#[the higher power being.... his own powers]

[buckbuckbarnesstuff]

Hello love, this is me @marvelstoriesepic ♡

Omg help me I am ACHING!! 😭 the emotional core is so strong, i was lost in my feels and AHHHH I am swept away 💜 I always get so sad when Bucky is insecure about himself, but ugh you wrote his feelings so well and how he grapples with them and tries to come clean but then doesn’t.

Let me just dive a litte deeper into my feels:

If Bucky were a braver man, a better man—one that wasn't weighed down by his history and remorse—maybe he would have told you. Maybe, in another life, Bucky would have charmed you at first sight, claiming you as his before the day could even end. But for now, Bucky was glad to settle for this—for sharing a quiet moment with you, and to bask in your company as though he were worthy of even a fraction of your attention.

Gosh, this got me good. Cracked me open with this. It’s also so accurate, like, that’s totally him. I can picture him thinking like that so well. But it still makes me so sad for our poor guy 🤧

Bucky knew Steve was right—he was being an idiot. A coward, even. It was his own damn foolishness that had kept him avoiding you for weeks, skipping your morning spars, slipping out of any room you occupied before you could even notice his presence. All because he couldn’t handle the feelings that had taken root in his chest, the one that was growing stronger by the minute, infiltrating deeper into his system every time you so much as looked his way.

Oh I get that so much, he's so relatable. And ahh he just can’t deal with all thatnlove in his chest. Has me a little giddy as wrong as it feels lmao

You laughed at his response—a wry, sarcastic laugh that was void of even the smallest hint of your usual warmth. “Then what other possible reason could you have for avoiding me, Bucky? Hm?” Your head turned towards him, and for the first time that night, Bucky finally saw the telltale sign of tears in your eyes, a glassy sheen that erased any remnant of the wits that Bucky had grown to know and love.

Oh I would feel the same way as her. You write all of this so real and authentic omg. I get that feeling so much.

How could I hate you when you are the only source of light I have remaining in this world? How could I hate you when loving you is the only thing about my life that I am absolutely certain of?

AHHHHH MY HEART!! I AM SWOONING!!! Please, this is all I need, all I'm asking for 🤩

Bucky wasn’t entirely sure to whom he was begging—whether it was you, the universe, or any higher divine power that might have heard his wretched prayer and taken pity on him. A man who had lost everything and asked for nothing, who was now asking for someone—anyone—to save the only thing in this world that made his life worth living, even if it meant having to sacrifice his soul in exchange.

My emotions are sitting in a rollercoaster wow. I can’t take it. My heart will give out. I feel so bad for him omg. Love, what are yoe doing to me.

“I love you.” Bucky’s voice stammered. “God, I love you—I love you, sweetheart, I love you so much.” He pressed his lips against your clammy forehead, again and again, as though he could tether you here, as though his love alone could be enough to keep you from slipping away.

I love how he repeats himself. He held it in for so long and now he can’t stop saying it 🥺 I am aching so bad. This is so tragic, but so beautiful

God, he should have just told you—should have braced past his insecurities and found the courage somehow, should have showered you with every drop of love he had neatly stowed in his heart until he was shriveled and had no else to give. He should have bought you flowers everyday, let you know that you were the most beautiful person Bucky had ever met on this goddamn planet—because you deserved it.

Oh he's carrying so much guilt. It pains me so much. But ahh I am so sure he will shower her with his love and affection and flowers in the future (I am not acceptinger her to be dead). He will literally be the perfect boyfriend, I just know it.

Love, this was awesome! The pacing was amazing, and the YEARNING was just so damn good. His feelings felt so genuine and all their actions were so relatable. It was such an experience to read omg. Thank you so much for this masterpiece. You write in such details, that’s truly a gift. It grounds the scenes so well and amplifies the emotional atmosphere. I felt everything so vividly.

I saw you made a sequel to this and I sure will have to dive into it as well 🤭💜💜

Before I Could Say It

This fic can be read as a standalone or as a prequel to After I Was Too Late.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Synopsis: The three times Bucky almost confessed his love to you, and the one time he finally does.

Word Count: 5.9k

Warning(s): can be read as gn!reader bcs I didn't use any gender-specific words (pls advise me if this isn't true). canon divergence. no use of Y/N. use of the nicknames sugar and sweetheart. insecure thoughts. bucky feeling like he's not good enough. unrequited love (or is it?). alcohol consumption. a bit hurt/comfort. profanities. use of weaponry, including but not limited to guns and knives. depictions of violence, blood, injuries, and murder. (near) death experience. angst. fluff. open ending.

Author's Note: Hii guys. I know I should be focusing all of my energy on Faithfully Yours right now, but I had the idea for this story and just couldn't pass it up!! We have a bit of an open ending here. I wasn't planning on making a part two but I'll see what the general consensus say and will decide whether or not a part two is due from the responses. anywayy hope you enjoy this one xx don't forget to comment, like, and reblog!!

When Bucky tried to think about the beginning, his mind always drew a blank.

It had been five years since the first time destiny orchestrated your paths to cross, six if one were to count the one-year cryogenic sleep that Bucky spent in Wakanda. The Soldat met you first, back when you, Steve, Sam, and Nat fought him on that highway shoot-out that revealed his identity. After that, you were everywhere—in Bucharest with Steve to coax him out of hiding, on the tarmac battle where you went against half of your own family for his sake, and even in Wakanda, where your eyes became one of the last pairs he saw before his body succumbed to the unforgiving clutches of darkness.

And when he was finally woken up, you were there, too, waiting for him.

Since then, Bucky struggled to remember a time when you weren't there. You supervised his deprogramming in Wakanda, becoming Steve's eyes and ears while the Captain roamed the world as both a fugitive and a vigilante. When the Sokovia Accords turned void, and the scientists in Wakanda assured Bucky that his mind wasn't going to betray his heart anymore, you took him back to New York, offering solace in the form of your warmth pressing against his side on the plane ride to the States. 

Even once the two of you landed on the compound's grounds, you never strayed too far—standing between Bucky and a begrudging Tony as if you were ready to launch yourself forward should the billionaire try to do anything untoward. As if the ruthless Winter Soldier needed a human shield to prevent him from shattering into fragile little pieces.

Before Bucky knew it, his entire routine—his entire life—became you.

From your morning spar sessions in the gym, the long walks around Brooklyn in the afternoon, to the weekly movie nights that you roped him into in the name of reacquainting him with pop culture—everything in Bucky’s life started to shape and smell like you. 

It was a constant. 

You were Bucky’s new constant.

And somewhere along the way, Bucky’s little troublemaker of a heart decided, once and for all, to anchor itself to yours.

True to his fashion, Steve was the first person to notice. All of the lingering touches and longing glances, the hard-etched lines of Bucky’s countenance that seemed to soften every time you were near—they spoke of an affection beyond a mere loyalty one might harbor for their teammate. It spoke of love, one that was so unadulteratedly pure and raw that Steve was sure there was no room left in the crevices of Bucky’s heart where a piece of you didn’t reside in.

“You’ve gotta say something, Buck,” Steve said to Bucky one evening.

The two of them were standing in the convention hall of a lavish hotel deep in the heart of Manhattan, surrounded by a guestlist of people that Bucky was assured were some of the most influential figures of the twenty-first century. People tried to swarm him since the moment he entered the party, shoving business cards to his face and dropping names that Bucky knew should have meant something to him. He paid none of them any mind—not when his eyes immediately found you in that sea of ties and ball gowns, just like a moth enticed to a flame.

You were all dolled up for the night, wearing a fancy little number that screams you if only with a little bit of additional sparkles sprinkled on top. Bucky watched you move through the ocean of people, confidence oozing out of every step, a blinding smile as you received each handshake with an indisputable poise. Bucky’s head whipped towards your direction at every echo of laughter, searching for the source, drinking in your infectious glee as if it were the only way to sustain the rhythmic beating of his heart.

Bucky shifted in his feet, Steve’s unprompted advice forcing him to tear his eyes away from where you were standing by Natasha’s side. The blond beside him smiled knowingly, a teasing yet sincere tilt in his voice as he added, “You’ve gotta tell at some point, pal. Better sooner rather than later.”

The line in Bucky’s jaw ticked. He brought the glass of champagne to his lips, tipping the drink back as though the liquid stood a chance against his enhanced metabolism. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Buck.”

“Punk.”

The Captain sighed, reaching for a drink of his own. “At least ask for a dance, will you?”

Before Bucky could register what was happening, Steve had shoved Bucky forward, sending him stumbling forth towards the direction of your canorous laughter. Steve hid his amused smile behind his drink when Bucky flipped him the finger, the latter continuing his steps on wobbly feet, trying to ignore the pounding travelling up his bloodstreams.

“Hey, Bucky,” you greeted as soon as he had reached you. The smile on your face could rival the sun even on its brightest day, and Bucky prayed to every divine being in the universe that he could be on the receiving end of that smile for the rest of his days.

“Barnes.” Natasha nodded. 

“Hey, guys. What’s up?” Bucky attempted a smile, tugging at the ridiculous material of his bow tie that Tony had insisted him to wear. In fact, Tony was the one who forced Bucky to attend this whole shindig in the first place—something about showing a united front to prove to the public that there was no bad blood within the Avengers’ team. 

It was a shit ton of bullshit, in Bucky’s opinion.

But at least, the party gave him a chance to see you all dressed up to the nines.

“Nothing much.” You shrugged, tilting your head slightly to the side. “Did you need something?”

“No. I mean, I do. I was, um, wondering—” Bucky cleared his throat, “—I actually wanted to see if you’d care to join me for a dance?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky saw Natasha’s eyes widen slightly. The redhead immediately scurried to the side, feigning interest in the tower of chocolate fondue just a couple of feet away.

Bucky’s heart nearly leaped out of his chest when you extended your palm towards him. “I would love to, Buck. Lead the way.”

Your fingers emitted warmth inside his hand, and for a moment, Bucky faltered. He kept his composure enough to guide you through the sea of couples on the dancefloor, willing the erratic thumping in his chest to quieten down as he pulled you flush against his body. The scent of your perfume slithered through the air, filling Bucky’s lungs, attacking each part of his senses until everything Bucky saw, heard, smelled, and felt was you.

“You look beautiful tonight, Sugar.”

The admission tumbled from his lips before Bucky had a chance to stop them, before he could thoroughly process the implications of such candor. You didn’t seem to mind, though. Instead, your persistent smile widened ever so slightly, your eyes twinkling under the glimmering lights of the chandelier hanging from the ceiling.

“Why, you look plenty dashing yourself, Bucky.” You hummed appreciatively, raking your eyes up and down Bucky’s suit-clad figure. “I must say, I was sad to see your long hair gone, but this looks great as well.”

Your fingers skimmed the hard contour of Bucky’s shoulder, leaving goosebumps on their wake, before sneaking through the short tendrils on the nape of his neck. He fought off a groan at the contact, the heavenly feeling of your fingers tugging at his hair sending shivers all throughout his body. Meanwhile, you were still smiling up at him all sweetly, completely oblivious to the rush of heat that you delivered through Bucky’s entire being.

“Sugar,” the nickname fell off Bucky’s lips in a low grunt, and for the first time that night, your composure staggered. 

Your breath hitched around a squeak when Bucky managed to tug you closer, circling his arms around your waist until there was barely room for air between both of your bodies. All around you, the world ceased to exist. The only thing that remained were your bated breaths, a raucous disruption through the electric field buzzing between where you and Bucky were pressed against one another. 

“I need to tell you something,” Bucky revealed, his voice low and sheer, stripped by unease and something akin to fear. 

Your forehead furrowed, undoubtedly sensing the trepidation shining out of the blue of Bucky’s eyes. “What’s the matter, Buck?”

Your palm landed on his stubbled cheek, and Bucky had to fight the urge to lean in, to chase more of your warmth like you were an oasis in the middle of his desert of a life. He grappled for the confession to come, for the feelings in his chest to solidify into something comprehensible. All Bucky had to do was open his mouth and seize the moment.

But just as quickly as it had arrived, the moment splintered through his fingertips.

“Good evening, everyone!”

Bucky's whole body jerked in surprise, his accusatory eyes instantly finding the MC standing on the stage at the front of the room. The music had stopped, replaced by the MC's welcoming remarks addressed towards a dozen supposedly prominent names that Bucky couldn't care less about.

“Hey, let's go find a seat,” you suggested, circling your tender fingers around Bucky's wrist before leading him through the maze of tables.

The two of you sat down just in time for Tony to deliver his opening speech as a representative of the Avengers. You glanced at Bucky in the middle of Tony's heartfelt sentiment about “shaping the future”, your hand finding Bucky's flesh one on his thigh, unaware of the kind of turmoil you have summoned from a single touch.

“You okay, Bucky?” you asked, squeezing his hand. “What was it that you wanted to tell me?”

I wanted to tell you that I love you, Bucky's heart echoed. I don't know when it started, and I don't know how, all I know is that you're every good thing that I have going on in my life.

Bucky's throat tightened.

He never ended up saying the words out loud. Instead, he smiled thinly. “It's not important, sweetheart. I'll tell you later.”

You assessed him curiously before offering him a small smile and directing your attention back towards the stage. Bucky sighed in the aftermath, feeling the wild beating of his heart settled to a normal one.

And just like that, the truth died on the tip of his tongue.

Weeks passed, and between countless briefings, missions, and reports, Bucky was forced to push all matters concerning his heart to the side. It wasn't easy, not when you occupied every facet of Bucky's otherwise monotone life. Every waking moment was a painful reminder that you were always within reach, but never close enough for him to have.

Following a successful infiltration into an illegal bio-weapon factory in the outskirts of Poland, the team had landed their jet on one of the safehouse grounds somewhere near the border of Poland and Germany. Natasha and Clint disappeared inside the house immediately upon landing, while Sam and Steve stayed on the quinjet to go over a few intels they had managed to gather from the factory.

Bucky's boots scraped softly against the grass as he crossed the distance towards the small lake just a few yards left to the safehouse. The surrounding trees rustled in the wind, a symphony of reds and oranges beneath the solemn autumn sky. On the shore of the lake, Bucky found you sitting, a rare serene look on your face as you closed your eyes to welcome the impending breeze.

“Hi, Bucky,” you greeted, eyes still shut tightly.

“How'd you know it was me, Sugar?”

“I always know when it's you.”

The moment your eyes opened, Bucky's heart stuttered in its cage. The smile you rewarded him was soft, embellished with a tenderness that a man of his repute would never deserve. He knew he should have looked away, but the selfish part of him wanted to hold your stare in place, to relish in your kindness no matter how much he believed he wasn't worthy of it.

“Come on, sit with me.”

You patted the ground next to you, and Bucky obeyed without further questions. He lowered himself on the grass, damp from the lingering chill of autumn air, and stretched his legs out. For a while, neither of you spoke, opting to enjoy the sound of water lapping lazily against the shore, a stark tranquility to the horrors you faced during the mission earlier.

The sky dimmed a tad darker as the sun ducked behind the cover of trees, leaving behind streaks of purple and gold on the horizon. Beside him, you heaved out a sigh, the remnants of sun casting your skin in an ethereal glow.

“Sometimes I wish moments like this could last forever,” you murmured.

Bucky's eyes slid towards you, studying the contours of your face like a historian would an ancient scripture. His fingers twitched, itching to feel every soft and hard edge of your features under the brush of his touch. 

You're the only thing in this world I want forever with.

The words resonated in his head and all the way down to his chest, settling like stone sinking underwater, slow and heavy. He almost said it out loud—nearly laid his heart bare for you to judge and scrutinize. But at last, he fabricated a grin and nudged his shoulder playfully to yours.

“You always get sentimental when you're tired,” he joked.

You laughed heartily at his jab, a melodic thing that wrested at every coil of Bucky's heartstrings. The two of you proceeded to watch the sunset together, the silence stretching between you, warm and comfortable. The sky burned in more explosions of hues, casting its reflection upon the lake like a dream neither of you dared to disturb. 

If Bucky were a braver man, a better man—one that wasn't weighed down by his history and remorse—maybe he would have told you. Maybe, in another life, Bucky would have charmed you at first sight, claiming you as his before the day could even end. But for now, Bucky was glad to settle for this—for sharing a quiet moment with you, and to bask in your company as though he were worthy of even a fraction of your attention.

For now, Bucky would let the four-letter word wither inside him, locked in a hidden fissure somewhere within his chest, keeping it safe from ever seeing any light of day.

Days flew by, and it was getting increasingly harder for Bucky to ignore the way his heart gravitated towards yours, to ignore the fact that you were always the first person he searched for in the morning and the last one he wanted to talk to before falling asleep. To pretend like the mere mention of your name didn't send a jolt that revived his entire being. Every single day was a battle between wish and logic—the unruly desire to make you his, and the rational reluctance of dragging you into the mess that was his life.

“This is getting ridiculous, Buck,” Steve said as he leaned back against the bar right next to Bucky, following the latter's eyesight to find you standing at the end of it. “You're just gonna avoid it forever? An eternal silent treatment? The two of you need to talk, whether you like it or not.”

Bucky inhaled a long breath, swirling the Asgardian mead in his glass without ever taking his eyes off you. It was your birthday—a joyous occasion that called for this merry yet intimate celebration with the entire team. The common room of the compound had been transformed into something warm and inviting, lit by the soft glow of string lights draped along the walls. A cake sat on the counter, half-eaten, its candles long blown out, but the remnants of your laughter from when you made your wish still lingered in the air.

From across the room, Bucky watched as Sam teased you about getting older, earning the bird-man a playful swat on his arm. Wanda handed you a small, neatly wrapped gift, and your eyes lit up in a way that made Bucky’s chest ache. He didn’t know what was in the box. He didn’t really care. All he knew was that he wanted to be the reason behind that breathtaking smile of yours.

And then, your eyes lifted.

The eye contact was fleeting. Brief. Gone by the time Bucky realized what was happening and forced his gaze away. Even then, Bucky still caught the hint of surprise as your eyes found his, replaced almost immediately by a longing that Bucky understood all too well. It clutched onto his heart, sinking its sharp nails until the life organ in his chest was bruised and brutally torn apart.

The Captain sighed. “You're being an idiot, pal.”

Bucky knew Steve was right—he was being an idiot. A coward, even. It was his own damn foolishness that had kept him avoiding you for weeks, skipping your morning spars, slipping out of any room you occupied before you could even notice his presence. All because he couldn’t handle the feelings that had taken root in his chest, the one that was growing stronger by the minute, infiltrating deeper into his system every time you so much as looked his way.

The party was still in full swing by the time Bucky decided to retire for the night, forgoing the goodbyes, heading straight to the elevator that took him back to his quarters. It was a few hours later when a clumsy knock sounded against his door, breaking through the quiet that had settled in his room.

“Sugar?”

Bucky's hand clenched around the door handle, his eyebrows knitting together at the sight of you in front of his bedroom.

“Hi, Buckyyy,” you greeted, your words slurring into uncontrollable giggles.

 Understanding dawned on Bucky's shoulders. “Sweetheart, are you drunk?”

“Am not!” You huffed, pushing past a stunned Bucky to enter the bedroom. 

You looked around for a moment, humming to yourself every time you came across a familiar token that decorated Bucky's room. There was a photo of you and him on the nightsand, a sketch of the Brooklyn Bridge courtesy of Steve hanging on the wall, and a few vinyl records stacked neatly on the shelf, gifted by various members of the team. At last, your steps halted beside the bed, and without a warning, you dove head first into the mattress, chuckling to yourself as you attempted to make snow angels with his blankets.

“This is sooo niceee,” you mused, burying youself deeper into one of Bucky's pillows. “Smells like you, Buck.”

The super soldier tried not to dwell too much on the sight of you lying on his bed, looking like you had always belonged in the same place that Bucky took his rest. A shiver ran down Bucky's spine as he closed the door behind him, his feet quiet against the carpeted floor before he took a tentative seat on the edge of the bed.

“Sugar?” Bucky took your shoulders in his grasp, turning you around until his eyes locked with yours. His heart staggered. “You wanna get back to your room? I could take you.”

His offer made you sit up in seconds, so fast that Bucky feared you might have given yourself a whiplash. He stared at you as your lips trembled, your whole body turning away from him until you were just a breadth out of his reach.

His fingers contracted in grief.

“Hey, Sugar? What's—”

“Why do you hate me?”

Silence.

Bucky's forehead creased in confusion.

“Hate you?” Bucky tasted the accusation on his tongue—the word being so foreign and farfetched from anything he could associate with you that Bucky had to wonder if he had misheard what you spoke. “Sweetheart, I don't hate you.”

“Liar.” You scoffed, scooting towards the foot of the bed, seemingly adamant to draw as much distance as possible between Bucky and yourself. “You have been avoiding me for weeks. You don't want to talk to me, or do anything with me. You hate me.”

Bucky blinked, stunned into momentary silence before shaking his head as if trying to rid himself of the sheer absurdity of your words. “That’s not true,” he murmured, his voice rough with something that sounded dangerously close to regret.

You laughed at his response—a wry, sarcastic laugh that was void of even the smallest hint of your usual warmth. “Then what other possible reason could you have for avoiding me, Bucky? Hm?” Your head turned towards him, and for the first time that night, Bucky finally saw the telltale sign of tears in your eyes, a glassy sheen that erased any remnant of the wits that Bucky had grown to know and love.

His stomach churned.

Guilt was eating at him alive. He couldn't believe that his stupidity had caused this—that he had hurt you due to his own incapability of controlling his emotions. Bucky didn't know what he was thinking when he decided that the best course of action would be to completely evade you, but he certainly didn't think that it would result in this.

With you, sitting on his bed, crying your eyes out while simultaneously breaking Bucky's heart in the process.

Bucky exhaled sharply, as if the weight of his own remorse was pressing down on his chest. He couldn't stand it—the way your shoulders quivered, the way you tried so desperately to keep your composure together as tears welled in your eyes.

"Sweetheart," he rasped, reaching for you, his fingers hesitant at first before firming in resolve. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry.”

You stiffened at his touch, your lips parting as if to protest, but Bucky was already pulling you into his embrace, holding you tightly against the muscular panes of his chest. His hands skimmed soothingly along your back, whispers of sweet nothings falling from his lips as he rocked you in the safety of his arms.

“I don't hate you, Sugar,” he murmured, voice shattering around the edges. “I've never hated you. How could I?”

How could I hate you when you are the only source of light I have remaining in this world? How could I hate you when loving you is the only thing about my life that I am absolutely certain of?

Your breath hitched against his shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “Bucky—”

“Shh,” he soothed, pressing his lips to your temple in a featherlight touch. “Just let me hold you, okay?”

Slowly, he guided the both of you down onto his bed, his arms never loosening from where they were wrapped around your body. His heartbeat thumped steadily beneath your cheek, his fingers drawing lazy patterns against your back. The tension in your body melted bit by bit with each gentle word, the rise and fall of his chest lulling you into something softer—something safe.

“Don't ever do that to me again,” you warned shakily. “Promise me.”

Bucky's hold around you tightened. “I promise.”

“Good.” You sighed, exhaustion wearing down every inch of your bones. “You're my favorite person, Bucky.”

The admission pierced Bucky's chest like a lightning strike. He knew he should not have read too much into it, that the revelation was nothing more than a drunken slip of tongue that you probably would not even remember in the morning. But for now, Bucky chose to let that little detail slide, to let himself pretend that the confession had been made with more purposeful intent behind it—that the words had meant as much to you as it did to Bucky.

"Sleep, sweetheart," he whispered, his lips brushing against your forehead. "I've got you."

Since that night in his bedroom, Bucky had made a vow: he wasn't going to run anymore.

Bucky had learned his lesson. He wasn't going to let his own fears dictate his actions, nor would he allow his emotions ruin the precious friendship he had built with you over the past few years. Whatever he felt—whatever torment clawed at his chest whenever you so much as looked his way—it was his burden to bear. You didn't deserve to suffer for his cowardice, and he swore to himself that he would never let it happen again.

That thought lingered in Bucky's mind as he moved stealthily through the abandoned industrial site, gun drawn, boots scraping silently against the cracked concrete floor. The mission was straightforward: take out remaining hostiles, extract any valuable intel, and regroup. Simple. A basic in and out job that would be done just in time for dinner.

The team had split into pairs, and as fate would have it—or rather, as Steve would have it—Bucky found himself assigned to the west wing of the site alongside you. The direct channel to your comms in Bucky’s earpiece was quiet, and the super soldier took it as a good indication that your side of the mission was going smoothly. Meanwhile, he swept through his own side of hallways with methodical precision, checking every room, muttering a curt “clear” to his comms for each canvassed area. 

The air was eerie with cold and mold when Bucky entered the last remaining room in the hallway. There was nothing particularly different about this one. It was just as empty and as menacing, smelling of rat’s piss and years of abandonment, though his seasoned instinct—one sculpted from years of fighting and survival—warned him that something was amiss. His fingers tightened around his weapon almost instinctively, feeling an immediate unease venture up his spine, raising the very hair on the back of his neck.

The silence was too perfect.

Bucky’s feet skidded to a stop, turning on his heel to retrace his steps back towards the entrance.

Then, it happened.

The ambush struck like lightning on water. One second Bucky was alone, and the next, shadows had flooded the room, faceless figures in tactical gears leaping towards him at the same time. They were fast and ruthless, and even though none seemed to possess enhanced abilities, Bucky was still outnumbered. He dodged the first three attackers easily enough—disarming the blade from the first assailant’s hand, ducking out of the swinging baton of the second’s, and rolling on the floor before redirecting the third one’s bullet with the palm of his vibranium arm.

Bucky dashed out of the room into the one right across, the group of attackers still hot on his tail. He ducked behind a metal table and started opening fires at the entrance, taking out the threats before they even got the chance to enter the room. A curse fell under his breath when Bucky realized that he had worked through his rounds, scrambling to replace the ammunition as footsteps thundered into the room.

Slamming the fresh magazine in place, Bucky inhaled a gearing breath, only to be met with a sudden hush that descended through the air.

He raised his gun.

Instead of finding himself at the end of numerous gun barrels, Bucky was granted the view of bodies scattered all over the floor. The tang of iron meshed detestably with the spoor of grime, fog swirling around the edge of Bucky’s adrenaline-honed mind. When the dust finally stifled, his focus immediately zeroed in on the figure standing amidst the wreckage, rising out of the smoke like a doomsday’s salvation.

“Hi, handsome.” You smiled around a heavy exhale, a crinkle in your eye that seized the very life out of Bucky’s lungs. “Miss me?”

Bucky let out a rough breath, somewhere between relief and admiration. The grip around his weapon slackened ever so slightly, his body still thrumming with fight-and-flight, though the sight of your beautiful smile had managed to wash him with the kind of serenity that no other person could compel.

“Was wondering when you’d show up, sweetheart,” Bucky said, rising from his makeshift fortress behind the table.

“Sorry, Sarge.” You hummed, casually brushing the dust off Bucky’s shoulder as though the contact didn’t send him skyrocketing to heaven. “You know I like to keep people on their toes.”

Bucky failed to suppress his grin, nudging your shoulder as the two of you headed towards the entrance. With the hostiles neutralized, and the information uploaded to the flash drive discreetly tucked in the safety of Bucky’s inside pocket, the two of you were prepared for extraction. He redirected his comms to the main channel, alerting the other team members that the two of you were ready to wrap up and get the hell out of this dismal place.

He was barely a foot out of the door when a loud bang resonated in the air.

In a split second, Bucky sprung in retaliation, taking aim at one of the bloody assailants on the ground that had somehow taken hold of a gun, Bucky’s finger pulling at his own weapon’s trigger, assassinating him in place.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Bucky’s heart throbbed in his throat, a silent prayer on his lips at how close of a call it had almost been. His gaze took a quick scan of the pile of bodies on the floor, making sure that none of them would pull a similar stunt, only allowing his shoulders to deflate when he saw no remaining signs of life.

“Bucky?”

Your voice barely reached him, thin despite the echoic air of this dingy site, but something inside Bucky twisted the moment he heard it.

When he turned, the initial relief that had flooded his chest instantly collapsed.

You were standing there, just a breadth out of reach with your gun still tightly clutched between your fingers. But the side of your neck—God, the side of your neck—was slick with red, thick and dark as it ran in angry runnels down your skin, staining the collar of your tactical gear, pooling on your shoulder and drenching everything it touched.

Your whole body swayed.

Bucky’s heart dropped to the pit of his stomach.

“No, no, no—” he rasped as he caught you, arms winding around your frame to prevent you from hitting the floor. His knees slammed onto the cold concrete below as he cradled you against his chest, the tremble in his body betraying the steel he was supposed to be made out of.

Bucky blinked, willing this moment to splinter into a dream, willing for his body to be transported back into the comfort of his bedroom where the scene playing out in front of his eyes would be nothing more than a heinous nightmare. But as Bucky’s arms tightened around your limp figure, the awful, gut-wrenching truth settled like ice in his veins. 

This was real. 

The blood seeping through your gear wasn’t imagined. The faint hitch in your breath, the loss of color from your face, the sheer terror clawing its way up his throat—none of it was a dream.

His chest crashed.

“Hey, hey. I got you, Sugar.” His voice cracked as he pressed a palm against your wound, despairingly staunching the warmth from slipping through his fingers. But no matter how hard he was grasping, the blood just kept on flowing—too fast and too much—soaking his hands and every corner of his battered soul.

“Shit. Stay with me, sweetheart. Please,” he begged. “Steve! Nat! Somebody get here now!” he barked into his earpiece, nails digging deeper into your skin. “We need a medic! We need a—fuck—just get down here!”

You made a sound, somewhere between a gasp and a whimper, your breath warm against his cheek as you murmured, “I-It’s gonna… gonna be o-okay.”

It was a lie.

You both knew it.

And it destroyed him. 

“Don’t do that.” Bucky shook his head, his voice cracking around a choked sob. He forced a smile as he looked down at your pale face. “You always suck at lying.”

Your lips parted, the faintest ghost of a smile trying to make its way through, only to be interrupted by a wet cough that made Bucky’s chest cave in.

“Gotta stay with me, sweetheart. Please,” Bucky whimpered. “The team’s coming. Help is on the way. Just gotta hang in there a little more for me, yeah? Just a little longer. Please.”

Bucky wasn’t entirely sure to whom he was begging—whether it was you, the universe, or any higher divine power that might have heard his wretched prayer and taken pity on him. A man who had lost everything and asked for nothing, who was now asking for someone—anyone—to save the only thing in this world that made his life worth living, even if it meant having to sacrifice his soul in exchange.

Your hand reached out tentatively, shakily, gripping the strap of his tactical jacket and giving it the faintest tug. 

“Bucky,” you whispered, voice dissipating like a wisp of smoke as soon as you had uttered his name. Your eyes, glassy and unfocused, searched for his, and when they finally found him, a weak smile curved at your lips. “I love you.”

A sound tore from his throat, raw and full of despair. His forehead dropped against yours, his entire body rupturing under the weight of your words.

“I love you.” Bucky’s voice stammered. “God, I love you—I love you, sweetheart, I love you so much.” He pressed his lips against your clammy forehead, again and again, as though he could tether you here, as though his love alone could be enough to keep you from slipping away.

He should have been happy—should have felt something else other than this hollow, scorching agony. The person of his dreams, the one he had spent sleepless nights longing for, had just made the one admission that his heart had been wanting to hear, and yet, all he could do was break. His whole being perished under the weight of everything left unsaid, every moment wasted, every regret carving him open from the inside out.

He should have told you sooner.

God, he should have just told you—should have braced past his insecurities and found the courage somehow, should have showered you with every drop of love he had neatly stowed in his heart until he was shriveled and had no else to give. He should have bought you flowers everyday, let you know that you were the most beautiful person Bucky had ever met on this goddamn planet—because you deserved it.

You deserved everything.

Not this.

Not bleeding on the filthy floor of this desolate place, fighting off death that had bludgeoned its way right through your door.

“You’re gonna be okay, Sugar. We’re getting out of here, you hear me?” His breath stuttered, his grip tightening as if he could physically gather all of your fragmented pieces and mend you as new. “I’m gonna treat you so good. You’ll see. Gonna spoil you rotten like I ought to. Just—please, just hold on—”

Your fingers twitched against his chest. Your eyes fluttered.

A quivering breath left your lips before your body went completely limp.

Bucky stilled.

“Sugar?”

Nothing.

No soft inhale. No faint murmurs of response.

No squeeze of your fingers against his jacket.

Bucky’s entire world came crashing down in the blink of an eye.

“No. No, no, no, no—”

His hand cupped your face, blood smearing from his skin to yours. Bucky’s fingers trembled as he tapped your cheek, as if the action alone could keep you here, could bring you back to him. His breathing ceased, his whole body shuddering as he rocked you in his arms, your name tumbling over and over again from his lips like a prayer, like a curse, like a plea to the universe to undo everything, to give him one more chance, to take him instead.

“Come back to me,” he whispered, his face wet with the fractured shards of his heart. “Please.”

The only thing that acknowledged him was silence.

And Bucky Barnes had never hated the quiet more.

[satorus-princess]

him, just him

a/n: taking care of satoru because he deserves it <3 (especially after that post)

word count: 1.6k

fem!reader x gojo satoru, sfw

most people would say that gojo is spoiled. he's the strongest, after all - he has all the power anyone could want, fame within the jujutsu society, and money. what else could he want or need?

gojo himself thinks he's spoiled - no, not because of the materialistic things like money and fame, and definitely not because of his burdensome power. it's because of his wife. everything else is put to shame when he has you. he really couldn't want or need anything else.

but to you, he was anything but spoiled. you felt like you could never do enough for him. still, you try to do as much as you can for him, wanting to make his life easier and to bring back the striking light in his cerulean orbs that have dimmed over the years.

so here you are, at two a.m., anticipating your husband's return from a mission. earlier, he messaged you of the estimated time that he will be finished and that should be any minute now. he had also told you not to wait up for him, but now, you are running a soothing bath for him.

the bathroom light is off, a few scented candles planted on the counter and on the edge of the bathtub create a soothing ambience. the smell of chamomile fills the air as you had infused the warm bath water with an oil specific for relaxation.

you had noticed that, recently, his responsibilities between teaching and being called on missions has caught up to him. it was normal for sorcerers to experience burnout, even for gojo, contrary to popular belief. it's expected due to the lack of sleep, the burden of the world on his shoulders, the responsibilities of the teaching and lives of the students, and the stress of the higher-ups.

as you get caught up in your concerned thoughts about gojo, you barely hear the aforementioned man come home. his steps are quiet, his feet practically dragging along the floor due to his exhaustion.

“(y/n)?” he calls softly as he steps into the bedroom, finding the bed made and no one sleeping in it. he frowns slightly, wondering where you could be. did something happen?

before his thoughts could spiral down a negative hole, you appear at the doorway of the bedroom. “i'm here, my love.” you approach him with a loving smile, immediately wrapping your arms around his tall figure. his own arms find their way around you, keeping you in a tight embrace as he closes his eyes to savour your warmth and comfort.

“why aren't you sleeping?” is the first thing he says to you, yet he makes no move to tear away from the hug. of course, he thinks about you before himself.

“come with me,” you say simply, not providing an answer or explanation. you slide your hand down to his, lacing your fingers together and gently tugging him towards the bathroom.

“baby, i really just want to go to--” his voice is husky with fatigue, his sentence getting cut off when you both step into the dimly lit bathroom filled with soothing scents. he pauses, looking between you and the bath setup. “is this for me?”

“mhm, just for you.”

he swallows thickly, standing there as if unfamiliar with the situation. “my sweet...” he trails off, lips parted as if wanting to say something else but the words not formulating.

with a smile, you bring your entwined hands up to your lips, gently kissing the back of his hand. “i know you wouldn't go to a spa, so i brought the spa to you. for a few days.”

the lump in his throat grows larger, choking on his words as he tries to express his appreciation, his thoughts. you give his hand a gentle squeeze in understanding, hoping he knows that he doesn't need to thank you.

despite his appreciation, there's a lingering thought that he has to voice. “and the higher-ups approved of this?”

“hmm, technically no. but when have we ever cared about what they say? you need this, my love, don't think about it. forget about your responsibilities, being the strongest, being gojo satoru. just be you for a few days, okay?” you urge him, your eyes almost pleading as you look up at him.

his beautiful, beautiful eyes become slightly misty in response to your words, a look of adoration and pure, tender love glistening in them. he doesn't respond, rendered speechless again while he keeps his eyes locked onto yours. he doesn't know if he can just be himself, to forget about the identity forced upon him practically since birth.

you notice the uncertainty swirling around in his eyes, revealing the disarray of thoughts in his mind. “my love?” you say softly, withdrawing him from his spiral.

“... sorry.”

you shake your head with a small smile. “there's nothing to apologise for. come on, get in the bath before it gets cold.”

“undress me?” his cheeky smile comes back.

you laugh softly, stepping closer to him. his eyes follow your movements, glancing down at your hand that reaches for the zipper of his dark jacket. you slowly tug it down, revealing the black t-shirt he wears beneath. he takes that off himself, while you work on his trousers and boxers. it's a completely uninhibited, intimate moment. no sense of desire, just complete tenderness as he stands bare before you with a few scars adorning his porcelain skin.

once you're done, he lifts your hand to your lips and kisses each of your fingertips gently. his gaze makes your heart skip a beat; it's so full of intense love and devotion.

you clear your throat before speaking, but your voice still comes out small. “do you need anything else?”

“no, just you. will you join me?”

“if you want me to. i was planning on washing your hair, not necessarily joining you.”

“you can still wash my hair that way.”

he settles into the warm bath, letting out a heavy, contented sigh as it seems to take an immediate effect. he reaches his hand out for you, spreading his legs under the water so that you can take your seat between them. after slipping out of your own clothes, you take his hand and let him help you into the water. once you're sitting, he tugs you against his chest with your back towards him.

“i don't think i can wash your hair this way,” you point out. he leans forward slightly to rest his chin on your shoulder, his arms around your torso as his thumb rubs circles into your skin.

he smiles, pressing a kiss to your neck. “it's alright. i just wanna hold you like this for a bit.”

the two of you stay like that for a while, tangled limbs and sharing each other's warmth in a serene silence that settles around you. you almost think that gojo fell asleep behind you since he has been quiet the whole time but then, his lips move against the back of your neck. “i love you,” it's the softest of whispers, yet it's so heartfelt and powerful, his tone so soaked in emotion that his voice almost cracks.

“i love you, too, ‘toru,” you murmur, and you feel the beating of his heart quicken as his chest is moulded to your back. “you wanna let me wash your hair now?”

he hums and nods in response, switching your positions so that he is now sitting between your legs with his back leaning against your chest. his eyes flutter closed as he feels warm water rain onto his hair; a quick rinse before you squeeze shampoo into your palm, gently lathering his hair and massaging his scalp.

a gravelly groan rumbles in the depths of his throat as your fingers thread through his hair, ensuring every strand is soapy, and the tips of your fingers manage to soothe every ache in his body.

“feels good,” he mumbles, sounding as if he's on the verge of sleep. trust buzzes between the two of you as he allows you to take care of him in the way you know best.

“i'm glad,” you reply softly with a smile.

asking him to keep his eyes closed and tilt his head back a little more, you begin to wash out the suds from his hair. the gentle manner in which you treat him is something he isn't used to - he feels as if you handle him as something so fragile that if you moved too rashly, he would shatter.

he feels a lump grow in his throat and he traps his lower lip between his teeth to stop it from trembling. taking a deep, shaky breath, a crystal tumbles down the curve of his cheek which catches your attention. your hands freeze in his hair.

“my love?” you utter with such concern. he unlids his eyes once more, and with his head still tipped back, he stares up at you from his upside-down angle, yet you're able to see the emotions swirling in the waves of his ocean eyes. one motion of a wave, and another salty trickle escapes. “hey...” you lean down to brush your lips against his forehead and he tilts his head further into your touch, craving your affection. you trail your lips down to kiss each of his eyelids with the gentleness of a feather.

his lips curve up into a smile, an unsteady one, but a smile nevertheless. he reaches up, fingers rooting themselves on your cheek as his thumb brushes against it.

“i love you,” he whispers once more, “and i love the way you love me.”

[dcdreamblog]

Love the blog, just wondering what your take is on the 'Superman has a secret identity' theory that makes headlines every so often when the tabloids run out of other stories? Usually with their fave celeb as the culprit. I usually find that part in bad taste. Everyone has a right to privacy, what if a supervillain actually believes that hogwash, etc. Although as for the latest one it was great that Mr. Wane ran with it and wore blue for a week to raise money for disaster relief. If nothing else his now-viral remarks to Luthor about how 'if he was superman, your buildings would have been redesigned via accidental super fight collateral damage a decade ago, my god man hire a better architect' made for satisfying watching for LexCorp's many critics.

Luthor's the most outspoken disbeliever of that theory, maintaining that the most powerful 'man' in the world, with his own known private hideout in the Arctic, would have no reason to run around pretending to be a normal human. Bruce Wayne might be kind of a dim bulb, but he had a point when he told whatever poor sod from the Daily Planet was covering the Metropolis Spring Gala that Superman seems too personable (at least from interviews and eyewitness accounts) to be anything other than 'just some guy.'

So on the spectrum between the two billionaires what's your take? Does the Man of Steel walk amongst us? If he does, who would he even be when he's not wearing the cape?

Without even having to THINK about it very hard I would come down on Wayne's side in this particular debate just because I don't trust Lex Luthor as far as I could throw him and I have a MUCH higher opinion of Bruce Wayne as, I can imagine, does anyone with some combination of a heart, soul or a brain. As far as the hypothesis goes, it's pretty much confirmed by the Man of Steel himself. He's given multiple interviews where he has shared the outline of his origins and while most people focus on the fact that he's the last son of the lost planet Krypton what he does also say in those interviews is that he was discovered by a human couple and raised as their own in the manner of a normal human child. Now of course he has never shared ANY particular details about his 'foster parents' because any stray detail could be traced back to them but that pretty much seals the deal doesn't it? If he was raised by humans, one would imagine that he went to school, had dreams, wanted a job and a house and a social life and all those things that human beings get used to having and wanting. Anytime we don't see him directly in action we have to imagine it's because he's out there...doing whatever it is he does during the day! That being said I don't think I can, nor will I, speculate as to who or what he might be in that life behind the scenes. It's none of my business, it is none of the WORLD'S business and nothing good could ever come from finding out. What I will say is that I do not believe for a SECOND the most tired and well trodden theory on the subject.

(Bruce Wayne meeting with Daily Planet reporter Clark Kent) Daily Planet reporter Clark Kent is NOT Superman, people come on! It just doesn't add up to the facts. Clark Kent had a totally average childhood, more or less. He was born in the small hamlet of Smallville, Kansas to Jonathan and Martha Kent which is disproving enough in and of itself. Superman has stated he was obviously a foster child. Clark Kent is, by all records, his parents' biological child. There are records of his attendance of school, vaccination records, his journalism diploma, the whole nine yards. There are two main reasons this story remains so popular. In Superman's orbit he is the one who most resembles Superman...in that he is a dark haired white guy with blue eyes and a strong chin. Analysis on his posture and his gait have shown that he doesn't move or articulate like Superman as you would know if you have ever watched the man on television, read or listened to his writing or just been aware of him as a public figure in Metropolis for YEARS. I still get the Planet here in New York just because him and his wife are some of the best journalists I've ever read. And in that is the other reason, his wife, the world renowned Lois Lane who in the early years of Superman's career had a public infatuation and casual romance with the Man of Steel. Many people got very attached to this public love affair and have never quite forgiven Lane for her public "break up" with Superman in the aftermath of her engagement to Clark Kent. This is just real people shipping for all its nonsense, Kent doesn't have to be Superman for Lane to have married him. Lane and Kent have been partners in crime for basically Kent's entire career and maybe Lane just decided she loved Kent more strongly, or that Superman was unattainable, or any one of ten billion other reasons that don't have shit to do with me or anyone else. Kent and Lane's marriage has also put the inevitable final coffin in the theory with the birth of their son Jonathan who by all accounts is exactly as human as his father. Ignoring all the times and in all the ways that Superman and Kent have been filmed or photographed in the same place because Superman and Kent have been close friends for a very long time because Superman is publically very close with a large group of the Daily Planet's staff ever since his first appearance in Metropolis. Bottom line, yes, I believe that Superman spends his 'nights' as a normal human somewhere on this big blue marble. But his only distinguishing features are that he's a white man with dark hair and strong shoulders. He could hide that with a big enough coat.

[fangirl-overload13]

So picture this:

Withholding someone's government paperwork is a crime.

Jeremy is supposed to be taking Law and you'd think he'd know at least this much... granted his stepdad or more so his family have power over the police and can't trust them to help.

Jean is a French immigrant brought over under very suspicious circumstances but the FBI has nothing on the truth because higher powers are at work, though even he knows that shit ain't right so he has his choice of help.

First off is Neil Josten aka best connected to the underworld and knows how to get fake documents. Aslo number one instigator in the world.

Renee Walker and her mother who is probably the only trustworthy journalist on earth by Jean's standards if he is aware of the lengths the two went to help pull him from the pits of hell.

The Queen of Exy himself Kevin Day and his on camera model-like persona that could call attention to this outrageous situation that the beloved captain of (his favorite class 1 AA team) the Trojans is in and how appalled he is about it.

Now!

Imagine getting these beautiful bastards together and very aware that they are being monitored by the FBI but still casually discuss their options completely ignoring the Agent ready to blow a gasket because Neil swore he'd never change his name again, he never promised not to get identical copies of someone else's real documents being illegally withheld.

Also these mafia affiliated college kids have a knack for getting into severe trouble when press coverage involves them so how the fuck are they going to testify in the very important trial against their own parents if they are dead?

Side note Andrew is listening to this the who time while directly looking into the spy camera at the FBI.

where is that post that was like "imagine jean told Neil about jeremy's parents keeping jeremy's documentation hostage and neil whipping out a whole set of as-good-as-real fake paperwork slash breaking&entering&stealing the stuff"

because YES neil would 100% do all that as a favour for his misplaced forever partner frenchieman & to fuck with abusive parents but i don't think jean would put that kind of burden on Neil. But do you know who IS on the receiving end of Jean's venting rants?

Renee.

Renee Walker whose journalist mom has both the balls and the resources to start an internal investigation in a mafia anthill.

Stephanie Walker would serve Mr and Mrs Knox's asses to them on a silver platter. Jeremy would have his stuff back by the end of the business week alongside with a formal apology. Thank you for coming to my TEDtalk

[vvisteriae]

Super forms /// Chaos energy

My theory is that every mobian has some amount of chaos energy within them, characters with a higher level of it can develop special powers and the ability to become super while mobians with the energy level higher then most but not enough to transform are gifted with other smaller abilities

So instead of the “only male hedgehogs can have a super form�� rule it would be “only mobians with a high chaos energy affinity can transform” since limiting it only for the gender of a certain species is stupid, but I also know they can’t give it away freely because it would become too common and less special

So going off of it, it would make sense since Shadow is literally overflowing with chaos energy and has to wear inhibitor rings to limit it, Sonic is naturally gifted and has a bond with the emeralds, Silver has mind powers so assuming they developed BECAUSE of his high chaos energy would also check out with this theory, same goes with Blaze’s powers plus her being the guardian of the sol emeralds and having a strong bond with them, idk much about Trip but seeing as her super form is a dragon she probably also has a lot of chaos energy stored in her

As for characters like Amy and Knuckles who have a higher amount of chaos energy then most but not enough to transform, are gifted with an ability similiar to a radar, with Knuckles being the guardian of the M.E and having a strong bond with it he can sense it and it’s shards, as well as chaos controls, chaos emeralds, sol emeralds, and fake emeralds

/// Don’t wanna get too deep into his abilities because someone already made a post about that and I don’t wanna copy/steal their work, I reblogged it tho so you can read it for yourself, their user is @aphantimes in case you can’t find it ///

and Amy having her “girlish intuition” or a “Sonic radar” as she calls it, can sense other people’s aura (or chaos signatures)

/// Essentially what I’m trying to say is that only characters with powers can access the super forms

Characters with high chaos energy that don’t have powers are granted some sort of a sixth sense ///

(I don’t see Amy’s and Knuckles’s strength as power, rather it’s just something they achieved through hard training)

Also, I’m not sure if that means that Surge and Kit could technically have a super form since idk if their powers are artificial or not (and yeah I know that Shadow is man made but they used chaos drives to create him so his powers developed on their own)

I know most Sonic fans would want other characters to have super forms but for me it makes perfect sense why they are limited for those specific few

(Sorry if this rant is not coherent enough it’s really hard for me to write my thoughts 😭😭)

(Btw I just realized that the colors of the emeralds are the same as the chakra colors, except the white one, it would be fun if they were perfectly aligned tho)

[youre-my-headliner]

I'D HOLD YOUR HEART IN MY BLOOD STAINED HANDS! s. gojo

pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader

《Sypnosis》 He's lived his entire life pushing his emotions in. But it all came coughing out with blood when you entered his life.

Warnings: mentions of blood, pain, coughing. Satosugu trauma. Hanahaki disease au. wdc: 11k

author's note: I know it took a lot of time but it's here!! I hope you enjoy it. The pictures aren't mine. Credits go to the rightful owners. His back is so *crying, throwing up, clawing my nails in the wall*

Satoru spent his life feeling hollow from the inside. An inexplicable numbness. An inexplicable void.

He plastered a smile on the outside and laughed heartily. Like nothing was wrong. Like he wasn't suffering from the inside. Like he wasn't holding onto to the very last shred of hope that soon things would get better. A rope that slowly stretched itself thin.

Gojo Satoru just wanted to be loved.

He felt like he was loved too-when he met Suguru, that is. In Suguru he found friendship. He found a brother. He found someone to share his burdens with.

But then Suguru left. He left because he was so confused between his morals and practicality, that he spiraled out of controll and found a way out through the most extreme path.

And Satoru? He spent the rest of his years in guilt and remorse. Guilt for not noticing Suguru's pain. For being so busy running from his own pain, he didn't notice his best friend falling apart.

The growing numbness in his chest coincided with Suguru leaving.

But like always, he hid it well.

And while all he longed for was to be understood, to be seen, he also knew that it was a dream far from coming true. No one looked at his soul. No one cared about the cracks. They all looked at the power, the strength.

But that was until you came along.

You'd just returned from an oversees mission. You had impressive power yourself so the higher ups thought it would be better to send you off to deal with curses oversees.

But recently there had been a shortage of sorcerers in Japan and so you were called back. To teach the second years.

Gojo had been assigned to show you around the school and get acquainted with the second years. It was a little awkward at first. He plastered his best smiled and made small jokes around the way to ease up the tension. Like throwing stuff at the wall til it sticks. And it did.

Soon you both started to laugh around over silly little things. After that, he started to look forward to see you everyday.

He soon started to notice little things about you. The way your eyes looked like two crescent moons when you smiled and closed completely when you laughed. Your little habit of twirling the ring on you index finger when you thinking about something. Or how you always double tied your shoe laces before training with the second years or going on a mission.

But that's okay....friends notice these things about each other right? Right. Sure. Because that's exactly what this was. No his heart never thumped loudly in his chest when he saw you. No he never almost embarrassed himself in front of you to make you laugh. No his stomach didn't do backflips and somersault when he actually heard you laugh.

I mean, just because he purposely accidentally memorized your very specific coffee order and brought it to you from the one coffee shop you like every day... doesn't mean he likes you or anything!

But when he did realize that he was in love with you, it wasn't anything grand. The air didn't smell sweet. Violins didn't play in the background. Angels didn't start to harmonize in the air.

It was actually very simple, but also touched the very depths of his soul.

It was late at night, and he had just returned from a rather tough mission. He was in his classroom catching up on some paperwork after the mission (much to his reluctance).

You noticed the lights in his classroom were on so you went in to check it out. You entered the office and leaned against one of desks and folded your arms across your chest. You said, "Hey. You're still here? I thought you went straight home after your mission."

He chuckled softly. "No, just catching up on some paperwork..."

Your face curled into a grimace. "Ugh, I hate paperwork too...so how was the mission?"

"Good enough... I am a little tired though."

You looked at him with narrow eyes. You pushed yourself off the desk and walked towards him. Your eyes softened slightly at the edges as you said, "You know you can talk to me right? About anything."

His eyes widened slightly under his blindfold and his lips parted by a few centimeters. "Really? You mean that?"

"Yeah Gojo. Even the strongest needs someone to rely on.", you said with a shrug.

Satoru's heart thumped loudly in his chest and his brain screeched to a halt. The silence in the room was deafening-to him atleast. His soul shook a little in his body. His breath hitched in his throat though he hoped you wouldn't notice.

No thoughts.

Just you.

Telling him you would listen.

That you would see what's inside instead of focusing on the outside.

That you were willing to see the cracks and fix them up with care and support him instead of just looking at the strength and calling it a day.

That shook Gojo. To the very depths of his heart. He felt like he could finally let someone in. Someone who was willing to share his burdens with him.

"It's Satoru", he said, after a long pause.

"Huh?"

"Call me Satoru.", he said as his lips slowly curled into a smile.

You mirrored his smile with a soft one of your own. "Satoru...", you whispered, testing his name out on your mouth.

Satoru...

His own name.

He never thought he would find the sound of his own name to be so sweet. The way you pronounced the syllables of his name in such a delicate and fragile manner. As if it was the most precious thing in the world.

Satoru...

He fell in love with the sound of his own name. But that was only when it came out of your mouth. When it fell out of you lips so naturally... like it was meant to...

That was when he realized that his very name would be safe coming out of your mouth.

That was when he realized that he loved you. He had fallen in love with you. He realized that you completed him. He tied his entire existence to you in that moment.

That night he went home feeling so happy yet so anxious. He has feelings for you. What was he supposed to do with them though? He's dated before but those relationships never worked out well.

But he knew one thing for sure. He was going to be yours for the rest of his life. That one night, when you told him that he could rely on you... he felt the happiest.

But as the night grew longer, he couldn't find sleep at all. He laid in bed the entire night staring at the ceiling. Soon, his thoughts got the best of him and he remembered Suguru.

He remembered how he thought that Suguru could be his one true friend. He felt like he could rely on him. And for a very long time he did. Until he couldn't anymore.

And then he started thinking about you. If you avidly see the cracks beneath the surface, would you leave? Would they disgust you? Would they make you walk away from him forever?

So decided to do what he does best. He decided to push you away. He decided to keep his feeling pressed deep down in his heart till he didn't feel anything at all for you. He tried to cut you away from him for your own good. But you always pushed back.

Every time you came to him to talk or maybe even ran into him, he would try to push you away. But he couldn't. He physically couldn't.

You had a small routine type thing (If you could even call it that.) of going on a walk around the campus after class in the evenings. You would roam around, talking about everything and nothing, tell each other about your day, missions and other stuff like that.

So when you came to him after his class ended, and asked him to go on a walk with you like always, his brain screamed at him to say no. To resist the pull you had over him. To not fall in deeper. But the minute he opened his mouth, one syllable fell out of his lips...

"Yes."

Everything about you drew him in. The gentle smile that played on your lips at the sight of him. The sweet, honey-filled, sonorous laughter you could never hide whenever he cracked a joke, or got a little flustered around him. The sparkle and shine in your eyes when you spoke about something you liked passionately.

It all drew him in you. Made him fall even deeper in love with you. How was he supposed to push all of that away, when he would give his everything to make you laugh?

Everything in the world reminded of you. A desert he saw from the window of a shop? Oh isn't that your favourite? White lilies he saw at a flower shop? Your hair smelled like them this morning. A little bush near the school that grew out jasmines every spring? The scent reminded him of the scent that lingered in the air whenever you left a room. He'd started to associate the sweet smell of jasmines to you.

To home.

Everything about you was fascinating, divine, perfect and yet, not his.

How could ge possibly push you away when everything reminds him of you?

So then he decided to accept the fact that he was in love with you. It was much easier than running away from his feelings after all. But the minute he decided to something about his feelings for you, a gnawing feeling of doubt crept up his chest.

Would you run away when you saw the cracks in his soul? Would you leave when you saw how broken he was? Would seeing him weak and vulnerable ruin him in your eyes? Would his pain and burdens scare you away once you realized how huge they are?

Did you even love him as deeply as he loved you?

All of these jumbled thoughts made him crawl back into his hole. A hole that he had created for himself to hide from everything and everyone.

He promised himself that he would not show you any of his pain or burdens. He would not let you see the ugliness even though you told him to. Even though you assured him that you would listen. That you would be there at the end regardless.

~

He met you again this evening for another one of your dates walks, before going on a mission. You two walked out of the school's gates and walked, with no direction in mind. You told each other about your day, talked about everything and nothing at the same time. You told him about your recent mission, he told you about something that happened in class. Conversation flew between you effortlessly, that's the way it had always been.

He then decided to walk you home. You walked through the busy streets of Tokyo till you reached your house. He stopped by your doorstep and said, "I have to go on a mission now, I'll see you tomorrow."

"Alright, don't do anything stupid though. I'm not gonna be there to save your ass every time.", you said with a playful roll of your eyes.

"You wound me. You really do.", he said dramatically.

You smiled at his antics. He stared at you smile for a few minutes. His gaze flew down to your lips for just a second before going back up to your eyes. It was quiet for a while. The crickets chirped in the background, and the only source of light in the area were the streetlamps near your house.

Streaks of golden light fell on your face, framing your face with a yellow glow. They made your eyes shine a little brighter than usual when you smiled. The intimacy of this quiet moment made Gojo's heart thump in his chest.

"Goodnight Satoru.", you said while closing your door.

This was what he wanted with you. To walk you home every night, kiss your beautiful pink lips goodnight, profess his love for you for the millionth time before leaving. But you could never be his. How could someone so broken as him, be with someone so perfect as you?

"'Night...", he said quietly. He stood outside your door for a few minutes.

He walked away from you house and to the mission site, but his mind was still plagued with your thoughts. Suddenly, he felt a burning sensation in his throat. He started cough lightly into his hand. He thought that it was nothing, til he felt like he was choking. He went into a coughing fit. His broad shoulders shuddered with the force of the coughs.

The coughs slowly reduced. He brought his hand away from his mouth and looked into it. His hand was covered in drops of blood and...Jasmine petals?

He stared at his hand in confusion. How was he coughing out flowers? He felt his chest getting heavier, like someone threw a block of iron on his chest and won't pick it up. Then realization hit him. His eyes widened in shock at the possibility.

He couldn't...

He couldn't possibly have...

No. He steeled his mind and focused on the mission ahead, while making a mental note to visit Shoko later. He stuffed the Jasmine petals in his pockets and continued his mission.

~

Gojo stood in Shoko's office. His battered in anticipation while he waited for Shoko to finish observing the petals. Shoko knew he had feelings for you. He never told her, but she knew anyways. She had her own ways. She also knew why he refused to tell you. After all, she carried baggage of her own, just in a different way.

He knew that the possibility of him having the disease was high, but he didn't want to risk it. He ran a hand through his already messed up hair and leaned back in his seat.

Shoko looked up at him, her eyes tight at the corners. "You were right. You do have the disease.", she said grimly.

Gojo ran a hand over his face and sighed. A long silence took over in Shoko's office. After a while Shoko decided to break the silence. "Are you...going to tell her?", Shoko asked, in a quiet voice.

Gojo's head snapped up at her. He looked at her with wide eyes. "No! How could you even ask me that? That is not an option Shoko!", Gojo exclaimed, his voice ringing through the office.

"Your condition is going to get worse, you have to tell her! It's either this or the surgery.", Shoko said with urgency. Of course, she still thought he was a douche, but after Suguru left, he was all that she had now. The two of them had a silent promise not to let the other one go. Gojo would stand by her when she needed him, and Shoko would help him up when he needed her to. That's how they'd come so far without breaking.

"No! I am not telling her and I'm definitely not getting the surgery." Gojo's voice rose by an octave.

"But-"

"No buts. This ends here.", Gojo said firmly. He stood up an stormed out of Shoko's office.

Surgery was definitely not an option for him. Loving you was the easiest thing he'd done in his entire life. It came to him naturally, like breathing. His heart was so full of you, he could hardly call it his own. He would give up his own life, but he wouldn't get his feelings removed for you. He'd tied his entire existence to you. A little pain and suffering was nothing in the face of the happiness he felt when he saw you laugh, the peace he felt when he made you smile. He thrived on making you feel loved. To him, it didn't matter if you didn't love him back. He was okay with silently loving you from the sidelines. He wanted to spend his life loving you. He even stopped being reckless the way he usually was on missions when you expressed concern for that behavior of his. He lived for you, learnt to live because of you. So what's wrong with dying for you too? At least he would die knowing he made you happy so many times. That in itself was enough to fulfill him.

~

Gojo stood in his bathroom, leaning over the sink while coughing out blood and jasmines. Now he coughed up full flowers instead of just petals. His chest got heavier everyday as the plant grew in his lungs every week. Shoko told him there was still time, that he could still tell you how he feels and live. But he had made up his mind. He had worked hard to create this unshakeable persona of himself in your eyes and he refused to break it, refused to push you away from him.

But you had noticed changes in his behavior too. He spoke very little to you now, only resorting to texts as the way to communicate. And every time he did, he broke into a coughing fit. You also talked to him about this on multiple occasions and even offered to take him to Shoko. But he always shook his head, wiped his mouth and gave you a smile, telling you that he was fine. You figured he would tell you when he felt like it, so you stopped pressing. But after a while, his coughing got more frequent, and you couldn't help but worry.

You rang the doorbell of his house, waited for him to answer. Gojo leaned on his sink, hoping that whoever it was would leave after a while. You knew Gojo was home, you could see the streak of light coming out from underneath his door. So you tried twisting the doorknob. To your surprise, the doorknob twisted completely and his house opened up. You slowly pushed the door open and took a slowly step in his house.

"Satoru!", you called out. "Where are you? I know you're home!"

Gojo's eyes widened. How could you be here? He was about to wash his mouth out when he went into another coughing fit. You heard his coughs from the bathroom and rushed in. You saw him leaning over the sink, blood covering his mouth while spit out more blood mixed with saliva. "Satoru!", you exclaimed in shock. You rushed into the bathroom and placed a hand over his back and rubbed it lightly to make the coughing go away.

His arms and shoulders trembled weakly with the force of his coughs, his knees almost gave out beneath him. He stumbled over the sink, but you caught him in time. You placed a hand on his waist to support him up and your other hand rubbed his chest in slow motions to help him calm down. His coughs reduced to shallow breaths and his chest heaved up and down. His throat felt parched and sweat coated his forehead. You rubbed his chest slowly and he leaned into you, seeking more of your comfort.

You let out a panicked gasp when you saw blood dripping from his mouth and staining the sink. Gojo's heart nearly stopped when you held him up and rubbed his chest. As his coughing stopped, he leaned against the sink and sighed. He closed his stinging eyes and hoped his cheeks didn't look as flushed as they felt. He took a few shaky deep breaths in to calm himself down.

You continued to rub his chest lightly and asked, "What happened to you? You're coughing out blood I didn't know you were this sick!"

Gojo cursed under his breath. He quickly straightened up and turned around to face you. His face was pale, his cheeks were hollow and flushed and his lips were stained with blood. His eyes were filled with sadness, shame, and shock. He didn't want you to see him like this, when he was at his weakest. He didn't want you to worry. "Nothing... I just choked on something...", he said weakly. His voice came out deep and hoarse due to blisters in his throat from the vines growing in it. The lie felt heavy on his tongue.

You looked at him with an incredulous expression. "You don't cough out blood when you choke on something." You gently rubbed his back. "What happened to you? How did you get this sick?", you whispered out of concern.

Gojo's heart ached at the sound of your gentle voice, the caring touch of your hand on his back. It was too much, and yet, at the same time, it wasn't enough. He steeled his heart. A bitter smile fell on his lips, he was already too far gone to deny the truth. He had to tell you the truth. "Its not a sickness...", he started, his eyes dropping in shame. The secret he had been hiding for so long, the one that was killing his, was now on the verge of coming to light.

"What? What do you mean its not a sickness?"

Gojo's mind ached as a sea of emotions threatened to overflow. He took a deep breath, blood mingling with his words as he spoke. "I... I have the Hanahaki disease.", he whispered with his head hung low.

You scoffed at him with an incredulous look on your face. "Satoru that's a very old myth, its not real.", you said, not believing a word that came out of his mouth. "Let's clean you up first..."

Gojo shook his head in shame. He couldn't meet your eyes. Not when he was falling apart in front of you. Unraveling himself in front of you- doing the one thing he promised he wouldn't. He felt pathetic and weak. He was slowly falling apart because of his feelings for you.

"Please, let me explain...just this once...", his hoarse voice quivered. The bitter taste of blood mixed with the metallic tang of pain as more jasmines appeared in the sink.

You grabbed a hand towel from the counter and ran one end of it under the tap. You then squeezed the excess water out of it. You brought it up to his mouth and gently rubbed the corner of his mouth to clean the blood. "You can explain everything later..."

Gojo's breath hitched at the feel of the cool, wet cloth against his lips. The pain of his unrequited love was momentarily forgotten as he felt the gentle touch of your hand wiping away the blood. He couldn't help but lean into your touch, craving your presence with a desperate ache in his chest.

He closed his eyes, his voice a faint whisper as the realization slammed into him once more. He was in love, hopelessly and utterly, with no chance of you returning his feelings.

You ran the other, clean end of the cloth under the water and used it to clean the sweat and tears coated on his face. "...have you been crying?", you asked softly.

Gojo slowly lifted his head and met your gaze. His eyes were indeed red and puffy, a clear indication he'd been crying. His gentle blue eyes, which he only revealed to you, looked dull. As if they held the weight of the world in them. The corners of his eyes softened in exhaustion. He looked away again, unable to meet your eyes due to the shame he felt. "...yes", he whispered. His voice was barely audible as more jasmines threatened to rise up his throat.

Your heart broke at how vulnerable he looked. You wiped his face clean. "Why? What's happening to you? You're pale, you don't eat, you don't sleep. You- you've stopped showing up to the school... How did you get this sick?', you asked in disbelief and concern.

Gojo's heart ached at the sound of your worry, and at the same time, he felt guilty for making you worry so much. He longed to tell you the truth, to spill his heart out and confess that he was suffering from an unrequited love, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He couldn't make himself more vulnerable in front of you than he already was. He promised himself that he would push it down, that he would swallow the pain- and that was exactly what he was going to do. He couldn't let you see him like this. He feared that you would leave him, that you would run away if you saw anything else.

"I'm just tired...", he said weakly. He hated lying to you, but he was doing it for your sake.

"You look like you'll break if i touch you...", you said hesitantly.

Gojo's breath caught in his throat at your words. He knew he was weak, but hearing you say it out loud stung like a dagger through his heart. He hated the vulnerability, the fragility that he had never experienced before. He was supposed to be strong, reliable, but right now he felt more vulnerable than ever.

"Satoru...", you said gently. You brought both your hands up to cup his face. "Talk to me...tell me what's wrong so I can help you...", you urged.

He heard the gentleness of your voice, the way you handled him with such fragility. That's when he felt himself break. Here you were, once again, reassuring him that you'd listen. That you would help. And that's when he started to doubt himself. What if you wouldn't? What if you stayed? What if you fixed him instead of breaking him further? While he was still torn in his desire to keep himself together in front of you, a bigger part of him screamed to let go. He needed to tell you.

“It's…. I'm suffering from the Hanahaki disease…”

He replied, his voice barely above a whisper. The words hung heavily in the air as he braced himself for your reaction, knowing that the truth could change everything between them.

You sighed. "I- what? That disease is a myth. you couldn't possibly have it..."

Gojo's heart ached at your disbelief, yet he couldn't blame you. But before he could bring himself to say something more to convince you, another cough erupted from his chest. He brought his hand up to his mouth and coughed into it. His shoulders sagged and shrunk due to the force of the coughs. You took a step closer and rubbed his back in a gentle up-and-down motion to calm him down. His throat burned, screamed as he coughed out more blood and jasmines.

As his coughing fit reduced, his breathing came out deep and ragged. His chest burned and heaved as he tried to catch his breath.

"I wish it was a myth...", he said weakly. "But it's real..."

Your gaze drifted to the hand he had previously coughed into. His porcelain-white skin was now covered in deep red blood. You grabbed his wrist and gently pried open his fist. His hand revealed a few jasmine flowers covered in blood. You gasped loudly as panic and dread settled into your chest. "How did this- Who do you-? What?"

Gojo sighed shakily. He placed both his palms on the counter and took slow deep breaths to calm his racing heart while you continued to gently stroke his back. After his breathing slowed down and air filled his lungs again, he tried to speak once more. "It's... I can't tell you who it is...", he whispered, his voice came out hoarse and raspy.

You scoffed at his words. "Satoru, you have to tell me. Maybe its not too late, maybe you can still fix this!", you said with urgency.

Gojo sighed heavily. He shifted a bit and leaned against the bathroom counter. "I... It's you...", he said. His voice was so soft, you missed what he said.

"What?"

He cleared his throat again. "It's- It's you... I love you. I love you. I love you", he said, his voice just a little louder this time. He'd finally done it. He'd torn his beating heart out of his chest and placed it in front of you. It was yours. His heart was always yours. Yours to break, yours to keep, yours to love. But Gojo knew that he would even accept pain and rejection if it came from you. Only because it was you who was giving it to him.

You froze. Your brain screeched to a halt as you tried to process his words. Your eyes blew wide. You couldn't believe what you'd just heard. Though you knew that deep down, that was exactly what you wanted hear.

'He loves me. He loves me. He loves me. He loves me", you repeated in your head, over and over again.

Ever since you met him, you spent a significant amount of time trying to figure out Gojo Satoru. Trying to understand what went on in his head. Being the strongest couldn't be easy right? You'd always wanted to pry him open and see him for who he really was. And now, here he was, right in front of you, covered in blood and jasmine petals. Raw, vulnerable. In that moment, there was so much you had to say. So much you had to tell him, ask him. You wanted to know him.

"Me?", you repeated in disbelief. You looked into his eyes, searching for a sign of dishonesty, that he was lying to you. There's no way anyone could love someone else to the point of almost dying right? But when you gazed into his soft, vulnerable eyes, you found nothing but sincerity, honesty and just pure love. And that's when realization slammed into you. All the things he did for you, making time even when he was clearly exhausted, remembering the smallest things about you, that you don't even remember mentioning in front of him. Friends don't do that. Nobody does that casually. When you looked back to the time you spent with him, you remembered how his eyes would soften just a little. After all, you were the only one privileged enough to see them. His cerulean blue eyes, that he revealed from the blindfold just for you. He did a lot of talking with his eyes.

You remembered the softness in his voice that appeared only with you. The happy, funny facade that he put up in front of others became genuine only in front of you. The shrillness of his fake laugh, that morphed into something more genuine with you. You could always tell the difference, at least on some level. But you never thought much about it until now.

Before you could think about what you were doing, you leaned in towards him and gently placed you lips on his. You didn't move an inch. You could taste the metal on his lips. You just stood there, very still and suddenly very aware that you were kissing him.

Gojo's breath hitched in his throat. He didn't understand what was happening until he felt your lips move against his. His knees almost gave in as he placed on hand on the counter to stabilize himself. His heart hammered in his chest. It almost fell out of his chest and splayed itself in front of you. That's when he felt a small glint of hope rise in him. Did you really love him back? After all this time, did you really reciprocate?

Gojo always thought he'd be okay with you not feeling the same way. That he could always love you silently and that it would be enough for him. But he'd also be lying if he didn't admit that he always thought about what it would be like to openly love you. To call himself yours. He always called himself yours, but admitting it in front of you would be totally different. In the quiet of the night when he couldn't sleep, he'd curl up underneath the sheets and think about how warm and comfortable he'd be if he had you here with him. He fantasized about having you in his arms. About holding you and showering you with all the love you deserved. If there was one thing he promised himself, it would be to always love you. And to always call himself yours.

He slowly pulled away from the kiss. His face was still very close to yours, your lips connected with a small string of saliva. He didn't know what to say, or what to do.

"I love you", you both said simultaneously.

Gojo took a moment to process your words. His heart stopped beating in his chest. He couldn't believe what he'd just heard.

"I love you.", you repeated softly.

Ever since Gojo found out he had the disease, he'd felt a tight knot in his chest. Shoko said it was because the flowers were growing in his chest at a rapid pace. Something about how the intensity of his feelings determines how fast the flowers grew. But now, he felt that tight knot in his chest loosen up. He could feel it unravel. He took a deep breath, and the ache in his throat seemed to lighten up.

You loved him.

When it finally hit him that you loved him back, he realized what was happening. He realized that the flowers that grew in his chest were disappearing. His chest started to grow lighter. You were right. It wasn't too late. You loved him back, and that made him feel over the moon. His heart thumped loudly in his chest and his throat opened up. He was still feeling a little weak, but he didn't care.

He closed up the remaining space between the two of you and pressed his lips against yours. One arm encircled your waist while the other on the back of your head. He kissed you softly and with love. You placed both your hands on his neck and pulled him closer, kissing him back with a lot of heavy emotions. He softly kissed your lips and the tightness in chest disappeared completely when he felt your love through the kiss.

You then slowly pulled away. "Satoru? Do you feel-"

"Yeah... yeah I do. My chest feels lighter. I think... I think it's gone now.", he whispered with a small smile on his lips. His blue eyes shined under the warm lights of the bathroom.

"Good. That's good. Because I'm never letting go again.", you whispered against his lips before reaching up and kissing him again.

Gojo could feel his lips against yours. He felt the way they were perfectly slotted against his. Like they were meant to be there. To kiss him. He knew you were standing on your toes and craning you head up to kiss him, so hooked one arm under your knees and another around your waist and lifted you up. He held you close to him, because that was where you were supposed to be. He smiled softly against your lips at the feeling of you pressed up against him. Your body perfect slotted against his chest. He kissed you back with all the love and affection in the world. Love reserved just for you. And it was perfect.

(He smiled like a school girl the entire week after that.)

~

-AND WE'RE DONEEEEEEEEEEEEE

-WAAAAAARRRR ISSS OOOOOOOOVERRRR

-I had so much fun writing this!!!! Tell me if you liked it or not!

taglist!

@thesunxwentblack @reixtsu @ermbehindyou @sa4vvyyt @noveltyandnoir1 @jinjen @do-morochaa

[talonabraxas]

"Life is nothing but the expansion of love. We can cultivate divine love by entering into the Source. The Source is God, who is all Love." - Sri Chinmoy

Nataraja - Cosmic Dancer Talon Abraxas

The cosmic gods The cosmic gods and goddesses are noble beings. They do not enter into a body and go through the same earthly process as human beings do. At the beginning of creation, the cosmic gods and goddesses started participating in God’s cosmic Drama in a different way. They got abundant Power, Light, Peace and Bliss from God. They got their own divinity in a special way. This divinity is composed only of inner Illumination, inner Power, inner Light and Bliss.Cosmic gods and goddesses do not care for liberation. Since they do not come into the world, they are not bound in the same way that human beings are. He who is bound must cry for liberation, but he who is not bound may not feel the necessity to cry for liberation.

Only on rare occasions have there been cosmic gods and goddesses who have wanted liberation. But if they want liberation from the earthbound consciousness, if they want to realise and manifest the Highest, then they have to come into the world as a human being. A soul enters into the human stage and, in the process of evolution, becomes fully liberated and fully realised. There is nothing greater than Self-realisation. Now we are caught by ignorance; we are wallowing in the pleasures of ignorance. But a day will dawn when we will cross the sea of ignorance and death and, at that time, we will be freed from ignorance. The moment that we are freed from ignorance, we are liberated for good. Unless and until the cosmic gods enter into a human form and go through the process of reincarnation, they cannot have the Self-realisation or liberation that we human beings have. That is why we say that man is superior to the gods, because man gets Self-realisation, whereas the so-called gods do not care for liberation or Self-realisation.

The cosmic gods are satisfied with their own power, own light, own bliss. For them evolution is already finished. They have their own work and they don’t want to go one step higher or lower. They only want to be in a position to offer an act of service or an act of grace to mankind whenever they want to. They live and operate in the vital world, the higher vital world. They wait Above and from there they help seekers with their peace, light and bliss. In this way they shower God’s Blessings from Above, but they don’t want to touch the earth-plane; they only want to see what is happening from Above.

Because the cosmic gods and goddesses do not come into the earth-plane, they do not know anything concrete about our inner or outer life. They see our existence through their third eye, but when it is a matter of understanding anything about our diet or our material needs, they do not want and they do not care for that kind of immediate feeling of oneness with us. The cosmic gods show us concern or compassion or sometimes take us as an object of pity. But a spiritual Master himself goes through all kinds of sufferings so he cannot consider his fellow beings as an object of pity. He is totally identified with them. He who has entered into the world and played the whole game naturally will be able to act more effectively than the cosmic gods. He has come to know every rock, every corner, every heartbeat. Worldly experience gives us joy and frustration, all kinds of positive and negative things. That is why those who climb up the tree of realisation can help mankind more than those who only stay in the skies and offer their compassion-rain to us from above. Then, after staying on earth for a couple of incarnations, after knowing well what he saw inside this earth arena, he can work and offer his service from outside the world as well.

Their divinity is one thing and the divinity we shall ultimately achieve is another thing. Our transformed and liberated existence will be very different. When a human being is realised and consciously transformed, when somebody’s consciousness is divinised and flooded with Peace, Light and Bliss, at that time he brings down the highest Truth from above into the heart of the earth-plane. He becomes a direct, conscious channel of God to fulfil the Divine on earth. His sincere cry is to transform the entire earth-consciousness. He becomes one with humanity and feels that until the earth-consciousness is fully illumined, his role is not over. The thousands of cosmic gods and goddesses, on the other hand, are able to deal with relatively few human beings. Unlike the cosmic gods, the realised Master will touch the earth-consciousness and try to mould and perfect it the way God wants him to. Sri Chinmoy, The Dance of the Cosmic Gods, Vishma Press, 1974

[snail-day]

Rotations

Sum: You're a rotating nurse but you somehow became the emotional support toy for two department heads.

Yan! Shoko x Reader x Yan! Utahime

TW: Yandere Behaviors, Hospital AU, Noncon/Dubcon, Medical play, Power Imbalance, Blackmail, Overstimulation, Toxic Relationship, femdom, Crying during sex, Squirting, Dead Dove Do Not Eat. MDNI.

WC: 3.5K

a/n: Bruh, what is up with me and baby trapping lately? Anyways, Utahime has a breeding kink <3

Now, you’d think being a nurse has its cons, and yes, there’s the obvious ones. Like how it’s basically working at an airport where everyone is screaming because they missed their flight and somehow it’s your fault the weather is dogshit. Add in a little sprinkle of constant piss and vomit, and ta-da! You've got Healthcare! 

You could deal with that.

What you can’t deal with is being the rotating nurse caught between a couple that should’ve signed divorce papers five years ago. Maybe even a restraining order. 

To be fair, this isn’t your first rodeo. You already peaced out of one department after some white-haired freak and his husband couldn’t take a damn hint that your pussy only gets wet... for, well, pussy. Bless their hearts, though,  at least they didn’t drop the tired “you just haven’t met the right guy yet” line. No, they were polite. Courteous, even. Just a hum and “You know where to find us,” before the dark-haired husband sauntered back to running the psych ward. 

Which is how you ended up bouncing between two fresh levels of hell: Pediatrics, Utahime’s territory,  and ER, Shoko’s battleground.

You don’t have a favorite. Because both are nightmares in their own way.

Pediatrics? Sure, you’ll take the screeching parents, because at least they’re scared for their kid. That you can handle. What you can’t handle is the department head who stares at you like she’s already decided where the nursery’s going. Utahime doesn’t ask. She grabs. Pulls you into whatever broom closet nearest, slams the door, and chucks her pager somewhere into the abyss of trash bags and paper towels. Her lips are soft as they clash against yours, already tugging at the cartoon kittens on your scrubs as she breathes, “Aren’t the babies so cute? God, you’d look so good pregnant.”

It’s easier to pretend with her. To arch into her warm palm, to whimper when her fingers swirl against your clit, to whisper a mangled “I love you too,” because it’s the only thing that gets her to slow down, to kiss you like you’re real.

You're always relieved when her pager goes off. Thanking the universe or whatever higher power has granted you mercy. Watching her pretty pout as she pulls away, whispering she'll "make it up to you later." Honestly, you’d rather she didn’t. Because you’re left there alone, trying not to cry in a supply closet while people outside are praying their babies make it through the night.

It’d be rather pathetic to cry over your little situation, you’d think. So you better suck it up buttercup and make it through another day in the levels of hell. 

Now, Emergency,  that’s a different beast. You’re too busy to get laid most days. Shoko, at least, has the decency to admit the job sucks. Death. Blood. Screaming. She doesn’t sugarcoat it.

She just slips a little candy into your pocket with a scribbled note: Meet me by the smoking area.

And when you get there, she’s already waiting, smoke curling from her lips, eyes narrowed like she’s about to scold you for being late. But the second she sees you, she moves. No hesitation. You're slammed against the concrete wall before you can speak, her mouth ghosting over yours, cigarette still smoldering between two fingers as her free hand slips between your legs, pressing hard through your scrubs.

"You looked so sexy elbow-deep in that guy’s chest," she hums, coffee colored eyes half-lidded, voice smooth. "Bet you’d be even prettier cumming against my hand."

You barely manage a whimper before she’s moving in earnest, tight, punishing circles that leave you gasping and twitching. Your nails scrape down the wall, desperate for something to hold onto, splintering against the concrete as she keeps going.

Shoko's not the type to kiss you. Well, not during quickies like these. Doesn’t let you catch your breath. She doesn’t coo or soothe or give you anything soft.

She just works you over like another procedure, fast and efficient, done right the first time. No mistakes allowed. Just her fingers buried in your tight pretty cunt that sings for her. Leaving you only with that clinical detachment in her eyes, like you’re nothing more than a body on the table.

Her pager goes off again. She doesn’t even glance at it.

"Come on, sweetheart." Her voice is calm, almost bored. "If you take too long, that man’s gonna die. I could be there right now cracking open his ribs. But you had to come find me, huh?"

You try to apologize, try to speak, but she only tuts and presses harder, grinding her palm against the soaked fabric like it’s your fault she’s doing this.

"Jesus," she mutters, half-laughing now. "You’re already dripping. Don’t act like you didn’t want this."

And when you finally cum, hard and far too messy, crying into the crook of her neck, she only pulls back to flick her cigarette to the ground and pick up her pager.

"There we go," she says, slapping your ass once as she straightens her lab coat, already tucking her pager back into her pocket as if she didn’t make you cum against a wall in under ninety seconds. "See? That wasn’t so hard. Now let’s go save a life."

So yeah. Work is its own flavor of hell. It’s not like you haven’t tried going to HR about it. You have. Multiple times. Every time you walk in there, bright-eyed and shaking, it’s the same damn story.

"Well… they’re really respectable individuals!" "Been working here for years, you know!" "They’re married, actually! That’s sweet, right?" "No, no, it’s not that we don’t believe you - "

But their voices always trail off. Replaced by the sound of glances. The kind that say we don’t get paid enough for this.

There’s always a long pause. Then a wince from the intern behind the desk as he leans over and mutters to his mentor, “She’s crying. Should... we go?”

As if you’re the problem. As if the tears pooling in your eyes are the inconvenience, not the fact that Utahime left bite marks on your chest this morning and Shoko made you cum so hard your knees gave out ten minutes ago, between codes.

Because apparently, it’s hard to take a victim seriously when the predators have tenure and a joint tax return.

You sniffle, wiping your mascara with the back of your hand, smearing it more than anything. Your throat aches from holding it together. You’d rather be elbow-deep in shit and vomit, dealing with feral patients and hysterical family members, than sit through one more condescending HR meeting where your trauma gets filed under “miscellaneous.”

So you do what you always do. You drag your aching feet toward the locker room to clock out after your sixteen-hour shift. Your spine’s screaming, your heart in shambles, and your skin still smells like antiseptic and vomit.

You just want to go home. Take a shower. Pee. And go to bed.

But of course, there's only so much luck a person can have; they’re there.

Shoko and Utahime, mid-argument near the lockers, voices hushed. Shoko’s in her usual low drawl, arms crossed, while Utahime’s biting back fury with a tight jaw and flared nostrils. It’s nothing new. They’ve been circling each other like this for weeks.

Maybe it was just the fatigue. Maybe it was the quiet hum of fluorescent lights. Maybe it was the fact that you hadn’t eaten a real meal in two days.

But you break. Full-body, shaking sobs right there in the entrance to the locker room with the door shutting behind you. A foreign sound ripped from your throat, something you’ve been holding in since your first shift.

And Utahime is on you in seconds.

No longer in her bright hot pink scrubs, now dressed in something civilian, motherly perhaps, given the sweater. Slender hands move to cup your face, swiping away your tears with the pads of her thumbs. Ignoring the snot and the harsh cries echoing in the room.

"What happened?" she coos, voice sugar-sweet. "Shoko and I aren’t arguing, baby." (They were.)

She strokes your cheek, tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. Murmuring gentle nonsense into your hair, acting unaware that she is part of the actual problem.

Meanwhile, Shoko zips up her bag in front of her locker with all the emotional investment of someone tossing out biohazard. Her scrubs hit the bottom of the bag with a dull thud, still stained at the cuff from whatever last trauma she patched up, and her voice doesn’t so much as waver as she mutters without looking your way:

"What’s wrong? Worried we’d find out about your little HR complaints?"

Utahime shoots her a glare so sharp it could slice. You’re being mean, she mouths, tight-lipped and furious. Voice softening again the second she turns back to you. Hushing your hiccupping sobs gently, guiding you down to sit on the bench by the steel-grey lockers, her hands never wavering from your skin. You feel yourself go limp under her touch. Sometimes its better to be tended to bare it all yourself.

She moves between your legs and crouches in front of you, knees hitting the floor, perfect posture as always, warm palms sliding up your thighs. Those soft brown eyes blink up at you, too wide and warm, like she’s never done a cruel thing in her life.

"I think you’re a little overwhelmed, baby," she murmurs, her voice like honey melting in tea. "Not everybody’s built for days this long. But it’s okay. Shoko and I can take care of you."

Her voice shakes slightly at the end, not with fear, but barely restrained eagerness. You can feel it in her grip. That tremble, that quiet thrum beneath her skin like she’s thrilled. Behind the blurry shimmer of your tears, you can almost see the smile tugging at her lips. That little spark behind her lashes at the thought: You. At their place. Safe. Caged. Loved.

You glance over at Shoko.

She smiles at you, that lazy half-smirk she always wears post-shift, her tired eyes softer now that the chaos of the ER is over. She looks calm. Pleased, even. Right before she tilts her head and drawls,

"It’d be a shame if the authorities found some... really secure medication in your pockets on your way back to your apartment."

Your breath catches, but Utahime doesn’t even flinch. As if this was what they were arguing about. What to do with you.

She just hums, warm and low, and moves her hand closer to the tender heat between your thighs. Again. What was this now? Your third orgasm of the day? Maybe fourth? It all blurred together at this point.

You shift uncomfortably, trying to squirm away. "I’m too sore," you managed to mumble, voice cracking at the edges. A broken sound.

Utahime hushes you gently, her tone almost maternal as her fingers begin peeling your scrubs down your hips with gentle care.

"Shhh, baby," she coos, folding the fabric like she’s tucking in a child. "Just getting you ready to go home."

But her eyes fixate on your panties, the pretty pink rose in the front, slick with arousal. She leans in, slowly and spreads your sore legs from standing on your feet all day wider. Her pretty pink tongue drags a slow, delicate stripe over the pink cloth, circling your covered clit with cruel, experienced swipes. Dampening the cloth. Her perfectly manicured nails dig into your thighs when you try to close them. Barely hard enough to break skin, leaving pretty crescents for later when you cry in the bath looking at them.

Meanwhile, Shoko speaks casually, as if you’re not gasping from her wife's mouth.

"We got a notice from HR today," she says, nudging your chin up with two fingers. "They wanted to fire you, you know. Said you’d been a real problem lately - all that whistleblowing. But we were kind. We made sure our pretty girl was leaving on a good note... contract-wise."

You whimper as Utahime's tongue presses harder, your panties soaked now, fingers tangling into her hair, dragging against her scalp, as your hips buck without thinking. More. Your body doesn’t care that it hurts. That you’re raw. It just wants.

"We told them the whole thing was a cry for attention. That you weren’t being harassed, you were just trying to get between us. Trying to ruin our marriage."

You try to shake your head. Try to deny her. Try to say something, anything, but all that escapes is a wrecked little moan when Utahime finally hooks her fingers into your sopping panties and drags them to the side. Her breath flutters against your folds, watching you twitch and squirm as she moves to dip in. Kissing your sweet little bundle of nerves softly. Lips brushing against your folds, savoring every little taste of you. Ignoring the musk as she swirls her soft, teasing tongue over your clit.

You jerk when her thumb pushes your folds apart, the humid press of her breath causing your thighs to tremble during her first lick. A long stroke against your entrance, slow and savoring before pushing in.

The thick muscle invading your tight walls as you clench around it. Hips bucking to get her to move faster, alas, she's cruel and keeps a slow pace. A broken sob breaks through your throat. A hum vibrates against your folds, low and sweet, as she laps at you with that gentle insistence that makes your thighs forcibly close. The only thing preventing them is her death grip. Those gentle hands, holding your trembling thighs wide open as you try to writhe away from how good it feels.

A good that should feel wrong.

Your walls pathetically flutter around her tongue, helplessly clenching with each slow press deeper. She wiggles it, twisting just enough to make you gasp, and then does it again. And again.

And again.

You let out another broken, pathetic sound - high and choked - as your head falls back against the wall. Your hips try to jerk forward, trying to ride her mouth as Utahime pulls aware with the sweetest giggle. Using the back of her hand to wipe her mouth.

Shoko lets you writhe and whine for a moment before she reaches out and pulls you into her lap, arms cradling you like a doll. Her legs force yours wider, your body trembling as her slender fingers spread your delicate folds open, keeping you exposed as Utahime presses in again. Her tongue pushes into your fluttering, soaked cunt, fucking you lazily with obscene wet sounds echoing in the sterile locker room.

Shoko leans in, her lips brushing your ear.

"So?" she whispers, grip tightening. "How are you going to save our marriage?"

You can't answer.

Your back arches instinctively, helplessly, as Utahime sinks two fingers deep inside your pussy, knuckles flushed to your slick folds, her wrist working unforgiving strokes into your already sore heat. She’s not speaking anymore. Just watching. Lips parted slightly, sweat beading at her temple, eyes locked on the way your cunt sucks her in, greedy and twitching despite the overstimulation.

It’s too much. You’re raw. You’re pulsing. Your body keeps going even when your mind wants to shut down.

Shoko brushes a stray tear from your cheek with the back of her finger, so sweet you might almost forget what her and her spouse are doing, until she speaks again, voice thick like poison.

"So?"

You don’t answer again. Not even when you try to mutter a please stop. Not when Utahime curls her fingers just right, dragging across your most sensitive spot, and your whole body jolts.

Shoko chuckles softly. Shifts beneath you, keeping you cradled in her lap, her long legs spread wide to hold yours open, while her wife treats you like a patient splayed out on the table.

"I asked you a question, dove," she murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. "How are you going to fix what you did?"

Utahime’s pace quickens, her palm slapping softly against your pussy with every cruel thrust. It’s wet. Messy. Loud. Resting her cheek on your thigh, not even wincing at the juice spluttering out of your leaking cunt.

You try to answer. You really do. But all that comes out is a pathetic little whimper, your voice catching as your hips jerk forward. Your hands scramble for something, anything, gripping Shoko’s sleeve, clawing at Utahime’s wrist, but neither woman falters.

"Mmm… that’s not a very good apology," Shoko sighs, fingers trailing down your stomach, pressing just above where Utahime’s knuckles disappear into you. "You lied to HR. You embarrassed us."

"Come on, baby," Utahime whispers against your inner thigh, voice trembling, "show us you’re sorry. Let us feel it."

Shoko reaches between your legs, slipping two fingers around your clit and circling slowly, not to help, but to control the rhythm. Your legs kick. Your head tilts back with a sob.

"There she goes," Shoko purrs, grinning as she watches your eyes roll back. "Sweet little slut’s finally ready to make things right."

And when you cum - again - it hits harder than it should. A scream caught in your throat, muscles clenching down on Utahime’s fingers like you’re trying to trap her inside. The world goes fuzzy around the edges.

But they don’t stop. Utahime pumps you through it, still pushing deep, still chasing the next orgasm like it’s her reward for keeping you.

Shoko leans close again, breath warm on your ear.

"That’s a start," she whispers. "But you’ll have to do better than that if you want to keep your job. Or your apartment. Or your sweet little life."

Your hips are shaking , maybe from exhaustion or even from the orgasm still echoing through your nerves. You barely register the shift until you feel it: Utahime’s third finger pushing in slow, knuckle by knuckle, joining the other two already buried deep inside your fluttering cunt.

You release a sharp gasp, a plea of sorts, and Shoko tightens her hold around you, arms banded over your chest, chin resting on your shoulder as she watches your soaked pussy stretch around Utahime’s fingers.

Utahime just grins. Not the soft smile you’re used to. Not the gentle, nurturing head-tilt of the Pediatrics department head.

No, this smile is hungry.

A little wild.

A little too pleased.

"Oh, look at you, baby," she coos, voice thick with delight. "Taking three fingers like such a good girl."

Her pace slows into a more gentle, not to give you mercy, but to make you feel every inch of her boney fingers. The slide. The stretch. The way her palm presses tight to your clit with each drag back, her wrist rolling just right.

"Didn’t think you could handle it. Thought you were sore, huh?"

You try to answer, but it’s impossible not when your mouth refuses to work work, your brain fizzed out somewhere between her second orgasm and this one.

Shoko clicks her tongue above you.

"If she passes out," she says casually, "that’s consent to take her home, right?"

You twitch, whimper, body arching between them, Utahime’s fingers pushing deeper, rubbing a spot that makes your eyes roll back.

"Mmm. Don’t worry," Shoko murmurs, brushing your hair back, "we’ve already got a room ready. Soft sheets. Bottles prepped."

Utahime doesn’t stop fucking you. Doesn’t even slow down. Her other hand rests possessively on your thigh, keeping you open, spread, obedient.

"We’ve been wanting kids for a while now, haven’t we?" she muses aloud, eyes fixed on where her wife's fingers disappear into you. "Neither of us really had the time… but maybe we just needed the right girl to stay home for us."

You shake your head weakly, but it’s useless when your cunt’s tightening, pulsing around her fingers, slick dripping to the floor with every sloppy thrust.

"Shh," Utahime whispers, listening to the way your cunt sings for her. "No need to think so hard, sweetheart. You’ll get all the rest you need when you're carrying."

All you can manage is a choked moan as you gush around her fingers, body trembling, vision blurring at the edges. You hear her giggle with excitement just before your eyes start to flutter shut.

"You're going to be such a good mommy for us"

[cannoli-reader]

Actually, they used scouting on a few occasions in the Two Rivers in season 3. The problem is everything else.

Robert Jordan wrote lines like "an army is a general's sword and a general who uses another blade has mistaken his job" or "the general who fights on the front lines has put aside his baton and become a common soldier."

He had incidents like Lan rebuking Rand for looking for a duel with Couladin and the Maidens conspiring to keep him away from the front lines. Perrin being restricted to observing the first attack on the village, from the rear, on horseback. He actually joined the front lines for the final assault, in a section where Bran al'Vere held the actual command. Rand impatiently sitting in a command position behind the forward lines during the Altaran campaign. Karede praising Mat by saying that he seemed brave, but not the sort to get men killed proving it. Elayne constantly being held back from the front lines of conventional battles, and even before she got pregnant, told that she should not have been the one to bring Elenia & Naean from Aringill because of her rank.

Whereas the show seems to subscribe to the RPG version of rank, in that the higher the rank, the more hit points and more powerful your attack, so of course Perrin's "leadership" consists of charging into the fray swinging his weapons and singlehandedly turning the tide of the battle.

Scouts were just a manifestation of Jordan's depiction of warfare being all about preparation and all sorts of other work that had little to do with the actual fighting. The keys to the three campaigns featured in his final book, KoD, were all due to the preparations of the commanders, Perrin, Mat & Elayne, their attention to detail, the attention Perrin & Elayne, at least, paid to the logistics end of things, and the value of information, of which scouts & their efforts were merely a component. Mat also took advantage of geographical data, Perrin questioned prisoners about the conditions in Malden and behavior of the enemy leadership, and Elayne used spies & informants to good effect. Although Perrin went off on his own to fight personally in that battle, as in Emond's Field, he made sure to delegate authority and establish a chain of command, under an actual professional, before doing so.

What was worse in the show, is that scenes servicing these aspects of the story would actually have been cheaper than the marathon battle that didn't advance story, characterization or world-building to any real degree, and was simply an exercise in spectacle and shallow gratification.

I think the only thing now that would make RJ roll in his grave right now is the sheer lack of scouts in the various battles. He was extremely insistent on scouts and y'all got none so of course y'all gon die!

[symphonyofsilence]

Let the poor man rest.

[mimenoises]

This is pure headcannon but I'm free. I think about zane's resurrection a lot

[s0fter-sin]

remember my vampire au where they can only drink the same blood type they were before they were turned? and how i kind of glossed over how ghost escaped roba’s starvation pit?

(cw gore)

he uses his anger and desire for vengeance to distract from the bloodthirst; holds the wretched heat of them close to keep his will strong enough to withstand the urge to feed from the toxic humans roba torments him with, dotted around his bar-less prison like a mocking, poisoned banquet before the destitute

the venom in his fangs turns on him, eating away at his gums and working into his calcified veins; desperately searching for safe blood, for an end to this slow death. it drips from his slack mouth, burning away his lips after melting the sinew in his jaw to the point that he can’t close his mouth anymore; his flat, human teeth loose and falling out by the day with nothing to hold them to his porous jaw

even then, ghost doesn’t waver

until finally, enough time passes that roba's underlings deem him weakened to the point of harmlessness

they get sloppy when they dump the carcasses into the pit; getting closer and closer to the edge and paying less and less attention to the starved, melting vampire left amongst the decomposition

they don't see the body ghost sequestered away; one of the first, festered and putrid, hidden under the ever growing pile and left to be forgotten

they don't see the calculating edge in his eye as he watches its flesh rot and soften; waving it off as longing, as hunger as he looks into eyes melting from their sockets

they don't see ghost sink his fingers into the rotting caverns, giving him the perfect grip to rock the head back and forth as he stares at the hand-dug dirt walls of his prison. ceaseless, repetitive movements, bone grinding on bone, muscle tearing from flesh as he slowly rips the skull free from its spine

they don't see ghost rear back and, using all the hatred and loathing he's let build in the long weeks of his hollow imprisonment, throw it at the vampire about to drop another caustic human on him; striking him in the head and tipping him off balance so he falls...

directly into ghost's waiting arms and starved fangs

[lilaccatholic]

I am once again thinking about the reluctant ruler whose arc justly and correctly includes assuming the throne and taking responsibility for the people set before them

[i-bring-crack]

Instead of Shen Jiu being popped out of existence or his soul being swiched and ending up on Shen Yuan's body or even being stuck in his world as a ghost, Shen Jiu is actually placed as the system. And as such he must find a way to diverge the plot of PIDW so that the soon to be emperor Luo Binghe doesnt gouge out everything and everyone in his wake.

He utterly hates it, he is in shambles when his best chance is a run of the mill fanboy from the novel that has become sentient enough to warp reality and time. He hates the fact that his soul is now tied to Luo Binghe in technical terms, he hates he has to rewind time each and every single time Shen Yuan fucks it up with his horrid communication skills, he hates the way the player's modern lenguage has rubbed him off past those rewinds, he loathes the fac that he can`t even be himself and has to act like some sort of caricature in order for Shen Yuan to not notice who is derailing his life, and his own as well.

He hates the fact that its his fault the things have become more messed up.

But he is fine, he is fine knowing that he can put these new BL novel to rest and and let Yueqi and the sect live for more than what fate deemed them to be.

He is thankful, though not outwardly, that Shen Yuan was kind where he would never be.

[bunnieswithknives]

sorry if idk this but what do you think about Wordgirl now in 2024 do you still like it do you still want to make art or talk about it or are you just done with all of it forever and plus i seen that you haven't made art of it since 2022 so you just done with all of it oh yeah and what about The Magnus Archives + Wordgirl ao3 fic too like is that just going to be and i know that your working on 2 au's now just wanting to know that's all

My interests tend to come in intense bursts and then fade. Unless something like, big happens like it gets a reboot its unlikely I'll be coming back to it anytime soon. As for the fic I don't have any current plans to finish it unfortunately.

[genderqueersammy]

Sometimes I make a post and then wonder if I’m truly saying something worthwhile and then I remember that some people genuinely think that in s12 Sam was trying to make Dean look bad in front of Mary (seen this with when Dean was sarcastic towards Mary when she visited them and Sam interrupted) or downplays his feelings or twists them (seen this done for the ‘mom is not a thing’ dialogue)…. Literally the most bizarre least generous interpretation of his character, it’s insane