eclipsedechoesofmywords

[eclipsedechoesofmywords]

you wanted clark kent fic requests so here i am!!!

hear me out: the first time reader sees clark really hurt as superman. i’m talking krptonite/kryptonite level hurt.

maybe )reader is playing it cool for him but he can hear her heartbeat?)

It's queued up and ready to go! I loved this one.

[eclipsedechoesofmywords]

"Out Of Everything"

[Bucky Barnes x fem!reader x Sam Wilson]

Part Two of Of All Things

Masterlist

Summary: Sam has been avoiding you and Bucky, but not for the reasons you think. Turns out, jealousy works in mysterious ways—especially when it’s directed at both of you.

Warnings: First time writing a poly relationship, Sam Wilson's POV, pining, idiots in love, fluff, light teasing

Word Count: 1.5k words

A/N: they're all idiots I loveee them.

Sam was happy for you two. Really, he was, but there was something that made him...envious. The worst part? He couldn't decide who he was jealous of.

When he saw you two on the couch with your head in Bucky's lap, he wanted to be there instead. When he walked in on you making breakfast while Buck had his arms around you and his head buried into the crook of your shoulder, he wanted to take his place. He hated it, hated that he felt like this. So naturally, he decided to avoid the things that made him feel like it altogether.

Whenever either of you approached him with something other than work, he would find some excuse to leave. Every. Single. Time.

He wondered how long he could keep it up before you started to take an issue with it.

It turned out that it was not long at all.

"He's been ignoring us," Bucky grumbled.

You hummed, your hand slowing down as it brushed through his hair. You immediately knew who he was talking about. "Yeah, I noticed. He bolts the second one of us tries to talk to him about anything personal."

Bucky shifted under your touch, his scowl deepening. "It's getting ridiculous," he muttered. "Yesterday I caught him climbing out the window when he saw me coming down the hallway."

You bit back a laugh, fingers still carding through his hair. "To be fair, you did have your murder face on."

"I do not have a—" Bucky cut himself off with a huff when you raised an eyebrow. "...Okay, maybe a little. But that's not the point." He turned his head to nuzzle against your thigh. "The point is we need to stop letting him run."

Your fingers stilled. "And how do you propose we do that?"

Bucky's grin was all teeth. "Simple. We trap him."

"Bucky..."

"What? I'm not talking about actual traps," he said, rolling his eyes. "Just...strategic positioning. You take the front door, I'll cover the fire escape—"

You smacked his shoulder lightly. "We are not ambushing Sam."

Bucky pouted up at you, looking unfairly adorable for a man who could bench press a small car. "It's not an ambush. It's a...surprise intervention."

You opened your mouth to argue, but a noise from the hallway made you both freeze. The distinct creak of floorboards. The hesitant pause. The quiet retreating footsteps.

Bucky's eyes gleamed. "Or," he whispered, "we could just catch him right now."

Before you could stop him, he rolled off the couch with unnatural grace and stalked toward the hallway.

"James, wait—"

But it was too late. You heard a yelp, a thud, and then Sam's indignant voice:

"Barnes, what the hell—let me go—"

You sighed, rubbing your temples. This was going to be a long conversation.

But as you walked toward the commotion, watching Bucky bodily drag a flustered, protesting Sam back into the living room, you couldn't help the warmth blooming in your chest.

Somehow, this ridiculous mess was yours.

Sam sat stiffly on the couch, arms crossed tightly over his chest like armour. His knee bounced with restless energy, eyes darting between you and Bucky like a cornered animal calculating escape routes. The flush creeping up his neck betrayed his carefully constructed scowl.

"Where have you been for the last week?" you asked, brows furrowed.

Sam shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Just been busy."

"With what?" Your voice was sharper now, calling his bluff.

He opened his mouth, another lie ready on his tongue, but then Bucky's voice cut in.

"Yeah, Wilson. With what?"

Sam's jaw snapped shut.

Sam's pulse kicked up. He had spent enough years in the field to recognize when he was cornered.

"You've been avoiding us," Bucky said, voice low. Not a question. An accusation.

Sam swallowed. "I've...been busy." He repeated.

"Bullshit." Bucky's eyes flicked to yours, then back to Sam. "You think we wouldn't notice?"

Sam's jaw tightened. He could lie. He should lie. But the way you were looking at him—concerned, a little hurt—made the words stick in his throat.

You grabbed his arm and squeezed it gently. "Sam… if we did something—"

"You didn't." The words came out too fast, too rough. He winced, then exhaled sharply. "Look, it's— It's not you. It's me."

Bucky snorted. "Wow. Really pulling out the classics, huh?"

Sam shot him a glare. "Shut up, Barnes."

You bit your lip, glancing between them. "Then what is it?"

Silence.

Sam could feel it, the weight of the truth pressing against his ribs, threatening to spill out. He'd spent weeks running from this, and now here he was, trapped between the two people he—

Nope. Not going there.

Bucky took another step forward. "Sam." His voice was softer now. "Talk to us."

Sam's resolve cracked.

"Fine." He dragged a hand over his face. "You wanna know why I've been avoiding you? It's because I'm jealous, okay?"

Your eyes widened. "Jealous?"

"Yeah." Sam's laugh was bitter. "Of him." He jerked his chin at Bucky. "Of you." He met your gaze, heart pounding. "Of whatever this is between you two. And I hate it, because I shouldn't— I don't get to feel like this."

Silence.

Then—

Bucky smirked. "Took you long enough."

Sam blinked. "What?"

You let out a breathy laugh, shaking your head. "Sam… you idiot."

Before he could process that, Bucky closed the distance between them and sat down next to him, crowding into Sam's space. "You really think we wouldn't want you to?"

Sam's breath caught. "I— Wait. What?"

Your fingers slid down his arm, lacing with his. "We've been waiting for you to catch up."

Bucky's grin was downright smug. "Took you long enough, Wilson."

Sam's brain short-circuited.

Oh.

Oh.

Sam's protest came out half-formed, his usual eloquence failing him. "But...the whole..." He gestured vaguely between them, his fingers tightening around yours. "You know..."

Bucky groaned, rolling his eyes with exaggerated exasperation. "Christ, Wilson. I've been in this century for nearly a decade now," he said. "I know what I am."

You bit back a smile, tilting your head. "You still get confused by smart refrigerators," you pointed out gently.

Bucky shot you a withering look. "That's different. Those things are possessed."

"And you tried to fight a microwave," Sam said, too, some of the tension bleeding from his shoulders.

Bucky threw his hands up. "Fine! Perhaps I'm still somewhat outdated with some things. But I know what I like, and what I want."

You leaned in, your lips brushing Sam's ear as you whispered, "Just so you know...it took three months of late-night talks and approximately two dozen existential crises before this one even considered he might not be straight."

Sam snorted loudly, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

Bucky's head whipped around. "I heard that!" he protested, metal finger jabbing in your direction. "And for the record, it was two existential crises—"

"Two that you'll admit to," you corrected, grinning as Bucky's ears turned pink.

Sam was full-on laughing now, the sound rich and warm as it filled the living room. "Oh, this is golden," he wheezed, wiping at his eyes.

Bucky crossed his arms, scowling. "Says the man who's been pining for months like some tragic romance novel heroine."

The laughter died in Sam's throat. "...Okay, that's fair."

You squeezed Sam's hand, your thumb tracing slow circles over his knuckles. "So," you murmured, voice warm with amusement, "now that we've all caught up… what do you want to do about it?"

Sam's breath hitched. The weight of the question settled over him, heavy and real. He'd spent so long running from this—from them—that actually facing it now left him momentarily speechless. His gaze flicked between you and Bucky, searching for any hint of hesitation, any sign that this was some elaborate joke.

But all he found was quiet certainty.

Bucky, ever impatient, rolled his eyes. "Oh, for—" He leaned forward, grabbed Sam by the collar, and yanked him into a kiss.

Sam made a muffled sound of surprise, hands flying up to brace against Bucky's shoulders—whether to push him away or pull him closer, even he wasn't sure. But then Bucky's mouth moved against his, firm and warm, and Sam's brain short-circuited all over again.

You let out a delighted laugh, watching them with bright eyes. "Well. That's one way to do it."

Bucky pulled back just enough to smirk, his breath ghosting over Sam's lips. "Told you I know what I want."

Sam's face burned. "You—Barnes—"

You reached up, hands finding their faces—one palm warm against Sam's cheek, the other cool against Bucky's stubble. Your thumb traced the curve of Sam's smile, fingers brushing the tension from Bucky's jaw.

"My beautiful disasters," you murmured, voice thick with affection.

Something in Bucky's posture eased, the stubborn set of his shoulders finally relaxing. Sam let out a slow breath, his laughter softening into something quieter, more vulnerable.

And when you tugged them both forward, they came without hesitation—Sam's lips meeting yours in a kiss that tasted like sunshine and second chances, Bucky's forehead pressing against your shoulder as his arms wound tight around you both.

Taglist (the ones who showed interest in part two) ➵ @svtbpbts @yesshewrites1 @sleepysongbirdsings @iamthesubpargatsby @aceofheartsssss @still-scribblin

[eclipsedechoesofmywords]

I'm glad you liked it! ^^

"All Bark, No Bite"

[Clark Kent x fem!reader]

Requested Here! by @fizzywashere87 Masterlist

Summary: You're the Daily Planet's resident cynic. Clark Kent, however, seems determined to see right through you—

Warnings: Mention of reader skipping dinner, fluff

Words: 1.1k words

If anyone were to ask your coworkers how you were, they'd all usually have different answers that meant the same.

Lois Lane would say you were "quiet and didn't take any bullshit."

Jimmy Olsen would say you were "kinda scary, but in a cool way—"

Perry White would grumble that you were "a pain in my ass, but one of the best damn writers in this damn office."

And Cat Grant? She'd smirk and say, "Oh, honey, that one's all bark, and just a little bite."

But Clark Kent?

He'd just smile, soft and knowing, and say, "…really good at pretending that she doesn’t care."

And if anyone pressed him further, he'd chuckle and add, "But does. A lot."

It annoyed you how insistent he was on seeing the 'good side' of you, even though you doubted you had one.

Life had a way of grinding optimism out of people, and you were no exception. Sarcasm was your armour, dry humour your shield, and if anyone mistook your lack of enthusiasm for apathy. Well. That was their problem.

Which was why you were currently glaring at the man in question as he set down a steaming cup of coffee right next to your keyboard.

"You look like you need this," he said, voice warm, as if he hadn't just spent the last three days chasing a lead halfway across the globe while you held down the fort at the Daily Planet.

You eyed the coffee suspiciously. "Is this your way of bribing me into not being pissed you ghosted the office for seventy-two hours?"

Clark dared to laugh. "Would it work?"

"No." You took the coffee anyway, sipping it. Damn him for remembering how you took it.

He leaned forward, with that infuriatingly earnest look on his face. "I did text you."

"‘Busy. Talk later.' is not a text, Kent. It's a crime against communication."

His lips twitched. "Noted."

You exhaled sharply, rubbing your temple. "Lois covered for you, by the way. Again. You owe her."

"I know," he said, softer now. "And I owe you, too."

You waved him off. "Save it. Just don't make a habit of vanishing. Some of us actually worry." The second the words left your mouth, you regretted them.

Clark's smile turned unbearably fond. "So you do care."

"Shut up," you muttered, turning back to your screen.

But he didn't. Instead, he lingered, watching you with that quiet intensity that always made you feel like he could see right through you.

"What?" you snapped.

"Nothing," he said, standing. "Just... glad to be back."

And as he walked away, you couldn't help the small, reluctant smile tugging at your lips.

Damn him.

Across from you, someone whistled. The smile immediately left your face, and you turned to glare at Lois.

"Not. A. Word."

Lois raised her hands in mock surrender, but the smirk on her face was downright insufferable. "Wouldn't dream of it," she said, though the gleam in her eyes suggested she was already drafting tomorrow's headline: Office Cynic Softens for Smallville's Golden Boy.

You pointed a warning finger at her. "I will poison your coffee."

Lois just laughed, unbothered. "Please. You'd miss my sparkling personality too much."

You rolled your eyes and turned back to your work, determined to ignore her.

—

"Why are you climbing through my window?"

Clark stilled, eyes darting between you and the baseball bat you were holding like you were fully prepared to swing. His hands came up in a placating gesture, though his expression was more sheepish than alarmed.

"I…uh lost my key."

You tightened your grip on the bat, "And you couldn't have knocked?"

Clark had the decency to look embarrassed, rubbing the back of his neck. "In my defence, it's been a long day."

"A long day," you repeated flatly.

"Metropolis traffic is brutal."

"You can fly."

"...Fair point."

You finally lowered the bat, sighing. "Get in here and close the window."

Clark practically beamed as he climbed the rest of the way in, shutting your window with exaggerated care. You watched, arms crossed, as he straightened his rumpled shirt—though nothing about Clark Kent ever looked truly dishevelled, not even when he was breaking into your apartment at—you checked the clock—11:37 PM.

"You're lucky I didn't call the cops," you muttered, tossing the bat onto your couch.

Clark's smile didn't waver. "You wouldn't."

"I should."

"But you won't." He said it with such certainty, like he knew—and that was the most infuriating part because he was right.

You scowled. "What do you want, Kent?"

He held up a familiar paper bag—the kind from that 24-hour bakery three blocks from the Planet. The scent of fresh cinnamon rolls hit you before he even spoke.

"You skipped dinner," he said, like it was obvious. "And you get cranky when you're hungry."

"I am not cranky."

"You're holding a baseball bat at midnight."

"That's because you're breaking into my apartment."

Clark just smiled and set the bag on your counter. "Eat. You'll feel better."

You wanted to argue. You really did. But the smell of sugar and spice was already weakening your resolve. With a grumble, you stomped over and tore into the bag.

The cinnamon roll was still warm.

You took a bite, unable to suppress the small, pleased noise that escaped. Clark's grin widened.

"Told you," he said, smugly.

You flipped him off with your free hand, still chewing.

Clark chuckled, moving to your kitchen like he owned the place. You watched, bemused, as he rummaged through your cabinets with the ease of someone who'd done it a hundred times before—which, to be fair, he had.

"Where's—ah." He pulled out two mugs, then reached for your coffee maker.

You swallowed your bite. "It's midnight."

"And?" He didn't even look up as he measured the grounds.

"You're making coffee?"

"Decaf," he said, as if that made it better.

You groaned. "You're insufferable."

Clark just hummed, starting the machine. The familiar gurgle filled your apartment as he leaned against your counter, watching you with that soft, knowing look that always made your chest feel too tight.

"...What?" you mumbled around another bite.

"Nothing." He smiled. "Just glad you're eating."

You rolled your eyes, but didn't argue. Because—fine. Maybe you had skipped dinner. Maybe Clark Kent, with his stupidly perfect hair and his stupidly kind eyes, did know you better than you wanted to admit.

The coffee machine beeped. Clark poured two cups, making it exactly how you liked it before he slid the cup to you. And you couldn't help but smile as you took a sip.

He noticed and stayed quiet.

[eclipsedechoesofmywords]

"All Bark, No Bite"

[Clark Kent x fem!reader]

Requested Here! by @fizzywashere87 Masterlist

Summary: You're the Daily Planet's resident cynic. Clark Kent, however, seems determined to see right through you—

Warnings: Mention of reader skipping dinner, fluff

Words: 1.1k words

If anyone were to ask your coworkers how you were, they'd all usually have different answers that meant the same.

Lois Lane would say you were "quiet and didn't take any bullshit."

Jimmy Olsen would say you were "kinda scary, but in a cool way—"

Perry White would grumble that you were "a pain in my ass, but one of the best damn writers in this damn office."

And Cat Grant? She'd smirk and say, "Oh, honey, that one's all bark, and just a little bite."

But Clark Kent?

He'd just smile, soft and knowing, and say, "…really good at pretending that she doesn’t care."

And if anyone pressed him further, he'd chuckle and add, "But does. A lot."

It annoyed you how insistent he was on seeing the 'good side' of you, even though you doubted you had one.

Life had a way of grinding optimism out of people, and you were no exception. Sarcasm was your armour, dry humour your shield, and if anyone mistook your lack of enthusiasm for apathy. Well. That was their problem.

Which was why you were currently glaring at the man in question as he set down a steaming cup of coffee right next to your keyboard.

"You look like you need this," he said, voice warm, as if he hadn't just spent the last three days chasing a lead halfway across the globe while you held down the fort at the Daily Planet.

You eyed the coffee suspiciously. "Is this your way of bribing me into not being pissed you ghosted the office for seventy-two hours?"

Clark dared to laugh. "Would it work?"

"No." You took the coffee anyway, sipping it. Damn him for remembering how you took it.

He leaned forward, with that infuriatingly earnest look on his face. "I did text you."

"‘Busy. Talk later.' is not a text, Kent. It's a crime against communication."

His lips twitched. "Noted."

You exhaled sharply, rubbing your temple. "Lois covered for you, by the way. Again. You owe her."

"I know," he said, softer now. "And I owe you, too."

You waved him off. "Save it. Just don't make a habit of vanishing. Some of us actually worry." The second the words left your mouth, you regretted them.

Clark's smile turned unbearably fond. "So you do care."

"Shut up," you muttered, turning back to your screen.

But he didn't. Instead, he lingered, watching you with that quiet intensity that always made you feel like he could see right through you.

"What?" you snapped.

"Nothing," he said, standing. "Just... glad to be back."

And as he walked away, you couldn't help the small, reluctant smile tugging at your lips.

Damn him.

Across from you, someone whistled. The smile immediately left your face, and you turned to glare at Lois.

"Not. A. Word."

Lois raised her hands in mock surrender, but the smirk on her face was downright insufferable. "Wouldn't dream of it," she said, though the gleam in her eyes suggested she was already drafting tomorrow's headline: Office Cynic Softens for Smallville's Golden Boy.

You pointed a warning finger at her. "I will poison your coffee."

Lois just laughed, unbothered. "Please. You'd miss my sparkling personality too much."

You rolled your eyes and turned back to your work, determined to ignore her.

—

"Why are you climbing through my window?"

Clark stilled, eyes darting between you and the baseball bat you were holding like you were fully prepared to swing. His hands came up in a placating gesture, though his expression was more sheepish than alarmed.

"I…uh lost my key."

You tightened your grip on the bat, "And you couldn't have knocked?"

Clark had the decency to look embarrassed, rubbing the back of his neck. "In my defence, it's been a long day."

"A long day," you repeated flatly.

"Metropolis traffic is brutal."

"You can fly."

"...Fair point."

You finally lowered the bat, sighing. "Get in here and close the window."

Clark practically beamed as he climbed the rest of the way in, shutting your window with exaggerated care. You watched, arms crossed, as he straightened his rumpled shirt—though nothing about Clark Kent ever looked truly dishevelled, not even when he was breaking into your apartment at—you checked the clock—11:37 PM.

"You're lucky I didn't call the cops," you muttered, tossing the bat onto your couch.

Clark's smile didn't waver. "You wouldn't."

"I should."

"But you won't." He said it with such certainty, like he knew—and that was the most infuriating part because he was right.

You scowled. "What do you want, Kent?"

He held up a familiar paper bag—the kind from that 24-hour bakery three blocks from the Planet. The scent of fresh cinnamon rolls hit you before he even spoke.

"You skipped dinner," he said, like it was obvious. "And you get cranky when you're hungry."

"I am not cranky."

"You're holding a baseball bat at midnight."

"That's because you're breaking into my apartment."

Clark just smiled and set the bag on your counter. "Eat. You'll feel better."

You wanted to argue. You really did. But the smell of sugar and spice was already weakening your resolve. With a grumble, you stomped over and tore into the bag.

The cinnamon roll was still warm.

You took a bite, unable to suppress the small, pleased noise that escaped. Clark's grin widened.

"Told you," he said, smugly.

You flipped him off with your free hand, still chewing.

Clark chuckled, moving to your kitchen like he owned the place. You watched, bemused, as he rummaged through your cabinets with the ease of someone who'd done it a hundred times before—which, to be fair, he had.

"Where's—ah." He pulled out two mugs, then reached for your coffee maker.

You swallowed your bite. "It's midnight."

"And?" He didn't even look up as he measured the grounds.

"You're making coffee?"

"Decaf," he said, as if that made it better.

You groaned. "You're insufferable."

Clark just hummed, starting the machine. The familiar gurgle filled your apartment as he leaned against your counter, watching you with that soft, knowing look that always made your chest feel too tight.

"...What?" you mumbled around another bite.

"Nothing." He smiled. "Just glad you're eating."

You rolled your eyes, but didn't argue. Because—fine. Maybe you had skipped dinner. Maybe Clark Kent, with his stupidly perfect hair and his stupidly kind eyes, did know you better than you wanted to admit.

The coffee machine beeped. Clark poured two cups, making it exactly how you liked it before he slid the cup to you. And you couldn't help but smile as you took a sip.

He noticed and stayed quiet.

[eclipsedechoesofmywords]

Here we are!

[eclipsedechoesofmywords]

hii!! i seen you were taking requests for superman? ☺️

i hope it's alright to request a fic with a grumpy x sunshine kind-of trope?

for example, reader isn't amused by much and doesn't smile so often (unless it's like a sarcastic or morbid joke) perhaps she comes off as uncaring (though it's not entirely true) and maybe clark is the only one who's able to make her smile

(reader has been through quite a bit and is lowkey miserable i suppose)

if you don't want to write this it's perfectly fine!!!

take care!! ☺️

Thank you for the request! It is queued up and ready to go! I adored this one.

[eclipsedechoesofmywords]

That is one of the best compliments I have ever gotten on a fanfic. Thank you so much!

idea for joaquin:

i see alot of sushine x grumpy reader when ppl r writing joaquin fics but pls i need more sunshine x sunshine and its joaquin and reader being literal comedic geniuses on missions and flirting over comms 😫

"Ray Of Sunshine"

[Joaquin Torres x fem!reader]

Masterlist

Summary: You and Joaquin are pains in Sam and Bucky's ass.

Warnings: Mild action violence, relentless flirting, and Sam Wilson contemplating a career change

Word Count: 831 words

A/N: I think we can all agree that bucky and sam are officially parents.

"We should get a team dog," you said, thinking out loud.

Three voices answered you at once through the comms. Two were a chorus of "NO!" The other, "YES!" You decided to focus on the latter.

"A small golden one…" you continued, ducking behind a concrete pillar as gunfire sprayed the warehouse wall behind you.

"We could name it Ray," Joaquin suggested. You could hear his grin.

"Ooh, like a Ray of sunshine!"

Sam's groan was so loud it nearly drowned out the sound of Bucky vaulting over a shipping container to your left. "Focus, both of you," Sam barked, his wings slicing through the air as he disarmed a guard. "We're in the middle of a mission!"

"And we are not getting a dog," Bucky added, firing at a henchman sprinting toward you.

"But imagine the morale boost!" you argued, popping up to toss a smoke grenade. The room flooded with gray haze, and you darted toward the server room, Joaquin's laughter in your ear.

"Picture it, Buck—little Ray, tiny vest, teeny goggles," Joaquin said. You could practically see him miming the dog's outfit with his hands, even though he was three rooms away, hacking into the security system. "He'd be the best at fetch. And espionage."

"Espionage?!" Bucky snapped. A grunt, a thud—probably him body-slamming someone into a wall. "It's a dog."

"Exactly! No one suspects the dog!" you chirped, sliding into the server room and slamming the door shut. "Quin, how's that hack coming?"

"Already in," Joaquin said, smug. "You're welcome."

"Show-off."

"Admit it, that's why you love me."

Your cheeks warmed.

"Less flirting, more focusing," Sam cut in. The Captain America voice dialled up to 'I'm two seconds from drowning you both in a lake.' "Torres, any alarms?"

"Nope. Smooth as butter. Also, you do love me, right sunshine?" He didn't need to ask, he already knew the answer.

You rolled your eyes, typing rapidly on the server's interface. "Keep dreaming, flyboy."

"Oh, I will. Vividly. With plot."

Bucky made a sound like a feral cat. "I'm begging you two to take this seriously."

"We are!" you and Joaquin said in unison, then burst into laughter.

The two of you had turned into an art form really: you'd crack a joke, he'd retort back, and somewhere between the banter and the bullets, the bad guys ended up in a pile, thoroughly confused about how they'd been beaten by a duo who argued about pizza toppings during a car chase.

"Got the files!" you announced, yanking the hard drive free.

"Great! Now get out before backup shows up," Joaquin said. "Also, duck."

You dropped to the floor just as a guard burst through the door, his weapon whirring over your head. Joaquin's voice turned sharp, all playfulness gone. "Three o'clock. Disarm and go."

You spun, sweeping the guard's legs out from under him and snatching his gun. "Thanks."

"Anytime. Now when do we get this dog?"

"NO DOG!" Sam and Bucky shouted in unison.

The second you spotted the scruffy golden retriever trotting through the lot on the way back to the quinjet, you froze. "Uh. Joaquin. Look."

He looked over to where you were pointing. "Is that…?"

"A literal ray of sunshine," you whispered, clutching your chest. The dog wagged its tail.

"No," Sam hissed.

"Yes," you and Joaquin breathed.

"Not a chance!" Bucky said.

But the dog padded toward you, cocking its head, and dropped a muddy stick at your boots. You gasped. "It's fate."

"Sam. SAM. They're adopting a street dog," Bucky deadpanned. "This is your problem now."

Joaquin scooped the retriever into his arms. "C'mon, Cap! Look at…his eyes. He's got the heart of a soldier!"

"Leave. The. Dog." Sam said.

"Too late!" you said cheerfully. "Ray's one of us now!"

By the time they got back to the quinjet, with the dog, Sam's eye twitch had reached apocalyptic levels. Bucky stared at the retriever, now sitting happily on your lap, and muttered, "If it pees on my gear, I'm shaving it bald."

Joaquin bounded down the jet's ramp, helmet off and hair adorably windblown. "He’s so cute, look at him!"

"He looks like a menace," Sam said, though the corner of his mouth quirked up as the dog lolled its tongue at him.

You scratched Ray's ears, batting your lashes at Sam. "C'mon, Cap. Every team needs a mascot. We'll train him! He can fetch grenades!"

"He'll fetch lawsuits," Bucky grumbled.

Joaquin plopped beside you, shoulder brushing yours. "Admit it. You love him."

Sam looked at the dog. At Bucky. At the two of you, grinning like idiots.

"...He's not getting a rank."

You and Joaquin whooped, high-fiving as Ray barked as if in victory.

"But he is writing the mission report," Bucky added, his amusement showing.

Joaquin leaned toward you, whispering, "Worth it."

"Next step: matching outfits," You whispered back.

His smile could've powered a city. "Already designing them."

[eclipsedechoesofmywords]

"Not Alone"

[Mel Medarda x Elora]

@meloraweek Melora Week Day Five : Royalty

Masterlist

Summary: Newly crowned as Queen of Noxus, Mel Medarda struggles under the weight of her crown—and Elora reminds her she doesn’t have to bear it alone.

Warnings: slight angst, alternate universe

Word Count: 340 words

A/N: this was the most difficult one for me, so it's much shorter.

The throne room was too large, too empty.

Mel Medarda sat stiffly upon the gilded seat, her fingers tracing the intricate carvings of the armrests. The coronation had been a spectacle—golden banners, roaring crowds, the weight of the ceremonial mantle pressing down on her shoulders.

And yet, now that the celebrations had faded, all that remained was silence.

A soft knock echoed through the chamber.

"Enter," Mel called, her voice steady despite the exhaustion tugging at her bones.

The door opened, and Elora stepped inside, her dark eyes warm with familiarity. She carried a tray—steaming tea, a plate of honeyed figs. The sight of her alone made Mel's chest tighten.

"You missed dinner," Elora said, setting the tray on a nearby table. "Again."

Mel sighed, rubbing her temple. "There were treaties to review. Council members to appease."

Elora arched a brow. "And yet, none of them will matter if you collapse from hunger."

A reluctant smile tugged at Mel's lips. "Is that concern I hear, Advisor Elora?"

"Merely practicality, Your Grace." But the way Elora's fingers lingered as she passed the teacup betrayed her.

Mel took a slow sip, the warmth spreading through her. "Do you ever wonder if this was a mistake?"

Elora stilled. "The coronation?"

"All of it." Mel stared at her reflection in the tea's surface. "Noxus needs a leader who can unite them. Someone strong. Unyielding."

"And you believe that isn't you?"

Mel exhaled. "I believe… crowns are heavy."

Elora stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Then let me help you carry it."

Mel looked up, startled. Elora's gaze was fierce, unwavering.

"You don't have to rule alone," Elora continued. "Not when I'm here."

The words settled between them, fragile and precious.

Mel reached out, her fingers brushing Elora's. "And if I asked for more than your counsel?"

Elora's breath hitched. "Then I would say… a queen deserves more than just a loyal subject."

The crown still weighed upon Mel's brow, but for the first time since her coronation, it felt a little lighter.

[eclipsedechoesofmywords]

"Fire"

[Mel Medarda x Elora]

@meloraweek Melora Week Day Six : Family

Masterlist

Summary: A quiet night in the Medarda household is interrupted by a little one with a habit of sneaking into her mother's room.

Warnings: more unedited than usual, post canon

Word Count: 758 words

There was once a young girl…

Who liked to wake her mothers up in the middle of the night.

It started with tiny footsteps—bare feet pattering against the polished wooden floors, barely audible if not for the way the house seemed to hold its breath in the dark. Then came the creak of the door, slow and deliberate, as if the intruder believed sheer caution would render her invisible.

Mel Medarda, ever the light sleeper, cracked open one eye just in time to see a small shadow dart toward the bed.

Again.

Elora, curled against Mel's side, mumbled something unintelligible into her pillow, still lost in dreams. Mel considered pretending to be asleep—maybe the child would give up and retreat.

No such luck.

A tiny hand tugged at the blankets. Then, a whisper:

"Mama? Mooooom?"

Mel sighed, defeated. "What is it, my little light?" She saw Elora blinking awake.

The girl—barely five, all wide eyes and wild curls—climbed onto the bed with the determination of a soldier scaling a fortress. "I had a dream," she announced, as if this explained everything.

They had adopted the small child after the war, when she was just a babe, found orphaned in the ruins of one of the buildings. Mel had argued(briefly) that they were hardly the nurturing type, that their lives were too dangerous, too unpredictable. But one look from Elora, one tiny hand curling around Mel's finger, and the debate had ended before it truly began.

Now, five years later, the war was a fading scar, and this child—their child—was a living ember, bright enough to sear away the shadows of the past.

"I dreamed," the girl repeated, pressing her cold toes against Mel's calf, "that you were the dragon."

Elora smiled, finally surrendering to wakefulness. "That does sound accurate."

Mel shot her a glare, but the effect was ruined when the girl clambered onto her chest, small hands framing her face with startling seriousness. "You had gold scales," she whispered, as if sharing a secret, "and you burned down all the bad people. But then you turned back into Mama and made pancakes."

A beat of silence.

Elora burst into laughter.

Mel's indignation melted like sugar in tea. "Well," she murmured, brushing a curl from the child's forehead, "I am good at making pancakes."

"And burning down bad people?" Elora teased, her voice still shaking with mirth as she reached over to tickle their daughter's side. The girl shrieked with laughter, squirming between them until the blankets were a lost cause.

Mel rolled her eyes, but her fingers carded gently through the child's hair—their child's hair—anyway. "I used my fire to do so in a different lifetime," she said, softer than she intended.

The girl, ever perceptive, went still. "Did the fire hurt you?"

Mel's breath caught.

Elora's hand found hers beneath the sheets, a silent anchor.

"Yes," Mel admitted, because she had promised never to lie to her. "But it also led me to you. And your mom."

The girl considered this with the gravity only a child could muster. Then, with a decisive nod: "Then it was worth it."

Elora made a wounded noise and yanked them both into a crushing embrace. "Who taught you to say things like that? Was it Caitlyn? I knew she was a bad influence—"

Mel laughed into the tangle of limbs, the last remnants of sleep forgotten. Outside, dawn was beginning to blush against the windows, painting the room in gold and rose.

Their daughter yawned, suddenly drowsy now that her mission was complete. "Can we have pancakes for breakfast?"

Mel sighed. "If we must."

"With chocolate chips?" the girl added, blinking up at Mel with the exact same pleading expression Elora used when she wanted something from Mel she wasn't sure she would get.

Mel opened her mouth to refuse—

"And whipped cream," Elora chimed in, grinning when Mel turned her betrayed look on her. "What? If we're being extorted for pancakes, we might as well commit."

The girl gasped in delight, bouncing on the mattress. "And sprinkles!"

"Absolutely not—"

"And a single sprinkle," Elora compromised, holding up a finger. "One. For artistic presentation."

Mel groaned, dragging a hand down her face. "I regret everything." But she was already calculating how much batter she'd need. Enough for three batches. Their daughter ate like a starving wolfhound.

The girl cheered, flinging her arms around Mel's neck. "Best mama ever!"

"Flattery will get you nowhere," Mel muttered—right as tiny fingers poked her ribs, triggering an undignified yelp.

Elora smirked. "Liar."

[eclipsedechoesofmywords]

"Fairy Tale"

[Mel Medarda x Elora, God!Mel AU]

@meloraweek Melora Week Day Seven : Free Day

Masterlist

Summary: Elora has spent her life chasing what most believed to be a fairy tale—the whispers of a forgotten goddess born from a princess's sorrow.

Warnings: hurt/comfort, inaccuracies

Word Count: 510 words

A/N: I will post days 5 and 6 sometime soon. Also, I can never get goddess!Mel out of my head.

There is a tale of an ancient being. One made of sunlight and hope. Of light and truths that are hidden in a mortal, under their skin and souls. Truths only she can bring out.

Elora had heard such stories all through her childhood. And though most believed them to be nothing but fairy tales, she was steadfast in her belief that this darling God existed, waiting for someone to remember again.

Her most common story went as follows:

Once, a young princess had a stern, unforgiving mother. Though love was shared, duty always came first within this certain family. The princess grew under the weight of expectation, her laughter stifled, her light dimmed...until she met another.

Her mother had granted her the company of a young girl who served as her assistant and friend. The other girl followed the princess wherever she went. Even when the princess had been banished to a distant land, after she had failed to prove herself to her mother.

As the princess grew among the ranks in the foreign city, her assistant was the only one who saw the toll, the expectation the princess carried and the quiet unravelling of her spirit.

One evening, beneath a sky bruised purple with twilight, the princess sat alone in the palace gardens, her crown discarded beside her, her fingers stained with ink from endless papers she was never meant to sign.

The girl found her there, as she always did.

"You're trembling," she observed, her voice neither pitying nor gentle—just there, steady as the earth beneath them.

The princess laughed, a brittle sound. "Is that all you have to say?"

The girl tilted her head. "What else would you like me to say?”

"I don't know!" The princess's voice cracked. "Something that makes this worth it. Something that makes me worth it."

The girl was silent for a long moment. Then she reached out, pressing her palm to the princess's chest, right over her heart.

"You already are."

"I don't believe that."

"That is alright," the assistant said, linking their hands together. "I can believe it for us both."

The princess let her do so.

When the princess's assistant died, however, there was nothing worthy of belief in anymore. Even as she discovered her divine heritage and accepted godhood. As she lived on, forever young, missing a woman whom she had loved with something that no scholar could describe.

It was Elora's favourite story, one that led her to a temple of the ancient Gods, the alleged temple of the Goddess she sought. It was a long shot, she knew. Though Elora believed in the existence of Her, why would her prayers ever be answered by such an...incredible being?

Light shone on her the moment she stepped inside, and the being, Mel, sat at a broken throne. Smiling.

"Welcome back, my love."

And Elora remembered it all.

Because the assistant and the princess had made a promise, you see, a promise to find each other in every life. And neither liked lying to each other.

[eclipsedechoesofmywords]

"Imperfections"

[Mel Medarda x Elora]

@meloraweek Melora Week Day Four : Muse & Artists

Masterlist

Summary: Elora will always be Mel's favourite thing to show in her art, but her paintings never feel...perfect enough for her muse.

Warnings: None!

Word Count: 846 words

A/N: this one is my favourite :]

Mel's paintings were always beautiful. It was simply a fact that everyone who knew about her hobby was aware of. They showed an array of things she loved, from the sunset to Piltovers' landscape to a field of tulips she saw when she was young. But there was one subject of hers that was drawn more than anything else.

Elora.

There were dozens of paintings of her dear muse, from abstract to ones that captured every detail of her beloved. But they were never right.

"It looks perfect," Elora assured her, head perched on the artist's shoulder.

Mel huffed in frustration. "No, it doesn't."

They were looking at the latest painting she had made of Elora. It showed Elora sitting on her favourite armchair with a book, reading glasses on. A small smile played on her lips, though whether it was because of the words on the pages or because of the artist who was determined to capture her image as it was, you couldn't be sure.

Elora tilted her head, studying the canvas with a soft smile. "What’s wrong with it?"

Mel sighed, setting down her brush and stepping back. The painting was beautiful—but it wasn't enough for the person she wanted to give everything to.

"It’s not you," Mel murmured, frustration lacing her voice. "I can’t… I can’t get it right. The way you laugh, the way your nose scrunches when you’re thinking too hard—it’s all there, but it’s not alive."

Elora chuckled, squeezing her waist. "Maybe you’re trying too hard."

Mel frowned. "What do you mean?"

"There is something people say..." she murmured. "An artist is their own biggest critic."

Mel let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "That's not just a saying—it's a universal truth." She ran a hand through her hair, leaving behind a streak of burnt umber in the dark strands. "But this isn't just me being critical. It's... it's you. You deserve more than just good enough."

Elora's expression softened. She reached up, thumb brushing away the paint smudge on Mel's temple. "And you think I don't see myself in these?" She gestured to the dozens of canvases leaning against the studio walls—each one a different version of Elora through Mel's eyes. "Every stroke is love, Mel. Even the ones you think are mistakes."

Mel's throat tightened. She turned back to the latest painting—the careful rendering of Elora's hands cradling the book, the warm glow of lamplight on her skin. It was technically flawless. And yet...

Elora sighed. "Do you remember that morning last week?" Her voice was low, intimate. "When I burned the toast and you laughed so hard you knocked over your coffee?"

A smile tugged at Mel's lips. "You tried to salvage it by claiming it was 'artisanal charcoal bread.'"

"And you—" Elora's breath was warm against her ear— "you looked at me like I'd hung the stars in the sky. Perhaps that is what's missing."

Mel looked back at her canvas, lips pursed as she contemplated the words. "Alright."

"Alright?"

Mel nodded.

"Then shall I leave you to it?"

Mel caught Elora's wrist before she could step away. "No," she said, voice firm but warm. "Stay."

Elora arched a brow, amused. "You work better when I'm not distracting you."

"You're not a distraction," Mel murmured, pulling her closer. "You're the point."

Mel set up a fresh blank canvas, her fingers lingering on the pristine surface for a moment before she turned back to Elora with a quiet intensity in her eyes.

"Just... be you," she said softly. "Don't pose. Don't think about me painting you. Just be."

Elora smiled, tilting her head. "And what if 'being me' means stealing your tea while you're distracted?"

Mel laughed, the sound warm and rich. "Then I'll paint that too."

So Elora settled back into her armchair, picking up her book again. This time, she didn't hold herself still for the sake of art—she sighed when a passage moved her, tapped her fingers absently against the page when she was thinking, even wrinkled her nose when a strand of hair fell into her face.

And Mel painted.

The studio fell into a comfortable silence, broken only by the soft rustle of pages and the whisper of brush against canvas. Time slipped away, unimportant.

When Mel finally set her brush down, her hands were smeared with paint, her back ached from the long hours, and her heart was so full she thought it might burst.

Elora looked up, blinking as if surfacing from deep water. "Finished?"

Mel exhaled, nodding.

Elora set her book aside and crossed the room, stopping just behind her. For a long moment, she was silent. Then—

"Oh."

A single word, soft as a breath.

The painting wasn't polished. It wasn't meticulously refined like the others. But it was Elora—alive, vibrant, real. The way she truly was when around Mel and her only.

Mel turned to face her, searching her eyes. "Well?"

Elora swallowed, her fingers brushing against Mel's paint-stained ones. "Now it's perfect," she whispered.

Mel shook her head, smiling. "No. But it's you."

[eclipsedechoesofmywords]

"Dreams"

[Mel Medarda x Elora]

@meloraweek Melora Week Day Three : Post canon

Masterlist

Summary: Nightmares and Ghosts haunt Mel at every step.

Warnings: angst, Elora haunting Mel, nightmares, and probably inaccuracies I last watched Arcane months ago.

Word Count: 671 words

Mel hated the dreams.

They clung to her like shadows, relentless—whether in the gilded halls of Piltover or the bloodstained streets of Noxus. They were her own private hell, a punishment she couldn't escape.

In them, she saw everything. The war. Her mother's cold, calculating gaze. Kino. The Black Rose, its thorns curling around her fate.

And worst of all—her.

Elora.

Her assistant. Her confidante. The woman who had followed her from Noxus to Piltover, standing by her side as she made her way to the Council and beyond.

Her love.

The Black Rose had taken her. Made Mel watch as dark veins slithered beneath Elora's skin, twisting her into something grotesque, something wrong.

And every night, Mel relived it.

Helpless.

Powerless.

She still remembered how Elora looked at her in the end.

Not with fear. Not with pain.

With recognition.

Even as the corruption spread, as her body twisted, her eyes—those sharp, knowing eyes—remained the same. They held Mel's gaze, pleading, accusing.

Why didn't you save me?

Mel wanted to say she tried. But she didn't. She stood there, watching her closest friend, her love, get consumed. It didn't matter that she couldn't, it's that she didn't. 

She had failed the person who mattered most.

Now, the dreams forced her to remember. The way Elora's fingers had clawed at her own throat, as if she could tear the darkness out. The way her voice had fractured, whispering Mel's name like a curse—or a prayer.

And then, silence.

She woke up gasping, her sheets damp with sweat, her hands clutching at empty air.

Somedays, she saw her.

A flicker of movement in the corner of her eye—a familiar tilt of the head, the whisper of a laugh she'd know anywhere, or a trick of the light against the glass. Once Mel could have sworn she smelled Elora's perfume—citrus and ink, sweet and sharp. She turned, heart hammering, but there was no one.

Some nights, Elora talked to her.

"Maybe you should leave here too," She whispered as Mel lay in her bed, afraid of sleep. 

Mel shook her head against the pillow, not bothering to look around. "I don't want to leave again."

The mattress dipped beside her, as if someone had sat down. "Why not? Why be back in Noxus?"

"Because it is home, Elora."

"It hasn't been our home since we were young."

"It can be again."

"Can it?"

The question hung in the air. Mel felt the weight of it in her bones. A cold hand brushed against her shoulder—too real to be a dream, too impossible to be real. Mel's breath hitched.

"Look at me, Mel."

Mel clenched her fists in the sheets. She wanted to. Stars above, she ached to. But would it be the Elora she remembered, or the thing the Black Rose had made of her?

"No."

She didn't say anything to that.

"You should've never come with me," Mel murmured into the pillow. "To Piltover. Why would you leave this behind for me?"

"Because I loved you," the voice answered, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, so close now that Mel could feel the words against her skin. "Because I would have followed you anywhere."

A pause. The cold deepened.

"And you would have let me."

Mel's throat tightened. She remembered the way Elora had looked at her that last morning in Noxus—bright-eyed, hopeful, pressing a cup of tea into her hands.

She hadn't known then. Hadn't known she would watch Elora die.

The mattress shifted again, weight settling beside her—closer this time. Mel kept her eyes shut tight, but she could feel Elora's presence like a winter wind, could trace the shape of her in the dark.

"Open your eyes," Elora whispered. Not a challenge. A request. A plea.

Mel exhaled, slow and shaking.

"Or are you still afraid to look at what you caused?"

That struck deeper than any blade. Mel's eyes flew open—

—and the room was empty.

No ghost. No monster. No Elora.

[eclipsedechoesofmywords]

Words aren't working :[

[eclipsedechoesofmywords]

"After Hours"

[Mel Medarda x Elora]

@meloraweek Melora Week Day Two : Unwinding

Masterlist

Summary: After a gruelling council meeting, Mel returns to her office to find Elora waiting with tea, warmth, and the perfect remedy for her exhaustion.

Warnings: None

Word Count: 592 words

The council had sucked the life out of Mel in ways she didn't know were possible. Hearing them go on and on and on about this matter or that for hours at a time—each argument more tedious than the last-

But then, she opened the door to her office.

The scent of spiced tea curled through the air, warm and inviting. Elora stood by the window, the fading afternoon light painting her in gold, her fingers wrapped around a porcelain cup. She turned, a knowing smile on her lips, as if she had sensed Mel's exhaustion from halfway across the tower.

"Tea?" Elora asked.

Mel exhaled, letting the weight of the council's endless debates slide from her shoulders. "You always seem to know what I want before I do."

Elora handed her the waiting cup, their fingers brushing just long enough to send a quiet thrill through Mel's veins. "It is my duty."

The tea was steeped just long enough, sweetened with honey, exactly how she liked it. Mel took a slow sip, closing her eyes as the warmth spread through her. When she opened them again, Elora was watching her, amusement in her gaze.

"What?" Mel asked, raising a brow.

"Nothing," Elora murmured, "Just admiring the way you unwind."

Mel allowed herself a smile. "Is that all you're admiring?"

Elora's laugh was soft, intimate. "No, not truly."

Elora moved to stand behind her. Without a word, her hands settled on Mel's shoulders, fingers pressing gently into the knotted muscles there. Mel groaned, letting her head fall forward.

"I thought you might need this," Elora murmured, her thumbs working slow circles.

"Mmm, you’re magic," she mumbled, her voice thick with relief.

Elora laughed again, her thumbs pressing slow, soothing circles. "Just attentive," she corrected. Her fingers traced the curve of Mel’s neck, so carefully, as if she were memorizing the shape of her.

Mel tilted her head back, just enough to catch Elora’s gaze. The fading light painted her in gold, softening the edges of her smile. "Attentive, hm?"

Elora hummed in agreement, her hands stilling to cradle Mel’s face instead. "Very."

Mel reached up, tangling their fingers together and leading Elora to stand in front of her. "You know," she mused, brushing her thumb over Elora’s knuckles, "you could’ve just handed me the tea and left it at that."

Elora’s nose wrinkled in playful distaste. "And let you suffer through the rest of the evening with that dreadful posture? Unthinkable."

Mel grinned, tugging her closer. "My hero."

Elora rolled her eyes, but she was smiling—always smiling when it was just the two of them like this. She let Mel pull her down until their foreheads touched, their breaths mingling in the quiet space between them.

"Better?" Elora whispered.

Mel closed her eyes, soaking in the warmth of her, the scent of tea and honey still clinging to her skin. "Infinitely."

Elora pressed a kiss to the tip of Mel’s nose, featherlight and fleeting. "Good."

And then, because Mel couldn’t resist—because she never could—she tilted her chin up and caught Elora’s lips with her own. It was slow, unhurried, the kind of kiss that felt like coming home.

When they parted, Elora’s cheeks were flushed pink. Mel traced the colour with her thumb, grinning. "You’re blushing."

Elora swatted at her shoulder, but she was laughing. "And whose fault is that?"

Mel pulled her back in, resting her head against Elora’s chest, listening to the steady rhythm of her heartbeat. "Mine," she admitted, utterly unrepentant. "And I’ll do it again."

Elora’s arms wrapped around her, holding her close. "I’d expect nothing less."

[eclipsedechoesofmywords]

It's my 1st anniversary on Tumblr 🥳

Wonderful!

[eclipsedechoesofmywords]

Masterlists

MISC Masterlist

MCU Masterlist

Greek Myth Masterlist

Arcane Masterlist

The Blacklist Masterlist

[eclipsedechoesofmywords]

Arcane Masterlist

MelJay

Mending Endings [Fic exchange] ➳ After the war, Jayce and Mel pick up the pieces—of Piltover, of themselves, and of something fractured between them. Healing isn’t linear, but in the quiet moments, they learn that survival is its kind of victory.

The Godforge [god!mel au, microfic] ➳ A mortal looks for help from a God.

Melora Week The Councilor and Her Assistant

Day One - Flowers : "Surprise?" ➳ Elora tries to keep a surprise from Mel. Mel, of course, has other plans. Day Two - Unwinding : "After Hours" ➳ After a gruelling council meeting, Mel returns to her office to find Elora waiting with tea, warmth, and the perfect remedy for her exhaustion. Day Three - Post Canon : "Dreams" ➳ Nightmares and Ghosts haunt Mel at every step. Day Four - Muse & Artists : "Imperfections" ➳ Elora will always be Mel's favourite thing to show in her art, but her paintings never feel...perfect enough for her muse. Day Five - Royalty : "Not Alone" ➳ Newly crowned as Queen of Noxus, Mel Medarda struggles under the weight of her crown—and Elora reminds her she doesn’t have to bear it alone. Day Six - Family : "Fire" ➳ A quiet night in the Medarda household is interrupted by a little one with a habit of sneaking into her mother's room. Day Seven - Free Day : "Fairy Tale" ➳ Elora has spent her life chasing what most believed to be a fairy tale—the whispers of a forgotten goddess born from a princess's sorrow.

Mel Week The Weight of Gold

Day One - Empathy : ➳ Day Two - Wine : ➳ Day Three - Embrace : "Two More Names To Remember" ➳ Day Four - Curse : ➳ Day Five - Exile : ➳ Day Six - : ➳ Day Seven - Legacy : ➳