Angst With A Happy Ending - Blog Posts

KEEP IT ONLINE ; jjk, ft. kth

→ 𝖲𝖴𝖬𝖬𝖠𝖱𝖸 . growing up as a lonely kid, y/n was always so manipulated and obedient when it came to her friends which led her in a great 'friendship' with one of her friends. however what would happen if the girl in question accidentally likes her online crush's picture? the picture from three years ago?

→ 𝖯𝖠𝖨𝖱𝖨𝖭𝖦 . jungkook jeon × y/n lee × taehyung kim

→ 𝖦𝖤𝖭𝖱𝖤 . social media au. fluff. angst. online crush au. slow burn.

→ 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖭𝖨𝖭𝖦𝖲 . lowercase intended, reader is really manipulated and dumb, Jungkook is really toxic and a jerk, Jungkook with personality of a cardboard box. reader has really toxic best friend. mention of anxiety, depression and suicide. REALLY TOXIC.

→ 𝖠𝖴𝖳𝖧𝖮𝖱'𝖲 𝖭𝖮𝖳𝖤 . this story is based on me tbh, except the Taehyung part.

→ 𝖱𝖠𝖳𝖨𝖭𝖦 . 18+

𝖬𝖠𝖲𝖳𝖤𝖱𝖫𝖨𝖲𝖳 𖤐 𓈒࣪ ᭡ ˖ 𝖳𝖠𝖦𝖫𝖨𝖲𝖳 𖤐 𓈒࣪ ᭡ ˖ 𝖯𝖫𝖠𝖸𝖫𝖨𝖲𝖳 𖤐 𓈒࣪ ᭡ ˖ 𝖬𝖮𝖮𝖣𝖡𝖮𝖠𝖱𝖣

00 : y/ns mains

00 : jungkooks mains

00 : prologue

01 : stalker vibes

02 : hot ass meal

03 : hot?

04 : don't tell anyone

05.1 : meme buddies

05.2 : texts

06 : can we be friends?

07 : birthday tweets

08 : taehyung

09 : boy with luv

10 : insecurities

more to come . . .

# ask jungkook

# ask y/n

# ask taehyung

# ask the rest cast

The New V Part 2

Uzi finds herself missing V. Wishing she would come back. But be careful of what you wish for! (Post episode 7, Uzi isn't in space anymore, sorry about that.) But this time it's not a cliffhanger.

💜💛💜💛💜💛💜💛💜💛💜💛💜💛

"Uzi...?"

"V?!"

An ear-splitting silence rang, and everyone could hear it. The subjects looked at one another."Uzi!" V ran the small distance between them but came to a halt upon seeing her face. A face of fear. Like when they first met.

"Th-This has to be some sick joke.." The purple drone whimpered, "Right?!" She backed away, visor displaying hollowed-out eyes, screen glitching as her voice altered slightly. She had dreamt and longed for V for so long. Why did she now feel like she was living in a nightmare with her presence here?

Uzi shook slightly, wobbly legs slowly carrying her to the direction of the colony bunker, mind racing, and sensors heating up far too quickly for her liking. She looked up at her father, like a small and helpless child. Did he know about this? What about Thad? Or Lizzy? Or J? Wait... no, yeah, J would definitely do this to her.

"Did you do this?" She looked and pointed at J. As the female Disassembly Drone glared with a shake of her head, Uzi began theorising who did this. A long, defeaning silence fell on the group. A tiny crunch of the snow was heard, and V, looking bigger from Uzi's perspective, made her act quickly.

She flinched away the moment she saw V inching closer, who seemed startled at the sudden movement. Realising it was now or never, Uzi took off running as fast as she had come.

♤

Why had she come so quickly in the first place? She thought they found V's remains or some sort of part of her. Maybe a recording of her death. That would've made her calm down more than to see her back and polished. This wasn't the V she thought was there before the elevator fell. That V would be in ruins, not brand-new, and yet, she was there, outside the landing pod.

The hardest thing about this was the fact that Uzi could barely pinpoint how she felt about this, but the easiest way to learn how you feel about something is to understand it clearer.

First thing the next night, she will find J and ask her how V had been seemingly revived. She had to know.

She just had to.Staring upon the ceiling, the purple lights seem to be shining brighter on the photograph above her bed. Standing on her tiptoes, she reached up for it.

It was her and V having their first kiss together right after they came back from camp.

♤

"Come in." The voice drawled, the pod door creaked open. "What do you want?" The drone asked, her hand moved a strand of her bangs to see the one who opened the door.

"Is V here? Not that I really care, y'know I just..." Uzi took a deep breath before repeating the initial question. "Is V here?"

J looked at her, pausing from her writing on the notepad she had equipped on her hands, her expression of seriousness faltering into one of confusion. "Uh, yeah, she's just outside. You must have not noticed her when you went in. How did you not see her?"

"Oh.." Uzi sighed, taking a step backwards, her boot hitting the snow that blanketed the entirety of the planet.

Closing the door after a quick thanks, Uzi looked around the spire, from retracing her steps from the entrance, to craning her neck to look up at the ceiling, to the back, cobwebs in the corners.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

She wasn't there."V..?" Uzi uttered, her voice cracking. Never had she thought to say that name again.Well, she never thought any of this would happen, and yet, here she was!

There was a faint yellow light on the ceiling of the spire, squeezed in at the top. Calling her name out again, the glow blinked.

"V, please! Look, I.. I shouldn't have been so terrified... but you just came out of nowhere! Like, I am here, mourning over your stupid death, then you just pop back in?!" She yelled, stomping on the ground. "Like, who does that? No being eased into it? No evidence you're actually you? Not even an explanation? Nothing? Anything could've helped, but no, you just came back without any sort of heads-up! Just waltz back into my life after sacrificing yourself and an ominous 'Uzi I trust you'? Yeah, sure, whatever! Maybe I was better off without you! I never desperately needed you anyway! I never needed anyone to mess up my feelings! Especially not a fricken murderer! You should've just left! I'd have more peace, you stupid, inconsiderate-"

Silence.

The yellow light began shaking, shivering, and the glow disappeared, similar to eyes closing.

A sigh echoed off the walls, and Uzi's face had guilt written all over it.

"Look... V. I-I'm sorry... really am," She whispered, sitting atop the frigid snow, her voice shaky from the screaming. "and I totally get if you need time to recharge. I'll wait right here for you, the same way you always waited for me when I had my angsty teen outbursts..." she chuckled softly. As her vision dimmed, her eyes closuig slow enough to see the yellow glow opening up again quickly.

♤

The unfamiliar weight on her left side disappeared, falling instead upon her chest. Looking down, she felt her sensors heating up.

"Hey... V." Uzi smiled, giving her a hug. V's arms wrapped around her, both drones' internal fans working overtime from the sudden warmth threatening to overheat them, mimicking a cat's purr. Both girls were smiling so broadly their cheeks were aching, but it didn't matter.

"Aw…" V's voice came out in a soft laugh. It was nice to hear it again without being deathly afraid of it.

Uzi's eyes hollowed for a split second, remembering what she said to V a few hours prior. Guilt overtook her again, her chest tightening so bad she felt like she was crumpled up.

"Uzi-"

"I'm so sorry. I should've calmed down, I should've just taken control of my emotions, I should've - "

"Hey, hey..." she grazed Uzi's cheek with her hand. Though it was a cold metal, it felt as if it was actively melting it off.

"It's okay."

"I forgive you."

...

One question remained, however. How did V come back polished and new in the first place?

When Uzi voiced her thought to V, she bit her lip, almost as if she was avoiding the question.

"Well, it seemed that Cyn had copies of the Disassembly Drones floating in pods around the exoplanets. This means she can replace us whenever. She must've had us on auto-replacing, though, so whenever we break, a new one will fly here with all the memories we had before."

…

"I couldn't have come earlier, I'm so sorry, I couldn't. It was out of my control."

"It's fine. The important thing is that you're back.

"They interlocked fingers that were resting on the snow."It's good to have you back."

babe, only you.

jack hughes x reader

to feed my jack obsession recently, here’s a bit of angst and fluff (no mature content). please, enjoy.

also: there’s no proofread, so..

—————————

you found yourself always wondering; “am i good enough for him?”, “do i deserve him?”. comments had been lashed out earlier this evening to darken those already eerie thoughts that you fought so hard to not reside with. a long, long stay.

jack came into the room, that was the man that’s ‘in love with you’. those thoughts slashed at your mind little cuts kept wracking your head. the trance you were in was broken by your lovers lips lovingly placed onto your head, and you felt the couch slightly dip when he sat down beside you. his arm snaked around your shoulders and pulled you close to him, your head lying on his shoulder.

no one questioned if he did enough in this relationship. no one made snarky comments on how he was so quiet, how he looked like he never put enough effort into how he showed his love, but they did to you. and it was torture trying to hit those thoughts out of your brain. every single one of those comments lingered for longer and longer each time someone made another.

“what’s wrong?”

his soft voice lingered in the room as he ran his calloused hands up and down your arm. the television was playing in the background, an old re-run of big bang theory, muted, but with subtitles.

“jack, it’s just,” you started, why couldn’t you form words. a pang in your heart stung against your chest. “i don’t deserve you.” you whispered, he froze, eyes straying from the tv and to your slumped form against him.

“what makes you think that?” he murmured, his blue eyes connected with your glossy (e/c) ones.

“i- im not good enough-“ you were cut off by a sweet kiss to the lips. “don’t talk like that. i don’t care if your quiet, i don’t care what people say about our relationship, (y/n)!” he exclaimed. “people don’t know you, and how lucky i am to actually know and to be with you. i thank anyone in the skies above that they let me hold your hands. you are everything, my universe, my world. don’t let people tear into you.”

he rubbed his hands up and down your spine as you sobbed painfully into his chest, dampening his shirt.

the thoughts were still there, but at least you had someone to guide you along this long and winding road.

“i love you.”

Small Circles

Summary : Bucky Barnes is still getting used to modern dating… and hates that you have to work with your exes.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x vigilante!reader (she/her)  / ex!various MCU anti-heroes/vigilantes x ex!reader

Warnings/tags : jealous!Bucky. Bi!Reader Hurt/comfort. Injury, references to violence, sex references. Reader used to be an anti-hero, and also used to date a lot of anti heroes. Angst/Fluff!!!!

Word count : 7.7k

Note : Retroactive jealousy is very common, and I definitely struggled with it when I first started dating my partner. I don’t really see it solved healthily in fiction, so I thought I’d write about it. I just finished moving in, so I will resume my series writing soon! And please, if you’d like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. Enjoy!

Bucky Barnes didn’t talk about his exes.

For one, they were from a time when women wore red lipstick like armour and wrote love letters to the men who might not make it back home. Two, in the 1940s, talking about past relationships was basically the equivalent to hanging your dirty laundry out in the street— and not just because most of them ended with him shipping out to war. Sex and feelings simply didn’t belong in polite company.

But here he was, in the 21st century, trying to navigate dating after missing eight decades of social evolution— trying to keep up with you. 

And god, he hadn’t stood a chance from the moment you first met.

You were the first person he met post-pardon that didn’t look at him like the sum of his past. Sam introduced you at a bar in D.C.—nothing fancy, just three tired veterans nursing drinks and pretending the world wasn’t still spinning out of control.

“She’s an old friend,” Sam said. “Used to serve with me in the air force. Then she went off grid and disappeared to be an antihero—”

“Vigilante,” you corrected, scoffing.

“Whatever,” Sam rolled his eyes, “But she’s retired now.”

“You’re prettier than the photos.” You gave Bucky a once-over. “Grumpier, too.”

He blinked, thrown off by how casual you were, and before he could respond, you leaned in and asked, “You always look like someone stole your puppy, or is that just for special occasions?”

Sam just laughed and walked off to grab another round, leaving Bucky staring at the woman who didn’t flinch when he said “Winter Soldier” like it was some contagious disease.

Instead, you talked and talked through the night. At one point, he was talking about his brainwashing, and you just leaned your elbow on the bar, eyes on his metal hand, and said, “I’ve done worse.”

It was the first time someone didn’t try to talk him out of his guilt. You didn’t say he was “more than his past.” 

You didn’t try to fix him. 

You just looked at him and recognised the survivor with blood under his nails and scars that never faded.

That night, he walked you home. It was supposed to be a formality, but you talked the whole way, about the desert missions you and Sam survived, about the ops you ran without orders, about why you quit the military, and the blurry line between heroes and people who did what had to be done.

“Why’d you retire?” he asked at your door.

“After the Blip, I helped the Avengers out. Did some good. Got tired of seeing my hands stained red, even when it was for the right reasons.” You shrugged.  “Figured if I couldn’t die, I might as well live. Got a nice place. Set up offshore accounts. Now I make pancakes and talk to my plants.”

He smiled. 

“What about you, Barnes?” You asked, leaning against the doorframe. “You ever get tired of the life?”

Fuck, he hadn’t flirted in decades. He wasn't even sure if he still knew how anymore. 

But with you, it was easy. It was awkward at first, sure, but you laughed every time he stumbled, and you never once made him feel like he was too broken to try.

He brought you flowers a week later. 

Tulips. 

He had said he read somewhere that they meant forgiveness. You didn’t ask who he was forgiving.

“I’m not afraid of your past,” you told him one night, sitting on the floor of your living room after Sam convinced him to take you out on a date. “Not when I’ve got one that would make priests faint.”

He looked at you then, and the walls he’d spent so many years building fell all at once, because you weren’t someone he had to hide from. 

You weren’t afraid of the blood on his hands, because you’d seen it on your own.

So you became a couple. 

Three years later, he still couldn’t believe how easily you loved him.

You were loud where he was quiet, open here he was closed— a perfect balance. 

You called his name like it wasn’t borrowed from another lifetime. And for the first time, he wasn’t just surviving— he was healing. 

He was planning a future. 

With you.

And then… Sam had to drag you back into the field.

That’s when everything started to unravel.

See, Sam had said it would be one mission.

"Just a quick assist," he told you, sliding a file across the table while Bucky sat beside you, arms crossed and already suspicious. "No big commitment. We just need someone who knows how to hit hard and get out clean. I know what you’re capable of,” Sam leaned back and crossed his arms, “And this has your style written all over it.”

“This isn’t just a mission,” You raised an eyebrow, flipping through the folder and studying the requirements. “This is a clusterfuck.”

“That’s why we need you,” Sam fogged. “Come on, for old times’ sake.”

You said yes. 

Later that night, Bucky looked at you like Sam had handed you a grenade. “You’re retired.”

You smiled sadly. “It’s just one job, Buck.”

And at the time, you meant it. 

You really did. 

You had an house together, the pancakes and the plants. 

You had Bucky. 

You had a life.

But then you got out there again—suited up, boots in the dirt, heart pounding like it used to—and it was like a switch was flipped in you.

Adrenaline was one hell of a drug.

You weren’t craving chaos or the violence. Not anymore. 

Unlike your antihero days, you didn’t kill this time. You’d made that choice before stepping onto the field. You weren’t going to be the person who solved problems with blood anymore.

But the mission lit something inside you all the same.

Perhaps it was control. Perhaps it was purpose. Or clarity. 

The world didn’t make much sense most of the time, but in the field, you knew exactly who you were.

So when you came back home after that mission—Bucky could already see it in your eyes.

“You’re going back,” he said flatly, watching you drop your gear in the hallway.

You shrugged, breathless, hair stuck to your forehead. “I mean… yeah. I missed it. But I’m not that person anymore, Buck. No killing. Just in and out. Recon only. You know the drill.”

Bucky didn’t answer. 

Because part of him was proud. You’d stepped back into that world on your terms.

But another part of him… was afraid of who you were behind the mask.

—

The first sign was Matt Murdock.

It was your and Bucky’s first mission together since you’d unretired. Sam had assigned a simple intel grab in Hell’s Kitchen. You needed a legal inside man, someone who knew the network by heart, and Sam had said, “You still got a contact in New York, right?”

That’s how you and Bucky ended up across the table from Matt in his firm, the three of you tucked into a room that smelled like paper and secrets.

From the moment you walked in, there was chemistry— it wasn’t active, nor was it inappropriate, but it was present. 

Bucky could see it in the way Matt tilted his head to the sound of your laugh, how your posture relaxed like muscle memory. It was subtle, but it was there.

“You told him,” he said with a small smile. He could hear it in Bucky’s heartbeat. “About my… other job.”

You glanced at Bucky, who was stiff beside you. “Yeah,” you said. 

Matt hummed. That told him more than it should. “You must be serious about him, then.”

You just nodded, infuriatingly calm and confident. “I am.”

Bucky didn’t say anything. He didn’t trust himself to, especially because Matt’s voice was too casual when he added, “We used to be a thing, her and I.”

It wasn’t a dig. It wasn’t even smug. But it was there. As far as Bucky was concerned, it was a punchline with no joke attached.

You shrugged as the meeting wrapped, grabbing your jacket. 

“His job and crime fighting? No time for me,” you whispered an explanation on your way out. 

But it was the way you said it— the lack of apology. It was the way you weren’t surprised your old flame was part of the mission. 

“You never told me he was your ex,” Bucky mumbled under his breath. 

“We never had to meet any of my exes in retirement,” you shrugged.

That night, Bucky lay awake in your bed, staring at the ceiling while your body curled toward his. 

But all he could think about was Matt fucking Murdock—Daredevil. Lawyer by day, masked vigilante by night. Another man who had kissed you, fought beside you, known you in a world Bucky still wasn’t sure he fully belonged in.

What the hell.

This was the first time you’d fought side by side. The first time he saw how natural you were when the mask slipped back on. And suddenly, Bucky was wondering if he was the only one still trying to catch up.

—

The conversation about Yelena came over coffee. 

It was one of those late mornings, with sunlight spilling through the window of your kitchen, his metal fingers on your knee. You were sitting close, like always, thighs touching under the table, his hoodie drowning your body in a sense of safety. 

Bucky was scrolling through contacts Sam had floated for upcoming intel work, casually tossing out names. “Yelena Belova might be a good person to reach out to for our next mission. She’s low-profile, knows how to stay off the radar.”

He didn’t even look up when he said it, but you froze, coffee cup hovering in the air, just long enough for him to notice.

“Well… yeah. I haven’t seen her since…”

His head tilted slightly. “Since what?”

He tried to keep his voice neutral. But it came out just a little too sharp, like it scraped on the way out.

You hesitated, a little sheepish. “Since Paris. There was a caper. Messy one. We got out clean, but… one thing led to another.”

Oh.

He knew you were bi, so that wasn’t a surprise. But he never expected that knowledge to ever come with knowing names, too. 

Another sip of coffee wouldn’t fix the knot in Bucky’s stomach, but he took one anyway. It gave him something to do besides look at you—at the woman he’d fallen in love with, who kissed him in the dark and said “I love you” every night.

He nodded pretending it was fine. Pretending it didn’t sting.

But it did. Because it was another name from the same small, bloodstained circle of vigilantes and morally gray heroes. 

He didn’t realise how many people you’d still work with were the same people you’d trusted with your body before you ever handed Bucky your heart.

You were experienced. Not in a shameful way, but you'd lived. You’d fought and fucked and fled and loved in all the places Bucky had never dared go. And now you were here—his—but he couldn’t stop that stupid thought in the back of his head:

Where do I even fit in the story?

You reached for his hand, your thumb brushing the metal knuckles like it was second nature. You leaned in, pressing a kiss to his temple, voice soft.

“She didn’t mean anything long-term,” you reassured him.

He wanted to believe that settled it. He wanted to lean into you, like he always did, but he froze—just for a moment. It was a childish, stupid insecurity rearing up where your warmth used to melt it down.

And Bucky hated that, even now, three years deep in love with you, he still sometimes felt like the last one to the party.

—

Then came London, and of course, Moon Knight.

It was supposed to be a clean extraction—intel swap, quick in and out. You and Bucky were working in sync like you'd done this a few times now. 

There were no hiccups, until he showed up.

You spotted him across the plaza first— casual clothes that you knew could turn into a divine suit any second, and a woman at his side. You froze instinctively, and Bucky felt it immediately.

The guy was weird in that charming, cryptic way, like he might shake your hand or break your nose, depending on what time of day it was. And you smiled at him. 

“London is always full of surprises,” you said as the man approached. You turned your attention to the two people now standing before you.

“Who am I talking to?” you asked, casual on the surface, but your eyes scanned him like they used to.

“Relax, it’s Marc.” The man gave a small, tired smile. “This is Layla.”

“Layla,” you repeated. “Nice to meet you.”

“We’re married,” Marc added.

“Good for you!” You beamed genuinely. “Seriously, never thought I’d see the day. This is my boyfriend. Bucky— Marc and I used to… date. A lifetime ago.”

Bucky gave a tight nod, hands in his pockets. “Of course you did,” he muttered under his breath.

Marc caught it. So did you. You shot Bucky a really? look, but Layla just laughed, clearly unfazed. She greeted you like she’d known about you already, because you were clearly another name Marc had mentioned.

“So… does he still talk to Khonshu in the bathroom?” you asked Layla with a crooked grin.

“All the time,” Layla said dryly. “Once, I came in to see the bathtub trashed. He said it was because of Khonshu. At least Tawaret isn’t that demanding.”

Bucky shifted uncomfortably. 

“Yeah, we weren’t all superheroes with government contracts,” Marc added, trying to joke, but there. “Some of us were just bleeding in alleyways hoping the gods were paying attention.”

Bucky wasn’t sure if that was a dig. He also wasn’t sure how to respond. Was there a polite way to talk to your girlfriend’s ex who serves a moon god and still too-casual wife who served the goddess of fertility?

You tried to smooth it over, looping your arm through Bucky’s. But he was still stuck on the fact that you had dated this man—this strange, fractured vigilante with too many voices and a ring on his finger now. You’d been part of his chaos once, too.

And that he hated that Layla was okay with it, hated that Layla was secure— because fuck, if it didn’t make him feel bad. That’s who he should be. 

He shouldn’t be bothered by any of this. But he couldn't help it, he was.

Bucky couldn’t help but feel like he was the only one trying to learn how to stand still while everyone else had already danced through the fire and survived.

He was old-fashioned. He didn’t know how to joke about weird missions with exes or that time you almost died in a tomb under the Nile.

You, on the other hand, just kept moving forward. 

And Bucky loved you—but in that moment, he felt like the odd one out in a room he hadn’t realised he was still learning to walk through.

—

Then Nebula arrived on earth, as she always did every couple of years. It was a routine visit.

She talked to Sam for a while to exchange intel, but after that… the lines between work and play got blurred.

Sam had dragged you and Bucky to a rooftop bar, insisting that even people with kill counts needed to let loose. Nebula was tagging along. She wasn’t the nightlife type, but she was making an effort to try Earth customs.

So, there you were, nursing a coke, while Bucky was ordering himself another drink. 

He was watching you across the room, laughing at something Sam had said when Nebula slid in next to you.

She said no greetings. No small talk. Just a hand on your thigh and a blunt, “Are we doing this again?”

Bucky could hear that, thanks to his enhanced hearing.

You choked slightly on your drink, startled but not shocked. You swatted her hand off gently, not unkind, but firm.

“I have a boyfriend now,” you said with a smile. You tipped your head toward Bucky’s direction. “Long-term.”

She blinked, entirely unaffected. “What’s that like?”

Bucky was across the room, eyes fixed on you. His knuckles were white around his glass.

Later, when you were alone again, Bucky asked, “You…  and her?”

You curled up beside him on the couch, his vibranium arm slung heavy over your shoulders. You kissed his jaw once, then the corner of his mouth. “It was during the Blip, when she went to Earth a lot more,” you said casually, “Long-distance didn’t work. It… happened a couple times. Nothing serious.”

Bucky didn’t answer right away.

Nothing serious.

The words sat in his gut like a stone.

That was what got him. Not that it happened. Not that you’d been with someone else. He knew—internally, logically—that he wasn’t your first. But that phrase stuck like a splinter under his skin.

Nothing serious.

You said it so easily. That sharing a bed, even briefly, didn’t matter as long as it wasn’t long-term.

But Bucky came from a different world. One where people didn’t talk about past lovers. Where something like a hand on a thigh meant you were hers.

And now here he was—three years in, in love with a woman who kissed him like he hung the moon and yet casually mentioned flings with alien assassins.

He didn’t say anything that night, but pulled you in closer and let you fall asleep on his chest.

But he stayed awake long after, staring at the ceiling.

You were his peace. 

But when it came to your past, he felt like a stranger in your house. 

—

That month after, you came home flushed with mission energy, shedding your jacket before the door had even shut.

“She’s still as annoying as ever,” you said, grinning. “Yelena. She hasn’t changed. Made me climb five flights of a condemned building instead of going around because it was ‘more fun.’ See, this is why it would have never worked out between us.”

You were buzzing— adrenaline and nostalgia glowing in you. Bucky didn’t match your energy.

He stood in the kitchen silently as he rinsed a mug. You didn’t notice at first. Or maybe you did, but you didn’t think anything of it until he set the mug down so hard, it cracked down the middle.

“You ever gonna tell me how many of these people you’ve actually slept with?”

You froze mid-step. “What?”

He turned, tense as a live wire. “Every time we go out in the field, you’ve got history with someone. Is there anyone we’ve worked with who hasn’t had a piece of you?”

Whoa. Where did this come from? 

“What the hell are you talking about?”

He didn’t back down. “I’m serious. Daredevil. Moon Knight. Nebula. Yelena. I can’t take two steps into a mission without watching someone look at you like they already know how you sound in bed.”

You blinked, stunned. “Is that what this is about? You’re jealous?”

“I’m not jealous,” he snapped. “I’m—”

“You are,” you cut in. “And possessive, apparently.”

He didn’t deny it. “I just— I can’t keep pretending like this doesn’t eat at me. I walk into a room with you and wonder who the hell knows you better than I do.”

You stared at him, chest rising and falling. “You never told me this bothered you.”

“Well, I didn’t know half this shit until the last few months!” he barked. “Because you’re so damn casual about it. ‘Oh yeah, we hooked up a few times,’ like it’s a joke—like it doesn’t mean anything.”

“Because it didn’t, Bucky!” you shouted back. “Because none of them were you. None of them lasted. You’re the only one I gave three years of my life to, and you’re standing here acting like I cheated on you with my past.”

He didn’t respond. 

And something inside you broke a little.

“I don’t know what you want me to do,” you said, smaller now. “Erase it? Lie? Pretend I lived like a nun until you came along?”

“I want to not feel like I’m sharing you with half the damn underground,” he looked down, teeth grinding.

You let out a bitter laugh. “Then maybe you should’ve picked someone from your own century.”

That landed like a slap. 

You shook your head. “We’ve got an early mission tomorrow. Get some rest.”

Without waiting for another word, you grabbed a pillow from the couch and walked down the hall.

You slept in the second bedroom that night.

You didn’t cry. But god, it hurt.

And Bucky sat awake in the kitchen for hours, guilt and resentment twisted in his chest like barbed wire, because he knew none of what he said was fair. 

But the feelings he felt were still real. And they were starting to rot.

—

In the morning, you two were so quiet still that every small sound felt amplified: the click of your knife sliding into your boot, the zip of your jacket, the dull thud of your holster being strapped across your chest.

Your movements were efficient, muscle memory from years of knowing how to armour up always kicking in.

Across the room, Bucky stood still, with his gear slung half-forgotten over his metal arm. His eyes were rimmed with red, dark bruises blooming underneath from a night without sleep, but he had a job to do, so he was awake anyway. 

“Y’know…” He finally said. “You didn’t have to sleep in the other room.”

You fastened the last strap on your thigh holster and glanced at him. “Didn’t feel like pretending we were okay.”

You saw it—the slight flinch in his muscles, the way he looked down like the floor might offer a better answer than anything in his own damn head.

“You think I don’t know we’re not okay?” he said, quieter this time. “You think I didn’t lay awake wishing I could take it back?”

“Then why’d you say it?” you snapped, finally turning to face him. 

Bucky’s mouth opened, then closed it immediately. He had no excuses.

“You didn’t ask. You never asked.” You shook your head, biting down the lump in your throat. “You just… threw it in my face like it was supposed to shame me. Like I was a toy being passed around!”

He stepped forward, desperate now. “I wasn’t trying to shame you, I— I was pissed, okay? I was stupid. I saw the way Matt looked at you, and then Nebula, and—Christ—Marc—”

“They were my exes, Bucky!” You raised your voice, “what do you want me to do? Never speak to them again? I would have no help in this line of work!”

“Doesn’t matter!” he snapped, frustration boiling over. “BecauseI feel like I’m just the guy keeping your seat warm.”

You stared at him, throat tight. “That’s what you think I’m doing? Killing time?”

“No,” he said, gentler now. “No. I know you love me. I know.” His voice cracked. “But I come from a time where no one talks about this kind of stuff. Where men didn’t have to wonder how many people their girl used to patch up in back alleys and kiss between fights.”

“Well guess what, Bucky,” you said, voice trembling. “I didn’t get the luxury of going to swing bars and holding hands on Coney Island. I got blood and war and figuring out how to survive without falling apart. I didn’t know I was going to make it past 25. And then you came along. You—you, James—you made me realise some things last. And now you're throwing it in my face because what? You didn’t like the guest list to my past?”

He looked like you’d shot him.

But there wasn’t time to let the silence fester again—your comms buzzed with an urgent ping from Sam.

The mission. 

You turned toward the door.

“Let’s just get through today,” you said, voice brittle. “We’ll figure the rest out after.”

You walked out first.

And this time, Bucky followed—not because he knew what to say, but because even after everything, he couldn’t stand not being by your side.

—

The op was supposed to be easy.

But nothing was easy when you were angry.

You and Bucky moved like soldiers, but not like partners—not like you usually did. 

You were out of sync, one heartbeat off, one glance too short. One command left unsaid because your pride wouldn’t let either of you speak first.

That got you ambushed.

Suddenly, you were ducking behind crumbling concrete, the walls of the building already groaning as a blast from beneath shook the foundations.

Gunfire rained down the stairwell.

Bucky shielded you without thinking, metal arm flashing as he tore through two men, fast and efficient—but not fast enough.

A stray bullet lodged  itself in you.

You screamed.

“Goddammit!” you hissed, hand pressing to your shoulder as blood spread fast. “Fucking—shit!”

Bucky was already beside you, crouched low, blue eyes wide and terrified. “You’re hit.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

You leaned against the wall, blood soaking through your suit too fast, pooling in your glove as you applied pressure. Your vision blurred, but you forced yourself to stay upright. 

“We have to move,” you growled, pushing off the wall. “Extraction’s too far, comms are jammed.”

“Then tell me where to take you,” Bucky said, already moving to sling your arm over his shoulder. “You’re losing blood.”

You paused, teeth clenched so hard your jaw hurt. You did know someone in the vicinity. “You’re gonna hate this.”

“Tell me anyway.”

You guided him three blocks through the back alleys of the city, stumbling past broken windows, flickering lights, and blood left behind like breadcrumbs. You turned down a shadowed stairwell, and at the end of the corridor was a steel door. 

You raised your good hand and knocked: four slow, two fast.

A secret code. 

Bucky stiffened beside you. “You have a safehouse down here?”

“Not mine…” you mumbled under your breath. 

The door swung open, and there he was.

Frank Castle.

Bucky had heard about him— The Punisher.

He looked at you. Then at Bucky.

Then at your shoulder. “You’re bleeding.”

“I know,” you muttered through gritted teeth. “Let me in.”

Frank stepped aside immediately, grabbing you by the waist like it was second nature. Bucky’s hand was still on you. Neither man let go.

“Nice to see you, too,” Frank said with a worried frown.

Bucky followed, staring at Frank like he was a ghost come to life—except this ghost had callouses, bruises, and knew your name too well.

“You’ve got him on speed dial?” Bucky bit out.

You sank down on the battered couch as Frank pulled out a med kit and started cutting through your gear. “I said you’d hate it.”

Frank smirked without looking up. “Still dramatic, huh?”

“She’s bleeding,” Bucky growled, stepping in. “Maybe shut the fuck up and do something useful.”

“Relax, soldier.” Frank didn’t blink. “I’ve patched her up worse.”

Bucky's jaw twitched. "Worse?"

You groaned. “Please. Not now.”

But it was already too late— you could smell the testosterone and unfinished history. 

Frank’s hands were on you. Bucky’s heart was in his throat. He saw the way Frank looked at you— like he knew what your skin felt like already. 

“You two…” Bucky started, then stopped. His voice was dangerously low. “You fucked, didn’t you?”

Frank looked up. “We didn’t bake cookies.”

Bucky surged forward. “I swear to God—”

“Both of you!” you barked. “Enough!”

Frank didn’t flinch. He just scoffed under his breath and turned back to your shoulder, grabbing a syringe from the med kit and tearing open a pack of gauze with his teeth. 

“Didn’t realize you were dating the Winter Soldier,” Frank muttered, injecting the numbing agent into the skin around your wound. “Last time I saw you, you were with that blonde Widow chick. Got a thing for Russians now, pretty girl?”

Your eyes fluttered shut for a second. Pain, exhaustion, and frustration welled up inside. “Shut the fuck up, Frank.”

“I’m not Russian,” Bucky snapped before he could stop himself.

Frank glanced over his shoulder. “That’s not what I heard.”

Bucky stepped closer, chest heaving. “You want to test what I’ve got in common with the Red Room, Castle?”

“Easy,” Frank shook his head, “just sayin’. She always did have a type.”

That almost did it.

Bucky’s fists curled at his sides. His breath came faster. He saw red— and for a split second, he was ten seconds away from tearing Frank’s smug face off. 

But then… he heard your soft whimper. It was a hiss of pain. Your head tipped  back against the couch, eyes fluttering as the blood loss started to catch up. 

And suddenly, Bucky remembered why he was here. What really mattered.

You.

He was at your side in an instant, kneeling by the couch as Frank packed the wound and started stitching. You were grunting, your fingers twitching for something to hold.

Bucky took your hand.

You gripped him like he was the only thing tethering you to this world.

Frank worked without saying much after that. The tension between him and Bucky didn’t fade—it settled like a landmine they both agreed not to step on. For now.

“Got anything for the pain?” Bucky asked, looking toward the dingy kitchen.

Frank jerked his chin. “Cabinet over the fridge. Bottles labeled in red are painkillers. Other colors are mine.”

Bucky found what he needed. Got the pills into you with a cracked water bottle. He sat by your side while you slowly went limp under the weight of the drugs.

You passed out with your head in his hands. He brushed the hair from your face with a touch so gentle it made Frank’s heart ache.

—

An hour later, Bucky stood at the tiny sink in Frank’s dimly lit bathroom, water running red as he scrubbed blood from his hands. 

The cracked mirror above the sink showed him a version of himself he didn’t like: wild eyes, tired lines on his forehead, and blood smeared up to his wrists.

This was your blood.

He gritted his teeth, pressing his palms harder under the water like he could scrub away his sins, like he could rewind time just by cleaning fast enough.

You got shot because we weren’t focused. He thought to himself. Because I couldn’t shut my mouth. Because I couldn’t let go of the past. Because I just had to pick a fight.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

You had every right to have a past. You told him, over and over, that you chose him.

But it hadn’t been enough in the moment. 

And now…

Now you were unconscious on Frank Castle’s couch with stitches in your shoulder, and he was standing in a stranger’s bathroom washing away the evidence of his own failure.

He slammed the faucet off and leaned heavily on the sink, breathing hard. For a moment, he just stared at himself. The blood was gone, but the shame still clung to him like a second skin.

“Get a grip,” he said to his reflection.

He grabbed a towel and dried his hands.

Behind him, the door creaked open. He didn’t have to turn around to know it was Frank.

“You done crying in there, Barnes?”

Bucky met his own bloodshot eyes in the mirror and took a deep breath. When he stepped back out, Frank was already cracking open two beers— one slid across the counter toward him like a peace offering.

“Don’t drink on missions,” Bucky said, even though alcohol didn’t give him anything to work with. 

“We’re not on a mission anymore.” Frank shrugged.  “You’re in my house. She’s breathing. “Take the fuckin’ beer.”

Bucky hesitated, but still sat down.

He cracked it open and drank in silence.

Frank leaned back, arms crossed, smiling like he’d already written this whole scene in his head.

“So,” Frank said. “How’s that working out for you?”

Bucky shot him a sideways glare. “You mean her?”

Frank raised an eyebrow. “No, I meant your bloodstained fashion choices. Yeah, I mean her.”

Bucky drank again. “Fine.”

“That right?” Frank said, not buying it for a second. “Cuz she showed up bleeding out on my doorstep and you looked two seconds from throwing me through a wall.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed. “You didn’t exactly help.”

Frank’s grin widened. “What, calling you soldier? That’s what you are, ain’t it?”

Bucky didn’t answer. 

Both of them drank.

The air between them stayed hot, but not explosive. 

Frank looked toward the back room, where you were still out cold. The lines of his mouth softened slightly, the smirk dying in the corner of his mouth.

“She still talk in her sleep?”

Bucky glanced at him. “Sometimes.”

“Used to scare the shit out of me. She’d mumble names. Codes. Orders. She’d say something about Wilson or about how Riley’s in danger. Good ol’ air force PTSD,” Frank nodded, “One time she said my name and thrashed so hard I thought she was gonna kill me in her sleep.”

Bucky didn’t respond.

“She doesn’t talk.. about you,” Bucky said finally. His voice was low, eyes locked on the floor. “I didn’t even know you two…”

Frank shook his head. “Didn’t bake cookies,” he echoed.

“Yeah. Got it.”

They let another beat of silence fester.

“You loved her?” Bucky asked, even though he didn’t really want to know the answer.

“I did,” Frank took a sip, but didn’t look at him. “Still do. Not the same way, though.”

Bucky’s hand tightened around the bottle. “What the hell does that mean?”

Frank finally looked at him. No sarcasm now, just tired honesty.

“I don’t know if she told you about my… past. But after all that happened to me, I didn’t think I was capable of it again. I was half dead. Barely human. And then she showed up and saw through all the bullshit. And she stayed.”

Bucky was listening. Processing.

“She taught me how to feel again. Real shit. Not just rage. Not just grief.” Frank rubbed the back of his neck, like the memory itched. “She used to tell me I wasn’t broken, just dented. I believed her.”

“So what happened?”

Frank leaned back, eyes on the cracked ceiling.

“She fed my flame and I fed her violence. I knew if she kept me around, she’d forget what peace felt like. So I ended it.”

That made Bucky’s stomach twist. He hated how much of that felt familiar. 

Frank glanced toward the couch where you were still curled in sleep, bandages soaked but holding. “She deserves better than that.”

“She deserves someone who doesn’t get jealous of her past,” Bucky muttered.

“You and me both,” Frank chuckled under his breath. “I used to hate that I shared an ex with Red,” Frank admitted. Bucky could just assume he was talking about Daredevil. “But it’s a small world. Small circle. Vigilantes fuck around. You think we go home to nice houses and clean sheets?”

Bucky said nothing. Because now, you did. 

“How long you two been together?” Frank asked, casual.

Bucky didn’t answer right away. Just watched the light shift across the floor as the old ceiling fan spun overhead. Then, finally, “Three years.”

Frank’s eyebrows lifted. “Three?”

He let out a low whistle and took a sip. “Well, I’ll be damned. That’s like… eight decades in vigilante time.”

Bucky didn’t smile, but nodded once.

“Congratulations,” Frank tilted his beer toward him in a mock toast. “Longest relationship I ever seen her in. Not that I was taking notes or anything, but…” He grinned. “I knew all the flings. None of ‘em made it past a year. Most of them burned out around month ten.”

Bucky shifted, fist clenched, but not as harsh as before. “I’ve met a few of them. Or… worked with ‘em.”

Frank chuckled. “Bet that’s fun.”

“Not really.”

Frank scoffed. “Y’know,” he said, “you don’t gotta worry about me. Or any of the rest of us.”

Bucky looked at him sideways. “Yeah?”

Frank nodded toward the living room, where you were sleeping under a threadbare blanket, one leg hanging off the side of the couch.

“She wouldn’t be here if she didn’t love you. Still a bit of a dick when she’s mad, but who isn’t? She chose you. That woman’s got trust issues deeper than the fuckin’ ocean, but she lets you near her when she’s bleeding?” He shook his head. “That’s something, man.”

Bucky’s hand curled loosely around the bottle. “Doesn’t stop the way it feels sometimes. Like I’m… following ghosts.”

Frank leaned against the counter, arms folded, studying him. “You’re not a ghost to her.”

“Feels like I am.”

“Then stop acting like one.”

That hit a little deeper than Bucky expected. He looked away.

“You’re not me,” Frank said finally. “And that’s a good thing.”

Bucky blinked. Looked up.

Frank gestured between them. “You know what I gave her? Rage. Like I said, we fed each other’s worst instincts.” He took a breath. “You give her something I couldn’t: Peace.”

Bucky scoffed, a bitter little noise. “Peace? You should see the way we’ve been acting lately?”

Frank shrugged. “Fights happen. Especially with her.” He smirked. “But she came here because she trusted you to carry her when she couldn’t stand. That’s what counts.”

Bucky  took a sip of the beer, but didn’t really taste it. He still felt the heat of the moment in his chest.

Frank tilted his bottle toward him again. “You love her?”

“More than anything.”

“Then hold on to that.” Frank’s voice was sincere. “Cause’ if two broken people can get their shit together and still choose each other every damn day, that’s more than most people get.”

They sat in silence for a while, before eventually, Frank raised his bottle one more time. “To the girl who survived all of us.”

Bucky hesitated—then tapped his bottle gently against Frank’s.

“To the girl who made us feel human again,” he said.

They drank.

In the back of the room, you shifted in your sleep, muttered something under your breath, then went still again.

Frank leaned back. “Think she’s gonna be pissed when she finds out we bonded?”

Bucky found himself a smile— just a little. “Probably.”

—

The pain was dull when you woke up—  more like a memory than a wound, pulsing behind your bones in sync with your heartbeat. Your shoulder throbbed under tight bandages.

You cracked your eyes open, vision swimming in the dim light. The ceiling was warped and water-stained, familiar in the worst way, lit only by the flicker of a busted lamp somewhere in the room. The air smelled like old cigarette smoke, sweat, and gun oil.

You remembered where you were. Frank Castle’s safehouse.

You felt a body pressing against your side. 

Bucky.

He was crouched beside the couch, looking like he’d been glued to your side for hours— maybe longer. His hair was a mess, flattened in places from where he’d run his hands through it on repeat. 

“Hey,” he greeted, rough around the edges but laced with so much affection it you felt it more than you felt the wound. He leaned in and kissed your forehead, “You okay?”

Your lips twitched into a ghost of a smile. You tilted your head just enough to brush your mouth against his in return, your voice barely above a whisper. “Mmhmm.”

Behind you, someone cleared their throat.

You glanced past Bucky, and there was Frank— arms crossed, watching the two of you with a look that wasn’t quite judgment and wasn’t quite amusement either. 

It looked like... approval.

Bucky glanced over his shoulder, but shifted closer to you anyways. His hand brushed your hair back with the softest care, like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

“We gotta go, yeah, doll?” he said. “Whenever you’re ready.”

You winced as you shifted upright, his hand already sliding under your good arm. You leaned into him without hesitation. 

“Yeah,” you exhaled, trying to shake the fog from your head. “Just... give me a sec.”

You rested your forehead against his shoulder for a moment, letting the world settle, then pushed yourself upright again. 

“Thanks, Frank,” you managed, voice rough but sincere. “For the whole... keeping me alive thing.”

His mouth curved upward at the corner. “Anytime, pretty girl.”

The words had barely left his mouth before Bucky’s voice cut through the room— “Don’t call her that.”

But.. there was a hint of playfulness in his voice.

Frank’s brow ticked up, amised. “Relax, soldier. It’s a nickname, not a ring.”

“She’s not yours to nickname.”

You let out a low groan, rubbing your hand over your face. “Jesus Christ. I almost died and you two are busy measuring dicks?”

Frank huffed a small laugh. “Still got that attitude, I see.”

Bucky glanced down at you, brushing your knuckles lightly with his thumb. “Good. Means you’re still alive.”

Frank pushed off the doorway, “She’ll outlive both of us at this rate.”

Bucky’s lips twitched, his hand never leaving yours. “That’s the plan.”

You leaned against him, blinking up at the two men, brow furrowing as the realisation finally hit. 

These weren’t snide remarks. This was… banter. 

They weren’t trying to kill each other.

“What the hell…” you mumbled. “You two friends now?”

Bucky looked down at you, shrugging. “Had a long night.”

Frank smirked from across the room, raising an eyebrow. “And a few beers.”

You stared between them, utterly baffled. “The fuck did I miss?”

—

The drive back was a quiet haze of streetlights. You slumped in the passenger seat, curled toward the window, your shoulder still aching beneath layers of gauze. 

When he pulled up to your shared home, Bucky came around to your side before you could even try to open the door. He lifted you again like you weighed nothing and carried you into the apartment without saying a word.

He laid you gently on the couch, brushing the hair from your face as you settled back into the cushions. His fingers lingered on your cheek, “I’ll get your painkillers,” he said.

You let your eyes follow him as he crossed to the kitchen, retrieved a glass of water, and returned with a small pill in his palm.

“Small dose,” he warned, crouching beside you again. “We’re spacing them out.”

You took it, swallowed, then leaned your head back and sighed. You tilted your head toward him.

“So… you and Frank buddies now?”

Bucky snorted softly, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“But you talked.”

“Yeah,” He confirmed. “We talked.”

You raised a brow, mildly impressed. “And you didn’t smash each other’s face in?”

Bucky chuckled. “Came close.”

You let a beat of silence pass between you. 

Then you finally said, “I’m sorry.”

His eyes flicked back to you. 

“I should’ve seen how uncomfortable you were,” you admitted. “I… I just didn't think the exes would be a sore spot.”

“I’m sorry, too.” He reached up, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “I let all that shit build up. That’s not on you.”

“Still… I could’ve talked to you about all of it before I got back into the field.” You swallowed. “I… I just didn’t want you to see me differently.”

“I do see you differently,” he said quietly.

Your stomach twisted.

“But not in a bad way,” he added quickly. “Your past… is just that. Frank helped me see that.”

You blinked fast, trying not to cry. “But it keeps finding me.”

“I know,” he said. 

You gave him a sad smile and a kiss on the corner of his mouth. “I’m not going anywhere, Bucky. You’re my now. You’re my future. You're it.”

His breath caught, and he looked at you like you’d just pulled him out of the deepest part of the ocean.

He leaned in and kissed you, slow and soft and sweet. It was the kind of kiss that tasted like forgiveness, because he was still learning what it meant to be loved out loud by someone so unfiltered, by someone with nothing to hide.

You stayed pressed againsthim for a long time, your hand in his hair, his forehead against yours.

Eventually, he pulled back and smiled faintly. 

He stood, walking toward the kitchen. “I’m making you hot chocolate.”

You blinked after him. “Are you serious?”

“You want marshmallows?”

“Obviously.”

He got up, and from the kitchen, you could hear Bucky moving around — the clink of the saucepan on the stove, the rustle of a cocoa tin being opened, the faint hiss of milk heating as he stirred. 

You sank deeper into the couch, letting the ache in your shoulder fade into the background.

Your eyes drifted half-shut, but then you heard it.

A ding from beside you on the couch.

You blinked, turning your head slightly, and there it was — Bucky’s phone lighting up on the cushion, his name glowing on the lock screen along with the preview of a new text.

Frank Castle.

Of course it was Frank.

Curiosity got the better of you, and your eyes skimmed the message: "If you wanna give your pretty girl a break and need someone who doesn’t pull his punches on a mission, give me a call, Barnes. And I’ll be there."

You smiled — part fond, part exasperated — and the warmth in your chest didn’t dim.

Before you could say anything, Bucky’s voice floated over from the kitchen, teasing, “You looking at my phone, doll?”

You glanced toward him, two mugs cradled in his hands as he walked towards you.

“Didn’t know you and Frank exchanged numbers,” You lifted your brows. “He says he’s offering his services.”

Bucky lowered himself onto the couch beside you, placing the mug carefully into your hand.

Bucky let out a quiet snort, shaking his head as he picked up the phone and read it for himself. His thumb hovered over the reply button, but he didn’t type anything right away.

“At least,” he muttered under his breath, “he’s now calling you my pretty girl.”

You leaned your head toward him, letting it rest against his shoulder.

“Damn right I am,” you mumbled fondly.

Damn right you are. 

–end.

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If she can breathe then l breathe prologue- Part 1

In case you're wondering, I've been writing a wenclair fic for the past few months, which I’ll start uploading in AO3 the next week. I am making a prologue adaptation comic, which will be about 3 pages long. This is the first one, and once I’m done with all of them I want you guys to guess what the fic’s gonna be about.

Thrill of the Job (Ekko x Jinx)

Chapter 2.

The job was a simple one, or so it seemed. They were hired to steal a valuable artifact from a Zaunite noble, Lazar, who had a reputation for being ruthless. Ekko and Jinx spent hours on a stakeout, looking for the best way in. They moved silently, their footsteps echoing off the walls. Jinx felt a thrill of excitement, her senses on high alert. This was what she loved about the job, the thrill of the unknown, the rush of adrenaline.

As they made their way deeper into the Lazar's mansion, they encountered their first obstacle. A group of guards, armed to the teeth and looking for a fight. Ekko took note of this, his eyes scanning the room for any sign of danger. Jinx followed close behind, her guns at the ready.

"You take those two, I'll take the rest."

Ekko scowled, "Hey! Why do you get more??"

She chuckled and elbowed Ekko in the ribs, "That's not the point, so quit wasting time.."

They moved swiftly, taking down the guards with ease. But as they reached the artifact, they were confronted by Lazar himself.

The noble was a tall, imposing figure, his eyes cold and calculating. He sneered at Ekko and Jinx, his voice dripping with contempt. "You think you can steal from me?" he spat. "I'll have you know, I have the best security in Zaun. You'll never leave this place alive." Jinx smiled, her eyes glinting with amusement. She loved a good challenge, and this noble was definitely providing one.

Ekko stepped forward, his eyes locked on the noble. "We'll see about that," he said, his voice low and deadly. The noble sneered, but Ekko just smiled. With a swift motion, he knocked down Lazar, enough for Jinx to grab the artifact. She glided across the room, dodging Lazar's attacks as she signaled to Ekko for help. They made their escape out into the street, Lazar's guards hot on their heels. But Ekko and Jinx were a well-oiled killing machine, working together seamlessly to evade their attacks.

They ran through the streets of Zaun, the guards closing in. Ekko and Jinx dodged and weaved, their footsteps pounding the pavement. But as they turned a corner, they were confronted by a group of hooded figures. They were big and burly, their eyes cruel. Jinx and Ekko exchanged a look. Something was off.

"Jinx watch out!!" Yelled Ekko as one of the hooded figures charged forward, almost knocking Jinx to her feet. Jinx couldn't shake the feeling that they were in over their heads. Somewhere during those 10 seconds Ekko got caught in the crossfire. She could see the strain in his eyes, the way his movements were slowing. And then, just as they thought they had the upper hand, one of the thugs landed a lucky blow. Ekko went down, and Jinx was left to fight alone.

Jinx's heart was racing as she fought to protect Ekko. She took down the cloaked figures one by one, her guns blazing. But as she looked down at Ekko, she felt a pang of fear. He was hurt, and she didn't know how badly, It could be… serious.

She knelt down beside him, her hands shaking as she felt for his pulse.

“No..”

It was weak, but it was there. Jinx let out a breath of relief, and then she looked up to see the guards approaching.

“Fuck.”

Unrequited love || Cloud Strife

Character: Cloud Strife, Final Fantasy series

Warnings: angst, Hanahaki disease, mentions of blood/death

Summary: Your unrequited feelings for Cloud were weighing heavily on you. You were suffering not only emotionally, but also physically, to the point of death.

WC: 976 words

You've been extremely frustrated during the last few days. Your hands were entangled in the silky strands of your hair, to the point you were tearing hairs from your scalp.

For years, you've had feelings for Cloud, but you knew without asking him, that those feelings weren't mutual.

Every single person you told about your troubles, all advised you to confront Cloud about it. But, you weren't going to do that. What point was there in doing so? He had made it very clear to everyone around him, that he wasn't interested in relationships and all that.

You tried to push yourself past these feelings with every last ounce of energy you had, but it was harder than you had expected. Every time you tried to look the boy in the eyes, you felt like throwing up. And because of that, you had decided to try to avoid him at all costs.

And just like any other day, you found yourself sitting at the bar of Seventh Heaven with tears pooled at the brim of your eyes. Just the thought of Cloud made your heart break into a million pieces, but luckily, Tifa was there for you to take your mind off of things.

''Hey, cheer up! Don't stress it too much, okay?'' You heard Tifa's voice yell from the other side of the room. Tifa's ability to sense how you were feeling from such a distance shocked you. You nodded, biting on your bottom lip as you muttered out a soft 'yeah'.

Tifa walked up to you, lifting your head up a bit as she wiped the tears from your cheeks. ''You know, maybe Cloud does share your feelings. He'd prefer it if you told him instead of keeping it to yourself.'' She remarked as she softly patted your back.

''I don't know, you know how he is. He probably doesn't want to hear me whining to him about my feelings.'' You replied, heaving heavily as you picked up the glass of whiskey in front of you. You gulped the final bit in one go, coughing as a result of the scorching sensation in your throat.

''Well, I need to go out for a bit. Don't do anything stupid, okay?'' Tifa chuckled, waving you goodbye as she hurried slowly towards the door.

As soon as you heard the door fall shut behind you, you ran to the toilets. Your head was dangling over the toilet, spewing blood-tinged petals out of your mouth. You felt sick to your stomach. Not just when you saw him, but even if you thought about him for just a second.

The petals covered in blood were floating in the toilet, the sight making you throw up even more. This feeling was crushing you on the in- and outside. Just a few weeks ago, you started throwing up the petals out of the blue. When you searched up what this meant, you found yourself reading all about the 'Hanahaki disease'.

Unrequited love.

Once you read this, you knew for sure, that Cloud didn't feel the same. Everyone tried to reassure you that it was just all in your head, but it didn't change the way you felt.

Your train of thoughts were interrupted by someone knocking on the door.

''It's me. You okay in there?''

You could recognize this voice anywhere. It was Cloud. Of course it had to be him.

''I'm okay, just feeling a little sick today.''

Lies.

''Can I come in?'' He asked, his voice genuinely sounding worried this time. You heard him turning the knob to open the door that you had locked, your eyes widened as tears started streaming down your face. What were you going to say now? Just ask him to go away?

You stayed quiet, not knowing how to reply.

''Are you sure you're okay?''

Again, you stayed quiet.

You quickly wiped the blood and tears away from your face, rubbing your eyes profusely, before unlocking the door for Cloud. His eyes pierced right through you, even though you weren't looking him in the eyes. You held your breath, trying not to throw up again. It was a nightmare, thinking about Cloud seeing you throw up those petals and having to explain what's going on.

''Have you... been crying?'' He furrowed his brows, stepping closer to you, pushing some strands out of your face as you looked down at the floor. ''And what's that in the toilet? Flower petals?''

Your eyes shot up at him, your heart skipping a beat when you realized you had forgotten to hide the evidence.

''It's nothing, don't worry about it.'' You mumbled, slapping his hand away as you quickly flushed down the blood with petals. You didn't turn around as you wanted to avoid any eye contact.

''Hanahaki disease, right?''

Your chest started to hurt even more, making you pant heavily as you thought about all the possible outcomes of this.

Before you could even think of another reply, you felt his warm hands grab you and turn you around. You felt like dying.

You squeezed your eyes shut, holding tightly onto the fabric of your shirt. And to your surprise, you felt his soft and gentle lips against your own. You opened your eyes slightly to look at Cloud with his eyes shut, kissing you passionately. You were frozen in your place.

He pulled his lips away, cupping your cheeks with both of his hands as she sighed. ''I've seen you throw up those petals before.''

''How?''

That was all you could get out right now.

''Were you that sure that my feelings weren't mutual?''

''Yes, you said last time that you weren't interested in any kind of relationship.''

He placed another kiss on your forehead, his face stoic as ever. You chuckled at the sight, Cloud hadn't changed one bit.

''Maybe.. I changed my mind.''

Never stop chasing me 🐕

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x Reader

Warnings: Overprotective!Ransom, softdom!Ransom, angst, Beefy!Ransom, mentions of mean!Ransom, cunnilingus, praise, body worship, p in v

Nicknames: Puppy

Word count: 2.9k

You’ve been in love with Ransom for as long as he could remember. It was obvious to everyone around you, even to him but he ignored it. He liked feeling wanted. He liked the look of pure admiration in your eyes. He liked how you’d follow him around like a puppy. And he loved your adorable jealous face when he flirted with others. But lately you haven’t been coming around, you’ve been avoiding him completely. Then he sees you with another man. He can’t bear it, he needs you back.

Master list

Tag list🎀

Wherever Ransom went, you weren’t far behind. At the country club? You were there. At social events? You were there. Shopping for new clothes? You were definitely there; carrying his bags, giving opinions on outfits and keeping him company. Your behaviour had earned you the nickname ‘Puppy’, well at least, that was what the nicer people called you. Others, who were less nice, called you a more explicit word of the same origin. The nickname had stuck, even Ransom called you it now ‘Puppy, carry this.’ or ‘Puppy, follow me.’ or ‘Puppy, put that down’ They’d all become frequent commands. He liked having a little puppy to follow him everywhere, despite him disliking dogs—he liked you, though he would never show it. He loved the fact that no matter what he did you’d always run back to him. He adored the sad puppy eyes you always gave him; whenever he abandoned you to go off with others or whenever he said something inherently mean to you like insulting your outfit, hair or just general appearance that day—he loved the sight of tears threatening to spill from your big eyes and your lip quivering at his insults, it was one of his favourite activities. He felt powerful when he did it, something he always lacked at home—but you slotted right into that category of need perfectly. He valued your friendship deep, deep down in his seemingly non existent heart. He refused to show it though, because to show it was to admit that he needed you and he didn’t need anyone…Or did he?

But then it happened the next day, and the day after that and then just like that a week had passed. A bleak, lonely week. He sat snuggled in a sweater on one of the cushiony, cream chairs next to the roaring fireplace. He’d been on the same page of the latest fashion mag for almost an hour, staring blankly at the model; pretending to himself that he was reading it and that he totally was not waiting for you to reply to his 30th text or 50th missed call.

But then it happened the next day, and the day after that and then just like that a week had passed. A bleak, lonely week. He sat snuggled in a sweater on one of the cushiony, cream chairs next to the roaring fireplace. He’d been on the same page of the latest fashion mag for almost an hour, staring blankly at the model; pretending to himself that he was reading it and that he totally was not waiting for you to reply to his 30th text or 50th missed call.

He had caved on the third day. He couldn’t bare the silence any more. It was making him antsy, his leg was continually bouncing and for the first time in forever he’d begun biting his nails again—a habit he’d had to try so hard to curb. God damn he missed you. He missed your presence, the soft chime of your sing-song tone, the light pitter patter of your feet as you followed closely behind him and your scent—he missed that most—it was so comforting, he’d instantly relax when he smelt you. He was crumbling without it. He threw down the magazine, onto the small black table that divided the chairs, in frustration throwing his head back, resting an arm on his forehead and letting out an elongated Ughh. He was bored and lonely. Argh he hates that word: Lonely. Why the fuck should he, Hugh Ransom Drysdale, have to be lonely? It was a ridiculous concept. The words Drysdale and lonely do not align, they should never be placed next to each other. It was sacrilege. But somehow it happened.

He needed to fuck someone.

That was the conclusion he had come to, that’s why he was here at ‘Miss Scarlet’ ‘The hottest bar in town’ is what every stupid tourist site called it. To Ransom, it was exclusively known as ‘the bird nest’ because it was one of the only places he went to pick up women. Aside from the country club, of course, but he'd almost run entirely through its supply of hot milfs looking to cheat on their husbands. So now he was here, nursing a drink whilst he flirted with a hot blonde at the bar. That’s when he saw you. More dressed up than he’d ever seen you before, giggling at a guy's jokes, touching his arm whilst he kissed along your delicate face. He squeezed the glass in his hand so hard that it threatened to shatter. He slammed his glass into the polished bar top, leaving his maraschino cherry. And he never left his maraschino cherry.

Before he knew it he was striding over to you, uncaring about the looks he was getting as he parted the crowd like the Red Sea to get to you. You were stunned at the sight of him; his eyes narrowed, dark and dangerous, chest heaving, hair slightly tousled and nostrils flared as he stood tall, towering over you and the man you were fooling around with “Get up, Puppy. We’re leaving.” He demanded, waiting for you to comply. You remained seated “Puppy. Get up. Now.” He ordered sneering at the fact that he had to repeat himself, he had never had to do that with you. You had always followed commands the second they were uttered. You ignored him for the second time, he was livid. “Hey you. Yeah you, fuck face, who else I’m I talking to? Take a fucking walk okay? Just piss off.” the man shifted in his seat but you grabbed his wrist, looking at him with your puppy eyes. That broke him.

His pride took the back seat, as walked into the booth seizing your wrist and using little of his strength to pull you in his chest. His other hand drifting to the small of your back, your scent hit him. Fuck he needed you, more than he’d needed anyone before. He’d never noticed how much bigger he was than you, how he practically engulfed you. It made him hard. He picked you up, cradling you in his arms- as if you were a fragile baby—and grabbed your stuff before marching out of the bar towards his prized BMW. He set you down in the passenger seat and then got into the drivers side. You started to frantically pull at the door handle, trying to get out of here. You couldn’t be in here with him, you could feel all the words you’d wished you said tangling inside you; getting trapped in you throat forming a painful lump as your lip wobbled and tears rolled down your cheeks “Open the door! Ransom!” You thought you sounded fine aside from when you said his name, your voice quaked and you let out a little whimper. He noticed though and it made his heart ache at the sound of your pain. Finally you gave up on the door.

“The child lock is on, you won’t be running from me, Puppy. I need to talk to you, let’s get to my house first.” You didn’t respond “Do your seatbelt up.” You made no movement to do so, crossing your arms over your chest and looking out the window. Ransom leaned across you, buckling you in. He swiped at the tears on the cheek facing him, telling you it was going to be okay before turning the key and starting the drive back to his house.

You were silent the whole journey, aside from your sobs that you attempted to muffle in the sleeve of your auburn sweater. He put some calming music on low volume hoping to calm you. It didn’t work. Your sobs just became more ragged, he could see your whole body shaking in his peripheral vision as he pulled up to the house.

He immediately got out of the car, wasting no time as he practically ran to your side. Throwing open the door, swiftly unbuckling your seat belt and pressing you back into his chest, rocking you like an infant and shushing you as he rubbed soothing circles into your back. He locked the car and walked up to his house, struggling to unlock the door. He finally did, kicking the door open and shutting it ungracefully behind him as he entered the living room setting you down on the couch. He finally looked at your face. It was red and wrecked with tears and snot that you had attempted to rub away with your sleeve. You hiccuped as more tears came, the gravity of the situation crushing your chest pushing all your emotions out of you, you tried to cover yourself, to curl in on yourself so he couldn’t see your disheveled state as you unwound before him. He plopped down next to you and pulled you close “Y/N you need to look at me, okay? We need to talk about this. I need to know why you left.”

You slowly let down your arms “why I left? Ransom y-you k-know why I left.” You choked looking at him incredulously. He stared at you dumbfounded, he had no idea. “You make me feel s-so insignificant, you’re always so mean to m-me despite e-everything I do for y-you and you always ignore m-me and make me feel like I don’t even… I don’t even e-exist.” You cursed yourself for stuttering, you looked and sounded pitiful. You whimpered as his hand stroked your cheek, leaning into his cool hand for relief from the sweltering warmth that was stifling you.

“I never knew you felt like that. I was so lonely without you, Puppy.”

“Stop it.” You sniffled, face scrunching up in anger as you pulled away from his touch

“Stop what?”

“Calling me Puppy. I hate it. You always use it to make fun of me, you hate dogs Ransom so it’s your way of saying you h-hate me.” You mumble in a strained voice, a fresh stream of salty tears ran down your face as you choked painfully on the tight knot in your throat, a sob wracking your body as he squeezed you tighter into his muscular chest .

“I’m not making fun of you. I call you Puppy because you follow me around like one. I love you. This week without you made me realise that. I can’t be without you, my life falls to pieces when I don’t have you here. I love you, Puppy. I can’t see you with another man, it hurt so much and it made me so fucking angry.” He had to stop the anger from over taking him, he didn’t want to scare you, but just picturing that guy putting his lips on you made him want to ravish you. He began kissing your tears away and wiped your nose with a tissue from the table “No more crying okay? Because you’re making me cry too.” And it was true there were actual tears running down his face, for the first time ever he was actually crying. Your tiny hand cupped his face, marvelling at the tears that were actually falling from his eyes “I’ve known you loved me ever since we became friends. But I liked you chasing me.”

“You’re such an asshole Ransom.” You chuckled tucking yourself into the crook of his neck, he soon removed you.

“I know, but I’m your asshole, Puppy.” You swooned at the idea of him being yours, you’d always prayed the day would come when he’d say he loved you and now your dream had come true. His head dipped down just enough to be at level with yours and then he kissed you, curling his rough fingers into your hair as he deepened the kiss. It had started as an innocent kiss, but there was nothing innocent about the way his tongue crept into your mouth or the little moan you let out as he lightly tugged your hair. It metamorphosed into teeth and steamy gasps for air between kisses, your tongues thrashing together with insatiable hunger, as he pushed you back into the couch; your head resting against the arm rest as he continued to devour you. He finally pulled away and admired his handy work. Your lips were red and swollen and your eyes were clouded with lust, practically gawking at him as you shifted uncomfortably pleading for him to continue. Those puppy eyes would be the death of him.

He threw his cable knit sweater to the ground and slipped between your legs, tearing a hole in your tights and pushing your panties to the side. “Ransom you don’t have to do that.” You exclaimed, pushing at his head and squeezing your thighs closed, his strong hands parted them.

“Today is about you. I need to show you how much I love you, Puppy, and the best way to show you is with my mouth.” He ran his tongue between your dripping folds, he let out a deep moan when the taste of you reached him “So fucking sweet.” He growled, pushing his tongue into your clenching hole. One of his hands drifted down your clit, gathering some of your slick before circling the little bud of nerves as he attacked the spongy sweet spot inside of you. You threw your head back, your hands scrambling to take hold of his silky locks. Even his hair felt expensive. You drove your hips into his mouth forcing him further into you.

“Feels so good.” You pant as he pulls out his tongue and replaces it with his fingers, continuing to attack the spot that made your toes curl. His lips closed around your clit licking, sucking and biting ever so gently. He flicked his tongue over your pearl, relishing in your mewls

“That’s it, Puppy, you’re close. Come on my face. I want to taste you. Come.” He ordered, attacking you clit with new found vigour as your hips raised up off the sofa your thighs shook as the using warmth inside you came to its peak. You screamed as he abused your clit even through your orgasm, squirting all over his face. He lapped at you a few times before pulling away. Cold air kissing your tepid, wet pussy sending goosebumps across your skin. Ransom's face was glistening with your slick and his lips were swollen and red. He pulled your tights, underwear and skirt all at once and pulled your sweater over your head, leaving your nude body completely bare to his wandering gaze “you’re gorgeous.” He uttered, not intending for you to hear, stroking his calloused palms against your smooth skin, running his hand over every single curve and dip “I want to worship you, I’ll open a temple for just me and you because you are my goddess. I need to worship you.” You covered your face in embarrassment, he pulled your arms away from your face. “Don’t do that with me, Puppy, I want to see every single one of your beautiful expressions.” He cooed as he undid his pinstripe slacks and pulled down his boxers freeing his length that had been begging to escape, it was heavy and long with a thick vein tracing up the shaft. It twitched as he took a hold of the thick shaft, hovering it over your lower stomach “I’m going to fill you so we’ll, Puppy.” He rasped before nudging the head at your entrance. He pushed his whole length in with a grunt, his dick stretching your walls, relishing in your cries as your back arched further into him. Your hands wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer, sucking his shoulder. The scent of his cologne weaved it’s way into your lungs, it was an intoxicating woody magnolia with a hint of vanilla—he smelt like an expensive candle from bath and body works. It was so comforting. You nibbled his neck and he let out a groan and ruts so deep into you that your breath catches in your throat, you let out a high pitched yelp which melts into a moan as he grinds his tip against your cervix a mind numbing sensation blows through you as his nails dig into your hips his girthy cock perfectly rubbing against all the right spots.

your legs clamped around him, drawing him deeper into you, your fingers taking down his back leaving angry red streaks in their wake. You threw your head back, your mouth gaping open in a silent wail “You’re close, Puppy. Me too. Come whenever you want, I’m right behind you.” He moaned, bracing himself on his elbows on top of you.

“Gonna come! Gonna comeee Ransom!” You squealed, he squeezed your clit between his fingers. Plasmid starburst exploded behind your eyelids, sweat collecting at your clavicle as a pleasurable numbness coats your whole being. Ransom fucked you through your orgasm, his thrust becoming unquardinated reaching his peak with a grunt. His messed up hair, damp with sweat drags across your forehead as his lips connect with yours in a compassionate kiss. You let your eyelids fall closed.

Ransom cleaned you up with a warm rag and carried you up to his room, he wanted you to feel safe, to feel comfortable, to feel wanted. He stroked your sleeping face, trying to memorise your peaceful expression. He never wanted to see you upset ever again, he promised he wouldn’t cause you sadness. The only tears he wanted to see was from the pleasure he gave you “Never stop chasing me. I need you, Puppy.” He whispered, placing a kiss on your forehead and leaning back letting out a content sigh. All he needed was you.

Tag list: @alina02 @unabashed-lover-of-fictional-men @petesey @cevansgurl @getwellsoontana

https://archiveofourown.org/works/34222966/chapters/85146715

Rating: Teen And Up (no smut)

Word Count: 5,775

Warnings ⚠️: Accidental drug use. But no characters were harmed.

Progress: UNFINISHED! But it will be a two chapter story, so only one more chapter to go!

Description: Sora and Riku have a dinner date planned, but Riku never shows, leaving Sora to entertain himself for the night. Luckily, Sora doesn’t end up without company for the evening. Riku gets to make it up to Sora, though it’s not as straightforward as it seems.

Jack Frost X Fem!Reader

warnings throughout the series: sad, bits of angst, but also has some fluff.

A/N: yea, I think I am gonna post 2 chapters at once for a while.

= The Ice Knight =

- CHAPTER TWO -

chapter one

Jack Frost was right. This was indeed a new beginning. Since the day his small, cute believer saw him for the first time, they seemed to be glued to eachother. For Y/N, every new day meant a brand new adventure with her frosty friend. Jack would come by her window every night and play games, tell stories of his adventures, and from time to time he even took her with him on his simpler, safer duties as The Spirit of Winter.

“Jack! This was so much fun! The most fun I’ve ever had on any of my birthdays ever! Thank you!”

“Happy birthday, my little Ice Queen! I’m glad you enjoyed this!”

“YES! I want to be the Ice Queen! Can I? Does that make you my Ice King?” little Y/N asked, blushing. Jack found it cute and he couldn’t help himself but let a sweet chuckle pass his lips. This kid really got the best of him.

“I am not a king, but rather your knight, Your Highness!” He playfully bows to the girl. “I’m always the one to get your butt out of trouble. A king doesn’t usually do that, silly!” And with that, they both started laughing.

What a beautiful memory, right? …Right?

Time had passed by, and Jack Frost became a Guardian. That meant he had less and less time to spend with his little Ice Queen, and that inevitably led to the worst that could happen…

12 years later…

19 year old Y/N was preparing for her highschool graduation day. That’s supposed to be a happy day, right? But for her, things weren’t that well. ‘Why did I have to listen to my mother…’ The teenager sighed. She was rather sad about that.

“It’s been 4 useless years. I should have chosen that other highschool, but mom convinced me that this was going to be my future. I wonder why.” she thought out loud. As she finally left her house. “What am I even supposed to do with my life now? Eh.. the good part is that now I may have the chance to choose am university to my liking. I’m actually happy I have so little friends, my heart wouldn’t take it to get parted from them. It would have been just like when--“ She then froze in fear. Lost in her thought, she passed the street on red light, and now, mid street, a giant truck was headed towards her.

Waiting for her painful end, she squeeze her eyes shut. But nothing happened. When she finally dared to open her eyes, she remained in awe. The truck was now upside down on the road, but the weird thing was the frost that covered the wheels of the car.

“Well, I did freeze in my spot… but this?” She took a better look at the truck and then slowly started walking again. “I have to get out of here and head directly to the school nurse. I must hallucinate from the shock! Frost?? It’s JUNE!!”

….

“W-well… at least that worked. Spare me the parent talk, Baby Tooth! I’d rather get some scary poltergeist news going than risk her life not stopping that darn truck! You already know that! I-… yeah.. I know she doesn’t believe in me any longer and that I ‘should move on’ but I swore to her! She is--…was… my first, and might I add, ONLY believer!” The little fairy came closer to his cold cheeks for a small cuddle, trying to confort the lost boy. She knew she had to talk to Toothiana about all of this.

“Baby Tooth, I-… I shouted her name from the bottom of my lungs, yet… Yet she couldn’t hear!” The white haired boy began to cry desperately, letting his prominent cheekbones become icy waterfalls. “I’ve lost her… forever.”

Jack Frost X Fem!Reader

warnings throughout the series: sad, bits of angst, but also has some fluff.

A/N: Yes, yes, I know! "Seeker, where the hell have you been? You're not very serious about your blog!" I know, but I'm trying to switch between school and another huge project that I've founded, and it mainly requires at least 24/7 of my attention. Anyway, hopefully my friend @rxses-and-reverie is still around here :)

= The Ice Knight =

- CHAPTER ONE -

Snowflakes were floating freely into the starry night, above the winter paradise. Each of them slightly shifting forms as they collide into one another. Jack Frost himself gave each a part of his own soul, for he was lonely inside the sea of people, and his heart wouldn’t stop aching. All he ever desired was a friend, someone to believe in him, and eventually see him. But nobody had eyes for the iced ghost.

Years passed by, and Jack was flying around the village, carefree, watching the people around him. The spirit especially enjoyed watching the times change. Change can bring happiness or destruction. The boy was watching different kinds of relationships die, either by the distance that was growing inside, or the differences between people. Time had always liked to ruin friendships, as much as it enjoyed the warmth of healing. But for Jack, time wasn’t a cure.

One day, not long before winter had to leave the village, a little girl dressed in red was sitting on a lonely bench, crying, watching the snow simply melt away. As Jack was about to leave, letting the spring spirits come and bring new hope, something stopped him. A small cry. At first, the winter spirit hesitated to get near to the scene, knowing that she wouldn’t even notice him there, but after reconsidering, he decided it was worth a try. The white haired boy got closer to the girl and landed on the bench, right next to her. He still thought it may be all useless, until he noticed her notebook, and that got him an idea. Jack gently took it and he began writing in hopes that the red girl could read.

“Hello! What’s wrong, little one? Why are you crying?” He could already feel her gaze wandering towards, right through him. The little girl soon saw the pen moving on its own, so she took a closer look. But no one seemed to be there. Jack also noticed that the girl was slightly frightened by his actions, so he slowly placed the pen down, not intending to scare her off.

“What’s happening? Who-… who’s there?” she whispered, a little scared. Seeing that she’s also curious, maybe more than scared, the boy took the pen back between his fingers.

“Can you read?”

“Yes… my mom taught me. Who are you?”just then, Jack got an idea.

“Kid, do you believe in Santa?” he wrote again, a bit excited for the possible outcome. ‘This might as well just work!’

“Santa? Yes!! Why? Have you seen him around?” the child happily responded. ’Okay, Jack! You can do it!’

“Yeah, I have. He is friends with Jack Frost. Do you know who that is?” the spirit wrote again. The girl stood quiet for a while, thinking.

“Jack Frost? As in.. ‘Jack Frost nipping at your nose’?” the girl curiously asked.

“Exactly! Do you know him? Do you.. believe in him?” Jack wrote, a hint of hope hiding in the depth of his eyes. ‘Of course she doesn’t… She would have been able to see me after all.’ The girl stood thinking again for a while.

“Is he magical, like Santa?”

“Of course he is! He is the one bringing all of the snow and blizzards!” Jack explained, eager to see where this was leading. Just then, she did it. The little girl melted his heart.

“Then I believe in Jack Frost!” she exclaimed. Who would have thought that one simple sentence could get the frost spirit to his tears? Magically, Jack lazily took form in front of her eyes, and the expression her little face showed seeing him come real was enough to reassure Jack that this was a new beginning.

“WOW! Are you… Jack Frost? Hi!! My name is Y/N!”

“You.. You see me…”

Hi bestie! You’re awesome! Can you do a Jack Frost and Fem! Reader where Jack saves her from Pitch and they find out she’s actually a really powerful guardian but she doesn’t know it?

Yes, of course! Absolutely! And this is indeed a very good idea so thank you, dear bestie! //hopefully I don't mess things up since this is my first serious post on this app--- HERE WE GO!!//

Jack Frost x Fem!reader

warnings: angst, mentions of death, sad fluff

wordcound: 2.490

A/N: Hello, seekers! As I've mentioned, it's my first time posting on here so I really hope you enjoy!! And if you do, please share/interact, it will help a small writer like me grow. Love y'all!

Troublemaker

The moon shone brighter than ever that night. The night when Y/N found herself into the dark woods having no idea how she even got there. She was walking around, observing her surroundings, wondering where she even was and why was she there. Everything was dark, but after a while she got used to it. As she kept walking she realized her body wasn’t feeling right. Something was changed about her. The girl looked to her right, only to find an empty part of the forest, right inside its heart. There were fewer trees there, and she felt drawn to it. It was like a spell that took a toll on her mind and body alike.

“Where.. what is this? Where am I?” Y/N peeked through the dead twigs of the still-standing trees. “This part of the forest looks like it was burned to the ground! But what or—who would even do that?” The girl couldn’t help but gasp in fear as she heard an actual response to all of her questions.

“This forest was cursed by me…” a low whisper tickled her ears, but when she turned around, no one was actually there. “Your questions shall be answered… soon…”

Looking around once again, the girl finds herself facing The Moon. A whole moon, a lot bigger than it ever was. It looked magical, almost sacred.

“This is… weird. Who’s there? Can anyone help me? I got lost inside the woods and I am scared!” Step by step, Y/N walked closer and closer towards the empty spot. There the moon – no, The Moon, shone brighter on her than it did before she got there. This time, her questions remained unanswered. Whatever bodyless presence was there, it seems like it had vanished.

The Moon lured her closer and closer to the middle of the area, like it had been trying to tell her something. Y/N was both amazed, stunned and creeped out. Then, she heard the whispers again, but this time, it was.. different. Those new whispers were warmer, seemed safer to listen to and offered a feeling of protection.

“You are trapped here, my child.” The kind voice whispered. “Now I am not powerful enough to get you out of here, but fear not, for you will eventually be freed. I will help you.” It seemed like the one who talked this time was… The Moon? But how? How could a.. moon speak?

A few weeks had passed by, and Y/N was still trapped in the same forest. She felt weirder and weirder. She was neither hungry nor thirsty. She hadn’t slept a minute nor did she feel tired. It was all so strange and new, yet she got used to it so quickly that it made her worry about her own sanity. After all, she WAS physically alone, and the occasional whispers did not help one bit. She began questioning everything, even her own existence. And then, it happened. The shadow. It crossed her path. What kind of shadow is that, if it’s placed in thin air, and not on the ground? Well, she was about to find out.

“Hello.”

One simple word made our heroine go all guards up.

“YOU!”

“Me!”

“I know that voice! Why won’t you leave me alone!? Free me already, I’ve had enough of your scary wannabe games!”

Then the shadow harshly and brutally moved from its spot right in front of her. “MAKE ME!”

And it all went black.

“Where am I?” the girl asked, looking around. She found herself into a very bright place with yellow tendencies. It was as if gold could emanate light.

“Do not be afraid, my child, for I am to help you finally escape and find the truth.” The familiar warm whisper tickled her senses. But this time, the voice had a body. It was as if the person standing in front of her was made out of bright, warm yellow light. Kindness.

“Who are you? I feel like I know you. Aren’t you the one who.. protected me during my stay at the…” Y/N got dizzy, her memories of what happened before she got to the golden place were flooding back to her. ”dark… forest… What is this place actually?” Now, she was curious. And she would take the chance to finally unravel all of these mysteries.

“Others like you used to call me The Man In The Moon.”

“Wait, others like..me? What do you mean?”

“You will soon find out, Y/N. For I’ve always kept my word.” And with that, everything began to vanish around her. “All will be revealed, my child” //yes, it’s been a reference to X-Men: Apocalypse all along thank me later bye//

Moments later, Y/N was finally opening her eyes, and the sight that welcomed her was.. at least hard to believe. Right in front of her, there was a fight. The poor girl recognized one being there – the black shadow – a strange man calling himself Pitch Black. But as mentioned before, it was a fight, so he wasn’t alone. On the other side was a handsome, young looking, white haired boy. He was fighting his hardest to free Y/N from the chains tied all around her thin fragile body. Wait, chains?—

They were fighting and shouting things at eachother. As Y/N struggled to break free, she managed to listen in and learned that the boy fighting for her was Jack Frost. She somehow recognised that name even tho she didn’t remember much from before the cursed forest.

Jack – the boy fighting – seemed to have some sort of weird ice powers since he kept attacking the darker entity with mini blizzards and ice bullets. He kept on throwing… ducking… attacking… until his last bits of power and energy. He tried to come closer and unchain you several times, but all was in vain. Jack was indeed scary-powerful, but this Pitch Black guy was way too much for Jack alone at this point. After a very long fight, Jack finally collapsed onto the ground. Pitch was inches close to stabbing Jack with his solid, poisonous dark sand. But just then, Y/N felt it. It was too soon to be over for him, and she certainly wasn’t going to let him die for her. Not now, not ever. Not when she felt this strong connection to him. Just then, she felt her blood rushing and boiling inside her veins. She could feel this weird, new sensation. Like, some sort of power, covering her whole being, bursting from the inside, demanding to roam free. Then it happened. She burst with unknown power. Her golden light showered the entire forest, and it looked like it burned Pitch Black. Maybe that was the secret, after all! He’s made of dark, while Y/N seemed to have control over the light she was enveloped by inside The Moon. That’s it! She can free herself and win this fight! After all this time, all of the secrets would be revealed to her! She had to give it a try. The girl gained all of the light inside of her and blasted it all out on Pitch Black, who simply melted away, yelling that this wasn’t the last she’s seen of him.

Eventually, Y/N rushed towards Jack’s body, hoping that it wasn’t too late for him. But as she touched him, something weird happened. Not as weird as her previous burst of power, but still strange enough to give her the chills. His whole body lightened with her golden light. Jack coughed, opening his eyes.

“Y/N… What happened to you? Why are you like this?” the winter spirit faintly asked.

“Like this? Like what? And who are you, Jack Frost? Why… Why do I feel like I know you already?” Y/N spoke with an unsure voice.

“That’s because you do know me, ah—.. at least you used to..” Jack’s bright blue eyes showed a flash of hurt as his words sank in. The boy tried to get up in a sitting pose, but was unsuccessful and his sudden dizziness almost made him fall back down. Luckily, he was caught in time by Y/N. “y-yea.. a-anyway… Why did you die..? WHO HURT YOU?! Was it Pitch—“ He quickly got up, but just as fast as he did, he fell right back down.

“WHOA-! Slow down, slow down! On the first hand, take it easy! You’re hurt!” she gently stroke his cheek “On the second hand now…die!? What?? I’m right here, can’t you see!?” she nervously explained.

“You.. you don’t know? Haven’t he told you?”

“He? Who’s he?”

“The Man In The Moon. Haven’t he told you? Wait… don’t tell me. I bet you didn’t even know you had powers up to this point.”

“True… Alright, so explain it to me. Who are you, why do I feel this strong connection to you and what’s happening? Why do you think I am dead?”

“Because so am I.” he sighs. “Since neither of us can walk out of this forest in the state we are right now, I guess we have enough time for me to explain.” The boy explained. “Let’s begin from the start. First off.. we—… Baby tooth? What are you doin— Oh! good fairy! Look, she brought you your teeth!” Jack excitedly announced.

“My… what?”

“Your teeth! Toothiana collects everyone’s teeth, the entire world. They hold the most important memories one has, and she opens these little golden boxes everytime someone needs to remember the most important things.” Jack sits up, this time he manages to maintain a good balance. He then warmly but carefully speaks again. “Y/N, these are your memories. Do you want them?” the snow spirit happily hands the box to her and she stares at it for a while before confidently smiling.

“Yes, Jack. I want to know the truth.” The small fairy then activates the box, and Y/N’s eyes are then filled with flashbacks that feel too real to be fake.

“Jack! Come, quick! I want to ask you something!” Y/N excitedly called for the brown haired boy. His deep, dark, soul consuming eyes wandered to her E/C ones as he came closer to the beautiful girl that was formerly behind him.

“Of course! What is it, princess?” He eagerly awaited for Y/N’s question.

“There you are, Mr. Troublemaker! Come here!” The joy could be seen in her eyes as she was watching him – her all in one best friend and the… -

She notices the hint of adoration that Jack wasn’t even trying to hide anymore as he tightly wrapped his arms around her thin torso, staring right into her E/C eyes.

“Your Troublemaker.” Jack sealed his statement with a sweet, tender kiss.

“My Troublemaker” Y/N mumbles back between small kisses as she was placing them all over his face. Jack couldn’t help but feel excited about what was to come. Y/N’s birthday was in two days and he had the perfect gift for her. “Jack, I wanted to ask you—“

“Can it wait for a bit? I have to show you something!” he excitedly explained, running towards a tree from nearby, grabbing something he had hidden there.

“Sure.. I guess!’’ Jack came back with a pair of ice skates, carefully handing them to Y/N.

“Your birthday is in two days, and I prepared a gift for my princess. These skates are only the first part of it. My father and I made them! Do you like them?” His eyes were flickering with hope and joy.

“Jack.. these are amazing, but you know.. I don’t know how to skate!” the girl replied awkwardly.

“Don’t worry about that, I’ll teach you! That’s all part of my birthday plan for you!” Y/N was about to burst with happiness, seeing that her boyfriend carefully thought of everything. And without even thinking too much about it, she rewarded him with a tight, loving hug.

“I was about to ask you if you were up for some time together for my birthday, but it seems like you’re a step ahead of me.”

“Always!” he playfully chuckled, planting a sweet kiss on top of her forehead.

As Y/N’s mind jumped from a flashback into another, the next memory wasn’t just as beautiful as the others she’d just lived once again.

It was Y/N’s birthday. She was eagerly awaiting for her boyfriend to come back from the ice. Since they were not the only one gathered around the frozen lake, he told everyone to wait until he comes back. He went to test the ice, but for some reason, he went in bare foot. A familiar little girl was too excited for her adventure on the lake and she followed him right away. The ice cracked. The little girl froze on place and Jack, the brave hero he was, he did his best and saved her. But at what cost…? Y/N could feel her shattered heart sink in the depth of the frozen lake as she watched the love of her life get swallowed by the thin, cracked ice.

Hours later, his lifeless body was brought to the surface by some men. Y/N’s broken heart cracked even more as she laid over her ice-cold lover. “Oh, my love…” she felt herself trembling and sinking into the scares of losing her mind. “Jack… Jack!-“

“…-JACK!!” Coming back from her flashbacks, she collapsed on her knees, crying her heart out, choking on hard sobs. The winter spirit quickly knelt before her, wrapping her into the tightest embrace, completely enveloping her and trying his best to calm his beloved Y/N down. “Jack… You-.. you died!! You were taken from me 2 years ago…” Y/N slowly returned the embrace. “And I died because a nightmare horse attacked me...!!” She took a few seconds processing everything. After some ear-scratching silence, she spoke as the realization finally sank in. “We were lovers…”

“You remember…” he softly spoke, wiping some tears from her face.

“I remember. And I’ve missed you so much, Jack..!”

“I know.. it’s been hard for everybody especially for you. But I had to save her.. I should have been more careful, tho...” The winter spirit lifted Y/N’s chin up to his level, gazing right through her pure and innocent eyes. “Look, Y/N, I’ve been with you ever since I passed away, protecting you from potential danger. But it seems like I have missed one…” The spirit swallowed hard before continuing. “And for that, I am really sorry. I should have gone searching for you the moment I lost you, but seems like Pitch was one step ahead of me. I really am a troublemaker…” Jack sadly finished. Seeing his tensed state Y/N thought about what’s best to tell Jack to confort him.

“My Troublemaker…” she lovingly whispered. His eyes lit up and sparkled with love.

“Your Troublemaker, forever and ever.” Jack replied, cupping her face into his cold palms, sealing their eternal love with an almost everlasting-like kiss. This was going to be a beautiful night.

Name || To drink wine under the stars

Pairing || Modern!Din Djarin X NB!Reader

Summary || A date Din and you planned takes a turn before taking another

Word Count || 1.334

Tags/Warnings || Idiots in love, Angst with a happy ending, No Use of Y/N, Modern!AU, Feelings!, Unestablished Relationships, Insecurities, Grogu Mentioned, Din is low-key (very much) a simp, Probably OOC Din, A bit of a rushed ending, No Beta We Die Like Men

A/N || I present a small piece of fiction made for Bouquets of Pedro Creativity Challenge by @happypedrohours

Based on this prompt: Din Djarin & late for a date

English is not my first language

If you find any grammar or spelling mistakes, let me know so I can fix them

Masterlist

Star Wars Masterlist (Not finished yet)

It's been such a long time since he's been to a place such as this. The restaurant was luxurious, maybe a bit too much in his opinion. The staff, the food, the decorations, it all screamed expensiveness.

His suit was probably even worse. It felt tight, unnatural. He wasn't used to wearing clothes other than completely regular. The best he could usually do was a white shirt with some pants, that was it. After all, why would he need anything else?

You. It was you. You were the reason he needed something else. You didn't force him, per se. He did it voluntarily. Grogu was still small and didn't care about how he looked but you? He wanted you to see him.

You were so special to him. Kind, funny, engaging, drop dead gorgeous. In the darkness that was his life, you were the moon illuminating his path. Guiding his way home.

Home to you.

At first, it surprised him when you agreed to the date. If he didn't know you, he would think it was a joke. A cruel mockery of how he, of all people, could think he had any chances with someone so divine. You meant it however. The smile on your face, the sparkle in your eye, it all proved your words.

Sitting at the table reserved for the two of you, he both loved and regretted he asked in the first place. What if you didn't like it there? What if he made a fool of himself? So many things could go wrong and wouldn't be able to stop any of them if it came down to it.

Knowing you though? You wouldn't care less about things that trivial. His mind flickered back to the memory of you.

You.

Sweet you.

The way you held his hand when he'd asked you out because it trembled so much. The way you listened so intently to what people had to say even when you felt unheard. The way you cared for Grogu as if he were your own and not your coworker's son.

Yeah, you'd understand.

Check the time.

Check the time.

Why weren't you there yet?

You were supposed to arrive at 7 PM. He arrived earlier of course. He didn't want you to wait in case he arrived later. And suddenly, he was the one waiting. It's been, what, 10, maybe 15 minutes?

Probably traffic, he told himself. He knew how it was these days. Everyone always rushed, as if unable to take a break. You were most likely in a taxi, trapped in a traffic jam.

Everything was fine.

It's been 30 minutes now. Where were you? It was getting frustrating. Especially when waiters came and went, always asking questions about his order. He wouldn't order. Not until you arrived.

He tapped the table, eyes fixated on the candle in the middle. The fire was so bright and yet, it couldn't compare to your smile. He'd kill to see it at least once. Just for a second, not even that. Even if it wasn't directed at him, even though he'd prefer if it were.

But no.

You weren't there.

He sent you so many messages, called a few times, all worried for your possible safety. What if you were in a car accident? Were you walking and someone decided to attack you? Did you hit your head when leaving your home? The possibilities were endless, every new one worse than the last.

He didn't seem to notice when an hour passed. Nor the second. He wouldn't dare look at the time, his attention constantly shifting between the building’s entrance and your completely untouched seat.

A sigh slipped past his lips when he finally forced himself to do so. It'd been over 2 hours. He couldn't wait any longer. He promised Grogu he wouldn't take too long, the kid needed him after all.

He hated it. The pitiful look the waitress gave him as he paid for the unexpectedly expensive wine he ordered, taking the unfinished bottle with him.

The February air chilled him more than he'd like, his hands freezing from the coldness of the bottle in his hand.

All the while, his mind struggled to come up with a reason for your absence. Maybe you were actually hurt? That was the only explanation that didn't make him question your lack of messages.

Or maybe you simply didn't like him and didn't know how to voice it.

Honestly, he wouldn't blame you. He didn't consider himself particularly likeable either. Messy, awkward, rugged and always tired. Why would you desire that?

The thought stung.

Was he really so bad that you, the kindest creature he'd ever met, couldn't accept him?

It was probably for the better.

“Din! Din wait!”

That voice. The voice so angelic that a part of his soul left his body any time he heard it suddenly called his name.

Turning his head towards where it came from, there you were. You weren't waving at him as you attempted to run, breathless with reddened cheeks from the cold.

You were a mess too to be honest. Dishevelled hair, slightly messy fancy clothes as if you barely managed to put it on properly along with loud gasps for air.

To him, you looked like a deity either way.

“I'm so, so sorry. I-I was tired from work and took a quick nap a-and I overslept the alarm and when I woke up it was already late,”

you rambled on and on about how sorry and ashamed you were for leaving him in the restaurant all alone, especially considering how expensive the reservation was. He didn't utter a word throughout the whole speech.

He didn't care if you noticed his silence. Or the tiny smile on his lips. Or the softness in his eyes. He was simply glad to see you, his day suddenly brighter than before.

And then, you fell silent. Your eyes stared up at him, searching for any sign of anger, of disappointment. There was none. Just pure unfiltered adoration.

“Don't worry. I'm just glad nothing bad happened to you,”

his words made your eyes widened, those twinkling in the soft light of city lamps. How beautiful, he thought. Then again, he thought that about every single thing you did.

His sharp gaze detected how the tension in you shoulders fell, a small sigh of relief escaping into the chilly weather.

“Could I make it up to you in some way?”

you were so kind. So desperate to make sure he wasn't disappointed, to make sure you kept your promise of joining him on a date that night.

He didn't need any persuasion.

Grogu was already dreaming away in his bed when Din joined you in the backyard of his home. You didn't notice him at first, making it the perfect opportunity to admire you.

There you were. In his garden. You were silent, staring up at the moon which felt like a shiny trinket compared to you. The soft smile on your lips as you snuggled into the blanket he lent you made his heart skipped a beat. A silent wish passed through his mind, a prayer of stopping the time so that he could worship you in his mind for eternity and more.

“There you are, I was getting worried,”

you smiled as you noticed his presence. He didn't reply as he sat down next to you, stealing part of the blanket and snuggling closer to you. You offered the wine but his mind was only on the brief brush of your hand against his. It all made his head spin.

When you rested your head on his shoulder though? He was afraid he'd faint. Or maybe cry.

You chose him. Nothing could convince him otherwise. And even if you didn't, he wouldn't mind.

He didn't need much to be happy after all. Even if it didn't last long, all he needed was to drink wine under the stars, right by your side.

Disclaimer:

I do not own The Mandalorian or any of its characters. The Mandalorian is the property of Jon Favreau and Disney. This fanfiction is written purely for entertainment purposes and is not intended for profit. Please support the original work!

HeadCanon Ash Na’vi Edition

So, as we approach our our third movie of the Avatar Franchise, everyone’s been making some thoughts on what they hope to see and etc. So naturally I want to pitch in.

Ash Na’vi are supposedly made of the outcast of other tribes right?

What if their iknimaya is a little different? - I’ve seen the idea of their teens surviving a full year on their own before be allowed back into their clan, “carving their own path if you will”. - Maybe that’s part of the rites? Being outcasted. As their ancestors were. - So if being cast out by your first tribe leads to your ‘Spiritual’ death, finding the home within the Ash clan becomes your second, or third birth.

Moving on to angst because I love angst like a crackhead loves meth,

Spider, just being cast out by Jake and Neytiri in a hot flash of anger, they are not over Neteyam’s death, Lo’ak feeling betrayed in a way, and Kiri feeling so confuse because that’s her brother, while all Tuk can do is watch her family fall apart again. [I don’t think this would happen, I just like being Delulu, all characters here are complex and have trauma and a griefcase] . Spider breaking down in a Windertrader’s arms or another Ash Na’vi (who was latest outcast) because he feels like he’s lost everything. After grieving his heart out and having a well deserved breakdown with someone holding him, Spider hears his friend whisper “Welcome home brother.”

ITS FINISHED >:3

THE STORY IS OUT!!! @itsmethegodzillafan so far it’s a A/N but chapter 1 will be tomorrow hopefully 🙏

❝Hearts Don’t Miss❞

Omni!Mark Grayson x Cupid!Reader➶

•♡🤍♡🤍♡🤍♡˚₊‧ ꒰ა 💗 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚♡🤍♡🤍♡🤍♡•

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❤︎ summary: you wake up in an unfamiliar place—threadless, wingless, and wildly out of place in a world that forgot how to feel. the man who caught you (or spared you, or maybe neither) offers no comfort. only silence. and rules you don’t understand. but you’re built for love—even stripped of your status, even with your wings torn away—and despite everything, you hum. he watches. you talk. something shifts. and for once, the silence isn’t empty.

❤︎ contains: sfw. soft sci-fi. celestial grief. morally questionable men with capes. lonely mythologies. divine exile. cupid!reader. omni!mark. omni!invincible. slow-burn dynamics. sharp dialogue. soft power plays. emotional tension. thread metaphors. awkward domesticity. a glittery, homesick cupid in a strange house. and one emotionally repressed war criminal trying not to care.

❤︎ warnings: post-exile trauma. references to canonical war/genocide (vague). injury care. survivor’s guilt. isolation. identity confusion. mild body horror (wing loss). emotional withholding. unspoken grief. and the bone-deep ache of trying to be wanted when you were made only to serve.

‪❤︎ wc: 4868

prologue, part one

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: i’m honestly so beyond touched by the response to this fic about a wingless cupid and a cosmic war criminal. the love it’s gotten?? unreal. my whole thread-glued heart is just… full. you’ve made this story feel less like a fall and more like a landing. thank you for every comment, like, and reblog—i’m storing them in a pink sparkly jar labeled “emotional fuel.” let’s keep tugging the string—chapter one starts now.

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You wake up face-down in luxury.

Specifically: half-smushed into a couch that feels engineered for spine alignment, interstellar meditation, or a villain’s downtime—not comfort.

Definitely not comfort.

The texture is weirdly sleek—velvet-synthetic.

Expensive.

The kind of couch that exists just to say “I’m expensive”—not to be sat on. Which, of course, you are.

…Badly.

You’re tangled in a heavy blanket that definitely wasn’t there before, limbs twisted like a limp marionette. Every joint aches. Your back screams.

You blink, eyes crusty. Then blink again.

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

No ambient hum of threads. No divine frequency. No lace-sky breathing stories into the tips of your wings—

Oh.

Right.

No wings.

Just… nothing.

You inhale shakily, trying not to flinch at the echo of absence where they used to be.

That phantom pull still flickers beneath your skin, like your whole body expects to move differently and can’t understand why it doesn’t.

You sit up slowly, the blanket tangled around your knees slipping off with a whisper-soft sigh.

It’s heavy and warm and smells like something between ozone, steel, and—

Oh.

Him.

“Okay,” you murmur, voice raspy. “Either I survived, or I’m in a very bougie version of limbo.”

Your limbs ache. Everything aches. You’re bruised in places that aren’t even supposed to bruise. Your wings? Still gone. Still phantom. Still wrong.

And the worst part?

The air feels… hollow.

No threads.

No connections.

No one’s longing.

You’re utterly alone—again.

You shuffle upright and glance around, trying not to wobble.

The room is sleek, high-tech in a sterile, vaguely militaristic way. Walls smooth and silver-dark, faintly glowing interface panels here and there.

It’s clean. Cold. Lit with soft panels that glow a sterile blue.

A strange crystalline screen suspended midair flickers with symbols you don’t recognize.

There’s a table that sits low in the center of the room—glass, probably. It looks solid, but you eye it like it might judge you.

You’re not in a prison—not quite.

But you’re not safe either.

Still—your voice comes out bright. Croaky, but bright.

“Well, at least it’s not hell.”

You wobble to your feet and immediately trip over the corner of the blanket.

Stumble, flail, barely catch yourself on what might be a countertop… or a weapons locker. Hard to say.

You don’t recognize a single object in the space.

That doesn’t stop you from touching everything.

A metallic orb hums when you poke it.

Another panel flashes red. You press it again. It turns off.

“Definitely not a prison,” you say, chewing your lip. “Probably. Hopefully. …Possibly a villain’s lair. But like… a tasteful one?”

Your legs push you toward a shelf and there’s an object shaped like a tall, elegant hourglass—except filled with something that glows faintly purple.

Naturally, you poke it.

It purrs.

You yelp.

“H-hello?! Sorry! I didn’t mean—!”

Your voice slowly fades into silence.

You pick up something else. It’s smooth. Cylindrical. Heavy for its size.

“Hmm. Mug? Weapon? Mug and weapon? A murder mug? It feels like a murder mug,” you mumble, turning it over.

“Do they drink blood tea here?”

Then—something beeps. Very softly.

Your whole body tenses.

And then you feel it.

The weight of presence.

Not a string. Not love.

Gravity.

And danger.

You turn—and there he is.

The red-caped man from the field—towering in the doorway like a bad decision carved out of stone and anger.

He’s standing there.

Silent. Immense.

In red and white and black, all sharp lines and steady breath. His cape falls behind him like a curtain of blood. The goggles don’t show his eyes—but you feel the glare through them.

His jaw is set. His arms are crossed. His black goggles glint even in the low light. He doesn’t speak right away. He doesn’t have to.

You go solid, still holding the probable mug-weapon.

Ah right—you can’t forget.

It’s still the guy who caught you. Or… confronted you. Or nearly vaporized you last night in a field of daisies.

You give a sheepish smile.

“Hi. Morning. Or, uh, whatever time it is on this… aggressively minimalist version of Earth!”

He tilts his head once. His voice is flat.

Unreadable.

“Don’t touch that.”

You freeze. “This? Oh, no, I wasn’t—I mean, I did. Technically. But only spiritually.”

He doesn’t respond.

You blink. Look at the object. Look back at him. Grin. “Okay. Cool. I won’t. Totally understand boundaries. Big believer in consent.”

He doesn’t react.

You clear your throat. Set the item down. Slowly.

“Although, in my defense, your whole interior design aesthetic is kinda yelling ‘please investigate me.’ So really, it’s—”

“Don’t touch anything,” he cuts in, firmer.

You offer him a sheepish thumbs-up. “Got it. Loud and scary clear.”

And then—because your instincts are garbage and you were literally created to poke things—you touch something else. A little blinking panel near the door.

His eyes narrow.

You drop your hand like it burned you. “Sorry!! Reflex! Very bad reflex!”

He stares.

You stare back, then give a very small, very awkward wave.

Another long pause.

He sighs—just barely. Turns away without a word and disappears down the hall.

You watch him go, blinking.

“…He seems nice.”

You sit back down with a wince, then mutter, “I should definitely touch more stuff.”

You do.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

It starts with silence.

Again.

But this time it’s not lonely silence—it’s awkward. Heavy. The kind that settles between two people who don’t know if they’re enemies, housemates, or a cosmic glitch in each other’s timelines.

You linger in the hallway.

Still sore. Still threadless. Still dressed like someone who got kicked out of Heaven and landed in a tech-noir villain’s den.

And still—despite every instinct screaming don’t—you follow him.

Of course you do.

Like a sparkly little space unwanted houseguest with opinions that has zero survival instincts and a tragic affection for ominous men in capes.

He doesn’t say you can’t follow him.

He just walks briskly through his own home—long hallways, seamless doors, touch-panel everything—while you trail behind, barefoot and blinking like a freshly-kicked cherub.

He ignores you.

You ignore his ignoring.

“That’s a cool cape,” you say conversationally, trying to keep up with his strides. “Is it, like, sentimental? Symbolic? Villain-chic? Oh—wait, are you emotionally attached to it?”

No answer.

You lean forward slightly, squinting. “Do you… wear it to bed?”

Still nothing.

You hum thoughtfully. “Is it fused to your soul? Is it detachable? Do you have different ones for different moods—like, casual cape, angry cape, emotional repression cape?”

He doesn’t respond.

You try again. “Can I touch it?”

He stops.

Just like that—halts mid-stride.

You freeze behind him, nearly bumping into his back. And blink up at him.

He turns his head slightly, the cape flaring just enough to ripple past your fingertips.

“Don’t.”

One word. No bite, no growl—just a warning. Like a storm saying this isn’t rain yet, but it could be.

You raise your hands slowly. “Right. Sorry. Cape off-limits. Got it. You’re very committed to the brand.”

He walks again.

You sigh—more dramatic than necessary—but keep following.

“What about the goggles?” you ask. “Do you sleep in those too? Are they like… mood-activated? They’re very intimidating. Very Darth-Vader-meets-heartbreak. No offense.”

He says nothing.

“Okay, so you’re clearly not a big talker,” you mutter. “That’s fine. I talk enough for two. Or ten.”

So you keep going, babbling just to fill the space.

Another hallway. Another panel. Another stretch of angular, too-clean walls and whisper-quiet footsteps.

It’s like walking through a museum designed by someone who’s never smiled—even once.

And somehow—somehow—you still manage to fill the silence.

“You know, in some dimensions, silence is considered a mating ritual,” you offer cheerfully.

He pauses.

You blink. “Wait, not that I’m saying this is that. I mean—it’s not, right? Unless it is—which, um, please clarify. Because if it is, I should probably brush my hair.”

He keeps walking.

You huff, trailing further behind now. Not because you’re tired—well, okay, maybe a little—but mostly because his energy is doing that don’t-get-close thing again.

“Where are we going?” you ask.

He doesn’t respond. Again.

You glance at one of the panels you pass. It blinks red as you near it.

Curious, you step closer.

He doesn’t stop you this time—but you hear it in his voice. That shift. That thread of something darker.

“You’re not allowed outside.”

You freeze. “What?”

“That panel’s locked. Security override in place.”

You blink, confused. “So I can’t leave?”

A beat.

“No.”

Your stomach twists.

You laugh. Light. Thin. “Oh. So I am in a prison.”

“It’s not a prison,” he says flatly.

You raise an eyebrow. “You just said I can’t leave.”

“It’s for your safety.”

“Isn’t that what all supervillains say?”

He turns around then—just slightly—and for the first time, you think maybe he’s trying not to say something. His jaw tightens. Not with anger. Not exactly.

With thought.

You don’t press. Not this time.

Instead, you look out the nearest window—tinted, probably bulletproof, overlooking a skyline that feels wrong. Choked. Smoky and sharp at the edges.

It’s beautiful in the way a burnt cathedral might be. And it feels lonely.

You press your hand to the glass.

Whisper-soft.

“I don’t belong here,” you murmur. Not to him. Not really to yourself, either.

Just… to the glass.

To the world beyond it.

He doesn’t answer.

But he watches you.

And that’s enough to make your heart thud somewhere in the hollowness of your chest.

You exhale. Curl your fingers into a mock-heart on the window.

“You should really consider getting some plants,” you say softly. “This place is screaming ‘emotionally constipated bachelor pad.’”

His reflection doesn’t flinch.

You sigh and turn away.

“I’m gonna go talk to the weird murder mug again.”

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Later—hours, maybe—you find yourself planted at the far end of what might be the dining area.

Or the command center. It’s hard to tell.

The table looks like it could initiate a planetary strike if you breathe on it wrong.

He sits across from you.

Still.

Still suited. Still silent.

He hasn’t taken the mask off. You haven’t seen his eyes.

But he gave you a name.

Not a real one, probably. But something.

“Invincible,” he said flatly when you asked, finally cracking under the sheer power of your pestering and your best please I’m charming let me know what to call you face.

You didn’t believe him at first.

“Seriously? That’s what you go by?”

He didn’t answer.

Just turned away and muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like you’re worse than the other one.

Still—you took it. Grinned. Clutched it like it meant something.

“Okay, Invincible. Cool name. Bit dramatic. But I can work with that.”

He hasn’t asked for your name in return.

You gave it anyway.

Not your designation. Not the code the Realm used.

Just what you used to call yourself, back when you believed in tenderness.

He didn’t comment on it.

He just sat like he is now—spine too straight, hands steepled on the table, as if pretending not to regret every life choice that led to you invading his vaguely dystopian bachelor pad.

You kick your feet under the table.

He says nothing.

So you talk.

Because of course you do.

“Okay, so—fun story,” you begin brightly, draping your arms across the back of your seat. “Once, I accidentally matched a soulweaver with a carnivorous star-being. Didn’t realize their threads were laced with paradox elements. Their honeymoon destroyed a moon.”

You pause.

Grin.

“But they’re still together! Super toxic. Super cute. Kind of horrifying… I’m rooting for them.”

Nothing.

You glance at him.

He’s not looking at you—but his fingers tap once. Barely audible. A twitch in the rhythm.

You keep going.

“I once worked a case where the connection was so knotted it took seven cycles, two reincarnations, and one cosmic dog to unravel it. Not a metaphor. There was literally a dog. He was a thread guide. Very fluffy.”

Still nothing.

But you notice the shift.

The way his chin angles, almost imperceptibly.

Like he’s listening without wanting to. Like he’s filing away every word and pretending he’s not.

You lean forward. Prop your chin on your hand.

“Have you ever loved anyone?” you ask, soft. Just curious.

Invincible freezes.

Just for a second.

Then moves again—barely. Shrugs one shoulder. “Not relevant.”

“Oh, it’s totally relevant,” you say with a mock gasp. “It’s my entire job.”

“You don’t have a job,” he mutters.

“Excuse you,” you sniff. “I am temporarily unemployed. There’s a difference.”

He sighs—again, just barely. But it’s the kind that says if I fly into the sun right now, will she keep talking?

You smile, a little too brightly.

“It’s just—you’re fascinating,” you say, earnest now.

“You move like someone who’s always preparing for war. But there’s something in your hands. Like… you used to hold gentler things.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t react.

But his knuckles tighten—just slightly.

You catch it.

You don’t comment on it.

Instead, you hum softly, off-tune and aimless. Just enough to fill the space between your sentences.

“I used to hum like this when I was scared,” you say, staring at the ceiling. “Back when I thought being good meant being useful.”

A long beat.

Then—

“You’re not scared now?” he asks, voice flat.

You glance at him.

Smile.

“Terrified.”

And you mean it.

But it’s soft.

Like a confession wrapped in pink thread and handed over with shaking fingers.

Invincible doesn’t answer.

But he doesn’t leave.

And that’s something.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

You’re sitting on the edge of the couch—the weird one that thinks it’s better than you—biting the inside of your cheek.

“I can do it myself,” you say.

Immediately lie.

“I’m very good at medical stuff. Definitely qualified. Certified in three realms, actually.”

Invincible doesn’t look convinced.

You don’t blame him.

Your last attempt at bandaging involved decorative knotting and something that suspiciously resembled a shoelace.

“You’re going to make it worse,” he says flatly.

You huff. “You say that like it’s a certainty.”

“It is.”

He crosses the room without waiting for permission, gloved hands already unsnapping some hidden compartment in the wall.

A panel folds out.

Inside: a compact but precise set of medical supplies.

Of course he has medical supplies.

Of course they’re alphabetized.

Of course the antiseptic glows ominously.

You fidget.

“I don’t like that bottle,” you murmur. “It’s judging me.”

He doesn’t respond. Just sets it down on the nearby table with quiet precision.

You swallow.

The silence stretches.

It’s heavier now. Less awkward. More… inevitable.

You wrap your arms around your knees, voice quieter.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I know.”

And still—he gestures.

“Turn around.”

Your pulse stumbles. You hesitate.

But then—you do.

Slowly.

You turn your back to him.

Pull the too-big shirt they gave you (his? something spare from the war room? it smells faintly of leather and ozone) off one shoulder. Then the other. Then lift the hem just enough for him to see.

It hurts.

Not just the movement—but the exposure.

It’s not romantic.

Because there’s nothing romantic about torn skin or lost wings.

Invincible doesn’t say anything. Not at first.

But you hear the pause.

The smallest catch in his breath.

Then—his gloved fingers at the edge of the old wrapping. Careful. Methodical.

The first touch makes you flinch.

He stops immediately.

Waits.

Doesn’t apologize—he never apologizes—but he doesn’t push either.

You exhale.

“I’m okay,” you whisper. “Keep going.”

The bandages peel away slowly.

You wince.

Not because of the pain—but because you know what it must look like.

The bruising.

The way the skin puckers where the feathers once grew.

The scars trying to form over something that should have never been taken.

Invincible works in silence.

You hum.

It’s soft. Tuneless. The kind of sound you make when you don’t know what else to fill the quiet with.

“I used to help patch people up,” you say absently, voice thin. “Mostly broken hearts, but once I had to reattach a wing to a grief-angel. That was messy. Lots of glitter and wailing.”

Still, he says nothing.

But his hands move gently.

Like he’s trying not to break what’s already broken.

The antiseptic stings. You hiss.

He pauses.

You press your forehead to your knees.

“I’m okay,” you lie again.

A beat passes.

Then another.

Then—

“You’re not.”

You go still.

The words aren’t cruel. Not biting. Just… factual. Like a truth dropped onto the floor and left there.

You don’t reply.

But the humming dies in your throat.

His fingers return. Smoother now. Gliding over the worst of it. Wrapping clean gauze like it means something. Like there’s care in the motion, even if he doesn’t name it.

You close your eyes.

For a moment—you pretend it doesn’t hurt.

You pretend you’re not threadless and wrecked.

You pretend someone is holding you in a way that won’t leave more marks.

And he—this man with no real name, with a face hidden behind silence and sharpness—keeps wrapping your wounds like someone who doesn’t know why he hasn’t stopped yet.

When Invincible finishes, you don’t move right away.

Neither does he.

The air holds the shape of something unsaid.

And for the first time since you fell—

You don’t feel entirely alone.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

It starts with guilt.

Not big, thunderous guilt—the kind that screams or scars.

No, this is softer. Quieter.

The kind that curls under your ribs and pokes at you when it gets too silent.

The kind that sounds like: Invincible hasn’t killed me yet. I should… do something?

You’ve been here for… two sunrises now? Three?

Time is slippery here. Threadless days always are.

But one thing’s clear: for all his sharp edges and scowls, your new… roommate? captor? interdimensional roommate with possible emotional constipation?—he’s been letting you stay.

In his space. On his furniture. Breathing his air.

Rent-free.

The least you could do is say thank you.

So you decide to clean.

Which is dumb. Because you have no idea how any of this tech works.

But that doesn’t stop you.

You start small—folding the blanket you’ve been cocooning in. You even add a little flair.

Tug the corners into soft heart-shaped knots. Totally impractical. Definitely aesthetic.

You set it in the middle of the couch like a peace offering. Or a warning.

You hum to yourself as you tidy.

Not that there’s much to tidy—everything here is spotless, sterile, like a military catalog page come to life.

Still, you try.

Straighten a few panels. Dust off some gleaming surface with the edge of your sleeve.

Eventually, you find what might be a kitchen. Or a weapons bay disguised as a kitchen. Hard to say.

It has counters. It has drawers. One of them contains what you think are utensils. One of them contains a small orb that buzzes and tries to eat your finger.

You close that one. Quickly.

Cooking it is.

You find something vaguely bread-adjacent in a sealed container.

Something that might be butter. Something that definitely isn’t sugar but looks suspiciously like cosmic sand.

You try anyway.

You find heat. A panel that flares red when you touch it.

“Perfect,” you whisper. “Totally safe. I am definitely qualified for this.”

You burn the first attempt. Instantly. Black smoke hisses upward like a judgment.

You try again.

You nearly set the panel on fire.

You keep going.

Eventually, you manage to create… something!

Not good. Not edible. But warm and round-ish and not on fire.

You plate it. Add a flower from the weird glowing vase thing on the counter for presentation. Step back. Admire it.

It’s hideous.

But you made it.

So you carry it out carefully—just as the door hisses open.

And there he is.

Cape flowing. Expression unreadable.

Invincible freezes in the doorway, black goggles flicking from your smoke-streaked face to the kitchen behind you—now full of suspicious smells and one still-smoking dish.

You hold out the plate.

“I made a thank-you loaf,” you say brightly. “It’s mostly… not poison!”

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink. Just stares.

Then—

“Did you override my weapons lock?”

You blink. “What?”

He steps past you, into the kitchen. Taps a barely-visible panel near the wall. A soft click echoes.

Then a compartment slides open to reveal: missiles.

Actual missiles.

“Oh,” you say. “That explains the ticking.”

Invincible turns around slowly.

You grin, sheepish. “In my defense, your cabinet labeling system is deeply confusing.”

He doesn’t yell.

Which is somehow worse.

He just gives you the look.

That disappointed, stone-jawed, exhausted-by-your-whole-existence look.

Your grin falters.

“…I’ll go sit down.”

You do.

And you sulk.

You curl up in the corner of the couch and re-fold the blanket. Then re-fold it again.

You mutter something about interdimensional roommates being impossible to please.

You don’t even notice when he walks back in.

Not at first.

You only notice the pause.

The soft shift of air.

You glance up.

He’s standing at the edge of the room, holding something.

The blanket.

You must’ve left it in the kitchen, half-heartedly abandoned on a counter.

Invincible doesn’t say anything.

But he doesn’t throw it away either.

He folds it once. Carefully.

Sets it back on the couch.

Exactly where it was.

Knots and all.

You don’t say anything.

But your chest feels warmer.

He leaves again.

You smile to yourself.

Next time, you’ll try the cosmic rice.

(Probably a bad idea. But you’re nothing if not persistent.)

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Mark tells himself you’re just a problem he hasn’t solved yet.

That’s all.

Another anomaly dropped into his territory—another celestial error.

Something to monitor. To contain. Not to engage with.

Definitely not to understand.

He repeats this in his head more than once.

But he still notices things.

You hum when it’s too quiet.

Not on purpose.

Not like you’re trying to fill the space with meaning.

It’s unconscious—barely there. Just a low, tuneless sound you loop under your breath like you’re afraid silence might swallow you if you let it linger too long.

He hears it through the walls sometimes.

Not enough to be irritating. Just enough to be… present.

You clutch your weapon in your sleep.

Not always.

But most nights, when the lights dim and you think he’s stopped watching.

The bow—the one you won’t explain—is usually curled tight against your chest, one hand resting lightly on the grip.

Protective. Familiar.

Like it’s the only thing left that still feels like home.

You move in your sleep too. Restless. Whimpers low, barely audible.

Once, he found you curled into the narrowest corner of the couch like you were trying to disappear inside yourself.

The blanket had fallen. You hadn’t bothered to pick it up.

He hadn’t either.

But he covered you with a new one before leaving.

You never mentioned it.

You walk wrong.

It’s not… bad. Just different.

Like someone still getting used to gravity.

You don’t always trust your footing—sometimes you skip a step, sometimes you hesitate before a turn, like you expect the ground to shift under your feet.

You never ask for help.

But when something startles you—when you nearly drop something, or a panel glitches too loud, or the power flickers just a little too long—your hand twitches toward him before you even realize it.

Like a reflex. Like an instinct you haven’t unlearned.

Like you think he might catch you.

You talk too much.

About nothing. About everything.

Stories that make no sense—about thread-realms and starlight weddings and love gods who punch each other for fun.

Mark doesn’t believe half of it.

But he listens.

Every word.

Worse, he remembers them.

You describe things with your hands—like you can’t just say what you mean, you have to shape it.

Fingers dancing through the air, painting emotion he doesn’t know how to name.

When you laugh, your shoulders always rise first.

When you lie, you bite the inside of your cheek.

You sing off-key. Barely know it.

And you always pause—just for a second—before you smile.

That’s the one that gets him.

The hesitation.

Like you’re weighing whether it’s worth it.

Whether this moment deserves it.

Whether he does.

Mark doesn’t understand you.

And that should be easy.

It’s always been easy, not understanding people. Easier to flatten them. File them into categories: threat, resource, dead.

But you don’t stay in the box.

Don’t follow the rules.

You should be scared of him—he knows you are—but you don’t flinch when he walks past. You make eye contact. You wave. You hum.

You grin.

And he…

He notices.

Even when he doesn’t want to.

Especially then.

So he tells himself it’s strategy.

Just observation.

Just a glitch with glitter in your hair and too many stories in your throat.

That’s all.

That’s all.

But when he walks past the living room, and sees you curled asleep with your bow across your chest and your hands still half-reached toward something that isn’t there—

Mark slows.

Doesn’t stop.

But he slows.

And tells himself again—you’re just a problem.

Not a person.

Not someone.

Not his.

Not yet, not never.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

The apartment is unusually quiet.

Ever since you got here—there’s always something humming softly in the air. Mark doesn’t notice the silence at first.

He’s used to that. Prefers it.

But this is different.

It’s a small sound that finally breaks him out of his thoughts.

Soft. Barely there.

At first, Mark thinks the sound is static.

Just another nighttime glitch—a flicker in the power grid, maybe. A disturbance in the perimeter sensors.

Something small. Something easy.

But then he hears it again.

Soft. Fragile. Not mechanical.

Human.

He moves before thinking.

Quiet steps down the hallway. Past the control room. Around the corner where the lights are still dimmed to sleep-mode. His hand hovers over the doorframe.

You’re still asleep.

Sort of.

Your body’s curled inward on the couch—smaller than usual, shoulders tight, hands clenched in the blanket. Not the bow this time. Just the blanket.

But your face—

Your face is wet.

Tears carve tracks down your cheeks in silence.

Your lips move, but there’s no sound. Your breath catches on each inhale like it doesn’t know how to settle in your chest.

You don’t sob. Don’t cry out.

You just tremble.

Mark doesn’t move.

He should. He knows he should. Turn away. Walk off. Let you have your grief like you always have—alone, unspeaking, full of bright little lies and off-key humming.

But you’re not humming now.

You’re breaking.

And he—

He watches.

Not with judgment.

Not even with curiosity.

Just… quietly.

Like something in him knows this is sacred. Or familiar. Or both.

He takes a breath. Slow. Controlled.

Then turns away long enough to return with a glass of water.

He sets it down on the table near you. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t touch you.

Doesn’t ask.

When he glances back—

You’re still asleep.

But your hand moves. Barely.

Reaches toward the glass.

Or maybe toward something else.

Mark doesn’t stay to see if you find it.

But as he walks away, the sound of your breath steadying follows him.

Not whole.

Not healed.

But enough.

And for reasons he doesn’t name—

That’s worse than a scream.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

˗ˏˋ 𝓴𝓲𝓼𝓼 𝓶𝒆 ˎˊ˗

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor of the living room.

Surrounded by scraps of thread you found in one of the deep storage drawers Invincible didn’t think you’d find.

(He was wrong.)

One’s gold.

One’s red.

One’s a tangled mess of fraying blue that might actually be a shoelace.

You’re holding them all up like evidence.

Invincible’s standing over you. Arms crossed. Eyebrow raised. Entire posture radiating why are you like this.

You grin up at him.

“Okay,” you begin, voice bright, “so this one represents soul-tied destinies—deep, ancient, violently passionate.” You wiggle the red one.

“This one is light-thread—super soft, fluttery, usually forms during meet-cutes or emotionally charged hand-touching.” The gold.

You hold up the blue.

“This one is chaos. I don’t know where it came from. Possibly cursed. Could be your vibe.”

He squints. “Are you seriously playing with string right now?”

“It’s not playing,” you gasp. “It’s education. I’m trying to teach you how threads work.”

“I don’t care how threads work.”

“You should! Not that you have one—rude—but if you did, yours would definitely be fire-forged, probably double-knotted, tangled six times over, emotionally scorched and fraying at the edges—oh, and extremely defensive.”

He blinks.

Then—“What does that even mean.”

You pause. Smile softly.

“It means you’re very repressed, babe.”

A beat.

He doesn’t respond. Just stares at you like you’ve grown another head. (Honestly, that would explain a lot, probably.)

You shrug. Flick the red string toward him. It hits his chest.

Invincible doesn’t catch it.

“Here. Pretend that’s your thread.”

“I’m not pretending anything.”

“God, you’re no fun.”

He turns to leave.

You call after him, “You’d definitely be a reluctant soulmate.”

He freezes in the doorway.

Very quietly, without turning around, he says.

“There’s no such thing.”

You smile to yourself. Pick up the gold thread again. Loop it gently around your fingers.

“Not yet,” you murmur. “But they don’t always start that way.”

He doesn’t respond.

But he doesn’t walk away either.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

ᯓ❤︎ requested by: @lycheee-jelly

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

I love Afterglow so much! But would you care to indulge my curiosity? Do you imagine reader to be slightly older than Mark? I imagine to be in her mid- to early twenties bc of her expansive career in the medical field, though I'm only going by the impression that she only started working after graduating; unless she's been working for some time already? Idk how careers work ajkdshfldf

˗ˏˋ❝Afterglow❞ˎˊ˗

Mark Grayson x Med!Reader♡ྀི

‎…..ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ…..

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

AHHH first of all—thank you so much for the love on ”Afterglow”!! This is such a fun ask, and I’m honestly so happy someone’s curious enough about something to dive into it with me.

You’re feeding my writer ego. I hope you’re proud of yourself.

So! Let’s talk canon real quick (I’m letting out my inner nerd rn):

In the comics, Mark starts out at 17 years old, but he ages pretty fast—and by the midpoint (around where ”Afterglow” would be happening, give or take), he’s roughly 19–20 , depending on how closely you track the arcs.

He’s been through it (emotionally unwell, physically worse), and is already working full-time with Cecil, so we’re definitely not dealing with “freshman bio class” energy anymore.

The man is seasoned. In trauma.

If we were going by the animated series, though—it’s a little fuzzier.

Season two makes it clear he’s just recently turned 18, so if you’re seeing ”Afterglow” through a show-only lens, Reader might come off as a bit older. But that’s kind of the fun of it, right?

Different interpretations work depending on what canon you’re leaning into. Especially since she’s employed, competent, and not trying to flirt while holding a scalpel backwards.

(Unlike a certain someone in goggles.)

Also! In ”Afterglow”, Mark is still wearing that iconic yellow-blue disaster suit, which firmly locks the timeline into late Season 2-ish // early Season 3 vibes if we were following the showverse.

As for Reader? Yes—I do personally imagine her to be a bit older. Not by decades or anything, but enough to feel the difference. Maybe 21–23ish, depending on how chaotic and accelerated you want her backstory to be.

Either she’s a prodigy who skipped grades and sprinted into the trauma field, or she’s just a few years older with a no-nonsense attitude and a résumé that could legally intimidate a superhero.

She’s sharp, capable, and absolutely not here to babysit—which just makes Mark being utterly down bad for her even funnier.

Regardless, I love the dynamic of “older, exhausted professional woman” × “younger, slightly feral man with devotion issues.”

BUT! While ”Afterglow” is loosely grounded in comic canon (especially in tone and timeline), it’s very much doing its own thing.

The plot, pacing, and character dynamics all live in their own little sandbox. Nothing’s rigid. It’s vibes first, logic second. As it should be.

Hope that answers the curiosity!! And seriously—thank you again for caring about this chaotic little universe enough to ask.

I’m legally required to write more now.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: okay—not a new chapter (pause for dramatic disappointment), but if you’ve ever sat there wondering where exactly “afterglow” falls in the timeline or how old anyone even is while mark is out here catching feelings mid-shift… this one’s for you. huge shoutout to the anon who asked and accidentally unleashed my inner lore geek.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌ongoing TAGLIST: @pickledsoda @f3r4lfr0gg3r @bakugouswh0r3 @katkirishima @delusionalalien @bellelamoon @monaekelis @feminii @sketchlove @lilacoaks @cathuggnbear @forgotten-moon94 @lalana1703 @smikitty @barbare2 @sleepyzzz3 @sunspl0tionjuice

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

taglist sign up: 𓉘here𓉝

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

˗ˏˋ❝Afterglow❞ˎˊ˗

Mark Grayson x Med!Reader♡ྀི

….ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨.ـ…

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⛨ summary: you’re here to teach, not manage a walking concussion with charm issues. but he keeps looking at you like you hung the stars—and asking questions like you owe him answers. it’s temporary. it’s professional. it’s absolutely not personal. right?

⛨ contains: sfw. slow tension. hospital-grade sarcasm. emotional constipation. accidental pining. reader being done™. mark being so not subtle. vending machine cameos. background bureaucracy.

⛨ warnings: mild language. cecil stedman. lingering looks. golden retriever energy. mild secondhand embarrassment. one scalpel-related flirtation if you squint.

⛨ wc: 2839

prologue, part one, part two

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a/n: honorable mention to donald for surviving government-grade stress, doing 99% of the admin work and getting 0% of the appreciation. chapter three is happening. probably. don’t look at me like that.

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The hum of fluorescent lights should’ve blended into the background by now. So should the low thrum of activity—boots echoing against concrete, the shuffle of files, hushed conversations between medics and masked vigilantes. But somehow, everything still feels a little too loud.

Maybe it’s the migraine brewing behind your eyes. Maybe it’s the fact that he won’t stop staring at you.

You shift your weight, cross your arms, and resolutely pretend you don’t notice.

That Invincible is standing three feet to your left, burning a hole through the side of your head with an intensity that shouldn’t be allowed from someone who wears goggles.

You’ve been ignoring him for seven minutes and counting.

You’ve acknowledged literally everything else in this sterile, underground chaos bunker—someone called Sea Salt (you can’t be bothered to care enough to remember properly) pacing in the background, a superhero with a dislocated shoulder yelling about insurance coverage, the world’s most suspicious vending machine—but not him.

And still, he stares.

You exhale slowly. Sharply turn your head.

He flinches like you threw something at him.

“Can I help you?”

The words are flat, clipped. The tone you use when a patient insists they know better because they once watched half an episode of ’Grey’s Anatomy’.

Invincible stammers. Actually stammers, like he doesn’t know what to do now that you talked back.

Your brows lift. “You’ve been standing there like an underpaid mall cop—gaping at me like I’m the last donut at a police briefing. Do you mind?”

He fumbles for a reply. You regret asking immediately.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

A few days earlier.

You were on your fourth cup of coffee and hour three of mid-insomnia spiraling when the email came in.

A subject line so vague it practically screamed delete me.

“URGENT: National Heroic Outreach Program — Personnel Request.”

It sounded like someone stitched together LinkedIn buzzwords with a glue stick and a dream.

You almost deleted it without opening. Fingers already moving to close the laptop.

And that’s when your eye caught the numbers.

A full contract breakdown, bolded in crisp font at the bottom of the message. Enough zeroes to make your exhausted brain glitch.

You squinted. Re-read. Laughed.

Then read it again.

Field medics, trauma therapists, stabilization specialists…

Working directly alongside sanctioned heroic units. Teaching them.

Short-term. High risk. Higher pay.

You were already muttering “absolutely not” as you clicked Reply.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

And now here you are.

In the middle of a hidden operations center that smells faintly of iodine and military-grade deodorant, trying to keep your expression neutral while Invincible looks at you like you invented sunlight.

You narrow your eyes.

“Seriously man. What is your problem?”

“I don’t have a problem,” he says almost too quickly. “I just…”

Didn’t think I’d ever hear you again—he wants to say, but the words die in his throat.

You groan like a middle-aged man.

“Fine, whatever—keep your staring fetish a secret. But you’re still in my space.”

And somehow, despite the sarcasm, despite the walls you’re already rebuilding brick by brick—he smiles. Like you just handed him a sunrise.

Weirdo.

The silence stretches.

Finally—finally—he stops staring. You can feel it.

Like the sun setting. Like freedom on the breeze. You don’t know what bliss tastes like, but you’re pretty sure it’s this exact moment.

Invincible turns his head. Doesn’t say a word. For the first time in almost ten minutes, you can breathe.

The air tastes clearer. Your shoulders lower half an inch. You feel like Eren Yeager looking out at the ocean, finally glimpsing the other side of the fence—finally, the taste of freedom.

You close your eyes, let your arms fall just a bit looser, and begin to reach for that fragile, sacred—

“So… what’s your name?”

You shut your eyes tighter. Channel the serenity of that dog meme you saw once—some old lab basking in the light like he’s ascended to a higher plane. That’s you now. Resigned to whatever curse has chosen to follow you. Accepting the inevitable.

“…Hello?” he tries again.

You breathe in. Deep. Steady. And swallow a curse.

“It’s not important,” you finally say, voice flat.

He blinks.

“Uh—it kinda is? We’re working together, technically. It’s basic team-building. Knowing names builds trust. It’s psychologically proven—like in war movies or HR seminars. I feel like not knowing your name makes it hard to build rapport. Or connection. Or, you know, that dramatic tension where I save your life and you cry over me in slow motion.”

He’s rambling now.

You open one eye. He’s serious. Or, worse—he thinks he’s funny.

You tune him out.

Just completely power down. Close your eyes again, channel the dog meme—serene, resigned, ascended. Accepting your fate as a woman destined to be cornered by a golden retriever in a super suit.

But of course—of course—luck hates you.

Footsteps echo behind you. Measured. Heavy. Government-issued.

Invincible’s voice finally stops.

You open your eyes slowly, carefully.

Cecil Stedman stands a few feet away, looking like someone who’s been awake for forty-seven hours and hates it less than he hates incompetence.

He looks at the hero. Then at you. He exhales like he regrets every decision that’s led to this moment.

“Invincible,” Cecil says, deadpan. “It’s not your job to harass new personnel.”

You smile. A flicker of victory warms your chest.

But it’s short-lived.

“And you—” Cecil turns to you, voice sharp and gravel as he states your full name and last name, “…stop ignoring people when they’re trying to learn from you.”

Invincible’s head snaps up.

Your smile dies on impact.

“…yes, sir.”

You hate him now. Fully. With your entire soul. You will refer to this man as Sea Salt until the day you retire, but only behind his back (you have bills to pay).

Cecil nods. Done with this interaction.

“You’re both assigned to Medical Rotation C for the next three hours. Report to briefings on time, don’t destroy anything, and for the love of god—try not to bleed on each other.”

He turns and walks away like he didn’t just detonate a small emotional warhead and bounce.

You blink slowly.

The superhero grins. Way too close to you.

Invincible repeats your name. Softly. Like he’s trying it on. Like he’s going to wrap it around a sentence any second just to hear it out loud again.

You don’t look at him.

You stare at a crack in the ground and plot how to fake your own death.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

This is fine. Totally fine. No one has died yet.

Except maybe him. Internally. Repeatedly.

You’ve been working together for exactly twenty-three minutes and some change, and Mark is dangerously close to pulling a muscle from glancing at you too often.

It’s not subtle. He knows that. He’s just hoping you haven’t noticed yet.

Mark Grayson—Invincible, world-class puncher of bad guys and part-time public disaster—is on assignment. Medical rotation. One-on-one.

With you.

You haven’t said more than three words since you got here.

Okay—technically, it was four if you counted “Don’t touch that,” which he did. Emotionally. Spiritually. Like a prayer.

He glances sideways. Again. That’s… what? The fifteenth time?

You’re focused. Like laser-cut precision focused. You haven’t looked at him once since the briefing ended, and that alone is doing something catastrophic to his brain chemistry. Your sleeves are rolled up, fingers moving quickly as you sort through supplies and assess whatever half-broken med bay gear they shoved into this basement. And he—

Technically, he’s supposed to be learning. Technically.

He commits the angle of your jaw to memory. He might need to sketch it later. For science.

A cart wheel squeaks. He jumps.

Smooth. Reeeal smooth Mark.

Mark’s dropped the same tool twice. He’s reorganized the same three items five different ways. And when you leaned over earlier—just for a second—he forgot how to breathe.

He thinks he said something to you. Maybe. You didn’t respond.

You probably didn’t even hear him.

Which is fair. You’re working. This is work. He should be working too.

Instead, he’s cataloging every tiny thing about you like it’s the last time he’ll get to. The little crease between your brows when you concentrate. The way you tilt your head when you read a label. The way your lips move slightly when you mutter to yourself. It’s ridiculous. He knows it’s ridiculous. But it’s also—

He nearly knocks over a tray of syringes and freezes like a man in a minefield.

You just say, “Don’t,” without even looking up.

That’s it. One word. And he listens.

Like his soul has been stapled to your command.

He exhales slowly. Starts organizing gauze packets like they’re puzzle pieces and not the only thing keeping him from going absolutely feral with nervous energy.

You’re right there. You’re right there. And not in the middle of some catastrophic collapse or stopping someone’s bleeding from a stress wound. Just—here. Breathing the same recycled air. Wearing scrubs like they’re armor. Not looking at him.

Mark resists the urge to break something—anything—just to make you look at him.

He peeks again.

Yeah. Still perfect.

“Invincible.”

He startles.

You don’t even look at him. Just gesture vaguely at the scalpel in his hand. “That’s upside down.”

“…Right,” he mutters, flipping it. “Just testing you.”

“You failed.”

You don’t say it with heat. Not quite. But not nicely either.

He clears his throat and tries again, forcing himself to focus on literally anything that isn’t the fact that you’re within touching distance. That you smell like antiseptic and cheap gum. That you’re here, and for some reason—still kind of talking to him.

He wants to say something normal. Something clever. But everything that comes to mind sounds like it belongs in a YA novel or a fever dream.

Instead, he peeks at you again.

You don’t notice. Or maybe you do.

But you don’t look back.

And still—he grins.

Because this? Being close enough to reach, even if you never turn around?

It’s more than he thought he’d ever get.

It’s not enough.

Mark lied.

All that pretending—organizing, fixing, standing next to you for three and a half hours like it didn’t matter—like breathing the same air wasn’t scrambling his brain chemistry?

He thought it would be enough. Just this. Just being near you.

But now you’re packing up.

And suddenly, it’s not.

You toss a roll of gauze into your bag like it keyed your car in a past life. Peel off your gloves with the grace of someone absolutely done with today.

The neckline of your scrubs shifts when you move, collarbone catching the light, and he has to look away.

You’re leaving.

You’re actually leaving.

He thought he’d be okay with it. He’s not.

You stretch your neck like it’s stiff, roll your shoulders with a sigh, and Mark swears it’s the most captivating thing he’s ever seen.

Which is insane. It’s a shoulder roll.

But you’re doing it. And it’s happening five feet from him. And he doesn’t know when—or if—he’ll see you like this again.

Normal. Off guard. Not covered in ash and dust.

You zip your bag shut.

And that’s when panic hits him.

It spikes in his chest like a bad punch—jarring and immediate and almost embarrassing. Because if you walk out now, that’s it. You’ll vanish again. And he’ll be stuck wondering if he imagined all of this. You. The way you said his hero name like it was a dare.

His fingers twitch at his side.

He has no idea what he’s going to say.

He just knows he needs to say something before you’re gone.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

You clear your throat. Loud enough to be polite. Dismissive enough to make a point.

“I’m done here.”

He blinks. “Oh. Yeah. Right.”

You wait for him to move. He doesn’t.

You arch a brow. “Door’s behind you.”

Invincible stares at you like you’ve just committed a federal crime. “You’re—leaving?”

You frown. “Yes? That’s what normal people do when the job is finished.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Frowns.

“I just—” The hero shifts, eyes darting anywhere but your face. “I figured we’d—maybe—uh, debrief?”

You blink.

He looks panicked now. “Not like a real debrief! I meant like… decompress? Debrief-light? Low-stakes post-mission rapport-building?”

You pause. Then snort. You can’t help it. It slips out before you can stop it.

He looks like he just won the lottery.

You sigh, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “If this is your way of asking to walk me out—”

“Yes.”

“…I didn’t finish.”

“Still yes.”

You stare.

He fidgets. “Is that okay?”

You hesitate for a breath. Then roll your eyes. “Fine. But if you get weird again, I’m tasering you.”

Invincible grins. “I’ve survived worse.”

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

A few days later.

You look like shit.

Not in a poetic way. Not in a cool, morally-gray antiheroine way. Just in the deeply human, overworked, underpaid, sore-back, I-haven’t-slept-since-Tuesday kind of way.

The ER lights buzz too loud. The coffee machine’s broken again. There’s a spot on your scrubs that might be blood or ink or maybe just your will to live leaking out.

It’s a Tuesday. Maybe.

You’re half-asleep at the nurses’ station when Carla walks up with a folder. She chews her gum like it’s keeping her tethered to this plane of existence.

“Room 9’s yours.”

You blink up at her. “Seriously?”

Carla shrugs. “Guy’s already in there. Looks like he could pay off my student loans in one go, but what do I know. File’s clean. Probably just here to flirt or die. Those are the only two kinds we get.”

You sigh. Take the clipboard. Totally miss Carla’s knowing expression and lazily stroll down the hallway.

Your pen’s already clicking as you push through the long corridor, shoulder nudging the door open without thinking.

You flip through the back pages first—vitals, allergy list, something about minor lacerations. The usual.

The door clicks shut behind you as you scan the first page for the name.

“Mark Grayson…” you murmur, before finally looking up.

He’s already watching you.

Smile crooked. Sheepish. And oddly familiar.

You blink. Shake your head. Tap your pen once against the clipboard.

“…What can I do for you today?”

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⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˖⁺‧₊˚❤️‍🔥˚₊‧⁺˖ ⋆ ˚｡⋆

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Before the bunker. Before the clipboard. Just burnt coffee and bad timing.

The room smells of government-grade stress and poor decisions. Fluorescents hum overhead. Somewhere outside the door, someone’s arguing with a vending machine again.

Cecil Stedman doesn’t look up from the file in his hands.

Donald stands nearby, half-glancing over his shoulder like he’s expecting someone to call out his name and ruin his night any second now.

“I don’t need someone who wants to save the world,” Cecil mutters, flipping a page. “I need someone who knows how to keep it breathing long enough to do that.”

Donald doesn’t answer at first. Scrolls through his tablet with the dead-eyed speed of a man two cups past his caffeine limit.

Cecil drops the folder on the table.

“Her.”

Donald glances down. Sees your name. Frowns.

“She’s not exactly—uh, team-oriented.”

“Good.” Cecil leans back in his chair. “We don’t need another idealist who thinks CPR is optional. We need someone who’ll tell a cape to stop cauterizing wounds with laser vision.”

Donald shifts. “She’s got a record of pushing back on authority.”

“Yeah. So do I.” He picks up the file again, thumbs through it like he’s reading between the lines. “Field trauma specialist. Surgical certs. Five years ER, three years private contract, and one particularly colorful incident involving Invincible.”

Donald raises a brow. “You want her for the hero-medical crossover?”

“Yeah. Not full-time. Just this once.” He thumbs through the file again.

”She’s not exactly a fan of the spandex crowd.” Donald reminds him.

“Which is why she’s perfect.” Cecil taps the edge of the folder. “She doesn’t worship them. She knows how they break. And better—how to keep them from bleeding out on asphalt.”

Donald crosses his arms. “You really think she’ll say yes?”

Cecil shrugs. “Send the contract. Let the pay do the talking. If that doesn’t work… remind her how many heroes think gauze solves internal bleeding.”

A beat passes. Donald exhales slowly.

“We’re asking her to train them. Teach them medical response. Basics. Field aid without powers.”

“Exactly,” Cecil mutters, eyes back on the file. “We’ve got too many weapons and not enough medics. Time we taught the kids how to stop the bleeding before they cause it.”

“And you think she’ll go for it?”

“Temporary contract,” Cecil repeats simply. “Send the numbers. Dangle the autonomy. No long-term commitment, no spandex worship, just her and a bunch of capes learning how not to be idiots for a few hours.”

Donald nods once and turns to leave.

Cecil stays where he is, flipping back to the front of the file.

A photo clipped to the corner. Dark circles under your eyes. Expression flat. Hands gloved, steady.

Unimpressed with the world and clearly not afraid to let it know.

He smiles, just barely.

“Let’s hope she doesn’t kill anyone.”

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ongoing TAGLIST: @pickledsoda @f3r4lfr0gg3r @bakugouswh0r3 @katkirishima @delusionalalien @bellelamoon @monaekelis @feminii @sketchlove @lilacoaks @cathuggnbear

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taglist sign up: 𓉘here𓉝

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

˗ˏˋ❝Afterglow❞ˎˊ˗

Mark Grayson x Med!Reader♡ྀི

‎…..ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ….

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⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˖⁺‧₊˚❤️‍🔥˚₊‧⁺˖ ⋆ ˚｡⋆

TAGLIST for ”Afterglow”—y’know, so no one misses a chapter drop or surprise lore reveal.

If that’s something you’d be into, drop a COMMENT or SCREAM into my inbox—submit your sins (gently).

I’ll summon you into the chaos! (but actually comment—not just like guys—I won’t include you in the taglist if you only like. i need the notification to stand out in the chaos that’s called my phone).

Be warned: I’ve never done one of these before, so this will be powered by vibes, trial and error, and a notes spreadsheet I’ll misplace within a week.

Let me know, lovers of chaos!

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ongoing taglist: @pickledsoda @f3r4lfr0gg3r @bakugouswh0r3 @katkirishima @delusionalalien @bellelamoon @monaekelis @feminii @sketchlove @lilacoaks @cathuggnbear @forgotten-moon94 @lalana1703 @smikitty @barbare2 @sleepyzzz3 @sunspl0tionjuice @maki-ki @angelbelles @scarletdfox

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

˗ˏˋ❝Afterglow❞ˎˊ˗

Mark Grayson x Med!Reader♡ྀི

.….ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨.ـ.. .

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⛨ summary: you’re not obsessed with him. you’re not. but the world clearly is. strange articles. sneaky algorithms. and a voice in your head that won’t shut up. meanwhile, invincible’s got his own problem: he can’t find the girl who called him out like a scrub tech on a bad day.

⛨ contains: sfw. nurse carla’s mischief. media-induced annoyance. early emotional foreshadowing. reader in denial. mark being haunted by words and mystery. parallel narration. bonus scene chaos.

⛨ warnings: mild language. internet stalking (light). stubbornness. minor delusion. no real threats—just a very determined destiny.

⛨ wc: 2146

prologue, part one, part two

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: fun fact—i lost half of this chapter mid-edit because my wifi decided to flatline like a soap opera character. dramatic gasp, hospital monitor beep, the whole deal. one second i’m tweaking a paragraph, the next i’m staring at the void where 800 words used to be. i almost fought my router. bare-fisted. anyway, here it is—risen from the ashes, caffeinated, and slightly more unhinged than originally planned. enjoy my suffering.

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﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

The universe has a sick sense of humor.

You know this. You’ve always known this.

You work twelve-hour shifts surrounded by people coughing on your scrubs and trying to die inconveniently. You’ve stitched up knife wounds caused by things described as “accidents,” told grown men they’re not, in fact, dying from a sore throat, and once had to remove a Lego from a place no Lego should ever be.

But lately, it feels personal.

There’s been a shift. A pattern. A very specific, very annoying theme threading itself through your life like the world’s most persistent pop-up ad.

It’s not love. It’s not fate.

It’s him.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

You tap your phone’s screen with more passive aggression than necessary, holding it to your ear even though you know your (only) friend won’t pick up.

Beep.

“Okay, listen—I’m not spiraling. I’m not.”

(Pause. Sip. Another pause.)

“But if one more news article, thirst edit, or random merch featuring that man—shows up in my general vicinity, I will commit a felony. Probably a creative one.”

(Beat.)

“And no—before you say it—it’s not a crush. I don’t have time for crushes. I have sleep deprivation and a spine held together by caffeine.”

(Silence.)

“He’s not even that hot.”

You hang up.

Regret it. Immediately.

And that’s when it hits you—

You’re not obsessed with him.

You’re not.

You’ve been into people before—celebrities, coworkers, a random guy who pronounced your name right on the first try—but this isn’t that. You’re not delusional. You’re tired. You have a full-time job, a chaotic sleep schedule, and at least two stress migraines scheduled for the week.

You’re not obsessed.

The entire world, on the other hand, clearly is.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

It starts with a newspaper.

A real one. Paper and ink and everything. You’re halfway through your first sip of coffee (not bad, not cursed) when you spot it, splayed open on the front counter like it tripped and fell into your line of sight.

’Invincible saves subway commuters in mid-derailment battle.’

There’s a photo. Midair. Bloodied knuckles. Hero pose. That obnoxious blue-yellow suit.

You blink at it once. Twice. The espresso tastes more bitter somehow.

“…Carla,” you call out, slowly.

A soft shuffle from the break room. “Mhm?”

You tilt your head toward the paper. “Is that yours?”

“Nope,” she chirps, far too quickly.

You squint.

Carla reappears moments later with a tea mug that says ’I am the storm’ in passive-aggressive font and absolutely does not make eye contact as she walks past you.

She hums.

The kind of hum that implies dark intentions.

You stare at the paper like it personally insulted your scrubs.

That’s strike one.

Strike two comes via TikTok. Or… Instagram Reels. Or whatever godforsaken app the algorithm has you trapped in.

You’re lying on your couch on your one night off, a warm takeout container on your lap, the lights dimmed just enough to make it feel like self-care. You open your phone to zone out. Maybe scroll through food mukbangs. A few raccoon videos. Rewatch that one clip from ’The Bear’ for the emotional damage.

Instead, the second video to pop up is a slow-motion fan edit of Invincible. Set to a remix of a 2000s ballad.

You stare at your phone in silence as the hero who bloodied his way through your afternoon is now being thirsted after by teenagers in the comments.

You swipe up fast enough to sprain something.

Then another pops up.

And another.

And—oh, good god. This one’s tagged #invincibae.

You throw your phone facedown on your stomach like it’s contagious.

You’re not angry. You’re not even annoyed.

You’re just trying to have one singular crumb of peace in this godless world, and the masked himbo you verbally body-checked in the middle of a disaster won’t stop invading your downtime.

You eventually find a rerun of ’House MD’ and watch a patient nearly die from licking envelopes, which feels more comforting than it should.

You’re not obsessed.

(But maybe you do glare at a passing bus with his face on the side. Just a little.)

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

By the end of the week, it gets worse.

You’re at the pharmacy grabbing gauze, extra gloves, and the least offensive granola bar in existence when you see the merch.

Merch.

A corner display stacked with shirts and water bottles and pins. There’s a plushie. A plushie. Of him.

You pause, granola bar halfway to your basket.

A kid next to you picks up the Invincible water bottle and turns to his mom. “Do you think he drinks from this too?”

You visibly clench your jaw.

At that exact moment, your phone dings.

You pull it out with the practiced grace of someone who lives and dies by their calendar app—only to find a suggested article on your lock screen.

’Why Invincible Might Be the Most Relatable Hero Yet!’

You could scream.

Instead, you mutter, “I patched up his concussion while inhaling drywall dust. He was seeing double and still arguing with me.”

The cashier stares at you.

You move on.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

The final straw?

A patient brings him up.

Middle of a wound check, nothing dramatic. A few stitches, topical numbing, your hands moving on autopilot. You’re explaining aftercare, bandage changes, when the patient—maybe fifteen, maybe sixteen—smiles at you and says:

“You kinda remind me of Invincible, y’know? Like, you’re calm under pressure and.. kind of badass.”

You blink.

Smile politely. “Cool.”

Inside, your soul shrivels.

You are not him.

You don’t throw punches. You don’t fly. You don’t have a theme song or fan cams or merchandise.

You have an overtime shift on Sunday and a stress knot in your shoulder that’s starting to feel like a second spine.

But the universe doesn’t care.

You’re not obsessed.

You just can’t escape.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

Mark doesn’t remember your face.

Not clearly, anyway.

The smoke had blurred the details, painted you in silhouettes and urgency. You weren’t the loudest voice in the chaos—just the sharpest. Crisp, cutting, sure of yourself in a way that made his head spin more than the actual concussion.

But your voice?

He remembers that like it’s stitched into the inside of his skull.

Low. Stern. Half-sarcastic and half-soothing. It sounded like someone who didn’t have time for bullshit, which—given the circumstances—made sense.

He was bleeding from the ribs. The city was literally burning.

Still, the memory echoes:

“Don’t say fine.”

“You’re favoring your left.”

“You shouldn’t be flying.”

Mark exhales hard, slumping deeper into the worn couch. The TV’s on but silent. Some old action movie flickers in the corner of his vision. It’s supposed to be background noise.

But nothing is loud enough to drown you out.

He doesn’t know your name.

Doesn’t know what you do, where you’re from, if you even survived the aftermath unscathed.

All he knows is that you made him feel—briefly, dangerously—human.

Not a symbol. Not a name in headlines. Just a guy who was bleeding too much and doing too little.

And he can’t stop hearing you.

“You’re zoning out again,” Debbie says from the kitchen.

Mark flinches, barely registering the sound of the fridge opening.

“Sorry. Just tired.”

Debbie hums skeptically and tosses him a cold can of soda. “You’ve said that every day this week.”

“I am tired.”

“You’re also muttering to yourself like a haunted Victorian widow. Anything I should know?”

Mark cracks the can open with unnecessary force.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just stares ahead like the wall is going to give him divine guidance.

“I met someone,” he says finally.

Debbie doesn’t react. Just leans against the counter, raising a perfectly arched brow. “Okay. And?”

“She yelled at me.”

Still silence.

“And I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since.”

There it is.

Debbie snorts into her cup. “That’s it? That’s what’s got you acting like a sad poet?”

He shifts. “It’s not just that. She—she saw right through me. In like, five seconds. Called out every injury I hadn’t processed yet. Told me I wasn’t fine before I could even lie about it.”

“And this was… romantic?”

“No!” Mark frowns. “I don’t even know what it was. I don’t know anything about her. I couldn’t even see her face.”

“Okay, now it’s giving Victorian ghost story.”

“She saved a kid.”

Debbie blinks.

“In the middle of it all. Ran straight into debris and smoke. People tried to stop her and she looked at me like I was the liability.”

He doesn’t mention the way your hands shook but never stopped moving. Or the way you lied—beautifully, horribly—just to keep that child alive a few seconds longer.

He doesn’t mention how it made something in his chest ache.

“She sounds amazing,” Debbie says, more gently now.

“She was,” he mutters. “And now she’s just… gone.”

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

The thing is, Mark’s not usually like this.

He gets hit, he gets up. He saves people, and he moves on. Faces blur. Names fade. It’s how he copes.

But this? This isn’t fading.

It’s getting worse.

He’ll be flying over the city and see a flash of hair that looks vaguely like yours—and he’ll nearly crash into a billboard turning to check. His neck has started clicking. He’s going to need chiropractic help and therapy.

He doesn’t even know you, but he’s half-convinced he’ll know when he sees you again.

He’s waiting for it.

And that thought alone is ridiculous.

Because he doesn’t wait. Not for danger. Not for hope. Not for anyone.

Except now, apparently, for you.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

More than once, he’s hovered outside hospitals and urgent care clinics on patrol. Just a few seconds. Just in case.

He makes excuses for it, of course:

• You never know when you might be needed.

• Some med centers don’t have enough security.

• Maybe he’s being responsible.

But then he hears a nurse’s laugh and it isn’t yours.

And he flies off like a coward.

Not even a few minutes later there’s a robbery in Midtown.

Small-time. Two guys. One has a crowbar. The other trips over his shoelace trying to run.

Mark’s on it in sixty seconds flat.

It’s easy—should be, anyway—but his timing’s off. He lands too hard, shoulder twinges wrong. The guy gets one good swing in before Mark sends him flying (not too far).

It’s done in under a minute.

And still—he’s breathless. Not from the fight, but from the feeling.

The missing.

The what if you’d seen that and thought I was sloppy kind of missing.

He doesn’t say anything as he lifts the guy’s dropped phone and hands it off to the store clerk. They thank him. He nods.

Flies away.

He doesn’t go far.

Just lands on some apartment roof, crouches by the ledge, and lets his hands tangle in his hair for a minute.

The city stretches below him, loud and alive.

But all he wants to find is a blur in the chaos that isn’t there.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

Later that night, he lies in bed, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling like it might offer closure.

It doesn’t.

It’s just drywall and shadows and everything you saw through.

His notebook lies half-open next to him—not forgotten, just untouched, like a question he doesn’t know how to answer yet.

It’s not a journal—he doesn’t do feelings that way—but sometimes, when his head’s too loud and his hands need something to do, he sketches. Nothing fancy. Just lines. Shapes. Impressions.

Tonight, it’s you.

Or, what he remembers of you. Which isn’t much.

Your face is a blur. Hair? A vague impression. Maybe dark. Maybe not. But your hands—he remembers those. Quick, steady, smudged with ash. Your posture. How you stood slightly in front of the child like a shield, chin up, like fear was something for other people.

He’s drawn the same half-profile six times now. None of them are right.

He sighs, drags a hand through his hair, and flips the page over.

Maybe he’s not trying to get it right.

Maybe he just doesn’t want to forget.

He closes his eyes.

But the voice stays with him.

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⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˖⁺‧₊˚❤️‍🔥˚₊‧⁺˖ ⋆ ˚｡⋆

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌Clinic break room. You. Tired.

You sneeze—violently.

Again.

You rub your nose with the heel of your palm, the tip of it already reddish from overuse, and a dramatic groan leaves your throat as you sink into the unforgiving plastic chair.

“This is some kind of karmic punishment,” you mutter to no one in particular. “Like, I must’ve offended a witch. Or touched something cursed.”

“Maybe you’re getting sick,” offers a random nurse from across the room.

You glare at her. “I’m immune to sickness.”

Then of course, Carla appears behind you, perfectly timed as always.

“Maybe someone’s thinking about you,” she says, casual as rain, not even glancing your way before walking off.

You blink. Deadpan.

Then sneeze again.

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taglist sign up: 𓉘here𓉝

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

˗ˏˋ❝Afterglow❞ˎˊ˗

Mark Grayson x Med!Reader♡ྀི

….ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨.ـ... ﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

⛨ summary: you were in a surprisingly good mood, which should’ve been the first red flag. your coworkers weren’t being annoying, the coffee machine was actually working, and not a single patient had tried to self-diagnose off WebMD yet. the universe clearly saw that and went “hmm, too peaceful.” because hours later, the clinic was rubble, a child was almost lost, and you met invincible for the first time. and of course—you yelled at him.

⛨ contains: sfw. local clinic setting. first meeting with invincible. medical professional!reader. civilian chaos. reader being a bad bitch. immediate tension and banter. subtle foreshadowing of their future dynamic. fire/explosion sequence. hands-on first aid moments. mark being surprised-reader-ain’t-scared. small emotional undercurrent under sarcasm.

⛨ warnings: brief injury description (scrapes, blood). explosion/fire trauma. smoke inhalation. nurse carla. mild trauma response (panic, adrenaline). implied danger to a child (rescued safely). some profanity.

⛨ wc: 1093

prologue, part one, part two

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: reader has a license, a savior complex, and zero chill. mark shows up for five minutes and gets emotionally wrecked. enjoy the chaos.

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﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

It’s a quiet Tuesday. The kind of quiet that should’ve tipped you off. The kind of quiet that doesn’t last.

Your shift starts at 8:00 AM sharp, and somehow, you’re early. The sun’s out, the sky’s obnoxiously blue, and someone brought donuts to the clinic—for no reason.

You even got your favorite one—the last one—which felt like a small miracle… until you realized the coffee was good.

Not just drinkable. Good. Fresh. Hot. Non-bitter. Suspicious.

You’d joked with Nurse Carla that the universe was trying to butter you up.

“You just wait,” she said, stirring her tea like some all-knowing, scrub-wearing oracle. “It’s always the good days that get you.”

You’d laughed.

Now you’re pretty sure she hexed you.

The clinic hums with calm, the low rhythm of patients being called back and phones ringing occasionally at the front desk. In room three, you patch up a skateboard accident. Room five brings in an elderly man who insists his blood pressure is fine—even as the cuff nearly bursts. You remain patient, calm, even friendly—somehow.

You’re not usually this chipper.

Maybe it’s the sunlight. Maybe it’s the donut.

Either way, you don’t realize you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop—

Until it does.

Loud. Violent. Apocalyptic.

The explosion shakes the floor beneath your feet.

It’s not real at first. Just a sound—an echoing blast that shatters windows and hurls you out of your good mood like a ragdoll. You slam your coffee on the counter (RIP—it was actually decent) and bolt toward the door before anyone can stop you.

Smoke is already curling above the skyline. Across the street, a building is on fire—its middle floors cracked open like a broken jaw. Glass rains down. People scream.

You don’t hesitate. You just move.

“Call 911!” you shout over your shoulder as your feet hit the pavement. Your heart kicks into overdrive. The calm is gone.

The illusion shattered.

“Evacuate the lobby!”

You don’t wait for acknowledgment. Your feet are already pounding pavement, shoes slipping slightly on the sidewalk as your mind flips into crisis mode.

You’re already halfway in before your brain catches up.

A woman collapses near the curb—shock. You steady her, get her seated, check her breathing. Alive.

You keep moving.

A teen stumbles out of the smoke, blood on his jeans. You direct him to sit, tear open your kit.

Tourniquet. Gauze. Stabilize. Move.

You don’t even notice when your stethoscope vanishes off your shoulders—just that your hands are moving and your brain’s already triaging in real time.

And then you see her.

A little girl—no older than nine—trapped beneath a chunk of concrete by the crosswalk. Her arm’s twisted at a bad angle. Blood smears her cheek. She’s trying to cry but doesn’t have the energy for more than a breathy whimper.

Before your brain can even catch up, your legs are already sprinting.

Someone grabs your arm—an older man with watery eyes and a voice wobbling from terror. “Don’t!” he begs. “That’s suicide! You’ll die trying to—”

“Move,” you snap, not bothering to look back. “Or piss yourself somewhere else.”

You don’t wait for a reply.

Your knees hit pavement. You’re beside the girl before the guy can finish a follow-up plea, hands already assessing her pulse, breath, injuries. You try to lift the debris. Nothing. It doesn’t budge. Your arms shake, muscles strain, lungs burning from smoke.

You try again.

Still nothing.

Panic rises sharp in your throat. The little girl’s eyes flutter—too pale, too quiet.

“Stay with me,” you whisper. “Hey. Look at me, alright? You’re gonna be okay.”

You lie. But your voice is steady.

For a horrible moment, you actually think this is it. That you’re about to die here, buried with this kid—and no one will know why you didn’t wait for backup.

The wind shifts.

Fast. Sharp. A blur of motion and force that sends your hair whipping around your face.

And then the weight’s gone.

You jerk backward, pull the girl free, and curl around her automatically—heart hammering like a drumline. You blink through the smoke and ash.

That’s when you see him.

Invincible.

In the flesh. Blue and yellow suit smeared with ash and blood, goggles cracked at one side. Kneeling beside you like some kind of comic book punchline—if comic books ever showed their heroes looking that tired.

“She’s okay,” you breathe, adjusting the girl in your arms, “but you’re not.”

He blinks like you just insulted him in four languages. “I’m—”

“Don’t say fine.” You eye him critically. “You’re favoring your left. Blood. Concussion-level pupils. You probably shouldn’t be standing, let alone flying.”

“…Are you a doctor?”

“Closer to nurse practitioner. Also not blind.”

You stand, legs shaky but functional. He watches you like he’s never been spoken to like that in his life.

“You should go,” you add, motioning to the kid in your arms. “She needs a hospital. Fast.”

He hesitates.

You frown. “What?”

“…Nothing. Just—” He gestures vaguely at you. “You’re calm.”

You actually snort. “You mean I didn’t cry and fangirl? Tragic.”

“That’s not—”

“I’m not scared of you,” you say, quieter now. “If anything, you’re just another bleeding idiot who didn’t let someone check him out before playing hero.”

You’ve seen enough broken ribs and bad priorities to know most capes aren’t invincible where it counts.

His mouth opens. Closes. Still stunned.

You sigh and hand him the girl, a little softer now. ”Take her. That’s the only reason I’m not yelling more.”

He nods, carefully taking the child into his arms like she’s glass. Gives you one last look—

And he’s gone.

Wind howls. The air cracks.

And you’re left standing there, covered in soot and adrenaline, alone in the wreckage.

You don’t know he’ll remember your voice. The glare. The cracked joke.

But he will.

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⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˖⁺‧₊˚❤️‍🔥˚₊‧⁺˖ ⋆ ˚｡⋆

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌Somewhere, sometime after…

Nurse Carla sits in her living room, lit by the flicker of a dusty lamp and the glow of a muted rerun. A cat—large, black, and terrifyingly still—curls in her lap like it’s plotting something.

His name is Lucifer. You know this because she whispers it like a prayer when chattering about him.

She sips her tea. Doesn’t flinch when thunder cracks outside, even though it hasn’t rained in weeks.

On the table beside her: a newspaper folded open to an article about the explosion. A blurry shot of Invincible in flight.

Carla hums. Calm. Unbothered. All-knowing.

She sets the teacup down with a soft clink, leans back in her chair, and strokes Lucifer’s head.

“I told her,” she murmurs, half to herself, half to the void. “Never trust a Tuesday.”

She smiles.

Lucifer purrs.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: nurse carla is two steps from world domination. the cat knows things. be aware.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

taglist sign up: 𓉘here𓉝

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌ With Love, @alive-gh0st

˗ˏˋ❝Afterglow❞ˎˊ˗

Mark Grayson x Med!Reader♡ྀི

…..ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ….

FULL MASTERLIST + PLAYLIST

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﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌ ⛨ summary: he’s supposed to be invincible. but every time mark grayson shows up bloodied and breathless, you’re the one putting him back together. you don’t have powers. you don’t wear a cape. but in his quietest moments, when the pain settles and the city goes silent—he never looks at you like you’re less. because with you, he isn’t saving the world. he’s just trying to be a person again.

⛨ contains: nsfw (18+). longform slow burn. civilian x hero dynamic. hurt/comfort. mutual pining. domestic intimacy. shirtless medical care. late-night phone calls. first aid as foreplay. hospital closets (eventual). soft!mark. snarky-but-kind!reader. emotional undressing before the literal one. tender dom vibes. smut that earns its place.

⛨ warnings: blood/injury (canon-typical). emotional baggage. strong language. healing trauma. eventual explicit sexual content w/ emotional depth. vulnerability. pining so intense it might combust your soul. a very tired mark trying not to fall in love (and failing miserably).

⛨ wc: TBD (multi-part).ᐟ.ᐟ

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: this is not just a fic. this is a bandage, a bruise, and a breath shared in the dark. also yes. there will be smut. eventually.

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⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˖⁺‧₊˚❤️‍🔥˚₊‧⁺˖ ⋆ ˚｡⋆

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

╰┈➤ prologue 𓊆ྀིread here𓊇ྀི

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

╰┈➤ chapter 1 𓊆ྀིread here𓊇ྀི

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

╰┈➤ chapter 2 𓊆ྀིread here𓊇ྀི

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

╰┈➤ chapter 3 ✍︎

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

╰┈➤ chapter 4 ✍︎

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

╰┈➤ chapter 5 ✍︎

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

╰┈➤ chapter 6 ✍︎

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

╰┈➤ chapter 7 ✍︎

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

╰┈➤ chapter 8 ✍︎

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

╰┈➤ chapter 9 ✍︎

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⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˖⁺‧₊˚❤️‍🔥˚₊‧⁺˖ ⋆ ˚｡⋆

♬ prologue song ▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။|||| |

╰┈➤𓊈”Time for Heroes”—The Libertines𓊉

♬ chapter 1 song ▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။|||| |

╰┈➤ 𓊈”Thinkin Bout You”—Frank Ocean𓊉

♬ chapter 2 song ▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။|||| |

╰┈➤ 𓊈”Little Bit (feat. Lykke Li)”—Drake𓊉

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

taglist sign up: 𓉘here𓉝

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

everything happens for a reason

everything he went through. the darkness that he felt. the fear and anguish that consumed his soul.

it was all so that one day he could meet you.

on that fateful day, he was standing on that rooftop; he was about to take his own life.

that's when you showed up.

"please.. don't do this.."

words of kindness and... love...? words he had never experienced before. words that made him turn away.

tears rolled down your face as you tried to make the man step away from the ledge. he saw those tears. and he thought of what would happen if this teary-eyed bystander watched as he plummeted to his death.

and in that moment, you became his saving grace.

a/n - i really hate how this turned out but i have to feed y'all so.. DAZAI, poe GIYUU, nagito, shigaraki, and any of your self-destructive favorites

This fic is pretty smutty so be warned and no children, but it is a work of art and I thoroughly enjoyed it. Can’t sleep and tummy hurty but Kagehina always got me.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/61506352/chapters/157236793

A Time's Mind

author:

Widow_Spyder

summary:

Gen shut off the TV with a huff, angrily throwing the remote onto the floor before burying his head into the couch cushion and letting himself go.

Oh yes indeed, everyone was having the time of their lives, back in a newly minted world with technology and high rises and working water pumps. Everyone except for one. Because of those 367 days since they saved humanity. Gen had been alone for 322 of them.

A Liar's Truth

author:

internetpistol (orphan_account)

summary: In which Sakusa Kiyoomi is raised to believe that gay people go to hell but then takes one look at Miya Atsumu and thinks, then why the hell did God make them so fucking hot?

Memory Storage: 99% Full

author:

The_Busy_Beee

summary:

Senku never planned to get an AI of his own, but Chrome and Kaseki aren't asking- they're taking matters into their own hands and forcing Gen on him.

Senku doesn't mind Gen; he's smart and very helpful.

But Senku probably should have read the manual Chrome and Kaseki gave him.

---

Gen is a specially made, one of a kind AI with the potential to develop "feelings and emotions", but Senku doesn't realize that until it's too late.

Then he has to deal with his own broken feelings and emotions.

before the farewell

author:

chibyeol (minitala)

summary:

On the dawn of April 2, 5747, Asagiri Gen leaves the Kingdom of Science to travel the world. Or so he says. Running away from a broken heart just seemed too poetic for a calculating mentalist.

Five years later, Ishigami Senku follows the trail he left behind because he isn't afraid to chase after what he wants.

-

Asagiri Gen could not quite let go of his greatest love, so he writes him letters he will never send instead. Ishigami Senku isn't perfect, trial-and-error is of course the theme of science, but that doesn't mean he won't try to fix his mistakes.