#and we never so back (we never left actually) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

honeyncherry · 1 day ago

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all good things ii - joe burrow

summary you thought you'd mastered the art of letting go, turns out you'd just gotten really good at looking the other way

content angst, fluff, idk what im talking about in half this

part one

"Why are you here?"

You don't look up from the glass you're drying when you ask it, but you can feel him settling onto the barstool across from you. Same spot as always—third from the left, close enough to the corner that he can see the door but far enough from the other customers that conversation stays private.

"For a drink," he says, and there's that familiar hint of amusement in his voice, like he knows you already know the answer but enjoys the routine anyway.

Without thinking, your hand finds the bourbon, muscle memory from months of the same dance. The bottle feels heavier tonight, or maybe it's just you. Maybe it's the report waiting on your laptop at home, or the way certain thoughts have been circling back when you least expect them.

“How was Denver?” you ask, sliding the glass his way.

He catches it without looking, thumb brushing along the rim before taking a sip. “Great. Got a good win.”

You lean in, resting your elbows on the bar, giving him your full attention now. "Yeah? How good are we talking?"

"Really good." He grins, the kind that reaches his eyes and makes him look younger than he is. "Like, career-defining good.”

You laugh before you can stop yourself, the pride bubbling up quicker than expected. “That’s incredible. I’m so happy for you.”

He drops his gaze a little, almost shy about it. Compliments still make him weird. But you can tell it means something—coming from you, maybe, or maybe just being heard out loud.

“Actually,” he says, reaching into his jacket, “I got you something. Well, two things.”

That makes you pause. He's holding out a small wrapped box, the kind that comes from hotel gift shops or airport stores. The paper is slightly wrinkled, like it spent the flight home pressed against other things in his carry-on.

"You didn't have to do that."

"I know." He places it on the bar top between you and then grins. "But I saw it and thought of you. Plus, I have some news." There's something sweet about it, the casualness of the gesture with no hidden agenda.

You peel the paper back carefully, and inside is a snow globe, tacky and perfect in the way only tourist gifts can be. Denver’s skyline is centered in the middle, suspended in that fake snow that never quite swirls right.

“It’s terrible,” you say, but you're already smiling.

"Absolutely hideous," he agrees, sipping his drink. "But you collect weird shit, so I figured you'd appreciate it.”

He’s right. Your apartment’s full of it—odd little trinkets that don’t belong anywhere but somehow belong with you. Salt shakers shaped like ducks. Postcards from places you’ve never been. That cracked ceramic owl from your grandma that you still won’t throw out.

"Thank you," you say, setting the snow globe on the shelf behind you, next to the register where you can see it while you work. "Okay, so what's the news?"

"Remember that California project I mentioned? The sports coverage thing?" He's trying to play it cool, but you can see the excitement barely contained behind his eyes. "I got you the spot."

Your heart stops. "What?"

"I put in a word with the hiring manager. Told them about your work, how good you are with people." He leans forward slightly. "They want you to fly out next week. Production assistant role, technically, but it's exactly the kind of experience you need."

You stare at him, mouth slightly open. "Are you serious?"

"Dead serious. You're going to California." Quinn's fingers drum once against the bar, a nervous habit you've taken note of over months of Thursday nights. Sometimes Tuesdays too, when his schedule allows it. He'd started showing up around the time you stopped flinching every time you heard calls of a certain name, when you could make it through a shift without checking your phone for messages that never came.

That was just over a year ago now, right when everything felt like it was crumbling—when you'd left that hotel room and came home to an apartment that felt too quiet and a life that suddenly seemed smaller than it had before. You'd been serving drinks like you were underwater, going through the motions of existing without really living in any of it.

The first few times, Quinn was just another regular. Bourbon, two fingers, splash of water. He was the best tipping regular you’ve ever had and never lingered too long. But then one night you'd been particularly frustrated, slamming glasses a little too hard after another rejection email, and he'd asked if you were okay.

"Just job hunting," you'd said, the bitterness leaking through despite yourself.

"What kind of work?"

"Anything that uses a communications degree, apparently." You'd laughed, but it came out hollow. "Four years of college to be really good at serving drinks."

He'd been quiet for a moment, then: "My company's always looking for interns," he'd said, casual as anything. "Might be good experience."

That conversation lives in your mind now, growing roots in the spaces between doubt and possibility. Three months of showing up to offices that smelled like expensive coffee and ambition, of learning that your degree wasn't worthless after all, just misplaced. Quinn had opened a door you didn't even know existed, and now here he is, trying to push it wider.

"I don't know what to say."

"Say you'll pack a bag." He finishes his drink and leaves cash on the bar, always exact change plus fifty percent, never more or less, and stands to go. "They'll email you the details tomorrow."

He hesitates for a moment, like he wants to say something else, then seems to think better of it. Instead, he just nods and heads for the door.

"Thank you," you call after him. "Really. This means everything."

"You earned it," he calls back over his shoulder. "I just made sure the right people knew."

When he's gone, you’re left with the rich smell of bourbon and the snow globe that glimmers under warm spotlights. Underneath it all lies the strange, fluttering feeling that comes with being cared about in small, uncomplicated ways.

───

The folder hits your hands like something dropped from a height, thick enough that the pages buckle under their own weight. Sarah's already talking, words streaming past in that efficient way people have when they've explained the same thing a dozen times before.

"So you'll be handling athlete transport today," she says, gesturing vaguely toward the folder while her attention drifts to her phone. "Everything's in there—pickup times, studio assignments, the usual."

You flip the cover open to pages of schedules and headshots, names printed in blocks that your eyes catch without really processing. Sarah keeps talking about the logistics and backup plans, but her voice becomes mumbled as you scan down the list.

Micah Parsons - 9:30 AM pickup, Studio A

Lamar Jackson - 10:45 AM pickup, Outdoor Setup

Cooper Kupp - 12:15 PM pickup, Studio A

Tua Tagovailoa - 1:30 PM pickup, Studio B

Names that mean little to you, faces that melt together in professional headshots. You're half-listening, trying to make sense of time slots and meal breaks, when Sarah's voice sharpens.

"—and Quinn should be here any minute with an early arrival."

The sound of voices approaching makes you glance up from the folder. Quinn appears in the doorway, that easy smile already in place, talking to someone just behind him. You look back down automatically, eyes finding the next line on the schedule.

Joe Burrow - 3:00 PM pickup, Studio B

Your stomach drops like you've missed a step in the dark. The letters blur, then sharpen, then blur again. You blink hard, certain you've misread, but the name sits there like something burned into the page.

When you look up, he's standing three feet away.

And he's already looking directly at you.

The folder stays open in your hands, but the words might as well be written in a language you don't speak. Everything else in the room—Sarah's voice, the hum of equipment being tested, the distant sound of someone setting up lights—fades into white noise. There's just him, standing there in dark jeans and a jacket that probably costs more than your rent, looking exactly like he does in your memory of that morning in the hotel room, except somehow more solid. Real this time.

His expression doesn't change when your eyes meet his. No surprise, no recognition he'd let anyone else see. Just that steady, unreadable look that used to make you feel like he could see straight through you.

"Perfect timing," Quinn says, completely oblivious to the way everything seems to have tensed up around you. "This is our impromptu production assistant I was telling you about." He gestures toward you with the kind of enthusiasm that makes you want to disappear. "She'll be handling your schedule today, making sure you get where you need to be."

Quinn turns to you, still smiling. "Joe got here early—his flight landed ahead of schedule, so I figured we'd get him checked in now instead of making him come back later. Hope that's okay?"

You force yourself to close the folder, to stand up straighter, to remember that you have a job to do. That you're not the same person who used to fly across the country for crumbs of attention.

"Of course," you manage, extending your hand in what you hope looks like professionalism and not the careful choreography of someone trying not to fall apart. "Hi."

Joe's eyes flick down to your outstretched hand, then back to your face. For a second, you think he might not take it. That he'll let you stand there with your arm extended like an idiot while Quinn watches.

But then his hand closes around yours, warm and familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.

"Nice to meet you," he says, voice perfectly polite like you're a stranger. As if he's never traced the curves of your body with his tongue in the dark.

The handshake lasts exactly as long as it should and no longer, nothing that would make Quinn raise an eyebrow or Sarah look up from her phone. But his thumb brushes across your knuckles once before he lets go, so quickly you almost think you imagined it.

"She's fantastic," Quinn continues, either missing the tension entirely or choosing to ignore it. "Really knows her stuff. You're in good hands."

The irony of that statement sits heavy in the space between you and Joe. You've been in his hands before and you know exactly how that story ends.

"Alright," Sarah pops her head up suddenly from beside you. "Let's get you set up for hair and makeup first, then we'll run through the shot list." She's already guiding Joe toward the door with the kind of practiced authority that doesn't leave room for argument.

Joe follows, but his eyes find yours once more before he disappears into the hallway. The look lasts maybe two seconds, but it's long enough to remind you of every sleepless night you spent wondering if he thought about you at all.

"Ready for Micah?" Quinn asks, already checking his watch. "He should be set by now." You nod, grateful for something to focus on. Something that doesn't involve navigating the minefield of seeing Joe again.

Quinn studies your face for a moment, "you good?"

"I'm good," you say, forcing a smile that feels more convincing than it probably looks.

"Good. Because we had to shuffle things around. Lamar's flight got delayed, so we bumped Joe up to right after Micah." He pats your shoulder in that paternal way that makes you remember why you trust him. "You've got this, kid."

───

Micah Parsons turns out to be exactly the kind of interview subject that makes your job easy. Charismatic without being overwhelming, thoughtful in his answers, the kind of natural storyteller that probably makes every journalist he talks to feel like they're getting something special.

You escort him from hair and makeup to Studio A, making small talk about his off-season training while mentally taking in the way he carries himself—confident but approachable, the kind of details that might matter for the piece you're supposed to be writing.

Because that's the thing Quinn arranged that makes this more than just a production assistant gig. You're not just managing logistics; you're also shadowing the main journalists, taking notes that will help with a behind-the-scenes article to accompany the video content. It’s what manages to turn this little side gig into real experience that could actually matter for your future.

It had been Quinn's idea, pitched to his partners as a way to get more comprehensive coverage without stretching the budget. "She's sharp," he'd told them, according to what he'd shared with you later. "Give her the PA duties but let her gather material too. Two birds, one stone."

He'd stuck his neck out for you in a way that meant something. Which is why you're sitting in the back of Studio A with a notebook, jotting down observations about Micah's interview style and the way he deflects certain questions with humor while being surprisingly vulnerable about others.

Quinn had been right—you were good at this. At reading people, at catching the moments between the soundbites that revealed who someone actually was.

Which is exactly why seeing Joe again feels like such a potential disaster.

By the time Micah wraps up, you've filled three pages with notes and feel like you're truly starting to understand the rhythm of this kind of work.

"Joe should be ready now," Quinn says, appearing at your elbow as you escort Micah to his next location. "Studio B."

Your stomach tightens, but you nod. This is your job. This is the opportunity Quinn fought for you to have and you can't let seeing Joe ruin it.

The walk to Joe's dressing room feels dreadful. Each step is like walking through quicksand, carrying you toward something you're not ready for but can't avoid. When you knock and push the door open, he's sitting in the chair by the small mirror, scrolling through his phone with careful focus.

"Ready?" you ask, the word coming out more clipped than you intended.

He looks up, nods once, and stands with no acknowledgment beyond basic professionalism.

The hallway to Studio B stretches ahead of you both, and the silence that follows is different from anything you've experienced today. Not comfortable like it had been with Micah, who'd filled the space with easy conversation. This quiet feels intentional. Measured like you're both working very hard not to disturb something that might break if handled wrong.

"Studio B," you say when you reach the door, gesturing unnecessarily.

"Thanks."

He disappears inside, and you take your position in the back corner. Notebook ready, pen poised. The same setup as for Micah's interview; professional and focused, gathering material for the article.

But something shifts the moment Joe starts talking. His voice carries that familiar cadence, the one that used to lull you to sleep during late-night phone calls when distance felt manageable. You find yourself leaning forward, pen moving across the page in ways that have nothing to do with journalism.

The little things catch your eye. The way he touches his jaw when considering an answer. How his shoulders settle when he's comfortable with a question. The pause before he responds to anything about pressure, weighing what's safe to share versus what's true.

You catch yourself, redirect your attention to actual content. This is work. Quinn's faith in you made everything tangible, you can't let this pull toward someone who used to matter ruin what you've been given.

But it's difficult to ignore the familiarity, the way certain moments remind you of hotel rooms and conversations that felt bigger than they were.

This is likely the only time you'll see him again. A one-off encounter that doesn't have to mean anything beyond coincidence. You've made progress, moved forward. You can't let a single afternoon undo the work it took to get here.

When the interview wraps, you've filled two pages with notes—half meaningless observations about Joe rather than context about the content. You close the notebook as he thanks everyone with practiced grace, then finds you in the corner.

"All set?"

"All set."

The walk back is similar to the walk there in every way. By the time you reach his dressing room, you're almost convinced you can end this cleanly. You open the door and stand to the side.

"You're done for the day. Someone will coordinate transport when you're ready."

Joe settles back into the chair by the mirror, phone already in hand. You should leave now. You've completed your assignment, same as with Micah. But professional courtesy demands you ask. The same question you'd posed to Micah, the same standard you'll maintain.

"Is there anything else you need?"

Joe hums to himself then looks up, and for the first time all day, really looks at you. Not the careful glances he's been offering, but the kind of direct eye contact that used to make your heart race.

"Just curious," he says, voice level but edged with something sharper. "Are you supposed to say that, or am I just special?"

The question hits hard. You feel it in your stomach first, then spreading outward, a slow recognition that you're not getting out of this room without acknowledgment.

Because that’s the thing: he was special.

In the way you still dream about his voice. His hands.

In the way you never really got around to donating the shirt he left behind, even though it stopped smelling like him months ago.

In the way you still scan for his face on the screen when a game is on at work, even when you tell yourself you’re not supposed to.

Something shifts in your face, you can feel it happen. The twitch of your eyes, the press of your teeth into the inside of your cheek, just a second too long. Like your body is betraying the careful neutrality you’ve been maintaining all day.

He catches it, of course he does.

"Just part of the job, Mr. Burrow." The formality tastes wrong in your mouth, but you need the distance it creates and the reminder of where you are, what this is supposed to be.

You're already turning away before the words fully settle, hand reaching for the door handle like it might save you from whatever comes next. "Have a good rest of your day."

───

The wine tastes expensive in a way that makes you hyper-aware of everything. From the conversations flowing around you that you can't quite step into, to the way everyone else seems to belong here without thinking about it.

"Market yourself," Quinn had said earlier, straightening his tie in the mirror of his hotel room. "There are some serious people here tonight. Network. Make connections. This is how careers get built."

Easy for him to say. He moves through crowds like he was born into them, shaking hands and remembering names and making everything look effortless. You feel like you're wearing a sign that says imposter in flashing neon letters.

The venue is exactly what you'd expect from Quinn's company—all exposed brick and elegant lighting fixtures, floor to ceiling windows, the kind of casual that costs more than most people's rent. Servers weave between clusters of well-dressed people holding wine glasses that catch the light just right.

You take a sip of wine and scan the room for someone who might seem approachable. Someone who won't immediately see through whatever facade you're trying to maintain. The conversation nearest to you is about market projections and quarterly reports, which makes your experience feel even more inadequate than usual.

"Why are you standing by yourself?"

The voice comes from beside you, close enough that you feel the words more than hear them. You don't have to look to know who it is, you've been hyperaware of his presence since the moment he walked in twenty minutes ago.

"I'm supposed to be marketing myself," you say, not turning toward him, voice dry with the kind of sarcasm that feels bitter. "Networking. Making connections."

There's a pause. You can feel him looking at you.

"Well, you shouldn't have any problem doing that looking like that."

Your fingers tighten around the stem of your wine glass. The comment slides under your skin in a way that makes you feel uneasy. It’s like you're back in some hotel room where his opinions about you mattered.

You turn to look at him and something in your expression must give you away because his face changes immediately.

"No, no, that's not—" He stops and runs a hand over the bottom half of his face, looking genuinely panicked. "That came out wrong. I just meant you look good. Like, really good. Not that—fuck. That was all wrong."

And despite everything, despite the way your jaw is still tight with irritation, you have to bite back something that feels dangerously close to a laugh. Because Joe Burrow, who takes hits from three-hundred-pound linemen without flinching, who never seems rattled by anything on or off the field, is standing here stammering like a teenager who just got caught red-handed.

You compose yourself, finding that professional tone again. "Okay. Well, thank you." You set your wine glass on the nearest table, already turning away. "Have a good night."

His hand catches your wrist before you can take a step, gentle but insistent enough to stop you. "Wait." You follow his gaze to a quieter corner near the windows, away from people.

“Can we talk?”

Part of you wants to say no, to keep walking and maintain whatever distance you've managed to create. But a bigger part knows that if you don't do this now, you'll spend the rest of the night, maybe longer, wondering what he would have said.

"Okay," you say, and let him guide you toward the windows.

The space feels more intimate immediately, the noise of the party fading to background hum. Joe runs his hand through his hair, a nervous habit you remember, and looks out at the city lights for a moment before turning back to you.

“I was an asshole,” he says. The bluntness of it surprises you, how he doesn’t sugarcoat it or try to spin it. "This afternoon, I mean. And just now. I was just—I was doing what I always do, being defensive because seeing you here threw me off, and I didn't know how to handle it."

You wait for him to continue, watching the way he struggles with words that don't come as easily as the ones he uses for interviews.

“I was hurt,” he says, a little softer now. “When you left. Not just because you did. But how fast it felt. Like one second we were figuring things out and the next... you were just gone.”

There’s a long pause where neither of you says anything. You’re not sure what breaks you down first—his voice or the fact that it’s not angry in the way you last remember it.

“I didn’t leave because of that night,” you say eventually. “If anything… I stayed because of it.”

Joe finally looks at you and your hands tighten around your arms.

“I meant what I said,” you continue, slower now. Like the words are heavy in your mouth. “I believed you. What you said. How it felt. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like that before.”

The words keep coming even though your mind is already starting to regret opening your mouth. You should stop. You should just stop.

“I think part of me was already bracing for the quiet,” you say. “For things to go back to normal the next day. I don’t know. It’s like… the moment was everything I wanted, but it didn’t feel safe.”

You see the flicker in his eyes. You almost backpedal, almost say never mind, but you’ve already gone too far.

“It's not that I didn’t trust you,” you continue. “I just didn’t trust that version of us to last. And I didn’t want to stay long enough to watch it fall apart again.”

Joe’s silent. You shift your weight, suddenly aware of how exposed you feel, how fast your heart is beating now that the words are out there.

“I didn’t stop feeling it,” you murmur, eyes darting toward the window. “That was the problem. I finally let myself feel all of it. And once I did, it felt like too much to carry alone.”

He exhales slowly, like your words knock the wind out of him.

“So it wasn’t just the night,” he says eventually. “It was everything before.”

You nod. “Yeah. It was the before. The buildup. The silence. The feeling like I was always one step ahead of you.”

There’s a pause. Then, almost like a reflex, you add, “I know you meant what you said. I really do.” He looks at you then, something raw behind his eyes. “But I think I’d spent so long waiting for you to mean something,” you say, voice tightening, “that when you finally did, I was already halfway through learning how to let go.”

“I get that,” he says. You nod, surprised by the relief you feel at being understood. "So you left because you had to," he says, not a question.

"Because I had to."

The silence that follows feels different from all the others today. Not loaded with tension or unspoken accusations, but something closer to understanding. Like you aren’t standing on opposite sides of it anymore.

Joe straightens up slightly, and something shifts in his expression, still serious but with a hint of something lighter around the edges.

"So," he says, extending his hand toward you with a small, almost shy smile. "Hi. I'm Joe."

The gesture is so unexpectedly dorky that you feel a laugh bubble up before you can stop it. "Are you serious right now?"

"Starting fresh," he says, hand still extended. "New note."

You look at his outstretched hand, then back at his face, and despite everything—despite the history and the hurt and the complicated mess of what you used to be—you find yourself smiling.

"This is ridiculous," you say, but you take his hand anyway. "Hi, Joe,” you introduce yourself in the same manner.

The handshake lasts longer than necessary this time, in comparison to the one you shared earlier. When you finally let go, your fingers feel warm where his touched them.

"Much better introduction than this afternoon," you say, and Joe laughs—a real one this time.

"Yeah, well, I was trying to play it cool earlier."

"How'd that work out for you?"

"Terribly," he admits, grinning. "Clearly not my strong suit when it comes to you."

"Well," you say, and there's something softer in your voice now, something that feels like a door opening instead of closing. "There's plenty of time to get better at it."

The words hang between you, simple but loaded with possibility. Not a promise or a plan, just an acknowledgment that time exists now where it didn't before. That this new beginning, this fresh start, doesn't have to be figured out tonight.

Joe's smile changes, becoming something quieter. "Yeah," he says. "I think there is."

In that moment you realize the difference between starting over and starting fresh. One erases everything that came before; the other builds something new on a foundation that was always there, just waiting for the right moment to matter again.

#joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow fanfic #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow angst #joe burrow x you #joe burrow fluff

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kaciidubs · 1 day ago

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A-B-C

✧ Summary: Secret baby questions and lazy Sunday afternoons, you wouldn't have it any other way. ✧ ✧ Word Count: 659 ✧ Warnings: Slice of life, fluff, mention of Bubble, pregnancy, Chris is a lovable goofball ✧ ✧ Female! Reader [No use of Y/N] | You/Your pronouns ✧ ✧ Additional Tags: Chan is referred to as Chris, and Fiance, Reader is referred to as Fiancee, this could be faintly related to Confiscated, so take that as you will, lightly edited ✧ Stray Kids Masterlist ✧ General Masterlist

| How did you learn the ABC song?

Pursing your lips, you peeked above the top of your phone to stare at the man sitting on the opposite end of the couch, his left hand gently massaging your left ankle as his thumb slid across the screen of his phone.

“Chris, you did not just ask Stays that question.”

His movements stopped, though you could see the bashful smile fighting its way onto his face despite his best efforts of pretending he didn’t hear you.

“Christopher.”

The playful warning in your voice was enough to make him give up the charade as he looked over at you, embarrassed laughter tumbling from him as his eyes creased into half moons.

“What? I’m just trying to get a bigger scope on this to see if there’s actually a huge difference in these things!”

You had just barely crossed over into the third month of your pregnancy, and with that came the casual, increased conversations of your own respective childhoods and what things you would like to incorporate into raising your own little bean. From family traditions and religions, to stances on co-sleeping and methods of potty training, there was almost nothing the two of you haven’t gone over since those two blue lines came into your life.

“Also,” Chris crossed his arms over his chest, peering at you with a raised eyebrow, “why do you still have my bubble?”

It was now your turn to laugh, before reigning it in enough to muster up a dramatic gasp.

“Is it such a crime to want to support my fiance’s career?”

“It is when my fiancee not only pays for my bubble, but my friend’s bubbles, too – as if she’s not already in a group chat with them where they can actually reply directly to her.”

You hummed, nodding and pursing your lips, “Or, you just don’t want me to catch you asking secret baby questions to Stays!”

The dramatics now transferred to him, his hand flying to his chest as his jaw dropped, “Secret baby questions?! Me?! I would never! I’m just having a conversation with Stays that somehow also relates to one we had a few minutes ago – I think that’s more ironic than anything.”

There was a beat of silence as you stared at him, and him back at you, until you both broke out into a fit of laughter; the sounds of your combined silliness bouncing off the living room walls and dancing in the air in notes not even the finest symphony could recreate.

As your laughter simmered into breathless giggles, you watched as Chris wiped tears from his eyes — still in the clutches of the Sunday sillies — and let out a small, happy sigh.

That was the man you opened your heart to, the man who showed you in more ways than one that he would do everything in his power to make sure you felt loved and safe, the man who got down on one knee and thanked you for everything you brought into his life, and the man who subsequently cried when you gave him the wrapped pregnancy test a minute later — the greatest gift exchange either of you could have ever had.

“I love you.”

His glimmering eyes found yours, and whatever remnants of unbridled joy morphed into something warmer, softer, and inexplicably yours.

“I love you, too,” Chris smiled, his dimple pulling at his cheek as his gaze flicked down to the small bump underneath the wrinkles of your t-shirt. “The both of you.”

Blowing him a kiss, you both settled back into your own little worlds with ease; your phone in your hand and his in his own, his left hand massaging your ankle as if nothing had changed — even when you shook with barely contained laughter as yet another Bubble message popped onto your screen.

| I know it as… A B C D E F G H I J K ellemeno P

✧. ┊Tagged lovelies: @having-an-internal-crisis-rn, @midnightfrog625, @anyhow-everything, @bangchanbabygirlx, @sweetracha, @nightimescapes, @caitlyn98s, @ch4nn13luv, @ihrtlix, @jeonjungkookenthusiast1997, @maximumkillshot, @y-ur--i, @acker-night, @dreamescapeswriting, @specialstay, @s00buwu, @tinyelfperson, @jj-stay, @katsukis1wife, @inlovewithmusician, @keen-li, @armystay89, @main-character0, @vampcharxter, @ddyskz, @prettymiye0n, @bbgnyx, @bahng-chrizz, @milknhoneyracha, @hann1bee, @palindrome969, @newhope8, @kpopsstuffs, @starquokka, @wolfs-howling, @laylasbunbunny, @4-chan-inpadella, @butterflydemons, @kimahreummm, @ta3baee, @bethanysnow, @skz-smut-reader

✧. ┊If your username is in bold italics that means tumblr won't let me tag you. If you’d like to be added to the taglist, fill out this form!

#bang chan x reader #bang chan fluff #stray kids fluff #skz x reader #stray kids x reader

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iolaussharpe-24 · 1 day ago

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This is why you'll never see me answering these asks. I get them all the time. And while I want to believe that there may be real cries for help that need to be seen, the odds just aren't there. I can't even trust the ones with pictures because:

A) There pictures aren't usually of actual people. Just destroyed buildings. They're probably just listed straight from Google.

B) With how good AI is starting to get, all of the signs of a generated picture are starting to vanish. So even the pictures that do have actual people could easily be faked.

I have seen scammers like this in real life. And people I know have seen people who do act even worse than I've seen.

My mom told me about a lady she would see sitting outside with her kids begging for money every day. And then she watched that lady get up and get into a brand new luxury car and drive away.

My dad told me about a guy he used to give money to because he was always begging near his workplace. And then one day my dad saw him go to buy cigarettes. My dad said, "You told me you needed money for food." And they guy said "Well I'll get something with what's left" and my dad told him, "If you're buying cigarettes, I want the money back. Because that's not what I gave it to you for." So the guy moped his way to a restaurant and bought himself some food.

When I was younger a guy approached my parents car while me and my mom were waiting on my dad to bring food out of a little outdoor fast food joint. He was begging us for money so he could go across the street to a pizza place. My dad told him not to bother us and said, "Hey, we're here at this burger place, I'll buy you something to eat." And the man insisted on going to the pizza place. My dad told him "I'm here. I'll get you something from here. I'm not giving you money." So the man asked for a drink. The lady at the window gave it to him for free because she wanted to help. That man walked across the street to the pizza place and threw the drink in the trash without taking a single sip of it.

If you're going to donate money to help people, good. Don't do it through your ask box or private messages. Don't blindly trust anything or anyone. It sucks that this is the world we live in, but it is. There are people who need help and there are people who know that they can play a part and get "help" they don't actually need.

Now, there are horrible people who do horrible things to people in need as well. I'm not gonna deny that. I saw a video where a homeless man was being interviewed and he said he didn't trust when people gave him food because some assholes would spit in it or put something sharp in it or something awful so he'd just throw it away. That's a whole other can of worms and I'm not saying don't help anybody. I'm saying to be cautious of who you're trying to help and how you're doing it. Because people will scam you left right and center in every way they possibly can in person and online.

Be careful yall. The world's a scary place and people are scarier.

I miss when I would get Tumblr asks that actually said things and weren't just digital panhandling scams.

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chrissv4mp · 2 days ago

Text

♱ IN THEIR SECOND-HAND SMOKE

warnings. angst, smoking and drinking (mentioned not glamorized), secondhand smoke exposure, language.

synopsis. you tag along to what's supposed to be a calm movie night with a group of mutual friends—including billie, who's laughing and having a good time. it gets overwhelming quickly, and billie's the first to notice your discomfort.

words. 2.7k

letters. projecting once again, don't we love that 🙂‍↕️ anyway, blowing smoke in someone's face is never okay!! especially if they're clean and have been for a while.

you don't know how billie convinced you to come out tonight.

well... that's actually a lie.

you know exactly how.

"c'mon," she'd said, leaning against her car like she was posing for the cover of some magazine. "you're not gonna stay home and sulk in bed, right? get in or i might just have to kidnap you."

you tried to protest. tried. but she looked too good in your hoodie with her silver hair falling over her shoulders, and you've always been weak for the way she grins like she knows you're gonna say yes.

so you did.

now you're riding shotgun in her car, windows cracked just enough to let in the breeze, music low but heavy in the speakers—something lazy with a loud bass, something with a beat that matches the rhythm of billie's fingers tapping on the steering wheel.

she's got one hand on the steering wheel, the other draped out of the open window, rings flashing each time she passes by a streetlight. her head moves a little with the music, and every now and then she sings a line under her breath, off-key on purpose just to make you laugh.

"you're quiet," she observes. "nervous?"

"no," you lie.

billie chuckles. "you're the worst liar ever, baby."

you shrug, biting back a nervous smile. "just... haven't hung out with all of them at once before."

"they're cool," she says, making a left turn with one hand like it's second nature. "loud. very carefree. but cool. calm."

nodding, you turn your head to stare out the window, watching as houses and gas stations blur by. she lets the silence sit for a second, then turns the volume down a little more.

"you don't have to stay if you're not feelin' it," she murmurs gently. "we can leave whenever."

you glance over at her, stunned a bit by the way the purple streetlights illuminates her eyes. "yeah?"

"yeah," she repeats, eyes still on the road. "i got you."

you don't realize how much those three little words mean until they leave her mouth. i got you. and you believe her, trust her with everything she says.

she pulls up outside the house not long after. lights glowing warm through the front windows, someone's voice already echoing faintly from inside. the porch is lit up dimly, shoes scattered on the steps, a broken speaker sitting on a rocking chair by the door.

billie grabs her keys, glancing at you. "you ready?"

you nod.

she leads the way in, easy and confident, and instantly blends in with everyone like she's done this a hundred times—which she probably has. she daps someone up, hugs another, tosses a playful insult over her shoulder to someone else, and then circles her way back to you.

"you good?" she asks, quieter now, fingers brushing yours.

you smile. "yeah."

and you mean it.

it's not bad, honestly. someone puts on a movie, half the group argues about what candy's the best, jay starts a dumb game of "would you rather" that derails into something stupid and funny. you settle into the couch beside billie, your knees brushing each other, and for the first time in a while, it feels like you can actually breathe.

she's laughing, cracking jokes, poking fun at people in that playful way she does where no one ever really gets mad. you even join in once or twice.

it's cool.

until it's not.

the room's dim now, lit mostly by the glow of the tv playing another movie. it smells like popcorn, cheap body spray, and the strong, sharp twist of smoke that clings to your clothes before you even realize it.

you're on the edge of the couch, legs tucked underneath you, trying to focus on the movie nobody's watching. or maybe the snacks nobody's touched. or literally anything besides how out of place you feel now.

billie shifted onto the floor just in front of you a few minutes ago, back against the foot of the loveseat a few feet away, legs stretched out, hands holding a water bottle unlike everyone else. her laugh cuts through the dialogue on screen—warm and real, like she's still genuinely having fun.

"yo, you ever seen someone trip over air before?" jordan laughs, nudging billie with his foot.

"dude, you fuckin' did that last week," she grins, punching his leg. "you can't say anything after that."

everyone bursts out laughing. you try to join in, try to even crack a smile, but it doesn't quite land in your chest in the way it does for all of them.

mya takes a hit from her spot near the front door, inhaling. then exhaling—but she looks away like she doesn't want it to get in anyone's face even though she's across the room. you hug your knees to your chest, hiding your chin and mouth and trying to focus on the movie again.

you're not judging. you get it. they're doing what they want because they can—because they're not kids anymore, and you certainly aren't one either. but it's still weird—watching someone light up, watching smoke curl from between their fingers while everyone acts like it's just background noise. the room feels way smaller now. tighter. like your lungs are already pulling away.

jay laughs. some girl—who you don't the name of—passes a drink, and you're pretty sure it's not non-alcoholic.

you press your tongue against the roof of your mouth, trying to ground yourself. it's not the smoking, not really. you're used to being around people who do stuff like this. what's getting to you is something deeper, something quieter—how easy it is for everyone else. how natural they all seem. how loud you feel inside even though you haven't said a word in fifteen minutes.

you hardly notice when ethan—the guy beside mya—takes a drag, inhaling easily. you notice, you just don't say anything. just shift a little.

it's fine. you're okay.

until billie's mid-laugh, tossing popcorn into mya's mouth across the room, and jordan—the guy sitting too close—leans in with a lazy smile and exhales a thick stream of smoke right across your face.

you freeze.

he didn't mean to. or, at least, you don't think he did.

your eyes burn. not bad. just enough.

but it's not about that.

it's the way it feels. uninvited. like you're not even there. like you're suddenly not part of the inside joke anymore. like the room shrank and your voice disappeared somewhere under the laughs of your friends and the noise of it all.

your hand twitches around your legs. you keep your expression neutral, trained. you look away.

and that's when billie goes quiet.

you don't even realize she's looking at you until the laughter dies down in her throat. she turns her head, observing you, eyebrows knitting together just slightly. the way her body shifts, the way she sits up straighter—it's immediate.

she saw it.

she practically felt it.

"yo, hey," she says. not loud. not angry. but the energy in the room changes in the room instantly.

"was that supposed to be funny?" billie asks, sharp but calm as she stands up.

jordan blinks, brows furrowing. "what?"

"blowing that in her face," she clarifies. "was that a joke?"

he holds his hands up, defensive now. there's a faint smirk on his face, like he thinks it's funny. "it wasn't like that, billie. chill out."

billie doesn't respond right away. just shakes her head and looks at him like she's trying to figure out if he's really worth it. then she turns back to you.

the room goes silent after that, actors on tv talking lowly in the back as everybody just stands there frozen—tense. you shift on the couch, a bit surprised at how quickly she noticed—how fast her mood changed. you're not used to people stepping in like that.

her eyes stay trained on you as she walks over, leaning close and speaking quieter. just for you. "wanna go?"

you nod. "yeah. okay."

billie doesn't say anything else, just nods. she grabs your hand gently, helps you up, and leads you out of the house—no goodbyes, no explanation, not even a last glance. like just looking at jordan would set her off.

outside, the air hits different. it smells like wet pavement and fresh air. not the stuffy smoke inside.

without a word, billie pulls her hoodie over her head and tosses it at you, eyes soft.

once you're both in the car, you just sit there for a few moments. silent. letting the whole thing process in both of your brains. then billie turns to you, sticking her key in the ignition and twisting it—the car roaring to life.

"you looked like you couldn't breathe," she murmurs, eyes on you the whole time. after a moment, she adds, "for a while."

you exhale, finally.

"i couldn't," you say, trying to laugh it off. it doesn't work.

she nods once. "then let's not go back."

the engine hums beneath you, and for a second neither of you moves. then she glances at the dashboard clock flashing the numbers 11:27 and breathes in through her nose like she's grounding herself.

"...we could get slurpees if you want to," she asks suddenly. "or we could just... y'know, drive around for a bit. but seven eleven's open still open."

there's a hitch in her voice. something softer. more unsure than usual. like she's still a little rattled, like she's mad at herself for not noticing sooner.

"yeah," you mutter. "that sounds good."

"cool," she mumbles, shifting the car into gear. "coolcoolcool."

she keeps one hand on the wheel, the other spinning the rings on her fingers. you reach over after a moment, linking your pinky with hers, and her shoulders drop. just a little.

the drive's quiet, but it's not the awkward kind. it's soft. safe. her music plays low again—something more calm now, something like frank ocean or amy winehouse—and the world outside blurs into neon signs and stoplights and the distant sound of sirens slicing through all the other noise of los angeles.

by the time you roll into the 7/11 parking lot, she's finally started to breathe normally again. the tightness in her jaw loosened, shoulders more relaxed, and she's looking over at you with the faintest smirk on her lips.

"race you inside," she says, like she's trying to restart the night. make it better.

"you're gonna lose," you shoot back, already unbuckling.

billie bolts out of the car before you finish your sentence, her jordans stomping against the pavement. you chase her in, both of you laughing now, for real this time.

inside, it's too bright and too cold, and everything smells like cleaning supplies and hot dogs that have been spinning for six hours too long. but it doesn't matter. you stand shoulder-to-shoulder at the slurpee machine, half-fighting over who gets the cherry flavor first.

"mine's gonna be prettier," she says in that baby voice that always has you laughing, tongue out, layering blue raspberry and coke in uneven layers.

"you mean uglier?"

billie frowns in faux sadness. "you're mean."

she pays for the slurpees—you try to argue, but she ignores you completely—and then you both head back outside, finding a spot on the curb our front, backs pressed against the concrete wall of the building.

the night hums around you. headlights pass in waves. someone blasts music at a red light, windows down, bass shaking the pavement.

billie slurps loudly. obnoxiously.

you elbow her.

she grins, glancing at you. "feelin' better yet?"

"kind of," you shrug. and then, after a pause: "i feel a little stupid, though. childish."

her head turns, full attention on you now. "what?"

"i don't know," you murmur. "like, it wasn't that big of a deal. i should be normal about it, like... like everyone else is. they just laugh and move on, act like it's funny. and i just... i don't know, i just shut down."

you sip your drink, eyes fixed on the traffic. "makes me feel like i'm missing out or something. or, like... something's wrong with me."

you don't even hear her move, but suddenly her hand is on your knee, the other slung over your shoulder and pulling you close.

"hey," she says. quiet. firm. "there's nothing wrong with you."

you glance at her. she looks serious. kind, but still firm.

"that wasn't normal. it wasn't right," she says. "what he did. none of that shit was funny. none of it was okay. and if it made you uncomfortable, then that's real. that matters. don't let anyone make you feel weird for having boundaries."

you nod slowly, eyes stinging—not from the smoke this time, but from something warmer. something softer.

billie squeezes your knee.

"i should've said something sooner," she adds, looking down. guilt in her tone. "i saw it on your face and i just waited. "

"you didn't wait that long," you mumble.

"long enough."

"you got me out."

she softens again, eyes meeting yours. "always."

you sit there for a while longer, finishing your slurpees, letting the city move around you, time passing slowly. the world keeps going, but for now—it's just you and her.

then billie nudges your knee with hers. "ready?"

you nod, and she stands, stretching her arms above her head with a yawn that makes you do the same. she watches you for a second, then tosses her empty cup into a nearby garbage before you both head back to the car.

once you're inside, she scrolls through music on her phone for a second, then taps something. the first few notes of the song you both love equally fill the space between you two—some by steve lacy.

billie hums along at first, fingers drumming lightly on the leather steering wheel. the streets are quiet now, less noise, more calm. then, as the verse flows in, she starts to sing—barely above a whisper. just soft enough for you it to reach your ears.

not loud. not dramatic. just smooth and low. like she's trying to soothe herself, and ends up soothing you in the process.

you don't speak. don't tease. don't do anything except listen.

her voice fills the space between you, warm and steady, and it's like all the leftover tension building in your chest through the night starts to fade, unraveling. bit by bit. like she's carrying it for you, even without realizing it.

your head tips toward the window. eyelids flutter shut.

by the time she pulls into the driveway, you're already halfway gone.

she glances over, putting the car into park and killing the engine before talking. "you okay?" her voice is barely louder than her singing.

you nod, slow and tired. "mhm. thanks."

she locks the car behind you as you both head up the porch steps. she doesn't say much—doesn't have to. she just stays close, her fingers brushing yours every few steps.

the house is dim inside. quiet. comfortable.

you toe off your shoes and just stand there for a moment. your body's heavy, the emotional weight of the night finally catching up.

billie watches you, then opens her arms without a word.

and you step right into them.

no jokes. no sarcasm. just the warmth of her hoodie against your cheek and her arms wrapping around your waist, holding you together.

"bed?" she murmurs. you shake your head, pulling away from her reluctantly to drag her over to the couch.

you both collapse onto it, limbs tangled up, your body draping over hers like you're made to fit there. she welcomes you. runs a steady hand through your hair, fingers scratching your scalp softly.

the jingle of a collar catches your attention, head rising a little from billie's neck.

shark comes first, big paws tapping on the floor before he hops up and settles into the crook of your knees. brutus follows a few steps behind, letting out a dramatic huff, curling up at your feet, his big head pressed against billie's ankle.

you shift slightly, eyes already closed. "thank you," you hum.

billie leans down, presses a kiss to your temple. "'course."

there's no more words said after that.

just the gentle sounds of her breathing under you, the soft beating of her heart, the warmth of her dogs curled close, and the quiet hum of the world finally calming down.

you're comfortable.

finally.

tags. @mseilishmwah @sophloveswomen @love4madii @livvydunneness @partyf4vor @wiidfi0wer33 @loving1dsworld @tan1shere @fallingforfalll2 @cierraonline @dandelions4us @scarlittt @ifwdominicfike @slxtarchive @bilsdillldough @47lake @hopingforgoodblogs @mybluebossanova @strwberrybils @justtr @greenbttrflyy @billsbaby @bilsova @lottiepierce @northlndnisred @asterisk-eyes @dragoneyelashart @xxangelfarrlzxx @ilomiloblohshh @kittymarrow @meliciousmel13 @jul3esz @rightarion @svelish @eilishssiennaa @eeuni @dragoneyelashart @thinkshespretty @cnnibalize @canthelpit0 @hailwiggly @karaaeilish @bilswifee @drunkinyourbenz @aka-persephone @bitchesbrokenpromises @jayjaywetforbils @slvt4subchratt @cantlandonmyfeet

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synity · 2 days ago

Note

Can you please write Junhui picking up Y/N after a party because she was near to take the bus and he didn’t want

YOU'RE SAFE IN MY ARMS

(Wen Junhui X FemReader)

*angst, emotional healing, slice of life, Romance*

We didn’t mean to fight.

But sometimes, love isn’t about meaning to.

It’s about pressure. Timing. Miscommunication. And tonight, it all snapped.

“I’m not asking for much, Jun!” I shouted, pacing our apartment floor. “I just want you to listen. Actually listen. Not nod along while thinking about your next schedule.”

Junhui stood across the room, arms folded tightly over his chest. His jaw was clenched. He was trying to stay calm but I knew him too well.

“I am listening, Y/N,” he said, voice low. “But it’s always something lately. What do you want me to say? That I can quit everything and stay home all day?”

“That’s not what I said,” I snapped. “But you never have time anymore. You’re always tired. Or busy. Or distracted.”

He looked away, letting out a heavy breath. “I can’t win with you lately.”

That hurt. That hurt more than anything.

I went silent. He didn’t follow up.

And that silence? It felt like a wall. Like a door he wasn’t opening. Like something in his eyes had pulled back.

“I’m going out,” I said after a moment, my voice hollow. “I’m not going to stay here and fight with you all night.”

He didn’t stop me. Just stayed quiet.

That made it worse.

At the party.

My best friend tried her best to distract me. The music was loud, people danced freely, the lights shimmered, and for a while, it worked. We laughed, sipped on something light, and I even managed a smile.

But when the night slowed, I felt it again. That tight ache in my chest.

I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want to see him. Not yet. I wasn’t ready to pretend it didn’t hurt that he didn’t chase after me when I left.

I was scrolling through my phone, ignoring texts, when I glanced up and saw it was nearing midnight. I needed to get home, but I didn’t want to trouble my friend and definitely not him.

So I walked to the bus stop near the club.

I knew he’d hate this.

Jun never liked me walking alone at night, let alone taking public transportation in the city. But tonight, I didn’t care. I was still mad. Still hurting.

That’s when I heard it.

My name.

I turned, confused.

A familiar car slowed down at the curb. The passenger window rolled down, and there he was Wen Junhui, leaning over from the driver’s seat, looking as annoyed and worried as he looked relieved.

“Get in.”

I blinked. “What are you—”

“Get in the car, Y/N.”

I hesitated. “I didn’t ask you to come.”

“I know,” he said, gaze steady. “That’s why I’m here.”

Something cracked in me right then.

I walked over slowly and slid into the passenger seat. He didn’t drive yet. Just sat there with his hands on the wheel, staring out the windshield.

“I saw your location,” he said after a moment. “When I realized you were near the bus stop, I…” He let out a shaky breath. “I couldn’t let you take the bus. Not at night. Not when you’re mad at me.”

“I was fine,” I mumbled.

“You could’ve been,” he said, finally looking at me. “But what if you weren’t?”

I stayed quiet.

“I may piss you off, Y/N. And I’ll probably keep doing that sometimes. But I’ll never let you be out here like this alone. Not when I’m breathing.”

His voice wasn’t angry. It was quiet. Determined.

I looked down at my hands.

“I didn’t want to see you,” I admitted. “I didn’t want to forgive you yet.”

“I didn’t come here to ask for forgiveness,” he said gently. “I came here to make sure you got home safe.”

That did it.

I felt tears sting at the corners of my eyes.

“Why didn’t you stop me earlier?” I whispered.

“Because I thought you needed space. And maybe I needed it too,” he said, voice rough. “But I watched that dot on the map move and I panicked. I’ll let you leave when you need to cool down. But I won’t let you go without making sure you’re safe. Never.”

We sat in silence for a moment.

Then I said it, barely audible: “I hate that you know me so well.”

He smiled a little. “I love that I know you that well.”

I turned to him. “I’m still mad.”

“Me too.”

“But I’m glad you came.”

His hand reached for mine in the dark. Warm. Solid. Real.

“I’ll always come, Y/N,” he whispered. “Even when you're mad. Especially then.”

I nodded and squeezed his fingers.

And in that quiet car, under the orange glow of the streetlight, we drove home. Not speaking much. But sometimes, love is in the showing up.

Not the perfect words.

But the silent promises.

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le-trash-prince · 1 day ago

Text

That KimKenta Scene

Kim truly has so much empathy and understanding. Here's a man that no one would blame Kim if he hated him, but all Kim can see is Kenta's hurt.

I also just uhhh need to scream at the sun because we've never seen anyone ask Kenta how he feels about anything, and here Kim comes and rips the bandaid off of the gaping wound of Kenta's heart.

Kenta tries to dodge Kim's question, so Kim responds in true Kim fashion, by being more direct. And more than that, he sits down next to Kenta, putting the two of them on even ground. If he wants honesty from Kenta, he can't talk down to him.

It makes me think of the most personal conversation Pete and Kenta have had with each other so far this season, and how much Pete towered over Kenta the whole time.

But Kim meets Kenta where he’s at. And sitting next to Kenta also lets him see Kenta's face, because that's where the answers lie. Yes, he's heartbroken, yes, he's in love with Pete. It's written all over Kenta's face.

cue Kenta's internal flashback that Pit Babe knows it doesn't even have to show us:

bc the visuals of Kenta and Kim sitting side by side in black and white are such a distinct reminder of That One Time Pete Found Out About Kenta's Feelings. And while there's ambiguity about whether Pete actually truly knows how Kenta feels, the man is a touch empath.

Kim's solution to everything is of course to tackle it head on. "Just tell him, and then maybe you can be happy." Kim assumes that Pete doesn't already know because 1. When do Tony Chen's kids ever talk about their feelings? And 2. If Pete knew about Kenta's feelings, why would he treat Kenta the way he has. (And 3. If Kenta loved you, how could you do anything but love him back? Impossible in Kim's opinion)

And this tiny, self-deprecating smile Kenta gives here tears me to shreds. "No way." He knows there's no chance. He's always known there was no chance.

This is translated as "He just doesn't feel the same," but what Kenta says is "kao kae mai dai chop pom." He just doesn't like me.

I think they probably translated it the way they did to remove the ambiguity of the word "like," to clarify that Kenta's romantic feelings aren't returned. But the ambiguity cuts me to pieces every time I listen to this line bc if Kenta feels like Pete just... doesn't like him? As a person? Like Pete only cares for him out of a sense of obligation, but doesn't actually want to be around him? Like a family member who you're tied to, but you don't actually like? I need to go outside and scream at the sun.

And there's the Oh. on Kim's face. Because yeah, sometimes honesty has its price, and that price is having someone knowing you love them and them walking away from you anyways without a single reassurance that they care about you.

And I wonder how much Kim is reassessing all the interactions he’s seen between Pete and Kenta. The way Pete left Kenta with Kim. The way he said he would find an escape route for Kenta and then never mentioned it again. The way Kenta was willing to put himself at risk by leaving Kim's apartment to go talk to Pete, only for Pete to ask, “Do we have to do this now?” The way Kenta could have been killed earlier that day, and Pete never once asked if he was okay.

"Never felt anything for me." "He just doesn't like me." I'm falling apart at the seams I swear to god.

Kenta has spent his whole life chasing affection from Tony and from Pete, only to be abandoned by Pete and treated like an animal by Tony. And he just accepts it. He accepts that he's never had a father and that Pete doesn't even like him. I need to bundle him into a pile of blankets. I'm going to chew my arm off.

But it's okay because Kim is gonna bundle him up in love for me. I'm certain this is the first time anyone has ever told Kenta he could be loved. And Kim says it so easily, so matter-of-factly, like it's a simple truth. It doesn't feel like an empty platitude from Kim, it just reflects the way he lives his life. If you meet an obstacle, you either find a way through it, or you shift your trajectory.

Kenta gives Kim such a dubious look in response, though, like the idea of being loved is a fairy tale he stopped believing in long ago. He can't believe that anyone would truly love him because no one ever has. As much as it's a truth for Kim that Kenta can be loved, it's a truth for Kenta that it's impossible.

Except Kenta still craves love anyways. It's why he immediately replaced Tony with Pete, why he's trying to make Pete proud, why he keeps showing up at Pete's in the middle of the night to go, "Hey look, I can be useful, won't you let me stay?"

I know it's impossible for Kenta to believe Kim right now. But even if he resists the idea of Kim loving him, Kim will be determined to prove it to him. Already, he's earned Kenta's trust through simple, concrete actions. More than anyone else right now, Kim is in a position to hurt and torment Kenta, and instead he keeps going out of his way to help Kenta. He has sheltered Kenta, he has kept Kenta from isolating himself, and more than that, he has seen Kenta without judgement.

And the fact that Kenta was willing to open up this much to Kim is proof of that trust. Kenta spent all of s1 hiding his pain and suffering, and the only time his mask crumbles around other people is when he is at a breaking point.

But with Kim, with the first person to ask how Kenta feels, he's able to let himself be vulnerable enough to say Everything I have ever done has been for men who never loved me. And in return for that vulnerability, Kim reaffirms that trust by telling him, It's okay, you can still be loved anyways.

#this took me two days bc i kept having to close the tab and stare at the ceiling #em post #pit babe #pit babe the series #pit babe 2 #long post #pit babe meta #kimkenta #kenta pit babe #kim minsu

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inbabylontheywept · 2 days ago

Text

i've never liked where i left this post off. i use humor to diffuse tension, but in this case, whew, terrible failure. terrrrrrible failure.

when us boys signed up for wrestling, we signed up for the possiblity of wrestling women. its just not that rare of an event. i did it, but it was a real shit about it, and those other boys who didnt get off the bench just failed. in a way that goes deeper than losing their match.

i dont hate them for this. in part because i try not to hate anyone, and in part, but also because i still remember how mortified i felt that day. the remnants of that shame are actually still painful to touch. fifteen years have gone by, and i still turned red down to my shoulder blades writing this. i read it and feel sweaty. there is some part of me that is still on that mat, panicking in front of two generations of mormons.

but i did go too far in the defense of the weakness of those teenage boys. if i could go back id probably rewrite this to something like, they failed, and they disrespected their opponent, and they disrespected the sport. but they were young and weak and barely beginning to learn how to be people, so the judgement for their failure should be light. if we cannot spare grace for the weakness of teenagers, then as adults we are damned.

but i am digressing.

i am truly sorry you went through that and i'm sorry for my place in the culture that put you through that. you deserved to wrestle, and you deserved to be taken seriously and frankly, so did the poster from before. this is very late response to all of this, because i have honestly been scared to touch this post again which is a weakness that is harder to justify at 28 than it was at 14. im sorry for that too.

best regards,

babs

i did wrestling in middle school. on one hand, i was actually quite good at it, which was nice. being good at any sport was a new achievement for me. on the other hand, i was bi, and i was trying very hard not to notice that i was bi, and getting folded into knots by very kind, very muscular dorks made that task somewhat difficult.

adding fire to the problem was that my parents and my grandparents wanted to watch my matches, because they were very proud that their Gangly Nerd Son was actually Sporting, and they wanted to cheer me on. which would've been sweet and all, but if there are four people you do not want there during a key part of your Burgeoning Sexual Awakening, it is your mom and your dad and your grandma and your grandpa.

right? i mean, imagine some guy's got your head in his armpit, and you're going you know, old sweat smells bad, but fresh sweat has a sort of and then you make eye contact with your grandpa in the stands and you remember you're swearing spandex so if you pop a boner people aren't just going to be able to see the outline, they're going to be able to count the veins, and the only way you will be able to restore your family's honor after that would be by moving to siberia and renouncing joy, forever. that, or lift your entire body up by your kneck then twist 180 degrees without paralyzing yourself.

it’s a lot of pressure, is what i’m saying.

still it did motivate me to win my matches really fast. because i was so tall and skinny, i was stupidly good at the double leg takedown, and then once someone was knocked down, i'd just do the half nelson and kind of flip em over for the pin. then the ref would count to three and i’d win. EZPZ.

i had one match where that went great. won in the first ten seconds, sat back down, and prepared myself for a good hour or two of doing fuck all. didn't even feel bad the parents/grandparents were gonna be bored. the matches went up from me in 5 pound increments (i was in the 115 lbs division) and it was going great until we got to the 145 lbs division. the other school's wrestler stepped onto the mat, and she turned out to be a girl so our guy flipped, because for straight guys, wrestling a girl is not a pleasant experience.

i'm not entirely unsympathetic. my experience wrestling dudes was definitely a little traumatic. but also, i dealt. guy could've dealt too. instead, he refused to wrestle, and the coach went - fine. not even worth fighting over.

so he went to the 140 pounder, and that guy said, nosir, my mom said mormons can't wrestle girls. next guy down, 135 pounder, now he knew he could pull the same card and thus did. 130 pounder, 125, both tapped out. he got to the 120 guy, and that guy was catholic, but he said he was considering being mormon, and thus would have to pass. as a precaution.

coach blew up a little at that. he said "is there anyone - anyone - on this entire goddamn team that is willing to wrestle a girl?" and then he pointed at me and said "YOU. MAT. GO."

and i'll be real, if i'd been paying more attention, i'd have pulled the mormon card too, but i'd just been putting all that audio into a buffer file because i was reading, so i was halfway across the mat before i even processed what had been said and by then it was too late to turn back.

still i had a plan. and my plan - my beautiful, perfect plan - was to do what i'd always done. tackle, flip, pin, win. sit down. read. bore my family to death. move on.

i got the first part right. she was bigger than me, but she wasn't taller. just an incredibly stout woman. god built me like a snake with glasses, just as he built her like a combat cube. the problem was the half nelson. soon as she was down, i tried hooking my arm under hers from behind and for both genders, the defense for this move is just clamping your arms really fucking tight against your sides. if you're a guy, that's whatever, but if you're a girl - especially if you're god's chosen combat cube - that pins your opponents hand right against your boob.

so, i got the hook in, she clamped, my whole arm pressed against something soft, my coach was yelling THE HALF NELSON. BABYLON! JUST FINISH IT! FINISH THE HALF NELSON! and i was just trying to press hard enough to finish, when then my brain went

...oh.

and i flipped out. of course i flipped out. i like girls, and touching a boob is an elemental experience, and i was not ready. i was not prepared. i had not committed the sacred rites. i recoiled like i'd just brushed my arm against the surface of the sun, stood up, and backed away. nobody in the room knew why i'd given up. all they saw was me, right about to win, suddenly flailing around and scrambling. so everyone started screaming at me to just get the half nelson again, and i couldn't really yell back there's a fuckin' boob in the way and it was very distressing, and the only way i could think of to make them stop was just doing it over again the right way.

so i did.

i hunkered down and prepared myself for Wrasslin' Attempt #2: The Sequel.

i knocked her down again, EZPZ. i went for the half nelson again, but she knew what i was about to do so she super clamped, and i knew she was gonna super clamp, so i wound my arm back like a pop-eye cartoon punch before swinging my arm through the gap between her bicep and her side, but the amount of time i spent winding back super signalled what i was about to to do, which gave her time to clamp even harder, which somehow redirected the entire force of the popeye punch to the bottom of her bra.

it spat out a single boob the same way an action hero might spit out one single tooth after getting a solid crack across the jaw. as if to say:

*ptooie.* "that all you got?"

i did not actually see this. my experience was that first there was an arm, then there was a bit of boob, but i was braced, i was ready, forward at all costs, tatakae motherfuckers, and then the boob went away, and i didn't know where it went but my team, and the audience, and everyone who was in front of me, they all gasped like i just kicked them in the stomach. except for my coach. he was behind me, and thus one of the four people in the room who did not see the boob. now my mom, my dad, my grandma, and my grandpa, they all got flashed but nooooooo, coach thunderbutt was behind me, and he didn't see shit so he was still yelling NOOOOOO BABYLON WHAT ARE YOU DOING JUST FINISH THE NELSON! GO FOR THE KILL! BABYLON! BABYLON!

but i did not go for the kill. i stood up and she stuffed her boob back real fast, and we just kind of circled each other awkwardly until time ran out and i won on points. that's not technically allowed, but the ref had some mercy on me.

my coach did not.

i barely had time to sit down before he strode over to the bench to chew me out.

"babylon," he said, in that very calm way people get when they're too pissed to yell. "why didn't you pin?"

and i didn't know how to say well coach, i tried, but there was a boob, and it kept getting in the way, and my mom was watching, and so was my dad, and so was his dad, and his mom, and god (like bible god) and that's a can of worms because i'm pretty sure he was already mad at me, and i'm wearing spandex, and i think i might have to move to siberia, so instead i said

"i uh. i forgot how to do the half nelson."

which is actually impossible. forgetting how to do the half nelson is like forgetting how to swallow your spit.

and he looked at me, like i was the dumbest person in the entire world, and i looked through him like i'd just survived my 250th day in a trench at verdun, and he said: fine.

fine.

but we're all going to practice it for an hour tomorrow because you forgot.

and then he left.

and my buddies had the gall to be salty about it. i got so many comments saying "dude, why didn't you just tell him the truth?" and i said "you can if you care so damn much. you could've wrestled the girl too. maybe someone else should do the hard thing today."

but they didn't. so the next day, we did an hour of half nelson drills, and i spent a decent amount of time getting thrown around the mat, and it was pleasant in exactly the way that i hated and the year after that, to the surprise of everyone but myself, i quit wrestling and joined the trivia team.

and if you want more reasons to love my mom, my grandpa joked after the match that i might have to talk to my bishop about it, and my mom told him he would be allowed to make jokes after he stood in front of a crowd of 110 people in spandex underpants while wrestling a woman that was not his wife.

he paused for almost five seconds after that. then he said: aw. hell. sorry babylon.

and i'd have preferred my apology from god, but getting it from him was pretty good too.

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ashsillyrants · 2 days ago

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Sylus Mini Drabble: Keeping up with the Crow Family Shenanigans

He came home to his entire family in chaos

Pairing: Sylus x fem!reader

As promised by the poll results, just a silly tiny drabble <3 (sorry I'm busy with exams) The family in question are Luke, Kieran, you and Mephisto (no babies yet 🤭)

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـ

The door was open, Sylus realized instantly as he reached out for the doorknob.

He had specifically mentioned Luke and Kieran to keep the house locked after him. Not a chance, Boss, Kieran had said. You can count on us, Boss, Luke had added.

Yeah right.

Flexing his fist which was already starting to smoke up with dark tendrils of his Evol, Sylus cautiously moved into the house, ready to knock out some baddie or the other. After all, he didn't play when it came to his family. However, nothing could've prepared him for the sight that awaited him.

The entire living room, one that had been once decorated with lavish black leather and red velvet, was destroyed. There was- oh, Sylus shuddered to even think of the word- pink paint splattered on the coffee table and the couch. A vase laid broken, and was that glitter? Just what the hell happened here?

"Luke! Kieran!" Sylus called out, his foot tapping impatiently on the floorboard as slow, guilty footsteps soon grazed his ears. The first one to arrive in the room was Luke, with purple glitter clumped on his face and a guilty smile on his face. Next was Kieran, who was covered from top to toe in pastel colors, colors that hurt the Onychinus leader's eyes. He, too, had a guilty smile on his face.

Last, but certainly not the least, was you.

Now, Sylus has seen things. Things that left a lasting impression. But, none of it came close to what you were looking like in that moment. You were wearing his favorite jacket, miraculously the only item on you that not only dwarfed you but also remained spotless. Other than that, you were a mess.

Your hair was thrown up in a messy bun with pink, gold, and purple glitter clumped in the strands. Your face was splotched with yellows, reds, and blues. Your blouse and shorts? Also covered in glue, glitter and paint. But, of course, there was that mischievous smile on your face.

"Kitten, please tell me something. Did you actually get in a cat fight? Specifically one in a children's show?" Sylus didn't know whether to laugh or cry, seeing as his pristine home was ruined. But, you looked so adorable right now.

And that's when he saw the reason why you, Luke, and Kieran all looked like you went to war in a Nickelodeon show.

Mephisto in your hands.

Painted like the world's most absurdly colored bird.

And if that wasn't enough, his beak and legs were covered with glue and glitter, and Sylus had never seen such a desolate look on a bird before.

"And what, may I dare to ask, did Mephisto do to deserve this injustice?"

"Payback. For snitching on me last time." You replied with the triumphant air of a champion, and that made Sylus finally crack a smile.

"So you abused my bird just because he told me that you were the one who crashed the bike?"

"Uh huh, exactly."

Sylus sighed, holding back the urge to laugh as he looked around the house once more.

"Naughty kitten."

Turning to Luke and Kieran, he raised a brow. "Neither of you stopped her?" He asked and both shook their heads simultaneously. "Sorry boss, but Mephie was getting on all our nerves. And then he cheated in cards. We had to do something."

"Unbelievable. I am surrounded by children."

"But, you love these children."

"Unfortunately."

And that was how you, Luke, and Kieran spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning up the place as punishment while Sylus coddled and fixed his poor, traumatized pet.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـ

A/N: hope you enjoyed!

Tagged: @fallthelong

#love and deepspace sylus #love and deepspace #lads #lnds #lads sylus #lnds sylus #sylus x reader #l&ds sylus #sylus #qin che

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bellherald · 20 hours ago

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Law's Dressrosa Plan

Someone was complaining somewhere (I've forgotten now, I consume too much One Piece content) that Law's plan for Dressrosa was stupid and overly convoluted for no reason. Just kill Caesar and be done with it. I thought about it for a moment and sorta agreed at the time. It would quickly make it impossible for Smiles to be made without any problems or risk. Kaido would be very mad, Doflamingo very dead.

I had excused it as solely a facet of Law's character to be so harshly against taking a life clashing with his decision making. Law is a doctor, and we know that means he doesn't like killing. Even people who deserve it, he left Vergo to his own evil factory's explosion rather than finishing him off personally. Doflamingo points out that he would've just killed him rather than kidnapping him on the call with Vergo, so perhaps executions are a line Law will not cross. Not when Doflamingo's bullets are something Law remembers very well. Law is a sentimental man, after all. This is all still true but there is more to it as well.

I got to thinking about what Law's aims actually were. What had he wanted by making Doflamingo fall? Why go out of the way to maneuver Doflamingo into making a deal despite the danger of direct confrontation? A pincer maneuver of both the Navy and Kaido coming down on him would ensure he was screwed no matter what, sure—his two strongest supporters would be angry at him. Neither would be willing to intervene on his behalf. But Kaido was strongest in the world and could've killed him, involving the Navy was unnecessary. Doflamingo believes this too, shown not only in directly taunting Law about it later but because he was willing to even pretend to take the deal at all.

Then I specifically realized something. Law never wanted a fight to happen on Dressrosa. Caesar was the perfect bait to force Doflamingo into this position of not only losing his Warlord status but to come onto a different island where Law had told the Marines about the meeting. Assuming his plan went off without a hitch, Doflamingo would've been arrested on Greenbit. It was an assumed uninhabited island that would mean no collateral from the inevitable fight that would break out. He was saving up energy in anticipation of the fight here. Law specifically had the Navy show up on the island by giving Smoker that heads-up, and during this time Doflamingo's Smile Factory would also be shut down and no longer an option for anyone to use.

Even after his plan falls apart because of something unprecedented in the story at the time, Law still keeps the fight away from Dressrosa as long as he can. Unfortunately, Doflamingo brings him to it and from then on Dressrosa is turned into a battlefield. Law had tried to avoid that outcome from the start.

Law had gone out of his way to avoid bringing Kaido down on Dressrosa. He didn't want to, otherwise he could've made sure Doflamingo just never got his hands on Caesar again instead of going through with his plan.

When on death's door, an arm missing and threatened by the same gun that killed Cora-san, he is asked for anything and Law brings up two things. For Cora-san to come back to life and for Doflamingo to kiss the ass of every citizen here. Law cares. Law considers Doflamingo’s murder of Corazon to be one of his greatest evils and what upsets Law deeply and he then talks about Dressrosa's people too. He clearly cares. Fake-ass evil pirate.

Law's plan was unnecessarily convoluted if it was just to kill Doflamingo, but it was to stop him from being able to hurt the people Cora had tried so hard to save all those years ago.

#one piece #one piece meta #trafalgar law #dressrosa #analysis #op meta #trafalgar law meta #trafalgardwaterlaw #unfortunately law is victim of anti-plan agendas #alliancing with the Straw Hats means it was fucked from the start #law wanted to do right by cora's legacy #obligatory fuck doflamingo

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pinkpurplesunrises · 9 hours ago

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Letters to No One - Chapter 2: The Space Between Answers

Pairing: Alexia Putellas x Reader (wlw).

Theme: Ghostwriter x Athlete | Slow Burn | Angst | Emotional Intimacy | Happy Ending.

POV: 2nd person (you), emotion ally immersive.

Setting: Barcelona, Present Day.

Previous chapters: chapter 1,

ACT: I

Writer's note: wow, such kind comments from the first chapter. It made me so happy! This will be a series full of small chapters. I'm so quite excited to share what's next. Enjoy reading!

You fall into a rhythm.

Tuesdays. Always late afternoon. Always somewhere quiet.

Sometimes it’s a tucked-away café with mismatched chairs and windows that catch the gold light just right. Sometimes it’s a park bench with her hood pulled low and a take-away cortado clutched in her fingers. And sometimes... on the stranger days... it’s her apartment.

You still don’t know why she invited you in the first time.

You’d assumed you were just going to walk her to the street. But she’d paused outside her building. Keys in hand and said without looking at you:

“You can come up if you want. It’s quieter.”

You didn’t ask questions. You just nodded and followed.

Her place is minimal. Not cold. Just efficient. Sparse furniture. A few plants. A Barça jersey framed but hung in the hallway like an afterthought. The walls are white. Blank. As if she’s waiting to decide what kind of life she wants to paint.

She brews coffee without asking. Sets a cup in front of you and gestures toward the couch.

No words. No warmth. But no walls either.

Just her.

And in these quiet sessions, you start to see her not as a headline, but as a woman full of fault lines.

It starts with a question you didn’t expect her to answer.

“Do you ever feel like people confuse strength with silence?” you ask, recorder on but forgotten between you on the couch.

She’s been staring at the rain outside her balcony. Her hair is damp from the walk. She looks younger today. Or maybe just softer.

She doesn’t speak for a long time. Then:

“They want you to be tough,” she says. “But they only let you be tough in ways they can celebrate. Not in the ways that make you real.”

You turn your head slowly. “What’s real for you?”

She hesitates.

Then she meets your eyes. A direct, still kind of terrifying gaze. And says, “Pain. Sacrifice. Wanting something so bad it makes you cruel.”

You blink. “Have you been cruel?”

She looks away. “Haven’t we all?”

You learn to let her answers hang in the air like mist. Not everything needs to be followed by another question.

Sometimes you just sit there together. Silence stretching out like a string between you. You sip coffee. She scrolls through her phone. You glance at her lips when she’s not looking.

Once, when she laughs... genuinely... because you told her a story about accidentally submitting a first draft to your editor with an accidental Taylor Swift lyric left in, it feels like watching sunlight ripple across water.

“God,” she says, head falling back against the couch, “that’s so painfully you.”

You smile. “Painfully?”

She shrugs, smirking. “I don’t know. You’re just... not like other journalists.”

“I’m not a journalist,” you say.

She nods. Then like it means something: “I know.”

Later that week, you meet in the Parc de la Ciutadella.

She’s in joggers and a windbreaker. Hair pulled into a loose braid. You’ve long stopped being surprised when people walk past and do double takes. She never reacts. Just lowers her gaze. Keeps walking.

You sit on a bench. Side by side. Not quite touching.

You ask her about identity. What it means to be Alexia Putellas to the world and what it means when she’s alone in her flat. Unwashed hair. No crowd to clap for her.

She thinks for a long time. Then:

“Sometimes I feel like people love the mirror of me. Not the actual girl. Just the echo.”

You pause. “And who is the actual girl?”

She exhales. A soft, tired sound. “I’m still trying to figure it out.”

You say nothing. You just look at her.

And she looks back. Really looks. Like she’s realizing something. Or fighting it.

Her eyes flick to your mouth for the briefest second.

Then she stands. “Let’s walk.”

At one point she says your name. No question. No sentence. Just your name. Quiet. Like a touch on your wrist.

You look up at her. Her gaze doesn’t move.

And something in the way she says it. The shape of it in her mouth. Makes you ache.

Not with lust. Not even love. With recognition.

That night, you add a new entry to Letters to No One.

She answers the questions she can. And gives me the rest in silence. I’m starting to think that’s her way of trusting me. Not with what she says, but with what she doesn’t have to.

I’ve stopped wanting to write her story. I want to be part of it. And that terrifies me.

You save the file. You don’t re-read it.

You tell yourself it’s just writing.

But when you close your eyes, you swear you still feel the way she said your name.

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Chapter 3: The Things We Carry

#woso community #woso writers #woso x reader #woso #woso fanfics #fc barcelona femeni #fc barcelona femeni x reader #woso imagine #alexia putellas fanfic #alexia putellas imagine #alexia putellas x reader

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box-of-sarcasm · 1 day ago

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What We Carry│Bob Reynolds x Reader

Summary: When a telekinetic ex-Xavier student meets HYDRA's most haunted prisoner, neither expects to find peace in the other. But in a world that sees them as weapons, they choose love- and each other- in the quiet between storms.

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x mutant!Reader (she/her)

Warnings: Mixture of fluff and angst. A steamy-ish makeout scene, but no smut. Mentions of injury. Let me know if I miss anything!

Word count: 9.5k

Note: This is my first ever time writing a fic for anyone. I decided to get back into writing recently and thought I'd try and write my own. I have not actually watched the Thunderbolts yet but I just adore Bob already and wanted to give him some peace, poor guy! May be a part 2 if this does well! Thanks.

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Power doesn't feel like having lightning in your veins- not at first. It feels like an undisturbed silence- the kind that arrives just before disaster. Thick and cloying- it wraps around you like a coat of grief, silent, shapeless, but always there. The burden of knowing you could fix everything, or ruin it beyond repair. That is how it feels to have power, not the devastating potential at your fingertips, but the load of knowing you can end a war- or start it, just by existing. And for you- that silence never left.

You felt it even as a young girl, long before you had a name for it. Family, friends, strangers, would call you gifted, burdened, an enigma. You felt everything all at once. Lights would flicker when you cried, doors slamming shut when you were angry. The doctor could never put a name to it, but how could he? You were an anomaly. He told your parents it was a simple coincidence, but you knew better, and so did they.

At age twelve, your mother discovered a specialized boarding school nestled in Westchester County, specifically for children "like you". And so, a little over a week after your birthday, you were promptly shipped off to Charles Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters.

You spent six years at Xavier’s. It was a strange kind of home—safe, structured, yet never fully yours. You learned to bend your power, to shape it without fear. You learned meditation, restraint, combat. You studied ethics like scripture, trying to believe that strength meant responsibility, not danger. Some of the other students became friends, even family. But you were never quite one of them. Not really.

Because while they talked about powers like gifts—gifts to be controlled, to be proud of—you understood yours was something different. It wasn’t a gift. It was a presence. A thing that whispered when you were alone. That pulsed beneath your skin when your emotions got loud. You kept that part of yourself hidden, even from the professors. Especially from them.

You didn’t find the Avengers. They found you.

A containment breach in a HYDRA facility—one they couldn’t explain, one you stopped before it reached a nearby village. You walked away from it like it was nothing, but they saw the footage. They showed up two weeks later, offering a name, a place, and a cause.

You weren’t sure if it was redemption you were looking for, or just somewhere to belong. On the off chance they could provide you with both, you said yes.

You met him on a mission gone wrong, you and your team standing in a windowless room. You turned and he was already there. He didn't wear a costume, not then. He wore scrubs, faded and tired. He was tense, eyes darting in every direction, shoulders drawn up to his ears.

Yelena spoke up first, gaze steeled and cautious. "Who are you?"

He looked on the verge of a panic attack. His pale, gaunt, frame speaking of something older than exhaustion, something you couldn't quite place.

The disheveled man blinked once, eyes roving over each of your team individually. "I-I'm Bob.."

As soon as he spoke, you felt it immediately. The air shifted around him the moment he stepped inside. It was dense, and volatile. It was as if the room knew there was something otherworldly contained inside him. Something older than space and time itself.

Nobody moved at first. Until you took a slow, yet deliberate step forward. It reminded you of being a young child exploring the forest, trying not to frighten the baby deer huddled under a pine tree. Yelena shot you a glance, warning flaring in her eyes.

“We’re not here to harm you, Bob.” you speak softly to him, as though trying to talk him down from a metaphorical ledge.

You weren’t sure of the truth, in retrospect. The mission debrief was vague, something about abnormal readings, and an underground bunker that didn’t exist on any normal map. You didn’t know what to expect, but Bob was not it.

He flinched at first, not expecting you to get closer. But once he looked at you- really looked at you, he paused. You could see something flicker on his face, recognition, like his soul had brushed yours and seen into your very being. He opened his mouth, as if to speak, but stopped. His brow furrowed, and his hands dropped slowly down to his sides.

Yelena gave an exaggerated sigh behind you, throwing up her arms in frustration. "Can we not do the spooky psychic starting contest while we're knee deep in enemy territory?"

You smiled faintly at her reaction, but your eyes did not leave his. You could feel the air was thin between you, the truth stretching taut. You all knew Bob was not just a prisoner, not just an experiment kept locked away from the rest of the world. He was something entirely different- something so fundamentally changed. The power emanating from him- you could feel it humming in your bones, pulsing and wanting to be felt.

"Bob." you repeat his name, voice gentle and tamed. "We're going to get you out of here, take you somewhere safe."

He blinked rapidly, his breathing becoming strained as he shakes his head desperately. "No, no, no" he mutters to himself. "You don't understand, please… I shouldn't be out. I'm not supposed to be out."

He backs away from you, almost stumbling over a medicine cart. You could see the panic rising in him, hyperventilating as he scrambles to distance himself from you and your team. The clinical white lights above you start to flicker as his fear spiked. You recognised the rhythm, fragments of power leaking through his closed-off demeanour. You recognised it as you knew it well in yourself. You knew exactly what it feels like to be scared of your own power, terrified of realising exactly what you are capable of.

"I'm like you, Bob. I know what you're feeling right now. I know you're scared." your voice is shaky, almost pleading with him to understand. You raise your hand, thrumming with controlled power begging to be let loose, before softly shutting the double doors behind him.

His head snaps to peer behind him at an inhuman speed, staring at the doors you just closed with your mind. Bob knew very well what he was capable of. But he never thought, in a million years, there would be others like him. Others who felt the very same incessant rattling in their brain, like a caged bird trying to break free.

He looks back at your face, open and truthful. His eyes flitting over your expression. Not searching for lies- he was too worn for suspicion. He was searching for any shred of hope you could provide him. And you- knowing what he was looking for, gave it freely to him. Even though part of you didn't know what he was. There was something else beneath the haggard, strained exterior hunched in front of you, something ancient. Not in age, but in feeling. As if he carries centuries in his bones, even if he hadn't physically lived them.

You could feel it when he looked at you. A resonance. A hum. Not dangerous. Not yet. Just… heavy. Something about him was pulling you in, making your protective instincts flare. It was unfamiliar to you, to feel such a way about someone else, you usually didn't let yourself.

Maybe it was the fact he looked so tired, so alone. Or maybe it was that he looked the way you remember feeling so long ago: barely held together, always afraid the worn seams would give out and let everything escape.

"Bob" you reach a hand toward him again, slow. "You're not alone." you said it softer, like it was fragile, that it might break if you said it too loud, too purposeful. For a second, he didn't respond. He just looked at you.

Then- barely above a whisper, "I always am."

And the worst part?

You believed him.

The silence that followed was heavy, thick with unspoken truths. It was like the whole room was holding its breath. Yelena, shifting beside you, muttered. "He's not stable, we can't trust him not to attack."

You kept your eyes on Bob, watching closely as he fidgeted under your intense stare. "He's not the threat here, Yelena."

Ghost- Ava was leaning against the far wall, her molecules phasing in and out, flickering slightly. "Then why is it so hard to breathe in here?." You turn your head to glance at her, frowning.

"He's scared." you stress at her. "Not dangerous. Not yet". Red Guardian huffs loudly behind you, arms crossed over his broad chest. "Scared people are dangerous. I have seen this many, many time."

Bob's hands were curled into tight, painful fists by his sides. He was trembling- but not with fear, something more primal. The overhead lights buzz and flicker again, then pop in a shower of bright sparks. Everyone steps back slightly, except for you. You step forward again, deliberately.

"Bob, you have to trust me." you attempt to convey your honesty in your wide gaze, keeping it firmly on him. "Whatever they did to you, whatever they put you through- its over now, they can't hurt you again while we're here. But you have to come with us, we need to move. Now."

He stayed silent for what felt like hours, but then he whispers. Quiet, like a mouse. "I can't control it. Not when they get close." he takes a shaky breath. Long, trembling fingers fidgeting with the hem of his worn scrubs. "Not when they want it to come out, when they want me to let it out."

Your pulse quickened, each second of silence feeling like sand slipping through your fingers.

And that's when the sirens started.

A sharp, metallic blare echoing down every corridor. The unmistakable click of the magnetic locks disengaging had you all scrambling for your weapons. The whole facility seemed to come alive in that moment, reminiscent of an animal waking from long hibernation. Vivid red emergency lighting pulses along every wall. Consoles flicker to life in each room, screens rolling with ribbons of green code no one had authorised, messages being received in a language nobody remembered learning.

The entire facility seemed to shift, groaning, metal scraping against metal. Things moving where they shouldn't. Yelena had drawn her pistol, facing the double doors. "We're out of time."

Your heart skips a beat at the sound of Ava speaking, her eyes wide. "Two squads." her breathing shallow after phasing back into the room. "Maybe more."

Turning to face Bob, you ask "Can you walk?"

"I can do more than that." he answers, his voice low and full of meaning.

Before you had a chance to respond, the walls started to groan. A low, muffled reverberation ran through the linoleum floor below you. Then, the jarring sound of a hairline fracture forming and splitting the metal on the far wall. Bob didn't physically move then, but something inside him did. You could feel it- like an insurmountable pressure building inside a sealed pipe, ready to burst.

You breach the distance between you both, grabbing his arm, gentle but firm. "Bob. Focus on me. We'll get you out. But I need you to trust me, alright?" your look was almost pleading, begging for him to understand the urgency. He nodded once.

Satisfied, you turn back to face your team. "Yelena- flank right. Ava, scout the far corridor and take out any remaining surveillance. Alexei- hold the rear."

Red Guardian raised a bushy brow at your command. "What, you're giving the orders now?"

"No." you tighten your grip on Bob's arm. "I'm getting him out of here. You're either with me, or you're in the way." He snorted at your reply, but didn't argue with your reasoning.

The first deafening shots came but seconds later- HYDRA remnants decked in tactical gear, sweeping in like a pack of hungry wolves. You moved fast, almost imperceptible, instinct taking over rationale. Yelena dropped three with focused, clean shots. Red Guardian tore through the hallway, a wall of brute and immovable force. Ava phased in and out of view, tearing at them from angles they couldn't keep track of. You kept Bob close to your side, one hand raised- your telekinesis rippling in the air like heat off pavement.

A HYDRA soldier rounded the corner in seconds, gun raised and aiming for Bob's head.

You didn't hesitate, you trusted your instincts and let your mind take control. You snapped your fingers- and the soldiers weapon crumbled in midair like ash. Your mind picked him up, tossing him against the wall with an audible crack as he slumped to the floor.

Bob stared at you in awe. "You're like me."

You shake your head. "No, Bob. You're like me"

And then the two of you ran.

———————————————————————

The constant hum of the Quinjet filled the deafening silence between you.

The others were up the front- Yelena tending a shallow graze on shoulder, Red Guardian excitedly recounting his very embellished version of the extraction, and Ava, flickering gently, not quite present but aware of her surroundings nonetheless.

You sat in the back, gently cleaning debris from a red, pulsing wound on your leg. A shot had grazed you, but it was nothing you weren't already used to. The pain would fade, in time. Another scar to add to the ones already littering your body, silver and taut on your skin.

Bob was quiet, curled up in a corner, wrapped in a thermal blanket. He hadn't spoken a word, or moved an inch, since his extraction. He hadn't looked at anyone except for you the entire time. His hands were clasped in his lap, shaking slightly from the adrenaline still vibrating in his fingertips. He stared at the floor, blinking slowly in time with the beating of his heart.

"You did good, Bob." you finally spoke, breaking the quiet atmosphere of the jet. Meant just for him. "You stayed in control."

He sighed wearily, looking up at you with a heavy gaze. He shook his head, his long russet hair shifting with the movement. "I wasn't in control, you were." There was no accusation in his voice, just a resigned acceptance.

"You could have destroyed that place, Bob" you turn towards him fully. "You could've killed us all." you pause, letting it sink in. "But you didn't. Because you had control over yourself, over your power."

You could see a change in his demeanour. His shoulders curled inwards, almost as if he was trying to become less, to take up less space in the world. "The only reason I didn't destroy anything, was because you touched my arm." he ground out. "That's not control. That's a leash. That's someone else having control over me."

You frown at that. Not at his words- but at the way he said them. Like he was ashamed, a wounded animal hiding their pain. You knew how he felt, after all. To feel caged, trapped by your own ability. To constantly wonder if people really liked you, or if they just feared you.

Being accepted into a team, feeling wanted, needed- and not just for your ability. It meant everything, and you wanted that for Bob, too. "You are not a weapon, Bob." the sturdiness and certainty in your own voice surprised you and him alike.

"You are a person, a living being who survived when he wasn't supposed to. That is what matters, Bob." you follow his intense gaze to your hands. You knew he could feel the power thrumming in your veins.

"I don't know who, or what, I am anymore." he looked up at you then. And for a second- just a second- you saw past the gaunt exterior, and the weariness in his face. Past the fear. Past the power, and the strange hollowness that never quite left his eyes. But behind that, you saw hope. You saw the part of him that wants so desperately to believe you, to believe that there is a chance for him.

You smiled gently at him- it was small, but it was real, genuine. "Then we will figure it out. Together."

A long pause followed. And then, barely audible. "Why are you helping me?"

The truth of it was complicated, locked away inside you behind years of pain and anguish. You didn't answer his question right away, but something about him felt different. Like standing on the edge, the precipice, of something unknowable, something that could change the world in its entirety. Instead of fear, scared of the drop, you felt recognition. A belonging.

"Because I've been where you are now, Bob. And someone pulled me out." you sigh. "And I would like to be that someone for you."

He didn't need words in that moment, he just looked at you for a long while. It was a quiet kind of gratitude. Grateful that you can really see him behind it all. He sighed and leaned back against the cold wall of the jet, eyes drifting shut, exhaustion finally creeping up on him. And this time, when your shoulder brushed his, he didn't pull away.

And neither did you.

———————————————————————

Rain tapped gently against the windows of the tower. The city below buzzed with life, unaware that something volatile was now within their immediate vicinity.

You stood in the hallway outside the medical wing, still in your torn and bloodied suit. Your knuckles were bruised and torn, dried blood lingering on your flesh. Through the reinforced glass, you could see Bob sitting on the edge of a cot. Same posture- hunched shoulders, hands loose and gaze distant.

Yelena steps up next to you, seemingly from nowhere, handing you a steaming mug. "Creepy guy's not talking." she takes a sip. "Still looks like he's about to disintegrate the whole floor with a nosebleed."

You frown. "He won't."

"He could." She states simply.

"So could I, Yelena." you murmur, still staring at the hunched figure ahead of you, clothed in the same scuffed scrubs- stained with old blood and darkened with soot.

"He didn't even flinch when Val threatened to 'neutralise him'" she added, ignoring your previous response. "He's either super brave, or has no clue what's going on."

"He knows" you mutter. "He just doesn't care."

Yelena side-eyed you. "You always been so soft for weird guys with dead eyes and trauma?"

You let out a sound, halfway between a scoff and a laugh. But you don't respond to the dig. Instead, you watch intently as Bucky steps out of the briefing room. Face set in a vague expression. He glances towards you and Yelena, and back at the medical wing with Bob inside.

"Val's rattled." he said. "She wants him transferred to a lab for monitoring. Quietly."

You grit your teeth, jaw clenching. The light overhead starts flickering and fizzing. "She wants to dissect him."

Looking up at the light, Bucky gently says "She just wants to protect the team."

Scoffing, you unset your jaw and take lean closer to him. "She doesn't do anything unless it benefits her personally, Bucky. You know that." you take a step towards the medical wing. "Give me five minutes with him, alone."

Bucky raises an eyebrow at your request. "That's not protocol."

"Neither is dragging a human WMD out of a HYDRA hole with zero debrief." you hiss at him, eyes flashing with something wild, something protective.

He hesitates at first, but seeing the look in your eyes, he moves out of your way. "Five minutes. I'll be right outside."

The doors slid open with a pneumatic hiss.

Bob looked up the moment you entered, the noise of your footsteps permeating the tense silence. The air around him felt heavier, but not dangerous- just dense. Like a beginning of a storm.

You sat on the cot across from him. He broke the silence first. "You shouldn't have pulled me out of there."

"There are many things I regret in my life, Bob. But taking you out of there, saving you from those people." you sneer in disgust. "That is not something I could ever regret."

Bob looked down at his trembling hands. "They're afraid of me."

You nodded, "As they should be."

His head snaps up sharply- bur your voice was calm. Steady.

"You're powerful, Bob. They are right to fear you. But they don't understand your power unless it has a leash on it. Fear and danger are not the same thing."

His head tilted, eyes narrowing slightly. "You're not afraid of me."

"I'm not afraid of you. I'm afraid for you." you stand up off the cot and take purposeful steps towards him.

You lean forward, hovering over him. "I know what it's like to be scared of yourself, of what you could be capable of." his eyes meet yours. "I used to think my powers were a punishment. That I was born cursed. But something I realised over the years- people fear what they can't label. And some of us, Bob, were never meant to fit into their boxes."

"We don't exist to make anyone else comfortable, Bob." you continued.

He watched you for a moment. "They're not going to let me stay, are they?" you exhaled. "They may try. But I refuse to leave you behind."

His shoulders slumped forward. For the first time since you met him, something cracked in his passive expression- not power, not fear. Just vulnerability. A quiet, dull ache he couldn't quite hide anymore.

"You shouldn't trust me. You don't even know what's inside of me. I don't even know." he almost whimpered, drawing his knees up to his chest on the cot.

You held his gaze, challenge and hope gleaming in your eyes. "Then we'll have to find out."

For the first time that day, he allowed himself to breathe.

Outside the door, staring intently, was Bucky. He waited, arms crossed, just watching.

Five minutes had been and gone.

He didn't interrupt.

———————————————————————

The briefing room you and your team currently sat in had no windows. Just a steel table, hard chairs, flickering monitors, and way too many egos in one small space.

Val stood resolute at the head of the room, flanked by John- U.S. Agent, arms folded and jaw clenched. Yelena, Red Guardian, and Ghost were seated. You were all restless, bruised, and waiting for someone to speak and cut the tension.

"He's unstable." Val spoke first, eyes scanning the room. "I don't care what sob story he's peddling- he's a walking disaster waiting to happen."

You sit up straighter, shoulders tense and teeth gritted. "He saved us, Val."

Bucky made a sound of agreement, posture calm but edged with steel.

"He saved you all because, you-" she points at you accusingly. "were there. You are the only reason he didn't flatten the entire building on top of everyone. That was a risk- a massive risk."

Yelena huffed, leaning back precariously on her chair, tossing a knife into the air and catching it. "He didn't even flinch when the wall caved in, or when the floor cracked in half. He just watched, like he was waiting for something worse to happen."

Red Guardian scoffed. "That is not power. That is trauma."

"He is power in human form." Ghost murmured. "And even worse- he knows it."

You scoff loudly.

All eyes turn to you.

"You want Bob to be a threat?. Then treat him like one, exactly what you're all doing now." you looked up from your folded arms. "If you want him to fight for us, then treat him like one of us."

Walker shifts, standing up straight from the wall. "Easy for you to say." he snaps. "You didn't see what was on those monitors. He tore open space like it was paper. That's not a skill set- that's cataclysmic."

You stand up slowly, facing John. "If we put him in another cage, we prove every single nightmare HYDRA has put in his head. You prove to him that we're just like them." your eyes shift to Bucky.

"Bucky, you know more than anyone about these nightmares. You know what could happen if we let him believe we're no better than them." he nods his head imperceptibly. That was as much as an acknowledgement as you would get.

"Then what do you suggest?" Val's voice cuts through the silence, her eyes narrowing on you across the room.

"We treat him like part of the team. We train him, give him a purpose." you meet her gaze.

Val simply stared. Then laughed humorlessly. "You want him in the field?"

"I want him to have a reason not to destroy our entire universe." you scoff. "If you treat him like a criminal, like he doesn't deserve a chance to prove himself, then you're all just resigning yourselves to your fates."

For once, Bucky nodded in agreement. "She's right. If we push him away- he'll only head towards something worse. We need to give him purpose."

Val didn't respond. But the silence she left behind was permission enough.

For now.

———————————————————————

You felt the hum before you heard it.

There was a strange, dimensional tremor in the air, slithering through the very walls of the tower. The floor was almost vibrating, singing a song you could not yet understand.

You climb out of bed, clad in only a thin cotton vest and shorts. You make your way through the desolate halls of the compound, everyone else asleep. You gently push open the door to Bob's room. Once he had been discharged from the medical wing, he was given his own room. No guards of course- Val hadn't dared to post any, not since the last one nearly passed out from nosebleeds after ten minutes.

Bob was sitting on the floor. Eyes wide open. Not blinking. You tentatively step towards him, crouching in front of his tense figure. "Bob" you try gently.

The very air around him seemed to shimmer, the low light from the lamp by his bed bending, warping as if refusing to even touch him.

Your mind reached out to his. Not with power- but with presence. The kind that tells him 'I'm here with you, you're not alone in this.'

"Bob, breathe. You're bleeding." a thin, claret line was dripping from his nose and ears steadily. But he didn't notice.

"I saw it again." he whispered. "That place. The nothing-between-everything. It's pulling at me. Like I left part of myself behind."

You place your hand by his on the floor, close, but not touching. Not yet.

"I'm here, Bob. I'm with you. Let it go." your hand inches closer to his, your fingers lightly brushing his.

"I don't know how" he almost whimpers, trembling with his eyes tightly shut. Your own power stirred. You didn't use it, but it responded to him. Like your power had always known him, long before you did.

Slowly, carefully, you close the distance and take his hand in yours. Your grip was tight, firm, but to him, it was the calm amidst the storm. The light in the room snapped back to normal, the air settled. The hum you had felt before quietened.

And Bob- he exhaled, like he had been underwater for years and finally learnt how to breathe air. His fingers still gripped at yours, he didn't let go. Not yet.

"I didn't mean to scare anyone" he said, voice still raw.

"You didn't scare me." you answered.

And for the first time since you met, he believed you.

———————————————————————

It was so quiet. The darkness.

You sat alone, on the couch. Just staring out at the city skyline.

You didn't hear him at first, but out of your peripheral you see him. It was silent for a while, then he finally spoke.

"Do you believe people like me deserve another chance?"

"Everyone does, Bob. Especially you." you looked at him then. His hair was dishevelled, he was now dressed in a oversized jumper that swallowed his lithe frame.

"What if I do it again?" his face was pale under the moonlight.

You shrug, considering his question for a moment. "Then we'll stop you. But I don't think it would come to that."

He took a step closer to you on the couch, eyes full of something.. unspoken. "You make it sound so easy"

"It's not." you said. "It's terrifying."

A beat passed. Then, softer. "But it's worth it."

Bob sat next to you after that, careful not to touch you- but closer than before. He was present with you, in that moment. And he felt seen.

The silence that followed- it wasn't uncomfortable or awkward. It was… easier.

———————————————————————

The team was supposed to "bond", as Val had put it. Grinning to herself like she already knew what a failure this would undoubtedly be.

"Just a friendly match." Bucky emphasised with a sigh. "No killing, please."

"Bob. You're up."

"I-I don't fight." he stutters, shifting nervously on his feet when everyone turns to look at him. He could feel their judgement. The look in their eyes betraying their true feelings about him.

"You do now." you counter, stepping up to the training mat. He steps onto the mat awkwardly, shoulders hunched, palms half-raised already in surrender, like he was expecting to be hit before it even started. You circle him, calm and focused.

"I don't want to hurt you." he backs up slightly, feet stumbling off the edge of the mat.

"You won't."

The first few moves were gentle, probing. Trying to gain an understanding of his experience- if any. You step forward, feigning like you were about to go for him. Then- your power brushed his, nudging him off balance without any movement from your hands. He staggered, almost falling, but he regained his balance quickly.

Then- something shifted. The air became charged. A flicker of frustration in his usually worn gaze. There was a whisper of that omniscient presence about him, that you hadn't seen since his extraction. He reacted- not to you, but to whatever was building inside himself. He flinched violently as you neared again, and suddenly-

BOOM.

A strong wave of raw force rippled through the room, flipping everything in the room not bolted down. Including you and the team. Bucky jumped forward to protect you from the blast- but your mind shield caught the brunt of it.

Bob froze in abject horror, chest heaving, arms outstretched like he was awaiting someone to attack him. "I-I didn't mean--"

You stepped towards him slowly, a grin growing on your sweaty face. "Bob.. that was AMAZING."

"Could you do it again?" you place a gentle hand on his shoulder, meeting his timid gaze.

"I-I don't know. I don't know." he almost whimpered. "I just felt it take over me, just for a second. I can't-"

You take his hand in yours. "You can. You did, Bob."

His hand trembled in yours, eyes roaming over you face, looking for something.

The team stared, a hint of respect and fear in their gaze. But no one spoke.

———————————————————————

Later that evening, you stood in the common room with Bucky, the two of you deep in conversation. He was opening up- albeit reluctantly, but sincerely. For once, he didn't seem to hide from your curiosity.

Behind you, Bob watched.

Red Guardian was guffawing loudly in the background at something Yelena said. Walker was complaining to Ava about strategy. But Bob wasn't listening.

His gaze never left you.

You laughed loudly at something Bucky said- a real, carefree laugh. Light and unguarded. Bob physically flinched, like it hurt.

"Something wrong?" Ava's voice was soft and quiet beside him.

Bob blinked, being brought out of his dazed state. "What?"

"You're staring at her like you're about to blow."

Bob looked away. "I didn't realise she was so close with Bucky." he mutters.

"She's not. But maybe she needs to be. You gonna keep acting like a ghost, or are you gonna do something about it?"

Bob stayed silent, hesitating. Then he stood and walked towards you with purposeful steps.

Bucky took notice of Bob, and left you alone with a knowing look in his eyes.

You turned to look at what had caught Bucky's attention, eyes widening slightly when you spot Bob walking towards you. "Hey, you okay?"

He didn't answer at first. But then- "I didn't like seeing you with him."

You stay silent, letting him continue.

"I know it's stupid." he mutters. "I just… I don't know how to be around you and not feel like I'm hoping for something I shouldn't want."

You tilt your head. "And what do you want?"

A pause. One word, direct.

"You."

The worlds felt heavy, with a thousand hidden meanings in the simplicity of it. It was final.

And true.

And with that, Bob backed up and walked away from you, bringing the tension with him. You breathe out shakily.

You watch him leave.

Something shifted in the air that night.

———————————————————————

A little after midnight, there was a knock at your bedroom door. Not loud, barely there. Like they were almost hoping you wouldn't answer.

You open it to find Bob standing there, his hair damp and slightly curled from a shower, oversized hoodie hanging loose on his frame. He looked more human than usual. More tired. Scared.

"I couldn't sleep." he stated. It was simple, but held meaning far beyond your comprehension.

You step aside. "Come in."

He sits on the edge of your bed, hands clasped together in his lap. You sit beside him, closer than usual.

He looks up at you wearily. "I keep thinking it's going to happen again." he whispers. "That I'll wake up one day and everything will be gone, because of something I did."

You turn to him, taking his hand in yours. "Then let me be the thing, the person, that stays."

He looked at you then- really looked. You felt his power brush yours slightly, a teasing yet purposeful touch. And in that breathless moment, he reached up, his fingers brushing the side of your face. You didn't move away. You didn't want to.

"You're not afraid?" he whispers, hand cupping your cheek so gently.

"I am." you admit, your cheek almost nuzzling into his palm. "But not of you, never of you."

After a few tense seconds, he leans in. Just enough.

You feel his breath on your lips, hesitant, unsure. You can feel him questioning himself, so you meet him in the middle.

Your lips graze his so softly, barely there. You look up into his all-seeing eyes, showing him the depth of your trust.

Your powers hummed low beneath your skin, vibrating in tandem with his. You were careful with him, delicate. Like your touch might crush something in him that hasn't healed yet.

The kiss was tentative at first, the kind that asks permission and then gives it all at once. Your foreheads pressed together as the beginnings of a storm rolled in the distance. His hands made his way to your waist, grounding you, or maybe anchoring himself. His mouth was hard, urgent, against yours, tasting of adrenaline and something raw.

Bob kissed you like he was starving for it. Like he didn't know how long he'd have you. You opened up to him- your lips parting, breath catching. His tongue brushed against yours and you let a sound escape, something pleading.

Every movement was deliberate, claiming. Your hands slid beneath his hoodie, palms hot against the chill of his skin. He shivered, groaning softly into your mouth. His mouth is hot, demanding- like he's been holding back for so long. You kiss him harder, opening your mouth against his to let him taste everything you've tried so hard to hide.

You part your lips, his tongue invading your mouth as it slides against yours- slick, searching and hungry- and it sends a sharp, aching pull deep in your stomach. Every single movement between the both of you is fast, messy and desperate.

His breath stutters against your lips. And in that moment you realise- you alone have the power to make him keep or lose all control. He groans low in his throat when you shift on the bed to press your hips flush against his, and it’s the most honest, raw sound you’ve ever heard from him. You can feel it deep in your core.

You break away for a second, both of you heaving and trying to catch your breath. You lean back in and kiss him again- slower this time but deeper. Like you’re trying to claim everything he didn’t even know he was offering.

He detaches his lips from yours still hovering above them, his nose brushing yours. Both of you are shaking- whether from adrenaline or nerves, you don’t know.

“I’ve wanted this.” he murmurs, looking into your eyes, wrecked and trembling in your hold. “since the first time you looked at me like I wasn’t just what they made me into.”

Your throat tightens at his admission, heart pounding and breath ragged.

“Tomorrow, everything goes back to the way it was.” his hand finds yours, fingers lacing tightly with yours. From the way he kissed you- like he had already chosen you to be his.

“But not tonight.” you whisper against his lips.

And the way you kissed him back, like you might just let him keep you.

———————————————————————

Bob had collapsed mid-training- no powers, no visible injury. Nobody had even touched him. He just dropped like someone had unplugged his soul.

Now- he was pale and unconscious in the med bay. The monitors beside him flickering strangely, as if the machines couldn't decide if he was fully there.

You sat beside him, fingers tangled with his on the cot. There was no wound, but you felt something else. A steady pulse- not physical, but psychic. Like a frayed thread just beneath the surface of reality.

And so, you followed it.

You reached out with your mind, and his energy pulled you under, pulled you in. One blink, one breath- and suddenly you were transported.

There was a sky that wasn't a sky. Black, but not dark. Stars that bled sideways, stretching out and almost reaching for one another in the vast canopy above you. You stood alone, feet suspended slightly above the fractured concrete below you. The ground was spider webbed in tiny cracks, shimmering slightly in the light of the distorted stars from above. You could see it pulsing, thrumming with energy. Slow. Like a heartbeat.

His heartbeat.

"Bob?" you call out, your voice reverberating all around you. Your voice felt strange here, your words like ripples in a lake- warping and stretching before they could go any further.

Off to the side, you can see a figure in your peripheral vision. Something moved. You turned your gaze towards the dark mass.

It was Bob- but not. He was standing barely twenty feet away, barefoot at the precipice. He was wrapped in shadow, so dark you could barely make out his shape. The light shimmered, giving his shadow form. You could almost see his power, it was coiling around him like a python- squeezing and growing tighter with every breath he took. His head was down, shoulders slumped as if he was curling inward into himself. The shape, the posture, was the Bob you knew- but the rest? This was something, someone else. Something ancient, omniscient, and far beyond your comprehension.

You step forward, closing the distance slowly. Your footsteps made no noise, there was no impact. It was as if you were stepping on a cloud. As you got closer, you could see the outline of his figure flicker and distort.

"Bob?" you try again, closer now. The figure twitched, it's head turning towards you slowly. Unsure.

And that's when you saw the eyes. If you could even call them that.

There was nothing but blackness. Nothing except for a needle-thin pinpoint of light in the middle, where a pupil may once have been. Like someone had taken a mirror, shattered it, and placed the shards where his irises should have been. They stared intently at you, not with any recognition, but with curiosity.

You hesitate for a moment, the weight of his fractured, devastating eyes making you second guess yourself and your intention. The pinpricks of his eyes follow you, saying so little but so much all at once. The very air around you thickens, like this place knows you're an intruder. The snake of his power coils tighter around what may be Bob, but the shadow does not even flinch. He simply waits. For what? You do not know.

And in Bob's voice, the shadow speaks. "I can't tell what's real anymore. Sometimes I think… maybe I died in that room. Maybe my body is still there, and this is all a dream"

You move closer, shakily lifting your hand to cup his cheek. Once your hand touches him, the shadow almost absorbs it, you can feel your fingers sinking into the darkness. It felt cold, the kind of cold you feel when you burn. "You're not. You're here. With me."

It's- his voice cracked. "Then why does everything still feel like it's pulling me apart?"

You move your hand from his cheek, down to his shoulder. The void around you shifted violently- groaning, shaking. Something stirred.

His shattered gaze holds yours, the reflections shifting and refracting like broken glass catching light from every angle. And then, with a flicker, his form shudders—like static running over a screen. The coil of smoke-like emotion around him twists suddenly, writhing as if disturbed, and you sense it tightening its grip on him, trying to pull him deeper into this fractured realm.

Behind you, the stars bleed sideways, reaching out as if hungry. The ancient presence grows nearer, a shadow stretching from the black sky, blotting out the strange canopy above.

You realize: this place isn’t just a prison—it’s a battleground. Between what Bob’s mind has become and the darkness- the void trying to consume him entirely.

At your touch- the darkness shifts. It curls inside itself, stretching and folding into a formless shape. A shape not defined by its borders, but by its presence alone. The distorted stars above dim, making way for something more cold, retreating into the shadows as if they are frightened. The shadow in front of you tilts its head, a cruel voice emanating from the void where his mouth should be. It doesn't speak in words- but with the voice that burrows beneath your skin, whispering directly into your fractured mind.

"You shouldn't be here."

The voice is everywhere and nowhere all at once. Permeating your very being and leaving you trembling slightly in fear. It delves inside your mind, scraping against the walls of your skull. It whispers inside your head, not asking, not pleading, but commanding.

“This place is not for the living. Not for the tethered. Not for those who clutch at fractured souls.”

The hum grows louder. Every heartbeat, every pulse from the spider webbed concrete below responds in fear. The serpent around the Void coils tighter, writhing and wriggling like it's about to strike.

“He belongs to me now. His thread has snapped. You cannot save what is already lost.”

The Void does not blink, it does not breathe. Its voice carves through you like a sharp blade. It simply waits- infinite and cold. You feel it whispering in your mind- waiting for you to falter, waiting for you to turn back. Waiting for you to be consumed by the shadow.

You reach out with your mind, snagging on a faint pulse from inside the Void. Bob's pulse is fragile, frayed, but it's there. Beating faintly beneath the chaos. You grit your teeth against the Void's invasive voice, plunging into your fractured mind over and over again until all you can think is nothing. It is heavy in your mind, but you fight back against it- refusing to yield.

Steeling yourself- your hand reaches out, fingers threading through the shimmering haze that surrounds the Void. You do not focus on it, the smoke swirling and roiling in front of you. Focusing on the faint flicker of Bob still somewhere inside.

"Bob." you whisper. "Remember me. Remember us. I'm here with you."

The pinpricks of light in it's eyes flicker, roaming over your face with a sense of desperation. A tremor ripples through the form, and the coil tightens around it- then loosens. As if resisting your presence, then weakening.

Your power reaches out to his, pressing in deeper. Mental, formless fingers brushing over his. Brushing the frayed thread beneath the surface. Your pulse syncs with his, grounding him, bringing him back to you. To something real, something that was only yours. Something shared.

Images flash- memories of your conversations, your kiss, your touch, the way your body feels against his. The steady and strong rhythm of togetherness. You pour everything you have into the connection, threading strands of darkness with strands of light.

And in a moment, Bob's eyes sharpen. The broken shards beginning to realign in his eyes, the shadows pulling back as he blinks- eyes still on your face.

His voice is weak, small. But it reaches you. "I-I'm here. I'm back"

And just like that- the black sky shatters. The bleeding stars collapse inwards, and the fractured concrete dissolves beneath your feet. Your vision blurs as the hum fades.

And you both jolted awake- back in the medbay, on Bob's cot, gasping. Your hands tangled in each other's.

Neither of you spoke, you didn't need to. But in that silence, something new had formed.

Not just trust, or understanding. But a bond. Unbroken.

———————————————————————

The building had gone quiet. It was late- close to midnight. But sleep continued to evade you that night. Slipping through your fingers like sand. The aftershocks from your visit to Bob's dreamscape still lived under your skin, firing at random like frayed nerve endings.

You were curled up in the middle of your bed, half-dressed in an oversized hoodie- one of Bob's. Your knees were hugged to your chest, when the soft knock came. Hesitant, familiar.

Reaching the door in a few steps, you see Bob standing in the hallway, barefoot. Hoodie zipped up to his chin, hair a mess like he'd been pulling constantly at it. His eyes were red- not from crying, but from not crying. From holding everything in so tightly, he might break from it,

"I couldn't-" he started, then stopped. "I didn't want to be alone tonight."

You didn't say a word, you just stepped aside to let him into your room.

He stood for a while, looking off at something in the corner you couldn't see. You step towards him, taking his hand and pulling him gently towards the bed.

"Do you want me here?" he whispers, staring down at his clasped hands.

"Of course I do." you lift your hand, pushing back the messy hair taking residence across his face.

Then, quieter. "Can I stay? Just for tonight."

You nod and lie next to him on your bed. Not touching, not yet.

He didn't reach for you- not at first. He lay rigidly on his back, arms pinned down by his side by some unseen force. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling like it might open up and swallow him whole. After what felt like forever, he spoke quietly.

"When I was in that facility, I used to count the lights. Every flicker, every pattern. I'd build fake constellations on the ceiling. Just to remind myself I was still human."

You reach for his hand- tentative at first- then laced your fingers with his. "You are. Human. Still."

"Even now?" he turned to face you slowly.

"Especially now."

The space between you shrank. Your forehead rested against his, eyes closing. You didn't ask for more, and he didn't offer it. And somehow, that made it mean more.

Eventually his breath evened out, the deep lines in his forehead smoothing as his body relaxed into yours. His hand stayed in yours, even while slackened with sleep.

You stayed awake a while longer- just watching him. Guarding him. And for the first time since meeting Bob, you let yourself hope that maybe loving him wasn't a risk. Maybe it was the anchor you both needed.

———————————————————————

A week later, Val sent the team to secure remnants of a Black Budget porgram- abandoned tech and data from HYDRA'S PAST. What she didn't tell you, however, was that the vault wasn't just a tech dump.

It was bait.

You were halfway through sweeping the site when all the power cut out, cloaking you in darkness. Steel blast doors slammed shut behind you. Your comm crackled- then died.

When the emergency lighting flickered on, you saw exactly what she wanted you to find.

Files. Footage. Medical records.

All of Bob.

Rows and rows of data drives. Monitors filled with biometric scans. All labelled with a cold, clinical detachment.

The screens came to life, and played a clip. It was a young Bob, restrained to a gurney, screaming as HYDRA scientists fed something into him. It wasn't a substance, it was a prescence.

Bob backed away behind you, eyes wide, chest heaving. "Turn it off- turn if OFF." he scrambled back further as he sent a telekinetic blast into the monitor, rendering it into pieces.

He stood, closed off and vulnerable at the edge of the dark room, shaking. "This is what she wanted me to see. She wants me to remember."

His back hits the wall with a dull noise, sliding down the wall until he's curled up on the hard linoleum floor. "They made me what I am."

You crouch down in front of his trembling form, concern etched into your expression as you place your hand on his. You didn't say anything, you didn't need to.

Bob looks up at you with agony in his eyes, hands clenched tightly on his kneecaps. He whispers, almost too quiet "I don't know who I am anymore."

And then, he vanished.

No warning, nothing. He was gone.

———————————————————————

The entire team searched for hours. Everyone had fanned out, but nobody could track him- not even Ghost.

He was too far gone for anyone else, but not for you.

You could feel that thread again, the faint hum of power in your chest. It was faint, but unmistakably Bob.

You close your eyes and follow it.

———————————————————————

It was near dawn when you finally found him. He was sitting in the dust and debris of an old HYDRA radio tower, the wind howling and clawing at his hair. He was staring at something you could not see. His eyes were empty.

As you approach, he turns his head to face you, looking up at you with an expression you cannot understand. "I'm sorry" he whispers shakily. "I wasn't supposed to be like this."

You stand in front of him, eyes wide with concern and worry. "But you are, Bob." you sigh wearily. "And there's nothing wrong with that."

"I'm dangerous. You saw it."

"All I see is you, Bob." you kneel down in front of him. "Not the experiments, the test results, the files. You."

Taking his cold hand in yours, you give him a choice. "You can leave. Or you can come back with me. I'm not here to fix you, to cage you. But if you truly want to stay- if you want me- you need to choose it. Every morning you wake up, you need to choose what it is that you want."

He stares down at your hands clasped together for a while, contemplating.

"I want to stay"

And just like that- he was yours again.

———————————————————————

After the mission, you were all given three days off. A rare, unfamiliar thing.

The team scattered four corners to the wind- Yelena to Prague, Ava disappeared somewhere, Alexei found numerous bars to brag in, and Bucky- well, you weren't sure about him. You and Bob, however, ended up somewhere quieter.

Val gave you the coordinates to a "neutral" safehouse. Most likely bugged- but it was far enough from civilization that you didn't care enough to worry.

It rained the first night. The rumbling of thunder, along with flashes of purple lightning in the distant skyline.

Neither of you bothered to turn on the lights. The sky was dark grey, the windows pelted with water. You both sat on the sofa, covered in a threadbare blanket that smelt like moth balls, while Bob was fiddling with the ties on his hoodie, still damp from earlier.

He looked at you in that moment- the way someone might look at a lighthouse when lost at sea- hopeful, but afraid to believe it's real.

"I keep expecting to wake up back in my cell." he murmurs, softly like he doesn't want to admit it. "Or worse- being back in that thing."

"You're not dreaming Bob. You're safe now." your hand reaches to cover his, gently stopping his restless fingers from picking at his clothes.

He didn't answer you for a long time. Just the quiet sounds of your breathing were heard.

Then- tentatively- he leaned his head against your shoulder, his eyes fluttering closed with exhaustion.

"You make the noise stop. Even when everything else is loud." he mumbles.

You turn your face into his hair, breathing in the simple and comforting smell of Bob.

"I'm not good at this." he murmurs into your neck. "I've never let someone in before- not really."

He lifts his head gently, face closer to yours now. "I want to know you Bob, all of you. If you'll have me." you smile gently at him.

And then, you kissed him.

It wasn't perfect. His hands were trembling too much, yours were too cold against his face. But it was real and full of meaning.

And when you broke apart, resting your foreheads together, eyes closed. He felt like maybe he had found his way home after all.

"I don't want the world" he whispers. "Just this. Just us."

And you believed him.

———————————————————————

The second night was even colder. The rain still hadn't let up, large drops pelting incessantly at the window.

You were curled up reading near the window, wrapped in the same threadbare blanket. Your body was heavy, but rather from peace and comfort than anything else.

Bob stood in the kitchen behind you. You could feel him watching.

He'd been like this all evening, quiet and stoic. Just watching. He looked like he was waiting for something.

You didn't push him, you never did.

And then- without a word, he walked over to your form by the window. You looked up at the sound of his footsteps. He was hovering over you- hands clenching and unclenching by his sides. His jaw was tense in that familiar way you recognise- not anger, but vulnerability.

"I've never done this." he muttered, voice strained.

You tilt your head at his admission, brow furrowing in confusion. "Done what?"

"This." he said, motioning between you. "Chosen this. Wanted this. And said so."

You put your book down gently, straightening up slightly as he spoke.

He hesitated after seeing your eyes on his, like he was afraid he'd scared you off.

But then--

"I keep seeing you in the worst parts of me." he continued, "And it's like you never even flinch."

"I don't" you spoke softly. "Because I know what's on the other side of it all."

He meets your gaze, finally stepping closer to you.

Bob sits down next to you by the window, every movement deliberate and careful. His hand hovered near yours- not trembling this time. Still and confident.

And then he touched you. Fingers sliding beneath yours, lacing together with a tenderness that surprised you both.

You look down at your joined hands. He reached up, his knuckles grazing your jaw as he turns your head to face him. His thumb rested just below your cheekbone.

"Can I kiss you?" he whispers.

You nod. You don't need words.

This kiss wasn't like any you’d had before. This lingered. He was careful, yes- but not hesitant. Like kissing you was something sacred and needed to be treasured.

His hand slid to the back of your neck, and he leaned his forehead gently against yours, like this was where he wanted to live forever.

You could feel the desire building up in him. Not just for physical intimacy, but for connection. Something warm. Chosen. Real.

When he eventually pulled back, he didn't let go. He simply looked at you, eyes softer and more open than you'd ever seen them.

"I want you." he said quietly. "Not just here. Not just for tonight."

"Then stay. Every night." you touch his face reverently- thumb brushing down the edge of his furrowed brow, smoothing out the tension.

He nodded.

And for the first time, it wasn't just a promise. It wasn't something fleeting.

It was the beginning, the making of you.

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