#still... it needed to be done and it kind of meant something

[daydreamingatnight209]

“I Don’t Like Sleeping Without Her”

Authors note - I was confident about this one but now I’m not sure. I hope you guys still enjoy 🥺. As always feedback is welcome, hate is not ✨💕

Charles Leclerc x Fem!Reader

Summery - In which Charles mentions your habits in an interview on media day. - Fluff 💕

Warnings - None? I don’t think 😂

————————————————————————

You didn’t mean to fall asleep on the sofa, it just sort of … happened.

One moment you were finishing off a last round of edits for a client, scrolling through other projects or drafts or catching up on emails, and the next … your eyes would blur, feeling too heavy to keep open, your laptop sliding off your knee onto the empty spot next to you, waking up hours later with a stiff neck and your boyfriend, Charles, crouching down beside you.

You remember the first time that it had happened, you remembered the panic in Charles eyes when he found you still in the living room at 2am, and how he thought that he had done something to upset you.

“Mon ange, why are you here?” He’d asked you softly, his voice still heavy with sleep.

(Translation - My Angel)

You had smiled, barely awake. “I didn’t want to wake you, you need your sleep”

You knew that he did - between traveling, the races, back to back weekends and his training ensuring that Charles was well rested was a non-negotiable.

On the other hand, your job in the media industry as a videographer meant that your working hours didn’t always finish in the evening. Charles knew this, but he wasn’t used to falling asleep without you just yet.

Over time, it had become a routine, you would stay up late and when Charle did awake to find you still not beside him, the panic would subside as he knew exactly where to find you.

When he awoke out of habit to find your bed empty, he would drag himself out of bed and walk to the semi permanent spot you find yourself in. He would stand for a moment and smile to himself. You looked so peaceful. He never understood how you could sleep like that; curled up on the sofa, one arm tucked under your cheeks and your laptop half hanging off the coffee table. He didn’t feel like just leaving you there that night.

Trying to wake you he whispers his favourite nickname down your ear.

“Mon amour?” (Translation - My Love)

No answer.

So he slipped his arms under your legs and shoulders, carefully lifting you up, trying his hardest not to wake you. You stirred slightly, mumbling something incoherent before passing back out with your head against Charles chest.

“I got you Bebe” he whispers, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head. (Translation- Baby)

He made quick work of carrying you through the apartment and putting you down in the bed to rest properly. You were already fully settled when he slid into the beside you as your hand instinctively finds his under the duvet.

These are the parts he liked most, the quiet, peaceful just them kind of moments.

However, come next morning and it wasn’t just between the two of you anymore. A few days prior to that sweet interaction, Charles had done an interview for the F1 media day.

“Charles, there’s been some talk from the paddock… something about your girlfriend falling asleep on the sofa?”

“Ah yes. Y/N she works late,” Charles was saying, standing relaxed in front of a backdrop full of sponsors. “Social media never really sleeps, right?” He smiled a little.

A few journalists chuckled. One asked, “What do you do then?”

Charles tilted his head, thoughtful. “It depends. A lot of times I just join her, other times if I hadn’t noticed till late I leave her to sleep and other times…” He laughed lightly, rubbing the back of his neck. “When I’m stubborn, I carry her back to bed. I don’t really like to be sleeping without her.”

Someone—you suspected it was one of the Ferrari PR team—had clipped part of his media day interview and posted it online.

“When I’m stubborn, I carry her back to bed. I don’t really like to be sleeping without her.”

The clip went viral almost immediately. Twitter, Instagram, TikTok, everywhere.

You couldn’t help but smile to yourself. Charles didn’t say much about their relationship publicly. He wanted to keep you safe and protected from those who weren’t supportive. But when he did, it always sounded exactly like him—honest, simple, no extra words but always full of love and awe.

You showed him while the two of you were having breakfast, you scrolling through your phone and trying not to laugh.

“What?” Charles asked, trying to get a better look of what was making you giggle so early in the morning.

“Look, you’ve gone viral Romeo” you said, holding up your phone.

There were memes already:

• Pierre Gasly on Instagram Stories: “Bro romantic for no reason 💀”

• Lando Norris tweeting: “Charles Leclerc carrying his girlfriend like she’s a Ferrari front wing 😭priorities”

• Lewis Hamilton chiming in on Instagram: “Real love is carrying her and not waking her up. Respect.”

• Carlos Sainz texting the group chat directly: “So you’re the paddock’s softest now? Should I buy you a teddy bear?” followed by three crying-laughing emojis.

Charles rolled his eyes and tugged you gently from your hand, setting it aside before pulling you onto his lap and closer against his chest.

Charles pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Let them all talk,” he murmured.

“I wouldn’t have us any other way, mon chéri”

(Translation - my darling)

[chardama]

Adding on to this, because it's fun.

Tim doesn't start showing VISIBLE traits until he's maybe 13 or 14 ish. The first one? Night vision. It comes slowly. It starts when Tim's eyes turn a frosty blue instead of their regular colors. At night his eyes kind of reflect light (similar to predators, ya know.)

Tim does not recognize the build up. However other people do. The first to realise it is Jason during a sleep over. In this AU the waynes and the Drakes are pretty close (even though tim has tried his hardest to keep Bruce away from finding Jack's identity).

So, during a sleepover, Jason and tim are sneaking into the kitchen one night for a midnight snack. Jason opens the fridge, turns to tim, and nearly has a heart attack when he sees Tim's eyes. They're kinda glowing and tim is staring directly at him. It makes Jason's fight or flight. He slams the fridge shut and nearly crushes the yogurt sticks he manages to swipe.

"Jason!" Tim hisses, "we're supposed to be quiet."

Jason blinks. Tim's eyes aren't glowing anymore. He's definitely telling Bruce about this so the man can add it to the list Jason knows is in the batcomputer. "Uh huh, sure tim tam. Is anything new happening?"

Tim, completely oblivious, "no why?"

Also, someone mentioned in the tags about body snatching. I think it a interesting add on. Bruce taking notes of Jack's drastic behavior change and the fact that he has new abilities. Something HAD to have happened between the dig and the hospital. Jack Drake wasn't known to be this wacky guy before the incident. Yet here he is, loud and proud. Taking care and showing off his son. Making generous contributions to Gotham's museums and schools. Even being way more social and taking less trips (though that was recommended by medical professionals to take it easy.)

So the Drakes has started to mingle with the waynes. Danny taking notes for Bruce in how to be a socialite. He takes tim over there to hang out with Jason and Dick while Danny asks for pointers on how to raise tim.

"So when they start growing into their abilities, who do you go to for training?" Danny asks as Dick shows Tim and Jason just how far he can contort his body with an acrobatic show. Danny has only seen the dead move like that.

Bruce, blinking, "Excuse me?"

"Timmy's about to go through it.. I think puberty. I'm not sure who to go to. He's been very clingy, too, and I think it's because of the divorce a while ago. At least that's what I read could be a factor.." Jack frowns. "Tim has been staying up late at night, being grouchy. He had a recent growth spurt as well. Tim's eyes were developing, and that meant it wouldn't be long before the fangs came in. "

Bruce, taking this all in nonchalantly and comparing notes mentally. "I S e e."

Tim is beyond overworked because he's trying to keep his dad's identity a secret. "You are the reason im like this."

I think by the time Damian arrives, Tim's liminal side is in full swing. He needs ectoplasm, not a lot, but it keeps him at peak health. He doesn't make much noise. He doesn’t have footsteps because he's unconsciously floating sometimes. Like just walking on air. Sometimes, he forgets to blink. And sometimes he can stand really still. He has night vision, too. The only thing he can't really do is the hard-core stuff. Like turning invisible, phasing through walls and energy blasts.

Sorry for all the errors BTW this was done on my phone.

Jackson Drake? Yeah, he ain't human. Bruce is sure the man is a meta. Maybe a poor alien in disguise because Bruce knows he's a disaster sometimes but Jack takes the cake. 

The Drakes were their neighbors. Archeologists. Famous for bringing rare artifacts home and are the largest donors to the Gotham Museum. 

Then the accident happened.  

Jackson Drake had a serious fall while getting their latest artifact. A certain ring and crown that belong to an ancient king. He was rushed to the on-site medics and had to be air lifted to the nearest hospital. He had been in a coma for two weeks. A nasty bruise to the head and when he had woken up it was as if he was a different man. The media was all over it. It got worse when the change in attitude resulted in the divorce. 

Timothy Drake ends in the custody of Jack Drake.  Timothy knows that the man that woke up from the coma is not his father. But the new jack treats him so much better than old jack. The new jack actually listens to Tim. Actually helps him out with homework. Doesn't yell. Doesn't hit Tim. He lets time babble about everything. He even FEEDS Tim. He NEVER leaves him home alone. 

Tim knows that the new ring on his father's hand (that he had never taken off since that expedition) is the cause of it. Or maybe it's the floating crown that sometimes appears when new Jack shows him a ‘trick.’ he likes New Jack. He doesn't want New Jack to go away. 

Which is why he has to keep Bruce Wayne- (THE batman) away from his new father. The detective would suss new jack out immediately.  Because new jack treats Timothy well but he sucks at being human. 

It would help… if New Jack would stop calling the Waynes for every minor inconvenience that happened to Timothy that a regular person should know. 

Ex. 

Jack: tim is sick. 

Bruce, handing the phone to Alfred. : any symptoms-

Jack: he's green, but thats normal because im green sometimes.  But he's not doing all the things I do when im green-

Alfred: such as…?

Jack: well he hasn't learned to walk through walls yet. And he hasn't gotten ice breath though he is a bit cold. His hair isn't white yet.

Bruce, overhearing this: what-

Alfred: nausea perhaps? Has he eaten anything to make his stomach turn?

Jack: we did have some seafood from that new place by Mr.Freeze

Bruce, louder: W H A T

Alfred, writing down a list of supplies and recipes: we'll be there in a moment. 

[miinxiee]

bluff °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you two just can’t seem to make the first move.

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: unspecified gender, reader and jax are not in a relationship yet, threw this one together very quick so i apologize if it isn’t great 😭

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 775

you’d lost track of time hours ago.

not that time meant anything here. not really. but it felt late. that weightless kind of stillness where the tent lights buzz a little softer and every creak underfoot sounds louder than it should.

you sat alone on the edge of one of the lower platforms, back resting against a support beam, legs stretched out in front of you. not doing much. just breathing. thinking. trying not to exist too loud.

you heard him before you saw him.

“wow,” came jax’s voice, casual and echoing off the walls. “didn’t expect to find you sulking in my favorite spot.”

you didn’t open your eyes. “didn’t realize you had ownership over this specific spot.”

“pfft. i’ve peed in like three different places around here. it’s all mine.”

you cracked one eye open and gave him a look. “actually? that’s so gross jax.”

he grinned as he approached, hands on his hips.

“relax, i’m kidding.” of course he was.

you didn’t respond. you didn’t need to.

he flopped down beside you with his usual zero respect for personal space— not quite touching you, but enough that his knee brushed yours once when he shifted.

jax leaned back on his elbows, glancing over at you. “so. doing a whole lot of nothing?”

“i was relaxing until this weird threatening rabbit sat next to me.”

“you call this threatening?” he stretched out one leg. “you wound me.”

“you’re more of a chronic disturbance.”

“mm. i’ll take it.”

silence settled again, but it wasn’t the same as before.

you could feel him. his body heat. the way his gaze lingered too long when you weren’t looking. the way he moved with too much ease for someone who was clearly calculating something.

you sighed.

“if you’ve got something to say, jax, just say it.”

“i don’t.” he paused. “…i’m thinking about it, though.”

you glanced over at him. his face was relaxed but his eyes were sharp, focused.

that smile of his came slower this time.

“you always get weird when we’re alone.”

“how am i weird, we’ve been alone plenty of times,” you scrunched your face up.

“exactly, and every single time you act like you’re waiting for something to happen.”

you folded your arms across your chest. “you’re projecting.”

“i’m observant.”

you met his gaze. steady.

“if something was going to happen, you’d have done it by now.”

his expression didn’t change but the air between you did. you were treading into dangerous territory between you too, something you weren’t sure you could stay curious about.

“you think i won’t?” he asked, voice low.

“i think you won’t,” you said. “because you like the chase more than the catch.”

he tilted his head. “and what if i like the way you look when you think i’m bluffing?”

a pause.

a full, loaded silence.

then he leaned in just slightly. not a big move, just enough to shrink the space between you.

“i’m not bluffing,” he said.

you didn’t move. didn’t flinch. you just looked right back at him and asked, quiet:

“then what are you waiting for?”

jax’s grin faded. not completely, just softened at the edges. less smug, more focused.

his eyes dropped for a second to your lips and then back up.

“you’re trying to call me on it,” he said.

“you’re the one who started it.”

another long pause.

he didn’t touch you.

didn’t even lean closer.

but you felt the pull of him. the gravity of it. like if one of you shifted just slightly, you’d fall into something that wouldn’t stop at teasing.

neither of you moved.

his voice came again— soft. close.

“you want me to do something?”

you breathed in slowly. “do you?”

his fingers brushed the floor near your hand. not touching. just there.

“if i did,” he murmured, “you’d stop me.”

your gaze dropped to his mouth for just a breath too long.

“i haven’t stopped you yet.”

and still, he didn’t touch you.

didn’t kiss you.

why did you want him to so bad?

he just stayed there, not a word nor a smile. just his presence. heavy, waiting, deliberate.

then slowly, very slowly, he stood.

you felt every inch of space return to your skin as he stepped back. the tension didn’t break; it just pulled tighter, like a rubber band on the verge of snapping.

he looked down at you, that unreadable half-smile creeping back.

“not bluffing,” he said.

he paused.

“i’ll find you later,” a quiet promise, one that made your stomach jump with excitement.

you watched him walk away with wide eyes.

you didn’t even realize you were smiling.

[lambiconic]

You (pt3)

murderess housewife reader x cleaner gaz (and 141)

part one , part two

// murder, disposal of corpse + description of said corpse

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

For months the men had been counseling you. Through the grief of taking a life. They’d visited the house day after day, taking turns sharing their own nightmares and holding your hands. You were held. Bathed. A few stolen kisses passed between moments of sorrow.

Johnny taught you how to ground yourself. Feet on the floor, breath steady, quieting the world just enough to survive it. Simon showed you how to face your reflection again, how not to flinch. To see someone beyond what you’d done. Price held your hands and stood with you in your kitchen, guiding your fingers back around the knives. 

And your husband. Your Kyle. He talked about the numbness. The hollow drift. The after when you can finally breathe again.

But none of them talked about the excitement. About the thrill. The addiction.

They didn’t need to. Because they understood. 

Because they brought them to you. Quiet strangers with dark pasts, men no one would miss. They held the door open. Watched from the shadows. Cleaned the floors after.

Sometimes, Johnny would drive them in. Always with music too loud, laughing and his eyes bright and wild. “This one’s yours,” he’d say, like he was giving you a souvenir he’d bought on his way back from vacation. 

Simon never said much. Just shoved the next blindfolded man into your arms and waited by the door, arms crossed. He never looked away. Not when it started. Not when it ended.

Price made sure everything stayed clean. Records erased, neighbors distracted, a perfect lie constructed. He never flinched. “You’re in control,” he’d whisper, guiding your hands on the rare occasion that they shook. 

And Kyle. Your Kyle. Your Gaz. He kissed your forehead after. Draw you a bath and wash the blood from your fingernails. Never asked for the details. Just held you tight. 

It was Simon who brought the next one.

A knock on the back door. You opened it to find him standing there in the dark, his mask half-lifted, eyes sharp and unreadable. 

He didn’t speak as you opened the door. Just tilted his head toward the car idling down the street. His clothing wet, plastered to him.

“In the garage,” he said simply. “Didn’t fight.”

You followed him, barefoot. Your robe wrapped tight around your body and your rollers still in your hair. In the garage, the man sat tied to a chair. Muzzled, eyes wild, screaming behind his gag.

“He hurt a girl in Dover,” Simon added, tone flat. “Got away with it. Until now.”

You stared at the man, heart slow and steady. No panic. No guilt. Just the familiar satisfaction blooming in your chest.

Your fingers brushed Simon’s as you reached for the blade on the workbench. He didn’t stop you. Just stepped back, offering you a satisfied nod. Like he’d have picked that one too. 

“He’s yours,” He lit a cigarette and watched, smoke curling around him like a halo. One of your angels…

“Take your time,” he murmured.

And you did. 

The man was still. Crumpled in a heap on the basement floor, the last bit of life already gone. The room smelled of copper and bleach, like always. Your breath came in slow waves, your hands still slick, the knife resting on the edge of the sink.

Simon hadn’t said a word the whole time.

He stood there, leaning against the wall in the dim light, mask pushed up to reveal his face. Sharp jaw, tired eyes, a smear of blood across one cheek that wasn’t his. He watched you move, the precision of it, the calm that had settled over you.

He stepped forward slowly. His gloved hand came up to your cheek. Gentle, grounding. The same hand that had yanked the man off the streets an hour ago now held your face like it was something fragile.

"You did good," he murmured.

You didn’t answer. Just leaned into his touch, letting your eyes flutter shut. Then he kissed you. His mouth was warm against yours, steadying. The kind of kiss meant to anchor rather than ignite. When he pulled back, his thumb lingered at the corner of your mouth, wiping away a smear of blood.

“Cmon, clean your mess,” he said, almost gently.

You nodded. And Simon turned away, sleeves already rolled, reaching for the mop and bleach. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Silent as always. Efficient. When you finally sat down on the cold tile floor, blood drying on your hands, he passed you a glass of scotch and crouched beside you.

“You alright?” he asked.

You nodded once. “Yeah. I am now.”

Simon didn’t smile, but his eyes softened.

“Good,” he said. “Got another one lined up for next week… Johnny will bring it.”

[blissfulflw]

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𝐴𝑛𝑔𝑟𝑦 𝑇𝑜𝑜

Pairing- Yu Jimin (Karina) x fem reader

Genre- Angst

Word count- 1927

A/N:Mood rn is angry, so mb for not actually trying this time I practically just wrote whatever I felt or wtv so it’s kind of cheeks. Also this fic has lyrics from

You weren’t sure when it started.

Maybe it was the fourth time Jimin rolled her eyes when you talked about someone new. Maybe it was when she brushed off your feelings for the hundredth time with a clipped “you’re overthinking again.” Or maybe it was always there—woven between the softness of her touches and the sharpness of her moods, like a rose with too many thorns.

But tonight, something was different. You could feel it in the pit of your stomach.

The two of you were at a friend’s apartment, casual get-together, music too loud, laughter spilling from the kitchen. You weren’t even trying to make anyone jealous—you never were—but Jimin’s eyes had been on you all night, cold and unreadable.

You laughed at something Jaemin said—something dumb and harmless—and Jimin’s grip on your wrist tightened just slightly as she pulled you aside into the hallway.

“What?” you asked, half-laughing. “What is it now?”

Her jaw was clenched. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Flirting. Or whatever that is.” She motioned vaguely toward the living room, not even naming who she meant.

Your chest tightened. “I wasn’t flirting, Jimin. I was talking. You know—like a person?”

She scoffed, arms folding across her chest. “You’re always doing this. Acting like I’m the crazy one.”

You stared at her, the familiar burn of frustration rising in your throat.

“And you’re always doing this,” you shot back. “Getting jealous over nothing. Getting mad at me for just… existing.”

She looked caught off guard, but only for a second. Her walls went right back up.

“Forget it,” she muttered, turning away.

And just like always—always—you felt the guilt creep in. You reached out, gently grabbing her sleeve. “Jimin—wait. I didn’t mean to—”

But this time, something inside you snapped.

No. No. Not this time.

You let go of her sleeve.

“Actually, never mind.”

She blinked, confused.

“I’m tired of this,” you said, voice low but steady. “I’m tired of being the one who has to keep the peace. You’re allowed to get mad, get jealous, shut me out—and I’m supposed to just take it. Smile through it. Make it okay again.”

“Y/N—”

You shook your head, cutting her off. “When I try to tell you how I feel? I’m too emotional. Too dramatic. But you? You get to act like a child and I’m still supposed to coddle you.”

The hallway felt quieter now. Or maybe it was just the weight of what you’d finally said.

For a second, she didn’t say anything. No denial. No apology. Just the same blank stare that used to make you nervous, used to make you soften.

But not this time.

This time, you didn’t feel guilty.

You just felt done.

“I’m not your punching bag, Jimin,” you said quietly. “And I’m not going to keep pretending this doesn’t hurt.”

You turned before she could respond—before your heart could pull the strings and make you say something kind, something sweet to ease her discomfort.

Because for once, you chose yourself.

_____

You’d gone home straight away after that, rushed off.

Your eye twitched every time you saw the ‘Lovie ❤️😋’ notification glow up on your phone. Calls, texts.

Every time, she always just thinks about herself. Because if she really had thought of you, she wouldn’t be calling. You needed the time to yourself, so why was she still making it about herself.

How can someone be pushed so hard to the brink like this?

It’s normal. It’s normal to be mad, and yet every time you say it to yourself why does it feel wrong?

Cause it gets my blood boiling

Because the person you’ve been with never allows you to breath, to be a normal person with frustrated, annoyed emotions. Because every time it’s your fault. Why is it like that exactly? Why do you allow yourself to be controlled?

Was it love? Because even so, the person you love should enable you to be you.

Why is it that something so unhealthy, toxic, was allowed to be.

It shouldn’t, that’s when you made the decision. Opened the messages, the small text underneath them went ‘read’.

You clicked on her number profile, scrolled down to the red button that said ‘block’. And suddenly, you actually made decisions for yourself. ‘This contact has been blocked’

You were so tired, tired of the control, the toxicity, the anger.

Calm down girl, why you so mad?

Every single time.

Why you?

Why’s your heart gone rotten?

It shouldn’t be normal to be the one to blame. The person always at fault, when the relationship goes both ways.

So why is it so wrong to be mad at her?

Everyone runs to her defence but what about yours. What’s the point of being the troublemaker, always causing the issues.

The feeling is horrible, to have people look at you like your some sort of joke. Trying to break your own relationship, to see the annoyance in her eyes.

The irritation swimming around her pupils, that’s what always gets you, what makes you apologise. Because you’re too soft to even stay mad as well, so you apologise because why would you want to anger your loved one.

You never wanted her to leave.

But maybe it’s time you give her a taste of her own.

The scare.

The chase.

It’s all good girl, why you upset?

I guess they have forgotten what they did.

Ding.

There it was, the beginning, the messages.

You looked at your lockscreen, ‘ 5+ missed messages-Minjeong’, ‘3 missed messages-Yizhou’, ‘7+ missed messages-Aeri’.

Already she’d called her friends, of course. The classic guilt tripping, why did she keep trying to manipulate and gaslight you? It’s only going to work for so long until a person breaks.

The snap everyone waited for?

Yeah it was here, and hit hard.

God would your friends be happy, they’d always disliked Jimin.

But did it help you feel relief? The anger.

_____

You walked into school the next day, as if everything was normal. You walked by, ignoring Minjeong’s dirty look, Aeri’s stare and Yizhou’s screw face.

There she was, their token. Jimin.

Stood in the middle of them of course, she had her crocodile tears, it seemed as though you were being mean right?

Why would someone ever think someone’s tears were fake?

Why? Because every single time after an argument or her being mad she’d do this every morning.

She knew your schedule, what time you’d come in, what time you’d leave, breaks, lunches, lessons.

She loved to take advantage of it, make you feel guilt. Because she knows you’re soft, she knows if you see her crying. You’d apologise.

And that’s what made her feel so powerful.

She can take charge of the situation any time she wanted, she could force you to say sorry. Of course, every single time she’d be the victim, never in the wrong. But what scared her?

What scared her was, you didn’t approach.

You didn’t even look.

You walked straight past, were you out of her grasp?

She didn’t say a word, continued with her act, and how did you know she was scared?

Because the quiet gasp that broke out of her fake sobs and the flash of shock showed everything.

As much as you’d like to believe, she is upset. Why am I so horrible just help her and go up to her.

Every time you used to, why did the tears stop flowing as soon as she saw you?

Then a stoic expression would appear and a smile and hug for the apology, you were so stupid. So blinded by love, can you not see there’s manipulation there.

Why couldn’t you see?

And does it get your blood boiling? And does it make you see red?

_____

You were busy ranting to your best friend about it, had explained to her already.

But she also already knew about Jimin and disliked her, Jimin also knew not to cross her or question her because she’d been with you since childhood, and you wouldn’t let that slide.

Therefore here you were sat under a tree in the courtyard with Yunjin.

You spoke annoyed, and also more than you ever had before.

“She doesn’t yet it Yunjin, and really everyone thinks I’m overreacting but if this happened to them, you, anyone. You would be angry too”

Yunjin nodded listening carefully, the usually loud girl was listening to you very intently now, and her eyebrows were furrowed in concern.

She allowed you to rant, that’s the thing about Yunjin.

She’d always been there for you, but even with the years of knowing each other she’s never seen you like this.

Ever.

Even with anything going on at home or something, that’s why she looked so concerned.

Y/N, she wasn’t the type to get angry like this.

Yunjin opened her mouth to speak but closed it hesitantly, thinking again before she spoke. Wording her sentence carefully in her head, while you looked at her in confusion.

You asked “What’s up?”

She stared at you for a second before speaking

“What.. happened to you?”

You stared back responding “I already told you”

She nodded and said “That’s not what I mean, the Y/N has never reacted like this before. Did she really make you this unhappy or ruin you this much to change you like this..?”

Before she realised what she said, and quickly spoke again gesturing hands wildly saying “not saying that your ruined of course! No! No! But you’re just so.. different. I’ve never ever seen you react this way, and we’ve been friends for over 17 years”

You thought for a moment before responding “I get what you mean, but maybe it’s the pent up anger. I’m not sure, but I don’t think it’s healthy for me to stay with her..”

You both made eye contact before you asked

“How about you?”

She blinked in surprise, before shaking her head and came back to the present.

She said “well, you really love her and every time I told you before and said how toxic and manipulative she was. You ignored.. but my stance on it now?”

“Absolutely”

You nodded your head and said “you know what, I agree this time”

Pushing yourself off of the grass and walking towards the building, your best friend watching with wide eyes and an open mouth. Before scrambling to get up and follow

_____

You walked up to the group, ignoring the looks, hand gestures and body language of her friends.

You stared directly at her.

Leant against the locker, seeming like she had no care in the world.

The twitch of a cocky smirk in the corner of her mouth, assuming it was time for another apology, you stared directly into her eyes and stood there for a minute.

Doing nothing but simply holding eye contact.

Those warm brown eyes, the ones you fell for.

The ones you always seeked for comfort, and felt sorry for whenever you’d see the water build in them.

You felt nothing this time.

Emptiness, a pit.

Simply, brown.

You spoke for the first time in about, five minutes.

And yes her friends had weirded out looks, but whatever who cares?

“We’re done”

Her expression dropped, brows furrowed, mouth agape.

She looked stunned, as though a truck had just hit her.

Before she could even open her mouth to speak, you’d turned on your heel and walked away, Yunjin following quickly.

Had that really just happened?

It was the end?

The end of three years of manipulation?

[isles-of-man]

Oscar watched her with that same quiet intensity, taking in the way her eyes dropped to the navy of his clothes and slowly climbed back to his. He noticed the flicker there, curiosity, uncertainty, and something warmer still—and it tugged at him in ways he wasn’t fully prepared for. That she didn’t even seem to realize the effect she had on him. The simple, almost absent-minded act of adjusting his collar shouldn't have meant anything. It was closeness. And it settled into him with a kind of rare, steady warmth he wanted from this new marriage.

“You’ve only just begun this life, Eleanor,” he said, his voice softer now, sincere. “You’ve been given titles and expectations, but no real time to learn how to carry them.” He moved closer, his gaze never straying from hers. “I’m not going to let that happen to you. You don’t need to prove yourself to anyone yet. Especially not to those advisors who’ve already done more harm than good.”

When she pulled back with her teasing curiosity, he gave a quiet laugh, the sound low and intimate. “You’ll see more of what I mean. But yes… the picnic may be my only salvation if we’re to have a conversation that isn’t entirely indecent.” He raised a brow, his voice dipping as he added, “Though with you, I’m not sure I mind the distraction.”

She poked at his thanks, and he smiled fully now, brushing a hand down her arm before stepping back with slow reluctance. “I reserve the right to contradict myself if it means reminding you how good you’ve already been to me.” A final glance, full of warmth and a flicker of desire, passed between them. "I promised a marriage of warmth - should I not compliment my wife?"

“It does.” Eleanor nodded in agreement, her eyes trailing to the color before looking back up into his eyes. She noticed a change, one she had no clue what the word would be for it was…or why it happened. There was something different in his eyes. Was that all just from her simple comments and actions? Are men this easy to please? No wonder she hardly had any discussions regarding pleasing her husband out of bed, straightening his collar seemed to be more than enough.

“Well I cannot pretend that they do not exist, Oscar.” She said simply, not wanting to get too hung up on the matter. “Having the title of ‘queen’ is also something I am still adjusting to.” She pointed out to try and better let him know where she was coming from. “I feel queens frequent meetings more than princesses do.” There also was the lingering fear of the townspeople not liking her and being out of the loop could definitely cause that to happen.

That kiss felt to be a direct correlation to whatever she saw shift in him. She leaned in and savored that small moment. It felt so calming and safe to her, but she was slightly confused. What on earth did she do or say to receive something as nice as that?

Part of the reason why she proposed the picnic idea was the concept of eating in a room alone with him… well she is not entirely sure how restrained she’ll be. But outside with many eyes sounded like a far safer route to help keep herself somewhat restrained. Besides, there were still things she needed to explore. “Well I am certainly curious as to what other ways you have in mind…but I guess that will be a surprise.” She did feel a pang of guilt, no clue how to do the same for him. Outside of maybe putting her fingers in his hair and straightening his collar.

Perhaps he was also just coming down from his high also, she thought. A bath surely would help wake and refresh her for the day. Maybe a meeting is what he needed to refresh himself? “I thought you said no thanks needed?” She poked lightly in return to his kind words. “But I’ll accept it.” Eleanor added, because the praise of it was nice after all.

[dirtyl0ver]

I know you were asked about him before but how about some eyeless Jack hc’s? I’m suuuper interested in how you would characterize him 💗

Absolutely! This took a while but here we are 🤭💙

Eyeless Jack Headcanons

Appearance

Stands right around 6′1, strong yet lean frame, like an endurance runner who is also able to carry bodies through the woods

Skin has a cold, ash-gray tone, like something drained of color over time, but not lifeless. You can see the faintest flush of warmth in his throat when he’s angry or flustered, which he dislikes

Eyes are pure black. No iris, no whites. But he’s not blind, far from it. He sees shape, motion, depth, temperature shifts, pressure points under skin. The kind of vision that makes you feel like you're being studied, not just seen

His eyes don’t reflect light like human ones, they absorb it. In photos or dark rooms, they appear as perfect voids, like someone carved out pieces of the night and placed them in his skull

His teeth appear almost human at first glance, until you look closely. Jagged, slightly serrated, with subtle fangs that curve just enough to be unnatural. Not exactly razor-sharp, but clearly made to tear more than chew. He files them and is surprisingly big on oral hygiene, dislikes having meat stuck between teeth

Big, broad and cold hands. The kind of hands that know exactly how much pressure it takes to break a rib and exactly how much pressure it takes to make someone shiver. Nails are kept short to keep latex gloves from tearing

His tongue is slightly longer than average. Not cartoonishly so, but just enough that when he licks at blood or your skin, you feel it in a way that’s… off. It's warm, smooth, but precise, kind of like a surgeon’s scalpel dipped in heat

Tends to wear layered black - fitted long-sleeve thermal, lightweight tactical jacket, track pants. Prefers practical, quiet fabrics that don’t rustle when he stalks a hallway at 3AM

Despite his whole look, he’s surprisingly clean, probably the cleanest out of all the creeps - hair is kept neatly trimmed, no stubble, clothes always spotless

General Behavior

Silent type. But his quiet has weight, he speaks only when it’s worth it. And when he does speak, his voice is low, smooth, and startlingly articulate

Tilts his head fractionally when curious, wider when unsettled - the sharper the angle, the stronger the emotion he refuses to voice

Has an animal stillness to him. His body language mirrors that of a predator. He moves smoothly, precisely, with deliberate motion. Nothing is done accidentally. When he’s still, it’s uncanny, he doesn’t fidget or shift his weight like a normal person would

He can eat animal meat, and will, if he needs to. But human meat is his true sustenance. It tastes richer and more complex, more alive. It hits something in his brain like a drug: savory, thick, full of memory and meaning. It keeps him satisfied for longer, both physically and mentally. He believes human meat is more nutritious to him

Reads medical journals for leisure, annotating in tiny script, has whole margins filled with comparative notes on human versus animal organ density

When satisfied, he growls low in his throat. It’s almost like a purr, but rougher, a rumble that vibrates through his chest. You might not hear it at first, just feel it if you’re resting against him. Like a deep, satisfied hum

Huffs quietly when annoyed, like a wolf. A sharp breath through his nose. Meant to signal displeasure without words. If you hear it, back off, it’s the polite version of a snarl

Also has a true purr, but it's rare. It only comes out in the rarest moments, like when he’s completely safe, completely sated, usually post-feeding or post-sex

Doesn’t react to teasing the way others do. You might make a joke or flirt and get zero response. But three hours later, he’ll mention it in perfect detail and ask a question about your phrasing, like it’s been echoing in his head. He absorbs everything. Reacts slow but accurately

Will not lie to you. He may avoid the truth or refuse to answer, but he will not lie. Jack sees lying as weakness. If he respects you, he’ll give you silence over false comfort. His honesty can be brutal but it’s always real

Cleans his tools with obsessive care before locking them in a steel case that smells faintly of antiseptic and iron

Mostly keeps to himself and tries to avoid the other creeps whenever possible. Out of the bunch, he trusts Brian most because Brian speaks through action, not conversation, so it's basically two introverts orbiting each other in comfortable hush

Actively avoids Jeff and Tim, the former too volatile, the latter too paranoid. Jack thinks both smell like too much testosterone and impulse, which Jack finds exhausting

Random Details

Has a precise internal clock - can wake from dead sleep at the exact minute he decides, no alarms required

Owns a battered polaroid he uses to document surgical results, never faces, just incisions and sutures. Photos stored in a locked tin marked “specimens”

Has a journal he writes in obsessively, full of strange little observations like “heartbeat elevated when I brushed her hair behind ear” or “eyes dilated at proximity <6 inches” - he doesn’t know what to do with these notes, but he keeps them

Likes to sleep flat on the floor every once in a while, claims the hard surface keeps night terrors from getting traction in his muscles

Fascinated by heartbeats. Sometimes rests his head on your chest to listen. To the rhythm, the pauses, the shifts, the moments it stutters under stress or spikes from touch. He knows your heart better than you do

Experiences envy toward ordinary humans in an almost bitter way, especially the ones who laugh freely, eat junk food, sleep without locking their doors. He’d never admit it, but he watches from the shadows with a quiet ache

Has a dry, morbid sense of humor that most people don't get. When he tries to joke, which is very rare, the other creeps almost never understand what he's talking about

He’s very sensitive to smell. Strong perfumes, artificial scents, anything chemical, they throw him off immediately. It’s sensory overload. He prefers you clean, warm, with a faint trace of soap or something soft and breathable - like linen, water, honey, blood

NSFW (18+)

Jack's approach to intimacy is anatomical curiosity first, hunger second, emotion last - he studies you like a living diagram -mapping pulse points with his tongue, listening to blood surge beneath skin

Quiet dominance - pins wrists with one hand, tests resistance, the more you push the more his breathing deepens, a near-silent growl at the base of his throat

He watches your body like it’s an experiment: notes what makes you twitch, what makes you beg, what makes your breathing change, and files it away to be used later

Very very into overstimulation, in a fascinated way. He wants to see how long you can last, how many times your body can break open under his hands before it stops making sense

He can go for hours if you let him. Doesn’t get bored. Doesn’t tire easily. You’ll be shaking and overstimulated, and he’ll still be murmuring, “Just one more… you can handle one more.”

Big on period sex. Unapologetically. To him, it’s natural, sacred even. The scent, the warmth, the metallic sweetness of it, it sends something deep and ancient into overdrive. He’s tender but intense when you’re bleeding - hungrier, more focused, like he’s been waiting for it

Biting is instinct. Always has been. Not always to hurt, sometimes just to feel skin give beneath his teeth. He’ll mark your inner thighs, your shoulder, your wrist. And when he breaks skin, he licks it clean like he's apologizing

He doesn’t kiss much, but when he does, his mouth opens too wide, tongue slow and heavy, tasting more than touching

He enjoys the female body, but more in a sensory way than a sexualized one. The texture of skin, the softness of curves, the pulse under the throat. He thinks women taste better. Sweeter. Not just sexually, just in general. There’s something about feminine flesh he finds intoxicating

Jack rarely develops romantic or sexual interest in anyone. It's not just about standards, it's about control too. Desire is something he knows how to shut down. He doesn't chase or fantasize. So if he starts craving you? It's serious. Slow and loaded

After sex, he'll clean every inch of you like it’s a ritual. He won’t say he enjoyed it. But he’ll stay close. Watch your chest rise and fall. Bury his face in your skin just long enough to remember how you smell when you’re soft and wrecked and full of trust

[orellazalonia]

The Life You Make

Summary: You secretly meet with Maren, the only person from the other side who ever seemed to truly see you, leaving the encounter changed but keeping it to yourself. After some reflecting, you make your final decision; no longer waiting to be seen and finally living for yourself.

Word Count: 3k+

Main Masterlist | The One You Don’t See Masterlist

You didn’t tell anyone you were leaving.

Not because you meant to be reckless. Not even because you owed Maren anything. But because something in that message, something she left unsaid, had clawed under your skin and refused to let go.

So you traced the code.

You followed the slight inconsistencies Bruce missed, the low-frequency signal disguised beneath an outdated Stark sublayer, something no one except someone like you would even think to check. The coordinates it gave were vague, a general grid of downtown Manhattan. Enough to know where to start but not enough for anyone else to follow without breadcrumbs.

But Maren had known you would.

That was the trick, wasn’t it?

She always saw the pieces you tried to hide and you always wanted to believe she’d never use that against you.

It was dusk when you found her.

A half-crumbled rooftop above a closed deli. The kind of place that would’ve felt like a sanctuary once. Something overlooked, quiet, a little crooked but safe in its own way. You didn’t announce your arrival. Just climbed the rusted ladder and stepped onto rooftop.

She was already there. Sitting on a folding chair, legs crossed, and sipping a takeout coffee like she was waiting for a friend.

She looked the same. Sharp-eyed, relaxed, and dangerously at ease.

“Hey,” She greeted softly, like it had only been days. Like you hadn’t been left behind.

You didn’t move closer. “Maren.”

Her eyes warmed. “Still remembered my name.”

“You didn’t give it to them,” You responded.

A breeze lifted her curls gently from her shoulders. “I didn’t think they’d need it.”

“Because I wasn’t supposed to stay?”

“No,” She said calmly. “Because I didn’t think they’d bother asking.”

The honesty landed between you like a dropped stone.

You walked a little closer, still not within reach, but enough to read the finer lines on her face. She hadn’t been untouched by the fallout. There was a bruise at her collarbone and something stitched just below her wrist.

“You got out,” You said.

“So did you.”

“I didn’t plan to.”

She looked at you for a long time then. “Did you ever?”

You didn’t answer.

Maren set the coffee aside, then leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “They’re trying to erase the whole operation like we were just a bad dream. That we didn’t serve a function. That we didn’t see people.”

You stayed quiet.

“I know what we were a part of,” She added. “I’m not pretending we were saints. But I saw you, and I think you saw me, too.”

“I didn’t come to join you,” You said firmly.

She smiled gently. “I know.”

“Then why the message?”

Maren tilted her head. “Because you’re not done being used. You just switched handlers. And I thought maybe you’d like a reminder that not everything good has to come from people with clean records.”

You exhaled.

“That’s what this is about?” You asked. “Recruiting me back in?”

“No,” She said simply. “It’s about letting you know your choices still belong to you. They don’t get to act like they created your value just because they finally noticed you.”

You hated how much that resonated.

And she could see it.

“You’re angry,” She continued softly. “Not at me, not even at them. You’re angry that it took you almost breaking for anyone to see you.”

You looked away as your voice cracked. “I just want to exist somewhere without being a symbol.”

Maren stood but slowly, no threat in it.

“Then don’t be,” She said. “Exist for you. That’s all I wanted to say.”

You met her eyes.

She looked tired, but grounded in a way you weren’t sure you’d ever be.

“I can’t go back with you,” You whispered.

“I didn’t ask you to.”

Silence stretched.

She gave you a small nod. “This is the last time I reach out. If you ever need to find me… well, you’ll know how.”

You watched her walk to the far edge of the rooftop, toward the fire escape, toward the alleys, but just before she left, she paused.

“You mattered even before they noticed you,” She said. “Don’t forget that again.”

Then she was gone.

And you were alone on the rooftop, breathing in air that felt both heavier and lighter than it had an hour ago.

When you finally went back to the tower, you returned through a side entrance.

No one stopped you.

It was late enough that the halls were quiet, just the low hum of overhead lights and the occasional flicker from security panels. You slipped past the common room, down a corridor that still echoed faintly of sterilized metal and over-polished tile.

No one asked where you’d gone and you didn’t offer it.

You half-expected FRIDAY to chime in with a pleasant “Welcome back,” but even the AI kept her voice to herself tonight.

Your room was just as you left it. Lights dim, blanket half-folded on the foot of the bed, and a half-read book on the nightstand. You stood in the doorway for a moment, hands in your coat pockets, like a guest in a place you weren’t sure you belonged to anymore.

You didn’t really feel triumphant or guilty. You just felt… tired. Heard, in a way that no longer needed validation.

There was a knock at the door, not sharp or urgent, more familiar.

You took a slow breath and opened it to find Bucky standing there, looking like he hadn’t decided whether to speak or leave.

His eyes swept over you once, quietly.

“You weren’t around earlier,” He said after a beat.

You shrugged. “Just needed air.”

He nodded. “I get that.”

Neither of you filled the silence. It didn’t demand to be filled tonight. But his gaze lingered, though. Searching, like he wanted to ask something but didn’t quite have the right.

You tilted your head slightly. “Something on your mind?”

He looked at the floor for a second, then back at you. “Just wondering if you’re okay.”

You could’ve lied. But instead, you said softly, “I’m figuring it out.”

His mouth twitched, something between a frown and an understanding smile. “Let me know if you need anything.”

You nodded. “Thanks.”

He stepped back then, not pushing further, and left without another word. You closed the door and leaned against it, eyes falling shut.

No one on the team ever asked where you went.

At least, not outright.

You realized they did notice though. They weren’t blind, and this wasn’t the kind of place where people slipped out for long without someone logging it. Even if it wasn’t spoken, your disappearance lived in the way Wanda had looked at you in the hallway that morning, or the way Bruce hesitated when he passed your room.

They knew. They just didn’t know how far you’d gone or what you were thinking about bringing back. But neither did you.

That was the problem.

You hadn’t left your room much that day.

The others didn’t push. Steve had asked once, lightly with a “Everything good?” and you’d nodded with enough conviction that he didn’t pry.

But good wasn’t the word for it. Not really.

You sat on your bed with your knees drawn up. Outside your window, dusk was spilling over the compound in colors that didn’t feel real. Purple, bruised clouds. A sky that couldn’t decide whether it was ending or beginning.

And still, you hadn’t decided either.

You’d been back for weeks now. Reintegrated and accepted, at least you think. You even had a door with your name on it now, and that fact alone used to feel like a miracle. But something inside you still pulled.

It wasn’t as simple as wanting to leave or wanting to stay. You just… didn’t know if either choice was really yours.

Because what did staying mean? Working again with the same people who’d passed over you without a second glance? Who only started listening when you’d slipped too far to ignore? Who now offered you smiles and space, but still hesitated when your name came up in strategy?

It didn’t matter how warm the tower was or how gently people spoke now. That ache didn’t leave. Because kindness wasn’t the same as belonging and safety wasn’t the same as purpose.

And what did leaving mean? Walking back toward the shadows. Toward a world that may have used you, yes, but made you feel essential while doing it. No waiting for your turn to speak. No second-guessing if your presence was wanted in the room.

You remembered walking into a room and already being listened to. You remembered being seen first, not last. Remembered how no one had asked you to prove yourself. They just handed you work and trusted that you could do it.

It hadn’t been great, but it had been clear.

Here, you weren’t being used, but you weren’t sure if you were needed either.

You bit the inside of your cheek, hard enough to ground yourself.

Neither side had your full trust anymore. One had forgotten you. The other had claimed you. But neither had ever really asked what you wanted.

Because the truth was… you didn’t know yourself. You didn’t know how to want anything anymore. Not without guilt. Not without feeling like you were betraying someone no matter which way you leaned.

And when another knock came at the door, gentle and uncertain. You didn’t answer. And this time, it faded.

Yet you still didn’t move. You just sat there, in the stillness, wondering when you’d stopped dreaming of anything at all. Wondering if it was safer to let go of it all: every side, every banner, every mission, and just disappear for a while. Not to punish anyone, not to run.

But because you didn’t belong in a war that kept changing names and colors.

You just wanted to exist. And maybe, more than anything… You wanted to stop feeling like a question no one ever really wanted the answer to.

When the time came for you final decision, you didn’t make a big announcement.

No dramatic exit, no grand gesture. Just a quiet conversation with Steve, an expression of thanks, and a simple truth: “I think it’s time I found something of my own.”

Steve didn’t fight it.

He’d seen the shift in you over the past week, the way your gaze lingered a little longer out windows, the way you’d grown quieter in meetings, not from fear or doubt, but reflection. You weren’t withdrawing. You were ready, for something different.

He placed a firm hand on your shoulder that morning, eyes gentle. “You’ve always had a place here and you always will,” He said. “But I get it. Just promise you’ll stay in touch?”

You nodded. “I will.”

It was strange, how simple it all was. How easy, in a way.

Wanda hugged you without words. Bruce handed you a small drive full of tools and data “in case you get bored.” Clint offered to teach you how to fish (you declined, politely). Sam grinned and told you he’d keep your name on the comms list, “just in case we ever really screw things up.”

And Bucky…

You found him in the gym that evening, running drills with the punching bag like it owed him answers. You waited until he paused, wiping the sweat from his brow. His eyes flicking toward you the second you stepped inside.

“I heard,” He said.

You nodded, arms crossed loosely over your chest. “Didn’t mean for it to be a big thing.”

“It’s not.”

He leaned against the wall, towel over his shoulder. His voice was even, but his eyes… weren’t.

“You’re really going?”

“I am.”

He didn’t speak right away. Just studied you, like he was trying to memorize this version of you that was calmer, more certain. Stronger, but not in the way they’d taught you to be.

“I’m not mad,” He said, almost to himself. “I just…”

You tilted your head. “Just?”

He looked away, jaw tightening. “I guess I thought we’d have more time.”

Your chest ached, but you kept your voice steady. “Time wouldn’t have changed anything.”

He didn’t argue, and that said enough.

“I’m not disappearing,” You added. “I just want to try something that’s mine. A space where I’m not constantly wondering who I’m supposed to be for other people.”

He looked at you again, and this time his gaze softened, something between regret and quiet pride.

“You deserve that,” He spoke softly. “You always did.”

You gave a small smile. “Thanks for seeing it.”

His expression faltered. “I wish I’d seen it sooner.”

You didn’t answer because there wasn’t anything left to say that wouldn’t reopen things you’d both worked hard to close.

Instead, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him, brief but solid. He returned it, strong and careful, like he was afraid to make you stay.

When you pulled back, you offered one last truth:

“I don’t regret coming here, but I think I’m ready to stop surviving and start living.”

Bucky nodded. And this time, he didn’t try to stop you.

You left the next morning. No goodbye party. No send-off. Just a new key in your pocket and the weight of a future you hadn’t mapped out yet, but finally felt like you were allowed to claim.

And for the first time in a long while, you weren’t afraid of starting over.

The apartment isn’t big.

It was a third-floor walk-up, tucked between a tiny laundromat and a florist that closed too early on Sundays. The paint on the stairwell peeled near the railing, the hall light flickered occasionally, and your neighbor two doors down plays the same jazz vinyl every Saturday morning without fail.

But the lock clicks smoothly when you turn your key.

And the place is yours.

You’ve got a secondhand couch tucked into the corner, a desk by the window that gets just enough sun to keep your plant alive, and a kitchen that hums with effort every time you cook something that takes more than one pan.

Your favorite mug sits beside the sink, a bit chipped and a little stained from too much tea, but still intact. You haven’t thrown it out. You don’t throw much out anymore.

Your job isn’t flashy either. Just a part-time job centered around data review for a quiet nonprofit tech company. You work from home, mostly in sweatpants and fuzzy socks, answering emails and cleaning up reports that no one else has the patience for. It’s not heroic. It’s not dangerous. It’s not the kind of work anyone applauds for.

But it doesn’t demand you bleed for it. It’s peaceful with minimal stress and that’s enough right now.

You sleep with the window open. The city noise doesn’t bother you anymore, it’s different than the alarms, the explosions, or the sterile beeping of underground halls. This noise is life. Someone’s music. Someone’s fight with their dog. Someone’s laughter echoing from the fire escape below yours.

No one here looks at you like you’re broken, lost, or a liability they forgot to check on. They don’t look at you at all, and weirdly… that helps.

Some mornings you still wake too early, your body anticipating something that isn’t coming. An alert, a summons, a meeting; but there’s only the light filtering in through your dusty curtains and the soft, rhythmic drip of your bathroom faucet. You don’t have to explain your worth to anyone. No more rooms full of eyes that forget you’re there until they need something. So you sit up, stretch, and then start your day.

And maybe the most surprising thing of all?

You haven’t completely let go. You still think about them.

You wonder if the others are okay. If Bruce is sleeping, if Tony is still working on some new tech, if Wanda found time to sit in the garden she liked. You even think of the woman you used to be sure had everything you didn’t, the one who saw Bucky when you were invisible. You wonder if she ever thinks of you now.

But you haven’t cut them all out completely.

You still text Steve now and then, he checks in the way a big brother might. Always making sure you're okay without crowding you. Sometimes he sends old photos from missions you’d almost forgotten you helped plan. You keep them saved, even if you don’t say much back.

Bucky… he’s more complicated.

You haven’t seen him in person since you left, but every so often there’s a message waiting. Nothing heavy, just a link to an article he thought you’d like or a comment about your favorite show. Once, a blurry picture of a stray cat with the words: ”Reminded me of you. Quiet and staring too hard.”

You didn’t know what that meant. You still don’t but you didn’t delete it either.

And then there’s Maren.

Sometimes only sometimes, you meet for coffee. Neutral places, nothing secretive. She always greets you like an old friend, not a former co-worker or someone who almost rewired your life. She talks about books she’s reading or asks about your work. Once or twice, she’s offered you quiet compliments you don’t know how to take.

“I bet you’re still sharper than the rest of them.”

You don’t argue, but you don’t agree either. You’re still figuring out what you think of her. Sometimes you sit across from her in some small café and wonder if she misses the shadows. If she looks at you and wonders what side you’d choose now. You never ask and she never presses.

And maybe that’s the understanding between you, mutual ambiguity. You’re not trying to fix anything anymore. You’re just trying to live.

And most nights, that feels like enough.

Even if you miss some of them. Even if part of you still watches the news a little too closely. Even if a small, quiet part of your chest twists when Bucky’s name scrolls past a headline.

You don’t chase those feelings down anymore. You let them come, let them pass, like trains you chose not to board.

Because this life, this apartment, this job, this space; it isn’t perfect.

But it’s yours. And after everything? That’s a hell of a start.

Taglist: @herejustforbuckybarnes @iyskgd @torntaltos @julesandgems @maesmayhem @w-h0re @pookalicious-hq @parkerslivia @whisperingwillowxox @stell404 @wingstoyourdreams @seventeen-x @mahimagi @viktor-enjoyer @vicmc624 @msbyjackal @winchestert101 @greatenthusiasttidalwave @avivarougestan @saoirses-things @itsmejen @saucysasha2035 @smokescreen1000 @poiscntree @therealh18 @vieenr0se @ravenswritingroom @mel-reads

A/N: And we’ve reached the official “canon” end! I think it fits the kind of ambiguity and ‘depth’ this series has. And nowww, I can make alternate endings. (Maybe, hopefully). I can technically even continue this ending and maybe get closer to Bucky like I had initially wanted. And so it’s actually faithful to the initial pairing this story was supposed to be for 😭 Anyways, I’ll focus more on maybe one-shots, alternate endings, or something else. Thank you all so much for following along!!!

[grifffins]

Blue Dress

Jackson Lamb x Catherine Standish

Tags: Mutual Pining, Explicit Sexual Content, Repressed Idiots in Love

Summary: She wears the blue dress and that’s it—game over. Twenty years of restraint gone in one afternoon because Catherine bloody Standish decided, for reasons unknown, to stop dressing like a haunted librarian and walk into work looking like that. Jackson’s held it together through wars, torture, and Roddy Ho. He doesn’t survive the dress.

wc: ~ 2.6k. chp.1/1

a/n: I basically pulled an all-nighter writing this a few weeks ago because that blue dress had me in a chokehold and I needed to process the fact that Catherine Standish actually murdered me. Spiritually. Emotionally. Jackson didn’t stand a chance and, frankly, neither did I. Huge thanks to my suffering friend @awlwgeneraldinosaur for putting up with the constant voice notes, screenshots, and all-caps breakdowns about this show. You are a saint and I will never stop messaging you about these two.

It’s always so fucking scary writing for a new fandom, especially one that's beautifully understated & with so many beautiful fanfics out there already—but I’ve been completely obsessed with Slow Horses lately and needed to get this out of my system. I hope I’ve done the characters justice.

ao3

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He’d been waiting at the damn bus terminal since dawn, in the kind of relentless, pissing rain that seeped into bones and moods alike. He had a coffee from Pret that tasted like shite, and he’d already tuned out the poor sod who worked behind the desk at the bus terminal, droning on about protocols, if he rolled his eyes any harder, they'd stay in the back of his skull permanently.

Dickie Bow. Dead on a rail replacement bus, of all bloody places. Nothing glamorous for a spy, nothing scandalous enough to sell papers, just dead, like a file slipping shut. Still, Lamb had turned up. He didn’t expect much; Dickie had been past being useful for a long while, but he’d been one of Lamb’s people once, back when loyalty meant something, even if Lamb himself never called it that. He just showed up, because that's what you did.

The phone had been tucked down the side of the seat like it had wriggled away from dying fingers, deliberately left behind. Dickie had wanted it found, had left behind a whisper: Cicada. That old Cold War bedtime story, half bollocks, half ghost tale. But people still believed in ghosts, and Lamb knew they always checked the locks twice, just in case.

He flicked his cigarette into the gutter before entering Slough House, savouring the last moments before he’d have to face Ho or River or any of the other toddlers too green to know better. Inside, the door creaked familiarly, a sort of greeting, and the same stale air, dust, paper, damp, smoke, wrapped around him, familiar as an old coat.

Out of the corner of his eye, Catherine crossed the landing. Just Standish, nothing unusual, moving like someone with forms to file, tea to brew, calm and efficient as always. But then, abruptly, he noticed the dress.

-> continue on Ao3

[sourmeiyok]

LOVE NOTES — chapter two!

Daniela Avanzini had a quiet crush on a girl in her physics class. She watched her a little too long sometimes, just enough to notice the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was focused. Eventually, Daniela started leaving her notes. Small ones. Just a line or two, folded neatly and tucked inside her textbook or slipped under her calculator. What she didn’t know was the girl already had a girlfriend.

important mention(s) — cheating, choking and not the good kind

distance

The next day, class was already half full when you walked in. You weren’t looking for her, but your eyes still flicked to the corner seat. Daniela was already there, hunched over her notebook, pretending to write.

You took your seat like normal. No staring. No weird energy. Just trying to move on.

A few minutes passed. Then, out of the corner of your eye, you saw her stand and walk over. She stopped next to your desk, clutching the strap of her backpack with one hand.

“I, um…” she started, eyes glued to her shoelace. “Just wanted to say sorry. Again. For, you know… yesterday.”

You glanced up. She still hadn’t looked at you.

“…Right,” you said, slower than you meant to. “Okay.”

It wasn’t much of an apology. But you didn’t feel like dragging it out either.

You gave a small nod. “Just… don’t be weird about it.”

That made her glance up—just for a second. “I won’t.”

Then she shuffled back to her seat without saying anything else.

You turned back to your notebook, trying not to smile.

You were at your locker, digging around for your charger when you saw it—another folded note, same neat handwriting, no name. You glanced down the hall, then opened it quickly.

“You looked really pretty today. Not that you don’t every day, but today especially. I couldn’t stop staring. Hope that’s not weird.”

You stared at it for a second longer than you meant to, then shoved it behind your books. Right as arms slid around your waist from behind.

Jennie.

“What’s that?” she asked, voice low, casual but not really.

You froze. “It’s nothing,” you said too fast, trying to shut your locker—but she reached around and grabbed the note before you could stop her.

Her eyes moved across the paper. Her face shifted.

“Are you cheating on me?”

Your heart dropped. “No. No, I would never.”

Jennie didn’t say anything right away. She just looked at you—quiet, cold.

“Then why are you getting notes like this and hiding them from me?”

You didn’t have an answer. Not a good one. When it came to stuff like this, you always folded first. You never liked arguing with her. She usually didn’t need to raise her voice—just made you feel small enough that you’d give in anyway.

But this time something slipped out.

“Well, you’re the one being distant,” you mumbled. “I should suspect you’re cheating.”

That made her pause. She turned back around, stepping in close. Her hand came up around your neck—not rough, but firm. Controlling.

You looked up at her, unsure, a little scared.

She’d never done that before.

You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just stared up at her, frozen.

Jennie’s grip wasn’t tight, but it was enough. Enough to make you feel stuck. Enough to make your pulse pick up.

“What did you just say?” she asked, quiet. Too quiet.

You swallowed. “Nothing. I didn’t mean it.”

She tilted her head, eyes searching your face like she was trying to read something in it. Like she didn’t believe you.

“You think I’m cheating on you?”

You shook your head quickly. “No. I just—I don’t know. You’ve been acting different lately. You barely text back, you don’t come over like you used to. I thought maybe… something was wrong.”

She let go of your neck slowly and stepped back, slipping the note into her pocket.

You watched her, unsure what to do or say. The hallway was still busy—students walking past, laughing, talking—but you felt like the only two people standing still.

“I don’t like you hiding things from me,” she said. “Don’t make me feel like I can’t trust you.”

You nodded, quietly. “Okay.”

She stared at you for another second, then turned and walked away without another word.

You stood there for a minute, hands still shaking a little, the warmth of her touch on your neck lingering even though she was gone.

next ✿ฺ✿ฺ masterlist

[straykidsdreamer]

𝕎𝕙𝕖𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕖 ℙ𝕒𝕚𝕟𝕥 𝔻𝕣𝕚𝕖𝕤

“When the Paint Dries”

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Pairing: Hwang Hyunjin x Reader Genre: Angst, Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn Summary: You were once Hyunjin’s muse, his whole world captured on canvas. But things fell apart. Now, years later, he’s a renowned artist — and you’re just a ghost haunting his studio. Until one accidental encounter begins to blur the lines again between pain and color.

Chapter 1: The Colors We Lost

The rain was soft today, the kind that didn’t cleanse anything, just reminded you that everything was still soaked.

You hadn’t stepped into this neighborhood in almost two years. The streets felt the same, but your hands trembled like they didn’t belong here anymore.

The art gallery’s windows glowed faintly. His exhibit. Hwang Hyunjin: “Shades of What We Lost.”

You almost laughed when you saw the title. Of course he’d name it that. He always loved metaphors — the kind that wrapped heartbreak in silk and made it beautiful. You remembered how he used to say, “I don’t paint people. I paint what they leave behind.”

Still, you stepped inside.

The first canvas hit you like a punch to the ribs. It was you. Not a portrait, not your face — but you.

Your old scarf, painted with deliberate strokes, twisted in the wind. The alley behind your favorite café. Your bedroom window glowing warm against a dusk-blue sky. The tiny paint stain on your wrist he always teased you about.

And in every piece: a kind of longing. A ghost.

Hyunjin hadn’t expected to see you.

He’d come out from the side hallway, holding a paper cup of coffee with his thumb through the handle like always. He froze mid-step when he saw you standing there, back turned, hair longer now.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. Something in the air cracked open and bled.

You turned slowly, and your eyes met like two people watching a bridge collapse in silence.

“…Hey,” you said, almost breathless.

“Hey,” he echoed, voice dry. “You… came.”

You shrugged, swallowing. “I didn’t think I would.”

He gestured to the painting behind you. “I didn’t think I’d see you again at all.”

Chapter 2: Wet Paint and Unspoken Things

“Do you still paint?” he asked, sitting across from you in the tiny gallery café.

You stirred your drink, not looking up. “Not since I left.”

“You didn’t leave,” he murmured. “You ran.”

Your eyes snapped to his. “Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?” His voice was careful. Too careful.

“Act like I didn’t have a reason.”

There it was. The crack in the frame.

You’d loved him once. Maybe still did. But back then, being his muse meant being held up to the light until you disappeared behind it. You had dreams too — ones he never asked about.

“I was drowning in your world,” you said softly. “And I didn’t even realize it until I couldn’t breathe anymore.”

His jaw clenched, but he nodded. “You’re right.”

You blinked. That wasn’t what you expected.

“I was selfish,” he said. “I thought painting you was loving you. I didn’t see I was turning you into something I could keep. Not someone I could lose.”

Chapter 3: Studio 6B

He invited you to his studio.

You hesitated — but followed.

It looked almost the same. Tall windows. Paint tubes everywhere. The couch where you used to fall asleep while he worked.

But now, there were new canvases. Darker. Sharper. One was still unfinished, paint wet at the edges.

“It’s the only one I never showed anyone,” he said. “Because it never felt done.”

It was… you. But not the scarf or the street.

Just your eyes. Looking back.

And behind them — a storm.

“I never knew how to finish it,” he said, turning toward you. “Because you were never really gone.”

You stepped forward. Slowly. Carefully. As if stepping too fast would ruin it again.

“Then maybe,” you said, voice trembling, “we finish it together.”

Chapter 4: A New Canvas

The healing was slow.

It came in quiet mornings in the studio, where you painted beside him — your own piece. It came in shared silences, in accidental smiles, in coffee at dawn and long walks through the city.

He didn’t rush this time. He didn’t try to own you through brushstrokes.

And when he finally kissed you again, it was tentative — like the first line of a sketch. Not bold. Just real.

“I’m not your muse,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said, brushing his thumb along your jaw. “You’re my equal. My beginning.”

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author’s note: just a little something about love that hurts and still lingers. i’ve always thought hyunjin felt like someone who sees beauty in pain, and this story kind of spilled out from that. if you’ve ever left someone but still looked back… this one’s for you. hope it made you feel something <3

P

[blackcatxmagic]

Brook was trying.  Maybe he wasn’t doing what Mateo thought he should, but he also didn’t believe he had to forgive himself in order to move on.  This was something Brook had done, something absolutely terrible, and there had been catastrophic consequences.  It only felt right that he should have to deal with some of his own.  Obviously Brook couldn’t know what Mateo was thinking, but if he did, he would have told his old friend that.  And Brook also didn’t believe he had to forgive himself in order for he and Mateo to be friends.  Not everything needed to be talked about.  They had a difference of opinion on this to say the least.

Sighing, Brook replied, “Yeah, maybe you’re right.  I didn’t think about how it might feel for you.  I’m sorry.”  But he still smirked because frankly he liked the idea that someone as handsome as Mateo would think about him that way.  Again, just because he was with Silas, that didn’t mean he could just turn off his attraction to other men, Mateo included.  The difference of course was that Brook wouldn’t act on that, whereas with Silas, well…he did, and often.  “For what it’s worth,” Brook said, “if you want to sexualize me in your free time, I’m totally fine with it.  It’s kind of flattering actually.”  Maybe he shouldn’t have said that, but Brook didn’t think there was any harm done.  He would of course not be telling Mateo about the number of times he’d done the same thing when he was alone and pent up.

Since Brook hadn’t wanted to talk about the heavier things earlier, he felt a bit like he owed it to Mateo to explain this a little bit.  “When I use magic, it’s like…an addiction,” Brook said quietly as they walked.  “It’s a slippery slope.  That’s what happened when I was a teenager, and that’s part of how I ended up in the situation that changed everything.  The power…it can be intoxicating.  So even if it’s not a chemical addiction, it’s still so strong and hard to resist, for me at least.  I know not every witch is the same though, but I couldn’t risk letting myself hurt someone ever again.  So I stopped using magic, and I threw myself into school and then residency and then work.  That was just my life, always busy, always something to keep me on the right path.”  He wasn’t sure if Mateo would understand, but Brook had done his best to explain it to his friend.

“I didn’t really mean like…only talking about how cute they are,” Brook replied.  “Crushes aren’t based only on appearance.  I just meant like, we could talk about people we feel a connection with.  That’s what friends do.  So if you want to talk to me about Elian’s cheekbones and how dreamy they are and how their eyes are so beautiful and piercing, then we can, but we can also talk about the way they make you feel.  I know attraction isn’t only based on looks, Mat.  But I can be a confidante for you, even if I can’t be a wingman.”  That was a suggestion Brook regretted a bit because he should have known it was a bad idea, that Mateo might not be able to focus on the people Brook was trying to set him up with.  He looked at his friend, and Brook thought he saw a spark of something, something hidden inside Mateo, and Brook wished his friend would share that with him.  “It might be weird at first,” Brook acknowledged, “but it also might help us work out some of the bumps in our friendship.”

Mateo only offered a flat stare back at Brook, without any real answer to the question. He didn't like it, that Brook wasn't even trying. Any time this subject got broached, one or the other pushed it off. It was all they ever did, and now, the man wondered if it was all they would ever do. If that was the case, they weren't going to get far. None of this was easy, and it would continue being not easy, forever. Mateo knew this intimately; this was a daily struggle, to maintain and keep ahead of, and it was never quite gone. But as he had said, moving on didn't mean you forgot. Moving on meant you grew from it, learned from it, managed to find a place for it in your life.

He wasn't going to force the subject, however. He let it fall aside, as his friend requested. Just another fresh disappointment to add between them.

"Oh, my friend, I fear it'll never be a good time for us," Mateo groaned, combing a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, chagrin. "If I see you half-naked and wet, I'll drive myself mad with any number of ridiculous fantasies — really, you'd be alarmed by my brain sometimes, you shouldn't be around me until I've gotten over this because I'm just quietly sexualizing you on a daily basis. Maybe I am frustrated." It all popped out in a rush of words that Mateo couldn't have lied about if he tried. But then, the man did have a way of being rather blunt and straightforward with his thoughts at times.

"That's a shame," he remarked, to hear that Brook had dulled his talents. "Not everyone has such abilities, you know. I hate to see you waste them." There must be more, that his friend wasn't sharing. He said it was safer this way. But, seeing how Brook had brushed aside all the other heavy topics they had broached tonight already, Mateo decided not to press further on it for now.

"People we think are cute?" He considered the question, and this idea that they were supposed to gossip about such things. It felt so strange, to do so with anyone, most of all Brook. But, he supposed the man did have a point. Friends did do those kinds of things, right? Theirs was simply a complicated situation. As he fell into step at the doctor's side, Mateo's hands moved into his pockets, eyes ahead on where they were going. His shop was only two blocks down, actually, though there was no hurry in his step; it was lazy and slow. "I don't really think about that stuff," he admitted, with a shrug. "Not to say I can't see that someone's attractive or beautiful, or what have you, but it's not anything I linger on about. It's more just... a fact." Mateo wasn't quite sure how to explain what he meant. "Why, do you look at someone and feel arousal instantly just because they're attractive?" he asked, glancing over at Brook. "It's never been that way for me... I only start to notice things about someone after we've known each other, and then honestly, it gets so out of hand.. every small thing sticks out, or I might hyperfocus on one thing or another, start daydreaming about that.. And it's hard to control, I'll be in the middle of a crowd, thinking about them, and next thing I know I'm needing attention."

He chuckled then. "But even then, if I'm having those thoughts, it's not something I can just nudge them about and have them take care of. Life isn't easy like that." If only, if only. Mateo smiled, when Brook so innocently suggested to be his wingman. "Sadly, you would distract me away from anyone else, and take all their chances." Not that he was any sort of price, or that these fictional people would even want his attention. His thoughts returned to Elian, circling back to what brought this subject up in the first place. "Elian is an incredibly handsome man with fine cheekbones and a light dusting of freckles... Their eyes, though, they are some of the most piercing blue.." He was probably repeating himself at this point, though. "I can see all of that in them and still know, we are just friends." If it was based only on the physical, that's where it could have stopped. But Mateo also knew, his interest with Elian had never been the physical. It had been their presence.

Now Elian's presence? A tingle did go through him. That could be anything, though.

[oldtestleper]

all that shit would have never happened if they had followed OSHA guidelines

[reasonablywittyatbest]

Whenever I think about students using AI, I think about an essay I did in high school. Now see, we were reading The Grapes of Wrath, and I just couldn't do it. I got 25 pages in and my brain refused to read any more. I hated it. And its not like I hate the classics, I loved English class and I loved reading. I had even enjoyed Of Mice and Men, which I had read for fun. For some reason though, I absolutely could NOT read The Grapes of Wrath.

And it turned out I also couldn't watch the movie. I fell asleep in class both days we were watching it.

This, of course, meant I had to cheat on my essay.

And I got an A.

The essay was to compare the book and the movie and discuss the changes and how that affected the story.

Well it turned out Sparknotes had an entire section devoted to comparing and contrasting the book and the movie. Using that, and flipping to pages mentioned in Sparknotes to read sections of the book, I was able to bullshit an A paper.

But see the thing is, that this kind of 'cheating' still takes skills, you still learn things.

I had to know how to find the information I needed, I needed to be able to comprehend what sparknotes was saying and the analysis they did, I needed to know how to USE the information I read there to write an essay, I needed to know how to make sure none of it was marked as plagerized. I had to form an opinion on the sparknotes analysis so I could express my own opinions in the essay.

Was it cheating? Yeah, I didn't read the book or watch the movie. I used Sparknotes. It was a lot less work than if I had read the book and watched the movie and done it all myself.

The thing is though, I still had to use my fucking brain. Being able to bullshit an essay like that is a skill in and of itself that is useful. I exercised important skills, and even if it wasnt the intended way I still learned.

ChatGTP and other AI do not give that experience to people, people have to do nothing and gain nothing from it.

Using AI is absolutely different from other ways students have cheated in the past, and I stand by my opinion that its making students dumber, more helpless, and less capable.

However you feel about higher education, I think its undeniable that students using chatgtp is to their detriment. And by extension a detriment to anyone they work with or anyone who has to rely on them for something.

[orellazalonia]

Orella,

If this sounds interesting could I request an avengers x reader inspired by the song Matilda by Harry Styles? (If you don't like Harry, I get it no sweat you don't have to do this)

Buuuuut if you are would you be willing to do it inspired by that:

where the reader has a super shaky relationship with their parents, and it takes the avengers a moment to realize how bad the reader is struggling overall, but their parents suddenly try to get back in their life? Reader can be avenger/civilian IDC you do you soldat

Thank you for putting in hard work and time to make other people's days it means a lot to get to read your stories

Hello there, dear! Thank you so much for the kind words and the lovely request. I’m glad you guys get to read my work and enjoy it!

This was definitely one of the more unique requests based on a song, I’ve never done one of those before so this was a treat! I don’t usually listen to Harry Styles, but I did my best to try and follow some of the themes in the lyrics/song. My apologies if it isn’t entirely accurate to what you wanted or the song. Regardless, I hope you enjoy and Happy reading!!!

You Can Let It Go

Summary: After years of emotional abuse, you’ve learned to hide your pain behind quiet smiles and obedience, until a message from your estranged parents threatens to unravel the careful balance you’ve built. When the Avengers begin to see through the cracks, they show you what real support looks like: quiet, steady, and safe. The kind of family you get to choose. (Avengers x reader)

Disclaimer: Angst. Hurt/comfort. References to a bad childhood (Yelling, fighting, gaslighting, etc.) You are responsible for the media you consume.

Word Count: 3.6k+

Main Masterlist

The tower was always humming.

Soft voices in the kitchen, the sound of Stark’s AI explaining something about the energy grid, or the distant thrum of someone training on the lower levels. There was always sound layered over sound. It should’ve felt like chaos, but to you, it was background noise. Better than silence. Safer, even.

You sat at the edge of the room, half-curled on a stool with your legs pulled up to your chest, cradling a mug you hadn’t actually sipped from. The others were here, scattered across the common floor like they belonged to it. Laughing, arguing about pizza orders or movie nights, throwing popcorn at each other like siblings who didn’t know how to sit still.

You watched, smiled, when you had to, and let your laugh slip in now and then. They didn’t look too closely, which was a comfort in itself.

They saw you as quiet and reserved. A little shy maybe, but capable and kind. You always did what was asked without fuss, without complaint. You trained hard, followed orders, and didn’t make trouble. You were easy to keep around.

You were also good at making yourself small, something you'd perfected long before the Avengers.

The truth was: you had never really stopped being a ghost in your own life.

When you first arrived at the Tower, you hadn’t said much. You hadn’t needed to.

Tony had scanned your file, probably, you’d figured, but never brought it up. Steve treated you gently, like he sensed something, but never pressed. Natasha watched, always silently, the way someone who knew something watched.

But even knowing something was wrong wasn’t the same as knowing what.

They didn’t know that most of your smiles were muscle memory. That you took dinner leftovers to your room so you wouldn’t have to eat in front of anyone. That your shoulders flinched when someone called your name too sharply.

They didn’t know about the childhood that never ended. About the shouting, the silence, the punishments that came dressed as love. The way your parents had twisted the meaning of family until it felt like a curse tied to your name.

They just saw someone quiet and polite and assumed that meant peace, but peace was a long way off.

The nightmares had returned weeks ago and sleep had become this distant thing you kept chasing but never reached. You were trying to avoid breaking. Because you could feel it now, lurking beneath the surface. That sharp, pulsing ache you’d spent years learning how to numb. The part of you that had learned how to make yourself disappear.

And then the message came.

You were standing by the sink in the shared kitchen when your phone buzzed. One buzz with a short preview.

From: Mom

Haven’t heard from you in a while. Hope you’re doing okay. Let’s talk soon?

The text was short, casual even. Like there hadn’t been years of screaming and silence stretched between every word. Like she hadn’t once said, “You’re not depressed, you’re just dramatic.” Like your father hadn’t stood in the hallway with clenched fists when you dared to speak the truth.

You stared at the message until the screen went black. Then you shoved the phone deep into your pocket and walked out of the room before anyone could notice the way your hands were shaking.

You trained too hard that day.

Steve had barely called the start of the session before you were throwing yourself into drills. Sparring partners rotated in and out, but you kept going, faster and rougher. You got hit more than you usually did, not because you were slow, but because you didn’t flinch anymore.

Pain grounded you. It made things real. Physical bruises were easier to carry than emotional ones.

“Take a break,” Steve called eventually, towel slung around his shoulders. His brows were pulled together, voice cautious.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re drenched.”

“I’m fine, Cap.”

It came out a little too quickly than you intended and he caught it.

But instead of arguing, he gave a quiet nod, though his eyes followed you to the bench where you sat, breathing hard, and your fingers twitching from the adrenaline.

The thing was, they didn’t know what to look for really.

You didn’t cry in public. You weren’t reckless or explosive. You were just… quiet which was easy to overlook in a place full of larger-than-life personalities.

You kept your room clean, your reports detailed, and your performance solid. You smiled at the right times, laughed when you were supposed to, and didn’t cause trouble.

But that was the problem. You never caused trouble.

Natasha started noticing first. It was in the little things, the way you flinched when someone brushed past too quickly. How you always asked before sitting on a couch, even when there was clearly space. How you automatically apologized when someone bumped into you.

“Where’d you grow up?” She asked once casually, halfway through a late-night kitchen run.

You shrugged, not meeting her eyes. “Nowhere special.”

She didn’t push, but her eyes stayed on you for a moment too long.

By the third message, your breath started catching in your throat whenever your phone lit up.

From: Dad

We’ll be in the city this weekend. Thought maybe we could grab dinner? Just us like old times.

Old times.

You nearly laughed.

Old times where you being told to “get over it” when you flinched away from shouting. Old times were you being grounded for crying too loudly. Old times were being punished for making them feel bad.

You didn’t want old times. You didn’t know if you wanted anything from them. But the message made your chest tight all the same. Like maybe if you didn’t respond, it meant you were the cruel one now. That old script they wrote into your skin of being ungrateful, cold, selfish, started playing again.

So you went quieter. You skipped team movie night. You missed dinner two nights in a row.

You said, “I’m just tired,” when Sam knocked on your door.

And maybe, if it had gone on just a little longer, no one would’ve noticed. Maybe they would’ve let you vanish the way you always did.

But not this time. Because this time, someone did knock again and they didn’t leave when you didn’t answer.

You didn’t answer the door at first. You heard it, though. A soft patient tap, but you stayed curled up on your bed, blanket pulled up to your chest like it could hold everything in. Your room was spotless, as usual. You liked it that way. Ordered, contained, and untouched. Nothing felt worse than a mess you couldn’t explain.

The knock came again, just twice, and then silence. You closed your eyes and waited for their footsteps to fade, but they didn’t.

Instead, you heard a quiet voice through the door.

“It’s just me. Steve.”

Your stomach twisted.

He wasn’t someone you lied to easily. He looked at people like he wanted to understand them, like their pain was something he could shoulder if they let him. You didn’t know what to do with that kind of kindness. So you stayed silent again.

After a few seconds, the door creaked open just an inch. He didn’t step in.

“I’m not here to intrude,” He said gently. “Just… checking.”

The hallway light barely reached your bed, but he must’ve seen your silhouette on the bed, face half-hidden by your pillow. You didn’t move.

A pause. Then, quietly:

“We’ve been worried.”

You hated that word, worried. It felt like guilt you didn’t know what to do with.

“I’m okay,” You murmured, voice dry and too small.

“You’re not.”

That stopped you. It wasn’t harsh. There was no accusation in it. Just simple, steady honesty, the kind that cracked something in you wide open.

Steve took a step into the room, then another, until he sat near the foot of the bed. Not too close and not too far. He didn’t look at you like a soldier. He looked at you like a person, like someone trying to meet you where you were.

“Did something happen?” He asked.

You stared at the edge of your blanket, your fingers clenching it tight.

“They texted me.”

Steve didn’t ask who. He waited.

“My parents.”

Even saying it made your throat feel tight again.

You swallowed. “They’re coming into the city, said they want to talk. Like… like everything’s normal. Like it’s been long enough that it doesn’t matter anymore.”

He was quiet, letting the words settle.

“I haven’t spoken to them in three years, not since I left. Not since they made me feel like I was losing my mind just for asking not to be treated like… like that.” You exhaled shakily. “And now they want to have dinner.”

Steve’s voice was low and careful. “Do you want to see them?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s okay.”

You blinked hard. Your eyes were burning, but you refused to let the tears come. Not yet. Not again. You turned your head slightly, enough to finally meet his gaze in the dim light.

“They made me think everything was my fault for years. That I was broken, overly sensitive or attention-seeking. That I imagined things that hurt me. I had to leave to remember who I was and now they act like they miss me, like it’s love.”

Steve didn’t try to give advice. Didn’t jump to defend anyone, say “family is complicated”, or some other hollow truth.

Instead, he said, “I’m proud of you. For leaving, for surviving.”

Your breath hitched. You didn’t realize you were crying until he moved slightly closer, not touching, but there. Solid and present like a shelter in a storm.

“I’m sorry we didn’t notice sooner,” He spoke softly. “I should’ve seen it.”

You shook your head quickly, wiping at your face. “I didn’t want you to.”

That made his chest ache a little, that you felt like you had to hide pain just to keep peace.

“I want you to know,” He said gently, “You don’t owe them anything. Not a conversation, not forgiveness, not your presence. You don’t have to go.”

“But what if I do?” Your voice cracked. “What if I go, and it’s awful again? What if I let them back in and it hurts like before?”

Steve met your eyes, clear and unwavering. “Then we’ll be here when it does.”

You couldn’t speak. So you nodded, just once. And this time, when he stayed a little longer, you didn’t ask him to leave.

When the day came to meet them, you didn’t sleep the night before.

You were in bed, staring at the ceiling while the hours turned inside out. Your phone sat facedown on the nightstand, but you didn’t need to check it. You already knew the time, the place, and the message waiting like a trap. Dinner at seven. Just us.

You hadn’t responded. You hadn’t said yes. But you hadn’t said no, either. And maybe that silence was your answer.

And by noon, your nerves were a storm.

You didn’t eat or train. You stood in the shower too long, water going cold, and hands pressed flat against the tile like they could hold you together. And then you dressed like someone going to war despite the plain clothes and neutral colors, armor disguised as modesty.

Your reflection didn’t even look like you.

You tried, for a split second, to imagine them smiling and acting normal. Ordering food and making small talk like they hadn’t tried to erase you from yourself for years.

But the thought made your chest ache.

When you stepped out into the hallway, Steve was already waiting calmly. He wasn’t leaning or pacing. He was just there, hands in his pockets.

“Need a ride?” He asked softly.

You hesitated then nodded once.

The drive was quiet.

You sat in the passenger seat with your hands clenched in your lap and eyes fixed on the sky. Steve didn’t press, didn’t speak. He was just a steady presence beside you, like a lighthouse you didn’t have to swim toward, just know was there.

When he pulled up in front of the restaurant, one of those places with white linen tablecloths and polite silence, you felt like the air had been sucked out of your lungs.

“They’re already inside,” You said, barely audible.

Steve didn’t ask how you knew or if you were sure. He just looked at you.

“You don’t have to do this.”

You stared out the window. The windows of the restaurant gleamed in the early evening sun, and through the glass, you could see the back of your mother’s head. Her posture still perfect, her gestures still poised.

You swallowed hard.

“I think I need to know if they’ve changed,” You whispered. “Even if they haven’t.”

Steve gave the smallest nod. “I’ll be here when you’re done.”

You looked at him, and for a second, something loosened behind your ribs.

“Promise?”

“I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

You opened the door and stepped out into the weight of your past.

When you went inside, the restaurant was polished and glowing gold in the evening light. There were crisp tablecloths, wine glasses and menus already placed, and napkins folded neatly like secrets. You spotted them before you stepped inside.

They looked… untouched. As if the past hadn’t scorched through your life and left it in ashes. As if they were still the kind of people who got to sit here, drink expensive wine, and talk about family like it was something soft and sacred.

You almost turned around, but then your mother looked up and waved. And your feet moved anyway.

“Sweetheart,” She said when you reached the table, like her voice had never cut you open. “Look at you, you’ve gotten so strong. You look healthy, balanced.”

Your father stood to give you a brief hug. Light and distant, just enough to say he did it. His cologne smelled the same. You hated that you still remembered it.

You sat down slowly, the cushion too soft beneath you. The table felt too close and your skin buzzed with everything unspoken.

“We’re so glad you came,” Your mother said, already smiling at the waiter. “This place has the best lemon risotto. We used to come here before… well, before life got complicated.”

“I remember,” You murmured. You knew what they were trying to say.

Before you got tired of being screamed at in the kitchen. Before you stopped letting them call it discipline. Before you realized love wasn’t supposed to make me sick.

And from then on, it started.

Small talk, like nothing happened. Work, the city, what shows they were watching. Your father joked about something on the news while your mother commented on how nice your hair looked pushed behind your ears. Neither of them asked how you’d been. Not really. They asked like people fishing for evidence that you were better now, as if your struggle had been a phase, an inconvenience, or a bit of drama you’d finally grown out of.

They didn’t ask why you left. They didn’t say the word sorry. They didn’t mention the fights, the fear, or the nights you had locked your bedroom door and pressed your back against it because silence could turn into shouting in an instant.

They just smiled like all they remembered was you being difficult.

Halfway through the appetizer, your throat closed. Not from panic, not quite. But grief. Grief for the kid who had once begged them to see her pain and been told she was too sensitive. Grief for the years you spent wondering if you were the problem.

You put down your fork.

“I can’t stay.”

Your mother looked up, surprised. “What?”

“I thought I could do this,” You said quietly, forcing your voice to stay steady. “But I can’t.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Your father said, almost automatic, almost bored.

You flinched. Not visibly, not enough for anyone to see. But inside, that word opened something inside of you like an old wound.

“I’m not being dramatic,” You said, sharper this time. “I’m protecting myself.”

The silence at the table turned cold. Your mother’s smile faltered.

“We’re just trying to have a nice evening–”

“I came here hoping you’d changed.” You cut in. “But you haven’t. You’ve just… gotten better at pretending everything’s fine.”

You stood, your chair barely made a sound as you pushed it back. You looked at them both and felt nothing. Your mother opened her mouth, but you didn’t stay to hear it. You turned and walked out of the restaurant before they could say your name like a leash.

And just as he promised, Steve was waiting just outside, leaning against the car.

When he saw your face, unreadable but tight, like a balloon moments from bursting, he opened the passenger door without a word.

You climbed in, chest burning, and hands cold. The silence was a gift.

It wasn’t until you were halfway back to the Tower, streetlights blurring past the windows, that the first tear fell. Just one. You wiped it away quickly, but Steve saw.

He glanced over, voice barely a murmur. “Want to talk about it?”

You shook your head, eyes burning again. “They were… who I remembered, just in nicer clothes.”

He didn’t say I’m sorry. He just nodded.

You leaned your forehead against the window.

“I kept thinking it was me,” You whispered. “That maybe I remembered it wrong or exaggerated. That maybe I owed them another chance.”

“You don’t,” Steve said.

A pause before he added,

“But you deserve people who show up when it matters.”

And maybe that was the moment. Not the dinner, not the goodbye, but this, where you started to believe him.

After that day, you didn’t tell the team everything.

You didn’t sit them down and have a heart-to-heart or spill your past over coffee. You still smiled, still trained, and still laughed when someone made a dumb joke. But something had shifted, not loud or visible unless someone really looked.

And now, they were looking.

You came back from the dinner and didn’t go straight to your room. Instead, you sat on the floor of the common area, back against the couch, and legs stretched out. Steve brought you tea without asking. He didn’t talk or hover, just placed it beside you and left a blanket nearby in case you wanted it.

You didn’t cry again, but the tea was warm in your hands.

Later that day, Natasha came in and sat down beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You don’t need to talk,” She said, her voice like dusk, calm and measured. “But if you ever do, I’ll listen.”

You nodded, throat too tight to reply and that was enough for her.

The next day, Sam made you laugh.

It wasn’t on purpose, not really. He walked into the kitchen barefoot with a bowl of cereal and a blanket over his shoulders like a cape. You were sitting at the table, still wrapped in your own quiet. And without looking up, he mumbled, “You ever think birds are just government agents with wings?”

You snorted into your drink.

He grinned without looking at you. “There she is.”

You didn’t say anything but you smiled, for real this time.

That was how it started. Not with pity, heavy conversations, or team-wide check-ins, but with space. With care disguised as normalcy.

You noticed it everywhere.

Clint stopped teasing you when you were quiet. Instead, he started leaving music playing in the gym when you trained alone. Something soft and wordless, never anything overwhelming.

Bruce started knocking before entering any shared lab space, even when he knew it was empty. He never said why, but it made your chest ache in a good way.

Tony didn’t say anything at all, but your bedroom door got a new lock on it. One only you controlled. No access override or emergency bypass. Just you.

You cried a little when you found out. Silently, in private. Because no one had ever trusted you to be safe on your own before.

And then there was Bucky.

He didn’t try to fix it. He never said, “I know how it feels,” even though you were pretty sure he did. What he did instead was small, steady things.

He sat next to you when you couldn’t sleep. He passed you your favorite mug before you reached for it. He offered to spar, and when you said no, he didn’t take it personally.

He was simply there for you like everyone else in the small ways that mattered.

That didn’t mean that you didn’t struggle anymore. You still did.

There were still days where you flinched from kindness because it felt unfamiliar. Days where a voice too sharp or a door too loud sent your heart racing. Days where you felt selfish for needing space or broken for needing anything at all.

But now, when those days came, you weren’t alone with them.

You’d sit in the corner of the common room, curled up on the couch, and someone would always be near. Not hovering, just present. Steve reading on the other end or Natasha drinking tea nearby. Sometimes it’d be Sam humming under his breath or Bucky asleep in a chair nearby.

No one pushed you to talk when you weren’t ready or made you feel like you were being dramatic for having bad days. Because somehow, they made it safe to be not okay.

And slowly, quietly, you started to believe what Steve said before:

You didn’t owe the people who hurt you a seat at your table.

You could let it go. And for the first time in years, you were. Slowly, gradually, and not alone anymore.

[exopelagic]

i can’t believe i managed to get fucking mono and didn’t even get it by doing anything fun