#Because I keep thinking and then just. Landing here like

[kukinkrim]

okay but here’s a fun thought

Saha boys x Siren reader

Comedy story of both parties trying to pretend to be human

and imagine they have a sit down to talk because they have to tell the other the truth (both completely expecting this to go so far south because what would their darling human companion think!)

and it comes down to “I have a secret I can no longer keep. I’m not human” the other just laughs a bit too hard dropping their own illusion like “BRO ME TOO. Oh that’s so much better than what I thought, I thought we were breaking up or somthing!”

I just think it be really neat

oops, what's a human?

saja boys x siren!reader

themes: polyamory (?), fluff, romcom

the dorm you shared with the boys were unusually quiet for the night. too quiet that it made the tension in the air all the more unbearable.

you gulped down the lump in your throat, pretending not to hear your own heart racing harshly against your sensitive ears.

your five boys sat infront of you, sitting on the couch; eyeing each other as they quietly signalled one another to start talking and ask you what the meeting was all about.

you stirred your drink slowly, nervously, trying to act normal. but it was hard when all five pairs of eyes were watching you like a hawk right now.

you’d been holding it in for weeks.

the truth of it throbbed under your skin like a second pulse—an ache that twisted every time one of them called you their favorite human. you'd laughed along, of course. nodding and telling them that they were your favorites too; which isn't a lie.

but the guilt of letting them call you a race that wasn't your own was eating you alive.

you felt like you were betraying them for keeping it to yourself for this long.

you weren't a human. you were born out of seafoam and lived in the sea, yet you suddenly found yourself on land with legs that did not quite fit you. you were a siren. a real one, even if you have no tail to show for anymore. you still had your voice. dangerous and alluring—the kind that lured people into the sea centuries ago with sweet songs and sharp teeth.

you weren’t proud of it, but you didn’t have much choice in the matter either. you sang for survival. it was in your nature.

but then, you became human. with no actual human skills to show for other than your voice, you were scouted. you managed to debut under a no-name label. a poor company that couldn't afford fancy music videos or world tours or even just a dance crew of your own.

yet you still managed to garner the love of the people. your voice reached so many and over time, you had built a loyal fanbase of your own.

the saja boys were one of them.

a couple of variety shows and collaborations later, you became close with the five. the next thing you knew, you're visitting their dorms three times a week and cuddling with them on the couch.

but the truth is still there, ever so present and persistent: you weren’t human.

and every second you spent smiling with them, joking around in practice rooms, stealing fries from jinu’s plate and letting baby mess with your vocal warmups—you felt like a fraud.

they trusted you.

that’s what made it worse.

so here you were, after putting it off so many times and crying over it at night, you sat infront of them ready to open your heart and accept the worst.

what if they hated you? that’s what haunted you the most. not being found out, but for being pushed out.

because they were your everything now. your safe space in a cruel, unpredictable industry. in this world that, no matter how many years had passed, you still couldn't get used to.

ah. this is so stressful.

you fiddled with your cup and cleared your throat. "okay. so... uh, i have something to tell you guys. and like… no interrupting until i finish. got it?”

five demon idols blinked at you, unusually solemn. their shoulders slumped and it looked like they were about to burst into tears. before you could even utter the next words, your confession, abby was the first to break their silence.

"this sounds like a breakup," he says as he looks at you with a pout. he has his arms folded across his chest.

“are you dying?” romance asked, sniffling as he clasps his hands together.

“is it cancer? it’s always cancer in dramas,” baby added, glaring at the floor. it looks like he's mutterimg something along the lines of 'fuck cancer' 'i hate cancer' or something.

your eyebrow twitched as they all started muttering amongst themselves, clearly invested in their own little theories. even jinu, the most levelheaded among the five, seemed to be convinced you were sick. it looks like mystery was about to cry once he hears the word cancer one more time so you sighed, putting the cup down before you accidentally smash it on the wall.

forget being guilty at this point.

“i— NO, shut up! i said no interuptions!” you shouted, holding your hands up. “let me say it first!”

you inhaled slowly once everyone'a eyes were all on you, "i have a secret I can no longer keep.”

the five of them leaned forward.

“i’m not human.”

pause.

the room fell quiet for a hot minute you almost wanted to throw up.

“BROOOOOO—” it was romance who broke the silence with an uncharacteristic scream, as he exhales dramatically in relief, clutching his shirt. "i thought you were going to break up with us or something. THANK GOD."

jinu choked on his drink and slapped baby in the chest, who was, somehow, already laughing like he found all of these amusing. to his credit though, it probably is.

"so what are you, then?" mystery was the ome who asked what they were all thinking. "a demon like us?" he pointed to himself as he stares you at you eagerly. for some reason, you could tell he was rather excited to hear your answer-

wait.

demons? like us?

"wha-i'm a siren. wait. demons? excuse me?" you stumbled on your words, not sure if you heard it right.

“dude,” baby gasped between coughs of laughter. “we're demons."

the four nodded as if it was not the most surprising thing in the world. well, you suppose, it means you're not the only one keeping a secret this whole time; afraid to be judged and hated on by your own lover.

"i knew you were too good during karaoke nights!" romance pointed an accusing finger at you and you chuckled, rubbing your nape sheepishly.

"so, you're all demons. all five of you."

jinu laughs, nodding. "we were actually coming up with a plan on how to tell you but it seems you made a move first. i didn't really take into account that you'd be a siren, though."

"i thought sirens were a myth!" abby was now looking at you with awe in his eyes and you could tell he had so many questions about your origin. it was kind of cute to see him so excited?

“this is so much better than what i initially thought." mystery hummed as he slumps against the couch, tension rolling off his shoulders now that everything was known.

“wait,” you frowned. “what did you think?”

“we thought you were going to say you were leaving us,” jinu replied with his eyes wide. "or worse!"

abby chirped in, "like cancer!"

there was a brief silence before you all broke into laughter again—relieved and a little hysterical. it felt like a huge weight was lifted off your shoulders now that you've told them the secret you've been keeping for so long.

you exhaled, dragging a hand down your face. “oh my god. i actually thought i was gonna confess i was a monster and then cry, maybe scream, and lose you all forever."

"nah, you're stuck with us now. you eat souls too, right?" baby asks as he relaxed on the sofa, propping his feet up the coffee table on the center of the living room.

you raised an eyebrow, but nodded anyway. "yes. i eat souls. before i became human, i usually ate lost sailors across the sea. now i just eat pathetic humans. they actually taste a bit disgusting.”

“see?” romance gestured with a grin. “you’re one of us. you’re like… demon-adjacent. an honorary hellspawn.”

“more like a morally flexible ocean cryptid.”

“that too.”

"for our next collab, you have to do the bridge." baby chirps, smiling smugly at his own idea. "your riffs actually make humans cry and cough up mild trauma. it was pretty funny to watch."

"i thought you were just a super talented human that can make grown men lose their minds," abby laughs loudly.

ah, thinking about your next comeback.

it would be a ride.

the industry better watch out. these six hellspawns were looking at a #1 billboard award.

and honestly?

you were going to look damn good on that red carpet—with your demons matching themed outfits. you can't wait.

[fanficsat12am]

You were never supposed to matter (1)

Targeting the fans was only the beginning. If he truly wants to bring down HUNTR/X, Jinu knows he has to strike at their core by focusing on one of their beloved managers, (Y/N). But what happens when the demon prince of pop finds himself falling for the very heart he planned to break?

wc: 1.9k

divider credits go to @hyuneskkami 💛

Letting out a sigh, your shoulders droop in exhaustion, your marbled countertop now looking like the softest mattress in all of Korea. With the way the Saja Boys have been climbing the charts lately, Rumi’s voice disappearing, and the backlash from the canceled live performance, you had no idea how you were supposed to manage this nightmare.

You knew about the girls’ second life—how they protected the world from Gwi-Ma’s demons while maintaining the perfect image of K-pop idols. You were one of the few people Rumi trusted with her secret, having accidentally seen the marks on her back during a fitting. After years of working with HUNTR/X, you’d gotten good at spinning lies to Bobby and the others: exploding demons? Special effects. The girls falling from the sky mid-rehearsal? Just some ambitious wire work. But with the recent threat of the hot, muscular demon boy band, you had been on your toes for days, coordinating with the PR team on how to keep the girls afloat amongst their competitors. 

Your eyelids begin to droop, heavy from exhaustion—until something shifts.

The air changes. The night breeze picks up, colder now, sharper. 

Your eyes snap open. You reach back, grabbing the nearest knife from the block. As you spin around, your blade lands inches away from a familiar figure—a raven-haired boy standing in your kitchen. 

“Easy, easy, easy,” he says, hands raised in mock surrender. As he takes a step closer, the streaks of moonlight seeping through the curtains reveal him in his human form—the one plastered across billboards and fangirl daydreams.

And who could blame them?

He was the epitome of perfection. The sharp jawline, the tousled black hair, the lean frame that moved with dancer precision—it was a weapon in itself. He was sculpted to charm, built to be adored. Even now, bathed in silver light, he looked less like a demon and more like a dream.

But it was his eyes that made you hesitate—those honey-colored irises, warm and gleaming with something almost human. Almost.

“What the hell are you doing in my house?” you demand, eyes narrowing.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” he replies calmly.

“Oh sure, because trusting a demon has never gone wrong before,” you snap, stepping closer, the blade still pointed at him.

But he doesn’t flinch.

“Well... your little friend believed me when I promised to keep her secret. Purple hair with demon marks sound familiar?”

That stops you. Just for a moment. Just enough.

Jinu sees it—and steps forward, gently pressing a finger to the tip of your knife and guiding it away.

“Now that I have your attention,” he says calmly, “I want to help you.”

You let out a sharp laugh. “And what makes you think I’d ever believe you?”

He sighs, gaze lowering. “I don’t expect you to. I just… I want to be like her. To be free. But until they reach the Golden Honmoon, we’ll never escape Gwi-Ma’s control.”

Your jaw tightens. “You have those marks for a reason.”

“I made a mistake—”

“No,” you snap. “You made a choice.”

Your grip tightens on the knife. “And that’s why I can never trust someone like you.”

In a split second, the blade flies from your hand—but before it can touch him, he vanishes in a puff of violet smoke. The knife hits the wall with a dull thunk, then clatters to the wooden floor.

A small, pale blue card flutters down from where he once stood. You hesitate before picking it up.

A cartoon duck smiles on the front.

You open it.

Inside, in delicate handwriting, it reads:

“Come find me when you’re ready to listen.”

You roll your eyes, toss the card into the bin, and fall back onto the couch with an exhausted sigh.

But as the night settles in, you can’t help but wonder, why did Rumi trust him? And why, deep down, did part of you want to believe him too.

__________________________________

As you watched the girls practice the dance for what felt like the umpteenth time, your mind kept wandering back to last night’s encounter. There had to be a catch. Demons were all the same—selfish, vile, cruel.

So what did he really want?

The memory of his honey-colored eyes lingered like a bruise in your thoughts. Warm, almost sincere—but lies always wore a pretty face.

So many questions spun through your head like a whirlpool, dragging you under until—

“Helloooo?”

You blinked. Zoey was waving her hand inches from your face.

“Earth to (Y/N)?” she teased, dragging out the last word.

Your eyes widened, snapping back to the three girls now staring at you.

“You okay?” Mira asked, head tilting, brows furrowed with a mix of concern and suspicion. “You’ve been acting… different today.”

Zoey pipes up again, “Yeah, you’ve been looking at us like—” She tilts her head to the side, eyes wide, like she’s under a spell.

You giggle softly. “Yes, I’m fine. Just thinking.” You send them a reassuring smile.

They all nod, understanding. You always had a lot on your plate as a manager.

“We’ll go ahead and call it a day,” Rumi says. “Let’s pick it back up tomorrow.”

The other girls sigh in relief, clearly eager to be swallowed by the nearest couch. As they turn to pack their things, you reach out and gently grab Rumi by the wrist. She stops, her violet hair swaying slightly as she looks back at you.

“Can we talk?” you whisper.

Her brows crease. “Yeah, sure, uhm…” She glances over to Zoey and Mira. “You guys go ahead. I’ll catch up later.”

“Sounds good,” Mira calls. “See you tomorrow, (Y/N)!”

“Bye, (Y/N)!” Zoey waves excitedly before leaving with her pink-haired companion.

Once the door clicks shut behind them, the room grows quieter.

You turn to Rumi, wasting no time.

“Have you been talking to Jinu?” Your voice is firm. “And don’t lie to me.”

She stiffens. Her eyes dart away, debating silently. Then, quietly—

“Yes.”

You let go of her hand as if burned, staring at her like she just suggested disbanding HUNTR/X.

“Rumi…”

“It’s not what you think—”

“Not what I think?” Your voice sharpens. “Rumi, he’s a demon! One of the very monsters you’ve sworn to hunt and destroy. You’ve hated their kind since you were a little girl!”

She hesitates, but then… she speaks.

“He’s different.”

She bites her lip. “He’s not like the others we’ve fought. He just… he doesn’t enjoy the hurting. It’s like he’s trapped in something he didn’t ask for.” She pulls her sleeve up slightly, revealing the faint glowing marks etched into her skin. 

“People change,” she says, voice low. “Sometimes… they just need a reason to.”

Before you could respond, the studio lights flickered once… twice… then died. The room plunged into darkness.

“Get out,” Rumi said sharply, her voice instantly shifting into that protective, no-nonsense tone. “Now.”

“Wait, what are you—”

“Go!” she shouted, already dashing in the opposite direction.

Heart pounding like a war drum in your chest, you grabbed your phone with trembling hands and fumbled to switch on the flashlight. The weak beam flickered to life, cutting through the thick veil of darkness as you sprinted down the hallway, footsteps echoing against the studio walls.

But halfway through, you skidded to a stop—your breath caught in your throat.

A low, sickening growl echoed from the shadows ahead. It wasn’t human. It wasn’t even close.

Then came the sound of claws—wet, ragged, scraping against the walls. From the cracks and corners, they emerged—a horde of demons, crawling out like living smoke. Half-shadow, half-nightmare. Spines jagged like broken glass. Eyes glowing red in the dark. Limbs bending wrong, too many joints, too many teeth.

You turned to run—but they were faster. One leapt toward you, its mouth splitting open in a shriek that pierced your skull.

You screamed, stumbling back, and instinctively squeezed your eyes shut.

You braced for the pain. For the end.

But it never came.

Instead, a feral snarl ripped through the air, so loud and guttural it made your bones rattle. The sickening crunch of impact followed, like something had been thrown straight into the wall. Hard.

Your eyes snapped open.

There, standing between you and the demon pack, was a tall figure draped in a jet-black hanbok, its fabric swaying gently like smoke in the still air.

“Jinu?” you whispered

But not the Jinu you knew.

His human illusion had fallen away. He wore a traditional black gat, its ribbon fluttering in the unnatural wind that had suddenly stirred. From beneath the wide brim, his eyes burned golden—not warm, but wild, predatory. Smoke, thick and purple-black, coiled around the edges of his silhouette.

His body moved like liquid shadow, sleek and elegant, but every step oozed restrained violence. The demon who had attacked you lay crushed against the wall in a heap of limbs, twitching before going still.

Jinu didn’t even glance back.

He didn’t speak.

But as the others lunged at him, he moved with a speed that was inhumane.

Effortless. Precise. Beautiful in a way that made your breath catch and your spine crawl.

He cut through them like a blade of darkness—one clawed hand dragging a demon to the ground, the other summoning a flick of searing smoke that split through flesh like fire through paper. Each motion was deliberate, calculated, protective—but brutal.

You stared, frozen.

Not because you were afraid.

But because you understood.

He hadn’t come for them.

He came for you.

You watched as he dealt with the last of them, holding it by the throat and with a crack of finality, letting it fall limp to the ground—it’s body fading into ashes. He looks back to you, but the look of anger and bloodshed in his bright golden eyes was gone, now back to a warm hue. The silence seemed to stretch between the two of you, almost palpable. He walks towards you. Every step echoed in your ears, louder than your own heartbeat. Your instincts screamed—Run. Turn away. Don’t let him get close. But you stay frozen in your spot. He stopped just inches away, closer than you should’ve ever let a demon get. He raised his hand slowly. You flinched and shut your eyes, breath hitching sharply. 

This is it, he’s going to kill me himself. 

Instead, you felt his ice-cold finger lifted your chin gently, his touch featherlight. Your eyes fluttered open. You find his gaze inspecting every inch of your face, his bows furrowing just the slightest as he memorized every detail. 

“Are you okay?” he asked, a hint of worry in his voice. 

You nodded, though your voice trembled. “Y-yeah.”

He let out a soft breath, the corner of his lips curling into the faintest smile. “Good.”

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then his expression shifted—just slightly, like a storm creeping back in behind his eyes.

“I shouldn’t have come here,” he murmured, gaze dropping for a second. 

Before you can speak, he steps back. The smoke curling around his form starts to rise again, swallowing him like mist.

“Wait—” you call out, reaching a hand toward him

But he’s already fading.

“Don’t follow me,” he says, voice soft but clear. “Not until you’re ready.”

Then, just like before, he vanishes into a ripple of violet haze.

You’re left standing in silence. The hallway, once haunted by demons, now feels too still. Too empty.

And then… something flutters gently to the floor.

Your eyes lower.

Another card.

Same pale blue. Same cartoon duck. But now, taped to the back, a single ticket—National Theater of Korea. Tomorrow. 8 p.m.

You pick it up slowly, heart thudding in your ears.

Inside the card, in that same careful handwriting:

“Come find me. I’ll be waiting.”

You want to throw it away.

You should throw it away.

But instead, your fingers tighten around it. You stare at it for a moment longer… then quietly tuck it into your pocket.

[xoxosierralane]

| ᴛʜɪs ᴡᴀsɴ’ᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʟᴀɴ |

✎ from sierra: hii sweets, i know this is a little late lol.. but home love island they stressing me tf out (if u watch ttm!!). But anyways this is really just an opening to this little series yum still working on, if you guys like this enough i will definitely keep continuing. Also if you wanna be on the tab list just lmk and i got you !

✎ synopsis: Azzi Fudd didn’t plan to see Paige Bueckers again. She didn’t plan to feel anything either—not the nostalgia, not the anger, and definitely not the ache in her chest. But when the past walks back into the same room—wearing a ring and someone else’s name—plans don’t really stand a chance. Some people move on. Some people move home. And some people… never stop wondering what if. This wasn’t the plan. But when has anything ever gone according to plan?

✎ taglist: @asapeveryday @thaatdigitaldiary

Azzi Fudd—that’s me.

Or at least, it’s the name they put on magazine covers, Instagram tags, and those weird commercials for skincare products where I smile like there’s no tomorrow.

Nothing real. Nothing close to the truth.

Because if you’d looked harder, you’d see the silence beneath the noise.

The way I disappeared.

The half-smile that never quite made it past my lips.

Leaving? That was the easy part.

Coming back? That’s the one that really hits.

—

Airports and I have an understanding: I hate them.

They smell like fake soap and stress you can’t avoid, and this one was no exception.

Hoodie pulled halfway up, suitcase dragging behind like it owed me money. Not really rushing. At least not anymore.

Today wasn’t another gig, another brand deal, another event I was supposed to pretend I cared about.

I was just… back. Washington.

For better. Or worse.

My phone buzzed nonstop the minute I landed. I didn’t even need to look.

I knew it was Aaliyah, she’s been texting me more and more ever since I told her I would be coming back home.

lili 💕 (12:11 PM): did you land???

lili 💕 (12:12 PM): how was the flight

lili 💕 (12:13 PM): DID YOU BRING ME ANYTHING

lili 💕 (12:14 PM): azzi jazlyn mf fudd.

lili 💕 (12:14 PM): why do you hate me??

I rolled my eyes and scoffed. Some things don’t change.

(12:15 PM): oh please

(12:15 PM): the government is crazy and foul lili

(12:15 PM): also pls stop texting 4 times in 2 minutes

lili 💕 (12:16 PM): sue me???

lili 💕 (12:16 PM): i’m hungry we’re getting lunch together!

(12:16 PM): bold of you to think i haven’t eaten since yesterday

lili 💕 (12:16 PM): what’s wrong w u

(12:16 PM): next question

(12:17 PM): calling a cab, try not to rush me i WILL stay home.

Acting calm was the plan. But inside, I was losing it.

I hadn’t had something to look forward to in months. Maybe years.

Cold hit my face stepping outside like it was punching a bag labeled Azzi Fudd.

Welcome back, Washington. (kill me.)

My career? Thriving in its own weird way.

Modeling worked out better than basketball ever did.

People still recognized me. “Oh, you’re the one who hates Gatorade.”

Yeah. I hate it. Passionately. Coconut water overrules easily.

But me? I was a mess.

Emotionally? A bigger mess.

Romantically? Don’t even ask.

The divorce was quiet.

Just a handful of people knew about the year I spent undoing the damage he did—his insecurities, his control, the noise that wasn’t love.

And now? He was gone, I thank the man above.

lili 💕 (12:19): i have news IMPORTANT news which you need to hurry your ass here for :)

(12:25 PM): on my way. what’s the tea?

aaliyah (12:25 PM): not telling. but it’s good. you might even scream.

(12:26 PM): better not be no new gatorade flavor you’re excited about

aaliyah (12:27 PM): you’re dramatic

(12:30 PM): literally poison, y’all sick

I dropped my phone on my lap and leaned back.

This place wasn’t home anymore.

But at least I didn’t have to pretend today.

Soon, overpriced brunch with the one person who made me feel okay when nothing else did.

I didn’t know it yet, but this was the beginning.

Not perfect. Not easy.

But real.

The cab was quiet—the kind of quiet I liked.

Tipped the driver like I was throwing cash at my anxiety.

Brain fueled by airplane snacks and two hours of sleep.

Pulling up to my mom’s place felt like rewinding a VHS.

Same cracked driveway with the basketball court. Same faded welcome mat yelling Come in and stay awhile.

Key under the mat (because yes, mom still did that), and there she was—Katie, scrubbing dishes like I hadn’t just flown cross-country, like none of the last few years even happened.

“Az!”

Her voice was warm, like a hug you never wanted to let go of.

She hugged me tight. I hugged back harder than I meant to. Missed this. Wouldn’t say it.

“I thought you landed at three,” Mom said, studying my face. “You look tired. Hungry?”

I was about to lie.

Then Dad’s voice came from down the hall.

“Who’s that? My superstar?”

Tim grinned like he always did, like he had no clue.

I laughed. “Hi, Dad.”

“How’s LA? How’s Jackson? He with you?”

Damn it dad really?

“Dad. We’re divorced. Remember?”

His smile slipped like he was caught in a sitcom dad moment.

“Oh—right. You told us. Or—after?”

I gave him a look.

He scratched his neck. “Aaliyah said something first. Figured I’d wait for you to say it official—”

Mom smacked his arm with a towel. “You weren’t supposed to say that.”

I shook my head, heading for the door. “Y’all are unbelievable.”

“Y’know we just love you!” Mom called after me.

“Uh huh sure.”

“Where you headed?” Dad asked, disappearing into the pantry.

“Lunch.”

“Oh, you and Paige catching up already?”

I froze.

Not dramatic. Just paused. Like my brain short-circuited and rebooted.

Paige. That name. I hadn’t heard it in months. Maybe years.

I looked back slow. “Paige?”

Mom nodded, sipping coffee. “Yeah. She moved back after you left. You didn’t know?”

“Mm mm.” I shook my head.

Suddenly I didn’t know what to do with my hands. Or my brain.

Paige was back.

She was here.

Why wouldn’t the universe wait for me to be freshly divorced, scrambled, unprepared?

Mom tilted her head. “I thought you two were still close after everything. Best friends don’t just stop talking.”

I was about to say something when—

Honk.

A loud, dramatic honk from outside.

I moved to the window, already knowing what I’d see.

Aaliyah, sunglasses on, head out the window like she was about to start a protest.

“AZZI. DO YOU NOT CHECK YOUR PHONE?! LET’S GO!”

I didn’t say anything to the crazy canadian. Just looked at my parents, waved like everything was normal, and booked it out the door.

Aaliyah stared like I owed her rent once I got in the car.

“Do you have government-level Do Not Disturb or something? I’ve been waiting ten minutes. This is disrespectful.”

I laughed. “Hi to you too.”

“You’re annoying.”

“I missed you.”

“Drive.”

She did.

I didn’t say anything about Paige. Not yet.

Some things you don’t unpack in the car.

But I felt it. The knot in my stomach.

The one that only shows up with that name.

Aaliyah drives like her life depends on it, even when it doesn’t. One hand on the wheel, one scrolling Spotify, acting like she didn’t just honk up a storm.

“You want music or no?”

“Your call. But no moody playlist.”

“It’s actually good.”

“Depression.”

“You literally just got divorced.”

“Woww really?”

“I missed you. What do you want me to say?”

“Something nice?”

“Your hair looks good.”

I ran my hand through my curls, smirking. “Thanks.”

“Better than when you were with what’s-his-face.”

“Jackson.”

“Right. The walking dry erase board.”

I laughed. “You’re mean.”

“Honest.”

“He looked like he called his mom before every decision.”

“You hated him from day one.”

“You fumbled your twenties.”

I laughed again. Felt good. Like exhaling after holding your breath too long. “Enough about my tragic past. What about you and Prince Charming?”

“Don’t call him that.”

“You called him ‘God’s apology for your exes’ last time.”

“Okay, true. But now he’s into Formula 1 and thinks he’s a pro driver.”

“Real love.”

“Shut up. Anyway, this is about you. Your ‘starting over’ era.”

“Enough.”

“Girl you modeled for Vogue.”

“Digital Vogue.”

“Still Vogue.”

I stared out the window. City the same but not. Or maybe I was. My timeline never matched everyone else’s. Basketball didn’t go like Paige’s or the others’. It stings.

“I feel behind.”

“Behind what?”

“Everyone. Everything. Like I’m still figuring it out.”

“The finish line’s fake. Nobody’s really ‘there.’ They’re just pretending better.” I smiled. Sounds like something mom or Paige might’ve said before everything changed. “This got deep.”

“Restart. Tell me something dumb.”

“I still hate Gatorade. Whole chest hate.”

“You’re the only basketball player ever who says that.”

“I’m not a player anymore.”

“Still hoop in your sleep.”

“Trauma.”

“Okay Dr. Phil, relax.”

We laughed. The silence between felt like understanding. Aaliyah pulled up to the cafe more aggressively than needed.

“I’ve been holding this in for days.”

“Don’t make that face.”

“What face?”

“That face where you pretend not to care but don’t blink for three minutes.”

I threw the door open.

“No idea what you mean.”

“You’re doing it right now.”

I shrugged. “Spill.”

We sat barely ten minutes before I started bouncing my leg. “Spill. You’ve been dying to tell me since yesterday. She sipped water. “Let’s ease into it?”

“No. Sun’s out. You’re suspicious. Spill.” She groaned. “Why do you always bully me?”

“Because you have a big mouth until it matters.” She smiled nervously. “Okay. I’m engaged.”

I gasped loud. Old couple nearby flinched.

“Shut up. Lying.”

“Nope.”

“Shut up!”

“Stop yelling.”

“Will not! You’re engaged??”

“Yes.”

I grabbed her hand. “Where’s the ring? How? When? Who?” She blushed. “Boat ride. Cheesy. Sweet. I cried a lot.”

I sat back clutching my chest. “This is so cute. I’m so happy for you lili.”

Then she muttered something.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Aaliyah.”

“I’m doing a double engagement party…with Paige.”

I blinked. “With who?”

“Paige. She’s engaged too. And her fiancé is kind of cool.”

My brain blue-screened. Hands dropped.

“You’re joking.”

“No.”

“To Paige Bueckers.”

“Yes.”

Jaw open. “You knew she was here? Engaged? And you dropped this mid-convo like it was nothing?”

“I thought it’d be fine.”

“Aaliyah.”

“Okay, yes, I screwed up. Don’t kill me, but you guys can’t avoid each other forever Az.” She said with her fake sappy face. “I’m not avoiding anything okay?” I said knowing damn well.

I dropped my face in my hands. “Need a drink.”

“It’s noon.”

“Exactly.”

“You were actually exciting to see.”

“I am.”

She smiled nervous. “If it makes you feel better—”

“Don’t.”

“Okay.”

“I mean—ugh. Double engagement party?”

“Not planned that way!”

I looked up at the ceiling. “Did you ask how I’d feel being in the same room as Paige Bueckers and her fiancé?”

She winced. “No.”

“Oh great. Reassuring.”

Silent clinking. My mind racing.

“She’s not supposed to be here.”

“Where?”

“In Washington.”

“She grew up here too.”

“Okay, like six years.”

“You don’t own the city.”

“I’m just saying. She left, I left. I thought—”

“You thought you could pretend she didn’t exist?”

I said nothing. Jaw clenched.

“She’s not Voldemort.”

“Shut up.”

“You gonna be okay?”

“I don’t know. Haven’t seen her, but I already feel hit by a bus.”

“It’s okay if you cancel. Don’t come.”

“Miss your party? I’m petty not heartless.”

She smiled. “That’s my girl.”

“But if she looks at me like I’m that same girl from college—”

“You’ll what?”

“Probably cry. on my fifth glass of champagne.”

She snorted. “So dramatic.”

“Says the girl who fake-passed out so a guy wouldn’t break up with her.”

“Bought me three more days.”

I laughed, tired but real. Looked out at the cloudy sky. People walking by. Couples holding hands. Dogs in sweaters. Phone-yelling men.

The world spins. Doesn’t care who’s married, heartbroken, or pretending not to be wrecked by a name no one says out loud.

“You think she’ll actually show with her?”

Aaliyah paused. “It’s her party too. But Paige is Paige.”

I nodded. True.

Silence thick. Not awkward. Just heavy. I pulled out my phone. She peeked.

“Who ya texting there?” Jeez ms nosy.

“No one.”

I lied.

Almost typed Paige’s name.

Almost sent a text.

But didn’t.

Not yet. Maybe never.

Smiled at Aaliyah. “Dessert?”

She raised an eyebrow but didn’t push. “You’re taking this better than I thought.” I shrugged. “Growth.”

But my mind spun fast—dangerously—whenever Paige Bueckers was involved. Because I’m good at hiding. Too good. Hiding cracks in my marriage. Bruises from love that wasn’t love. Late at night, I still dream in jump shots, gold medals, blonde ponytails, and what-if.

Years of practice folding feelings into sharp-edged smiles. Yeah, I looked fine. If Aaliyah could see inside, she’d cancel the party.

Instead, I speared a piece of cheesecake. Ate it like I wasn’t thinking about the last time Paige hugged me.

Smelled like spearmint and stress and something I can’t name. “Mmm. You’re paying.”

She side-eyed me. “Emotional blackmail. Toxic.”

I smiled. Dimples and all. “Learned from the best.” Outside, rain finally picked a side. Soft and quiet. The kind that makes you remember.

I didn’t look out the window again.

I didn’t have to.

The past was already here.

And oh boy was I not ready to go back.

——

Most people think heartbreak is loud.

That it kicks down the door and wrecks everything in its path. That it screams. Demands. Destroys.

But sometimes it’s quiet.

Sometimes it waits.

Lurks in the corners of your good days, and whispers on the bad ones. Like the song you swore you deleted. Like the sweatshirt you still sleep in. Like a name that still makes your chest pull in strange directions.

Paige Bueckers is in love.

That’s what she tells herself every morning, brushing her teeth in a bathroom she shares with the woman she’s going to marry.

That’s what she tells Taryn, when they hold hands across the table, planning wedding playlists and reception seating like none of it feels like choreography.

That’s what she tells Aaliyah. When she’s brave enough to ask.

And maybe she is.

Maybe this is love.

Not the kind that explodes.

But the kind that folds your laundry. Buys oat milk. Remembers your mom’s birthday.

Love with clean lines and good lighting.

But sometimes, when the world goes quiet—

She still thinks about her.

Azzi.

She’s not supposed to.

It’s been years. People move on. People grow. People change. But memory doesn’t care about growth.

Memory’s a cruel little thing.

It brings her back anyway.

And sometimes, that’s worse than forgetting.

———

The morning starts like most do.

Paige wakes up to the smell of eggs she always asks for the night before and a Spotify playlist that sounds like it’s personally attacking her sleep schedule.

Taryn’s singing. Loud. Enthusiastic. Completely off-key. It’s 8:52 a.m. and already the kitchen is full of syrup and sunshine.

And love.

Real love.

So Paige gets up. Smiles. Stretches like everything in her body and head isn’t heavy. She grabs the hoodie off the chair—Taryn’s favorite one to steal—and pads into the kitchen barefoot.

“You’re awake!” Taryn beams. She’s flipping pancakes with way too much joy for someone who worked a night shift. “You ruined the breakfast-in-bed surprise. Rude.”

Paige kisses her cheek. “M’bad. Smelled the cinnamon, had to come .”

Taryn laughs. “I gotta keep my fiancée on her toes.”

Paige smiles again. It almost reaches her eyes.

She should feel full. Loved. Settled.

But there’s a flicker.

A familiar static in the back of her head.

Azzi.

Still there.

Even now.

Even here.

Paige takes a bite of pancake. Nods like it tastes perfect. Doesn’t mention how it sticks to her throat. She pretends she doesn’t notice the ring on her finger feels tighter today.

———

Earlier today

The message comes at 9:42 a.m.

Right as Paige is rinsing out a protein shake she didn’t finish.

aaliyah (9:42 AM): btw. azzi’s in town. like. now.

also. don’t freak out

also. don’t throw up

also. don’t be weird at the party ! bye!

The phone doesn’t vibrate again. It doesn’t need to. Paige just stares. Until the screen fades to black. Then flips it face down like it burned her.

Azzi.

Back.

Here.

Now.

Washington was supposed to be safe. This city was supposed to be after. Not again.

Her hands are wet from the sink. But they’re shaking, so she blames the water. She continues her day folding laundry. Answering emails. Working out and overthinking. Halfway through, she realizes she’s folding that hoodie again.

The one Azzi used to steal.

The one Azzi wore the night they said too much and not enough. Taryn walks in, gym bag slung over her shoulder.

“You good?” she asks. Paige doesn’t flinch. Too well-practiced. “Yeah. Just… thinking.” Taryn raises an eyebrow. “Scary.”

“Shut up.”

Taryn kisses her forehead. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

She means it. She does.

But her chest stays quiet.

The rest of the day is a blur.

Paige doesn’t cry. She doesn’t fall apart. She’s grown. She’s evolved. She makes slushies and answers calls. But her brain keeps looping back.

To Azzi’s laugh in the tunnel before games.

To the way she said Paige’s name when no one was listening.

To that fight. That ending. That almost.

She opens Instagram.

Azzi’s profile is now public after having her blocked every other month.

Paige scrolls.

Just once.

Just enough to see that smile. The effortless one that used to be hers to witness.

She closes the app. Opens it again five minutes later.

She types out a message.

Deletes it.

Types it again.

Closes her phone like it said something unforgivable.

She throws it onto the couch.

Watches it bounce.

Tells herself she’s fine.

Tells herself she’s over it.

Tells herself she’s happy.

Tells herself she’s in love.

Repeats it until it sounds like static.

———

There’s a pair of sneakers in the back of her closet.

White with gold trim.

Barely worn.

Azzi once said they were her favorite.

Paige almost donates them every year.

But they’re still there.

Still clean.

Still hers.

Like a maybe she never let go of.

Like a version of herself she keeps buried under meal prep and wedding plans. Somewhere across the city, Azzi is back. And Paige is pretending her whole body didn’t react to that message like it was a live wire.

She sits on the couch. Legs folded. Hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands.

She thinks about texting her again.

She doesn’t.

Instead, she whispers her name into an empty room like it might echo.

“Azzi.”

She says it soft. Like an apology. Like a prayer.

Like she’s still in love with a memory.

Like she doesn’t know what she’s doing anymore.

Because maybe love isn’t loud.

Maybe it’s quiet.

Maybe it’s the part of you that never really left.

Even when you swore you moved on.

Paige Bueckers is in love.

She just doesn’t know who with.

Not anymore.

[the-pretty-reckless-optimist]

Except

"Zionists want to take over the entire middle east" is just kind of looking at Israel's actions since its inception. They keep colonizing Palestinian land and they've also attacked Syria and Lebanon. What the fuck else are we supposed to think?

"Israeli goods not sold here" echoes targeted action against apartheid South Africa. Israel is a state, not a marginalized people. Far from marginalized, in fact, given how much support it gets from the US.

"Israel loves killing Palestinian babies" is just the natural conclusion one comes to when IDF confiscates baby formula from doctors entering Gaza. It's less blood libel and more blood "I'll give you something to cry about".

"Zionists don't belong on the land they live in" is for the most part true, genetically they're more linked to the people from the countries the zionists are from, because, duh, "they need to go back where they came from" I'll grant you is antisemitic, but also "Jews don't belong in the land they live in, they need to go back where they came from" is literally the idea behind zionism. Like that's literally just what zionism is, but like, make it surface-level philosemitic. Straight from the brain of Theodore Herzl.

"Zionists over-exaggerate the holocaust" is definitely antisemitic, but it's also very much a thing where zionist Jews will downplay how other groups were targeted in the holocaust (and interestingly I don't see anyone making calls for the Rroma to have their own state built on the bones of a population already living there).

"Zionists are all colonizing capitalists" is not one I've seen specifically, like make no mistake, all zionists either are colonizers or directly support colonization, but the capitalism thing is not one I've seen directed at zionists. There are, however, plenty of arguments to make against so-called "labor zionism", because if your labor rights movement isn't anti-colonial, and zionism IS inherently colonialist, then it's fucking pointless.

"Zionists think their land was promised to them by God" is absolutely an argument that zionists themselves make, so maybe address the call that's coming from your own house, 'kay? Furthermore, genetic and historical ties? If that's the metric we're going by, then Palestinians belong there more than zionist colonizers do by magnitudes of millions. Palestinians are direct descendants of the Jews from before the time of Jesus. Most of them converted to Christianity or Islam, but they didn't fucking go anywhere. They do not lose their right to exist, their right to live in their ancestral land just because they're no longer Jewish, and they didn't have to commit genocide or ecocide in order to make, actually, maintain their home in the Levant.

When we criticize zionists, we are specifically referring to people who follow a colonialist, genocidal ideology, who believe in state's rights more than people's rights, who claim to be the victims while cheering on the marginalization, mass rape, and genocide of an Indigenous group. Palestinians deserve to exist. Jews deserve to exist. Israel does NOT deserve to exist, and it's time for zionists to get the hell over it.

If what you said will sound antisemitic if you switch the word "Zionist" with "jew" what you said was antisemitic to begin with. It's that simple

[angstywaifu]

Black Dahlia - 63. Dirty Laundry

Summary: Dahlia and Garrick finally get a moment alone after a busy few weeks.

Black Dahlia Masterlist | Masterlist | Links

It was rare to get a moment to ourselves lately. Garrick was doing more supply runs to help keep the Gryphon fliers happy. I was busy with Imogen training Violet, as well as my own squad. We’d just gotten through the first round of War Games, and while Fourth Wing had won, it had shown we still had some work to do. So not only was I putting the squad through training on the mat, I was also doing flight drills. And so far, it seemed to be paying off. But it meant the time Garrick and I had together, was mostly spent sleeping or when we were eating meals in the dining hall.

But tonight we’d made sure I had no training to attend, and Garrick had sternly told Xaden he didn’t want to be disturbed tonight unless it meant life or death. And yet, with all that, out of all the places we’d ended up… it was the very scarcely used laundry room of the Quadrant. Definitely not what Garrick and I had wanted. But with all the supply runs he was doing, he’d barely had time to do any washing, and as soon as I walked into his room, the smell had made it abundantly clear he needed to do some washing. So here we were. At least it still meant we got some time to ourselves.

I watch from where I sit on the counter, leaning up against the wall as I watch Garrick attempt, and very much fail at folding his clothes. “You are one of the most skilled fighters I know, and yet folding clothes is your undoing.” I tease as he grumbles at the shirt he’s been trying to fold.

He shoots me a glare, before reaching into the sink and throwing a wet and soggy sock in my direction, which I swat away, landing on the stone floor with a loud squelch.

“What the hell was that for?”

“For mocking my ability to fold clothes. Not my fault it’s confusing.” He grumbles as he attempts to fold the shirt again. And just like before it looks like a small child has tried to fold it, looking like a rumpled ball of fabric instead of a neatly folded shirt.

“Maybe you need to work on your skills outside of fighting and riding a dragon.” I tease as he shots me another glare.

“I fail to see how anything outside of that would be necessary. It’s not like our enemies are going to be defeated by me folding laundry.” He says before unfolding the shirt again. “Let’s see you do better.”

I hop off the bench, poking Garrick in the side to get him to move over. A move I only pulled when no one else was around, because he refused to let it be known he was ticklish to anyone but me. I grab the shirt which was now more crinkled than it had been before he’d washed it and dried it with his signet. It was one of the things I’d had drilled into me from a young age by my mother and the Colonel. Folding my clothes to make sure they were clean and presentable, along with making my bed to the ‘military standard’ as they’d said. Though I was yet to have anyone check my clothes folding and bed making abilities to see if it met this ‘standard’ I’d had drilled into me and couldn’t seem to shake. Within second the shirt Garrick had been struggling with was nearly folded.

“Told you it isn’t that hard.” I say as I hold it out to him.

“And like I said, I don’t think our enemies are going to be defeated by folding laundry properly.” He grumbles.

I shrug. “Maybe not, but maybe one day you’ll need those skills when our enemies are defeated.”

“Like when? When am I going to need to know how to fold laundry properly?”

“Guess we’ll just have to see what happens in the future.” I tell him with a smirk as I shake the shirt at him that I still hold.

He narrows his eyes at the shirt in my hands, and instead of taking it like I expect him to, his eyes raise to mine and with a flick of his wrist, water splashes up and over the edge of the sink, hitting me in the face.

In retaliation I throw the shirt at his face, which he catches with ease. But it’s the opening I need to conduct my revenge as I use the move he had on me, using his own signet against him as I send water flying towards him. I’m a panic he raises the shirt clutched in his hands, drenching the shirt in the water instead.

“Oh you’re gonna pay for that.” He says with a smirk before launching at me.

I yelp as I dart away, nearly slipping on the discarded sock on the floor in my haste to get away from him. I vault over one of the benches to get away from him, knowing Garrick, while strong is not as nimble and quick as I am. But when I turn to keep running, he’s already at the other end, smirking at me as he blocks my path. He launches at me and I laugh as I turn and round the other corner, using his signet to propel me forward.

“That’s cheating!” He calls out.

“Just using what’s at my disposal to my advantage.” I throw back at him, hearing him grumble as I use what he tells the other cadets in training back at him.

In response I feel air pushing back at me. And I glance over my shoulder to see the bastard smirking at me, using his signet to pull me back to him. I try to use it to propel me forward, but Garrick unlike me is far more experienced with his signet than I am, and as an arm wraps around my waist, hauling me back against him, I know I’ve lost.

“Now that’s cheating.” I point out as he nuzzles into my neck.

He chuckles, before placing a kiss to my neck just below my ear, causing my breath to catch in my throat. “Just using everything at my disposal to my advantage.” He whispers against my neck.

I try to elbow him in the side, but he grips my waist, picking me up and placing me on the bench top again as he stands between my legs, lips hovering just above mine.

“Maybe I should spend time improving my laundry skills, especially if it ends up like this.” He murmurs against my lips before leaning in.

Our lips barely touch before a noise has us breaking apart. Turning our heads we both watch as the familiar curly hair of Bodhi turns and leaves.

“First the my bedroom isn’t safe, then the showers, now the laundry room. Nowhere is bloody safe around here.” He grumbles as he walks away as Garrick and I burst into laughter.

@imtoanonymousforyou @simplyme-fornow @omalmal @lalaluch @wolfbc97 @leptitlu @fullmoon-94 @the-fandom-ness @fan-of-many-bands @awkardnerd @heeseungthel0ml @acourtofsmutandstarlight @fairchild06 @freyagallileaevans @pit-and-the-pen @hannraumari @elliot-rain @thestarseternaal @stupid-and-contagious01 @hyperfixation-train-station @lxnvmvrzx @thebreadisthetruevillian @red0202 @fangirling-galore @craftytrashprincess @taliyahvermillion @xadenswhore @fenixyrie @lagrandeourse @hellodarling1357 @iambored24601  @thegiftofacreativemind @fanfictionjunkie1112 @mysticalfuncollectorus @ohlookitsasinglepoeceofpopcorn @emoravenwolf @imheretobeinvisible @pvrkacciosan @fuckingsimp4azriel @clarewinchester @i-am-infinite @prettylittlewrites @electronictimetravelninja @ash88-yep

[lumosflairr]

JUST FRIENDS - FRED WEASLEY

Summary: You and Fred are just friends. However, you can't help but feel a tug at your heart whenever he does little things - making you question if your 'just friends.'

warnings: a pinch of angst, cussing, friends to lovers.

Word Count: 4,504

You and Fred were just friends. Nothing less, nothing more. At least that’s what you kept telling yourself. Over and over, like a charm you hoped would eventually work—because if it didn’t, you weren’t sure how much longer your heart could take it.

He did things, little things that didn’t feel exclusively friendly.

Like how he always found you in a crowded room—his eyes scanning until they landed on yours, lighting up like you were the only one worth seeing. Or how he saved you the best part of every dessert at dinner. Or when he’d throw an arm around your shoulders after a long day, fingers curling into the fabric of your robes like he didn’t even notice. Or when he’d lean in close during study sessions, reading your notes upside down, his cheek brushing yours while he made some cheeky comment that had your stomach somersaulting.

And the worst part? He never seemed to notice what it did to you.

It was the casual intimacy of it all—his easy affection, the warmth in his voice when he said your name. The way he’d ruffle your hair when you were annoyed, or hold your pinky instead of your hand when he tugged you through the busy corridors between classes. Things that shouldn’t have meant anything… but always did.

The saddest part was that you knew Fred Weasley. Almost as well as George. You knew he flirted with half the castle. You knew the not-so secret hookups he’s had with other Gryffindors and some Ravenclaws here and there. You knew he wasn’t serious about relationships with them, or maybe even anyone.

However, none of them got the quiet parts of him. The stillness behind his laughter. The worry in his eyes when you were too quiet. The way he’d wait up for you after late Prefect rounds, claiming he “just happened to be up,” even when his hair was mussed from sleep. Or maybe you just noticed far too much and overanalyzed him.

So no, you weren’t in love with Fred Weasley.

But sometimes—when he looked at you like you hung the moon—you really, really wished you were just a little better at lying.

Because whenever he does things like that, you find it even more difficult to keep pretending. Like tonight.

The Gryffindor common room was buzzing with post-Quidditch victory energy—scarlet and gold banners fluttering, laughter echoing off the walls, and butterbeer flowing in celebratory bursts. Someone had dragged a wireless from the dorms and turned the volume up, and a few people had pushed the couches aside to make room for dancing.

You sat curled into the arm of a chair, trying to keep your focus on the cup in your hands and not the way Fred Weasley moved through the room like he belonged to it—easy, magnetic, glowing with that same wild charm that made people gravitate to him without even realizing it.

Your stomach flipped when his eyes landed on you. He was still in his Quidditch gear, hair windblown and cheeks flushed from the game, but somehow he looked better like that—unpolished and completely alive.

“Hey,” he called, making a beeline for you through the crowd. “There’s a rule that says you have to dance with the winning team.”

“I think you made that up,” you replied, raising an eyebrow.

He grinned, unbothered. “I make up a lot of rules. Doesn’t mean they’re not good ones.”

Before you could protest, he was holding out his hand. And you—idiot that you were—took it.

The crowd parted just enough to let the two of you fall into step with the slow rhythm of the music. It wasn’t really dancing, not proper anyway. Just swaying in place, your hand in his, his other resting gently at your waist. But the closeness made your thoughts stumble.

He smelled like firewood and grass and a hint of cinnamon—like autumn wrapped in trouble—and he was looking at you like you were something rare.

“I told George you’d say no,” Fred murmured, tone soft enough that only you could hear it.

You tilted your head. “To what?”

“Dancing with me.”

“Why would I say no?”

His smile flickered at the edges, a little too careful. “Dunno. Just figured you might’ve had enough of me.”

You rolled your eyes to hide the way your heart skipped. “Don’t be dramatic. Why would I ever say no to you?”

He chuckled, spinning you lazily in a slow circle. “I can’t help it. It’s part of my charm.” And it was. All of it was. The humor, the warmth, the way he pulled you close without a second thought like you belonged there.

But you had to remind yourself again- just friends. Thats exactly what you were.

His eyes lingered for a second longer than usual, and his smile shifted—less mischievous, more… genuine.

“You look really nice tonight,” he said, voice quieter than before. “That color suits you. Its my favorite to be exact.”

You glanced down at the red fabric tucked neatly into your black leather skirt—nothing fancy, nothing flashy, just something that made you feel a little braver than usual. “It’s your house color,” you said with a small smirk. “Of course it’s your favorite.”

Fred tilted his head slightly, his eyes still on you. “Yeah, well… you make it look like a whole thing.”

You laughed, mostly because it was easier than letting yourself sink into the way he was looking at you. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re stunning,” he said simply, without any of the usual flair. Just that. And then he looked away like it hadn’t completely disarmed you.

“I could say the same about you,” you replied, trying to keep your voice steady.

His brows lifted. “What, this?” he gestured to himself—the grass-stained Quidditch uniform, his jersey untucked, pads hanging a little lopsided. “I’m literally sweating. This is me at my least impressive.”

You grinned. “That’s the sad part. You still look good.”

Fred let out a loud, theatrical gasp. “Are you—flirting with me?”

You rolled your eyes. “Relax, Weasley. It’s a compliment, not a marriage proposal.”

“Damn,” he muttered. “And here I was already planning the color scheme.”

He twirled you unexpectedly, making you laugh again as you stumbled back into his arms.

It was easy with Fred. Always had been. You danced like that for a while—slow, steady movements in the middle of a party that was growing louder by the minute. But in your little bubble, the noise faded. He asked you about your classes, groaned when you reminded him about your shared Transfiguration essay, and gave you a dramatic reenactment of how he almost died catching the last Quaffle, complete with flailing arms and fainting poses.

You rolled your eyes, but secretly you lived for these moments—when he let the silliness melt into something softer.

You talked about how much longer you had at Hogwarts, about the DA meetings, about how he and George were already plotting something “big” before they left for good.

He looked down at you as he spoke, his expression open, like he wanted you to remember this version of him—the one who wanted to be more than just a bloke who never took anything serious. The one who wasn’t laughing at the world, but sharing the laugh with you.

And you let yourself pretend, just for a moment, that you were something more.

“Oy, Weasley! Get over here, mate! We need a you!”

It was Lee Jordan, standing near a cleared table that had clearly been repurposed for an aggressively chaotic game of wizard’s Exploding Snap. George stood beside him, smirking like he’d been waiting for the perfect time to interrupt.

Fred groaned dramatically but smiled at you as he loosened his hold.

“Sorry, love,” he said, voice low and far too casual for the way your heart reacted to the nickname. “Best if i head off to Lee before i get a bludger to the head next practice.”

You forced a laugh, letting your hands fall away from him slowly, too slowly. “Wouldn’t want to deprive the common room of your talents.”

He grinned, already backing away, fingers still brushing yours until the last second. “Exactly. Sacrifices must be made.”

And then he was gone—folded back into the crowd, into the noise and the warmth and the chaos that always seemed to orbit him. Like he had never looked at you like that. Like he hadn’t just taken your breath away without even trying.

You stood there for a second, unsure what to do with yourself, before your eyes scanned the room and landed on Hermione, seated near the fireplace, a cup of punch in her hands and a knowing look already blooming on her face.

She glanced up as you walked up to her, lifting her cup slightly in greeting. “Well, you two looked cozy.”

You scoffed, too harsh, too fast. “We’re just friends.”

There was a pause—brief, but enough.

Then Hermione set her cup down and leaned forward slightly, her voice calm, like she wasn’t trying to pick a fight—just deliver the truth.

“You say that like it’s a fact,” she said softly. “But you look at him like you’ve already written a thousand love letters you’ll never send.”

“That’s quite dramatic,” you muttered, though your voice lacked bite.

Hermione didn’t respond right away. She just looked at you—really looked at you—with that frustratingly perceptive expression she wore when she was holding back something she already knew. You hated how well she could read you, even when you were trying not to be readable at all.

“I notice things,” she said quietly, as if reading your mind. “Like how you laugh before he even finishes a joke. Or how you scan a room the second you walk into it—only to relax the moment you see him.”

You stayed silent, because… well, what could you say to that?

“He touches you differently than he touches anyone else,” Hermione continued. “It’s not just friendly. He’s gentle with you. Like he’s afraid if he holds on too tightly, you’ll disappear.”

Your throat closed up. She wasn’t wrong. And that was what made it so much worse.

“I can’t…” You shook your head, struggling to find the words. “I don’t want to feel like this, Hermione.”

She frowned. “Why not?”

“Because it’s Fred,” you whispered, like saying his name too loud would unravel you. “He’s not—he’s not someone who does real feelings. He flirts with everything that moves. He jokes when he doesn’t know what else to do. He’s… impossible to pin down. He’s not the kind of boy you fall for expecting something back.”

Hermione’s voice was gentle but firm. “Maybe he’s not the kind of boy who used to do real feelings. But maybe you’re the exception.”

Your heart ached at that. It would be so much easier if you could believe it.

But you’d seen Fred with other girls. Heard the way he flirted, laughed, turned everything into a joke. And even if he was different with you, what if it was just that—different—but not more?

“You don’t get it,” you said, barely above a whisper. “If I tell him how I feel and I’m wrong, I lose him. I lose this. I lose my best friend.”

Hermione reached over and gently placed a hand on your arm. “I do get it,” she whispered, “More than you think. But you deserve to be loved out loud. And I think Fred might be a lot closer to that than you realize.”

You looked over at her, eyes stinging.

“I’m scared,” you admitted.

“I know.” Her smile was small, kind. “But just because you’re scared doesn’t mean he’s not worth the risk.”

It had been three days since the party, and you still hadn’t stopped thinking about the way Fred had looked at you or the way he spoke to you. You couldn’t stop replaying Hermiones words of affirmation she informed you of.

“You deserve to be loved out loud.”

You didn’t argue with the concept of it- no, you knew your worth. You argued with the fact it was Fred. You knew it wouldn’t be him no matter how many times you’d pray and hope just maybe- maybe he’d be the one who would shout your name from rooftops. The one who would love you out loud. You knew it was a fantasy - a fantasy that you’d have to be mad to believe would become true, because its Fred.

That led to reminding you on Hermiones other expression.

“But maybe you’re the exception.”

You didn’t believe that at all. You refused to. He must look at other girls like that right? You two were just friends. It’s what you both told everyone, so why act like theres something there?

Still, you’d kept it to yourself. Like always.

It was now time for dinner, and the Great Hall buzzed with the usual chatter. You sat across from Ron and beside Hermione, absentmindedly poking at your bangers and mash while Harry launched into yet another rant about Snape deducting points for “existing too loudly.”

“Honestly, I breathed, Hermione,” Harry said, gesturing with his fork. “And he docked me five points for being ‘aggressively present.’ What does that even mean?”

Hermione sighed, though she was clearly holding back a smile. “It means you were being annoying again.”

“He said it with fanfare,” Harry added. “Like it was the highlight of his week.”

You smiled weakly at their bickering, but your focus was slipping. It had been since the moment you caught sight of Fred down the table.

He was leaning in toward Angelina Johnson, all relaxed shoulders and easy grins, his arm casually draped behind her on her shoulder. Her hand was on his forearm—light, familiar—and he didn’t move. Didn’t shift away. If anything, he leaned closer when she said something in his ear, and he laughed—open and loud and effortless. You noticed how she looked at him.

It shouldn’t have meant anything. He and Angelina had been friends for years. Teammates. Comfortable.

But you’d always noticed the way she touched him—like she could. Like she had every right to. And she did, Fred wasn’t yours to claim.

And in the quietest, most insecure part of yourself, she had always been the reason you never said anything. Because if Fred Weasley were going to fall for someone—really fall—it would be someone like her.

Beautiful. Confident. Untouchable.

Not someone who spent the night rereading every word he said and pretending her heart didn’t race at his touch.

You looked down at your plate and tried to focus on the way your mashed potatoes were pooling into your sausage. Anything but the twisting in your chest.

“So I told him,” Harry continued, oblivious, “if he wants me to stay quiet, he can try giving me detention, but I refuse to stop breathing.”

“Very brave of you,” you muttered, your voice a little flatter than intended.

“Thank you,” Harry perked, then returning to his conversation about how ‘insufferable’ Snape was

Hermione looked over at you for a moment, quiet. You could feel her eyes on you like a weight. “You okay?” she asked softly, voice low enough that Ron and Harry wouldn’t hear.

“Perfect..” You mumbled, eyes flickering between Fred and your plate.

Hermione’s eyes followed yours, hers landing on Fred and Angelina - which she immediately caught on. “He doesn’t look at her how he looks at you though.“

“It doesn’t matter, Hermione.” You bit out, voice sounding more bitter than you intended. “I can’t keep telling myself something is there when there isn’t. I refuse to pretend that he’ll randomly wake up one morning and pick me. Because we’re friends. Just friends. And its stupid for me to pretend that theres something more lingering between us when it’s just me.”

You didn’t want to hear any of Hermione’s comforting words now- because you knew you wouldn’t believe it for a moment. Not when Fred was laughing like that, not when his hand stayed where it was, not when you felt like you were five inches shorter than usual and your chest was trying to cave in quietly while everyone else just enjoyed their dinner.

You pushed your food around and nodded along as Ron started going on about Quidditch lineups, and you told yourself—again—that it was fine. Because even though it wasn’t far from fine, you had no say in it whatsoever. You and Fred were friends. Nothing less, Nothing more.

And you had to accept that.

You told yourself you had to start pulling away.

Whatever this thing was—this not-quite friendship, not-quite something more—it was starting to hurt. It sat in your chest like weight, blooming every time he looked at you like you meant something and fading just as fast the second someone else made him laugh harder.

You started with small things. Sitting at the far end of the table. Taking longer routes to class. Turning the other way in corridors when you saw that familiar flash of ginger hair coming around the corner. You told yourself it was for the best. That you were being smart. That it was self-preservation.

But then you saw him in the halls. Again. And again. And always… she was there.

Angelina.

She wasn’t doing anything wrong, not really. She wasn’t draped over him or clinging to him in a way that demanded attention—but she was there. Lingering at his side like it was natural. Like she belonged.

And the worst part? He didn’t look like he minded. If anything, he seemed at ease—laughing at something she said, leaning in close to hear her, nudging her shoulder as they walked.

It chipped away at you slowly. Like frostbite. You didn’t even notice how cold it made you until it started to numb everything else.

So when Fred tried to talk to you—because of course he did—you gave him almost nothing in return.

“Hey, you heading to Charms?”

“Yep.”

“Mind if I walk with you?”

A shrug. “I suppose.”

He tried to joke, keep it light, keep it Fred, but you didn’t meet him halfway. Didn’t give him the usual grin or sarcasm or playfulness he was used to.

Just short answers. Polite, distant. A version of yourself you didn’t even recognize.

He looked at you a little funny when you said goodbye—like he was trying to figure out where he lost you, and whether or not he was supposed to chase after it.

“Hey,” he said, reaching out to gently catch your elbow just before you turned down the corridor. “Hold on.”

You stopped, but didn’t turn.

“You’ve been short with me,” he said, not accusing, just… confused. “Barely said more than a sentence all week.”

You shrugged, eyes fixed on the stone floor. “Busy.”

There was a pause, and then a quiet scoff. “Love, you don’t expect me to buy into that, do you?”

You finally looked at him. He looked tired in a way you weren’t used to seeing—like the mask of constant jokes and easy charm had slipped for just a moment.

But it didn’t matter. You couldn’t let it matter.

“Then don’t,” you said, voice sharper than you meant it to be.

Before he could say anything else, you turned on your heel and walked away, your footsteps echoing far too loudly in the quiet corridor.

Snow had settled thick across the rooftops of Hogsmeade, like icing on a gingerbread village. Icicles hung sharp and glinting from every overhang, and the crunch of boots on the snow-covered paths echoed softly with every step.

You were wrapped in your warmest coat, scarf snug around your neck, but the cold still bit at your fingertips through your gloves.

It was supposed to be a good day. One of the rare weekends where you could all go into the village, drink hot butterbeer, browse shops, feel normal. And for a while, it worked.

You and Harry had argued over whether the sweets at Honeydukes were superior to Zonko’s joke shop, while Ron had made it his mission to find the thickest socks in the village. Hermione kept insisting you all stop walking directly in the path of slush puddles, tugging you out of the way with narrowed eyes and half-smiles.

Eventually, the four of you ducked into the Three Broomsticks for warmth and steaming mugs of hot butterbeer. The fire crackled nearby, warming your cheeks and thawing the chill from your coat. For a moment, you let yourself settle. Let yourself pretend you weren’t avoiding anyone. That you weren’t trying to keep your heart from splitting open every time you saw Fred.

After finishing your drinks, you and Hermione wandered into a little winter shop tucked between two larger storefronts—full of knitted scarves, earmuffs, enchanted mittens that refused to get wet, and cloaks lined with soft furs and golden clasps. Hermione was flipping through a rack of deep green cloaks, going on about practicality and wool content when something over her shoulder stopped you cold.

Fred.

He was across the store, walking with George, Lee, and—of course—Angelina.

He looked good. Too good, honestly. That effortless charm about him, jacket open just enough to show his Gryffindor scarf, cheeks pink from the cold, and his hands animated as he joked with the group.

Angelina was laughing, nudging him with her shoulder. She lingered close. She always did. And as if it couldn’t get worse, Fred turned his head mid-laugh—and his eyes met yours.

Your stomach dropped.

You looked away instantly, hands fumbling with the scarf you were holding. Hermione didn’t notice at first, still explaining how she’d been needing a new cloak for weeks.

“I’m just going to pay,” you said quickly, already stepping toward the counter.

Hermione blinked. “Alright, I’ll just look at these earmuffs—”

“No,” you said too quickly, too firmly. “Actually, why don’t you go ahead to that bookshop you mentioned earlier? I think I’m just going to take a walk.”

She gave you a look. “You sure?”

You nodded, offering a smile that was tight and definitely not convincing. “Yeah. Just… need a bit of air.”

And then you were gone. You didn’t even remember what you bought. You just needed to not be there. Not see him. Not feel that crushing ache rise every time you remembered all the things you could never say. It had been weeks since you spoke with him, but it felt just like yesterday. Too soon. Too early.

After you turned the corner, you let out a shaky sigh. Due to the cold and your heart’s pounding within your chest.

Before you could even think, a hand grabbed your arm—firm, urgent—and before you could react, you were pulled into the narrow alleyway between two shops, boots scraping against packed snow, your heart thrashing in your chest.

“What the—let go of me!” You slapped wildly at the arm until the grip loosened.

“Oi, alright—bloody hell—stop hitting me!”

You froze, your hand dropping mid-swing.

“Fred?”

He stepped back, holding his hands up, breathing hard. “Hi.”

“Are you bloody mad?!” you snapped, your voice sharp, angry, and very much covering the panic and heartbreak roiling underneath. “You don’t just drag people into dark alleyways!”

“I had to talk to you!”

“There’s this thing called speaking like a normal person, Fred!”

He ran a hand through his hair, flushed, snow catching in his lashes. “You haven’t been speaking to me at all. It’s been fuckin’ weeks.”

You folded your arms. “I’ve been busy.”

“Don’t.” His voice cracked a little—just enough to silence you. “Don’t give me that. You’ve barely looked at me in weeks. You won’t sit near me, won’t talk to me, you disappear when I walk in the room. It’s like I’ve done something awful and you won’t even tell me what it is.”

Your throat tightened.

Fred took a shaky breath and kept going.

“I miss you,” he said, voice raw and exposed. “I miss everything. I miss your laugh in the common room, how you always threaten to hex me whenever i steal your homework, I miss your smile. I miss knowing you’ll be there when I look up. I miss… you.”

You looked away, but he stepped closer.

“And I don’t get it,” he said, eyes searching yours. “What did I do? Did I screw something up? Did I say something? Just—just tell me, and I’ll fix it. Just—don’t leave me like this.”

You swallowed thickly, heart racing. And then—

“I’m in love with you.”

Fred froze.

Your words had sliced through the cold air like a blade, sudden and shaking.

“I’m in love with you,” you said again, more quietly this time. “And I’ve been trying to pretend I’m not, but it’s exhausting, Fred. And it hurts. It hurts to see you with her, even if there’s nothing going on. Even if she’s just your friend. Because I’m not just your friend. Not anymore. Not in my head.”

His mouth parted like he wanted to speak, but you didn’t let him.

“You always made me feel like maybe… maybe there was something there. And I held onto that. Every time you looked at me like I mattered. Every time you made me laugh when I wanted to cry. I thought maybe… just maybe you saw me the way I saw you.”

You shook your head, voice cracking.

“But then she’s always there, and you never push her away, and I know it’s stupid, but I thought—I thought if I got some distance, I’d stop hurting. But it didn’t work. It just made everything worse.”

Silence. Thick. Cold. Endless.

And then Fred moved.

He stepped forward, cupped your face in his hands, and kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t clumsy or desperate. It was gentle. Like something he’d been carrying for far too long, and could finally let go.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, breath trembling.

“It was always you,” he whispered. “It’s always been you. I don’t know how you didn’t see it. I flirted with half the castle just to hide how badly I wanted you. Because I was terrified of scaring you off. Terrified of making you uncomfortable. Terrified that if I wanted you too loudly, I’d lose you completely.”

You blinked up at him, tears brimming, your chest aching in that awful, beautiful way when hope finally claws its way through.

“I don’t want anyone else,” he said. “You’re not some backup plan. You’re not some secret I was waiting to get over. You are—you’ve always been—the only one I’ve ever wanted.”

His voice shook now.

“And if you give me even half a chance, I swear I’ll never let you wonder again.”

Your hands gripped the front of his coat. “Fred Weasley—if you walk away after saying all that, I’m hexing you.”

He grinned—really grinned—and kissed you again. The snow kept falling, yet the cold didn’t touch you.

And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you had to lie to yourself anymore.

[bithewayellie]

no strings, no mercy

situationship!rafe x badass!reader

You’ve been fucking Rafe for a few months now. You’ve never stayed the night, and you don’t plan on doing so any time soon. It’s just sex, no strings attached, until Rafe steps out of line. You’re not his bitch. You’re not anyone’s bitch, and you’re gonna make sure he knows it. 

warnings: violence, reader punching rafe, toxic dynamics, mentions of blood, implied sexual themes.

wc: 1.5k

a/n: this is my contribution to the @zyafics MRGA campaign! i still wanted to capture rafe's toxicity and psychopathic vibes, which i think is what piques my curiosity towards rafe as a whole. i'm picturing this set in canon obx, season 2, and feel i wanted to address his controlling, angered persona, alongside a headstrong reader who wants him to know she's more than capable fighting her own battles. it's a little dark, and a little toxic, but so is rafe, and i love him <3

You hated Kooks. 

Absolutely hated them. 

Given the fact that you were also a Kook, you had every right to hate them. 

They’re all entitled little brats, and you’re glad you’ve been raised by ex-Pogue parents. At least that way, your head hasn’t been stuck so far up your ass you don’t know the difference between bonding and harassment. 

There’s a random guy with his hands on your hips, the touch having just landed mere seconds ago. You spin around rapidly, the unwelcomed connection alarming you instantly. Sure you were dancing. Sure you were in a skimpy little mini dress. 

That doesn’t give anyone any excuse to be touching you. 

Entitled fucking Kooks.

‘Touch me again so I can break your fucking fingers.’ 

Your words are laced with a heated poison, the tall random man now glaring down at you smugly, hands still on your hips. Your hands reach for his, immediately trying to bend his fingers backwards.

Before you get a chance to do any serious damage, you feel a soft shove and see the man go stumbling. The smell of his cologne gives away the man's attacker's identity immediately. That, and the fact that not many other men are six foot two, here in the Outer Banks. 

Rafe’s footwork is quick, keeping up with the man as he stumbles, his hands snapping to his collar in a nasty grip. You roll your eyes at his antics, internally questioning why he felt the need to step in. 

‘Keep your fuckin’ hands off her, dick.’ Rafe’s voice is low, dangerous. It’s threatening, and it’s enough to make the man blabber meaningless apologies. You stand behind Rafe, watching his display of testosterone, arms crossed against your chest. 

You had him. 

You would’ve happily broken his fingers. 

Now Rafe has gone and ruined all your fun. 

The man scurries off, leaving Rafe heaving in front of you, his back still to your face. There’s quite a few sets of eyes on you, making you feel slightly embarrassed that Rafe thought he had to intervene in your little situation. 

He’s breathing heavy, his shoulders puff up in an exaggerated show of aggression.

‘What the fuck was that?’ You snap coldly, watching as Rafe turns towards you, an angered shade of pink flushing his cheeks. He looks bewildered with your reaction. Granted, you’ve never been in a situation like this with him. 

You’ve never had to worry about Rafe getting defensive over you. You’ve never had to worry about Rafe starting fights over you. You’ve never had to worry, because you were just having casual sex, and you don’t need him to be getting involved in any of your business outside of that. 

You stand, eyebrows furrowed, a scowl resting on your face. Your jaw is tense, and there’s a feisty gleam in your eyes that threatens anyone looking at you, including Rafe.

‘You’re angry at me right now? Seriously? He thinks he can just come over here and start touchin’ you like that?’ Rafe snaps, throwing his hands in the air like you were missing a major point in his argument. 

‘Yeah. I am Rafe! What was that? I don’t need you playing protector, I had him myself.’ Rafe’s jaw ticks in annoyance at your words, his hand coming down and grabbing your wrist despite your evident protest. 

Deciding to follow his lead, knowing you’ll be able to scold him without dozens of eyes on you wherever he’s taking you, you stroll along. He finally makes it to what seems to be a bedroom. You’ve got no idea who’s house you’re in, but you couldn’t care less. 

‘How are you angry at me right now?!’ Rafe whines frustratedly, his hands coming up to run through his hair. You cross your arms back across your chest, which seems to be expanding with rage, each breath you take. 

‘I’m not a weak little bitch, Rafe! I had him! It’s not your place to be getting into my fights!’ You scold, your shoulders jarring resentfully with each word. He laughs. It’s a bitter laugh. It pisses you off. He’s pacing, and laughing like you’re some joke. Like you can’t fight back. 

‘You had him? He was a foot taller than you, he could’ve done anything and you wouldn’t have been able to stop him.’ Rafe’s words feel condescending. They’re cold and mocking. You’re angrier with Rafe than you were with the guy outside. 

‘What would you know about what I’m capable of, huh Rafe?!’ Snapping at him, you fail to realise that you’re instinctively pushing forward, challenging his personal space. He looks down on you pitifully. 

‘I was just trying to protect you!’ Rafe exclaims, eyes wide and crazed. 

‘I don’t need your protection, Rafe.’ You say snarkily, hands coming up to shove him harshly in the chest. 

That sickening laugh slips from his lips again, a twisted smirk on his face. 

‘What’re you gonna do, princess?’ 

His words are taunting, and it’s almost like an instinct when your hand comes up and strikes his cheek in an unforgiving slap. His head flicks to the side at the impact, and the smile falls for a split second. 

Another deep laugh escapes his lips. 

‘Is that all you’ve got? Think you can scare someone off with a pissy little slap?’ 

You snap. 

You don’t even think. Your fist collides with his lower jaw in a hasty swing, the impact sending Rafe’s head sideways and your hand aching immediately. You step back, taking a few deep breaths to try and calm yourself down. 

Your shoulders heave, your hands clenching in and out of tight-balled fists. You’re fuming, and for once, Rafe sees it. His hand comes up to rub his aching jaw, opening and closing the hinge a few times to make sure you didn’t dislocate anything. 

There’s a split in his lip, instantly tainting his mouth with a crimson shadow.

Your actions stun you, and for a brief moment you feel something. 

Guilt. 

But when Rafe looks up to you, smiling through his now bleeding lip, any trace of remorse walks out the door. 

‘Are you fucking crazy?’ You ask in exasperation. Rafe chuckles in defeat, throwing his hands up in surrender. His eyelids are heavy, his breathing deep, but he’s still got that shit-eating grin on his face. 

‘Maybe. You’ve got a pretty good right hook on you.’ He compliments you, a boyish grin still playing on his bloodied lips. You exhale deeply, still on guard, ready to keep fighting if necessary. You know Rafe would never hurt you, but your dad has trained you well. 

Don’t take anyone’s shit. 

Don’t be scared to stand up for yourself. 

Don’t be afraid of abandoning your morals in risky situations. 

You’re not going to be the kind of girl that anyone can walk over, including Rafe. 

‘Thanks.’ You mumble out, still trying to bring yourself back to a level of sanity. Rafe just watches you, his pupils blown wide. His hand rubs at his throbbing jaw softly, a defeated sigh falling from his lips.

‘I’m sorry.’ 

The words make you do a double take. You blink a few times to make sure you heard him correctly. 

‘Sorry?’ You question in disbelief. 

He laughs, but it’s genuine this time. It’s hearty, even as he wipes the dripping blood from his split lip. 

‘Sorry.’ He confirms, ‘I shouldn’t have stepped in. It wasn’t my place, you were right.’ 

‘Sorry, what have you done with Rafe Cameron? The real Rafe Cameron would never apologise to anyone in his lifetime, let alone admit someone else was right.’ You taunt, waiting for him to tell you he’s joking. But he doesn’t. 

He’s calmer than you. He sits on the bed, patting the empty spot beside him on a stranger's bed, inviting you to sit. You don’t move though. You stay where you are, watching Rafe smile proudly from a distance. 

‘I’m serious. I underestimated you,’ he pauses to wipe another leaking drop of blood from his lip, ‘You’ve got a mean swing. You would’ve had him. I’ll give it to you.’ Your anger is slowly dissipating with each word, in complete shock. 

An unexpected laugh bubbles in your chest, confusion still rampant in your thoughts. Your arms cross against your chest once again. 

‘You’re not mad that I hit you?’ You question dumfounded, because it truly seems as if he doesn’t give a single fuck that you just busted his lip open. His eyes stay trained on you, a lopsided smirk toying on his face. 

‘Not really. I think horny would be a better word to describe how I’m feeling.’ Your jaw almost swings open at his revelation. He’s actually crazy. You’ve called it. He needs a therapist, like, yesterday. 

‘I just slapped you, punched you, and split your lip, and you’re… turned on?’ You can’t help but chuckle. Your laugh is riddled with both humour and disbelief. It’s all over your face. He knows you can’t read him, and he finds that equally as amusing. 

‘What can I say, I like a woman who knows how to put a man in his place.’

[kuronarnze]

aika's flowershop order #5 !

Fushiguro Megumi x Reader !

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order by... anon !

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“Keep Hating Me, Then”

You hated Fushiguro Megumi.

Not in a “he stole your fries” kind of way.

In a “he’s smug, brooding, mysterious, stupidly talented and everyone adores him and it pisses you off” kind of way.

And the worst part? He didn’t even try.

He just existed—quiet, competent, pretty-boy face and all—and made your blood boil.

You were opposites.

You were chaos, heat, fire in your veins.

He was cold, calculated, always calm.

Too calm.

“You fight with your emotions,” he said once after a mission. “That’s reckless.”

You had scoffed. “And you fight like a robot.”

He hadn’t even blinked.

“Still got the job done, didn’t I?”

You may have flipped him off.

He may have smirked.

And maybe—maybe—that smirk haunted your dreams for a full week.

You’ll never admit it.

---

Now it’s late. The training field is dark.

Everyone else has gone in, but you stayed behind to clear your head. Sparring helped.

What didn’t help?

Fushiguro Megumi walking into the room like a shadow at dusk.

“Didn’t think you’d still be here,” he says.

You roll your eyes, picking up your weapon. “Don’t worry. I’m leaving.”

“Didn’t say I minded.”

You glance at him. He’s in his black shirt, sleeves rolled up, hair messy from the day. He looks… unfairly good. Unfortunately.

You hate that too.

“…Wanna go a round?” he asks, nodding toward the mat.

You arch a brow. “So you can lecture me again about ‘recklessness’?”

“No. So I can wipe that smug look off your face for once.”

You grin. “Bring it on, shadow boy.”

---

The match is rough. Close.

You clash again and again—technique against instinct, control versus chaos.

You’re panting. So is he. You hate the way your chest burns—and not just from effort.

He pins you down mid-grapple, body pressing yours into the mat.

You freeze.

His face is inches from yours.

His breath is warm against your skin.

And his voice—low, quiet—says:

“Why do you hate me so much?”

You glare, trying to ignore the rapid beating of your heart.

“Because you always act like you’re better than everyone.”

He tilts his head, frowning slightly.

“I don’t. I just know what I’m doing.”

You shove him off with a grunt. “Exactly.”

He catches himself, landing beside you on the floor.

The room is silent—except for your shared breaths and the distant hum of cicadas outside.

“…You annoy the hell out of me,” you mutter.

He hums. “You’re not easy to deal with either.”

You glance at him. “Then why do you always volunteer to train with me?”

His jaw clenches slightly.

“…Maybe I like fighting you.”

You blink. “What?”

He’s still not looking at you.

And then, softly—like a secret—

“Maybe you’re the only person who actually pushes me.”

Your breath catches. He finally meets your gaze.

And suddenly, it’s not about sparring anymore.

It’s something else.

Something heavy. Raw.

“…That doesn’t explain why you look at me like I’m your personal headache,” you whisper.

He gives the smallest smile.

“That’s just how I look at people I think about too much.”

Your heart nearly stops.

“What does that mean?”

He leans closer. “It means if you keep glaring at me like that, I might end up kissing you.”

You stare at him. Your hand curls slightly into his shirt without thinking.

“I thought you hated me,” you whisper.

“I thought I did too,” he says.

Then—

His lips brush against yours. Careful. Slow. Testing.

And when you kiss him back, it’s rougher, messier, real.

When you break apart, your chest is heaving again.

This time, not from the fight.

“…Still annoying,” you mutter.

He smirks. “Still better than you.”

You punch his arm. He doesn’t move.

But later, when he walks you back to the dorms, his pinky brushes yours.

And he doesn’t pull away.

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a/n: THIS ORDER IS SO CUTE AAAAAAAA thank you for your purchase and thank you for reading 🫶

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[sunshine-lux]

Clueless (viii.)

summary: how is peter supposed to make things right if y/n won't hear him out? everyone around them seems to be getting fed up with peter's behavior, especially harry. forced proximity and mj's mastermind might just be what peter needs to take his first steps in the right direction.

pairings: Stark!reader x MCU!peter parker, slight MJ x Harry Osborn muehehehe

warnings: mentions of blood, mentions of violence, light swearing, maybe one or two mentions of death but nothing serious, peter being kinda annoying LOL, f!reader. i think thats it

word count: 9.9k

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School was unusually quiet.

Peter hadn’t seen or heard from Y/N all day, and it was starting to eat him alive.

He’d spotted MJ in the hall before lunch, but all she said was, “Don’t push it. Let her have some peace, at least at school.”

And he understood. He had to respect that.

He knew he screwed up — big time.

First by sidelining her to help Gwen get settled at Midtown. Then by not telling her about the change of plans with May and showing up to the gala with Gwen. Then again, by insulting her. By insulting Harry. Then again at the football game. And even more so at the party.

And then? He let Gwen kiss him in front of her. Granted, he didn’t know she was there but it was about the principle.

He got it. He really got it.

Because even he was spiraling when Y/N started spending more time with Harry. And now, it felt like he’d practically handed her over on a silver platter.

Still… he was excited to see her again.

Even if it meant getting electrocuted or punched in the face. He’d take it. He’d take anything as long as she’d look him in the eyes again.

He walked into the training room at the compound, slightly wide eyed by the new installations and equipment intended for Avengers use only. Though after Berlin, he and Y/N were the only ones using it.

He dropped his bag on the bench and started wrapping his hands.

And then the door opened.

Y/N walked out of the locker room, her hair pulled up in a high ponytail, wearing a dark purple two-piece sports set. Her hands were already wrapped, and she didn’t even glance at him as she stepped onto the mat to stretch.

Not a word. Not a look.

And Peter felt every inch of that silence.

Peter stood at the edge of the mat, watching as Y/N continued to stretch like he wasn’t even there.

He cleared his throat. “Hey… Y/N/N—uh, Y/N.”

Nothing.

He tried again. “I just think maybe we should talk.”

Y/N didn’t even look at him. “We’re here to train. Not talk.”

Peter stepped onto the mat, hands still fidgeting with the bandages. “We might as well do both.”

“I don’t want to talk to you,” she snapped.

And then she swung. A clean punch — sharp, calculated — landing squarely in his ribs. He stumbled back, just in time for her to hit him again and this time, she shocked him.

Peter yelped, jumping back with wide eyes. “Okay—ow. I deserved that.”

Y/N didn’t stop. She moved fast, fluid, furious.

 He dodged one blow. Missed the next.

This wasn’t sparring. 

This was punishment.

And honestly? He was fine with that.

He moved fast.

Peter ducked under her arm and gently tackled her to the mat, his hands moving instinctively.

Without thinking, Peter shot a web. He pinned her wrists to the mat above her head, locking them in place.

Y/N jerked on the mat, struggling slightly. “Did you just—? Are you serious?!”

Peter held up both hands, breathless. “Just—wait! Please.”

She glared at him. “You’re actually insane.”

“I know,” he said quickly. “I know I am. But I just—just listen, okay? Please.”

Y/N didn’t respond. But she didn’t shock the webs either.

So Peter took it as a sign to keep going.

“I didn’t mean for Gwen to kiss me,” he said. “In the library. I didn’t know she was going to. It happened so fast. And I—I just reacted.”

Y/N stared at him, stone faced.

Peter’s voice cracked slightly.

“I don’t like Gwen. Not like that. Not even close. I wish—god, Y/N, I wish I’d kissed you instead. Every second of every day since the party, all I’ve thought about is that moment. And how badly I fucked it up.”

A long silence.

Then Y/N’s voice, low and bitter. “Well. Did you tell her that?”

Peter blinked. “Huh?”

“Did you tell Gwen,” she repeated, “that you don’t actually like her? Did you tell her that you like me? That you’re in love with me, even? That you’d rather kiss me than her?”

Peter opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then, quietly— “…No. I didn’t.”

Y/N didn’t move.

She stayed there, beneath him, wrists still webbed to the mat.

Waiting. One beat. Two.

And then, eyes locked with his, she said it—

 “If you want me? Then show me.”

Peter didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t do anything.

Y/N exhaled sharply through her nose then lit up her hands.

The webs sparked and hissed as they disintegrated. She shoved him off her, hard. He landed flat on his back.

She stood over him, breathing hard.

“These are all just empty words to me now,” she said coldly. “I don’t care about what you have to say.”

She turned away. Took two steps.

Then paused.

“I’m so tired of the mind games, Peter.”

And then she was gone.

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The halls of Midtown felt unusually loud that morning. Or maybe it was just Peter— his own thoughts ricocheting too hard inside his head.

He hadn’t slept much after training.

Not after the way she looked at him. Not after the way she walked away. Not after what she said.

"If you want me?Then show me."

He kept replaying it. Over and over. And the worst part? He didn’t blame her. Not even a little.

So when he saw her—finally saw her—walking toward her third period, backpack slung over one shoulder, head ducked down slightly under her hoodie, his heart jumped into his throat.

Now or never.

“Y/N—Y/N/N, wait—can we talk for a second?”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look up. Didn’t even acknowledge his voice.

Peter quickened his pace, cutting through a group of freshmen to catch up to her. His chest already felt tight.

“Please, I just—”

She reached the classroom door and yanked it open.

Then shut it in his face before he could say another word.

A few students inside glanced up at the sound. One of them snickered. Peter blinked at the glass panel for a long beat, the sting sharp and immediate.

He sighed. Shoulders sagging.

Then turned around and walked back the way he came.

Slower this time.

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Y/N spotted MJ by her locker between periods and didn’t even pause. She grabbed her friend’s hand and immediately broke into a sprint.

MJ stumbled after her. “Why are we running?!”

“Just trust me!”

They bolted past two security guards, through the gym doors, and out onto the football field, gasping for air by the time they reached the empty bleachers.

MJ bent forward, hands on her knees. “God, what is it with you and Parker just dragging me wherever you please?”

Y/N threw herself onto the grass and sprawled out dramatically. “I need to tell you about what happened during training.”

MJ dropped her backpack with a sigh and sat down beside her, pulling out a crumpled paper bag. “Alright. Spill.”

They split a sandwich and a bag of chips, the sun warming their backs as Y/N recounted every excruciating detail— Peter webbing her to the mat, being on top of her, rambling about the Gwen kiss, telling her he wanted to kiss her instead. The moment she told him "If you want me, then show me.”

MJ chewed slowly, brows raised.

“It’s not ideal,” she said finally. “But at least he’s showing up. And trying. That’s something, right?”

Y/N stared up at the sky. “Maybe. I just… I don’t know what to do with that. What does trying even mean if he won’t do anything?”

MJ nodded. “Fair. But… does Harry know about all this?”

Y/N blinked. “No. Not yet.”

“Well,” MJ said with a smirk, “he’s gonna be even more pissed off at Peter when he hears about this.”

Y/N laughed. “You’ve been talking to him a lot lately.”

MJ shrugged, trying (and failing) to be casual. “I mean… mostly about the messy love triangle. And other stuff.”

“Mhmm.” Y/N propped herself up on one elbow, grinning. “I wouldn’t hate it, you know. If my two best friends dated.”

MJ stared at her. “Oh my god. Shut the hell up.”

She stuffed the rest of her sandwich in her mouth just as the bell rang in the distance.

Y/N stood with a groan, brushing grass from her jeans. “C’mon. Back to hell.”

They walked off the field side by side, the tension from earlier momentarily eased.

The hallway was buzzing with post lunch energy, students crowding around lockers and sluggishly heading to class. Y/N and MJ had just stepped back inside when Peter spotted them.

He was halfway down the hall when he froze. There she was. Laughing. Actually laughing. It hit him like a gut punch.

He weaved past a group of seniors, practically speed walking toward her.

“Y/N!”

She didn’t stop walking.

“Y/N, please—just for a second!”

MJ winced. “Oh god.”

Peter finally caught up to them just outside their classroom.

“I just want to talk—”

Y/N didn’t even glance at him. She reached for the door handle, pulled it open, and spoke over her shoulder.

“I can’t hear you.”

Then she disappeared into the classroom.

Peter stood there, blinking. “She—did she actually just pretend not to hear me?”

MJ looked at him with the flattest expression possible. “Peter. Babe. That was rough.”

He ran a hand down his face. “Was it that bad?”

“You sounded like a kicked puppy,” MJ said. “And she walked away like you’re pestering her.”

Peter groaned. “I’m trying, okay?”

“I know,” MJ sighed. “And hey, I’m rooting for you. Kinda. But maybe dial it back one notch? You’re losing dignity by the second.”

He glanced at the classroom door, then back at MJ. “I don’t care about dignity. I just want her back.”

MJ’s face softened a little.

“Then… good luck. You’re gonna need it.”

The bell rang. MJ patted him on the arm and walked in, leaving Peter alone in the hallway, still staring at the door like it might magically open again.

It didn’t.

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The final bell rang, but Peter didn’t move. He stood near the lockers, scanning the hallway like she might still be there. But Y/N was gone.

He checked the front steps. The courtyard. The back lot. Nothing.

Just like that—vanished. Again.

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Later that afternoon, Peter stood on Gwen’s porch, eyes heavy, hoodie wrinkled, dark circles bruising the skin beneath his eyes. His shoulders slumped like he was carrying something too big to put down.

Gwen opened the door with a soft smile.

“You look like crap,” she said gently.

“Thanks,” Peter muttered, stepping inside.

They spread out their notes on her kitchen table, but Peter wasn’t really there. He kept fidgeting with his pen, glancing at the door, zoning out.

Gwen tilted her head.

“You okay?”

He paused.

Then, finally, he sighed and shook his head.

“No. Not really.”

She stayed quiet, waiting.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “About everything. I shouldn’t have let things get this far.”

Gwen leaned back in her chair. “Peter—”

“I don’t like you,” he said softly, but firmly. “Not like that.”

It came out like ripping off a bandage. Raw, but necessary.

Gwen blinked. Once. Twice. Her expression barely shifted, but her hands clenched a little in her lap.

Peter swallowed.

“You’re amazing, and kind, and funny, and any guy would be lucky to—”

“Yeah,” Gwen said, cutting him off gently. “I know.”

Peter’s mouth opened, then closed again.

“I just thought…” Gwen started, then stopped herself. Her voice was quieter now. “I thought if I tried hard enough, maybe I could make you like me. Even if it was fake. Even if it was just to make her jealous.”

She gave a soft, self deprecating laugh. “It felt good. To be chosen. To be picked by you.”

Peter looked like he was about to cry.

“But I always knew you were in love with her,” Gwen continued, gaze falling to her hands. “I always knew you weren’t mine. And you’re not mine to lose either.”

She looked up at him again. “So… I’m not mad. Not really. Just tired.”

Peter let out a breath like it knocked something loose inside his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“I know,” she said, and smiled. It didn’t quite reach her eyes.

They sat in silence for a while after that. The air between them finally cleared but it didn’t feel better. Just… honest.

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Peter slumped into his seat just as the bell rang for second period. Ned was already there, digging through his backpack for a pencil. He looked up as Peter dropped his stuff on the desk with a groan.

“Okay, first of all—hi,” Ned said. “Second—what happened? I was out yesterday, I had a bad stomach ache, but MJ texted me something cryptic about you getting electrocuted?”

Peter blinked at him. “Oh. Right. You missed everything.”

Ned gave him a look. “Well? Start talking.”

Peter rubbed the back of his neck. “We had to train together. At the compound. Just us.”

Ned’s eyes widened. “No supervision?”

“She shocked me like three times.”

“Okay but… that’s kind of progress?”

Peter ignored that. “She didn’t want to talk. But I made her. Not in a bad way—like, I talked and she listened. Sort of. She told me she’s tired of the mind games. That if I really want her, I have to show her.”

Ned nodded slowly. “Okay… that’s huge. Right?”

Peter made a face. “It gets worse. After training, she ignored me all day yesterday. At school. Wouldn’t look at me, wouldn’t talk to me. Literally slammed a classroom door in my face.”

“Oof.”

Peter leaned forward. “So last night I went to Gwen’s.”

Ned blinked. “You what—”

“Not like that. For the project. I told her I don’t like her. That I never really did. That I—” he exhaled. “That I’m in love with Y/N.”

Ned stared at him. “So… you talked to Gwen. You cleared it up. That’s what Y/N wanted. Why is she still mad at you?”

Peter pulled out his phone. Opened his messages. Tilted the screen so Ned could see.

Peter: Y/N please Peter: i’m trying Peter: i need to talk to you Peter: i meant what i said at training Peter: i miss you Peter: just give me a chance

All left on read.

Peter’s voice cracked, just slightly. “Because she doesn’t know, Ned. She won’t talk to me. How am I supposed to show her I’m ready and I’m all about her if she’s just ignoring me?”

Ned looked between Peter and the phone screen, face falling. “Dude…”

Peter dropped his head into his arms on the desk. “I’m gonna throw up.”

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By the end of the school day, Peter was practically losing his mind.

Y/N had done an annoyingly good job at avoiding him all day. He hadn’t seen her once—not at lunch, not in the halls, not even in the distance.

But he knew she was there.

He passed by her locker during fifth and caught the faintest trace of her perfume.

Of course she was there.

She just didn’t want to see him.

Now, standing at the top of the school steps, Peter finally caught sight of her—walking beside MJ, her bag slung over one shoulder, earbuds in, laughing at something MJ said. And just ahead, leaning against his sleek black Mercedes, was Harry Osborn.

Peter felt his pulse spike.

He moved before he could stop himself.

“Y/N!” he called, jogging down the steps. “Y/N, stop running from me—please, we need to talk.”

Y/N turned her head just slightly, barely acknowledging him. “I’m kinda busy right now, Parker.”

Peter’s chest tightened. He kept going. “Then when?! When, Y/N?! I’ve been trying to talk to you for two days now and you won’t let me!”

By now, MJ had stopped walking. Her mouth was tight, her eyes flicking between the two of them anxiously. Harry, who had been smiling lazily at Y/N just moments ago, straightened up, the amusement slowly slipping from his face as he started walking toward them.

“Peter…” MJ said quietly. “Not here.”

“No! Yes, here!” Peter snapped, eyes still locked on Y/N. “Y/N, please—how am I supposed to make things right if you don’t let me?!”

It was raw. Desperate. His voice cracked on the last word.

Harry stepped between them.

“Okay, Parker. Enough,” he said coolly, jaw tight. “I get that you need to explain yourself to her. But she doesn’t want to talk to you right now. Simple as that.”

Peter’s expression twisted. Anger flaring in his eyes.

He stepped forward. Just slightly. “This doesn’t concern you, Osborn.”

Harry didn’t flinch. “She’s my friend too.”

Y/N’s jaw tightened. MJ exhaled hard through her nose.

Peter's fists clenched at his sides.

“I’ve known her longer,” he said, his voice sharp. Defensive.

Harry didn’t miss a beat. “Actually, that’s not true.”

Peter’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell is that supposed to—”

Y/N cut in fast, tired and exasperated. “Okay. We are not doing this. We’re not playing the ‘Who Knows Y/N Better’ game. That’s not what this is.” She turned, grabbing Harry’s sleeve. “Let’s go, Harry.”

Peter stepped forward, almost pleading now. “You’re really gonna go with him? You seriously rather go with him than just talk to me?”

Y/N didn’t answer right away.

Peter’s chest rose and fell like he was fighting to breathe.

Harry’s hand curled into a fist, just barely.

MJ stood frozen, eyes wide.

“You don’t get to play the victim, Peter,” Y/N said, low and furious. “You don’t get to act like I’m the one being unfair here.”

Peter looked like she’d hit him.

“I’m not playing anything!” he snapped. “I’ve been trying to fix this—you won’t even give me the chance!”

“Because every time I do, you find a new way to make it worse!”

Harry stepped closer, voice cold. “She said let’s go, Parker. That wasn’t a suggestion.”

Peter’s glare shifted to him. “Stay out of it.”

“I’m not the one who made her cry for two straight weeks.”

Peter’s face crumpled at Harry’s words.

“I know I made her cry,” he snapped. “You think I don’t hate myself for that? You think this has been easy for me?”

Harry scoffed, stepping forward again. “You’ve been ‘tortured’ for what—two days? Try watching someone you care about break over and over because some idiot keeps yanking her heart around.”

“That’s not fair—”

“What’s not fair is how you keep showing up like you’re the victim when you’re the one who keeps breaking her, man.”

Peter’s fists balled. “You don’t even know what’s going on between us—”

“I know enough.”

And then Harry shoved him.

It wasn’t a light push.

Peter stumbled back a step, caught off guard—but his instincts kicked in fast. He surged forward, grabbed Harry by the front of his hoodie, and shoved him right back.

“Okay—OKAY!” MJ shouted. “Stop it!”

Y/N grabbed Peter’s wrist, trying to pull him off. “Both of you, stop—”

Harry didn’t stop.

He swung.

The punch cracked against Peter’s jaw, sharp and ugly, sending him stumbling sideways into the bike rack with a grunt.

“Harry!” Y/N yelled.

Peter’s head snapped back up, blood blooming on his lip.

And that was it.

He lunged.

The two of them crashed to the pavement hard, fists swinging, legs scrambling for leverage. MJ was yelling, Y/N was trying to drag one of them off, but it was chaos—pure, violent chaos.

Peter got a hit in to Harry’s ribs.

Harry elbowed Peter in the gut and went for his face again.

“GET OFF HIM!” Y/N shouted.

She shocked the ground—not hard, but enough to jolt them both.

Peter flinched. Harry cursed under his breath.

They both stilled.

Breathing hard. Bloody. Bruised.

“You’re both idiots,” Y/N hissed.

Peter looked up at her from where he knelt. Hair mussed. Lip split. Eyes glassy.

“I didn’t mean for it to be like this,” he said quietly.

But Y/N was already turning away.

“C’mon,” she muttered to Harry, who was still trying to catch his breath. “Let’s go.”

MJ stayed behind for a second, crouching beside Peter as he sat on the curb.

“Was it worth it?” she asked softly.

Peter didn’t answer.

He just wiped the blood from his lip and stared at the ground.

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Harry slammed the apartment door behind them, practically shaking with anger. His jaw was clenched tight, his knuckles still red and raw.

“Fucking Parker,” he growled, storming across the room. “I swear to God, the way he acts like he’s some heartbroken little hero—like he’s the one we should all feel bad for—”

“Okay, calm down, tough guy,” MJ muttered as she kicked off her shoes and flopped onto the couch. “You already punched him.”

“That wasn’t enough.”

Y/N didn’t say anything. She stood near the door, frozen. Her hands were shaking a little.

Harry turned, catching her expression and his whole posture softened instantly.

“Shit,” he said, voice lowering. “Y/N, I’m sorry.”

She blinked at him.

“This is so not like me,” he continued, stepping closer. “But after everything you’ve told me, everything I’ve seen—I just couldn’t hold back anymore. Watching him treat you like you were disposable, like your feelings didn’t matter—god, it made me insane. It’s not fair to you. None of this is. And I’m sorry if I made it worse.”

Her lip trembled.

“You didn’t,” she whispered. “I dragged you into this.”

Harry shook his head. “You didn’t drag me anywhere. I walked in on my own.”

Tears welled in her eyes before she could stop them. She turned her head, wiping them quickly—but Harry was already there, pulling her into a hug.

She folded into him, letting herself shake. Letting the tears fall.

He held her tightly, warm and steady.

And then, gently, he kissed her forehead.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “Always.”

From the couch, MJ watched in silence—then glanced at Y/N. “If you wanna check on him… you can. You don’t have to stay.”

Y/N sniffled, stepping back slightly to look at them both.

“I can’t leave Harry like this…”

Harry gave her a crooked smile. “I think he got the worst of it, sweetheart. I’ll be okay.”

He paused.

“But if you need me to punch him again, just call me.”

Y/N let out a teary laugh, even as she grabbed a tissue off the counter.

“I won’t be long,” she mumbled, heading for the door.

Once she was gone, MJ got up and crossed the room, tossing Harry a towel from the bathroom.

“You good, champ?”

Harry smirked despite the swelling in his cheek. “I just threw hands with Parker. I’m incredible.”

“Yeah yeah,” MJ said, rolling her eyes as she wet the towel. “Sit your ass down. Let’s patch you up before the bruises set in.”

Harry winced as MJ dabbed the damp towel against the cut on his brow.

“Ow—fuck, MJ, gentle.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” MJ deadpanned. “Didn’t realize the delicate trust fund baby couldn’t handle a paper towel.”

He gave her a dry look but didn’t pull away. The swelling on his cheekbone was worse now that the adrenaline had worn off.

“I gotta say,” he muttered, glancing at his reflection in the TV screen, “I didn’t think Parker had it in him. Kid’s built like a praying mantis.”

MJ stiffened just slightly. “Yeah, well… he’s got sleeper build.”

Harry snorted. “What does he bench, like… 90?”

MJ smiled tight, her hand hovering as she gently blotted the bruise. “You’d be surprised.”

They both went quiet for a beat. The soft hum of the air conditioning filled the silence as MJ moved around the couch to grab the antiseptic.

She returned, kneeling beside him again.

Harry watched her hands work—calm, careful, uncharacteristically delicate. For someone who wore sarcasm like armor, she was surprisingly gentle.

“Thanks,” he said quietly.

MJ looked up.

“For what?”

“For… helping me not make it worse.”

MJ blinked. “You started a fist fight in front of the school steps. I don’t think we get to claim the moral high ground here.”

“Still,” Harry said. “Thanks.”

Their eyes locked. Her hand was still on his cheek, the towel long forgotten. The tension stretched, sharp and fragile.

Neither of them moved.

Then—something shifted.

Harry’s gaze flicked to her mouth. MJ didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

And then, just barely, she leaned in.

Harry did too.

It was maybe two inches. Maybe less.

But then—

They both pulled back.

Fast.

Harry coughed. MJ turned abruptly, standing up a little too quickly and pretending to fix the towel on the counter.

“Well,” she said, clearing her throat. “You’ve officially ruined my afternoon. I hope you’re happy.”

Harry leaned his head back with a small smirk, hiding the flush in his face.

“Ecstatic.”

MJ didn’t turn around.

And neither of them brought it up again.

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The apartment window creaked faintly.

Peter’s head snapped up from his pillow, brow furrowing as he sat up. He was still in the same clothes from earlier, his knuckles bruised and his heart somewhere in the pit of his stomach.

Another soft noise.

And then—

She appeared.

Y/N.

Climbing up the fire escape like it was second nature, hair a little messy, hoodie sleeves pulled down over her hands. Her eyes met his through the glass, cautious, uncertain.

Peter scrambled up and unlocked the window, sliding it open before she could change her mind.

She stepped inside silently. No words. No sarcastic greeting. Just… walked in.

Peter stared at her.

“You—what are you—?”

“I wanted to make sure you were okay,” she said softly.

Peter swallowed hard. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Yeah,” she mumbled. “I know.”

But she didn’t leave.

And he didn’t ask her to.

Instead, she crossed the room quietly, crouched beside where he’d left the first aid kit on his desk, and opened it. She pulled out antiseptic and a cotton pad, then sat down next to him on the bed.

Still, not a word.

Peter flinched slightly as she dabbed at the cut on his cheek.

Her hand paused for a second.

“Is Harry okay?” Peter asked quietly. His voice cracked a little on the name.

Y/N hesitated. “Yeah. MJ’s with him.”

Peter nodded slowly. “Good. That’s… good.”

She went back to cleaning the cut.

He watched her.

Watched the way her eyes stayed low, the way her fingers moved gently despite everything. Like she still couldn’t stand to see him hurt, even now.

Her hand trembled slightly.

And when she blinked, a tear slipped down her cheek.

Peter reached up without thinking. Wiped it away gently with his thumb.

She leaned into his touch.

Just for a second.

Just enough.

His hand lingered against her cheek, and her eyes fluttered shut.

She was so close.

But they both knew it wasn’t time.

“This is not how you make it up to me, by the way,” she whispered.

Peter exhaled hard, a broken little sound caught in his throat.

“I know,” he said. “I’m really fucking sorry.”

Neither of them said anything after that.

Peter reached for her hesitantly, and she let him. Fell into his arms like she was made for it. Like she didn’t want to be anywhere else.

They held each other for a long time. Just breathing. Holding on.

No kiss.

No promises.

But she was here.

She came to him.

And he knew what that meant.

She was still waiting.

The ball was in his court.

Again.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

When Y/N finally stepped into the Tower that night, the lights were low—quiet in the way that only the private floors could be.

“Welcome home, Miss Stark,” FRIDAY chimed gently. “Mr. Stark and Mrs. Potts are out for a date night. Would you like me to alert them that you’ve returned?”

Y/N dropped her bag by the couch and shook her head. “No. Let them have their night.” She padded across the room and collapsed into the corner of the sofa, knees pulled to her chest.

The living room was dim. City lights filtered in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Everything felt too quiet. Too still.

Her phone buzzed once beside her.

Harry.

 i’m okay, in case you were wondering. also— don’t feel bad. i knew what i was doing when i stepped in. your feelings for him are real. and if that means he’s the guy you end up with, then i just hope he’s worth it. i’ll never hold today against you, sweetheart.

Her throat tightened. She blinked hard against the sting in her eyes.

She didn’t text back.

Instead, she turned her phone face-down, curled tighter into herself, and cried quietly into the sleeve of her hoodie—her other hand still faintly aching from patching Peter up.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The buses lined the front of Midtown like usual, bright yellow and humming with noise. But the vibe? Way off.

Peter climbed the steps a little slower than usual, scanning the rows. Y/N was already seated halfway down, headphones on, one leg crossed over the other, MJ next to her.

She looked up for a second. Their eyes met. Then she turned away.

Peter sighed and made his way to the back.

“Dude!” Ned whisper shouted from his seat. “What the hell happened to your face?!”

Peter dropped into the spot next to him. “Harry happened.”

Ned blinked. “Harry Osborn?!”

Peter nodded. “Yup.”

“Wait—did you win?”

“Not even close.”

Ned stared. “You’re literally Spider-Man. How did you lose that fight, dude?”

Peter rolled his eyes. “That’s exactly why I had to pull my punches.”

“Oh,” Ned said. “Yeah, I guess no one would believe it if your scrawny ass won any fight.”

Peter frowned. “Dude. I have sleeper build…”

“Sure, man,” Ned said, patting his arm. “So why did you guys fight?”

Peter snorted and leaned back against the seat. “We fought because he said some stuff. And I said some stuff. And Y/N was there, and I was trying to talk to her, and then—yeah. It just kind of… happened.”

Ned raised a brow. “So like… did anything good come out of it?”

Peter’s voice softened. “She came over last night. After. Helped me clean up. She didn’t really say much, but… she stayed.”

Ned nodded slowly. “So… progress?”

Peter shrugged. “Define progress.”

A few rows ahead, Y/N leaned her head against the window, watching the sidewalk blur past. MJ sipped iced coffee beside her, lazily scrolling her phone.

“Shit really hit the fan yesterday,” MJ muttered. “I’ve never seen Peter like that.”

Y/N let out a quiet breath. “It was a lot.”

“You good?”

“Not really.”

MJ nodded. “Fair.”

There was a pause before Y/N added, “I think he meant it. All of it. I just don’t know if it’s too late.”

MJ didn’t push. She just opened her texts and opened her chat with Ned:

MJ: what the hell are we gonna do now we’re really children of divorce

Ned’s phone buzzed a second later.

Ned:i want thanksgiving with Y/N but i’ll do new years with peter 😔

MJ turned her phone so Y/N could see. Despite everything, she smiled.

It was going to be a long day. But maybe not the worst one.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The buses pulled into the parking lot of the aquarium just after ten. The sky was overcast, the kind of gray that made everything feel a little softer. The junior class filed out in clumps, buzzing with energy.

Their teachers barely tried to wrangle them.

“As long as you stay inside the aquarium and check in at 2:30, do whatever you want. Walk around, go to the touch pools, hit the cafe, go to the 3D show—just don’t disappear,” one of them announced, already halfway over it.

Peter hovered near the back of the group, eyes scanning until he found her.

Y/N stood off to the side, backpack slung over one shoulder. MJ was next to her, arms crossed. They were listening to the instructions, kind of. Mostly, Y/N was sneaking glances at Peter.

He was doing the same.

As the group broke apart and started spilling into the exhibit halls, MJ gently grabbed Y/N’s wrist and tugged her toward the left.

Ned clapped Peter on the shoulder and pulled him toward the right.

But both Y/N and Peter looked over their shoulders the entire time, stealing glances until they turned opposite corners.

MJ sighed. “You’re dying to talk to him.”

Y/N didn’t respond.

A few paces behind, MJ pulled out her phone.

MJ: this is so annoying       i miss hanging out as a group

Ned: imagine how much fun we’d be having rn dude         i would’ve made you scream in the shark tunnel by now

MJ: i would’ve pushed you into the touch pool by now :(

Ned: we need to get them together at one point         like a mission         operation reunite the idiots

MJ stifled a laugh, glancing over at Y/N, who was still walking quietly beside her, occasionally staring a little too long at a jellyfish banner on the wall.

MJ: yeah       let’s be the heroes they don’t deserve

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The café was warm and dim, filled with quiet chatter and the hum of the espresso machine. Most of the students were still wandering the exhibits, so Y/N and MJ had managed to snag a booth near the back.

Y/N sat slouched, her matcha latte barely touched. The strawberry foam had started to collapse.

MJ stared at it. “Okay, this sucks.”

Y/N didn’t look up.

“I get that you’re upset,” MJ continued, peeling the wrapper off a granola bar. “And still shaken up from last night. And trust me, so am I. But you can’t let Parker ruin the aquarium for you. You love aquariums.”

“I know,” Y/N said quietly.

MJ eyed her. “You haven’t even touched your matcha. You always finish your matcha.”

Y/N shrugged, still poking at the lid with her straw.

“I want to talk to him,” she admitted after a beat. “God, I do. But I don’t even know what I’d say.”

MJ stayed quiet.

Y/N exhaled. “I went to check on him last night. I patched him up. That was me putting the ball in his court. And I meant it. I’m not gonna pursue him anymore. If he wants to fix this—really fix it—he has to come to me.”

MJ nodded slowly. “Yeah. I get that.”

She took a sip of her iced coffee, then raised a brow. “Did you tell Tony and Pepper about the fight?”

Y/N snorted. “Hell no.”

MJ laughed. “Yeah, maybe don’t. I don’t even want to imagine Pepper’s reaction. She’d lose her shit.”

Y/N cracked a smile. “Imagine my dad, bro. I think part of him would be disappointed to know Peter lost the fight.”

“That was so bad,” MJ groaned, laughing. “You could see it on his face, too. He was holding himself back the whole time. Like he knew he could land a punch but didn’t want to.”

She took another sip of coffee.

“Honestly? I’m kind of grateful for that,” she added. “It was easier to clean up Harry’s face.”

Y/N looked up.

“Oh?” she said, perking up just a little.

MJ immediately raised a hand. “No. Don’t start.”

Y/N grinned, already leaning forward. “You’re deflecting.”

“There’s nothing going on between me and Harry.”

Y/N raised a brow. “Mmm.”

“There isn’t. That would never work out.”

“Sure.”

MJ rolled her eyes. “He’s rich. He’s dramatic. He probably owns, like, silk cashmere underwear. And I’m… me.”

Y/N sipped her matcha for the first time. “Right.”

“We argue like, every day. He makes everything a performance. I hate when he calls me ‘darling.’”

“But you like it a little, though.”

MJ didn’t answer.

Y/N just smiled.

“Mhm,” she said smugly, leaning back in the booth.

MJ groaned. “This is why I didn’t want to bring it up.”

There was a beat of silence as they both slowly drank, letting it settle.

Then Y/N shifted. “Is this a safe space?”

MJ narrowed her eyes. “Are you for real right now? Do you even need to ask?”

Y/N bit back a smile. “Well, because I want to say something but I know it’s gonna piss you off.”

MJ sighed dramatically. “Ugh. What.”

Y/N leaned in, lowering her voice like she was confessing a sin.

“...It was kinda hot,” she whispered. “I mean, I’ve trained with Peter before, but this was different. Maybe it was the fact he was fighting himself to pull his punches. My body almost had a reaction.”

She sipped her matcha all innocently.

MJ recoiled. “You are so gross. I can’t believe you’d find that attractive…”

Then, under her breath: “Me too, though.”

Y/N cackled.

“I knew it! You’re not immune to two conventionally attractive guys fighting!”

MJ covered her face. “I just didn’t know Trust Fund Osborn had it in him, okay? It caught me off guard.”

“So you admit it?” Y/N said, already sliding out of the booth. “You think Harry punching Peter in the face was hot?”

“No! I did not say that!” MJ protested, scrambling after her as Y/N laughed and walked away.

“Y/N/N, I didn’t say that!” MJ called again, chasing her out the café.

Y/N just grinned over her shoulder. “Too late! You’re in denial!”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The gift shop was crowded with middle schoolers, their shrieks echoing off the glass walls as they dug through bins of plush stingrays and shark teeth necklaces.

Peter stood awkwardly near the bracelet rack, flipping a blue and purple woven one between his fingers. It had a tiny lightning bolt charm attached to the center.

He swallowed. “This… reminds me of Y/N.”

Ned, holding an octopus plushie, looked over. “Then buy it for her.”

Peter blinked. “Do you think she’d wear it?”

Ned gave him a look.

“You ask as if you don’t know her. She wears that necklace May got her for Christmas every day.”

Peter nodded slowly. “Yeah…”

“She wears that dumb red bracelet my Lola gave her.”

Peter smiled, remembering. “The one with the black dots?”

Ned nodded. “Exactly. Y/N is the most sentimental person I know, bro. You could give her a gum wrapper and she’d find a way to turn it into a keepsake.”

Peter looked back at the bracelet.

It wasn’t fancy. It cost $6.99. But it was her favorite colors, and the lightning bolt made something ache in his chest.

“…Okay, fine,” he muttered, snatching it off the rack and heading for the register.

Ned grinned. “Softie.”

“Shut up.”

Peter paid in cash and pocketed the bracelet, heart thudding just a little faster than normal.

He didn’t know when he’d give it to her.

But he would.

Eventually.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Y/N was in the bathroom, rinsing her hands at the sink and frowning at her reflection. Her eyes were still a little puffy, but she looked mostly put together. She sighed and dried her hands on a paper towel, before pulling out a lipgloss from her bag to reapply.

Outside, MJ leaned against the wall, scrolling through her phone.

That’s when Peter and Ned turned the corner.

MJ looked up and immediately snorted. “You got your ass beat, Spider-Man.”

Peter groaned. “For the last time, I had to lose that fight. You think Y/N would even breathe in my direction if I’d actually hurt Harry? She’s barely talking to me now. Imagine if I didn’t pull my punches.”

MJ raised an eyebrow. “For the record? She’s dying to talk to you.”

Peter blinked. “She is?”

“I’m serious,” MJ said, stepping closer. “You know what she told me? She said she thought it was hot. Something about you pulling your punches really did something to her.”

Peter’s entire face lit up red.

Ned nearly doubled over laughing. “DUDE. You’re so red right now. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and talk to her!”

“I—I shouldn’t bother her right now,” Peter muttered.

MJ rolled her eyes. “Okay, listen to me very carefully. She’s been wanting to go to the jellyfish room all day. I’m taking her there in like an hour. Then I’m going to fake a bathroom run, you’re gonna come in, and you’re gonna talk to her.”

Peter looked like he might explode. “And say what?!”

“Apologize. Start making it up to her. Do something.” MJ crossed her arms. “Now go. Before she sees you out here.”

“I—I got her something,” Peter said, fumbling into his hoodie pocket. “It’s not much but—”

“Perfect,” MJ said, already waving him away. “You’ve got an in. Now move.”

Ned was practically vibrating. “YES!! Peter, it’s your chance! I’ll guard the door so no one else goes in!”

Peter took a shaky breath. “Okay. Okay, yeah. I can do this.”

MJ rolled her eyes but smiled anyway. “God, you’re pathetic.”

The boys darted off down the hall just as the bathroom door creaked open.

Y/N stepped out, brows knitting. “Why are you smiling like that?”

“I’m not,” MJ said quickly, straightening. “It’s nothing.”

Y/N gave her a look. “Ohhh. Did Harry text you?”

MJ blanched. “Y/N, no! Stop it.”

Y/N just smirked, falling into step beside her. “You’re blushing.”

“I am not!”

“You sooo are.”

“I’m gonna throw you into the shark tank.”

“Worth it.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Peter paced in slow, tight circles near the edge of the stingray touch pool, eyes darting around as if Y/N might materialize out of thin air.

“She’s not here yet,” Ned said, arms crossed. “You still have time to practice.”

Peter groaned. “I don’t need to practice.”

Ned raised an eyebrow. “Okay, then just freeze like a moron in an hour.”

Peter stopped pacing. “Fine. Okay. Let’s do it.”

Ned perked up. “Great. Pretend I’m Y/N. Start talking.”

Peter narrowed his eyes. “This is so dumb.”

“Come on, you’re the one who said she makes your brain melt. Let’s fix that.” Ned cleared his throat, then dramatically pretended to flipped his hair over one shoulder. “Hi Peter. I’m not mad, I’m just emotionally repressed and you hurt my feelings but I’m gonna pretend I don’t care because I’m an icon.”

Peter snorted. “That was actually—way too accurate.”

“Thank you.” Ned nodded. “Now go. Speak from the heart.”

Peter took a breath. “Y/N, I’m really sorry for—”

“No. You gotta look me in the eyes and say it like you mean it.” Ned batted his lashes. “Make me swoon.”

Peter cracked up. He doubled over, laughing. “I can’t do this.”

Ned threw his hands up. “Whatever. At least you tried.”

Peter wiped at his eyes, still smiling. “How are you better at pretending to be Y/N than I am at talking to her?”

Ned smirked. “Because I’m emotionally stable. Unlike some people.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “I hate you.”

“You love me. Now go make your move, lover boy.”

Peter and Ned ducked behind the oversized “Aquatic Life in Motion” display, poorly camouflaged by a rack of reusable tote bags just as they heard the girl’s voices approaching.

“They’re coming,” Ned hissed, peeking out.

Sure enough, Y/N and MJ strolled into view, mid-conversation, heading straight for the jellyfish room.

Peter held his breath.

Y/N didn’t see them. She walked right past, matcha in hand, shoulders hunched like she was trying not to feel anything at all.

But MJ caught sight of the boys instantly. Her eyes flicked to Peter. Then Ned. Then back to Peter.

And then she smirked.

“Ohhh,” MJ said suddenly, clutching her stomach. “I have to pee.”

Y/N blinked. “We just got here.”

“No, yeah, but—don’t come with me. I’ll be back in a bit. Just stay here. With the vibes. It’s nice in here.”

Before Y/N could argue, MJ spun on her heel and practically sprinted out the door. She didn’t stop until she reached Peter and Ned.

“Now’s your chance, Parker,” she said, catching her breath. “She’s in there. She’s got her back turned. I bought you five minutes—don’t blow it.”

Peter swallowed. Hard. “Okay. Okay.”

MJ grabbed the door. “We’ll guard it. Go.”

Ned gave him a solid shove. “You got this, man.”

Peter stepped through the doors—and they closed behind him with a soft click.

The room was dimly lit, blue and violet light rippling across the walls from the glowing jellyfish tanks. Y/N stood alone, facing the largest one, her back to the entrance.

She was still holding her drink.

Peter took a step forward.

His voice was soft. “Y/N/N?”

She didn’t move. Didn’t turn. But she’d heard him.

Another step.

This was it.

The room glowed in soft purples and shifting blues, bioluminescent jellyfish pulsing slowly behind the glass. Y/N stood still, her arms crossed loosely over her chest, matcha long forgotten in her hand.

Peter hesitated—then took a deep breath.

“Y/N/N.”

She didn’t turn around. Not yet.

“I know I’m probably the last person you want to hear from right now,” he started, voice low, thick. “And I don’t blame you. But I have to say this. Please.”

A beat.

Then, slowly, Y/N looked over her shoulder.

Peter stepped closer. His voice didn’t shake, but it was clearly coming from a boy who had been thinking about this for days.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “For everything. For sidelining you when Gwen transferred—when I should’ve been paying attention to how you were feeling. For not telling you my plans changed that night. For showing up with her at the gala and acting like that wouldn’t hurt you.”

Y/N’s gaze dropped. But she didn’t stop him.

“I’m sorry for the way I talked about you. About Harry. I was jealous and petty and stupid. You didn’t deserve any of that.”

He swallowed hard.

“I’m sorry for not being there for you when I should’ve been. For being so wrapped up in my own stuff that I didn’t see what was happening with you. And I’m sorry for acting like a child at the football game, like you were supposed to just know what I was feeling when I didn’t say a word.”

Y/N finally turned to face him, arms still crossed, but her expression softer now.

Peter’s voice cracked a little.

“I’m sorry for not kissing you at the party. I think about that moment every day, and how much I wanted to—but I froze. I wanted it so bad. I’ve wanted to kiss you since the day I met you.”

He smiled, just a little.

“That day you showed up at my apartment with Tony. And I realized I wasn’t just meeting Iron Man—I was meeting you. And you were the scariest person I’d ever seen. And the most beautiful.”

Her breath hitched.

“I’m sorry for letting Gwen kiss me. That was… I didn’t even think, I just reacted, and then it was too late. And I swear, I talked to her. I told her I don’t like her. I never liked her like that. And I’m sorry it took me so long to be honest.”

Peter stepped closer, his hands open at his sides, like he wanted to reach for her but wasn’t sure he was allowed to.

“I’m sorry for the fight. I’m sorry for hurting you. I’m sorry it got this far. I would do anything—anything—to go back and do it right. To slap myself from letting my fears get in the way. To stop this from dragging on and hurting you more.”

Y/N stared at him.

Her walls weren’t gone. But they were cracking.

And for the first time in a long time, she let him talk.

She listened.

And that alone felt like a miracle.

Y/N was quiet for a long time.

The lights from the tank shimmered across her face, casting her in a surreal, flickering glow.

Then, finally, she spoke—softly.

“You know what hurt the most?”

Peter blinked, barely breathing.

She met his eyes. And her voice cracked.

“How badly I felt about myself.”

He took a step forward, but stopped himself.

“I guess I can’t fully blame you for that,” she continued. “But I… I convinced myself that you just didn’t like me. That it was because of all the baggage I come with.”

Peter shook his head, already about to interrupt, but she raised a hand. Let me finish.

“I know I can be a lot. I have all this noise in my head all the time, and I get a terrible attitude with people when I don’t know how else to deal with it. I can be mean. And I’ve got these powers that I still don’t fully understand. It’s always too much.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“And I thought maybe you finally realized that. Maybe you just wanted someone soft. Someone pretty and quiet and easy. With less damage. Someone like Gwen.”

Peter’s eyes went wide, but he stayed quiet. Letting her speak. Letting her feel it.

“So I started spending more time with Harry. And even though I knew I didn’t like him like that, at least he never made me feel like I was too much. He never made me feel… unlovable.”

She looked down.

“And it was nice. It was nice to have someone in my corner while you were off spending all your free time with Gwen. Gushing about her like I didn’t even exist anymore.”

Peter took a breath like he’d been underwater.

“No,” he said immediately. “No, Y/N, that’s not true. None of that is true.”

His voice broke.

“I’m so fucking sorry. I’m so sorry for ever making you feel like that. I’m the awful one, Y/N/N. Not you.”

He stepped closer, the words spilling out now.

“You’re not too much. You never have been. You’re passionate and smart and sharp and yeah, okay, maybe you have a bit of an attitude—but it’s earned. You’ve been through hell and you’re still standing. That’s not baggage. That’s strength.”

He was close now, right in front of her, eyes shining.

“And I don’t want soft. I don’t want quiet. I want you. With the lightning and the smart mouth and the noise and the anger and all of it. All of it. I want the whole storm.”

Y/N blinked hard.

Her eyes were shining too.

And Peter, still breathless, added: “God, I wish I had told you that sooner.”

Silence.

The jellyfish pulsed quietly behind them, like the room itself was holding its breath.

And for the first time in weeks… there was nothing left unspoken.

Y/N reached up, brushing her fingers gently along the bruise on Peter’s cheek. “Are you feeling okay?” she asked quietly. “Better than last night?”

Peter leaned into her touch without thinking, his eyes fluttering shut for a second. Then he let out a soft laugh. “Oh, I’m great,” he said, smiling. “You should see the other guy.”

He winced. “Shit. Sorry. That’s not funny.”

Y/N giggled as she lightly caressed his cheekbone. “It’s fine. He’s okay. We’ll probably laugh about this in a few years.”

A beat passed.

Peter’s voice dropped. “You switched your AP Bio period.”

Y/N sighed, her hand falling back to her side. “I thought it’d be easier.”

“You did it because of me?” he asked quietly. His voice had gone smaller. More unsure.

“I just thought it’d be better than me skipping class,” she said.

Peter looked down. Then up at her again, his brow slightly furrowed. “I won’t be in there. If you don’t want me to be.”

“I want you to,” she said, honest and sure. “But sitting next to you every day when things were so tense… it just didn’t feel right.”

Peter’s breath caught, just a little. “You want me to?” he repeated softly, like he needed to hear it again.

She nodded, not looking away.

His expression cracked into something tender. Like he’d been holding his breath for days and finally let a little bit out. His lips parted, but whatever he was about to say—he didn’t. He just held her gaze like it was something precious.

They stood close. Closer than they had in days. Weeks.

Then he cleared his throat, blinking the moment away as he reached into his pocket.

“I, uh… I got you something.”

Y/N blinked. “You did?”

He nodded. “Yeah. It reminded me of you. I thought… I don’t know. I thought you should have it.”

He held out a small bracelet—purple and blue, woven, with a tiny silver lightning bolt charm dangling at the center.

Y/N stared at it for a moment before her features softened.

“Oh.”

Peter’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I know you’re sentimental. That you keep stuff.”

Y/N smiled faintly. “You’re not wrong.”

He reached for her hand gently, sliding the bracelet onto her wrist.

She looked down at it. Then up at him. Her voice was soft. “Thank you.”

Peter smiled, a little breathless. “You’re so beautiful.”

Y/N dropped her gaze, shy for a second, but he tilted her chin up with two fingers.

“Hey,” he whispered. “Look at me.”

She did.

And for a second, the world felt still.

But then Y/N pulled back slightly, just enough to keep the space between them.

“We’re not kissing here,” she said, almost teasing. “This was a good start. But I need more, Peter.”

His expression didn’t falter. He nodded. “I know.”

He hesitated, then added, softer, “I just wanted to look at your eyes. You’re really glowing in here.”

Y/N huffed a quiet laugh, her voice warm. “I’ll see you later, Parker.”

She turned and walked out the room.

Peter stood there for a moment longer, bracelet still warm from her wrist, her perfume still clinging to the air.

And for the first time in a long time… he smiled.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Y/N walked out of the jellyfish room, still a little dazed from everything that had just happened — in a good way, though. Her fingers brushed lightly over the bracelet on her wrist as she scanned the exhibit floor.

She spotted MJ first, leaning over the touch pool and squinting suspiciously at a starfish.

Ned stood beside her, hands in his pockets, trying to look casual. Emphasis on trying.

“I swear to god, Ned,” MJ was saying, “if you splash me, I will end your bloodline.”

“I didn’t even do anything!” Ned protested.

Y/N smiled and walked over just in time to hear MJ mutter, “Try me, Leeds. I’ll push you in right now.”

“Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t take you down with me.”

They both turned at the sound of Y/N’s laugh.

“There she is,” MJ said, her tone light. “Looking suspiciously glowy, if you ask me.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

But she was smiling. Really smiling.

And then—

“Hey,” came a soft voice behind her.

Y/N turned to find Peter standing a few feet away, hands in his pockets, a little unsure but undeniably warm.

She didn’t say anything but she didn’t turn away either.

He stepped closer. MJ and Ned looked between them, then at each other.

And just like that, they all fell into rhythm.

Ned pointed dramatically at a sea cucumber. “I dare someone to touch that thing.”

MJ snorted. “You’re the one who dared me to come here, you touch it.”

“Absolutely not. I’m just the instigator. Not the executioner.”

Y/N nudged him. “You’re both cowards.”

Peter grinned. “I’ll do it if you do it.”

MJ raised a brow. “Peer pressure? Really, Parker?”

Y/N was already pulling up her sleeve. “Let’s just do it, losers.”

And for the first time in a long time, the four of them laughed.

Together.

No tension. 

Just dumb jokes and the kind of soft, warm energy that felt like home.

They weren’t fixed.

But they were finding their way back.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The bus ride back to Midtown was mellow.

Y/N sat beside MJ near the middle again, her head leaned against the window as the city blurred past. Peter and Ned were in the back, and though the space between them remained, it felt a little smaller now.

She looked over at MJ, narrowing her eyes.

“You planned that whole thing out, didn’t you?”

MJ didn’t even blink. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

But she was smiling. And it was very telling.

Y/N smiled too.

Back at school, they all piled off the bus together. A few kids sprinted to their rides. Others lingered to say goodbye.

Peter and Y/N didn’t say much.

Just a soft smile.

A little wave.

It was enough.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Back at the Tower, the elevator doors slid open and Y/N stepped into the floor like a girl walking on clouds.

Tony looked up from the sleek holographic projection on his tablet, brow immediately furrowing. Pepper lowered her book and blinked at the sight of their daughter literally beaming.

Y/N walked over to the couch flopping down dramatically with her arms spread across the cushions.

“Hi, Daddy,” she said sweetly.

Tony’s head tilted with suspicion. “Nope. Absolutely not. What happened?”

Y/N blinked innocently. “What do you mean?”

“You just called me Daddy.” He pointed at her. “You never call me that unless something’s seriously wrong or you’re buttering me up for a favor. I’m not buying it. Spill.”

Pepper raised an eyebrow, watching the interaction like it was a tennis match.

Y/N grinned, trying to suppress it. “Okay, fine. I may have had a conversation with Peter today.”

Tony didn’t move, didn’t blink. “That’s it?”

She shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “We talked. It was nice.”

He stared harder. “Don’t tell me you kissed him.”

Y/N sat up a little straighter, frowning. “No!”

“Good. Because I thought I raised you better than that. Where are your standards?”

Pepper swatted his arm. “Tony!”

Y/N jumped up, snapping her fingers sassily. “Actually ,he knows I’m holding him to higher standards now. Ugh—it’s like you don’t even know me.  I told him we weren’t going to kiss. He needs to chase me a little more.”

Tony sat back with a smug little smile. “There she is. That’s the Stark I know.”

Pepper gave Y/N a warm smile. “So it went well?”

Y/N nodded, the corners of her mouth tugging up again. “Yeah. It’s a start. We’re not magically okay or anything. But… he’s trying. And I needed to see that.”

Tony grumbled, folding his arms. “Trying better mean flowers. Jewelry. A grand gesture.”

“Or,” Pepper said gently, “just some honesty and consistency.”

Y/N smiled at her mom. “Exactly.”

Tony rolled his eyes and waved her off. “Alright, alright. Go get changed or do your teenage brooding thing or whatever. Just don’t get sappy on me.”

Y/N stood, already heading for her room. “Call me if you order pizza or something.”

Pepper smiled as she disappeared down the hall.

Tony shook his head. “She can be so dramatic sometimes.”

Pepper didn’t miss a beat. “That's all your DNA.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺

taglist: @f2lix @the-faceless-bride @uhmellamoanna @lovely-foxes-exe @gyus-lvr @aomi04 @liaverse37 @pettypeety @pleasingregulus @theyluvmesblog @sqfewrd @ultrunning @boomitsallie1 @caramelfondu @404rogers @marcswife21

author's note: guys chapter 7 was supposed to end with y/n checking up on peter after the fight but it was too long post😭

let me say something. y/n and harry? platonic soulmates. y/n and peter? twin flames.

when i tell yall i literally almost got emotional writing the jellyfish room scene LMAO

lmk what yall think!!!

[kidokear]

I have this Ultrakill AU sitting in my docs for a while and I already have so many WIPs to focus on, so I decided to just share what I have.

I call it "Mechanical Acolyte AU"

In this AU, V1 was never reactivated after their decommissioning, never made it out of the facility where they were created, let alone to Hell.

Instead it was Gabriel who went up to Earth- out of curiosity, nostalgia, to mourn, or any other reason- and find himself exploring the ruins of humanity and their war efforts, judging and studying them.

He ended up in the vault that houses V1, drawn to it because it looked the most intact. Found them, and when they didn't move to attack, he approached. This is the closest he'd been to an intact machine. There is no visible damage, but it was obvious the it was non functional. Perhaps unfinished?

Somehow, he activates- something. Noise and lights, and he is on guard, waiting for the now lit up machine to do something.

It did not move.

After spending a good while under the yellow light of V1's optic, Gabriel decided that they're not a threat, that they're too broken to be, and continued his exploration/walk. He only has limited time here, after all.

Sometime later he realizes that he is being followed, and immediately turn to confront whatever it was only to recognize the machine he saw earlier.

Gabriel attacks and a fight starts. The thing surprised him with how agile and fast it was. Between that and how it can parry his attacks back at him, he was barely about to land a hit. It took him off guard because he did not expect a machine of all things to be able to handle even a fraction of his power. He got curious and started to gradually increase the ‘difficulty’ wanting to see how far can take this before the machine breaks or stops or something.

He eventually notices that the machine wasn’t striking anywhere fatal or incredibly damaging. At first he assumed it was because it lacked weapons, but as the battle continued he come to realize that it was deliberate avoidance (the machine could parry his attacks after all and it could throw things with precise accuracy and deadly force) and yet never once did it try to actively kill him (granted, he was doing something similar but he had reason and curiosity, what would make an object do the same?)

For Gabriel it is both infuriating ins exhilarating. This did not feel like a simple short fight or an the removal of an nuisance. If he was being honest with himself, it felt more like an ever changing spar. It has been so long since Gabriel spared with someone who could keep up- or at all, really- and it was- it was almost fun.

And that thought freezes him for a second because he is not supposed to think of battels here in such a manner, especially not with a machine.

There are many ways this could go from here, and I haven't decided yet. I just know that it end with Gabriel realizing that V1 has no intention to kill him, which confuses him further. Then, somehow, he realizes that V1 listens to his commands, but not like a machine, like a solider.

And here we are, the main idea. V1 thinks of Gabriel as commanding officer. As far as they were concerned that was a sparing season.

Now Gabriel has this Machine that follows him and his orders, standing at the ready like the soldier they are. And Gabriel who is intrigued- and lonely, but he would rather eat his own swords' than to admit it at this point- decides that they are useful enough to keep around.

As time goes on, Gabriel begins to see the life within and V1 starts to learn what it is like to be a person. 

There it is. There is the AU.

[destinysbounty]

Okay I decided fuck it, I'm gonna try my hand at a mergeswap au with Lloyd and Zane swapped (Lloyd getting pod-coma'd and Zane being the new monastery keeper + second-gen teacher). Of course a lot of other characters are getting swapped around too, so here are my current thoughts on all that so far.

As stated, Zane wakes up at the monastery after the Merge. Zane doesn't take to the solitude well, and kinda comes unglued during the few weeks until someone shows up. Luckily, someone finally does show up -- but rather than Kai, it's Nya.

Nya took Kai's place on the Monstrosity Route. The original miniseries is about learning to balance ruthlessness and mercy, knowing when to fight and when to show compassion - and although Kai is absolutely the right person for that storyline, Nya absolutely *isn't*. She is way too bloodthirsty (affectionate) to make it out of the Land of Monsters with her humanity intact. I say this as Nya's biggest lover and defender. She would not hesitate to do whatever it takes to get home, even at the cost or her morals, values, and teachings as a ninja. She would recognize the monstrous, bloodthirsty ways this land is changing her, but she wouldn't care. She'd just keep fighting and pushing and striving to get home by any means necessary. She'd keep shoving down and bottling up all her guilt/shame...until she sees Zane again, and the full weight of her actions hit her at once. Seeing someone from Before and realizing that she has once again sacrificed her humanity, her sense of self, for the sake of her family....yeah, that would mess her up.

I've also seen some other posts commenting that it makes sense thematically that Bug Kai didn't happen, since his entire arc is about preserving his humanity. But Nya? She doesn't get that same luxury. My brain is telling me she comes out with some fun new centipede parts, but upon meeting up with Zane she begs him to remove them so no one can know of her shame. She asks him to never tell their friends, to especially never tell Kai or Jay, because she can't bear the thought of them looking at her differently because of it.

So it goes like this: Zane is at the monastery. He's been trying to recoup his long-atrophied sixth sense well enough to catch visions of where his friends are, when Nya stumbles into the monastery cold and bloody and with weird bug-like growths all over her body (I am at my core a lover of body horror). She collapses in his arms, and he spends several days nursing her back to health. When she awakens, she initially refuses to explain what happened and insists it's nothing. But after a while Zane gently encourages her open up, to which she breaks down and explains what happened/where the bug growths came from. She begs him to remove them and to never tell anyone else, to which he reluctantly agrees.

After Nya has healed, she decides to go back out there and look for the others. Despite Zane's insistence on joining her, she convinces him that one of them needs to stay behind in case someone else shows up looking for them. And with her so emotionally fraught and vulnerable after everything she's suffered, Zane doesn't have it in his heart to say no to her right now. Even though he thinks it is absolutely a bad idea to send her right back out into the Merged Lands so soon after her recovery.

Zane still guards his post dutifully of course, never resting or leaving the monastery out of a steadily worsening paranoia that his friends will show up the moment he has his back turned and then leave before he can meet with them (some kind of parallel to Echo dutifully awaiting Julien's return at the lighthouse).

In the meantime, Zane continues to meditate and cultivate his sixth sense, and once again begins receiving the visions and premonitions that came to him so naturally in his youth. And sure, he catches glimpses of a lot of things, just none about his friends. But of course that changes eventually, when one day his visions finally give him a flash of something important - a brief image of Lloyd's ninja hood, and the premonition that it's located somewhere in the Crossroads. But rather than the reunion he'd been expecting, he instead finds Arin, Sora, and Riyu - who, against his better judgement, convince him to train them.

As for the others:

Because I love making my favs suffer, Jay gets put into Pixal's coma pod. So Nya still has to wait a really long time for Jay to come back to her. Tournament of Sources NEEDS to remain in the realm of Sad Nya Hours and I stand by that. Seabound awakened the Jaya angst demons within me and there's no putting that genie back in the teapot now

Lloyd...okay, I'm of a few different mindsets about his situation. Option A is that he just does a standard swap with Zane - sleeps through the Merge, wakes up in the weird coma pod within the Imperium Gate, and promptly feels horrible guilt over not being there while all his friends were busy suffering. He becomes the Conduit, he and Zane bond over visions, and the story happens as standard from there.

Option B is that he is imprisoned by Imperium and used as a fuel source (he's the part-dragon son of a god with energy powers, what do you expect). Either he's just imprisoned alongside the other dragons as standard, or he gets a treatment similar to the Sourcr Dragon. I'm partly leaning towards the latter option, with the season 1 finale acquiring the extra goal of saving/freeing Lloyd. Now Zane is the Conduit, and his visions get super-charged, and things just kinda spiral downhill from there. Because as we all know, Zane has a fantastic track record with being a Conduit for absurd amounts of godly power (Golden Armor in s3, the Forbidden Scroll in s11, the Manifestation Gate in s12...need I say more?)

As for who gets the Administration/Rogue Route, I'm torn between giving that to Pixal or Kai. On the one hand, having Zane as the new focus by way of ninja teacher means making Pixal as the Rogue equivalent is the logical choice. It prolongs the fulfillment of Zane's quest to find all his loved ones by saving his closest companion for last, and putting them at odds in that way could add a fun spin to their dynamic. The only problem I can see is that Pixal doesn't have an element, and as such she has no reason to be in the Tournament of Sources/get recruited by Ras. Unless a new element awakens in her like it did for a lot of other people, I suppose, but I have mixed feelings about that.

On the other hand, giving it to Kai makes for some damn good RGB angst. If you were to rank all of the Merge outcomes based on how badly they'd fuck with Kai, the Administration is easily his worst outcome. His love for his family and his desire to protect them is his primary motivator, - and if Kai has no memory, not of his family or his friends or any of the things that push him forward, what does that leave him with? A dead-end office job with nothing to live for, nothing to lose, and no reason to keep going. Jay at least managed to find enjoyment in his status as a shitty manager, but I struggle to imagine a scenario where Kai would be an Administration operative and not feel deeply, profoundly depressed and aimless. Which is fantastic fodder for this AU, I love angst. I also love that it keeps the canon element of Nya facing off against someone she loves but who no longer remembers her. It might even be worse if it was her brother instead of her yang, leaving her as the sole witness to a lifetime of childhood memories. The boy who raised her, whose tender hands cared for her with all the love he had, is now the vicious and hateful man who would not hesitate to kill her on the spot. I'm feeling very normal about that, trust me.

Cole is another one I'm a bit hazy about. I think I'm gonna tentatively put him in Nya's place helping the Kraggling war, which gives me a great excuse for some good tsunami duo and glacier duo content. And also the yet unexplored trio of Cole, Nya, and Zane, which could be a fun dynamic! I'm gonna go ahead and call them the Titanic Trio for now, until a better name occurs to me (get it? Because glacier plus water plus ships -).

This does of course leave the Lost Things Route wide open. I think if I dont put Pixal in the Administration, it'd be interesting to put her here instead and see what happens. Although Geo and Cole do still meet and fall in love. That bit is non-negotiable.

Anyway, these are just a bunch of miscellaneous and generally haphazard thoughts about my approach to the mergeswap au premise. Let me know what yall think about this, and if you'd like to see me develop this concept some more!

[codeword-art]

I've been replaying Kingdom Come Deliverance, naturally, and I always thought this conversation was interesting. It's the very beginning of the quest, "Next to Godliness", the infamous bath quest with Hans, where Hans invites Henry to the Rattay baths while he's recovering from his attack by the Cuman poachers.

Because the rest of this quest is just wild, it's easy to forget the conversation that starts this entire quest off. There are two specific points that stand out to me. Example one:

Hanush specifically keeping people away from Hans. Why? We're not told the details of how exactly Hans is injured, outside of having his shit rocked, but why is Hanush specifically isolating him away from other people? This wasn't a period where people understood how bacteria and infections are spread. Is Hanush that over protective? If he is, why let Hans even go hunting in the first place during a war, knowing Cumans were around the area? Is Hans just trying to convince himself that no one was checking in on him because of his uncle? Who knows.

I personally leans towards a little of both, though I can't imagine what Hanush is thinking. I do believe no one bothered to check on Hans at all. I bet he never even thought he'd see Henry again. Sure Henry saved him, but it'd be a bad look to show back up with one young lord m.i.a. Hans at this point has no reason to think Henry is dong anything for him that isn't strictly duty. Henry didn't even want to be hunting with Hans in the first place.

Second:

This one to me is so fascinating. Not only that a priest is the only person "allowed" near Hans as he recovers, but Hans make a specific point to reiterate this phrase.

His tone changes here as well. It's more monotoned, less humorous, and straight forward. There isn't any anger present here, but there isn't really any surprise either. Just apathetic acknowledgment.

This just sort of proves to me and my manic thinking that Hans is frequently ostracized by others. Made to feel invisible in his own home, where he just passively accepts it.

I'm also suspicious towards this whole priest thing. I get wanting to have someone pray over the injured, that's not odd to me. But only a priest, that apparently is acting as if Hans is already dead? It might just be a very creepily devoted man of faith, but that is a strange attitude to have towards a young seemingly moderately injured man.

I'm not saying Hanush planned to get Hans killed, sending him off into the woods alone with a barely trained peasant as company in a war infested land. I'm not saying Hanush not allowing people to see Hans isn't some twisted way to manifest Hans' death and not have anyone question it afterwards, as he did everything he could and left it up to God to handle.

On a real note, I don't think Hanush actually hates Hans that much, or is that greedy for his inheritance, however I don't think Hanush would lose any sleep over it either. Regardless, the conversation still stands as an eyebrow raiser for sure, for a great many reasons.

It's also funny to me how Hans complains about the lack of books to read. Like, okay Belle.

[thewayilikemycookie]

📞┆Too Busy Being Yours .ᐟ

Spencer Agnew x gn!reader

Summary: When you are feeling overwhelmed, Spencer is there to comfort you in every way he can.

Word count: 684

You could count with your fingers the amount of times you’ve zoned out during this video alone. It was a ‘don’t win Mario party’ scheduled at the end of the shoot day and you were sitting next to Spencer and Chance, who were both bringing the energy for this video.

“Hold” Alex called “Scott needs to fix an issue with your mic, Chance, can you come over here? And you guys can take five.”

Spencer instantly tuned to face you “You okay?” He asked with sympathetic eyes

You looked at his concerned expression and tried to speak your feelings, but no words came out. You decided to simply bury you head in the crook of his neck and reach for his hands. You felt as if he understood your thoughts immediately, shifting his position to comfort you.

You felt him place a soft kiss on your head. And though you were eternally grateful for his sweetness and wanted to thank him, you couldn’t even formulate a coherent sentence at the moment.

“You got this” He whispered and the tenderness of it all made you look up

“I love you so much” you said

“I love you more” He softly smiled and laid a final kiss to your forehead

You managed to survive the rest of the video, getting second place overall, profusely thanking Shayne for getting first, as you dreaded the idea of wearing the cone for the next one.

After you took your mic off, you walked towards Spencer “When are you leaving?” You asked

“I gotta fill out a few requests for the art department” You frowned at his answer “why?” “Cause I want you to come home with me” you frowned, reaching for his hand

“I’m sorry baby,” tucked in a strand of your hair “but their deadline is today”

“Can I wait for you then?” You asked

“You’re welcome to,” he smiled “but I would feel a little guilty to be the one to keep you waiting”

“I would wait until eternity for you, Spencer Agnew”

You laid down on the games pod couch while you waited for him, using the time to read your book. After Spencer was done, you both made your way to his apartment and he did everything he could for you. He ordered your favorite food for you, landed you makeshift pj’s for when you’re done with your shower and put on a cooking competition show, knowing you loved them.

Now, you were curled up on the couch right next to him, wearing one of his hoodies (which you suspected he chose because he likes seeing you in his clothes) and eating your favorite food.

“isn’t it crazy how you’re always joking about being misogynistic but then you do all of this for me”

“It’s just a joke though, I would never treat a woman like that, specially you” He looked over at you with a smile

“I know. You’re one of the good ones,” you smiled back at him “the best.”

“Isn’t that the bare minimum?” He laughed

“treating someone well, yes,” you explained “but ordering their favorite food and watching their favorite show, I don’t think so”

Spencer nodded, but he didn’t agree with you exactly. In his mind, he would do all of it and more without any hesitation if it means you would feel at least a little better. If he loved someone, he would make sure to show them that through every single way he could.

When he noticed you were starting to drift off, Spencer asked you if you wanted to go to sleep, to which you said yes. You tried helping with the dishes, but he told you not to worry.

So you got into bed with Spencer holding you tightly and started to drift off again. After you fell asleep, he kissed your head once again. If he felt like you needed it, he would do it all over again tomorrow, then the next day, then the day after.

Maybe it was a little surrealistic, but he was too busy being yours to care.

A.n: Inspired by Hozier’s cover of “Do I wanna know?”. Also I’m sleepy so idk if this is good, hope you have/had a good day, love ya!! <3

[cannibalisticskittles]

one way or another

inspired by alo’s gorgeous art; this piece and this piece respectively 💖 also on ao3!

summary: the thunderbolts never reached bob, and he stepped into the role of the sentry hard. yelena is determined to bring him back.

The trouble with tracking someone that's all-powerful is that it is very difficult to sneak up on them. 

Now, finding him is fairly simple. He doesn’t make much of an effort to hide up in that vaunted tower of his, and when he’s out, well – everybody knows it. He’s battling some oh-so-dangerous foe, or… being fawned over by an adoring, if still somewhat wary, crowd. Yelena’s not exactly in a position where she can be in the midst of that sort of thing, these days. 

Valentina can’t call for a nationwide manhunt, not without revealing her hand, so Yelena isn’t officially wanted by anyone. But that woman has enough eyes and ears lurking about that it’s risky enough just stepping out of her erstwhile hideout. After all, Valentina’s got him. 

For now. 

But – whatever it was he was sent here to do seems to be finished. Yelena didn’t catch all the details from the broadcast; some man-made catastrophe, buildings collapsing. Right up his alley. The dust seems to have settled, and she watched him duck away from the main commotion. Or, as much as you can duck when gently levitating. 

Down one alley, then a side street, then another. She thinks she’s getting close, but –

Yelena is not used to being seen when she doesn’t want to be seen. Or being heard when she doesn’t want to be heard. But the usual tricks don’t work on him. And the secondary trouble with tracking someone all-powerful is that it is very annoying trying – and failing – to sneak up on them. 

A slight change in the breeze is the only warning she gets. The moment she tries to turn to investigate, she finds herself backing up into something solid – and a hand, firm but relatively gentle for all the strength it possesses, lands on her shoulder. 

Shit. 

She’s sure he can feel, if not hear, the way her pulse hitches in her surprise, which is annoying. And she’s also sure he catches the way she stiffens, before she forces her limbs to relax – at least, the faintest ghost of a laugh suggests so. Which is doubly annoying. 

Her thumb hovers over the activator for her widow bites, but she resists the urge to flick them on. They wouldn’t help, she knows that. She’s caught enough news programs to know that people have thrown much worse at him and he didn’t even flinch.

It’s not what she came here to do, anyway. This is a much different sort of mission. Because it’s still Bob, under it all. It has to be.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

In lieu of answering directly, Yelena twists in his grip to face him – a motion he allows by sliding his hand from her shoulder to her wrist as she turns. His grip isn’t tight, and it’s a loose sort of leash, but she doesn’t need to test the boundaries of it to know that he’d hold firm, if she actually tried to pull away.

Jesus, he’s really got to keep up the appearance of having caught her? Fine, whatever. 

“That’s cheating,” she says. 

And he – blinks, at this. 

“Cheating,” he repeats flatly. 

“Mmmyeah, I can’t exactly fly or move at the speed of sound, so… sneaking up on me like that is cheating, yes.”

She’s caught him in a good mood – or just caught him off guard – because she swears, swears that she sees the corner of lips pull up into the beginnings of a smile. 

Yes, there. Come back, Bob, drop all this Sentry business and clock Valentine right in her stupid face for what she’s done. 

But it fades.

“That’s what happens when you’re dealing with a real hero.”

The words sour in her stomach. 

“I won’t tell anyone I saw you here,” he says, and for a moment, her hopes soar. Stupid, useless, flighty hopes, because he finishes with, “this time. As a courtesy, you understand. Make sure it doesn’t happen again. Or… just save everyone the trouble and turn yourself in.”

Yeah, like that’s going to happen.

Bob – The Sentry – releases her and steps back, and she knows what happens next, how this ends – he flies away and out of her reach, again.

She’s reaching for him before she even realizes she’s raised her hand. 

“Bob, wait–”

Something hardens in his gaze. His irises, shot through with gold, seem to… shift, ever so slightly. 

“It’s The Sentry to you.”

He doesn’t bat her hand away, doesn’t even move a muscle, but the sudden coldness in his eyes makes her shrink back, her fingers curling to her palm on instinct. Her hand, however, remains outstretched. 

He angles his head, regarding her hand for a moment, and then his gaze slides slowly to hers.

“Go. You’ll have a minute’s head start.”

Shit. So much for not telling anyone.

Yelena is running before the sonic boom above her signals that he’s well and truly gone.

She makes it back fine, of course. If he’s not going to bring her in directly, none of Valentina’s other little lapdogs stand a chance. But it’s the principle of the thing. 

And it's only once she’s run through all her security protocols and slapped an ice pack on her aching calves from all that stupid running that she realizes he didn’t even use her name.

__________________________

When she wakes that night, it is to the distinct feeling that she is not alone. Years of training kick in an instant, all vestiges of sleep falling away immediately – breath control to keep her steady as she scans each corner, each shadow, and reaches for the gun that’s never far from her hand. This room seems clear, but the feeling persists.

The next, then. 

Yelena moves soundlessly, each footstep careful, methodical, but… though she checks everywhere, she cannot find even the smallest trace that anything is out of place. Not in the halls, not at the entrance… all her security measures are just as they were before she went to bed.

And still, still, Yelena turns at nothing as though she is hearing someone there, the back of her neck prickling. She feels as though she’s fourteen again, about to be snatched up by the Madame for failing to rouse quickly enough, for missing the obvious threat after a week of sleep deprivation, made to undergo another round of punishment for her mistakes. But where, where–?

It takes until her fourth sweep to see it – the shadows in the corner of her erstwhile bedroom are… ever so slightly wrong. When she switches on a light in the hallway, that area should be illuminated – but it doesn’t change at all, though the rest of the room does. And as she approaches, they shift, not in tune with her own movements, but… as though completely independent. 

Yelena takes a step back even as she secures her hold on her gun. Another step, eyes never leaving that mass of shadows, then another, then another. They don’t shift again. 

But she realizes her mistake when she’s back in the center of the room. She’s been so focused on these shadows that she hadn’t noticed that her own has changed. 

There, cast against the far wall. It’s – taller? Yes, definitely too tall, even with the light coming in at an odd angle. And the shape of it… it’s not right.

Yelena takes another step away and reaches blindly behind her for a lamp, eyes locked on what should be her shadow but isn’t, switching it on and angling it until its light beams out directly behind her. Now it comes into focus, its features brought into sharp contrast. 

But they’re not her features, and it’s not her outline. 

It’s… his.

It looks like him, anyway. That mop of messy almost-curls, the broad slant of his shoulders. 

She reaches again for the lamp and brings it with her as she settles onto the floor, shifting it until the shape refocuses.

She tilts her head. It does not mirror her. She raises an arm. The shadow does not. 

Yelena watches it until dawn, when it begins to fade and look like her own once more. 

She does not attempt to sleep again. 

__________________________

Valentina’s been busy. 

Granted, Valentina’s also been enmeshed in serious legal and ethical dilemmas, but the appearance of a golden guardian, Earth’s perfect protector, who's also sticking by her side, has thrown a wrench in the proceedings. Yelena watches the stalled impeachment efforts and the news reports, but she won’t pretend like she understands all the nuances. What she does know is: it’s not looking good. Not for Val’s opponents, anyway. Valentina seems to be getting everything she wants, or… she's at least delaying consequences long enough to give that appearance.

Yelena can’t stand it. Every smile, every simper, every attempt at humility and show of virtue – it all seems so patently, transparently, false to Yelena. 

But not to the world at large. Not enough of it, anyway. And when her critics seem to have found a chink in her armor, Val has a counter – which almost always comes in the form of her godlike protector.

Bob.

Or rather, The Sentry, showing up suddenly in another carefully arranged PR stunt. 

It works, she’ll give Valentina that credit. He rescues someone from a burning building, stops a bridge from collapsing, and everyone loses their minds. 

Rightfully so, but her heart aches to see it. Because – he’s the hero he wanted to be, but what can he really do when Val has him wearing blinders and a short leash? 

Yelena watches his interviews for signs of – contentment? Discontentment? Just being… Bob? He doesn’t smile, not really. A little bit, sure, but it’s contained. Careful. 

What do people really know about him, anyway? All those interviews, and yet, it’s not the real him. He makes vague references to an unfortunate past – wise, because it’s not long after his debut that his arrest records are dug up and headlining every tabloid in the area – but wanting to do better, be better, and Valentina giving him that chance. How grateful he is to be the hero the world needs, to have their safety in his hands. Canned, coached, rehearsed. Fake. 

There’s a part of her that knows this is – ridiculous to think. Does she really know him so much better, after a few hours spent escaping Valentina's death trap? And yet. Yes, she decides, she does. If only by a little. The him that she saw, that was real, that wasn’t filtered through hours of public relations training and practicing lines.

If he wants the world to know him and what he’s capable of, this is not the way to do it. This is just – more shoving it down. Something she’s beginning to think was a mistake.

…they do seem fond of him, though. The public at large. 

There are dissenting murmurs, those who question where he came from, whether he deserves to be where he is, what regulations keep him in check, what qualifies Valentina Allegra de Fontaine of all people to be involved at all, given her history – and yet he’s soon amassed quite a loyal bunch of fans that far outnumber the naysayers. 

And despite the legal questions involved in trying to establish him as a new Avenger, it only takes a few months for him to be – well – accepted. Now, The Sentry and his tower are a de facto part of New York, and more and more beyond that are coming around to him.

And she sees him everywhere. He’s on the front of her cereal box. He’s on merchandise. He’s on TV. He’s giving interviews. He’s saving people. He’s on posters, on billboards, on everything. 

Yelena can’t get away from him. 

She supposes it makes sense that she’d think she sees him even when he isn’t there; why her shadow seems to be more of a reflection of him than of her, these days, even in the daylight. Her mind is playing tricks on her, reflecting what she expects to see even when there’s no possible way she could. 

He’s just… well-marketed, that’s all. Hell, people love him so much that she even starts seeing unofficial merch, alongside what Valentina has pushed out. 

On one of the rare occasions she ventures out of her hideout without a strict purpose in mind, Yelena does consider nabbing herself one of those overstuffed plushes being sold at a stall along the street, just for fun.

That stupid, slicked-back, bleached blonde hair makes something twist in the pit of her stomach, though, and the dead plastic eyes are… unnerving. She feels watched enough as it is, these days. She moves to pass by without it, but – actually, maybe there’s some use to be found in them. Especially the backpack variations. 

“Shut up,” she mutters to her shadow as she leaves the row of plushies behind, $20 lighter and with an abomination of a backpack in hand. “I have my reasons.” The shadow remains, as always, silent.

Her next plan goes off without a hitch, and it’s not dramatic at all:

She blows up a building. 

A little building, mind you. And quite a small explosion, all things considered. 

But it ought to be enough to get his attention, even so. Everything about this stunt was decided specifically with him in mind. 

Though she’s anticipating him, she knows she has little time to react – and even less margin of error. She can’t really evade him; her muscles, tensed and primed to move, are prepared for one thing only – to lessen the inevitable impact to something she can manage. 

It must be a slow day, because he arrives before the wave of sirens. A glint in the sky and the faint whistle of air moving rapidly around him is the only warning she gets, but it’s still something she can work with – Yelena twists and dodges just enough that when he reaches her, she’s hoisted by the front of her sweatshirt into the air, instead of by an arm, or her neck, or any other parts of her body that she quite likes to keep intact. Woof, is this what flying feels like? She’s not a fan. 

Now, she is still pushed back into a wall with enough force to wind her, but that's fine, she's not going to let a little thing like that stop her. She’ll take the fact that both her arms are free and that she can talk readily as a victory. 

There’s an intensity to his expression that… shifts ever so slightly once they’re face-to-face.

“–you.”

“Hiiiii!” She aims a sunny smile his way, beaming up at him despite the vague nausea that rushing through the air so quickly and being suspended like this elicits. 

“I should have known it would be you. You just can’t leave well enough alone, can you? What were you even trying to–”

And then he glances down at the fabric that’s twisted in his grasp and he stops in his tracks. For a moment, he simply stares. “What are you wearing?”

Yelena grins. 

“Didn’t you know?” she asks breezily. “I'm your biggest fan. 

A muscle twitches in his jaw. “Yelena…”

“What, you don’t think it’s cute?” She tries to ignore how the simple act of him saying her name after these long months makes her just a little giddy, and instead she plucks at the hem of her sweatshirt, the same golden yellow as his suit, with his face emblazoned in the center of it. “I dunno, I thought it looked pretty good on me. And the hat!” It’s got a slightly lopsided recreation of the symbol on his belt smack dab in the middle. Then she gasps. “Ohhhhh wait wait wait, you haven’t even seen the best part.”

She twists as much as she can while being suspended in the air – which is a surprising amount, honestly, the sweatshirt has a comfortable amount of give to it. In response, the arms of her terrible little backpack – much lighter now that it’s no longer packed with C4 – flop around with her. It’s… well, frankly, it’s even worse than the regular plushies. Just as overstuffed, and its little yellowy eyes don’t look any less dead, but the proportions are markedly off, like whoever designed the stationary Sentry plushies couldn’t be bothered to figure out how to properly modify it to not look uncanny as all hell when hollowed out.

Yelena kind of loves it a little bit, actually? It’s funny how fast it grew on her. 

It does not seem to have the same effect on him, though. 

His mouth presses into a line, entirely unamused. “Yelena, no more games. What are you here to do? Or did you blow that up just to get my attention?”

She shrugs. “You don’t call, you don’t write… what’s a girl to do when she needs to have a little chat?”

“And what exactly was so important that you had to risk public safety?”

But she snorts. “Oh, relax, I’m not an amateur. There was no one in that building. They’re fumigating today.” After they conveniently found a whole colony of little cockroaches, the day after she released a few hundred into their vents. “So no one got hurt. Well – maybe some roaches got blown up, but no people.”

“Mmh.” His expression does not soften, but he does not argue, and she knows she’s got him – at least for a little while. 

“And,” she adds, both index fingers raised into the air, “if you were to take a look inside, I’m sure you'd find some really really interesting things being worked on in there. Fun stuff – illicit experiments, surveillance… probably more, but I figure you can sort that out.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“I don’t expect anything, but it’s pretty easy to just take a look.” The majority of their data storage ought to still be intact. Probably. 

“And you’re doing this… why?”

“To… help?”

He scoffs. “You think you’re a hero now?”

Yelena blinks at that. The derision in his voice feels unearned. “…no,” she says, “I never claimed to be. That’s your thing now, anyway, right?”

“Right,” he says, “so you shouldn’t be getting involved. And yet, here you are.”

“Wellllll, it only seemed fitting to step in once I learned our old pal Val had been sniffing around. Felt like something we ought to be on the same page about, don’t you think?”

But instead of agreeing, he chuckles mirthlessly. “Of course,” he says. “You’re trying to make me turn on Valentina.”

“…I mean, yeah? She sucks. We’ll all be way better off once she can’t call the shots anymore.”

“Mmh. And you’re trying to bring her down out of the goodness of your heart – nothing to do with the fact that she has dirt on you that’d put you away for a long time, right?”

Yelena… doesn’t think it’s a good sign, the way his irises start to lighten.

“You think I don’t know just how many people you’ve killed? How many more you’ve hurt along the way? That parade in Kyiv, the hotel in Madrid, god, the charity event in Rio? Everywhere you go, you leave a trail of bodies.”

Images flash through her mind, surprisingly vivid; ones she hadn’t thought about in ages, ones she hadn’t really been able to, done when Dreykov had his hand on her brain stem and made her dance like a little puppet for his benefit. 

“I read your files,” he tells her, “I know what you’ve done. A red room assassin with a conscience? No.” He shakes his head. “Yelena, you are no hero. Whatever you’re trying to do here, it’s not help.”

She resists the urge to squirm under the force of his judgment, but the memories press upon her, and her pulse stutters. She remembers screaming, pleading, the agonized sound of someone begging as their lung started to collapse from a well-placed puncture; blood, always blood–

“You think,” she manages, through a throat tight with the beginning of a panic attack, “Valentina’s hands are any cleaner? She knew who I was, and she went looking for me. She may not have killed anyone personally, but she was happy enough to give the orders. And here you are, letting her call the shots. So what does that make you?”

His eyes narrow – and even so, she can see the color flicker, almost glow.

“...she is not,” he says, “in charge of me.”

“Oh, no, of course not,” she says, overly-saccharine, “but she’s happy enough to manage everything, isn’t she? And you listen to her. You let her pick your outfit and bleach your hair and tell you what words are safe to say on TV, let her point you towards danger–”

“That’s enough.”

“–because it’s easier that way, right? Then you don’t have to think about it, or anything else, just about doing what’s right. Your duty.” Just like she did with Yelena. “And if you never stop to question her, what’s the difference?”

“That’s enough.” The word comes out in a snarl.

“Sure, fine, go back to letting her puppet you around. I mean, she did have you stuffed into a box and fed to an incinerator, and had a paramilitary organization try to feed a couple hundred bullets into your torso, but yeah, now that you’re powerful and useful, it’s all water under the bridge, right?” 

“And what would you know? You want me to trust the word of an assassin?”

All that shit those tabloids dredged up comes to mind, the things he did in pursuit of a high – and all those rumored accidents in the lab, too, after the experiments. Before she can stop herself, she finds herself spitting back, “oh, but a former meth addict gets grace? Don’t act like your record is clean, either; I know it’s not.”

She’d expected that to make him mad, even as she’d said it, and it does – but there’s something else, too, in the way the line of his mouth goes taut; a flash of hurt crosses his face, and she regrets her words immediately. 

“I didn’t – I never wanted to hurt anyone.” He says it through gritted teeth – but it’s insistent, too. Like he wants, desperately, for her to believe that. 

“...I know,” she says softly. She finds herself pressing gently at his hand with her thumbs, rubbing circles there in an attempt to soothe. As close to an apology as she can bring herself to give, right now. And for a moment – he feels like Bob again. Just Bob. “And I won’t, either. I’m trying to help you, Bob, just–”

All that vulnerability is gone in an instant, and there’s that flash of gold again. “Sentry.”

“...Sentry. If you could just–”

But he shakes his head. “We’re done here. I gave you a head start last time, out of consideration for how you helped me once before–”

“I didn’t want your consideration,” she interjects with a scowl. 

“This isn’t about what you want, Yelena,” he snaps. “This is about what needs to be done, and you are too dangerous to go free.”

There is a growing tension in the line of his body, and his grip tightens, like he’s about to jet away with the both of them.

Yelena places both of her hands over the one that’s holding her up, and bats away a fleeting thought that she wishes there wasn’t a glove in the way. When did he start wearing those, anyway? She’s pretty sure that wasn’t part of his original look. 

“–I’m not asking you to trust me blindly. I get it. I’m not hero material, and it’d be stupid to overlook that. But you have to know that Valentina always has an ulterior motive. One that probably doesn’t have your best interests in mind. And if you won’t recognize that, and if you won’t let me do something about that – damn it, she’s going to use you until there’s nothing left.”

And he – looks at her, silently, for a long, long moment. 

When he speaks, his voice is soft. “What do you think you can do?”

Though it’s far from an expression of trust or faith in his abilities, she could almost sob with the sudden relief that some part of him is willing to listen a little longer. She suppresses the urge, of course. 

“Whatever it takes,” is her response. “I know how people like Valentina operate, and whatever proof you need that she’s the same as she’s always been, I know I can find it for you, if you let me.”

“You want me to let you go,” he says. “Again.”

“I’m good, but I’m not good enough to do that from a cell,” she says. “And… it’s not like I can really hide from you, anyway. Pretty sure you could hear a pin drop from a mile away. No way you couldn’t track me down, if you wanted to. So what harm could I do?”

“You could blow up another building,” he says flatly.

“Heh, yeah, I could do that.”

His eyes narrow.

“–but I won’t, I swear,” she amends hastily. “I won’t hurt anyone.”

He still seems doubtful, though. Yelena racks her brain for something, anything that might convince him. 

–ah, wait. 

“…here.” It takes a bit of fiddling, but before too long – off pop her widow’s bites. She scoops them up in one hand – quite a feat, and without dropping either of them, though he doesn’t seem the slightest bit impressed – and holds them out. 

He looks at them, then at her face, then back to them.

“...you don’t need these to be lethal,” he says. 

“Yeah, well, I didn’t exactly come with a whole arsenal, so this is the best I can do for now. It’s, I don’t know, symbolic? That I’m not here to hurt anyone.”

Another moment of silent consideration, and then he says, “even Valentina.”

“...really?” At his look, she backtracks. “–alright yes, yes, fine, even her.” Damn it.

He slowly lowers them until her feet are touching the ground again. There’s a bit of disorientation that comes along with that, and it takes a second to find her bearings, but she manages. 

“If you do…”

“I know, I know, you’ll bring me in, or kill me where I stand, whatever. But you won’t have to. You can trust me.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

She frowns. He did trust her, once. But – he'll see. For now, it’s enough that he’s leaving her be a second time. She won’t take that for granted.

He tilts his head, and she hears it not long after – sirens. 

“That’s your cue, I take it?”

He nods. “Remember–”

“No hurting anyone, I know. Promise.”

This time, she does not run. She doesn’t have to; there’s no one out to get her today, and she looks like any other member of the teeming masses wondering what’s going on. 

It’s not until she’s back at her hideout that she allows herself to slump on her mattress and endure the rest of the panic attack she’s been saving off, and the memories he managed to dredge up stay with her far longer than that. 

But – 

Evidence. She can do that. It’s not like Valentina burned a mountain of secrets in an inferno already. But there must be more, she's sure of it. A woman like Valentina doesn’t start following the straight and narrow after almost getting caught, she just gets sneakier. 

Her searching would go faster if she didn’t have to be so damn surreptitious. And if she had a little more help. 

At least she has some, though. The bare minimum, but it’s more than nothing. Really, the only thing she has going for her is that Valentina has no fucking idea who Alexei is, so Yelena’s got someone to act as a go between, or get her a few things she needs, on the occasions that she isn’t able to do it herself. 

…sometimes. There’s still a risk in being spotted together, and the more often they’re in the same area, the higher those chances get. So it’s maybe once a month. Still, it means she has food more often than not, and she’s able to learn a little from him.

Valentina’s other snubbed agents are enacting their own efforts to oust her, to… about as much success as she's currently having.

Walker is insistent that Bucky Barnes, of all people, can help. She knows he’s a congressman now, but it feels like the once-dreaded Winter Soldier would be of more use here. Yelena doesn’t hear much about Walker from Alexei, but she also hasn’t caught his arrest on the news – or mention of him in the obituaries – so she assumes he’s meeting with some success. 

And Ava is – well – she’s doing a great job of living up to her codename. From what Alexei passed on, the very few times he’s been able to make contact with her, she’s been quite successful in evading all other attempts to find her thus far. Which seems to Yelena like it’s her main priority right now. Just… waiting it out until there’s less heat. Yelena can’t complain too much, though, because Ava does manage to pass along some pretty good intel. Phased through somewhere high-profile enough that she’s insistent she not be bothered for another favor for a long while – and to her credit, it’s starting to look like this might actually pan out. 

 …though it would be easier to follow up on this lead if Yelena wasn’t so damn tired all the time. 

Because that shadow doesn’t go away. Hardly a night passes that she doesn’t see it, and it’s beginning to creep into her waking hours more and more. She sleeps during the day sometimes, but… she needs those daylight hours, other times. Needs to be able to monitor who’s coming and going from various labs and research centers, needs to track things down. 

So, on occasion… she lets herself sleep under the watchful eye of his shadow, stretched across the wall. And when she does, she has terrible nightmares – Anya. Nat. She’s small and vulnerable and failing again. Sometimes, though rarer, she dreams of him, waving that gun around in his distraction attempt – and in her dreams, he lies still and cold and does not stand again. 

Sometimes, when she wakes from these nightmares, she… hears things. Whispers, just on the edge of consciousness, that feel familiar and yet so, so strange. She should probably be concerned at just how accustomed she’s becoming to that.

It’s hard to focus. And so it takes… a while to dig anything substantial up. Weeks of searching. Weeks of nights spent doggedly pretending not to notice the shadows elongate and twist around her. Weeks of daytime naps, interrupted by occasional nightmares. 

But she isn’t giving up on this. And she finds the lead she needs, in the end.

It’s not too difficult to connect Valentina to what is, at first glance, a rather run-down old building just past city limits. Particularly with Ava’s intel; she knows that whatever is going on inside is definitely not meant to come to light. 

So, naturally, Yelena’s next goal is to infiltrate it and do just that. 

This, too, is fairly simple, after she figures out what schedule the guards are on. They’re pretty regular, and they’re minimally staffed as well. Valentina must be banking on the unobtrusive nature of the building to dissuade interest in poking around, more than on force. Which works just as well for Yelena. 

Non-lethal, she reminds herself, taking out one after the other and leaving them in heaps on the floor. Of course, she didn’t exactly promise no injuries, and… their concussions are probably not severe enough to kill them. 

Probably. 

Ava comes in handy again when she gets to the server. Yelena’s not bad with ciphers, but having the code definitely saves her some time. She makes a mental note to thank the other woman – though, bringing down Valentina with this information might be thanks enough.

What she sees once she’s in is, predictably, incredibly incriminating. Several felonies worth of material. Oh, Valentina, you really can’t help yourself, can you? But she only skims these as she looks for anything to do with Bob – and what she finds gives her pause. 

Documentation of tests they're putting him through. Data collection. Like he’s a lab rat. And most damning of all – evidence of a kill switch. The very idea turns her stomach. 

Something planted in his head. A small thing, a little connection between his spine and the base of his brain they must have put in during his testing. And all Valentina has to do is press a little button and she turns him off, forever. 

Yelena wonders at first if this means Valentina is in his head the way Dreykov was in hers – but no, the files she meticulously scan mention nothing of the sort. There is perhaps the smallest bit of disappointment, but mostly just relief. His mind is his own. She just has to… change it. To make him see, somehow, what Valentina is up to.

There’s two; one which which Yelena assumes Valentina would keep on or near her, and a back-up somewhere, referenced as being near the target. So, in the Tower? Seems like a safe enough bet. 

– and this is when she learns that one of the guards isn’t quite as unconscious as she’d thought.

She hears his footsteps, the sudden shuffle of hurried movement, but as the man swings his nightstick towards her, habit has her reaching to activate her widow’s bites – which she is not wearing. An amateur’s mistake. 

He brings it down on her collarbone with a crack that she feels echoing through her whole body. 

She doesn’t pause, doesn’t even cry out, just arcs her leg out in a kick that sends him careening into a monitor – and then to the floor, out cold. Yelena resists the urge to kick him again, and just nudges him with her foot so that his mouth is no longer pressed to the floor. Assuming he’s still breathing, he won't suffocate, now, but the pain radiating out from her collarbone makes her disinclined to check. 

She prods at the area gently, wincing when the motion sends sharp pain radiating through her shoulder. 

Broken. Damn. 

If she was smart, her next move would be to lay low for a while, let that heal before straining it more. But she knows Val won’t let this rest, and if she gets paranoid enough to move the back up while Yelena is healing – or to actually use it – 

Yelena can't let that happen. She’ll just have to carry on, injury and all.

She copies the most relevant files to a flash drive that she tucks into her vest – and before she leaves, she picks up the man's nightstick and smashes the rest of the monitors and the server rack until they stop sparking. Try finding someone to restore that data now, Valentina. 

Her next stop is obvious – Valentina needs to be removed from that personal switch immediately. 

It's almost laughable how much plainclothes security she has around her place. Too many; they’re disorganized, too confident in the idea of safety through numbers, and it only takes a moment of lapsed concentration for her to slip by and access the roof. From there, it’s a hop, skip, and a jump to Valentina’s room – a painful one, sure, but even if she is a touch clumsier with her injury, she’s still red room raised, and her footfalls remain silent. 

In fact, the hardest part is not reaching down and strangling Valentina in her sleep with her one good hand. She doesn’t need both to be functional for this, she could do it, easy. 

But. She promised Bob. 

With any luck, he’ll give her the go ahead to give Valentine exactly what she deserves once she presents him with all this evidence – but, one thing at a time. She slides open drawers, carefully, until she finds something that matches the blueprint in the files. It’s relatively small, easily handheld.

And with one press of that shiny button, it could bring Bob’s life to an end. 

She looks back towards the bed, towards Valentina and her shiny satin eye mask, snoring gently. 

…she could do it. Slit Valentina’s throat here and now. Let her die gasping for air, frightened, reaching out in the darkness for help that will never come. He wouldn’t have to know. She could cover it up. And it’s what she deserves.

But then there’s a shuffling noise outside, and Yelena knows she’s out of time. She darts towards the window and hoists herself up, one-handed, though the motion still puts some pressure on her other side, and off she goes. 

Last stop. 

They call it the Watchtower now, but thankfully, it isn’t watched by all that many. The darkness helps, too. Lets her slip in, fuck with some wiring – there’s still a few areas that are clearly under construction, months after dedicating the tower to him, and it makes accessing things behind the scenes a little simpler than it ought to be – and cut off the cameras.

There’s guards here, too, but mostly on the ground floor and a few of the lower levels, and she doesn’t even have to directly deal with many of them – just until she can get to a maintenance section. Crawling through ducts and vents is not her favorite activity with a fractured collarbone, and she’s… admittedly a touch less graceful about it than she would normally be. There’s a lot of sliding around, since crawling is too much. And falling. Controlled falls, but they still smart. It’s better than putting more pressure on the break, though. As it is, she can already tell that it’s worse than the initial impact left it. She dreads to imagine how long recovery will take. 

If she even gets that chance.

But there’s no use thinking about that. She’s aiming for a room just a little above the midpoint, where security and lock-up seems to be concentrated. Here, they’re in a tizzy about the disconnected cameras, and it seems some have already left to take a peek at the electrical system. A mistake, but one Yelena is happy to take advantage of. That means there’s only two skulls to crack. A few well-aimed swings later, and they’re sleeping soundly, courtesy of some minor brain swelling. 

It does take a bit of fiddling to get the door to lock-up open – it’s apparently meant to be done with two simultaneous key turns at once. But she’s flexible, and… well, the guard whose hand she jams into position isn’t awake enough to complain. 

Inside is… Jesus, a shitload of contraband. Much, much less than she imagines there would have been when the actual Avengers were in charge – back when Nat was here, she thinks with a pang – but there’s still some objects that must be left over from those days. Those don’t matter, though. What matters is the back-up kill switch. Thankfully, it’s out in plain sight. Easy access in case of an emergency, she guesses. Bastards.

She takes it with her, and doesn’t bother closing the heavy doors behind her.

Before she resumes her ascent, Yelena ducks into a side corridor to fuck with the switch, carefully teasing out and disconnecting the wires that allow it to function, just as she did with Valentina’s. Can’t risk activating it with an accidental bump or brush. Then she stows it away and up she goes.

She… doesn’t have a plan, exactly, for finding which floor he’s going to be on, just starts with the lowest one that could be considered his and… goes from there, searching in the dark. 

Yelena makes it up three floors like this before doubt creeps in. He might not be here. That’s… not the worst thing in the world; she has already robbed Valentina of both switches, and hopefully destroyed the blueprints for how to make another one, which should at least stall the process, but… she doesn’t love the idea that Val might be able to spin this, somehow. There’s about six more floors left to check when she starts entertaining the idea of turning back. The cameras won’t stay out forever, and someone will stumble across those unconscious security guards eventually, anyway. 

And even so, she continues her search.

Not here… not here… not here either… wait. Is that – 

The barest of noises, but she reacts on instinct, launching herself towards the source in a move that would normally end with her thighs cutting off someone’s airways and her weight pulling them down to the ground; it’s a move that relies primarily on the leg strength, but even so, the motion makes her ache.

It’s like slamming into a brick wall.

Because – the Sentry isn’t normal anymore, is he? So of course he doesn’t go down like a normal, mortal man would. 

He’s totally unmoved, he just reaches up and grabs her by the back of her suit and plucks her off of him. When he drops her, she doesn’t try to fight it at all, she just… falls. Rolls a little so that she doesn’t land on her bad side and to absorb the impact less awkwardly, but there isn’t a single part of her that wants to keep up this fight.

“Ouch. Hi, Bob.”

“…Yelena?”

There’s a mild touch of – is it outrage, in his voice? Irritation? But primarily, it’s confusion. She can work with that. 

“Sleep well?” She asks, dragging herself up into a crouch. Haha, fuck, even that hurts. She is really pushing this injury.

“Better before you threw yourself at my head.”

“Aw, I can’t hurt you, we both know that.” She waves a hand in the air, dismissing the idea. 

“Uh-huh. Care to tell me why you broke in to the Watchtower at… what is this, 3am?”

“Technically,” Yelena says, “I did not break in; someone left the first door open. It’s just entering if I didn’t have to force that first step.”

“Mmh. I’m sure that’ll look so much better on your record.”

“Won’t it?” She agrees genially. 

All the lights on the floor are off, but she can still see well enough, with the moonlight and the city lights outside filtering in through those massive windows that surround the top floors of the tower. 

Bob is – not in the suit. It’s the first time she’s seen him out of it in months. Since the vault, actually. 

Instead, he’s wearing… a slightly baggy, casual shirt and loose sweatpants. They might be Sentry-branded, but it’s hard to make out right now. His hair isn’t slicked-back, either; it looks freshly washed and a little bit sleep-mussed. 

He looks more like him than he has in a long time.

“Well?”

“–ah?”

“You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here.”

“Oh.” Right. Got a bit distracted with… him. She fishes around in her vest pocket and pulls out the flash drive, and the back-up kill switch. “Here, catch. Evidence.” She tosses them his way. 

He does catch them easily, of course. “And this is…?”

“The drive,” she says, “has files. Documents. Valentina’s been taking notes on you, you know. She’s got plans. Looks like she’s thinking about starting up with the serum again, and you get to be her little lab rat for refining the formula that made you you–”

“Valentina,” he says, voice carefully even, “did not make me me.”

“–noted, yes, but she’s so full of herself that you know she doesn’t see it that way. She thinks she can just… jab a syringe at someone and churn out another loyal super soldier, if you turn on her.”

His expression hardens when she says loyal. “She can’t hurt me. Why would she make plans for another serum?”

“About that,” Yelena says. “She sure can’t now, but she thought she could. That–” And now she gestures to the switch in his other hands. “–is a kill switch.”

And now his brow furrows, and he brings the switch closer to examine it. 

“Don’t worry, it’s safe for now, and so is the other–”

“The other?”

“Yeah, Valentina had a personal one. I nabbed that one first and smashed it to bits, you’re welcome.” After some very tense examination of the switch, and mentally rehearsing the steps to follow based on the blueprint.

“Mmh,” he says. “Convenient.”

“...come again?”

Now he looks back to her. 

“I’m supposed to believe that there’s – some switch that can just… kill me at the press of a button? And there’s two in existence, and you’ve brought me one of them. But I shouldn’t worry about it, oh no, because the other one is safe, because you said so.”

She stares at him. “What, you think I kept it in reserve? Bob, no, I want you to live, I broke the shit out of that thing as soon as I was sure I knew how to do it without activating it.”

“Sure.”

“You still don’t believe me?”

“Should I? It’s all – too perfectly arranged. Makes you look good, makes Valentina look bad. Like I said, convenient.”

Yelena’s mouth presses into a displeased line. “It’s not hard to make Valentina look bad,” she says, “and all the proof you need is on that drive.” She shakes her head. “You shouldn’t even need that, what she’s done already should be enough.”

She doesn’t get it. If this doesn’t convince him, what will?

…nothing, she realizes. The pieces are there, but he won’t fit them together because that isn’t what he wants. He wants so badly to be the hero that he’ll ignore all the warning signs. 

“You know what? Fine.” 

Yelena struggles to stand, and casts a glance around her. There’s a little sitting area off to the side, a table and some relatively cozy looking chairs. She heads for them, ignoring Bob and how he tenses a little as she passes him. 

She picks a chair with a decent view of the elevator, and slumps into it. 

“What are you doing?”

“Waiting,” she says. Her eyes slide close. God, she forgot how much more everything hurts when she’s tired, and she is so tired. She’s losing her touch. “‘m tired.”

“That’s it?” he asks. “You don’t have anything else up your sleeve, no other proof to offer?” 

“Nope,” she says, settling in. “You don’t believe me, I’m a big scary untrustworthy assassin, blah blah blah, I get it. Now shhh, everything hurts.”

It takes a moment for him to respond, and when he does, he sounds skeptical. 

“...you’re hurt?”

“A little. Trust me, I’ve had worse.”

He’s quiet once again, and she sneaks a glance at him. His gaze seems focused on her neck, where her vest ends. Right, the bruising from the break would probably extend up there, huh?

“You think that’s bad, you should see the rest of me.” And she lets her eyes slide closed again.

There’s a soft shuffle, and then – fingers at her neck. 

She jolts, moving to swat him away with her good hand – but of course, he is immovable.

“–that wasn’t an invitation,” she complains. 

“Too bad.”

He kneels down and pulls her collar back slightly. Though the motion is gentle, it still hurts like a bitch.

“Fuck,” she gasps, and pushes at his hand again. 

He frowns but continues peeling back the fabric to examine the damage.

It aches, but…

Well. It’s been a long time since she felt the touch of a human being that wasn’t actively trying to kill her, and she finds herself leaning into his touch – until he inadvertently presses on an area that makes her shoot bolt upright. 

“It’s broken, it’s broken, leave it alone,” Yelena grumbles. 

“What happened?” He asks, and then, sterner, “who did this?”

“One of Valentina’s security guards at the place I got the files from,” she says. “Got a lucky hit in on me. Woulda been a lot easier to push him off me if I’d had my widow’s bites, but…” She manages a one-shoulder shrug. “Non-lethal, minimum damage, remember? Don’t worry, I sure did.”

He makes a contemplative sound, but does not respond beyond that. 

His fingers pass over the area one more time, ghosting lightly enough that she can hardly feel it, then move down her arms, checking for further damage. Unable to find anything noteworthy, he passes his hand over her bloody knuckles – dried to scabs, now.

Only then does he pull back. 

“I’m not going to let you go a third time just because you’re hurt.” His words are soft. That doesn’t rob them of the sting they elicit. 

“Great, because I’m not asking you to,” she snaps. “The cameras will come back on, or someone will find an unconscious guard, or you’ll alert them, whichever comes first – they’ll come and try to detain me, which would normally be very stupid but which will work out for them this one time only, then they’ll alert Valentina, she’ll come here to gloat, it’ll be a whooooole thing.”

“You definitely won’t be able to walk out of here if Valentina sees you,” he says dryly.

“Yeah,” she says. “She’d pitch a fit – which’ll be perfect. You can watch Valentina panic when she sees you have that and maybe then you’ll believe me.”

“…you’re going to let yourself be caught?”

“Aren’t I already caught? You’re right here. I’m in your Watchtower.”

“Why?”

She wants to say something sarcastic, remind him that they’ve already gone over why she’s here, has he forgotten already? But… that’s too much effort. 

“Because you think this is bullshit,” she says, gesturing vaguely in the direction she assumes he set the kill switch. “And as long as you do, she can get to you. She can kill you if and when it pleases her. I don’t know what else I can do to make you understand that, so… here we are.”

“That’s… worth it, to you?” 

“Sure, why not?”

“No, not why not, just – why?”

“...you already sacrificed yourself for us once,” she says, letting herself slump down a little more in the chair. “I can’t watch you do it again. Don’t ask me to do that, because I won’t. I can’t.”

Yelena closes her eyes once more. She doesn’t want to see his face, doesn’t want to waste more time trying to decipher what each little furrow or frown means when it’s pointless. 

“Just… give her hell for me, yeah? Really fuck her up.”

There is silence for a good long moment. He is so still that she almost wonders if he’s left her and she just hasn’t noticed. That’d fuck up her plans, if Valentina throws her tantrum without him there to witness it. 

But then –

There’s a hand on her good shoulder, then his arm looping under it, and she is pulled into him.

“Hey, what–”

And then the world is a blur of movement, air rushing past so fast she cannot breathe, let alone speak.

She reaches for something to hold on to, anything to anchor herself, and ends up clutching at the fabric of his shirt, using that to press herself against him.

It’s over almost as soon as it began.

It takes a lot longer to orient herself than it did the last time he had her suspended in the air, and as the world slowly comes back into focus, she realizes that the streets around her are familiar.

“This is – near my hideout,” she says. “You did know where I was this whole time! And you made it sound like I could ever hide from you, you dick.”

But he says nothing. 

He’s still holding her, and she has to crane her neck to look up at him. 

“Bob?” And then, after he remains silent, she tries, “…Sentry?”

He looks at her at last. She’s… not quite sure how to read his expression. 

Slowly, he descends until he’s standing on solid ground, and he sets her down. His motions are gentle, and oh-so-careful. 

“...you alright?”

“Yyyeah,” she says, “a little dizzy, but otherwise no worse for wear than I was before.”

“Good,” he says with a nod, “good.” He opens his mouth again. Closes it. His gaze drifts down to her fractured collarbone and lingers there. 

“Yelena–” But he stops there, his striking face marred with a sudden frown. Instead of speaking, he reaches out and – cards his fingers through her hair, then rests his hand there. 

Without thinking about it, she leans up into his touch, her eyelids fluttering shut. 

Oh, she has missed him. Though the motion brings a twinge of pain with it, she raises her good hand and sets it on his, their fingers overlapping. 

“Yelena…” And once again, he does not finish this thought. Her turn, then, she supposes. 

“Why are we here?” she whispers. It feels like speaking any louder than this will – break some sort of spell. “Why did you bring me here? I thought – you didn’t trust me, so why…?”

“I…” His hand slides lower, cupping her cheek, and this, too, she leans into, appreciating his warmth. “I couldn’t just…”

And then something shutters in his gaze. He shakes his head and steps back, his body suddenly tensing, braced for movement. 

“Don’t – do this again,” he mutters.

“Do–?”

And then he’s gone, flying off into the night, back towards the tower. 

Ah. Great. Cryptic. 

…what the fuck was that? She can still feel the ghost of his touch on her skin, in her hair – he sure made it sound like he thought she was bullshitting him, but then, why wouldn’t he turn her over to Valentina if that were the case?

And what is she supposed to do now?

He knows where she is. Which means she really should gather what few belongings she has, do a controlled burn, and strike out for someplace new. 

But… he’ll be able to find her anyway. Why bother?

So instead she just… slips inside, trudges to her mattress, and finally, finally sleeps. 

Alexei brings her supplies.

Painkillers; the good stuff, he says – “but not too good,” and he’d rapped his knuckles lightly on her temple. “You must be able to think still. To escape, if they come for you.”

A brace, which he has to help her into, a process that’s downright humiliating – except that she could weep with relief when it settles into place and some of the pain immediately lessens as the pressure shifts. Only a little, but it’s something.

And vodka. Lots of vodka. 

The brace stays on. She stops even trying to change her shirt after the second day, feeling her body scream at her in protest. So, she’ll be a little musty for a while. Whatever. Similarly, bathing is… too complex to tackle. She settles for wiping down as much of herself as she can reach with a damp washcloth, and just tries not to think about what a rats nest her hair is becoming. That’s far too complicated to handle right now.

The painkillers run out after about a week and a half, and she’s reduced to swallowing handfuls of ibuprofen, which does not do nearly enough. 

That’s when the vodka comes in handy.

And… that’s also when she starts examining the shadows more closely. 

The wariness has worn away by now, and seeing them begins to be something she expects. It begins to be… comforting. 

Comfort is something she has so little of, these days.

And one night, when the pain sets her teeth on edge, strong enough that the vodka can’t cut through it, she pulls herself from bed and flicks on that lamp again. Just as it did the first night, the shadow – his shadow – gains its form on the near wall. 

But this time, she approaches it. Slowly at first, making sure it doesn’t disappear, then more steadily. She sinks to her knees before it, and presses the tips of her fingers to the dark outline of his face. 

“I wish,” she murmurs to it, “I’d been back there with you. In the truck. I wish I’d seen what you were going to do, tried to stop you, keep you there with us. We should have taken our chances together. Driven straight through the checkpoint and not looked back. But you had to be so–” Stupid. Reckless. Brave. 

The shadow does not respond. It never does. But when she scoots closer, turns so that her back is to the wall, she can feel it. When she leans against it, it’s – different. Makes her shiver with a sudden wave of cold. 

“Always the hero, huh?” she mumbles.

She pulls her knees up to her chest, and… dozes there, tired enough to sleep with the light of the lamp in her eyes, surrounded by that shadow. 

Her nightmares that evening are awful, worse than they’ve been in months, but – but.

Yelena swears this time she hears him. More than just a faint echo, too. Swears that his murmur follows her through each of her dreams, low and soft and… him. His words are – not comforting; she awakes with the distinct feeling that she has wept in her sleep. And yet… to have him there, even for a moment… 

She’ll take it. 

From that point, she doesn’t have to do anything to seek it out, it’s just there. Each time she wakes, there’s a sense of –

Shame. Loathing. Hating herself. Like she can remember every flaw, every fault she’s ever had, and it’s dawning on her that she’ll never overcome them. It’s… a familiar feeling, and it’s easy to let it blanket her. 

Soothing, in a way. 

Once – only once – her dream of him is… different. 

He isn’t dead already, for one. No, in this dream, she stumbles into him.

One minute she’s running from now-familiar memories, leaves crunching underfoot, then hearing heels click on the polished staircase that led to the Madame’s room, and then – then she’s somewhere she doesn’t recognize at all. She supposes that’s how dreams often go, but it’s strange, when her dreams have been so regular for so long. 

So: she’s batting away coat sleeves that reach for her, knowing the Madame will soon find her, punish her, and then she’s falling backwards, out through the closet although she could swear the doors were on the other side, and landing on – him. 

She doesn’t even realize it at first, so disoriented by the fall, by her new surroundings. An old house? A bedroom? 

And then he shifts under her and she’s scrambling to stand. 

His eyes are bleary, puffy like he’s been crying, and he looks like he’s close to drowning in those oversized, teddy bear-print pajamas. She can’t judge much, though; she’s still wearing that stupid tutu. He swipes a sleeve over his eyes as though that will conceal the redness. 

“Yelena? What are you doing here? How are you here?”

Silly man, preoccupied with finding logic in a dream. 

She reaches up to cradle his face in both hands, grateful that she doesn’t carry the pain of outside into these dreams, just… the ones she gets in here. Her back still smarts from the earlier chastisements about positions she missed in class, how terribly wrong she angled her feet, how she squanders those ballet lessons – but in here, she can move her arms freely. 

“I knew I’d find you somewhere,” Yelena says. “At least, I’d hoped.”

Even in a dream, his hands are large and warm and soft when he returns the gesture, holding her face carefully, like he’s not sure she’s really there. 

“But how? This is – I thought–” He stares at her in wonder. 

“I think I’m always chasing after you,” she murmurs, “I just haven’t caught up with you in a while, that’s all. I’m sorry. I’m here now.”

All the things she wants to say to him bubble up inside her, and there is so much to say. 

“We never should have left you – I shouldn’t have left you – we should have stayed, and fought, and–”

She’s weeping – they both are – when things go sideways. Because they always go sideways, here. Any time she thinks there’s a moment of relief, a second to breathe, something chases it away. 

The house shakes under the weight of a fist pounding on the door, and the voice outside gets louder and louder until she can’t think; the walls start crumbling, the floor cracks and splits apart, and as it swallows her – 

Yelena wakes up. 

Sweating, panting, heart racing – and with a new ache, a sharp desire to find a release from the loneliness like those few moments gave her. 

The nightmares continue, and dreams like that one are rare. But she chases them, sleeping whenever she can, wishing this pain away – even if that means inviting in another kind of pain. 

And the days slip by in a blur.

__________________________

She only leaves because she has to. There isn’t a single speck of food left in the hideout, and it’s starting to gnaw at her. The urge to subsist entirely on vodka is entirely too tempting, and she knows how that ends. 

Alexei has been by too recently, though. If her hideout is already known, she cannot have him by any more than she has to, and while wrangling her clothes until she looks somewhat decent is a task and a half, it is doable. So, out she goes. 

The walk there is… fine. It is a little demoralizing to look over her options with the knowledge that anything she gets, she’ll have to make last as long as possible but also be compact enough to feasibly be carried with just one arm. But this, too, she manages.

It’s the walk back that gets to her, a little. It’s been almost three weeks, and she’s not sure her collarbone is healing quite right. Even if it is, she’s likely to have a lot longer to go until it’s healed up completely, but if she’s put too much pressure on it, shifted too much in the night, and the bone is knitting back incorrectly… that’ll set her back to the beginning. Worse, even. But she’s not in a position to go to a hospital, so…

“Yelena.”

She’s so lost in her thoughts that she doesn't hear his approach until he says her name. Fuck, she really is losing her touch. 

He looks – stupidly pretty. Put together. Television-ready, even. 

And she’s… in an oversized hoodie with a baseball cap shoved over her greasy hair, carrying a bounty of microwave meals and cereal boxes. 

“You couldn't have done this before I went out for groceries? Now they’re all going to go to waste.”

He glances over her bag with a half-grin already growing on his face. “Those poor TV dinners.”

Yelena scowls. “I’m injured,” she reminds him.

A flash of something like – guilt? Regret? – passes over his face, and for a moment, he glances away. “Right. How is that healing?”

“...’s fine,” she mutters. She doesn’t need to get into the details with him. Especially if he’s come here to tell her her time is up. “You didn’t just come to check in on me, did you, though?”

He shakes his head. “I did not.”

Yelena releases a slow breath, and tries to keep it steady. Well, she couldn’t dodge this forever. 

As she looks at him, she thinks about – how much more himself he looked that night in the tower. She thinks about those fleeting moments she’s seen him in dreams, or rather, her imagined version of him. And about that awful, haunting loneliness – if it’s this bad now, how much worse will it be when she doesn’t have the faint hope that he’ll come to his senses to cling to? …assuming Valentina doesn’t just have her incinerated again, which feels like a stretch. 

“...alright, look. If we’re going to do this, so be it, but – can I… do something first?”

‘So be it,’ he mouths, looking a bit puzzled, but he asks, “and when did you start asking permission?”

“...now?”

He huffs out a laugh. “What did you have in mind?”

“First of all – stop floating when you’re talking to me, it makes you look like an asshole,” she says. 

“Not really the way to ask for a favor, is it?”

“This part isn’t a favor, this is basic decency. Get down here and look me in the eye.”

He descends, slowly, but chuckles a little as he does. “Not sure that’s going to help there, Yelena.”

“Ha, ha, height jokes, so funny.”

But even so, he is humoring her, instead of just hauling her off straight away. She’s not sure if that makes this better or worse. 

She approaches – slowly, cautiously, until he’s right in front of her.

“...lean down.”

His eyes narrow. “Why?”

“Come on, just lean down for me, we already know I can’t hurt you. I just need to… fix something.”

His eyebrows lift at that. “Vague, Yelena.”

“Yeah, well. Humor me a little more.”

So he does. And when he does, she combs her fingers through his hair, mussing it, fluffing it out. 

“There,” she says. “Better.”

When he begins to lift his head again – ah. They are… very close. 

An errant strand of hair falls across his forehead. She brushes it back, and watches how his eyelids flutter just a little in response to her touch. From here, the blue of his eyes, even through his eyelashes, is so clear, and she can see flecks of gold and brown through his irises. 

She repeats the motion just to see what he’ll do, and she’s not sure if she’s imagining it or not, but it seems like his pupils dilate a little as her fingers sweep across his skin. His lips part, and –

“Is that it?”

“Not – quite,” she says. She’s distracted by the way his breath ghosts over her lips. “I… give me a minute,” she whispers. “Trust me for just that long.”

For the first time, something like uncertainty flickers in his eyes, and yet –

He nods. “...alright.”

So – Yelena moves even closer still and cups his face. After a moment, her fingers find his hair again, twirling around the locks idly.

She wishes, not for the first time, that she’d been faster, lighter on her feet, that she’d never sustained this stupid injury. But not for any practical reason, now; solely because she wishes she could touch him with both hands. 

His hand comes up to encircle her wrist, but his grip isn’t tight, just… there. It’s nice. She can feel his pulse, faintly, so she’s certain he must feel hers. Yelena leans up to rest her forehead against his and nearly sighs with how safe it feels, despite everything. She closes her eyes and –

Shivers at a sudden chill that passes over her skin. Strange. But stranger still is the voice that murmurs in her ear. 

“You’re empty, aren’t you? Purposeless. This is all you have – this fool's errand, trying to win him over. Otherwise you have – you are – nothing.”

His voice? But… not his voice? 

“Sounds kind of bleak when you put it like that,” she mutters. Not… wrong, necessarily; she’s accomplishing so little these days that it sure feels like that. But bleak, yes. 

“Are you content with that? Don’t you want better?” 

“Yelena?”

She blinks, like she’s waking up – though, wasn’t she awake before?

“Mmh?”

“You were mumbling.”

“Oh… couldn’t have been important.”

As she comes back to herself, her eyes meet his. They’re nose-to-nose and so, so close. It wouldn’t take much effort to just… close that gap. 

In fact – she starts to stretch up to do just that and he… laughs. 

“Is that what you wanted?” he asks. “Because your minute’s up.”

Ah. Mortifying. 

“...right.” Yelena takes a step back, letting her hand fall to her side and ignoring how much she misses his warmth already. She squeezes her eyes shut, willing this to have been enough to commit it to memory. “Alright, fine. That’s it. Bring me in, or whatever.”

But –

He chuckles, and she, confused, opens her eyes. 

He’s tilting his head. “Is that what you think is happening? 

“...is it not?”

And he grins.

“I didn’t come to take you in. I came because Valentina has something planned that I… disagree with. I want you to help me put an end to it.”

“Oh,” she says. “…you could have said that before.”

“You didn’t exactly give me a chance,” he says, and something wicked shifts in his eyes. “And you seemed so eager to get ahold of me.”

“Asshole,” she mutters.

She begins to move away, but he catches her good wrist and tugs her back, sudden enough that she stumbles a little into his chest. 

“Not disproving my point.”

The sound of his laugh, light and airy and more than a little smug, soothes the sting of it, though. “I do need an answer, Yelena. It’s happening tomorrow.”

She hesitates. “...much as I want to rock Valentina’s shit, and trust me, I really do, I don’t know that I’m in a state to do anything useful.” She can’t imagine how she’d be anything other than dead weight, right now, regardless of what he has planned. 

He shakes his head. “You won’t need to do much. I’ll take care of things. Just be there.” And then he tilts his head. “Though… I will need a favor from you when you get there.”

“What?”

But instead of answering, that smirk comes back. “Humor me,” he says, echoing her words from earlier. And then his expression softens, just a little, and he catches her hand in his. “Trust me until then.”

And she does.

“...alright.”

“Noon,” he says. “No later.” He rattles off a location – she doesn’t know the exact address, but she’s familiar with the cross streets. “Bring whatever you feel you need to, but I’ll take the lead.” And then, with a glint in his eye, “and… maybe shower first? Think ‘camera ready.’”

And before she can protest, he takes a step back and his feet lift off the ground – and off he goes, gone again. 

Oh, she could strangle him. 

Yelena scoops up her neglected, defrosting groceries and hurries back to her hideout. 

Foiling Valentina’s plans has to be good, no matter what the details are. That means – he’s finally recognizing what a piece of shit she is. But what part could she play in this? It feels strange no matter how she thinks about it. Getting him the initial information, sure, yeah, that’s something she can do. But he’s pretty much all-powerful; what else could he need from her? Her usefulness is pretty limited compared to him. 

And this fact is starkly on display as she tries, as he suggested, showering.

It’s… technically successful. But there’s no triumph in it.

Yelena can’t take off her brace one-handed, so she has to angle herself carefully and rub her back against the wall like a goddamn bear to get it to unlatch. 

Scrubbing is another problem; even with slow, careful movements, everything she does seems to pull at her injury. But eventually, it’s… done. As done as she can be, anyway, and then she lets herself… rest. Presses her forehead to the shower wall as the water runs over her, hoping for it to numb her. 

There’s something soothing in that, but the effort of getting here robs it of that – and getting re-dressed afterwards is absolutely miserable. 

She’s not able to get the brace on by herself, and she can't bear the thought of summoning Alexei’s help for something so utterly simple as this, so… she just goes without. Even so, it takes more than an hour of careful maneuvering to make herself decent again, and by the time she's finished, she’s already decided that this is what she’s wearing tomorrow. She cannot go through this process again so soon.

“Don’t you say a word,” she mutters to the shadow on the wall. It remains silent, but she swears she can feel it laughing at her.

And then – all too soon, it’s time. 

She can hardly sleep a wink. A mix of anxiety, anticipation, and the ache of not having her brace on anymore, is likely the culprit. In some ways, that might be good. Better to be sleep deprived than on edge from brutal nightmares.

She’s not completely sure what sort of ready he means, and she knows he said non-lethal before, but – if a confrontation with Val is in the works, she does not intend to show up unprepared. 

Yelena feels tense the whole way there, sure that this is going to end up being some cruel trick, an elaborate ploy just to get her hopes up and dash them to pieces. She feels this all the more keenly when she arrives at the location he specified, prepared to see nothing at all –

But no. He’s here. Not floating this time, just waiting at ground-level. 

His face breaks into a smile when he sees her, and she glances away to hide the fact that she’s doing the same. 

“Good, you’re finally here. Catch.”

And he tosses something her way. 

She grabs it midair with her good hand and looks down at it. 

Fabric, though the feeling of it is not quite like anything she’s ever felt before. It’s bright white, with a few yellow-gold accents on it, similar to his suit. 

As she unfolds it to take a better look at it, she says, “I thought you didn't like when I wore your brand?”

“I – never said that. But that’s not what this is.”

Oh. It really isn’t, is it? 

When it’s finally fully unfolded, Yelena can see that it’s a suit, not dissimilar to ones she’s worn before; it looks somewhat form-fitting, for ease of motion, but thick enough to provide some protection.

“This is–”

“Nice, right? Nanotech, high-quality. Practically bulletproof, and reflects back some energy.”

“–so visible,” she finishes. 

It seems to take the wind out of his sails. 

“...sure,” he says. “It is pretty visible.”

“Where did you even get this?

“It’s…” He shrugs, glancing askance. “Valentina was your boss long before I ever met her, why don’t you ask her? Maybe she intended to give this to you before it all went south.”

Yeah, sure, like she’d waste this kind of money on Yelena. Still, it had to come from somewhere, and expensive bribes disguised as practical presents does feel like something Val would do… there’s just one problem.

“...you know I can’t wear this, right?”

He frowns. “And why is that?”

Yelena gestures broadly to her left side. “You’re lucky I’m wearing anything at all right now, but this? With the little… snaps and zippers? I can’t put this on.”

Relief smooths out the frown. “Oh, if that’s all – come here.”

“–what?”

“Come here,” he repeats.

“What, are you going to help me get dressed?”

And he nods. “Why not?”

“You can't be serious,” she says. “I'm – I don't need help to dress myself.”

“Except you just said that you do,” he says, “and we're on a time limit. So stop acting coy, and just come over here.”

“…not being coy,” she complains.

Irritation drives her first few steps towards him, and the refusal to back down drives the rest. She stops only when the tip of her shoe bumps his boot. “Well?” she challenges.

And he certainly does rise to that challenge.

Yelena has changed in front of others before, hell, she’s been stretched out nude and wounded on a table for strangers to prod at more times than she can count; such is the life of a Widow. This feels – strange, though, from the moment he grasps the hem of her sweatshirt and begins to tug it over her head. But why? Just because it’s him? 

She… settles into it, though. His motions are careful, particularly around her injury, bracing the area as best he can to avoid bumping against it, but… fairly perfunctory nonetheless. It helps that he’s able to actually fasten her brace, which she’d slid on but left loose, unable to properly fix it in place by herself. His fingers skim over the area, mapping the bruises that stretch across her back and shoulder – and then he moves on. 

By the time he’s shifting her to get her injured side into the suit, she can tell herself that there’s nothing strange about this at all; it’s practical, that’s it. Nothing more to it.

He helps her refit her gear as he goes, too – the grappling hook with its retractable line, the batons, everything finds its place here.

When it’s all bucked together and zipped to the top, his hand skims up her spine, and she has to suppress a shiver. Practical. That’s all.

He begins to move away, then stops. “Ah, wait,” he says, “one more thing.”

And he produces her widow’s bites and begins to secure them around her wrists. She has to look away when he does it, overcome with an odd sense of – attachment to how tender he’s being. He, on the other hand, cannot seem to stop looking at her. He’s in a fantastic mood, too, with an ever-present smile tugging up the corners of his lips. She supposes that the chance to fuck with Val will have that effect. 

Once done, he steps back. 

“There. We don’t have much time left now. Are you ready?”

“...maybe?” she says. “What exactly is she planning to do, and how are we supposed to stop it?” And kick her stupid teeth in.

“It’s a long story. Easier to show you.”

He spreads his arms, and she steps into them. After a moment’s consideration, she wraps her uninjured arm around his back. They begin to rise. 

“You sure you don’t want to share any of that long story on the flight there?”

“It’s not going to be a long journey, Yelena.”

“Oh, no, I’m going to be very sick once this is all over aren’t I…?”

He laughs. “You’ll get used to it.”

She wants to ask him just how often he expects her to fly with him, but he picks up speed from there and, as before, the rush of wind makes it hard to speak; she focuses instead on pulling in even breaths. 

It’s – a little less disorienting this time, but it's so fast that she's still left reeling.

They land in another alley, and she can already hear the buzz of something going on nearby, some event. He sets her down, and she sways a bit on her feet. 

“You doing alright?”

“I’ll live,” she says. The dizziness ought to fade soon. “So what’s the plan, what are we doing?”

“I am going on ahead. And you–” He places a hand on her good shoulder. “–are going to stay here.”

“…seriously?”

“I did say I’d be handling most of this.”

“Well, yeah, but – you dress me up like a doll and then just… leave me?”

He chuckles. Dick. 

“Just wait here. I won’t be long.”

Ugh. 

But – fine. It’s not like she has anything better to do, and she still doesn’t know what this is about. 

So she waits. 

And waits and waits and… waits. 

What is he doing? Where is he?

Once again that flicker of paranoia that this is all a set-up returns, but this is a pretty elaborate waste of time, and effort, and – materials, she thinks, looking down at her suit. 

She glances around, and catches a glimpse of herself in a tinted window. 

She looks… different. Not nearly as put together as him, of course. There was no way she was bothering with cosmetics when it was such a pain just to get dressed. But the suit is – fancy. Sleek. Not quite as many pockets as she likes, but some. And it feels sturdy. 

…there’s bruising visible at her collar, still, though. It isn't the dark purple that it was when the bone first broke, but that deep yellowish-green remains quite visible. Worse, when she shifts on her feet, it’s evident that something's not right, just from the way she carries herself. She’ll need to fix that. A visible injury is a sign of weakness.

What is she doing here? What can she even do, but… wait?

So she does. 

Until the faint sound of screams breaks through her thoughts. 

Oh, that’s not good – particularly as they're getting louder by the minute. Yelena creeps to the end of the alley and peeks out. 

She can't see what's happening, exactly, but she can see people running, panicked. 

Shit. 

Okay – if things have gone south, she can't just stay here, right? She has to find him, she has to see what's gone wrong, help if she can, though the idea is absurd. 

And so – out into the fray she goes. 

It’s an immediate struggle not to be overwhelmed, not helped by the fact that she's running to whatever everyone here is running from. People knock into her, sending sharp stabs of pain through her more than once, but she pushes through all the same.

Someone stumbles into her and careens to the side, off balance; she catches them on instinct and pulls them back upright. They murmur a thanks as they keep running.

It takes her another moment to locate what’s going on. Running, yes, but from what? 

Ah – there.

There are figures around them, dressed in dark outfits, their faces fully obscured by masks with large, bug-like goggles. They seem to be causing chaos indiscriminately, smashing buildings and snatching people up off the street without much rhyme or reason.

Where is he? This feels like the perfect time for the Sentry to come swooping in to play the savior. 

Well… she supposes they’ll just have to settle for her for now, until he’s finished with whatever’s got him tied up. She couldn’t look him in the eye if she let people get hurt in his absence. 

The way they move is… strange, and she can’t ignore that, but figuring that out also can't be her priority, not when there’s this crush of bodies wandering with no heed of where they're going. 

Yelena focuses on this, on diverting, on clearing paths where she’s able, on lifting up those who have fallen before they’re trampled underfoot. 

Someone shouts a warning and she looks up to see debris falling, a chunk of building that’s been sheared off – big enough that more of it is likely going to come toppling down, unstable as it’s becoming –

And there are people standing where it’s likely to fall, who… seem to be deep in the freeze response.

Yelena sprints in their direction, hoping to be fast enough to make a difference and not just join them under the rubble.

One, she pulls to her with that retractable line – it snags their clothes,  but she’ll bet they’d prefer a ruined outfit than being smashed to paste; another she’s close enough to grab and toss in a safer direction – might end up with some bruised knees or scraped palms, but they ought to be out of range, now. But the last –

The last is just out of reach, courtesy of the reduced range of motion, thanks to that broken collarbone. Her good arm is raised anyway, to grab? To push? To do anything that might help, though she knows as she runs that she will not make it in time – and yet, as their eyes lock on her, they go flying backwards, just before concrete and brick slams into the ground. 

Yelena reels back from the force of it, and as she looks around to see what on Earth that was, she catches a flash of golden yellow above her. 

Bob. The Sentry. Here at last, and just barely turning away to deal with… presumably, whatever the larger threat is. 

Did he–? Well, sure, that seems like the sort of thing he’d be able to do. No time to linger on that, anyway, the chaos is still raging around her. 

Again, she jumps into action, ignoring the ache of her muscles and the protests of the barely-healing bone. 

Slowly, slowly, it feels as though the screaming is getting fainter – the crowd is certainly thinning out, at last – and that they're pushing back the tide. That he’s pushing back the tide, rather; Yelena won’t fool herself into thinking this is her doing. 

But then, there –

One of those figures, hoisting a man into the air by the neck. 

She's lunging at it before she can give it a second thought, hoisting her weight onto its back, widow’s bites already sparking to life – and it rockets off into the air. 

Up, and up, and up, and up–

It reached dizzying heights astonishingly quickly. She amps up the power on the bites and goes again, and again, and again, pushing her weight onto it with both arms, though it is agony just to try, until it starts – sparking?

Yes, sparking, as the fabric burns away around its neck and wiring starts to melt. Huh. 

It judders, violently, and then its limbs all lock up at once –

And she falls. 

Oh. 

Well. 

There are worse ways to die, she supposes. Certainly less cool ones, though the splat she’ll make at the end will be pretty undignified. 

She closes her eyes and –

– lands a lot sooner than she’d expected, with arms around her, scooping her up.

Bob, curling an arm behind her back and bending the other under her knees, stable and solid and here.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you, you’re safe,” he’s murmuring. 

She loops her good arm around his back and leans into his chest, shaking with adrenaline.

But then she cranes her neck, nearly-shouting to be heard over the wind that whips around them at these heights. 

“Bob, they're – robots, or something, they’re–”

“Androids, yes,” he says. “Security, supposedly.”

“So what, Val wanted to debut a new security force and they went rogue?”

“No, this was always the plan,” he says. “This was supposed to be a show of… superiority. And a marketing tactic.”

“Marketing… what? Shitty robots?”

“Me. As a… glorified security task force, all-in-one, ready for hire.” A muscle twitches in his jaw, the only sign that he’s deeply displeased with that idea, as he plasters on a picture-perfect smile as he begins his descent. 

“Well – how the hell was this foiling her plan? You beat the shit out of them!”

“You’ll see.”

“Now who’s being vague?” she mutters. 

“It was never a question of whether I was stronger than them, Yelena. That’s not the point. Just trust me.”

And… she does, is the thing. 

“Now… there’s some talking to do. Let me take the lead.” He tilts his head a little as he looks down at her. “You aren’t exactly… trained for giving interviews.”

She’d take more offense to that if her stomach didn’t drop out from under her as he picks up the pace, and lands –

– in the midst of a waiting camera crew? Damn, he wasn’t kidding. 

Yelena looks up at him, and watches the gold ringing his irises fade to blue, watches his features smooth over into a pleasant but authoritative expression. 

“What happened here was a barely averted tragedy.”

It’s pretty undignified being held like this in front of – however many are here, and however many more are watching this live, but she’s not really in a position to get down. Besides, it feels… better, being here with him. Safer. And it makes a nice little show of solidarity for Valentina, if she’s watching this. Yelena hopes she is. She hopes she’s seething.

With that pleasant image in mind, Yelena settles back and lets his voice wash over her. 

“Valentina Allegra de Fontaine has long presented herself to the world – to you, and to me – as a friend, an ally, someone who wants to protect you and shepherd you. Today’s events have revealed that she is anything but.” He gestures around them to the destruction. “It was her hand that set these events in motion, a play for prestige, for power.”

Oh, he is good at this. 

As he speaks, the pieces start to fall into place, the things he’s left unsaid slotting together in her mind – he knows all this because Valentina told him. Because she was expecting him to fall into line. What’s she going to do now that her favorite pawn refuses to march for her anymore?

And then he’s removing the arm that’s under Yelena’s knee and helping her to stand – sort of. They’re still mid-air, still suspended, and he’s still bearing all her weight like it's nothing, but she can’t help but notice how this shifts the focus onto her. She’d give the cameras a little wave, but that would involve letting go of him, and though she’s fairly sure he could still hold her aloft, she doesn’t feel like putting that to the test.

“And we have Yelena Belova, the White Widow–” The what? “–to thank for averting the worst of this, and discovering this subterfuge. She has been working tirelessly from the shadows to uncover this threat, like her sister before her, the Avenger’s own Black Widow.”

Yelena tries to hide the stab of pain that the mention of Nat brings. It certainly gets a reaction from the crowd, a chorus of gasps and murmurs even louder than anything else has garnered thus far.

But he continues.

“None of this would have been possible without her, and I’m glad the world will finally get to know her as I do. She has been a true hero, and… a loyal partner, trustworthy to the end.” 

Yelena barely suppresses a snort. Yeah, very heroic. He’s really laying it on thick.

And then –

His attention turns back to her. He dips his head and bumps her nose with his, urging her to angle her face up, and when she does – he kisses her. 

Oh. Oh, alright. 

It’s – soft. Warm. 

And over far too soon. Yelena finds herself trying to pull herself closer with the hand that's holding onto his suit, chasing after him as he pulls back, breathing him in, pulse racing. 

Someone whistles. Right, the crowd.

Yelena feels suddenly exposed, but she suppresses the urge to bury her face in his chest, aware that that will look worse.

“–and she's done it at great personal risk to herself, as you can see. So I’m trusting in the fine people of this city to look out for one another and assist fully with clean-up efforts; we are needed elsewhere.”

When he rises again, it’s to raucous applause. God, they really do love him, don’t they?

He doesn’t take her far – or, at least, it doesn't take long to get there. As she glances around, she realizes she's not familiar with the area at all, so this might actually be several blocks away from where they had been before. They land on a low rooftop, surrounded by other, taller buildings, that provide a modicum of privacy. At his prompting, she hops down, and when he sits, she follows, dangling her feet off the edge of the roof.

He looks at her. She looks at him – then down at the ground, far below. 

“…that was really good,” she mumbles. “You had them eating out of the palm of your hand.” All that media training has really done wonders. 

“Practice,” he says off-handedly. 

“Mm. You’ve had a lot of that lately.” She kicks her feet, calculating how long it would take to fall if she were to slip. Old habits. “…speaking of practice,” she says, “how’s… the other training? You, uh. Figure out new parts of those powers? Anything… different?”

Y’know, like shadow manipulation, dream visitations, anything to explain why she’s been seeing him absolutely everywhere? No way to ask that directly without sounding off her rocker if she’s wrong, though. 

“...perfect,” he says. When she glances over, he meets her eyes only briefly, then he swipes a hand through his hair and looks up at the sky. “It’s all going great and very much as expected.” 

“Mmh. Great.” 

He peeks back and then away again just as quickly, so – is it not? But then, having a bit of trouble with his training doesn’t necessarily mean months of nighttime shadow visitations, so she probably is just crazy. Good to know. 

Yelena looks back down. “...hey. You could’ve stopped all that before it started, couldn’t you?”

“Valentina had public favor on her side. Now she doesn’t. Sometimes that requires some risk. But no one got hurt.”

She gives him a look.

“Not seriously,” he amends. “A few bumps and scrapes are nothing compared to what might happen if Val goes on thinking she runs things.”

She’ll… concede that he may have a point. Her doubt must show on her face, though, because he catches her good hand in his. “Yelena, I wouldn’t let anything happen to them. You know that.”

She… does, she thinks? Or she did. This… new, Valentina-media-trained Bob, this requires-risks Bob, is… new. But she thinks he wouldn’t hurt anyone. 

“...alright,” she says. “But I don’t understand why bother with all that. Couldn’t you just… take Valentina out yourself?”

“I could,” he says, “if I wanted to deal with another round of Sokovia Accords.” Ah. “Besides, now the world knows you. Win-win, right?”

And that’s another thing. “Actually, hey, what was all that about, back there?”

“What? Introducing you?”

“No – well, yes, but not just that. The – you know.” Giving her a new suit, a new name, that’s one thing. Standard bullshit hero stuff. But after that. 

He tilts his head, an expression of utmost innocence on his face. “Do I? I’m not sure I do.”

Oh, the smug bastard. He does, he just wants her to say it.

“The kiss.”

“You didn’t like it? Or…” And the way that smirk creeps across his face makes her want to – shit, ‘grab him and hold him tight’ probably isn’t the right response, is it? “...did you want another?”

“No,” she scowls, and looks away. “…maybe. Not the point. I thought you – mmh.” None of this has gone quite how she thought it would go, and she finds it difficult to put into words. “That you… thought I was a dishonest assassin who left a trail of bodies in my wake. I didn’t think you… ugh.”

He gets what she means, right? 

He winces. “I may have been… harsh before. Yelena, my trust is…” He trails off, and starts again, stronger. “There are a lot of people whose lives depend on me. I can’t be reckless with who I trust.”

And yeah, sure. She’d just… thought she’d already had that trust, before. And it’s quite a jump to go from having each other’s backs, literally, to that total lack of trust, to – knowing what he tastes like. Finding out in front of the whole world.

“Alright.” He pushes off the ledge – and for a moment, her heart stutters, in the half-second before she remembers he can fly now. Right. No Bob-pancakes on the sidewalk today. He extends a hand to her. “Come on. You need a hospital. You haven’t been taking care of this the right way.”

Yelena huffs. “Whose fault is that, Mister ‘I’ll definitely be right back, you won’t have to do anything?’ …and it’s hard to manage it with one hand, anyway.”

“It’s a good thing you have mine, too, now.”

She places her hand in his, but hesitates. “...what then? You go back to your Watchtower, I go back to the shadows?”

“Oh, no.” His fingers entwine with hers. “Yelena, you stick with me now.”

It’s almost sickening how deeply that relieves her. 

There is so much more to say, to ask – but she’s tired, and she hurts, and when he holds her, all of that feels bearable.

“...I’m going to get used to this eventually, right?” she asks. 

“I did,” he says. “Just takes practice.”

And so she pushes off the ledge and falls into his arms.

[michanvalentine]

I read an anonymous post that said something along the lines of: "I know people who started hating a character because of the fandom—don’t let others determine what you like or don’t like." It struck me because I saw a bit of myself in it—that’s exactly what I’ve felt too, to some extent.

When I first landed on Tumblr, not long ago, I had no idea what Baldur’s Gate 3 was. Or who Astarion was, obviously. I played it for the first time just a year ago, and fresh from that experience, I started sharing my thoughts here on the platform. Completely unaware. Unaware of the internal wars, unaware of what apparently are some sort of taboos—literally unspeakable unless you want to end up on someone’s blacklist. Or even get verbally attacked. As if someone’s personal experience could somehow diminish someone else’s.

And so it happened that, despite never having interacted with certain users, despite never—and I stress NEVER—posting anything in the "opposing" conversations to undermine anyone’s points or, worse, to judge in any way the person expressing them, I was attacked and insulted for the content of my posts by people who sympathize with AA. Just like that. Out of nowhere. With no warning or preparation on my part. Without me giving a single damn about how they chose to play, how they interpreted the game or the character, or how they appreciated something vastly different from what I personally enjoyed. Which is not only valid but obvious, because fortunately, we’re not all the same.

Of course, not everyone who supports AA acts this way—there are plenty of thoughtful, respectful fans on both sides.

At that point, I had to dig deeper and found out how much bitterness has existed for a while now between the two sides: AA vs Spawn Astarion.

The thing is, it’s hard to stay indifferent when you feel attacked. It’s almost an automatic, physiological response. It’s simply human. And when you keep reading more and more, even blatant absurdities that attack (and judge) those who choose to play Astarion’s redemption arc—because in that case Tav is supposedly an abuser who enjoys his powerlessness (just to name one)—well, it’s only natural to start hardening. Not just toward the fandom, unfortunately, but also toward the character. He starts feeling annoying, almost unbearable. Because, due to a whole set of associations and neural connections your brain makes automatically, that character becomes tied to a whole web of unpleasant emotions and sensations, mostly stemming from interactions with those who champion one ending or the other. Even more so because of how those interactions are handled—interactions that could be polite, healthy, and enlightening.

And reading that comment above, it pissed me off. Because damn, the anon was right! That I prefer Astarion’s radiant hopeful ending is no secret—I think it’s the healthiest choice for him for a whole bunch of reasons I’ve already gone on and on about to the point of exhaustion, because I find his romance more suited to my preferences (and I truly wish the best to those who feel differently, it's still a matter of fantasy, after all), and because I tend to play a good and pure hero most of the time. Or morally grey characters who get into trouble and have some fun, but in the end always make the right choice—for the greater good.

But damn it, I’ve never hated AA. I don’t want to hate AA! I want to play him freely as a villainous companion and enjoy him whenever I feel like being evil too—and I want to do that without having to tie him to all the unpleasantness surrounding him! I hate the idea that someone or something might influence my experience, the way I play, the way I express myself, or the way I view something. It’s just not fair!

[macadamianutpancakes]

Here they are! Thank you all for the encouragement :) If you're interested in my yapping about their designs and other commentary, read below the cut

[Also! The top doodles are the first designs I had for them before locking this in (and the text on the drawings is another username of mine! I've never posted on that account though I plan to). Any feedback/thoughts about the designs are welcome!]

!SPOILERS FOR THE SHOW!

Ok, firstly, House. I made House a pegasus with a left injured wing. I knew in my bones he would be a pegasus, probably because he's quite tall and sort of lanky, but I felt like he would've injured it after a failed landing due to the infraction. Yes, I know that his cane doesn't really make sense, but I just HAD to keep it. It would make more sense for him to have a brace or some other kind of support, maybe even no walking aid at all, but again I just felt like I had to include the cane, even if it's not really practical (then again when has House been practical.. also I wanted to illustrate the scene of him falling because Wilson sawed his cane..) I will say, I am NOT a disabled person, I don't really know much so any feedback or criticism is appreciated! Please educate me if you're able to. Next, his cutie mark: I think it's pretty obvious, but it's a brain connected to kidneys. I chose them because of his specialty (nephrology), and the brain, because House's Head, and also because his mind is incredibly important to him and his second title: head of diagnostics. Lastly, his coat and physical attributes. I was inspired by donkeys a lot as well as the snowcap coat pattern for horses. I feel like it fits him :) (and I know a five o'clock shadow makes no sense on a horse but shh) Also, I made his mane and fur tufts/hooves a bit more unkempt and messy.

Now, Wilson! I made him an earth pony because he's a bit bulkier than House and I associate them with helpfulness (a bit poorly explained but I hope you get it). I gave him nice woody colors and his coat pattern was inspired by the sabino and splashed white patterns. While I did make him furrier than House, his coat and mane are a lot more groomed and taken care of. Yes I gave him his cheekbones and mole, sue me. And.. erm.. listen I know his cutie mark is a bit on the nose, but I couldn't change it I'm sorry. It is a purple cancer awareness ribbon in the form of a heart. Heart because Wilson's Heart and also because he's generally kinder and more thoughtful towards patients. The ribbon is for cancer awareness, his profession (oncologist), the color is specifically for thymic cancer (the.. type Wilson has.. I'M SORRY)

Lastly, general comments. I absolutely loved doing this and can't wait to start all the characters. Yes, I know the cutie marks aren't exactly the best, but I wanted to make them original :') sorry. They r both so blorbo.. og lord....

https://www.wheelstoheal.org.uk/donate/

https://www.bettermobility.co.uk/charity_funding_options.php

https://www.scope.org.uk/advice-and-support/second-hand-disability-equipment

https://www.nationalbreastcancer.org/breast-cancer-ribbon/

https://www.thymicuk.org/

https://www.stjude.org/donate/donate-to-st-jude

https://www.cclg.org.uk/about-cancer/useful-links

https://internationalcancerfoundation.org/

https://www.cancer.org/donate