframe, arms folding. “What, the magnificent Wanda Maximoff wasn’t entertaining enough?” she snarks, masking... everything.

But you only smile warmer, softer. “God, you’re so damn charming when you’re jealous.”

That gets her. Her jaw clicks shut. Her eyes dart away for half a second before snapping right back, guarded. “Am not.”

You step in, letting her close the door behind you. “You are.” Your voice lowers. “And for the record... it wasn’t a date. It never was.”

Agatha blinks, surprise cracking through her carefully built defenses.

You laugh, shaking your head, unbuttoning your coat. “It was a divorced-people-support-group disguised as a New Year’s party. Wanda invited me weeks ago. Strictly pity... and free champagne.”

“Oh.” It comes out smaller than she means. Her fingers toy with the hem of her sweater now. “Well. Billy’s version of events was... colorful.”

“I figured.” You glance over her shoulder, spotting your son knocked out cold on the couch, drooling into a pillow.

A fond smile tugs at your lips. Then you glance back to her, eyes softer now. “Come on,” you whisper, holding your hand out. “Let’s not wake him.”

Agatha hesitates—half out of habit, half out of something else entirely—but then her fingers lace with yours like they never forgot how.

You guide her towards the balcony, slipping through the sliding door. The cold air bites, but the city below is alive with distant fireworks, laughter, the fading echoes of countdowns that have already passed.

Out here... it’s quiet. Just the two of you.

The air outside bites against your skin, but it’s a welcome contrast to the heat simmering just beneath the surface—the kind that always seems to exist whenever she is close.

Agatha leans against the railing, fingers fiddling with the edge of her sweater. Her usual sharp confidence is... quieter tonight. Almost unsure. Like she expected to find you colder, more guarded. She swallows, casting a glance sideways, her voice softer than usual. “You’re... more relaxed than I thought you’d be.”

You chuckle, resting your elbows next to hers. “Yeah. I guess... I am.” You glance out toward the skyline, fireworks still bursting somewhere far off. “Talking to a bunch of divorcees all night kinda puts things into perspective.”

Agatha raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

A small smile curves your lips. “Half of them are still wildly in love with their exes. It’s... tragic. And kind of hilarious.”

She huffs a quiet laugh. “Names. I need names.”

“Oh, gladly.” You shift to face her a bit more. “Bucky Barnes? On his second divorce. Wanna guess why?”

Agatha squints. “Midlife crisis?”

You snort. “Because he never got over his first husband. Steve.”

Agatha’s jaw drops slightly. “Steve Rogers?”

“Yup.” You grin. “Apparently, they’ve been divorced for ten years, but every time one of them starts dating someone else, the other has a meltdown.”

Agatha laughs under her breath, shaking her head. “Idiots.”

“Oh, total idiots.” You nod. “And then there’s Carol Danvers. Divorced her wife years ago... just to move right back in when she got sick. Nursed her back to health. They fell in love again. Got remarried last summer.”

“Jesus...” Agatha mutters, but there’s something deeper in her tone now. Something... pensive.

“And Wanda...” you add softly. Her name makes Agatha’s eyes twitch—barely—but it’s there. You catch it.

“She...?” Agatha tries to keep it casual. Fails.

“She loved her husband. A lot.” You tilt your head, smiling gently. “But when it was over... it was over. She’s ready to move forward. Not with me, relax.” You bump her shoulder lightly. “Billy made that sound a lot more dramatic than it was.”

Agatha exhales, a laugh that’s half embarrassed, half relieved. “God, you’re annoying.” But her smile betrays her.

You meet her gaze fully now, letting the silence stretch for a beat. “Talking to all of them... hearing how easy it is to lose something good, or to ruin it beyond repair... it made me realize...” You pause, biting your lip. “I don’t want to ruin this. Not again. Not with you.”

Her throat works as she swallows. Her hand finds yours without thinking. “You mean that?” Her voice is barely a whisper now. “We... we try again?”

You nod, squeezing her fingers. “Yeah. But we do it right this time, Agatha. We learn. We do better. For us. For Billy. For... everything.”

She nods, maybe a little too quickly, like her body reacts before her mind even catches up. “Yeah. Yes. Absolutely, sweetheart. I—God, yes.”

And then she’s cupping your face, pulling you in, and your lips collide like magnets that were forced apart for far too long.

It’s not soft. It’s not gentle. It’s desperate. Familiar. Home. Her hands in your hair. Yours on her waist. The taste of her. The shape of her. Everything you missed. Everything you still love. Everything you never stopped needing.

The kiss slows, the frantic rush of need melting into something softer, warmer. Your breaths mingle as your lips brush lightly, teasing, gentle. A shy laugh bubbles up between you — that quiet sound you both never lost, that spark of familiarity in the silence.

Agatha’s eyes search yours, tender and raw. “I love you,” she whispers, voice thick with everything left unsaid for too long.

Her hands slide down to cup your palms, pressing gentle kisses there — reverent, like she’s memorizing your skin all over again. “I swear, I’ll do better this time.”

You nod, your fingers curling around hers as you pull her closer for a quieter kiss — slower, sure. A promise sealed in soft caresses and lingering touches.

But then, just when the moment feels completely safe, she bites her lower lip — slow and deliberate — and you shiver under the heat of it.

“I still think,” she murmurs, voice low and playful with a dangerous edge, “that you should remember... I don’t like it when anyone else tries to take what’s mine.”

Your pulse quickens, a familiar thrill spiraling in your chest.

Without breaking eye contact, Agatha takes your hand and leads you along the balcony back toward the bedroom. Her touch is firm but gentle, a silent promise in every step.

“Tonight,” she says, voice husky and full of intent, “I’m going to remind you exactly who you belong to.”

And with that, she pulls you inside — the world outside fading to nothing but the two of you, tangled in a reckoning neither of you can resist.

[ghostedbyalex]

like nothing could touch us - lottie matthews x reader

summary: you were always the responsible one — the perfect student, the reliable teammate, the girl who never partied. But tonight, everything changes. The Yellowjackets won Nationals, the drinks are flowing, and the girls seem hell-bent on making sure you finally loosen up. Between chaotic beer pong rounds, stolen glances, and one kiss you definitely didn’t see coming, you start to wonder if maybe... nothing could ever touch you. Not tonight.

warnings: alcohol consumption, drug use (weed), explicit language, implied internalized homophobia, emotional tension, sapphic tension, brief heated arguments, mild angst, teenage recklessness, canon divergence. pairings include: lottie matthews x reader, jackie taylor x reader (brief), heavy tension with shauna shipman.| words: 5.205k

main masterlist | yellowjackets masterlist

-x-

The bass is the first thing you feel. It rattles through the walls of the house like a pulse — steady, unrelenting — matching the wild heartbeat pounding inside your chest. You grip the strap of your bag like it might anchor you to the earth, but even that feels flimsy compared to the chaos unfolding behind that front door.

You're not sure what you expected. Maybe something tamer. A bonfire, soda, some congratulatory hugs. But this... this is something else entirely.

Laughter spills from the open windows. Shouts. The muffled thud of feet stomping on hardwood floors. Somewhere, someone screams — not in fear, but in that reckless, half-drunk kind of joy that only high schoolers can muster when the world feels small enough to conquer.

You swallow. Hard.

“Look who actually showed up.”

The voice cuts through the noise like a blade — sharp, teasing, familiar. You don’t have to turn around to recognize it. Van.

And of course, where there’s Van, there’s Taissa, leaning against the porch railing, arms crossed, grinning like she knows exactly how out of place you feel.

“Didn’t think you had it in you, champ.” Van’s already stepping closer, draping an arm over your shoulders before you can protest. She reeks of beer and victory. “Ladies,” she calls over her shoulder, “the lamb has arrived.”

From inside, a chorus of cheers erupts.

Your stomach twists. Half embarrassment. Half... something else.

“You don’t have to look so scared,” Taissa smirks, unfolding her arms. “It’s just a party. We won nationals, remember? You’re legally required to have fun tonight.”

“That’s not—” You start, but Van’s already steering you toward the door.

“You know the rules,” she grins. “First party, first drink. No arguments.”

The warmth of the house hits you like a wave. It smells like sweat, cheap perfume, spilled beer, and something sweet — maybe weed. Bodies press together, swaying, laughing, dancing. Neon lights flicker over familiar faces painted unfamiliar in shades of blue, pink, and electric green.

Someone hands you a red plastic cup before you can even think to decline it.

“Here,” Lottie’s voice — soft but insistent — finds you through the noise. She’s close enough that her breath tickles your ear. Her eyes sparkle, lips curved in a mischievous smile that’s nothing like how she looks on the field. “Relax. You earned this.”

You stare at the cup. Your heart is a wild animal.

This is it. Your first party. Your first step into the version of yourself that everyone seems so determined to pull out.

You’re not sure whether to run... or to let it happen.

Van slams the ping pong ball onto the table, sending it bouncing once, twice—straight into the cup at the far corner.

“Boom!” she shouts, throwing her arms up like she just scored the winning goal. “Drink, rookie!”

Taissa laughs, nudging the cup toward you. “C’mon, rules are rules.”

You hesitate — but only for a second now. The burn of cheap beer is starting to feel... less like a threat and more like static buzzing beneath your skin. Warm. Numb. Loud.

“You’re a natural,” Van grins, leaning into your side. “Told you she was secretly a menace.”

Another round. Another shot. Your hands are lighter. Your laugh, freer. The constant pressure of being the good one starts to melt, drop by drop, cup by cup.

Somewhere between missing a shot and almost knocking over the table, Van tugs at Taissa’s sleeve with a smirk that leaves little to the imagination.

“Back in a sec,” Van says, not even bothering to whisper. “Don’t miss us too much.”

Taissa rolls her eyes but follows, fingers laced with Van’s as they disappear down the hallway — giggling, colliding into walls like they don’t care who hears.

You’re mid-sip when someone slides into the spot beside you.

“Look at you,” Lottie hums, head tilted, eyes bright with mischief. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

You blink, grinning despite yourself. “Neither did I.”

She leans in like she’s about to tell you a secret. “Y’know... I did corrupt Laura Lee in our freshman year.” A playful grin curves her lips. “Looks like it’s your turn.”

Your laugh bubbles out — tipsy, breathless — and maybe it’s the beer, or maybe it’s the weight of Lottie’s gaze that lingers just a second too long, but there’s something electric in the air now.

Before you can answer, a cup crashes onto the table.

“Move,” Shauna snaps, voice rough, words slurred. She’s flushed, eyes glassy, jaw clenched like she’s seconds away from throwing hands at the next person who looks at her wrong. “I’m in.”

Lottie arches a brow. “Oookay. Welcome to the game?”

You glance at Shauna — tense, unpredictable — and then at Lottie, whose expression shifts, reading the room like it’s a chessboard.

Shauna barely acknowledges you, grabbing the ball with more force than necessary. Her hands tremble — not from nerves, but from something simmering beneath the surface. Rage. Guilt. Maybe both.

Across the room, Jackie laughs — high-pitched, sharp — spinning in the crowd, drink in hand, pretending the tension doesn’t exist. Or maybe fueling it. Her eyes dart toward the table. Toward Shauna.

And then, like clockwork, she saunters over.

“Hey,” Jackie chirps, fake-sweet, not even sparing Shauna a glance. Her hand finds yours without warning, fingers curling around your wrist. “You. Come dance with me.”

It’s not a request.

You stumble after her — half dragged, half following willingly — as Lottie chuckles under her breath, watching like the whole thing is some cosmic joke unfolding exactly as it should.

Shauna mutters something under her breath — sharp, bitter — but you’re already swallowed by the crowd, by the heat, by Jackie’s hand tight around yours as neon lights flicker over her perfect, furious smile.

You’re not sure if you’ve been saved... or if you’ve just landed in the middle of something even messier.

The bass shifts — deeper now, heavier — as Jackie pulls you into the throng of bodies. The air is thick with sweat and perfume, with the static hum of too many voices, too much heat, too much everything.

Her fingers are still around your wrist, but softer now. Familiar. Comfortable. The kind of touch that says, You’re mine, just for now.

“God,” Jackie laughs, tossing her hair over one shoulder, “you really have no idea how much I needed this.”

You spin with her, letting the rhythm take over, not because you're particularly good at this, but because Jackie dances like gravity bends for her — wild and effortless, the kind of girl who commands attention just by existing.

You’ve always known you were different. Where she’s all polished chaos, you’re structure and discipline. Where she dives headfirst, you calculate. And yet… you’ve always liked her. Not in the messy, suffocating way Shauna does — no. Yours is something steadier. A quiet kind of affection. An understanding that neither of you ever really bothers to name.

Her hands find your waist, pulling you closer than necessary. Her smile is sharp, playful, but her eyes — her eyes are somewhere else entirely. Across the room.

You don’t have to look to know who she’s watching.

Shauna.

Of course.

Jackie laughs again — breathless, almost manic — swaying her hips like it’s about the song, but you can feel the tension radiating off her in waves.

“You know,” you lean in, raising a brow, “if you’re trying to make someone jealous… you should probably commit.”

That earns you a sharp look. Amusement. Challenge. Her hands tighten, fingers pressing into your hips. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” You grin, reckless from the alcohol and the music and the fire simmering beneath your skin. “Go big or go home, Jackie.”

For half a second, she just stares — like you’ve flipped a switch she didn’t know existed.

And then —

Her fingers slide up, cupping your jaw, and before you can process what’s happening — before you can breathe — Jackie kisses you.

Hard.

Not soft. Not testing. Not pretending.

Her mouth crashes into yours with the kind of desperation that has nothing to do with you — and everything to do with the girl burning holes into her back from across the room.

But that doesn’t mean it’s not real.

Her hands are in your hair. Yours — without thinking — grip her waist. There’s a second, maybe two, where the whole party dissolves. The lights, the noise, the tension. It’s just her — familiar and foreign all at once.

When she pulls back, her lips are flushed, her eyes wild. She laughs — breathless, biting. “There. You happy?”

You blink. Then grin. “Oh, I’m not the one you should be asking.”

Jackie tilts her head, about to retort — but her gaze flicks past you, and something sharp flashes in her eyes.

You don’t need to turn to know Shauna’s watching.

And suddenly, you realize you’ve just lit a match.

Thrown it straight into a powder keg.

And now… it’s about to blow.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Shauna’s voice cuts through the music like a blade — sharp, ragged, dripping venom.

Before you can even process what’s happening, she’s there, shoving her way through the crowd, eyes burning, fists clenched like she’s seconds away deconstructing the universe with her bare hands.

Jackie stiffens, but doesn’t move. Not yet. Her spine locks straight, chin tilted up, like she’s ready for the hit before it lands.

“Oh, what’s this?” Shauna sneers, arms flinging out dramatically. “Little Miss Perfect playing gay now? Is this—” she waves between you and Jackie, “—just your new performance, huh? Gotta make sure everyone’s still looking at you.”

The crowd starts to hush. Not fully — not yet — but the shift is palpable. People elbowing each other, leaning in. Watching.

Jackie’s smile falters, flickering like a candle in the wind. “Screw you, Shauna.”

“No, screw you,” Shauna snaps, stepping closer, her finger jabbing toward Jackie’s chest but stopping just short. “You’re not fooling anyone. You don’t care about her. You don’t care about anyone. You just can’t stand not being the center of the goddamn universe for five minutes.”

Jackie’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

And then — Shauna scoffs, bitter, broken. “You’re not even gay, Jackie.”

Silence.

Heavy. Brutal. Total.

It sucks the oxygen straight out of the room.

Jackie’s eyes widen — just for a second — then drop. Her hands tremble, trying to curl into fists, trying not to — trying something. Her lips press together so tight they almost disappear, but the shimmer in her eyes betrays her.

“Oh my God,” she chokes — more to herself than anyone — before spinning on her heel.

She pushes through the crowd, head ducked, shoulders tight, one hand scrubbing at her face like she can physically erase the way everyone is looking at her right now.

The crowd scatters, murmuring, unsure whether they’ve just witnessed a tragedy, a breakup, or a murder in slow motion.

“Okay, okay, that’s enough!” Van’s voice booms from across the room as she and Taissa shove their way back in, dragging the rest of the team with them. “Everyone chill the hell out!”

Natalie appears, grabbing someone’s speaker, cranking the music lower. “Party’s over, unless you want someone calling the cops.”

Lottie’s hands are up, her tone weirdly calm for the chaos. “Let’s just... let’s breathe, yeah? Breathe.”

People slowly retreat, pretending to busy themselves with drinks, conversations, anything but the tension lingering like smoke in the air.

You exhale — slow, controlled. You turn to Shauna.

She’s still seething, arms crossed, jaw clenched, like every muscle in her body is begging for an excuse to throw another punch — verbal or not.

You keep your voice steady. Cool. “You’re going after her.”

Shauna scoffs. “The hell I am.”

“Yeah,” you nod, stepping closer, not blinking. “You are. Because if you don’t, I will. And you know damn well... I’m not the one she needs right now.”

Her eyes flash. “Don’t—” Her voice breaks. Just a little. “Don’t tell me what to—”

“Shauna.” Your tone cuts, quiet but lethal. “Last chance.”

She stands there — vibrating with rage, shame, regret, all of it knotted together in that impossible mess that is her and Jackie.

Then — with a sharp, frustrated groan — Shauna shoves past you. “Goddammit.”

You watch her storm after Jackie, her footsteps loud against the hardwood, like she hates every step it takes to get to her.

And you?

You turn the other way.

Because sometimes the best thing you can do... is not be caught between fire and gasoline.

“Hey.”

You barely register the voice before a hand wraps gently around your wrist, tugging you toward the side hallway — away from the crowd, the leftover tension, the wreckage of the fight.

It’s Natalie.

“C’mon,” she tilts her head, smirking. “You look like you could use... literally anything else right now.”

You follow — maybe because you don’t want to go back to the party, maybe because you don’t know where else to go.

A narrow stairwell, a rickety door that groans against its hinges — and then the night spills open around you.

The rooftop.

Wide. Quiet. A little bit magic.

From here, the party looks smaller. People are filtering out, climbing into cars, stumbling down sidewalks, fading back into their normal, boring, post-championship lives.

Natalie flops down onto the ledge like she owns the place, legs stretched out, boots scuffed, her leather jacket pulled tight against the breeze. “Not bad, huh?”

You sit beside her, hugging your knees. “Honestly... kinda perfect.”

She grins, reaching into her jacket. “Yeah, well. It’s about to get better.”

A joint appears between her fingers, expertly rolled. She flicks a lighter. Flame catches. She inhales, holds, then exhales slow — a cloud of smoke curling into the night.

Natalie offers it to you with a raised brow. “First time?”

You hesitate. Then laugh — half-nervous, half-resigned. “Obviously.”

“Relax. It won’t kill you.” She shifts closer, holding it out. “Deep breath in. Hold it. Then out.”

You take it. Fingers awkward. Lips uncertain.

Inhale.

It burns — rough and foreign — but not as bad as you expected.

You cough anyway. Hard. Natalie laughs, banging a hand against your back. “Oh yeah. There it is.”

You cough through a grin. “You’re the worst.”

“Damn right.” She leans back, arms braced behind her, gazing up at the stars like none of this — the chaos, the drama, the world — really matters. “Not bad for your first party, huh?”

You shake your head, giggling. “Not bad at all.”

A comfortable silence settles.

Down below, the music is dying. The house is half-empty now. Just stragglers. Voices softer.

Natalie breaks it first. “You think about what’s next?”

“Hm?”

“College. Life. After all this.” She gestures vaguely — at the town, the rooftop, the weird little bubble of high school you’ve all been trapped in.

“Yeah...” You hug your knees tighter. “It’s weird. I spent so long trying to be... good. Perfect. Soccer, grades, all of it. And now it’s like... what happens if that’s not enough out there?”

Natalie hums. Passes the joint back. “Yeah, well. Apparently... we’re getting full-ride offers. Athletic scholarships. All of us.”

Your head jerks toward her. “Seriously?”

“Dead serious.” Her grin turns crooked, proud. “Coach’s been hinting at it. We won nationals. People notice that shit. It’s... kinda fuckin’ awesome, actually.”

“Fucking awesome,” you echo, laughing as the words taste weird and reckless in your mouth.

Natalie nudges your shoulder with hers. “See? You’re learning.”

You tip your head back, looking at the stars. The high starts to settle — warm, floaty, like your bones have turned into something softer, lighter.

For a moment, nothing hurts. Nothing’s complicated. Not Jackie. Not Shauna. Not growing up.

Just you. Natalie. The rooftop. The quiet.

“You think we’ll be okay?” you ask, voice small but honest.

Natalie doesn’t answer right away. She takes one more drag, then flicks the ash into the night.

“Yeah,” she says finally. “I think we will. One way or another.”

And for the first time in a long, long while — you believe it

“Do you think…” You trail off, lazily passing the joint back to Natalie. “Are we all... really gonna go our separate ways?”

Natalie leans her head back, blowing smoke toward the sky. “Yeah. Looks like it.”

“That’s insane.” You blink, processing it. “Like... even Shauna and Jackie?”

Natalie snorts. “Especially Shauna and Jackie. Can you believe that shit?”

You glance down over the edge of the roof, legs dangling. The scene below is quieter now. Shauna and Jackie stand near the curb, talking. Not fighting. Not yelling. Just... talking. The tension between them’s still thick, but it’s the kind that holds things together instead of ripping them apart.

“I thought they’d never... y’know. Be apart. Like... physically impossible. Like magnets or something.”

Natalie hums, tapping ash off the joint. “Yeah. But... I dunno. Maybe it’s for the best. Different states, different colleges... maybe they’ll survive each other that way.”

You follow her gaze as it shifts to the yard. Mari and the other girls are laughing, posing for selfies, making dumb faces, clinking red cups together. There’s a sense of something final in it. A last hurrah before the world starts expecting more from them than goals and wins.

Then — Misty.

Hovering near the edges. Shuffling from group to group. Smiling too wide, laughing half a second too late. Trying. Failing. Trying again.

Your chest pinches, soft and sympathetic.

Without thinking, you press two fingers to your lips and let out a sharp, loud whistle. Heads turn — including Misty’s. She looks up, startled.

“Hey!” You wave her over. “Up here!”

Misty blinks. Points at herself. “Me?”

“Yeah, you! Come on!”

She practically scurries toward the back door, disappearing inside with the enthusiasm of someone who just won the lottery.

Natalie groans beside you, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Jesus. You had to do that?”

You nudge her, grinning. “Don’t pretend you don’t like her. You two are practically besties... you know... after the plane crash that never happened.”

Natalie stares at you, deadpan, then laughs — an actual laugh, bright and sharp. “Shut the fuck up.”

Footsteps echo up the stairwell. A moment later, the door bursts open, and Misty pops her head out, beaming. “Oh my God, I’ve never been on the roof before! This is so cool!”

She scrambles over, sitting way too close, cross-legged, hands folded eagerly in her lap. “Hi! Hi, guys!”

Natalie wordlessly passes her the joint. Misty stares at it like she’s just been handed an ancient relic. “Oh... oh, wow. Okay. Okay. Um...”

She takes a delicate inhale — more like a sip of smoke than a drag — and immediately starts coughing, red-faced, waving her hands. “Oh—God— oh my God—”

You and Natalie both double over laughing.

“Yup.” Natalie smirks, shaking her head. “Natural-born stoner, that one.”

Misty gasps, recovering, eyes watering but bright. “This is the best night ever.”

And somehow... looking out over the fading party, with Natalie’s lazy smirk on one side and Misty’s chaotic grin on the other... you almost believe it.

You’re not sure how long you stay up there — time gets slippery when you’re a little high, a little drunk, and a little too aware that nights like this don’t happen often.

The three of you just... talk. And laugh. Dumb stories from practice, inside jokes from bus rides, weird moments from tournaments that seemed like the end of the world back then and now feel like nothing but warm memories.

Eventually, the backyard empties. No more strangers. No more random classmates. Only Yellowjackets. The real ones.

It’s fitting that the last night of high school belongs to the team.

You lean back on your hands, grinning at something Misty says — some ridiculous story about the time she accidentally locked herself inside the equipment shed and had to Morse-code bang on the door for an hour before Coach noticed. Natalie rolls her eyes but smiles anyway, nudging her boot against Misty’s shin in that way that’s almost playful. Almost tender.

And that’s when it clicks.

The way Natalie’s watching her — like she’s pretending not to watch. The way Misty laughs a little too hard, a little too eager. The space between them... barely a breath.

Huh.

“Uh...” You push up suddenly, brushing your palms on your jeans. “I... I gotta pee.”

“Classy,” Natalie snorts.

“Yeah, yeah,” you laugh, waving her off as you head back toward the stairwell. “Try not to traumatize each other while I’m gone.”

Downstairs, the house is quiet now — or, quiet in that way that big, expensive houses always are. The kind of silence that echoes.

The bathroom takes longer to find than it should — stupid mansion. But eventually, success. Mission accomplished.

Except... when you step back into the hallway... nothing looks familiar.

You turn left. Then right. Then — another left? Or maybe that was the same hallway?

And that’s when you push open the wrong door.

Lottie’s room.

The first thing you notice is that it’s... warm. Not literally — the AC hums somewhere in the walls — but in the way it feels. Soft. Lived-in. Comfortably chaotic in a way you didn’t expect.

There’s a wall of Polaroids — crooked lines of tiny, frozen moments. The team at practice. Jackie mid-cartwheel. Shauna flipping someone off. Natalie holding a trophy over her head, grinning like the world belongs to her. Misty and Van doing some dumb cheer pose.

A bulletin board cluttered with ticket stubs, flower petals, scraps of fabric, ribbons from tournaments. Little pieces of memory, pinned in place like she’s afraid of forgetting anything.

Her bookshelf is lined with worn paperbacks. Some poetry. Some philosophy. Some weird esoteric stuff you don’t even recognize. Crystals sit in mismatched bowls. A tarot deck half-tucked under a notebook. Candles. Little glass jars filled with — what, herbs? Stones? Whatever magic Lottie believes in.

And in the corner — the unmistakable sight of a folded Yellowjackets jersey, perfectly stacked, number 10 facing out. Yours.

You smile. Something warm pulls at your chest — not quite nostalgia, not quite affection. Something else. Something softer.

It’s sweet. It’s... Lottie. All of it. The whole room feels like her. Like a secret only a few people ever get to see.

You trail your fingers lightly over the edge of her desk, glancing at the framed photo there — all of you together, arms slung over shoulders, laughing, sweaty, stupidly proud after a win.

Yeah. This... this might be the end of something. But it was something good.

“Oh.”

The voice behind you makes you jump — sharp, startled — spinning around like a kid caught stealing cookies.

Lottie stands in the doorway, one hand on the frame, eyebrows raised. Not angry. Not exactly. More... surprised. Amused.

“Didn’t know you were the snooping type,” she says, voice light, teasing. “Kinda creepy, not gonna lie.”

Your face burns instantly. “What— no— I wasn’t— I just—” You stumble over your own words, waving your hands like that might erase the moment. “I got lost! I swear. I was just trying to find the bathroom.”

There’s a beat. And then — a soft laugh, a little awkward, a little shy. “I was kidding. Just... joking.” Her fingers drum nervously against the doorframe before she finally steps inside. “You’re fine.”

Still, there’s this... weird tension. Not bad. Not uncomfortable. But... charged.

For a second, neither of you knows where to stand. Where to look. You glance back toward the wall of Polaroids like it might save you. “Your room’s... nice,” you offer, lame but honest. “It’s... really you.”

Lottie smiles — soft, a little crooked. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Silence creeps back in, thicker this time. Heavy with all the things neither of you has ever said out loud. Things that have always sat quietly between you, in stolen glances, in almosts, in maybe-one-days that never came.

You clear your throat, desperate to fill the space. “Hey... uh... looks like Shauna and Jackie actually managed to... you know. Talk. Like normal humans. Pretty impressive for a final night miracle.”

Lottie hums. But her smile fades a little. Something flickers behind her eyes — hesitation, maybe. Or... nerves.

Her gaze drops, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. “Yeah... um... speaking of... earlier...”

You blink. “Earlier?”

Her eyes lift, meeting yours — uncertain, but steady. “The thing with... Jackie.”

Oh.

Right.

The kiss.

The breath catches somewhere in your chest. “What about it?”

Lottie bites the inside of her cheek — she does that when she’s trying to look casual but isn’t pulling it off. “I just... I mean... What did that... mean?”

The air thins.

It’s not an accusation. Not jealousy, either — not exactly. It’s... softer than that. But cautious. Vulnerable in a way Lottie rarely lets herself be.

And you — for a second — you have no idea what to say.

Your stomach twists. Something cold flickers beneath your ribs.

“Oh.” You blink, forcing a laugh that feels too thin, too sharp around the edges. “I mean... it— it was nothing. You know how... parties are.” You wave a hand, trying for casual, but it shakes. “Drunk girls. Dumb dares. Jackie being... Jackie. Probably just trying to piss off Shauna or— I don’t know. Whatever.”

It’s a lie. It tastes like one. Bitter. Heavy.

Lottie doesn’t buy it. Not for a second.

Her brows knit together, lips pressing into a thin line. “No.” Her voice is soft but certain. “We both know... Jackie’s not pretending. Not about this.”

Your breath catches.

She’s right.

Jackie’s kissed too many girls at too many parties when she thought no one was paying attention. And cried too many times after. Into your shoulder. Into Natalie’s. Into Van’s. Like she’s trying so hard to outrun something that’s always been stitched into her skin.

And none of you ever said anything. None of you ever will. Not until she’s ready.

You swallow hard, shoulders stiffening, defensive. “So... what? Is that a problem for you?” The words come sharper than you mean. Harsher. “Us being... girls? Was that the point of the question? Jesus, Lottie, it’s the nineties. I know how people are.”

Lottie’s eyes widen — startled, almost hurt. “No!” she blurts, stepping closer. Hands half-raised like she could physically catch the words before they hit. “No, it’s— it’s not— I don’t—” She stumbles, breath hitching, fingers fisting at her sides.

Then, softer, shakier: “It’s not about that.” Her gaze drops, lashes fluttering against her cheeks. “I don’t care if Jackie likes girls. That’s not... that’s not what this is.”

You frown. “Then what—”

She looks up. And it’s the most open, the most bare you’ve ever seen her. Voice trembling but steady enough to shatter you.

“I just...” Her throat bobs. “I just care if she likes you.”

Silence.

Loud. Deafening. Crushing.

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

Because oh. Oh.

It was never about Jackie. Not really.

It was always about you.

And her.

And everything you’ve both been too afraid to say.

You blink. Once. Twice. Your brain tries to catch up, to process the fact that Lottie Matthews — Lottie Matthews — just admitted that this... whatever this is between you... matters.

A laugh bubbles out of your chest — breathless, disbelieving, a little stupid. You wave a hand like you can somehow play it cool, but you’re grinning. Wide. Hopelessly wide. “Wow. Okay. Um... yeah. Yeah, same. I...” You shake your head, laughing softly. “God, I feel like an idiot saying this, but... yeah. I care. About you. A lot.”

You glance down, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. “I mean... sure, I care about Jackie. Of course I do. But that’s... different. It’s always been different.” Your gaze lifts, searching hers. “Jackie and Shauna... it’s like... like gravity. They fight it, but no one else even stands a chance. No one ever did.”

Lottie’s lips part — eyes soft, shining, like she wasn’t expecting to hear that. Like it hits her somewhere deep. Somewhere she’s been trying not to look.

And then — it’s like the air itself shifts. The tension coils, thick and electric, pulling tighter and tighter between you.

Neither of you moves. Not for a heartbeat. Not for two.

Until you do.

You step in. Closing the space.

And Lottie — startled — jolts back a half step, hitting the wall behind her with a soft thud. But she doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t stop you. If anything, the way her hands twitch at her sides says she’s waiting. Hoping. Begging.

Your fingers brush her wrist first — hesitant, testing — then trail up, feather-light, until they rest against the curve of her neck. Her pulse races beneath your touch, wild and frantic, matching your own.

Your nose brushes hers. A shared breath. A tremor of anticipation.

“This...” you whisper, lips barely grazing hers, “...feels like the best way to end the party.”

Lottie laughs — soft, nervous, dizzy. Her hands slide up — trembling — fingers curling at the back of your neck like she’s terrified you’ll change your mind. “Yeah,” she breathes, voice cracking around the edges. “Kissing the girl I’ve been in love with for... God, forever... definitely beats beer pong.”

The smile is still tugging at both your lips when you finally — finally — close the distance.

It’s not rushed. Not rough. It’s a slow, aching, devastating kind of soft. A kiss that tastes like every unsaid thing. Every secret look. Every almost. Every what if.

Her fingers tighten, pulling you closer. Like you could possibly get close enough.

Like maybe... you were always supposed to be here.

The kiss burns. Sweet and devastating, like fireworks under your skin. Her hands tangle in your hair, your fingers press desperately into her waist, and for one beautiful, impossible moment… nothing else exists.

Nothing but her. Her laughter. Her breath hitching against your lips. Her whisper: “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

So long.

But the fireworks... shift. Morph. Crackle into something else.

A sharp snap. A distant, guttural scream.

Then—cold. Bone-deep, suffocating cold.

Your eyes fly open.

Darkness. Trees. Snow. The suffocating press of the wilderness. No music. No laughter. No Lottie. No Jackie. No anyone.

Just you. Alone.

Your breath comes in frantic gasps — fogging the frigid air. Your pulse is a brutal drumbeat against your ribs, and for a split second, you don’t know where you are. You don’t want to know.

But reality doesn’t wait for permission.

It comes back like a fist to the chest.

The plane. The crash. The blood. The hunger. The endless, gnawing hunger.

And Jackie — oh, God. Jackie. Her face is still fresh in your mind — smiling, flushed, alive. But here... here she’s a frozen corpse, half-shrouded in snow. Half-eaten.

Your stomach twists — empty, furious. A predator screaming for meat you refuse to give it.

You won’t.

You won’t eat her. Not her. Not anyone.

Even if it means wasting away.

Even if it means dying.

Tears sting hot against your freezing skin. You wipe them away with shaking hands, forcing yourself upright. Your limbs ache. Your bones ache. Your soul aches.

The dream lingers. A cruel, perfect mirage of everything you’ve lost. Everything that was supposed to be yours. A life that never got to happen.

Lottie. Jackie. Natalie. Van. Taissa. Shauna. All of them. Laughing. Loving. Fighting. Living.

But that was then.

And this... this is now.

It’s time to wake up.

It’s time to let go.

Another step. Another day. Another mile between you... and what used to be the Yellowjackets.

[ghostedbyalex]

pls make a part two of ur agatha fic! id love to see jealous agatha pls pls pls

sure, i'll work on it

[ghostedbyalex]

Do you do requests?

yes

[ghostedbyalex]

don’t go, not tonight - agatha harkness x reader

summary: Christmas Eve. A snowstorm. You weren’t expecting to spend the night with your ex-wife… but here she is — as infuriating, charming, and impossible to ignore as ever. Some things never change. Some… never really ended. | words: 5k (apprx)

warnings: Heavy tension; exes with unresolved feelings; suggestive smut (non-explicit); intimacy; passive-aggressive bickering; divorce angst; modern no powers AU; minor language; mutual pining.

main masterlist | marvel masterlist | part two

-x-

You weren’t expecting the doorbell.

Not tonight. Not with the snow coming down in heavy, lazy flakes and the street already covered in a quiet white blanket. William had texted barely an hour ago—just got to Teddy’s! they have hot chocolate AND matching pajamas lol—and you'd smiled, actually smiled, for what felt like the first time all week.

Everything was supposed to be settled. Calm. Predictable.

So when you open the door and see her, your entire body tightens.

“Agatha?”

She blinks at you, startled—though not as startled as you are. Her hair is slightly damp from the snow, dark curls tucked beneath a beret that would’ve looked ridiculous on anyone else. She’s wearing that navy coat you used to steal in the mornings when she left too early for work. Her cheeks are pink, eyes tired, and still, somehow, she smirks.

“Evening,” she says, like this is normal. Like she didn’t just explode your entire evening with one unexpected visit. “You’re looking very... festive.”

Your sweater has reindeer on it. You resist the urge to fold your arms across your chest.

“What are you doing here?” you ask. “William’s not home.”

Agatha falters. “He’s not?”

You stare at her. “Are you serious?”

She sighs, brushing snow from her shoulder with exaggerated delicacy. “I thought—he was spending Christmas with me and New Year’s with you.”

“That was the original plan,” you say, voice tightening. “Then you said you’d be working straight through the holiday, and we all agreed he’d spend Christmas with Teddy’s family. You agreed. Weeks ago.”

She blinks, processing. “Oh.”

“Oh,” you echo, full of bite.

Agatha shifts on her feet, suddenly looking very human and a little embarrassed. “Things have been insane at the firm. I must’ve... missed that.”

“Missed the texts or missed being a functioning adult?”

That earns you a sharp look—but no retort. She exhales, watching her breath fog up in front of her like even that is trying to avoid confrontation.

You should close the door. You should let her freeze in her own mess for once.

But the snow’s getting heavier, and there’s something in her eyes—soft, worn-down, real—that knocks against your ribs. You hated loving her. But you loved her hard. That kind of thing doesn’t vanish just because it hurts.

“Come in,” you say, against better judgment. “You can dry off. Then leave.”

Her smirk returns—smaller this time, but real. “How generous.”

You step aside. “Don’t push it.”

Agatha walks in, trailing cold air and old memories behind her. You close the door, and suddenly the quiet of Christmas Eve feels a lot less peaceful.

The living room smells faintly of cinnamon and clean laundry. The heater hums softly. And yet, with Agatha standing in the middle of it all, snow melting onto the hardwood, you feel like you’ve stepped into enemy territory.

Or worse—familiar territory.

She slips off her coat like she still owns the space, drapes it over the arm of the couch, and makes a slow circuit toward the fireplace, touching things she shouldn’t: a framed photo of William and Teddy at the pumpkin patch, a half-burned candle, the throw blanket you always kept folded a certain way.

“You rearranged the furniture,” she notes casually, then glances back at you. “I liked the couch by the window.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “The draft was awful.”

Agatha hums. “Right. I forgot how sensitive you are.”

You cross your arms, half for warmth, half to stop yourself from doing something dramatic. “Do you want tea or something?”

“I’ll take coffee, if you’ve got it. Decaf.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Since when do you drink decaf?”

“Since my heart started racing every time I opened a work email,” she says, deadpan.

You snort—despite yourself—and head into the kitchen. From there, you can still hear her footsteps, the way they hesitate near the bookshelf, pause near the pile of opened mail on the dining table.

“You’ve been working,” she calls out, like it’s a revelation.

You glance at your laptop, still open on the kitchen counter, the blinking cursor accusing you silently from the half-finished paragraph.

“I have a deadline,” you reply, a little too quickly. “I’m submitting an article for the Review before the end of the break.”

“Of course you are.”

You glance back through the doorway and find her leaning against the frame like she belongs there. Like this is just a regular night in a life you don’t share anymore.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

She shrugs, smile lazy. “Just ironic. You used to lecture me about knowing when to disconnect.”

“That’s different,” you snap. “I never let work ruin my personal life.”

Agatha’s eyebrows lift, just slightly. “Mm.”

You turn back to the coffee, pressing the machine button harder than necessary. The silence she leaves in her wake is the kind that says everything.

When you finally hand her the mug, she takes it with a soft thank you and walks straight to the couch. Sits down. Crosses her legs. Just like she used to, as if the cushion remembers her weight.

You hover near the kitchen, unsure if sitting feels like surrender.

“You always kept this place so... warm,” she says after a sip. “Cozy. It still smells like you.”

You ignore the way your pulse stutters.

“You said it smelled like vanilla and unresolved expectations,” you remind her.

Her smile deepens. “Well. I wasn’t wrong.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “Is this going somewhere?”

Agatha shrugs again, sipping her coffee, eyes fixed on the twinkling lights wrapped around the staircase bannister.

“Not really,” she murmurs. “Just... nice to be somewhere that feels real. Even if I don’t belong here anymore.”

You don’t answer.

Because if you do, the words might come out wrong.

Or worse—true.

You clear your throat, eyes on your half-finished document, not on the woman comfortably curled on your couch like she’s just visiting an old friend instead of an ex-wife - that still turns your stomach inside out with every sigh.

“You’re welcome to stay a bit,” you say, keeping your tone neutral. “Warm up. Wait out the snow.”

Agatha looks up, surprised, but not enough to hide it well. She gives a slight nod, as if you’d offered her a blanket instead of unspoken hospitality. “Thanks.”

You sit back at your desk in the corner, trying to will your focus back into place. The blinking cursor stares at you like a dare. Your fingers hover above the keyboard, then slowly begin to type. One sentence. Two. Delete. Rewrite.

Agatha settles into scrolling her phone, the sound of occasional taps and soft chuckles drifting across the room. Time slips strangely. Maybe an hour. Maybe two. The snow outside grows thicker, heavy flakes blanketing the windowsills and erasing the world beyond the glass.

You shift in your chair, trying to stretch your spine without groaning aloud. Your neck twinges—sharp from the awkward angle, the hours of tension hunched over a screen. You wince and roll your shoulders.

And then she’s behind you.

Before you can react, her hands are there—firm and warm, sliding over your upper back, her thumbs pressing gently into the knots beneath your shoulder blades. It’s muscle memory. Her touch. The way she used to wordlessly soothe you when words failed.

“Jesus—” you start to say, but it melts into a soft sound—something embarrassingly close to a moan as your head tips forward under the instinctive relief.

Agatha chuckles behind you. “Still got it.”

You freeze.

And suddenly, you’re too aware of everything—the heat of her palms, the way her fingertips lingered just a beat too long, the way your body reacted without your permission.

You jerk up from the chair, heart hammering, and put a few feet of distance between you and her.

Agatha lifts both hands in a lazy peace offering. “Hey—relax. It’s just a massage.”

You glare, pulse still racing. “You don’t get to just do that anymore.”

Her smile falters for the first time. “Right,” she says quietly. “Sorry. Habit.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. You’re too busy trying to ignore the tremble in your fingers and the fact that for one stupid moment, you forgot why she doesn’t live here anymore.

You cross to the window, arms tightly folded, desperate for an anchor. But all you see is a wall of white swallowing the street whole.

“It’s worse,” you mutter.

“What?”

“The snow. It’s coming down harder now. You’re not driving in this.”

Agatha joins you at the window, gaze tracking the same invisible path that you once drove together, late-night fast food runs and whispered arguments in the front seat.

“Huh,” she says. “Looks like I’ll be here a while.”

You don’t look at her. You just breathe.

Of course she will.

And of course part of you already knew.

The storm doesn’t let up.

You check the forecast once, then again. Then once more just to make sure you’re not losing your mind. But the warnings are all the same: Hazardous conditions. Stay indoors. Avoid unnecessary travel.

You resist the urge to scream into your mug.

Agatha has made herself at home again—not in the obvious ways, but in the small, treacherous ones. She lingers near you when she doesn’t have to. Her fingers brush yours when she reaches for the wine glasses. Her hip grazes your back as she squeezes past you in the narrow kitchen, even though there’s plenty of room. And every time you tense, she just smiles. That maddening, amused little smirk like she knows exactly what she’s doing.

She helps herself to your cabinets. Picks a record that she bought two years ago and plays it like it still belongs to her. The soft hum of jazz fills the room like warm smoke, and it’s not even ten minutes before you realize you’ve stopped typing entirely.

When you glance at her, she’s leaning against the kitchen counter, glass of red wine in hand, watching you over the rim with eyes that know you too well.

“This used to be your focus face,” she says. “The squint. The lip thing.”

You immediately stop doing the lip thing.

“I have a working face,” you reply, reaching for your tea instead of wine. “Not that you’d know. You barely let me finish a sentence without distracting me.”

Agatha laughs, low and knowing. “Well. Some of us are naturally distracting.”

You almost choked on your tea.

“God, seriously?” you say, setting the mug down hard enough to clink against the counter. “Are you always like this, or did you get worse after the divorce?”

“Depends,” she says, wandering closer again. “Am I getting to you?”

You stare at her, and the worst part is—she knows the answer before you can deny it.

Dinner is a reluctant truce. You throw together something simple—pasta and a jarred sauce—and Agatha insists on helping. Only, helping apparently means standing too close, bumping your arm with hers, brushing flour from your cheek like she still has that right.

She hums softly to herself while stirring, barefoot now, sleeves rolled, like this is just one more quiet night in your kitchen.

You grit your teeth and keep cooking. But your body betrays you—warming in ways it shouldn't, breath catching in your throat every time her skin finds yours, even by accident.

And by the time the dishes are done and the house has gone still again, you’re genuinely considering walking outside barefoot just to cool off.

The record has long stopped playing. The wine bottle is mostly empty. The windows are frosted over, and the heater kicks on again with a low sigh.

You sit on the edge of the couch, one knee bouncing, trying not to look at her.

Agatha stretches, then leans back into the cushions with a soft groan. “So. You gonna offer me the couch, or do I sleep in the bathtub?”

You exhale slowly. “You know the couch kills your back.”

She grins. “So generous tonight.”

“It’s not for you,” you snap. “It’s for my conscience.”

Her smile softens just enough to hurt. “Right.”

You don’t move right away. But eventually, you stand, rubbing the back of your neck, still sore from earlier. Still remembering her hands.

“The guest room’s made up,” you say, refusing to meet her eyes. “You’ll be here through Christmas at this rate.”

Agatha stands slowly, brushing past you again with that same unbearable calm, that same quiet weight. “Merry Christmas, darling,” she murmurs as she passes.

You flinch at the endearment—and at the way your traitorous body responds to it like a match to dry wood.

You don’t look back until she’s gone down the hallway, the door clicking softly behind her.

The house feels too warm. The storm rages outside. And all you can think about is how you let her in again.

Literally. Emotionally. Too far.

Steam curls in the bathroom mirror as you splash cold water on your face, trying to scrub off not just the exhaustion, but the heat clinging to your skin ever since she stepped through the door.

You don't hear her come in—but then again, you never really had to hear Agatha. She moves like memory: always present, always near, even when she shouldn’t be.

She slips in beside you like it's the most natural thing in the world, toothbrush already in hand. You catch her reflection just as she opens the drawer—her drawer—and pulls out a familiar travel-sized toothpaste. The kind only she ever used.

You freeze, water still dripping from your chin.

She notices your silence, glances over, then lowers the toothbrush slightly.

“What?” she says, too casually. “You kept this drawer.”

You say nothing.

Agatha shrugs, smiling to herself as she uncaps the tube. “Guess some habits die harder than others.”

The laugh she lets out is soft and low, almost fond—but it lands wrong in the narrow space between you.

Your stomach tightens.

You reach for the towel, pat your face dry, and without a word, you step out. Away from the heat. Away from her.

She calls your name, but you don’t stop until you’re in the hallway, heart pounding too loud in your ears. You’re halfway to your room when you hear her footsteps behind you, slower now. Less sure.

Agatha stops just outside your doorway.

You turn to face her before she can speak.

“What is this?” you ask, voice tired and flat and utterly done. “Seriously. What are you doing here, Agatha?”

Her brows lift, but there’s a flicker of guilt in her eyes. She opens her mouth—but all that comes out is a vague, “It’s snowing.”

You laugh, bitter and thin.

“Don’t,” you say. “Don’t insult me like that. I’m tired. It’s Christmas. Just—if you’re going to lie, at least make it worth the effort.”

Silence stretches long between you.

Agatha’s gaze drops for a beat. When she looks back up, some of that charm, that effortless confidence, has cracked around the edges.

She breathes in slowly through her nose, then lets it out.

“I knew William wasn’t here,” she says.

The words hang in the air, fragile and too loud.

“I saw the messages. Or… some of them. I got the gist. He was spending Christmas with Teddy. And I knew you’d be here. Alone.”

You stare at her, stunned. “You knew?”

Agatha nods, no smile this time. No smirk. Just the truth.

“I didn’t want to spend the night in my apartment. I didn’t want to be surrounded by silence and regret and ghosts of Christmases we didn’t survive. And I guess… I was hoping maybe you wouldn’t want that either.” She folds her arms, her voice quieter now. “So yeah. I came here on purpose. Not just because of the snow. Not just because I missed a few messages. I came because—” she hesitates, then finishes with a whisper, “—I didn’t want to be without you tonight.”

You blink once. Twice.

Your pulse hammers like it did hours ago. But this time, it’s not from lust. Not even anger.

It’s something deeper. Something raw and aching.

She stands there, waiting, like she’s bracing herself for the cold after stepping out into the storm.

You let the silence stretch just a second too long.

Then something in you snaps.

“Of course you didn’t want to be alone,” you say, your voice rising sharp and cold. “You never did. That was always the problem, wasn’t it? You hated being alone, but you also hated showing up. For me. For us.”

Agatha flinches, but you’re already moving, pacing a slow circle around the edge of your own anger, too far in to stop now.

“You chose work. Every damn time, you chose work. Missed school meetings, missed dinners, missed me. And every time I brought it up, you smiled like it was nothing. Like I was overreacting.”

“I was trying to build something for us,” she snaps back, finally. “I didn’t want you to have to worry about anything—”

“You didn’t want to worry.” You jab your finger toward her. “So you just vanished into your office with your shiny projects and your perfect assistant.”

Her jaw tightens. “Oh, God, not this again.”

“Yes. This. Again.” You laugh, harsh and hollow. “I know what I saw, Agatha. I know how you looked at her when you thought I wasn’t watching.”

“Nothing happened with Rio.”

“Maybe not physically,” you spit. “But I was already sleeping alone in our bed most nights. What difference would one more betrayal make?”

Agatha looks like she wants to argue—but she doesn’t.

You shake your head, your voice cracking just slightly. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

You turn to leave. To close the door and let this conversation die like everything else between you.

But her voice stops you:

“Don’t lie to me,” she says, quietly. Intense.

You turn slowly.

Her eyes are locked on yours, something molten burning just beneath the surface.

“There’s still something here,” she says. “Don’t pretend there isn’t. I see the way you look at me. I feel it every time I get too close.”

She steps forward, slow but certain. “You never stopped being mine.”

You should move. Should shout. Should slam the door in her face.

But you don’t.

You just stand there, frozen, as she closes the distance between you.

Her hand lifts, fingertips ghosting up your arm—soft, reverent, dangerous. Your breath stutters.

“You want to fight?” she whispers. “Fine. But don’t stand there pretending this isn’t still real.”

Her mouth is inches from yours. Her presence swallows the space, pulls you under like a tide.

And damn it all—she’s right.

You’re tired. You’re hurt. You hate her for all the ways she let you down.

But your body remembers her.

Your heart, traitorous thing that it is, still reaches.

So when she kisses you, you don’t stop her.

You fall into her like muscle memory—like a habit you never broke.

And when her hands tangle in your hair, and her lips press against your throat, and the wall finds your back with a thud—you don’t fight it.

You let yourself burn.

Even if it leaves nothing but ashes by morning.

You barely register the way her hands frame your face, the way her thumb brushes just below your bottom lip. You're too busy trying to breathe.

Because she knows exactly what she's doing.

Agatha never needed time to build momentum—never cared for ceremony or slow-burning build-ups. She always struck like lightning: sudden, intense, unavoidable. And it’s no different now.

One second, you're still leaning against the wall, dazed and uncertain.

The next, her mouth is back on yours, and her body presses flush to yours, no hesitation, no asking. Just claiming.

You gasp into her kiss, and she swallows the sound like it belongs to her.

And maybe it does.

Her hands slide down your sides, firm and familiar, skimming the curve of your waist like she’s reminding herself you're still real. That you're not just a memory she’s conjured up in some late-night fantasy.

You clutch at her shoulders, but it's not resistance. Not really. It’s grounding. It’s instinct. It's need.

She groans softly against your mouth, like the taste of you still drives her mad.

"God, I missed this," she murmurs, lips brushing your jaw, your throat, the place just behind your ear that makes you shiver. "Missed you."

Your head falls back against the wall, traitorously exposing more skin, giving her more room. You feel like you're unraveling beneath her touch, like every nerve in your body remembers this rhythm, this pressure, this woman.

She guides you back a step—then another—until your bedroom door is nudged open by the weight of your bodies.

But she doesn’t drag you in.

She holds you right there, half in the hallway, half in the dark warmth of the room you used to share. Like even gravity doesn’t quite know where to place you now.

You feel her fingers trace the hem of your shirt, tugging slightly, not asking permission but not quite pushing it either.

“I know every part of you,” she whispers against your throat. “Still dream about them all.”

You grip her wrist.

“Agatha,” you breathe, and there's warning in your voice.

But there’s also longing.

She lifts her head, eyes locking with yours.

There’s no triumph in her gaze. No smugness. Just something raw and unguarded.

“I just want to feel close to you again,” she says. “Even if it’s just tonight.”

You close your eyes.

Because you shouldn’t let her.

Because you know how this ends.

But her hands are warm, her lips are softer than you remember, and your body… your body stopped pretending hours ago.

So you pull her in.

Not gently.

Not carefully.

Just desperately.

Like you’re drowning and she’s the only breath left in the world.

Your shirt is gone before you realize it.

Not torn, not rushed—just removed, like second nature, like her hands were made for this, for you. Her fingers skim along your spine, a touch so precise it feels designed. You’re not sure if you're trembling from cold or heat, but she holds you like she's memorizing the shape of every breath.

Agatha’s mouth finds the hollow of your collarbone, and something inside you breaks. Not loudly. Not violently. Just the soft, clean snap of surrender.

You tug her coat off her shoulders, feel the silk of her blouse beneath your fingertips. The smell of her perfume hits you all at once—familiar, warm, almost cruel in how much it still makes your stomach twist.

She presses you down to the bed like you’ve never been anywhere else.

Like this is gravity.

And it is.

She moves over you with purpose, with rhythm, with knowledge—touching the places she once claimed with confidence, now with hunger. There’s reverence in her hands, but also possession. Like she's remembering and rediscovering you all at once.

And you let her.

You arch into her like you’re offering yourself up, but it’s not submission. It’s muscle memory. It’s everything your body never unlearned.

Her name escapes your lips more than once. Sometimes breathless. Sometimes a warning. Sometimes a plea.

She responds to each like a prayer.

There’s nothing frantic in it—just heat, deep and slow and unbearable in its intensity. The kind of intimacy that leaves you shaking not from what’s being done, but how it’s being done.

She whispers things against your skin. Half apologies. Half confessions. None of them clear. All of them felt.

And when it’s over—when the storm inside you has quieted and your heartbeat has finally begun to settle—you realize you’re still tangled in her arms, legs looped together, her hand resting just above your heart like it belongs there.

You should pull away.

You should turn your back and put a wall between you like you've done every night since the divorce.

But her lips are at your temple now.

And her fingers are still tracing slow circles into your ribs.

And against all better judgment, you stay exactly where you are.

The room is dim, wrapped in the hush of snowfall and the soft creak of bedsprings beneath shared weight.

Your breathing is still uneven. Hers, steadier, almost smug. She's always been like that—composed after chaos, a storm in human form who never seemed to feel the damage she left behind.

You feel her shift beside you, one thigh still pressed between yours, her skin warm and slick where it touches yours. Her fingers are splayed lazily over your hip, thumb stroking back and forth in a slow, thoughtless rhythm that makes your spine arch just enough to betray you.

She leans in, her lips grazing your ear.

“You still make the sweetest sounds,” she whispers, voice thick with satisfaction and something softer beneath it. “I missed hearing them.”

You swallow hard, eyes fixed on the ceiling. You should tell her to stop. That this doesn’t mean anything. That it was just sex.

But her touch lingers—deliberate.

She dips her head to press a kiss just beneath your jaw, then lower, to the hollow of your throat, her tongue warm against cooling skin. You feel her smile against you.

“You didn’t even hesitate,” she murmurs. “The moment I touched you in that hallway…”

You turn your face away, cheeks burning, but she follows you, nuzzling closer.

“You still want me,” she says, not asking. Stating. Certain.

You hate that she’s right.

Her hand moves—up, over your ribs, across the curve of your breast. Her thumb circles the peak with maddening slowness, enough to make your body stir again despite everything.

“Agatha…” you whisper, but it’s not a protest. Not really.

She hums, low and pleased, her mouth trailing down your chest. The scrape of her teeth over sensitive skin makes you gasp, and when her thigh shifts just slightly between yours, you feel your entire body light up with need again.

“I shouldn’t still know you this well,” she says, half against your breast, voice shaking just a little. “But I do.”

Your fingers grip the sheets. You want to push her away. You want to pull her closer.

You settle for threading your hand into her hair.

“I thought about this every night,” she confesses. “About touching you like this. Hearing you fall apart under me. Wondering if I ruined everything beyond repair.”

You bite your lip, and then, softer than you mean to, “Maybe you did.”

Agatha stills.

The silence is sharp.

But you don’t let go of her.

You feel her breath at your ribs, shaky now. Not from desire, but from something like regret.

“I didn’t want it to end like that,” she says.

And for the first time, there’s no seduction in her voice.

Just sorrow.

You close your eyes.

“I didn’t want it to end at all,” you admit.

She rises slowly, leans over you, her face just inches from yours again. Her eyes are searching now, not hungry—haunted.

There’s so much you could say. So much that would hurt to hear.

But instead, you lift your hand to her cheek.

Just once.

And she leans into the touch like she’s starving for it.

You kiss her this time.

Slowly.

Not like earlier—when it was raw and desperate and filled with everything unsaid. This kiss is quieter. Softer. The kind you used to share in the middle of the night, tangled in sheets and half-asleep, just to remind yourselves you were still there. Still together.

Agatha melts into it with a quiet sound in the back of her throat. Her hands return to your body, reverent this time, like she’s not trying to ignite you—just remember you. Every inch. Every curve. Every place she used to know by heart.

You roll with her, bodies aligning instinctively. Your thigh between hers, your mouths parting to breathe the same air. It’s almost painful how familiar it feels.

She looks up at you like she can’t quite believe you’re real.

“I missed you,” she whispers, like it hurts to admit.

Your hands slide down her arms, over the lines of muscle and softness, until your fingers are laced with hers, pressed into the mattress.

“I know,” you whisper back, voice trembling. “I missed you too.”

Your hips move together, slow, steady, drawn by memory and need. There’s no rush—just the rhythm of old lovers rediscovering the language only their bodies speak. Her breath stutters against your skin with every motion, every brush of your chest against hers, every press of your hips that makes her fingers clutch tighter around yours.

She murmurs your name like a prayer, your real name—not the clipped version she used when you were fighting. Not the bitter one she spit out when you signed the papers. This is the version only she used when you were happy.

You bury your face in her neck, lips pressed to her pulse. Her skin tastes like perfume and sweat and something you still recognize as home.

When her body tightens beneath you, trembling and arching, she gasps your name like it’s the only thing anchoring her. You follow moments later, breath catching, forehead resting against hers, both of you shaking.

She wraps her arms around you before you even think to move. Holds you there. Doesn’t let go.

“Don’t go,” she breathes against your temple. “Please. Not tonight.”

You feel her heart pounding against yours, wild and afraid.

“I wasn’t planning to,” you murmur, and her arms tighten, like she doesn’t believe you.

You shift slightly, just enough to press a kiss to her shoulder, to the edge of her collarbone, where you used to rest your head on lazy Sunday mornings.

She pulls the blanket over you both with one arm, never breaking contact.

And slowly—gradually—your breathing finds hers.

Outside, the snow keeps falling, burying the world in white and silence.

But inside, everything is warm.

Her skin against yours.

Her fingers threaded through yours under the covers.

Her heartbeat still echoing between your ribs like it belongs there.

And somewhere between the hush of the storm and the weight of her body curled around you, sleep finds you both. Not with finality.

But with the softness of something still possible.

Of something not quite over after all.

[ghostedbyalex]

game of thrones masterlist

this masterlist will contain game of thrones/house of the dragon works.

main masterlist

-x-

->reader insert

->alicent hightower ->daenerys targaryen ->rhaenyra targaryen

[ghostedbyalex]

the vampires diaries masterlist

this masterlist will contain vampire diaries works.

main masterlist

-x-

->reader insert

->damon salvatore ->elena gilbert ->katherine pierce

[ghostedbyalex]

other fandoms masterlist

this masterlist will contain other fandoms (movies, tv shows) works.

main masterlist

-x-

->the vampires diaries

->game of thrones

[ghostedbyalex]

jackie taylor masterlist

this masterlist will contain all jackie taylor works

main masterlist | yellowjackets masterlist

-x-

->reader insert works

never too heavy

[ghostedbyalex]

shauna shipman masterlist

this masterlist will contain all shauna shipman works

main masterlist | yellowjackets masterlist

-x-

->reader insert works

[ghostedbyalex]

lottie matthews masterlist

this masterlist will contain all lottie matthews works

main masterlist | yellowjackets masterlist

-x-

->reader insert works

let the wilderness take you

[ghostedbyalex]

wanda maximoff masterlist

this masterlist will contain all wanda maximoff works

main masterlist | marvel masterlist

-x-

->reader insert works

[ghostedbyalex]

agatha harkness masterlist

this masterlist will contain all agatha harkness works

main masterlist | marvel masterlist

-x-

->reader insert works

don’t go, not tonight | stay, once again (part II)

[ghostedbyalex]

videogames masterlist

this masterlist will contain all works from gaming fandoms.

main masterlist

-x-

->stardew valley

->haley x farmer

In one piece, I promise

->far cry

->faith seed x reader

->red dead redemption

->arthur morgan x reader ->sadie adler x reader

->the last of us

->ellie williams x reader

->dina x reader

[ghostedbyalex]

yellowjackets masterlist

this post will contain all yellowjackets works dividided per characters.

main masterlist

-x-

->reader insert

->lottie matthews

->shauna shipman

->jackie taylor

[ghostedbyalex]

pairings - masterlist

this masterlist will contain all ships works

main masterlist

-x-

->yelena x kate (bishova)

just feel