The Secret Of Us : a collection of multi-fandom x reader fics based on the Gracie Abrams album.
In Progress:
Wasteland Baby! : (DISCONTINUED) a collection of multi-fandom x reader fics based on the Hozier album
Daisy’s Playlist: Fics based off of songs, AU’s or ideas I have
REQUESTS ARE OPEN (no smut)
Characters I DO write for:
DC: Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Roy Harper & Clark Kent
Marvel: Bucky Barnes, Johnny Storm, Peter Parker, Steve Rogers & Pietro Maximoff
Wizarding World: Fred & George Weasley, Charlie Weasley, Cedric Diggory, Viktor Krum, James Potter, Barry Crouch jr, Neville Longbottom, Remus Lupin, Theo Knott, Tom Riddle, Mattheo Riddle & Draco Malfoy
Stranger Things: Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington, Jim Hopper, Jonathan Byers, Nancy Wheeler & Robin Buckley
Other: Conrad Fisher, Steven Conklin, Joel Miller, Emperor Geta, Lucius Verus, Marcus Acacius, Connell Waldron, Michael (Hoard), Sam (Warfare), Eric (Warfare) & Luke Castellan
Description: It’s Christmas Eve, and instead of celebrating back home, you find yourself visiting Eddie’s grave. Because last Christmas you gave him your heart, and unfortunately, he took it with him wherever souls go when they leave people behind.
Tags/warnings: ANGST, hurt/some comfort (?), mourning Eddie, Dustin makes an appearance and spoiler alert: he’s sad too, both connect through the loss and comfort each other.
Note: Sorry :( I know I just wrote something very angsty for Christmas booo. But everyday I miss this sweet boy more and more and I needed to put that pain somewhere, resulting in…this. Also justice for Dustin Henderson, that boy needs a hug. Please know that I did kiss the brick before I threw it. And regardless of this fic, I hope you all have a peaceful holiday 🤍
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Last Christmas you gave your heart to Eddie Munson. Then three months later, he went and got himself killed.
This year, to save yourself from tears, you promised you’d keep your heart and your grief locked up in the depths of your soul. Just for you. Just for the memory of him and what you used to be.
And yet here you are, Christmas Eve and the tears are still falling free as you kneel in front of his grave. Your knees rest over melting snow as your hands grow tired from scrubbing off the red ink some asshole thought would look very festive today.
“BURN IN HELL.”
You huff. A classic, really. You're used to it by this point. You just hoped that today of all days Eddie would have one day of resting in peace.
You sigh, “Don’t worry love, I got you.”
You toss the stained rag beside you, next to the half empty bottle of paint remover and the flowers you’d picked out just for him.
“You said you’d take me to get our first real tree this year, remember?” you say quietly, to no one but the wind. “That you’d let me pick the one I wanted and then we’d decorate it together.”
You swallow the lump in your throat, but the pain is too strong, the grief is too big to contain in your fragile little heart, even after all this time.
“I’ve waited, you know. I’ve waited all damn winter,” you sniffle, wiping your eyes with the sleeve of your coat, but they keep coming, one after another. “I know I said I’d be alright but–God…I hate you for dying.” The words slip out in a half sob half groan before you can stop it.
The grave doesn’t respond. He never does. He never will anymore. And still, you keep coming back. Even if every bone in your body aches from how much you still love him.
“I hate you for not making it back, Eddie. I hate that you didn’t even get to say goodbye to your uncle. I hate that I still check my window, every single night, like you’re gonna show up there alive, all smug like some stupid character from your campaigns.”
You let out a laugh, so bitter that it burns all the way out and it turns into a whine before it finishes.
“I should’ve saved it, Eddie,” you shake your head, tracing your fingers over the fresh flowers. “My heart, you know, I should’ve never given it to you. I thought–I thought you were someone I could rely on.”
You’re full of shit, you know it. But sometimes the pain speaks louder than love. You know it’s not actually his fault. Maybe he meant to stay. Maybe he never meant to die. Maybe he just wanted to do something good.
And maybe Eddie Munson took your heart with him by accident with that choice.
Now, he carries it in the inside pocket of his worn leather jacket, to wherever the hell souls go when they leave people behind.
You press your forehead to the cold stone when you feel your body giving out. You can feel the faint sun on your back, but the chilly wind makes cold seep into your bones, snow soaks through your pants and your breath comes out in white puffs of smoke. But you don’t want to leave him yet, and you have a feeling he wouldn’t want you to go either.
So you stay a little longer, just in case he shows up late.
You sniffle against the stone, when you feel a shift in the air. There’s a faint brush of warmth on your shoulder that doesn’t belong to the wind. It startles you a little, making you pull back and look at his name engraved on stone.
Edward Munson.
The hollow in your chest stings, but the warmth remains on your shoulder. It doesn't feel like a hand or a full weight, more like…a presence.
A presence that doesn’t scare you, no. For some weird, esoteric reason. You’re not a medium, or a psychic for that matter–you might be turning psychotic though–because all you can think about is this is his way of telling you “I’m still here, sweetheart.”
Maybe it’s just a product of your twisted imagination. But you’ll take it. You’ll take anything.
“So you miss everything else but you couldn’t miss Christmas,” you say, smiling sadly. “Figured. Bet you were waiting till I started ugly crying to make your dramatic entrance,” you chuckle.
The breeze stops for a few seconds, and it’s enough to trick yourself into believing that he really is listening. That maybe, just maybe, he’s crouching behind you, head tilted, wearing that maddening teasing grin that always drove you mad. Of course.
“I brought you flowers,” you say, placing them closer to the stone. “Don’t get used to me being this nice, though. I’m still mad at you, you know.”
He knows. Wherever he is he knows.
“Just…don’t go yet, please,” you mumble, and it comes out weaker than you expected, even if you want to scream it. “Let me have my heart back for a little bit longer.”
It’s a whisper. A child plea. A freaking Christmas wish if you will. You wish you could wrap your arms around that weird phantom feeling and hold it down. Lock it in your chest so he doesn’t drift away again.
But you know what happens next. The warmth will fade. The cold will come back. The loneliness will greet you like an old friend and the grief will replace him, painting every memory a dull gray.
And the world will go on.
You don’t know how much longer you sit there. Your fingers are going numb as well as your knees. But you can’t find it in yourself to get up and leave. Not yet.
You close your eyes, trying to center on the feeling, on the presence. You swear you can almost hear him. Maybe if you focus enough, Eddie can–
A hand lands on your shoulder.
An actual, warm, heavy hand that makes you jolt. You turn around, startled. The sun on your face makes it hard to see the tall figure standing there, but you see a flash of curly hair and that familiar shirt with a devil on it.
“Eddie?” You ask, in all your delusion and the stupid hope your soul still hangs on to.
But as you squint, you finally recognize the face looking down at you.
Dustin.
He steps back. “Shit–sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. Should’ve said something–”
“No, no, it’s okay,” You say, quickly wiping your stray tears and swallowing the lump in your throat. “It’s okay. I just…saw the shirt.” You gesture toward the Hellfire tee under his coat.
Dustin glances down and offers a small smile he only has for you lately. “Yeah. Still wear it.” He shrugs, trying to sound nonchalant, but there’s bitterness behind his words. “Even if everyone keeps giving me shit for it.”
You exhale. “You’d think Mike and Lucas would understand…”
“Yup,” he says bitterly, taking off his backpack and sitting next to you with a sigh. “They say it’s not about Eddie.They just…think I should stop giving people ammo. Stop ‘making it worse’ for myself.” He makes dramatic air quotes around the words. “But they don’t get it. None of them do. Nothing can be worse than this.”
You nod, looking down. “I can’t stand the pity in their eyes. The way they look at me like I’m this…fragile reminder of everything they’d rather forget. But…they don’t know what it’s like to lose the most important part of you and have the world rub it in your face every day.”
You reach up to your coat, undoing some of the buttons to open it just enough to show the same shirt underneath. The same logo Eddie was so excited to show the club once. Still clinging to your skin as a symbol of your undying love for him.
“This is all we have now, but I guess they’re fair and we’re insane for wearing a stupid shirt,” you shrug, making Dustin chuckle.
You look back at the headstone. At the little red stain you missed near his name. At the beautiful flowers covered in snowflakes. You realize the warmth is gone. But you don’t feel alone, not with the boy next to you.
“Thanks for coming, by the way,” you say, glancing sideways at Dustin. “He deserves to be remembered by people who knew who he really was.”
Dustin nods. Because Eddie was yours. And his. And no amount of rumors or fear from stupid friends or red ink on stone can erase that.
“I didn’t know if I’d find you here today,” he admits, shifting awkwardly. “I didn’t want him to be alone. I just–I thought you’d be home with your family,” he adds carefully.
“I should be,” you breathe. “But my heart’s not home.”
“Yeah…mine’s kind of stuck here too,” he mumbles. “Every Christmas from now on is just gonna be before Eddie and after Eddie. You know?”
You just nod, not trusting yourself to speak. There’s nothing else to say, really. All that’s left is the weight that settles between you. A grief that matches yours. You don’t realize tears start falling again until Dustin bumps your arm gently with his. A freak with another freak.
Missing the og freak. Ha.
“I hate that it says Edward,” you mutter eventually. “He’d have hated that too. It’s just so…formal.”
Dustin chuckles. “You know what else he’d hated?” He asks, already reaching for something in his backpack. “I brought him licorice. They didn’t have the red one so I bought the black ones he said tasted like Satan’s ass,” he adds, waving the little bag out.
You huff out a shaky laugh, wiping your cheeks again with your sleeve. “He was very verbal about that.”
“Yeah…Eddie was passionate about everything.” Dustin says.
You fall into silence again. The two of you, the flowers, the snow, the shitty licorice. And Eddie, of course, wherever he is.
The sun has hidden behind clouds by now, and the cold starts getting unbearable. You glance up, the sky’s already darkening, the last daylight of Christmas Eve bleeding away behind the trees.
Something inside you whispers okay, that’s enough. Time to go.
You sigh, gathering your things. “I hate leaving him,” you say.
“I know.”
But it’s time.
You stand up and Dustin follows, shaking the snow from his clothes. You look at the stone one last time, the cleaned letters, the flowers, the unopened bag of licorice left behind like some kind of offering. You reach down and touch the top of the stone. Just for a second, to say your goodbyes quietly.
“Did you bike here?” You ask after a moment, half turning to Dustin.
He shakes his head, “Mom dropped me off. Said I better be home for dinner.”
“I can drive you there,” you offer, taking out Eddie’s keys–or well, yours now– from your pocket. “Or…we could stay in the van for a little. You know…brood together. Talk shit about Eddie.” You shrug, trying to sound casual. “Lovingly, of course.”
Dustin snorts. “Obviously. Only the worst parts of him.”
You both look at the stone again. And this time, it almost feels like he’s rolling his eyes at you, somewhere beyond the veil that separates you. But deep down, you know he’s happy his favorite people are not alone on a day like this.
“Alright,” Dustin says, nodding toward the parking lot. “Let’s go sit in the van and make fun of our dead friend.”
You snort. “That’s the spirit.”
Dustin walks ahead of you, and as you glance one last time at the formal ‘Edward Munson’, you whisper, barely above the winter breeze.
“Merry Christmas, Eddie.”
Once again I'M SORRY. Thank you so much for reading, feedback is always appreciated 🎄🤍
wake up, steve harrington’s your boyfriend, he makes you your favorite breakfast, you go for a winter walk while holding hands, dinner, a rom-com, eddie munson comes home, challengers.
The party hums like a heartbeat — loud, unsteady, full of sweat and smoke. Music thunders through the walls, bass trembling through cups and floorboards. The house smells like spilled beer and too much perfume, but somehow it feels alive, thrumming with something that keeps everyone moving.
Eddie stands at the edge of it all — a beer in hand, curls wild, rings catching the light — watching you.
You shouldn’t stand out as much as you do, not in this chaos. But you do. You always do.
You’re in the middle of the room, laughing at something Robin said, hips swaying to a beat that barely matches the song. Steve’s somewhere behind you, talking too loud to Jonathan, a hand occasionally reaching toward you, but never really watching you. Not like Eddie does.
I still watch you when you’re groovin’, as if through water from the bottom of a pool…
That’s exactly how it feels — like he’s underwater, breath held, watching something too beautiful to surface for.
Your body moves without hesitation, like you were made to fit inside a song. Every small tilt of your head, the gentle rise and fall of your shoulders — it’s hypnotic. You move without trying to, and it makes Eddie feel like he’s being dragged by a current he doesn’t want to fight.
You’re movin’ without movin’, and when you move, I’m moved…
Someone spins you and you laugh, dizzy and glowing, and for a second, you’re facing him. You see him across the room — eyes dark, unreadable — and something in you stills. Just long enough for him to take a breath and step forward.
He shouldn’t.
But he does.
The crowd swallows him for a moment, then parts, and suddenly you’re there — inches away, the air between you humming like static. He doesn’t say a word. He just looks at you like you’re something sacred he’s not supposed to touch.
You are a call to motion, there, all of you a verb in perfect view…
You should step back. You should say something about Steve. But the music shifts, slower now, thicker somehow, and you don’t move away. You sway. He follows.
And just like that, he’s moving with you — not leading, not guiding, just following. His hand grazes your waist once, barely a touch, but it’s enough to make your pulse skip.
The two of you find a rhythm — small, subtle — your body brushing his in time to the music. The room spins in slow motion, and he feels like the only thing holding him to earth is you.
When you move, I’m put to mind of all that I wanna be…
He doesn’t even realize his breath has synced with yours. His eyes trace the shape of you — the curve of your neck, the way your hair catches the light, the faint tremor of your shoulders when you laugh — like he’s memorizing every second before the world crashes back in.
“Eddie,” you whisper, so quiet he almost misses it. There’s something like warning in it, something like apology.
But he can’t look away.
So move me, baby, shake like the bough of a willow tree… you do it naturally… move me, baby…
You turn slightly, your back brushing against his chest, and that’s when it hits him — the heat, the ache, the dizzying, breathless pull. You move again, slower this time, and he swears the whole room fades out.
He shouldn’t feel this. Not for you. Not when Steve — his friend — is right there. But your body is moving with his like it was meant to, and he’s completely gone.
He doesn’t touch you again. He doesn’t have to. The space between you burns all the same.
And when the song ends, you finally step away. You don’t look at him, but you don’t look for Steve either. You just disappear into the crowd, the ghost of a smile still on your lips.
Eddie stands there, chest tight, beer forgotten, the echo of your movement carved into his bones.
Pairings: Pietro Maximoff x reader & Adam Warlock x reader
Warnings: mentions of character deaths
It’s been years since Sokovia. Years since the sound of crumbling metal, the light of a thousand drones, and the moment your world stopped.
You tell yourself you’ve healed. You’re not the same girl who froze in the battlefield rubble, clutching a torn jacket and whispering a name to the wind. You’ve seen galaxies since then. You’ve fought among the stars.
And now, you have Adam.
Adam Warlock is everything Pietro never got to be — steady, patient, kind. His hands are warm, his words careful. When he looks at you, he sees all the pieces of who you’ve become, and he never tries to rush the parts that still hurt.
You love him.
At least, you think you do.
But sometimes, when the ship hums in the dark and the universe feels endless, you hear it again — that faint echo of Hozier’s song you once heard playing through static and smoke.
Sweet music playing in the dark.
And your heart stumbles. Every single time.
⸻
One night, you find yourself in the observation deck. The stars spill out before you — galaxies shimmering like rain on glass. Adam joins you quietly, his golden reflection flickering in the window.
“You’re awake again,” he says softly. “Another dream?”
You nod. “Not a dream. A memory.”
He doesn’t ask which one. He just reaches for your hand, his touch gentle — like he knows he’s holding something breakable.
“I can’t help it,” you whisper. “Every time I close my eyes, I see him. The way he moved. The way he laughed, even when everything was burning around us.”
Adam tilts his head, his voice calm. “You loved him.”
You exhale, a trembling breath. “I didn’t get the chance to.”
Silence settles between you — not cold, not angry, just heavy with the truth you’ve carried for years. You stare out at the stars, and they blur until you can almost pretend one of them is silver — fast and flickering, like he’s still out there somewhere.
⸻
Later, Adam plays music in your quarters — soft, old Earth tunes you’d once told him you liked. The melody drifts through the air, familiar in a way that makes your throat tighten.
You lean against him, but your mind drifts somewhere else — to another night, another song, another boy who smiled like lightning and never got the chance to grow old.
The same kind of music haunts her bedroom.
I’m almost me again. She’s almost you.
You close your eyes. You can almost feel the wind rushing past you again, hear his teasing laugh as he disappears in a blur. For a second, it’s all there — the rhythm, the chaos, the way he made you feel alive.
Then Adam’s voice cuts through, gentle but grounding.
“You’re somewhere else,” he murmurs.
You swallow hard. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Somewhere I can’t go back to.”
He doesn’t press. He just holds you a little tighter, as if he knows the ghost that lives between you both — and accepts it.
⸻
You tell yourself this is what Pietro would’ve wanted. For you to live. To love again.
But some nights, when the stars seem to move too fast across the black, you still whisper his name under your breath — like a prayer, or maybe a promise.
Because no matter how far the universe stretches, some part of you will always be back there, in Sokovia’s twilight —
You weren’t supposed to be on the field. Not really.
You were still “in training” — a phrase Natasha used with fond patience and Tony used with heavy sarcasm. But when Ultron’s forces hit the outskirts of Sokovia, there wasn’t time for rules or ranks.
That’s where you first saw him — Pietro Maximoff, all silver blur and sharp grin. The first time he darted past you, you thought it was lightning. The second time, you realized he’d just saved your life.
“Keep up, new girl!” he shouted over the gunfire, voice half-laugh, half-taunt.
You wanted to snap back, but he was already gone — just a streak of blue and white, wind biting at your face.
⸻
Hours later, the fight had died down. The night over Sokovia was thick with smoke and broken light. You were sitting on the edge of a shattered building, knees drawn up, pulse still racing.
That’s when he appeared again — like the chaos had spit him out and sent him right to you.
“You fight well,” he said, breathless, brushing dust from his jacket. “For someone who still needs… how do they say? Supervision.”
You rolled your eyes, but smiled. “You move fast for someone who doesn’t seem to have an off switch.”
He laughed. It was soft, genuine — not the cocky kind you’d seen earlier. For a second, you forgot the war, the smoke, the ache in your bones. You just listened to the quiet between you, the rhythm of his breathing like a heartbeat against the ruin.
Somewhere nearby, someone had left a radio on. A scratchy old love song hummed through the static — sweet music playing in the dark.
It felt strange, that sound. Tenderness, in the middle of all this destruction. You could feel your heart stumbling, tripping over itself like it didn’t know how to move slowly anymore.
Be still, my foolish heart. Don’t ruin this on me.
He caught you watching him — those blue-grey eyes glinting even in the dark — and for the briefest moment, you thought maybe he saw it too. That fragile, flickering thread between you.
⸻
The next few days blurred together. You fought side by side, spoke in fragments — little moments stolen between missions. A laugh shared in the Quinjet. A look across the chaos that said I see you.
Wanda teased him once — you heard her whisper something in Sokovian that made him blush. You didn’t ask, but you smiled anyway.
Then came the final fight. Ultron’s army. The city falling. The sky breaking apart.
You remember shouting his name, running toward him as the air filled with gunfire. He turned, that grin flashing one last time — “You didn’t listen! I said keep up!” — before the sound swallowed him whole.
⸻
Later, in the aftermath, when the smoke had cleared and silence fell over Sokovia like a shroud, you found his jacket where he’d dropped it.
You sat alone with it, the world feeling too quiet. Somewhere in the distance, a song drifted through the broken city — a melody you half-recognized. The same kind of music that had haunted your nights since that battle.
You thought of him — that boy who moved faster than thought but laughed slower than anyone you’d ever met. The one who made you feel almost you again.
You traced the frayed edge of his jacket and whispered to the air, “Be still, my foolish heart.”
And for a moment — just one heartbeat — you could almost hear him laughing again.
Warnings: mentions of cannon sexual assault and forced prostitution
The Capitol’s parties always smell like sugar and perfume — a haze of wealth so thick it sticks to the skin. You used to love them. The silk gowns, the champagne that tasted like diamonds, the laughter that never stopped.
Until Finnick Odair.
You’d seen him before, of course — everyone had. The darling of the arena. The boy with the sea in his eyes and a smile so bright it blinded you from the truth. But that night, when he was led into the room like a trophy instead of a man, something inside you cracked.
He smiled — the smile everyone knew. The one that sold perfume, luxury, dreams. But his eyes were distant, like a storm was raging behind glass. You saw the faint tremor in his hand when a Capitol socialite touched his arm, the practiced way he leaned close, whispered something flirtatious, and then excused himself like it meant nothing.
That’s when you understood the whispers. The “gifts,” the “arrangements.” The way people spoke of him not as a person, but a prize.
You didn’t sleep that night.
The next morning, you found his handler. It took the transfer of more credits than you could ever justify, but you didn’t care. You bought all his hours. All of them.
When he came to your apartment, he looked wary — tense, like a cornered animal.
You’d never seen him so quiet.
“I don’t want—” he began, voice tight, but you shook your head.
“I know,” you said softly. “You don’t have to.”
His breath caught, confusion flickering in his eyes.
“I paid for your time,” you whispered, “so no one else can.”
He stared at you for a long moment, disbelief clouding his features. You thought he might laugh, or yell, or walk away. But instead, he sat down — carefully, as if unsure the ground was real.
You made tea. You didn’t talk much. You let him sit in silence, his hands wrapped around the mug, the steam curling around his face like salt air.
After a while, he said quietly, “No one’s ever done that before.”
You looked at him. “They should have.”
Weeks turned into months. Every night he came to you — sometimes to talk, sometimes just to rest. Sometimes he’d bring little things — a shell from the Presidential Gardens fountain, a carved charm he said reminded him of home.
You’d listen when he spoke of the sea, of Mags, of the arena that made and broke him. You never asked for the details of what he endured. You already knew.
Once, you asked, “What will you do, when you’re free?”
He smiled, soft this time. Real. “Swim until I can’t see the shore.”
You wished you could go with him. But even love couldn’t undo the Capitol’s chains.
The night before he left for the Quarter Quell, you found him sitting by your window, watching the rain streak the glass.
“You’ll come back,” you whispered.
He looked at you like the sea itself was dying inside him. “If I do,” he said, “it’ll be for you.”
When he kissed you, it wasn’t the charm of the Capitol’s darling. It was the quiet, desperate kiss of someone who’s been starved of being seen.
And when the screen flickered days later, showing him on that beach in the arena — salt in his hair, trident in hand — you whispered to yourself that you’d buy his time again and again, if it meant he could keep his freedom for even one heartbeat more.
Because love, in the Capitol, was the only rebellion you could afford.
You weren’t looking for anything. Not love, not even distraction — just quiet. Hawkins had been too loud lately, too full of memories you didn’t want to keep replaying. Every day had started to feel the same: work, sleep, repeat. You’d told yourself you were fine being alone.
And you almost believed it.
You were so close to closing yourself off for good — to packing it all up, the hope, the vulnerability, the ache of wanting more — when he walked in.
Steve Harrington.
With that messy hair that looked like he’d tried too hard not to care, and that lopsided grin that felt too warm for someone you barely knew.
He wasn’t supposed to happen. Not to you.
You met at the Family Video store. You’d gone in looking for an old movie, something familiar, something that wouldn’t hurt to remember. He’d offered to help, leaning on the counter like he had all the time in the world.
“What are you in the mood for?” he’d asked, voice easy, teasing.
“Something where no one gets their heart broken,” you’d said, half a joke, half a truth.
He’d smiled softly, like he understood exactly what you meant.
You don’t know how it happened after that — how one afternoon turned into a dozen. Movie nights, takeout, lazy mornings you swore weren’t sleepovers but felt like them anyway. The kind of comfort that didn’t demand anything from you, just existed.
You weren’t used to that. To someone seeing you — really seeing you — without asking for more. Steve didn’t play games. He didn’t make you guess. He’d hold your hand without thinking, brush a strand of hair behind your ear like it was second nature.
And it terrified you.
Because for once, it felt easy. Real. Something that wasn’t built on pretending. You’d been so close to giving up on the idea of love, but then there he was — showing up, again and again, just because he wanted to.
Now, when you wake up next to him, his arm draped lazily over your waist, you can’t help but smile. The morning light filters in through the blinds, catching on the curve of his jaw. He stirs, mumbles your name in a sleep-heavy voice that makes your heart ache in the best way.
You never meant to fall.
But you did — slowly, quietly, all at once.
He shifts closer, his breath warm against your neck.
“Hey,” he whispers, still half-asleep, “you’re staring.”
You laugh softly. “You just… happened, you know that?”
He smiles, eyes still closed, voice low and rough.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, “I’m glad I did.”
And maybe love isn’t always fireworks or grand gestures.
Maybe sometimes, it’s just this — a heartbeat beside yours, steady and sure.
Someone you never meant to find, fitting perfectly into the space you swore was closed off.
Johnny Storm — the Human Torch, the heartbreaker, the headline.
A name that lit up rooms and burned hearts in equal measure.
And still, you fell.
You told yourself it was different this time — that the boy beneath the fame, the one who laughed at your terrible jokes and called you at 2 a.m. just to say goodnight, was real.
And maybe he was.
But even real things can hurt you.
You’d told him things you’d never told anyone. Things you’d buried so deep you almost forgot they were there — about your fears, your family, the loneliness that crept in at night.
He’d listened. Really listened.
He’d held you while you cried. Kissed your hair. Whispered, “You’re safe with me.”
And you’d believed him.
Until you didn’t.
Because slowly, he began to pull away. Not cruelly, not even deliberately — just distractedly.
He was always somewhere else — at events, in interviews, smiling beside faces you didn’t recognize but the world did.
When he came home, he’d kiss you like he was trying to remind himself who you were.
And you knew.
You knew that you weren’t the only one who wanted to be close to the sun.
You just thought maybe you’d be the one he wouldn’t burn.
The night you left, he didn’t even realize. You’d packed quietly, said goodbye to the city lights through his apartment window, and left the key on the counter beside the coffee mug he always forgot to rinse.
You thought he’d call.
He didn’t.
And in the silence that followed, you replayed every secret you’d ever shared with him — the things you’d told him in whispers, the parts of yourself you’d uncovered because you thought he’d protect them.
Now, they just felt like ghosts haunting your memory.
Weeks later, you saw his face again — on a screen this time, laughing beside someone new.
She was beautiful.
Of course she was.
And all you could think was: She doesn’t know yet.
She doesn’t know how he’ll make her feel like she’s the only girl in the world — until he doesn’t.
You told him things.
And now they’re just words in the wind, memories that used to mean everything and now mean nothing.
Her hand on his chest, his familiar half-smile — that one that used to be just for you.
You don’t even mean to look twice, but you do.
Because it’s her.
Because it’s him.
Because that’s the truth you’ve been trying not to face.
They look happy.
And that’s the worst part — not the betrayal, not even the memory of the night you found out — but how effortless it seems now. Like what the two of you had was nothing more than a rehearsal for what he’s living now.
You remember the way he used to hold you — gentle, careful, like you were something he didn’t want to break. And then one day, he just… stopped being careful.
The silence that followed his confession was louder than anything you’d ever heard.
“I didn’t mean to,” he’d said.
But you knew he did. Because things like that don’t just happen.
You told yourself he’d regret it — that one day, he’d look for you in every laugh, every kiss, every sleepless night.
But scrolling through your screen now, watching them smile into a sunset, you realize maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he never will.
And that’s what stings the most — that the truth isn’t just that he moved on.
It’s that he’s happy.
And you’re still here, piecing yourself back together, trying to remember who you were before he made you believe in forever.
You close your phone, but it’s too late — the image has already carved itself into your mind.
Her nails painted the color you used to wear.
His arm around her in the same way he used to hold you when the world felt too loud.
You think about the nights you spent believing him.
About all the words that felt so real.
About how that’s so true could mean something completely different now — not the warmth of honesty, but the chill of realization.
Because yes, he’s happy.
And yes, you’ll be fine someday.
But tonight, it hurts — it hurts to know the truth, to see it smiling back at you in a photo that shouldn’t mean anything but somehow means everything.
And for the first time, you whisper into the empty room — half-bitter, half-broken:
You watch him from across the courtyard, Theo Knott — effortless, magnetic, completely untouchable. He laughs with his friends, leaning into the sunlight like he owns it, and your chest tightens without warning.
You used to be the one he noticed first. The one he laughed with, teased, leaned on. But now, it feels like he’s slipped into someone else entirely — someone larger than life, someone “cool” in a way that makes you feel small.
You tell yourself it’s fine. You like who he’s becoming. You should be happy for him. But every glance, every laugh that doesn’t reach your eyes, reminds you of the space growing between you.
“Hey,” he says suddenly, walking over. His grin is easy, effortless, as though nothing has changed between you.
“Hey,” you reply, voice steady even though your heart is racing.
He sits beside you, nudging your shoulder gently. “You okay?”
You nod, smile, and say nothing. How can you explain that you’re fine except that he seems farther away than ever? That his charm, his confidence, the way everyone gravitates toward him, makes you ache in a way you can’t put into words?
He talks about school, music, plans — and you laugh at the right times, nod when you should. You’re there physically, but your mind keeps replaying the memories of when it was just the two of you, when you weren’t standing in his shadow.
And as he leaves, tossing a casual wave over his shoulder, you feel it — that quiet pang of longing. That ache that comes from watching someone you care about move forward without you, becoming someone you barely recognize but can’t help still loving.
You tell yourself again: he’s “cool” now, and maybe you’re not meant to be part of that world. But deep down, you know you’ll always want to be near him, no matter how far he drifts.
Because some connections don’t vanish, even when everything else changes.
There are certain things you never forget — the way sunlight hit his face in the Glade, the way his voice always carried, the way you felt safe when he stood near you, even in a world that offered no safety at all.
Gally wasn’t soft, not at first.
He was all sharp words and walls built too high, a boy made of survival instincts and guilt. You used to think he didn’t feel things the way others did. But then one night, when the campfire had burned down to embers, you caught him watching you — not with anger, but something quieter. Something that almost hurt to look at.
That was the first time you realized how deeply he felt everything.
And for a little while, he let you see it.
The world was ending around you, but he found ways to make it bearable — the smallest gestures, the subtle warmth. A hand brushing yours when no one was looking. The faintest smile in a place that had forgotten what smiles were. You used to think love couldn’t exist in a place like that, but with Gally, it did. It had to.
Until it didn’t.
You remember the chaos — the shouting, the fear, the blood. The way he looked at you before everything fell apart. You remember thinking you could reach him, that your voice might break through the noise. But it didn’t. It never did.
You left without goodbye, because there wasn’t time for one.
And now, years later, in a half-rebuilt world that still feels cracked and uncertain, you think about him more than you want to admit. Sometimes when the wind picks up, you swear you can still hear his voice — steady, grounding, familiar. It always catches you off guard, how memory can sound so alive.
You tell yourself it’s over — that he’s part of another life, another version of you that doesn’t exist anymore. But on nights when sleep won’t come, your mind drifts back to him. To his rough hands, his rare laughter, the warmth of his shoulder brushing yours.
You wonder if he ever thinks about you, or if he’s buried it all the way you tried to.
Then one day, you see him again.
It’s not cinematic. There’s no slow motion, no music swelling in the background. Just two people standing on opposite sides of a crowded marketplace, frozen in place.
He looks older — broader, tired in the eyes but still unmistakably him. His hair is shorter now, his jaw more defined, but the moment his gaze lands on you, it’s like no time has passed at all.
You both stand there, caught between what was and what is, until someone jostles past and breaks the spell. You move toward each other without thinking.
When you finally stop in front of him, your chest tightens. You search for words — something simple, something safe — but nothing feels right. He opens his mouth like he might speak, then just exhales softly.
“Didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” he murmurs. His voice is lower, rougher.
“Me neither,” you say.
It’s quiet after that — the kind of silence heavy with everything unsaid. You want to tell him you never stopped wondering if he made it out alive. You want to ask if he ever forgave himself. You want to say you missed him, that part of you still does.
But you don’t.
Instead, you smile. Small, real. “You look good, Gally.”
He huffs out a laugh — that same, familiar sound that still makes your heart twist. “You too.”
And for a moment, standing there in the middle of a world that tried to destroy you both, it feels like the past is close enough to touch. Like if you reached out, you could find that version of him again — the one who softened for you, even when he didn’t mean to.
But you don’t reach. You know better now.
Some things aren’t meant to be reclaimed.
You say goodbye — gently, quietly, the way you didn’t get to before — and you walk away. You don’t look back.
Still, that night, when you lie awake under the same stars you used to watch together, you can feel him somewhere out there. Maybe thinking of you too.
You’re not together, not anymore. But in some quiet, invisible way, you’re still close.
Bruce Wayne — the man who stood like stone even in the rain, who carried Gotham’s weight on his shoulders like it was his birthright. You thought that if you stayed close enough, some of that strength might rub off on you. But the truth was, being near him only ever made you softer.
And for a while, that softness was something he loved.
You were young — not foolish, but still unscarred in ways he wasn’t. You laughed easily, believed in redemption, believed in him. And maybe that’s what made him stay longer than he should have. The way you looked at him like the darkness in him wasn’t something to run from.
But love, you learned, doesn’t always mean belonging.
He started to pull away in quiet ways. A missed call here, a rain check there. You knew he wasn’t cruel — he was just careful. You could feel the distance before he even said it. The nights he stayed out longer, the mornings he couldn’t meet your eyes. You told yourself it was the city, his duty, the cape — anything but the truth.
The truth was: he was letting you go.
And he did. Gently. Kindly. As if he knew one more day would make it impossible for either of you to walk away clean.
He didn’t beg you to stay. You didn’t ask him to change. You just stood there — two people who wanted each other in ways the world wouldn’t allow.
Now it’s months later. You’re back in your own apartment, sunlight spilling through the windows Bruce never opened in his mansion. The quiet feels different now — not empty, but peaceful. You can breathe again.
You still think of him sometimes — when it rains, when you hear the sound of leather gloves, when the city lights flicker against the night sky. But it doesn’t hurt like it used to. You don’t ache to call him. You don’t wait for the sound of his voice.
You’re free now.
And maybe that’s the strangest part — realizing freedom doesn’t come with fireworks. It comes with stillness. With the slow understanding that you can love someone and still walk away.
You close your eyes, whisper his name once, just to feel it on your tongue — and then you let it go.
Outside, somewhere in Gotham, you know he’s still out there — fighting, surviving, haunted in his own way.
But he gave you the one thing he never could give himself.
There’s no shouting, no slammed doors, no cinematic heartbreak. Just silence. The kind that settles when both people know they’ve reached the end — not because they stopped caring, but because they’ve finally accepted that love alone isn’t enough.
Michael’s sitting across from you, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight like he’s holding himself together. His eyes flicker up to yours, and there’s that familiar look — the one that used to make you believe you could survive anything together.
But now, it just hurts.
“You’ll be okay,” you say, though your voice cracks halfway through. You try to smile, and he does too, that crooked half-smile you’ve loved since the first time he let his guard down.
He nods. “You too.”
It’s strange — you used to picture a future where he was in every frame of your life. The coffee in the mornings, the half-done crossword puzzles, the quiet hum of music drifting through shared space. You thought you’d grow into that comfort together.
But love, it turns out, doesn’t always mean staying.
You reach for his hand. It’s warm, solid — still the safest place you’ve ever known. You trace the scar on his thumb, the one you used to tease him about.
“I’ll still think of you,” you whisper.
“I know,” he says. “I’ll think of you too.”
There’s no fixing this — no grand gesture, no redemption arc. Just two people who tried their best, who loved as much as they could until it started to weigh too heavy. And now, the kindest thing either of you can do is let the other go.
When you finally stand, the world feels both impossibly still and unbearably loud. You give him one last look — the kind you know will replay in your mind for years — and you mean it when you say,
“Good luck, Michael.”
He swallows hard. “You too.”
And that’s it. No last kiss, no promises. Just love, stripped bare and human.
When you walk away, the ache doesn’t vanish — it just softens. Because even though it’s over, you know it was real. And loving him — even with all its weight, its mess, its heartbreak — was still the bravest thing you ever did.
You see him for the first time in months at the pier.
He’s standing by the water, hands in his pockets, the late summer light spilling across his shoulders. He looks older somehow — steadier, quieter — but still unmistakably Conrad. The air between you shifts, and for a second, you forget how to breathe.
You tell yourself it’s normal. Running into him. Feeling like the world stopped spinning for a moment. Feeling like you’re seventeen again.
It’s normal. You keep saying that.
You force a smile when he turns, and he gives you one back — small, polite, like you’re just old friends. Maybe that’s what you are now. Maybe that’s what you’re supposed to be.
“How’ve you been?” he asks, and you want to laugh, because how do you even begin to answer that?
“I’m good,” you lie, your voice steady, practiced. You’ve said it so many times now it almost feels true. You talk about work, about mutual friends, about anything but the two of you — the long drives home in the dark, the soft arguments that ended in quiet apologies, the way he used to trace circles on your skin when he couldn’t sleep.
He nods, listens, smiles in all the right places.
You do the same.
You don’t tell him about the nights you still dream about the beach house, or how you sometimes think you see him in a crowd, only to realize it’s no one at all. You don’t tell him that moving on feels like an assignment you keep failing — that pretending you’re fine has become muscle memory.
When he laughs — that low, soft laugh that used to unravel you — it hits you like a wave. You look down at your hands, trying to steady yourself, pretending it’s all just a normal thing.
You walk away first, because you know if you stay any longer, you’ll fall right back into that familiar ache. He says your name as you leave, soft enough that maybe you imagine it.
And when you finally get home, you collapse onto your bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to quiet the pounding in your chest. You remind yourself: People run into their exes. People move on. People get over it.
You used to think love was supposed to make you bigger — fuller, louder, brighter.
But with Fred, love made you smaller. Not in a cruel way, not at first. It was just that everything else in the world dimmed when he walked into a room. His laugh filled every corner, his warmth soaked into everything, and without even realizing it, you started revolving around him.
He made you feel like the sun — but you were only shining because he was looking.
You gave him everything.
Your mornings, your laughter, your secrets whispered in the dark of the Burrow when the house had fallen asleep. You gave him the softest parts of yourself, the ones you never showed anyone else — and he held them like they were precious. For a while, it felt like enough.
But then the war began.
And love, you realized, couldn’t keep you safe.
He’d tell you not to worry — that he’d be fine, that he’d always come back. And you wanted to believe him. You always did. You clung to his words like spells that could protect you. You gave him faith, you gave him hope, you gave him everything.
Until one day, you couldn’t anymore.
Because when he was gone — truly gone — all the pieces of you that belonged to him went with him. You stood in the hollowed-out silence of the Burrow, surrounded by laughter that would never sound the same, and realized just how much of yourself you’d given away.
You weren’t angry. You couldn’t be.
He never asked you to give him everything — you just did. Because that’s what loving Fred Weasley felt like. Boundless. Consuming. Irreversible.
Now, sometimes, when you walk past the shop in Diagon Alley and see the joke products still lined up in the window, you swear you can almost hear his laugh echoing through the walls. It’s softer now, like a memory fading around the edges.
You smile, even when it hurts.
Because even if you gave him all of you — and he took pieces you’ll never get back — you’d do it again.
You gave him you.
And that’s something that, even now, you wouldn’t undo.
