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astraystayyh · 1 year

Text

Invisible thread- one

pairing : minho x reader

genre : university au, academic rivals to lovers (rivals not enemies because they respect each other), slow burn, fluff, angst.

warnings : reader has a very bad relationship with her mother, insecurities, talk about murder but as a joke, mention of alcohol, reader has she/her pronouns.

summary : Your studies were your lifeline for as long as you can remember. What happens when Minho comes into your life and rips it away from you?

word count : 20k

Author's note : I've been working on this fic on and off for the past two months, so if you do enjoy reading, please let me know. asks, comments, reblogs i read them all and they truly make me the happiest <3 (also i based this off my own college experience, where we study two terms and there is one person on top of the class every semester)

part two

You have always been first in your class.

Not because you particularly enjoyed studying. You simply felt that your worth was solely tied to the marks on your papers.

You never wanted to crumble under the pressure of studies, to hole yourself up in your room for an assignment you won’t remember in a month. But achieving good grades was the only way for you to feel seen; to make someone stop in their tracks and acknowledge you.

A simple “good job” that you preserved inside your mind, as a reminder that you did exist to other people. Considering that the majority of your life was spent in silence.

Your mom put a roof above your head and food on your table, but she never asked about your day, nor did she seem to care. You felt as though you were no more important to her than the tapestry hanging on your wall.

At times, you imagined that if you stood close enough to that tapestry, you could merge with it as one. The intricate embroidery would wrap around you and draw you in. And your mother wouldn’t notice. She would regard you with the same indifference she showed towards that textile- a mere decoration, at times a nuisance when she had to dust it.

You always ate your dinner alone. When you scraped your knee, you tended to the wound by yourself. No one attended your childhood musicals, and you patted your back when you cracked an egg without dropping a shell into the bowl.

You’ve come to learn since your young age that all your milestones, both small and significant, would be celebrated alone.

On the rare times your mother would acknowledge your presence, she’d unleash a flurry of criticism your way as if she was eagerly awaiting the opportunity to strike you down. She'd toss crude comments over her shoulder as easily as a casual hello, leaving you feeling battered and bruised in her wake.

You felt as if you were shoreline rocks, and your mother was the ocean. You never knew if she would be like a gentle tide, barely brushing against you, or an enraged storm, mercilessly crashing down on your being. And you weren't sure which one was worse: to be invisible or to be seen and despised.

That’s why you grew up plagued with self-doubt. You made friends throughout your school years but you never allowed them to get close enough to really see you -you feared that they might glimpse the very thing your mother seemed to despise in you.

Throughout your childhood, you were like soft clay in your mother's hands- pliable, and easy to mold. And she indented you, everywhere, carved in edges and dips where they should not have been ones. Handled you roughly when you should have been treated with care. And as the years went by, you hardened- much like clay, but her touch remained imprinted upon you. It was difficult at times to discern who you were and who she made you to be.

You tried to start anew when you went away to university; to rewire your brain into believing that you were enough- you exist and you shouldn't prove to anyone that you deserved to be alive. But her words haunted you, they were like skeletons in your closet- but the closet was you. You could never part from them.

So, you fell back into the same pattern of seeking good grades and congratulatory words from your professors. Every A+ you got infused you with a momentary sense of worthiness.

But unlike in high school, you weren't always the best. Your competition came in the form of a single man named Minho, who seemed to excel in every class you shared.

Minho was mostly quiet, but whenever he spoke, you found that his words carried weight. Your professors consistently agreed with his points, and you envied the confidence he exuded. You wondered what it must feel like to be so sure of oneself.

It wasn't until a month into the year that you had your first interaction with Minho. You were in your Constitutional Law class when your professor Kim brought up the notion of ‘Separation of Powers’. You were arguing that judges shouldn’t be included in the writings of law when you heard a scoff from the row behind you. You turned around, raising a brow at the culprit, "Is there something you’d like to say?" you asked.

And in response, Minho smiled lazily, an air of smugness surrounding him, "I just don’t agree." The professor urged him to explain himself, so he leaned back into his chair, eyeing you. "Judges are the ones who practice the law every day, and sometimes they find that none of the written texts fit their case. If they get involved in lawmaking, they can help address those gaps or uncertainties."

"Who's to say that those judges aren’t biased or politically motivated? They’ll end up writing laws to fit their own preferences," you pointed out, raising an eyebrow at him. "We elect judges to interpret and apply laws, not make them. If they start writing laws too, we'll be violating the separation of powers between the legislative and judicial branches. That's what keeps our entire system from crumbling."

Minho rested his chin on his hand, tapping his cheek thoughtfully with his index finger. "Aren’t legislators prone to biases too? Your point doesn’t stand then," he challenged, tilting his head to the side, "and judges can participate without going overboard. They can provide input on proposed laws without actually drafting them. That way, we ensure that the laws are crafted with a clear understanding of how they'll be put into practice."

"If your main concern is to ensure that the laws are impartial, we have people who work as consulting experts whose job is exactly that," you flashed him an innocent smile, firing back. "Also, wouldn’t these overstepping branches put the judges in a position to be perceived in a bad light? Is that what you want?"

Before Minho could respond, Mr. Kim intervened, putting an end to your debate, "Let's save this energy for your essays and see who can convince me more."

You gave a quick nod, swiveling in your seat without a backward glance. However, you could sense Minho’s gaze penetrating through your back- as if he was trying to read your most intimate thoughts.

That was the first thing you noticed about Minho when he walked over to you. His eyes were brown, not a special color by any means. But they held a certain depth to them that seemed to draw you in like a black hole. You weren't sure what you would find on the other side, nor did you have any desire to find out.

He outstretched his hands towards you, stopping you in your tracks. "Minho," he introduced and your hand met his in a firm grip. The second thing you noticed about him was the coldness of his hand, as it wrapped tightly around your palm.

Suddenly you were taken back to when you built a snowman for the first and last time. You were just seven and the ice was freezing, numbing your fingers as you worked. Your mother never told you that you should’ve worn mittens, or a thick jacket to fight off the cold when she saw you walking out of the house. The memory of your cold hands and the horrible illness that followed still left a bitter taste in your mouth, like an unripe fruit. With a jolt you dropped his hand, forcefully pulling yourself away from that memory.

"Yn," you said back, and he smiled to himself, repeating your name slowly, each syllable dripping from his tongue.

"We'll see who'll write the best essay, right?" he asked, clearly challenging you. There was a gleam of excitement in his eyes that reminded you of a child gazing up at cotton candy.

That was the third thing you noticed about Minho; how expressive his eyes were. They moved with his every word, punctuating them.

He was infuriating but also amusing. You've never had a clear competitor in your life. Or maybe you had, but you didn't notice them. You were always so reclined on yourself, trying to survive the day, you didn't pay enough attention to your surroundings.

"You want to compete with me?" You asked, and he smirked, leaning against the door, arms crossed in front of his chest. "What? Scared you’d lose?"

"Please." You rolled your eyes at his taunting, "Don’t come crying when I win."

"We’ll see about that!" He shouted after you as you walked ahead, leaving him behind.

This essay was insignificant. A simple way for your professor to assess your knowledge and work approach. And yet, you found yourself staying up all night to complete it. There was no way you were going to let Minho take this one thing from you.

Who were you if not the best in your studies? You were deathly afraid to find out.

Later on that week, the professor handed you your grade back, 98%. You turned around to show Minho your mark, and so did he. You surpassed him, only by mere percents. "I told you so," you smiled cheekily and he pouted, holding a hand to his heart as if your grade wounded him.

"I'll beat you next time", he mouthed and you chuckled, "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

✹✹✹

The first time you studied with Minho was in a cat café near campus, called Limbo, about two weeks after your initial interaction. You stumbled upon it serendipitously while strolling through your university town. You couldn’t study at home, since you were easily distracted in there, and the eerie silence of libraries often left you unsettled.

Limbo, however, offered the perfect middle-ground: it was calm, not overly crowded, and the buzzing of the coffee machine blended harmoniously with the occasional mewls of cats, which helped you concentrate better.

You were sitting in a secluded corner table at the café's back, a sleeping black cat comfortably nestled in your lap when you sensed a shadow loom over you. You glanced up quickly to find Minho. He was clad in a grey hoodie sporting a bunny holding up its middle finger. You had to bite your cheek to suppress a grin at his clothing attire.

"What are you doing here?" He asked.

"You know for someone smart you sure ask stupid questions," you remarked, already looking down at the papers scattered in front of you.

He huffed, taking a seat at the table right next to yours, "I can’t believe that of all places you’ve found this café to study in."

"My apologies, am I disturbing you, your highness?" You asked sarcastically, and in retort, Minho mimicked your words in a high-pitched tone. You threw the pillow right next to you at his head, and Minho swiftly ducked, easily avoiding it. He chuckled loudly while you glared at his laughing figure. That was the end of your conversation that day.

From that moment forward, it became a routine for the two of you to study at Limbo, every Saturday, without fault. You didn’t explicitly plan on it, but it seemed that both of you found it comforting to work there. And you could also tell that, unlike you, it wasn’t Minho’s first time coming to Limbo. He was friends with the owner, a sweet middle-aged man who offered you pastries whenever you stayed there until closing. The cats seemed to know him too, they mewled at his feet whenever he entered and he always greeted them with a soft smile on his face.

You didn’t talk much in those unofficial study sessions, the both of you were consumed by your own work. But you’d steal quick glances at him every now and then, the sight of him so concentrated only fueled you to work harder.

Admittedly, your competition left you feeling anxious for days on end at first. Each time Minho came out on top, you’d found yourself losing your grip. Your studies have been the one anchor keeping you afloat your entire life, and now, Minho was ripping it carelessly away from you. So, you resented him- you were human after all.

But then, you realized that Minho’s taunting wasn’t malicious. He wasn’t competing with you to hurt you, he was doing it for amusement only.

You've slowly started to learn that despite his relentless teasing, Minho had a gentle aura surrounding him. Glimpses of which occasionally emerged like rays of sunshine piercing through a thick cloud cover.

True, he chuckled when you accidentally bumped your head on the table while retrieving a fallen pen. Yet, you also noticed how he began to cover the table's corners with his hand whenever you bent down. He swiftly retracted his hand, seemingly believing you didn't notice, but you did.

During class presentations, he deliberately prepared challenging questions for you, urging you to study twice as hard to ensure no stone was left unturned. Yet, whenever the professor praised your performance, Minho offered a subtle thumbs-up as a gesture of support. He winked at you each time he got the right answer and you didn’t. However, when he noticed you struggling with a particular subject, he scooted closer and patiently explained it to you. He got up before you could thank him, swatting his arm in the air as if he didn’t do anything of significance.

To show your appreciation, you bought him a drink that day he helped you—a simple gesture that sparked an ongoing game of "win a bet, get free food". You bet on who would receive the first mark on an assignment or who would finish an essay first- anything to further deepen the competition between you.

That's how you came to know that he loved puddings, among other things.

Curiously, as the months went by, your mind began to retain these little details about him. How his eyelashes fluttered like butterfly wings when he blinked repeatedly during your conversations. How he glanced at the ceiling when lost in deep thought as if he was waiting for the answers to descend from the sky. Or how his lips take on the shape of an "o" while thinking of his response during one of your many debates. But you supposed that it was natural to take notice of such things when you spend countless Saturday afternoons with the same person.

You were still studying for someone else, in the sense that each time you stayed up working, it was solely to prove your worth to Minho. But at least unlike your mother, Minho's words never haunted you at night.

✹✹✹

Just like that, four months have gone by since you joined your university as a law major. It was nearing finals week and you were preparing it at Limbo. Minho was naturally present too, at his usual table right next to yours.

On the last weekend before the beginning of your finals, you were head-deep into your Criminal Law documents when Minho abruptly got up from his seat and settled in the chair in front of you.

"Yn," he whispers and you glance at him, "What?"

"I have an idea."

"Keep it to yourself," you grin sarcastically, only for him to pick up your spoon and move it around in a threatening manner.

"Are you trying to scare me with a spoon?" you chuckle in disbelief.

"Anything can be a weapon if you use enough force."

"Okay… that was creepy. What do you want?"

"The end of the first term is coming up. So, to celebrate our little rivalry-"

"It's not a rivalry if I’m always winning," you cut him off.

"Yeah, that’s why I have a fridge full of pudding."

"But-"

"Anyways, how about the top of the class takes the other out for dinner? A fancy one." He suggests, his gaze fixed on you.

"No, thank you. I already see you enough in classes."

"Didn’t think you wouldn’t up for a bet. Guess I was wrong," he remarks, a cheeky smile drawn on his lips. He knows you couldn’t possibly say no now.

"Fine," you roll your eyes at his proud expression. "Prepare your wallet."

"Mm, sure," he responds, before rising from his seat once more.

That day, you both lost track of time as you studied in Limbo until it closed down. When you finally stepped outside, stretching your tired limbs, you were met with the sight of falling snowflakes.

"Nooo, go away. I don't want to watch the first snow with you," Minho whines, referring to the superstition that watching the first snowfall with someone could spark love between the two of you.

"As if I could ever love you," you laugh at the ridiculous idea, "that’d just be signing a death warrant."

You resume walking towards your apartment when suddenly something freezing and hard hits your back with enough force to make you stagger. Turning around slowly, you find Minho erupting in laughter, his body filled with uncontainable joy. He’s jumping and clapping excitedly, and for a fleeting moment, you can’t decide if your shock was from the impact or from how beautiful happiness looks on him.

Snapping out of your daze, you swiftly retaliate by scooping up a handful of snow and hurling it at him. "Now you are cold too!" you shout, while he’s still laughing uncontrollably.

Thus begins an impromptu snowball fight between the two of you. Unsurprisingly, you’re being competitive in this too, trying your best to strike each other before the other could recover. But Minho draws nearer to you, and in your desperation to win, you fall to the ground when he throws a snowball at your chest, gasping as if you’re in pain.

"Shit, did I hurt you?" Minho quickly kneels in front of you, concern evident in his voice. It surprises you for a moment- how worried he seems at the prospect of causing you pain.

But you shake that thought off and push him down to the ground, a proud smile on your face. In his fall, Minho instinctively reaches for you to steady himself, which ends up with you landing on top of him. Your faces are mere inches apart, and a soft gasp escapes your mouth at your sudden proximity.

Minho has a mole on his nose. You’ve never noticed that before.

You quickly push yourself off of him, not enjoying being this close to somebody. "Why did you drag me down with you?" you grumble, shaking off the snow from your hair.

"Play stupid games, win stupid prizes," he cheekily stuck out his tongue, and you respond with the same childlike gesture before the both of you burst into loud laughter. The sound reverberates through your entire being, and it echoes in your mind long after the two of you go your separate ways.

As you lay in bed that night, ready to drift off to sleep, a quiet realization dawns on you. This was the first time you've touched snow in since your childhood incident.

That unpleasant memory didn't cross your mind once. Instead, all you thought about was Minho’s infectious laughter, and the surprising warmth it stirred within you.

✹✹✹

You came first in your grade this semester.

True to his words, Minho texted you the name of the restaurant where you’d both meet to celebrate your win. As you got ready for your outing, you couldn’t help the nerves creeping up on you. Studying in silence next to Minho was something, going to a friendly dinner with him was another. You feared it would be too awkward and Minho would regret ever proposing such a thing.

So, as you sit in the refined BBQ restaurant waiting for him, you fidget with your hands, counting down to three in your head in an attempt to steady your breathing.

You were clearly not accustomed to existing with Minho outside of the confines of your studies.

"Did you wait long?" Minho asks as he finally pulls the chair in front of you and you shake your head no.

"Are you nervous?" he chuckles at your lack of words, and you frown, suddenly feeling defensive. "Why would I be nervous? This isn't a date."

"Who said anything about a date?" he smirks and you grab your fork threateningly, pointing it at him, "Don't say anything stupid or I will walk out."

"And stand me up on our first date? That's too mean.” He pouts, a hand on his heart and you can’t help but giggle at his antics. You were ridiculous for being nervous. This was Minho, the one person you’ve talked to the most since the start of this year.

"What will you have?" he asks and you smile mischievously.

"Most expensive thing on the menu."

"So you are only here for the food."

"Well, it's certainly not for your company," you wink and he chuckles, his bunny teeth on full display.

"And here I thought we were going to be civil with each other."

"When are we ever not?" you gasp dramatically and Minho swats your hand with the menu. "Just order whatever," you finally answer," I trust your food judgment."

"I could poison you, you know?" He smiles proudly and you roll your eyes at him, "Can’t you be normal, for once?"

Minho calls over the waiter and places your orders. The food is quick to arrive and Minho starts to grill up the meat, while you cut the Kimchi into smaller pieces.

"Here," he puts the perfectly cooked rib onto your plate first and you smile at him, "Thank you."

"Eat up, don’t wait for me," he tells you and you nod, tasting the flavorful meat.

"Wow this is really good," you compliment and he smirks proudly at your words, "I know."

Minho places four other ribs for you, without eating one himself. You start to feel bad, so you grab his chopsticks, pick up the meat, and move it toward his mouth, "Open up."

"What?" He asks confused and you wave the food in front of his face, "Come on, you haven’t eaten anything."

Minho parts his lips slowly, and you feed the tender meat to him, before eating one yourself. You notice how his cheeks are slightly tinted pink now, and you account it to the intense heat of the grill.

"Oh, let's not talk about studies, my brain can't take another debate with you," you tell Minho in between bites and he grins at you, a gleam of excitement in his eyes. "If you were to dispose of a body, how would you do it?"

"I think our next celebration will be in an asylum." you smile too sweetly at him and he stares at you pointedly, "Please, I know you've already thought about it."

"Fine. Probably in a deserted land. What about you?"

"I'd cut their bodies and then bury each part in a different forest. In a different city."

His answer came too quickly, and you pause in your tracks, "Should I be worried?"

"You are too cute to kill." His tone is sarcastic and you make a show of gushing at his compliment, clasping both of your hands in front of your heart, "Growing soft on me, Minho?"

"Yeah, I’m basically sooo in love with you," he replies with a smirk and you roll your eyes at him, an amused smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

"What's your favorite color?" you finally ask, changing the subject.

"Purple."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"You'll buy me purple flowers?" He coos at you and you shake your head as you grab the utensil from his hand, to grill the meat your turn.

"No. I'll paint your tombstone purple," you grin and he laughs loudly, eyes squinted close, and you can't find it in you to care that the people next to you are staring.

"What's yours?" he asks when he calms down and you shrug, "Navy blue, I think."

"You do remind me of navy blue."

"And why is that?"

"When you look at it, at first glance, it looks like black. But the more you stare at it, the more layers you uncover. Just like you. There’s more to you than what meets the eye."

You grab your glass of water, gulping it down to hide the way your eyes just glossed over. You suddenly felt bare in front of Minho. How did he know?

You clear your throat, racking your brain for a way to move on from that question. "If you were to describe colors to a blind person, how would you do it?"

"Mm," he looks up at the ceiling as he mulls over your question, "I’d say that yellow is the feeling of eating ice cream on a sunny day, in an amusement park. Your fingers are sticky but your cheeks ache from how much you smiled that day."

"Yellow is carefree and happy."

"Exact. Now your turn, red."

"I’d say that... Red is the thrill that rushes through your veins when you do something you are passionate about, you know? It’s what makes our blood boil and our heart race. The very essence of our humanity."

Minho smiles softly at your words, seemingly agreeing with your description. "Don’t you think it would be easier if we simply asked, what color are you feeling today, instead of a 'How are you'?" He questions and you tilt your head to the side, "What do you mean?"

"Well, you could say, I feel like that moss green that no one seems to pay attention to. Or, I feel bright yellow as if the world's energy is stored inside me."

"And right now, how do you feel?"

"I feel orange, not the ugly orange." He precises and you chuckle, "the orange that paints the sky when the sun is about to dip into the ocean."

"A bittersweet orange, an ending that instantly strings along a new beginning. And you don't have time to rest."

Minho places his chin on his palm, eyeing you curiously, "Is that what you want? To rest?"

"Yeah." You admit quietly, "Don't you sometimes wish that the world would just stop, for a few seconds? Just like in a song, right before the beat drops. That silence, I wish I could live inside of it."

"I do too."

You both hold each other’s gaze for a while after that. You felt as if he was keeping you captive with his brown eyes, and he was slowly peeling each of your layers, in silence, as you were peeling his. For the first time, you think that you and he are similar, more than on a studies level. There was a part of his soul that understood yours perfectly. And it felt good, to be understood, for once.

"If you lived in this silence, what would you be doing?" he asks, breaking the serene quiet that surrounded you.

"I’d open a café that had books. And there'd be a little space, where people could paint. Or do pottery. And I’d have cats in there too." You reply excitedly, hands moving around in the air, you end up missing the way Minho gazes fondly at you before his smile morphs into a smirk.

"Please tell me you won't be cooking."

"Shut up. What about you?"

"I’d be a dancer."

"You dance?!" you whisper-shout and he frowns at the surprised look on your face.

"Yeah. Why are you looking at me like this?"

"I just never expected it. Can I-"

"No." he cuts you off immediately and you pout.

"I didn't even finish."

"I knew what you were going to say."

"Please, I won't make a sound I’d just watch. Pinky promise.” He grabs your now outstretched pinky with the tip of his index and thumb, lowering it down.

"I’d only grant you this wish when you’re on your deathbed."

"Bold of you to assume you'd still be around."

"Death might be around the corner."

"Stop it."

"Close your door tonight."

"You are deranged."

Minho chuckles at the crestfallen look on your face, "I’ll think about it."

Just like that, three hours of talking have gone by, the conversation flowing easily between the two of you. And when you finally leave the restaurant, Minho grabs you a cab and you wave him off with a smile. You couldn't lie to yourself, you had a really good time with him. You liked to think that Minho was no longer just a rival, but a possible friend.

But now that you were laying in your bed, you couldn’t help but curse Minho in your brain. His repetitive talk about murder made you paranoid, and now every creak in your apartment made you feel as if death was really right around the corner.

You decide to text him, figuring that if you couldn’t sleep because of him, you could at least disturb him for a bit.

Yn : I hate you I'm paranoid from your murder talk

Minho : Poor baby

Yn : Is that you at my door?

Suddenly your phone rings, the shrill sound echoing around your apartment. It was a Facetime call from Minho. You panic for a few seconds, before remembering that you just spent your entire night with him. A call can’t be more daunting than a real-life meeting.

"See, I’m in my home," he tells you as soon as you pick up and you laugh.

"It's pitch black, I can't see."

"Just say you miss my face." You can’t see him but you can clearly hear the proud grin in his voice.

"What's there to miss?"

"Are you actually scared?" Minho asks gently and you clear your throat, feeling ridiculous all of the sudden.

"There is a tree right outside my window and it keeps rustling from the wind," you grumble and Minho laughs at you.

"Trees can't hurt you."

"No shit Sherlock."

"Close your eyes.” He instructs and you frown at his words.

"Why?"

"I’ll tell you a story."

"Fine.” You close your eyes tentatively. It’s quiet for a few seconds and you feel yourself relax slightly.

"So, I bought a sous-vide machine and-"

"Is your bedtime story going to be about meat?"

"Yes?” He replies as if it’s an evidence, “Now be quiet." You pretend to zip your mouth and Minho faintly giggles, before resuming his story. "So, I was saying. I bought one and I wanted to experience different kinds of meats. So, I bought a 30-day aged one and a 58-day aged one and I cooked them both."

"What did you use?" you ask quietly.

"Just garlic, and thyme, I didn't want to overpower the taste of meat. Anyways I cooked them, but I didn't have plastic bags so I had to go out and buy them."

"Mm," you hum in acknowledgment. You could feel your nerves slowly dissipate with Minho's every word. His story might be ridiculous but his honey-coated voice compensated for it, wrapping around you like a protective cocoon.

"And I found pudding there so I had to buy it."

"Obviously," you whisper. Sleep was knocking on your door, but paradoxically you tried to fight it off. You wanted to hear the rest of Minho’s story.

"And I went back home and I cooked it, then I plated it nicely with vegetables that I sauteed with butter and garlic. Just mushrooms and potatoes, nothing too fancy. Again, my main focus was the meat. But there wasn't a difference between the two. They tasted the same for me, for some reason. And I didn't like this because the aged one was very expensive. Maybe I was scammed. Honestly, that butcher looked kind of suspicio..."

Your quiet snores make Minho pause in his tracks, and he laughs quietly. You did end up falling asleep. He can't see your face clearly, but he can see its outline and he stares at you for a while. You look peaceful.

He goes to hang up but his finger hovers over the 'end call' button. You aren't talking, but your hums are quiet enough that they fill up the space around him. It calms him down, and he lets his head fall on the pillow, his phone lying beside him.

He closes his eyes, thinking that maybe he just found the silence you talked about earlier on.

You just made his world stop.

✹✹✹

The second semester had just started and with it the return of frat parties. You were excited at the prospect of going to one with your new friend Mina. You met her in the library when you both went to grab the same book. You quickly apologized but she waved you off, handing you the book with a huge smile on her face. She was bubbly, like a human serotonin boost, and she started gushing about how much she loved the author. You saw her again in the campus cafeteria, and she skipped towards you as if you've both known each other your entire life. That was the start of your friendship.

You walk into the frat house, both your arms encircling each other. The flashing lights of the party blind you for a moment, and it takes you a while to adjust to the loud music bouncing off of the walls. But you like it, it was like a shield from the outside world and its problems.

You feel yourself letting loose in the crowd, swaying your hips to the music. Mina spins you around and you laugh, dancing with no care in the world. It was just the both of you in that instant.

Mina spots Jeongin in the crowd, a friend of hers that she had an immense crush on. You couldn’t blame her- he was very attractive; his easy smirk and his blonde tousled hair earned him lots of appreciative looks from the people around him. But when his eyes locked with Mina’s, you found that his face morphed into a beautiful smile, that made his dimples look on full display, as if it was only reserved for her.

“Go get your man!” You shout in her ears, so she’d be able to hear you.

“What are you talking about?” She yells back, but you could see the nervous smile on her face.

“He likes you! Go talk to him!”

“I don’t want to leave you alone. We came together!” She clasps your hand in hers and you smile touched by her kind spirit.

“I’ll be fine. I’ll go to the kitchen to get some drinks. Go have fun!”

“You are sure?” She asks, her eyes darting between you and Jeongin, who was still looking at her, and her only.

“Yes! Go!” You say, gently pushing her away. Mina jogs up to Jeongin who greets her with a side hug. He quickly glances at you and you shoot him a thumbs-up, to which he grins. You loved playing Cupid.

With that, you decide to head to the kitchen to grab a drink. You pick a beer from the fridge, double-checking if the can is closed before opening it.

You lean on the countertop, sipping on your drink while you watch the crowd, humming along each time a song you knew played. You enjoyed watching people dance freely from afar, with no apparent care in the world.

You feel someone stand next to you and you brace yourself, getting ready to tell the person off if they decide to bother you. You didn’t have the energy for mindless flirting. But then, you smell the cologne that has lingered around you for the past term- Minho. You haven't seen him since your dinner. That was a month ago.

"Fancy seeing you here," he greets as he leans on the counter right next to you, his eyes fixated on the mingling bodies.

You turn around to face him, faking an outraged gasp, "Are you following me?"

"Mmm. You look nice", he compliments and you smile cheekily, "I know."

"Won't tell me I look nice too?" he smirks, leaning closer to your face. "Someone didn’t get enough compliments tonight?" You pout, placing a hand on your heart in mock concern.

"I did, but I want to hear it from you. You’re the only sensible person in this room."

"You look nice. Now leave me alone."

"Come on, I know you can do better than that", he jokes and you roll your eyes, muttering “You’re annoying”, under your breath.

Still, you comply, placing your arms on top of the counter and leaning your head on them to get a better look at him. He does the same, smiling, and you both stare at each other for a while after that.

The strobing lights dance on Minho’s face, casting enticing shadows on him. You've always known he was a beautiful man; you've looked into his eyes far too many times in your heated conversations. But this time was different, there was no cheeky smirk on his face nor a furrow in his eyebrows. He was simply looking at you, and it made a pool of warmth huddle in your belly. You feel yourself relax under his gaze, everything around you seemingly melts away.

You weren’t wrong when you thought that his eyes were like a black hole, pulling you in. But this time, you realize that you didn’t mind knowing what was on the other side. On the contrary, you longed for it.

"I like your eyes right now. They remind me of the night sky. Black, with tiny little stars littered in them," you finally say.

Minho is taken aback by your words, he wasn't expecting you to compliment him, let alone to tell him something so special. He can feel his cheeks burn red at your words, feel his heart hammering in his chest. He's afraid you can hear it too.

He doesn't know what to say, so instead he clears his throat, plastering a smirk on his face, "I heard better." He hasn't. This is the first genuine compliment he's ever gotten.

"Oh, fuck off," you laugh and he joins you. The music was loud and yet the only sound his ear seemed to pick up was your laugh.

"Are you here alone?" He asks, and you shake your head no, "Came with my friend Mina."

"Did she leave you by yourself?" He frowns and you feel yourself warm up at his worried tone. "I told her to go talk to Jeongin."

"Next time, don’t stay alone."

“Fine, Dad.” You chastise and he stares pointedly at you, "I’m serious, yn."

You take another swing of the beer before turning your body fully towards Minho. After a few beats of silence, you finally ask a question that has been on your mind for a while. "Why do you say my name this way?"

"What way?" He questions and you shrug, "Slowly. People used to always rush it but you don’t."

"Well, it’s a pretty name. It deserves to be pronounced as a whole."

You beam at his words; you smile so brightly it makes his heart skip a beat. This is the first time you’ve grinned this widely at him, no hand in front of your mouth as if to hide it. He did notice how you were a reserved person outside of class, as if you were afraid of taking up too much place. But he could tell you were slowly unraveling, growing bolder with each passing month. He wanted to tell you that if people like you spoke more, the world would be a far better place.

But he couldn't bring himself to say all of this, so he forced those bubbling words down his throat. "I’m hungry," he whines instead and you laugh at his pout. "I'm kind of craving a greasy pizza."

"Should we go buy it? You can tell Mina to come so we can walk her back."

"I’ll ask her."

You shoot Mina a text, asking her where she was and telling her about your plan. She replies that she’s with Jeongin who just offered to take her home, so you could leave without her.

"We can go." You tell him and he nods. Minho shrugs his leather jacket off, gently placing it on your shoulders. His warmth engulfs you and you sink further into it. His arm hovers around your shoulder not touching you as he leads you out of the party. He has never touched your body, you note, it's like he was everywhere and nowhere at once.

You both walk to an open parlor near the frat house, and you order a Margarita pizza to share. You sit down on a nearby bench to eat it- the night breeze too liberating to pass up on.

As you both finish eating, a cat with white and orange stripes all over her body approaches the both of you cautiously, and you pat her head softly. "Aren't you the cutest thing ever?" you coo and Minho chuckles as he scratches the cat’s chin. She purrs at his touch appreciatively, and you smile at the soft look on his face.

"Never knew you to be this gentle", you giggle and Minho shushes you, "Let's not do this in front of the cat."

"Why are you acting as if we are a divorced couple and she’s our child."

"Easy, yn. You make it sound as if you want me to marry you."

"Now you're just projecting," you chastise and he laughs, eliciting giggles from you. He had a melodic laugh, you noticed, and you always felt a surge of pride whenever you made him close his eyes and tip his head from laughter. You felt as if it's a sight only you can see.

"I have three cats", he says softly and you gasp, "Really? We spent all of our Sundays in a cat café and this is when you tell me?"

"I only tell my friends."

"So we're friends now?" You gush and he rolls his eyes at you, "I take it back."

"What’s their names?" You ask curiously and his eyes soften at your question- you could easily tell he loved them dearly.

"Soongie, Doongie, and Dori. They are rescues."

"That’s very sweet of you Minho."

"Most of my scars come from them though," he chuckles but you sober up at his words, quietly scratching the cat's ears.

"What’s on your mind?" He asks and you glance at him. It was scary how well he’s starting to know you. But it was also nice; to be known is to exist, after all.

"I just... Sometimes I wish that memories would leave physical scars on you. Because at least then, you could treat them, put a band-aid on, and watch them fade away day by day. Because when the scars are emotional, you can’t treat them, you know? And someday someone brings up a name or a place, or you smell a certain scent, and suddenly they reopen as if no time has gone by at all.”

Minho stays silent for a while, mulling over your words. You don't mind, you weren't expecting him to comfort you. You just needed to free those words from the mental prison you've held them in for so long.

"Do you know Kintsugi?" he finally asks and you shake your head no.

"It's a Japanese art. They put back together broken vases with molten gold. It represents strength despite our flaws."

"That sounds nice," you sigh wistfully and he nods.

"It is. When you look at that vase, you know that it was once broken, but it doesn't take away from its beauty, on the contrary, it adds to it. Scars, whether they are emotional or physical are there for a reason. They remind us of how we pushed through whatever life threw at us."

"Am I supposed to be grateful I survived this?" You chuckle lowly, as your hand scratches the cat’s ear. Your fingers brush against Minho’s and you hesitate for a few seconds before moving them away.

"I wouldn't say grateful for what you went through," he speaks once again, "but grateful to yourself. At the end of the day, the reason why you're still here is you. You put yourself back together," he then bumps his elbow into your side softly, "and hey, even if your scars reopen there will come a time when they wouldn’t anymore. Sometimes, it takes a while to be okay again."

This was Minho’s way of telling you that someday it wouldn’t hurt anymore. That someday you’d be okay. And you needed to hear that. You needed to hear someone else other than yourself tell you that.

"Thank you, Minho, I needed that", you smile at him and he grins back at you before his smile turns to a smirk. "I charge 15 dollars for the hour by the way."

"Oh, come on! You didn't even say something revolutionary." You are lying. Minho's words will echo in your mind long after this night- a beacon of light to hold onto.

"Oh, so now it’s no longer ‘I needed that’. Tsk," he jokes a smirk still plastered on his face.

"Okay, Mr. Therapist. I’ll pay for your coffee tomorrow, sounds good?"

"I should have you as my client more often," he winks and you laugh, head tipped back. You were grateful more than ever for his teasing, loving how it wasn’t awkward between you after your discussion.

"You are a good listener." You tell him as you stand up, dusting your pants.

"I’m good at everything," he grins cheekily at you and you roll your eyes playfully, "And here I thought we were having a moment."

You both start walking side by side toward your home when Minho speaks again. His tone is quiet as if he wasn’t sure he wanted you to hear him. "About earlier, your compliment, I mean. I suppose I didn't thank you. So, thank you," he scratches the tip of his ears and you shrug nonchalantly. "It's the truth. You might get on my ass but that doesn't change the fact you are a pretty man."

He doesn’t respond and you tug at the sleeve of his shirt playfully, "You won't tell me I’m pretty too?"

"But then I’d be lying."

"Asshole."

"Pretty," he replies without missing a beat.

You laugh loudly, hand tightly clutching your stomach and he joins you. There is a newfound lightness in your steps now. Unbeknownst to him, Minho just managed to lift a small weight off your shoulders, allowing you a brief moment of respite.

"This is me," you say when you arrive in front of your apartment block, "Thank you for walking me home."

"Of course. Don't dream of me."

"Idiot," you laugh waving him off and he does the same. "Oh, and text me when you get home safely!" you shout before heading inside.

For the second time this night, Minho is blushing profusely at your words. He sighs to himself, waiting patiently until a light turns on in your place to leave.

✹✹✹

It’s been two months since the start of the new term. You still went to Limbo, every Saturday with Minho- even when you didn’t need to study.

Sometimes you’d just grab a book and you’d both read, a cat lazily lounging at your feet. You started sitting at the same table too; you figured it was easier since one of you always pays for the other. When you have a bet, but also randomly, when you notice that the other person is feeling down and you want to cheer them up without saying anything.

That's why you bought three bubble teas for Minho in a row. He was quieter these days, you noticed. He didn’t talk to you nor did he retort back in class. It was the first time you’ve seen him this way. As if he was a simple shell of the person he usually is.

You were walking out of your Communications Strategies class, which Minho weirdly didn’t come to when you realized that it was pouring rain. You smile lightly to yourself, grateful since you thought about picking up an umbrella this morning.

As you walk through campus, everyone around you running to take shelter, you spot someone sitting on a bench, completely drenched from the rain. Their head is hung low and you frown to yourself. They would surely get a cold if they stay there.

But then the person raises their head and you quickly realize it's Minho. You jog up to him instinctively, standing in front of him and shielding him from the rain with your umbrella.

He looks up at you and you feel your heart clench. His eyes are void of emotion and he stares blankly at you. "Are you okay?" you ask and he blinks at your words, as if his brain hadn't yet registered that you were there.

"Yeah."

"You don't look like it", you tilt your head to the side and he looks down again. You have to strain to hear his next words, muffled by the rain and his mumbling, "I don't want to talk, yn."

You decide to put away your umbrella and sit down next to him on the bench. The rain falls rapidly on both of you, and you feel yourself grow cold from it.

"What are you doing?" He questions, turning to the side to look at you.

"Enjoying the rain. It is kind of stupid that we have umbrellas, right?"

"You'll catch a cold."

"I mean we always complain about the drought and then when it rains, we hide from it. But it's really beautiful."

"Stop, I don't want you to get sick."

"Well, neither do I. Let's go eat some soup. My treat."

"Yn, I don’t-"

"I thought you were smart enough to know I won't take no for an answer."

"But I-" you cut him off again. "Also, I’m doing this for me because when you order for two, they give you a lot of side dishes. Now come on."

You stand up and he looks doubtfully at you, before following suit. You open up the umbrella again and hold it over both of your heads. He has to huddle close to you, and your shoulders brush against each other. Once, twice. Not that you're keeping count. But your body is always hyper-aware of Minho’s proximity. You also notice how he silently moves from your right to your left, this way he's the one walking right next to the speeding cars. Your hold on the umbrella tightens. You were still not used to those small attentions of his.

You arrive in front of your apartment block and he hesitates. "Come up, I won't murder you I promise." You joke and he smiles lightly back at your words. Progress.

He enters your dorm and you can see him eying his surroundings. You know that if it was another time, he would have teased you about something- anything. But he stays quiet, and you find yourself missing the sound of his voice.

"Would you like to shower?" You offer and he nods, "Please."

You lead him to your bathroom and show him where the washing machine is. "Put your clothes in there for a quick wash and dry. You can shower meanwhile."

He nods again as you hand him a towel. "I'll be outside."

You quickly leave the bathroom to place the soup orders, and Minho discards his wet clothes, walking into your shower. The water is piping hot, and he leans his forehead on the cold tiles. He doesn’t move for the first ten minutes, too tired at the prospect of lifting his limbs.

Nothing particular happened. But he’d go through days when he’d quiet down because everything around him was too much. The feel of his clothes against his skin, and the sun streaming through his curtains. But it always passes. Minho was a realistic man and he knew that his emotions would regulate themselves. That’s why he didn’t like appearing vulnerable in front of other people.

But for some reason, he didn’t mind lowering his guard with you. He knew you wouldn’t judge.

He sighs, grabbing your cherry-scented shampoo and pouring it into his hands. He can clearly smell you now. The scent of your hair that always tickles his nose, whenever you are sitting close to him. Your body wash is next and he wonders if this is how your skin smells, like vanilla and jasmine, and something entirely you.

Forty minutes later, Minho finally steps out of the shower. His clothes are clean and he quickly puts them on. He dries his hair with the towel as he walks out of your bathroom towards the living room.

He finds you sitting on the ground, in front of a heater that looks close to giving up. He makes a mental note of giving you the one he has since he doesn't really use it. You changed out of your clothes too, and you are now wearing a pair of pajamas with little bunnies sewn into it. The sight almost manages to make him smile.

"Still cold?" you question when you notice him standing behind you, unmoving, and he shakes his head no.

"Good, the soup is here." You say cheerfully, pointing at the steaming bowls sitting on your table. Minho hums in reply and you stand up, grabbing the towel from his hands to place it on the drying rack.

You come back, a soft green blanket in your hands. You sit on the couch and pat the spot beside you. Minho sits next to you, and you lay the blanket on both of your laps, before handing him his soup.

You start the show you’ve been last watching, as you both eat in silence, your legs crisscrossed. You make some comments throughout the episodes. You figured that it was a safe territory, to talk about something as mundane as this. He didn't reply but you didn't mind. You weren't here to have a conversation with him. You just wanted to distract him.

You realize at that moment that Minho always looked so put together to you. But he had problems of his own too. That much was obvious. It made you feel closer to him, in a sense. You were both just trying to make it through the day.

Two hours later, you get up to grab a book, handing Minho the remote to put on a show of his own. You curl in a ball in the corner, reading where you left off last night.

"Can you... Can you read out loud?" Minho speaks for the first time in a while and you look at him. His eyes are closed, his head resting against your couch.

"Sure."

You start to read, and Minho further sinks into the couch. He feels at home here. Because the blanket is soft and the light is dim enough to not hurt his eyes. Or it could be that he smells like you, a scent so comforting he wants to bury himself in it. Or maybe it's your voice that floats through the air, slowly clouding Minho’s every sense. He feels as if he could see the words you were pronouncing dancing in front of his eyes. You enunciated each syllable clearly, making sure that no sound was forgotten.

As Minho gently drifted to sleep, he felt as if he was part of the words you read out loud. He felt as if you were treating him with the same care, making sure that he knew he wasn't invisible. At least not to you.

When you wake up the next morning, Minho is gone. And his place beside you on the couch is empty. He made you breakfast, scrambled eggs, and freshly pressed orange juice. And right next to it you find a note, "Thank you for reading to me."

✹✹✹

Minho didn't believe in having a lot of friends. He was content with the two people he had, Chan and Changbin. The latter was his high school friend, he skipped a year and ended up being in the same class as Minho. They didn't talk at first until the day Changbin dropped a book on Minho's foot. The brooding man started apologizing profusely, and that was the start of their friendship. They've kept in touch since.

Chan was his roommate at university. It's not that he particularly wanted to befriend him, but Chan was a social butterfly and he quickly managed to pull Minho into his friendly trap. He annoys Minho the most, but in an endearing way. And although Chan is older, Minho still strangely developed a soft spot for him.

And he supposes he has you too now. At first, you weren’t friends, rivals at most. He enjoyed reeling you up and having you frown at his words in your heated debates. He also liked talking to you, because your ideas were interesting and you always gave him a new fresh perceptive to see things.

That’s how he strictly saw you as, an intelligent human who he liked to debate with.

But then he started to look forward to meeting up with you at Limbo. He no longer minded the fact that you took his self-assigned table, from his high school days. And he laughed more freely with you, enjoying how you always had a witty retort sitting at the tip of your tongue.

That’s how he started to notice things that friends most definitely notice. How you have a charm bracelet you always fidget with whenever you are nervous. How you stray away from physical touch. How you scratch your eyebrow when you are deep in thought.

But also, how you seem to have an obsession with cherries. Your cherry pendant, your cherry-scented shampoo, and your cherry-tainted lips. A friend would most certainly think that your lips are like red wine-stained glass.

He remembers one of the many times when you were at Limbo, and he saw you reapply your lip tint, or so you called it. You caught him looking and he swiftly averted his gaze, but it wasn't quick enough. Suddenly you were in front of him, a tiny red bottle in hand.

"Let me apply it to you," you smiled and he pushed your head away with his pointer finger. "No."

"Please," you pouted and he couldn't help but find you adorable. You sometimes reminded him of a small kitten. But he didn’t dare to call you by that nickname.

"Never."

"If I score more than you in our environmental assignment then I will do it."

"Fine." he huffed so that you'd leave him alone.

Minho didn't study for that assignment. He blamed it on a headache, not that it's ever stopped him before. And two weeks later you were in front of him, eyebrows scrunched in concentration. You applied the lip tint gently on his plump lips, carefully tracing over his cupid bow.

Your face was mere inches away from his and he noticed how you were wearing a gloss today, for change. It was shimmering under the lights and he usually didn't like glittery things, but he couldn't take his eyes off your lips.

"All done!" you clapped excitedly, snapping him out of his haze. You then shove your phone camera into his face so he'd look at the results.

"You should be a model. Your face is perfectly sculpted," you comment nonchalantly, before sitting back in your seat.

“I know.” He replies confidently, but his hand kept fiddling with the tip of his now pink ears. He couldn't concentrate for the rest of the night.

You were his friend because he always worried if you were eating enough. That’s why he urged you to grab a bite in the convenience store near Limbo, whenever you finished up your studying late.

This was one of the many times you sat on the minuscule table outside, hot ramen bowls in front of the both of you. Minho huffed in annoyance between each bite, his bangs were getting longer, disturbing him when he leaned down to slurp his noodles.

“Here,” you stand up from your place, a hair tie in your hands.

“What are you doing?” He questions as you stand behind him. You don’t reply, silently grabbing his hair and putting it up in a tiny ponytail, this way it wouldn’t get in his eyes anymore.

“Voila,” you sit back down, resuming your eating. Minho was grateful for the dimly lit street because his entire face was burning up. Your fingers in his hair were gentle and he wondered how it would feel if you ran your fingers through it.

This was something friends think about, right?

"I’ll cut my hair tomorrow," he clears his throat. He didn't know why he told you. You certainly weren't interested in his hair endeavors.

"What?!" you yell, "Don't. Your hair is beautiful why would you cut it?"

"Because it's getting longer."

"But it suits you."

Minho also noticed how you always threw compliments his way. Not in a flirtatious way, but in a genuine one. He couldn't help but wonder what made you this way. Did you so freely give love to others because you knew how it felt to not receive it?

"I’ll still cut it."

Minho returned home; his hair still clipped back in a ponytail. Chan eyed him weirdly but he shut him off with a glare. The elastic remained at his bedside since.

He didn't cut his hair.

The moment Minho started to consider you a close friend, was when you invited him over to watch your show. You didn’t force him to open up that night, and he appreciated it, more than he let on.

That's how a week later, he finds himself walking towards your dorm again. The thoughts in his head got too much, and Chan was immersed in his makeshift studio, which meant he won't be free for the next four hours, minimum.

He didn't plan on going to you. It was late at night and you were probably asleep, but his feet naturally led him to the direction of your place.

He knocks softly on your door. He wasn't even sure if he wanted you to open. What would you think of him showing up at eleven pm? He should have thought this thro-

"Minho?" you call out, and he startles a bit, his feet already inching away from the door.

"This was a bad idea, I'm sorry," he starts to retract back but you grab the hem of his jacket to stop him. "Do you... Do you want to watch my show with me?" you ask, a soft smile on your face and he nods tentatively.

"Okay, come in," you open the door wider and Minho follows you inside. The look in his eyes reminds you of the day you found him sitting under the rain. You didn't like it, you wanted him to find his spark back, his usual demeanor. He wasn't deserving of anything but happiness.

"I’ve started a new show, this one's a bit more romantic, so don't go around imagining me as the main character," you tease and he scoffs at your words, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He doesn't reply, but you don't mind. There was this secret agreement between the two of you, you would talk and he would listen. He needed the distraction, and you needed the company. Sometimes the line between alone and lonely blurs, and on days like these, Minho’s presence fills the void inside.

You comment on the scenes and Minho hums in reply, you watch three episodes in a row, and your eyes are getting drowsy, so you close them.

"Minho," you call out gently and he turns his head towards you.

"Yeah?"

"What color are you feeling tonight?" You ask, referencing to what he told you on your dinner celebration. That felt like an eternity ago.

"Black." You stay silent and Minho fidgets with his hands before speaking once again. "I feel a lot at the same time, too much of every color. That's why- that's why I said black."

"How can I help you feel yellow?"

"You already do." His admission came softly and it made your breath hitch in your throat. You wanted to open your eyes and look at him, but you figured it will only make him close off even more.

“Okay. Will you stay for breakfast?”, you whisper. You were very sleepy, the soft chatter of the TV and your hushed conversation were like a lullaby to you.

"You want me to?" he asks, and he sounds so vulnerable you can't find it in you to say anything but the truth.

"I do," you admit, and that's the last thing you remember before sleeping.

Your head falls near Minho’s lap on the couch, your hair tickling his exposed thigh. Minho shouldn’t feel this way, he thinks. He’s sitting on the leather couch and his feet are touching the cold floor and yet all he can feel is three strands of your hair tickling him.

He glances at you, at your now parted lips and your relaxed eyebrows. His hand hovers over your hair, but then he curls it into a tight fist. What is he doing? He thinks to himself as he drags an angry hand through his face. He sighs, before standing up and grabbing the blanket you had on the opposing chair. He gently lays it on your body before sitting next to you once again.

You told him to stay for breakfast. He’ll stay.

✹✹✹

2 months later

"Yn!" Minho shouts in your ear as he plops down next to you. You startle, dropping the book you were reading.

"I hate you," you grumble, picking up your book and he smiles cheekily at you, "No you don't."

You were laying on the grass of your campus garden, in between two classes, trying to kill the time. It was April so the weather was perfect for lying under the warm sunrays. You loved spring, it always held within it the promise of a better time.

"What are you doing?"

"I was reading before you got here and started to annoy me."

"Don't mind me. Do your thing."

"And what are you doing?"

"Enjoying the sun."

"You couldn't find any other place to do so?"

"Nope."

"You're annoying" You try to sound mad but the smile on your face betrays you. You started looking forward to any moment Minho randomly shows up throughout your day. Sometimes it's late at night when he's suddenly craving sushi and he drags you with him because if he's not studying then you shouldn't be too.

Sometimes it's during the day, when he takes you to a new garden where he found the quote "cutest cats in existence". Not as cute as his cats, of course.

Sometimes it's late afternoon when he just knocks on your door, and he's there with Chan-his roommate who sometimes joins your study sessions- snacks in their hands. You've learned that what Minho doesn't say in words, he compensates by spending time with you. And you didn't tell him but waiting for these moments has been the joy of your life for the past few weeks.

It made you feel excited- like a child waiting up for Christmas morning to discover what gifts they are receiving.

So, you resume reading, as Minho is lying next to you. You could smell his pinewood cologne and you wished you could pour his essence into a bottle and carry it with you everywhere.

You notice how the sun is hitting Minho’s eyes directly, and how his eyebrows are scrunched up at the aggression. So, you grab your book with your left hand, and hover your right one over his eyes, shielding him from the sun. Minho's breath tickles your hand and you can feel goosebumps rising through your skin.

It's as if every physical proximity with Minho made you feel hyperaware of every part of your body, and how he can lighten it with a simple breath from his part. It made you wonder what it would feel to have his hands on your skin.

As if Minho heard your thoughts, he gently wraps his thumb and index finger around your wrist, steadying your hand in place so it wouldn't strain your arm. You suddenly don't know what page you are in, too overwhelmed by the feeling of his hands on you.

His touch is very featherlight and you are afraid to move, to break the bubble you are suddenly pulled into.

"Read to me," he tells you and you gulp. You never understood why Minho enjoyed it when you read to him.

"Like my voice that much?" you tease, in an attempt to hide how affected you are. You were so close to him; it would be easy to slide down and lay your head on his chest. You wondered how his heartbeat would sound. Was it steady, or racing just like your own?

"Yeah, it's calming," he replies sincerely, catching you off guard. You didn't expect him to compliment you, and now you are racking your brain for a retort, anything to make you breathe again.

"Growing soft on me Minho?" you say, the same question you asked on your first dinner out. The first time you truly saw him, the first time you felt as if you were two pieces of the same puzzle, just waiting for someone to connect the both of you.

He doesn't reply. And you sit there, patiently waiting. His first answer came so easily, so naturally, because he was being sarcastic, "I’m basically in love with you", he told you back then. So why can't he say it again?

"Yes, I am." He finally replies and you feel your breath catch in your throat. You try to account it for your brain misguiding you. It wasn't Minho speaking, it was the rustling of the leaves and the singing of the birds that you just heard. But it was him, and now his eyes are open and he's looking at you. Your hand is still shielding his eyes and his fingers are still wrapped around your wrist. And you are suddenly feeling. You are feeling too much. You don't know what to do with those feelings cursing through your veins and you can't face them. Because they are scaring you.

"I'll just... Yeah, I’ll just read," you say quietly, too flustered by his intense gaze. You were already on the other side, you realize. His eyes pulled you in and you were stuck in there, swimming in a pool of honey.

"Out loud," he says and you chuckle, "Fine, Min." The nickname slips out of your tongue naturally and you quickly snap your head towards Minho to see if he noticed.

His eyes are closed, and there is a slight smile on his face, and you can swear that he just repeated the nickname to himself softly.

✹✹✹

You've been so sick these past days, you barely managed to go to class. Your head throbbed with pain and your entire body felt as if someone thoroughly boxed it.

You were grateful that Minho reeled down his teasing because you had no energy to retort back. He may have noticed how sick you felt and truthfully it would be hard not to. You stayed silent throughout the day, and you looked so pale, you avoided looking at the mirror altogether.

Though Minho didn't talk to you, he still silently placed water bottles and some of your favorite snacks on your desk. You'd down the water, grateful for the relief it brought your sore throat. And when you didn't touch the food, he'd immediately text you 'Eat up', followed by a simple 'Please'. Having someone else care for your well-being felt weird, but it warmed your heart beyond what words could describe.

You only came today to pass your Criminal Law mid-term, but your head hurt so badly that you weren't even sure what you wrote on your paper. The words blurred in front of your eyes and you almost slept in the middle of your exam, exhaustion threatening to take over your body.

You fucked up, badly. You haven't screwed up this much in years.

You thought that you were slowly getting better since Minho surpassing you no longer sparked an unworthy feeling within you. But apparently, you were wrong to believe so. Self-doubt crept up within you once again, and the ugly feelings it stirred slowly clawed at your throat, making it hard for you to breathe.

It was one test, and yet it reeled you back ages ago.

Tears threaten to spill out of your eyes as you hurriedly walk out of your class. You make a beeline for the library, figuring that it will be mostly empty by now.

You pull out a chair and sit on it, lowering your head down so no one will see you. Your tears are falling rapidly and you hit your thigh repeatedly. You hated how weak you felt in that instant.

"Yn?", someone calls out and you curse internally. You don't have to look up to see who it is, Minho's voice has become a part of you- you could easily recognize it between a thousand mingling sounds.

You don't want him to see you, especially not like this, weak and vulnerable and on the verge of breaking down. So you quickly slip a pair of sunglasses on your eyes, before raising your head to look at him. "Hm?"

"Are you okay?" he asks, his tone so soft it makes you want to cry ten times fold. You hated it, hated how attentive he was to you. You didn't deserve it.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm just here to pick a book," you lie, abruptly standing up and heading toward the rows behind you. You desperately needed to get away from him.

You pause in front of a random shelf and then you feel Minho standing behind you. You grab a random book and he peeks above your shoulder to see it, "Economics? You hate this subject."

"Why are you following me?" you turn around attempting your best to sound mad. When in reality, your heart was brimming with hurt. You wished you could get away from your body and seep into someone's soul to feel what it's like to love yourself.

"You aren't okay," he asserts and you hate it. You hate that he sounds so sure of himself. Was it that noticeable? Were you not fooling anyone?

"I am," your voice is shaking but you are adamant about contradicting him. You couldn't let him see you. What if he runs?

"Then..." he steps forward and you take a step back until your back is against the shelf. His left arm cages your body, but his right one stays by his side. He is leaving you an opening, you realize, an outing in case you feel uncomfortable. Against all odds, you don't.

"Why are you hiding from me?" he asks, gently taking your sunglasses off your face, and placing them on the top of your head.

You don't look up at him, and he hooks his finger underneath your chin, gently raising your head. When your tear-stained eyes meet his, he frowns deeply, "Why are you crying?"

"it's nothing."

"Yn..."

"I fucked up, okay?! That was the worst test I’ve ever given in years." The tears start to flow at your words and you wipe them away aggressively. You despised crying in front of people.

Minho raises his hand to wipe the tears away for you but he quickly retracts it- you probably wouldn't want him to touch your face. It was enough that he had grabbed your wrist a couple of weeks before this. He quickly racks his brain for something to do, because the sight of your tears is making his heart ache in a way he hasn't felt before. It's as if he's feeling your emotions deep within him.

In desperation, Minho pinches your arm and you yelp, startled. "What was that for?" you whisper-shout and he raises his hands in defense, "I didn't know what else to do."

"So, you thought about pinching me?" you chuckle in bewilderment and he scratches the top of his hair sheepishly.

"I mean, it worked. Look, you stopped crying," he points out raising his brows at you proudly and you shake your head at him.

"Remind me to never cry in front of you again."

Minho grins at you before his face turns serious once again. "Look, you are the smartest person I know," he pauses, adding with a cheeky smirk, "After me of course." Which makes you giggle against your will.

"Shut up", you lightly punch his chest and he smiles. "One test doesn't define you. You always work very hard. I wouldn't lie to you."

"Mm," you hum and he frowns at your lack of enthusiasm, but still, he doesn't comment.

"No more crying," he wiggles his finger in front of your face and you roll your eyes, wiping the rest of your tears away. "Fine. Pretend as if this never happened."

"What are you talking about?" he asks as if confused, and you can't help the smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. It's as if Minho knows exactly what to say to cheer you up.

"Come with me," he tells you, gently pulling you by the sleeve of your hoodie.

"Where to?"

"I’m craving ice cream."

"And why do you need me?"

"You're craving ice cream too," he says in a matter-of-a-fact tone.

"Only if you're paying," you add with a giggle and he whines loudly, "I feel so so used around you."

True to his words, Minho takes you to the nearest ice cream parlor. It's a 20 minutes walk away and you are grateful for the distance because it helps you clear your head a bit.

Minho lets you pick whatever flavors you want, and when you hesitate between two of them, he tells the cashier to put them both into your cup. This is how you end up with a container of 5 scoops of ice cream. You insisted you'd share, and Minho begrudgingly agreed when you threatened to walk out and leave him.

You then walk to a deserted alley and sit on the sidewalk. You didn't want to be around people right now, and thankfully, Minho understood without you having to say a word.

You munch silently on your ice cream and Minho does the same, the both of you lost in your thoughts. You naturally take turns holding the freezing container, so it wouldn't numb the fingers of one of you.

When you're done, Minho stands up to throw it away in a nearby trashcan before sitting back again next to you.

Suddenly you feel him gently tapping your hand. You look down to find that you've curled your fingers into a tight fist, so much that there are crescent indents visible on your palm now.

"Let's play thumb war," he tells you and you giggle at his words. You never knew what to expect from him.

Still, as your fingers hold each other, and your thumb circles one another, you feel yourself calm down slightly. You play a couple of rounds, and you know he's going easy on you, allowing you to quickly trap his thumb down.

No one has gone to such lengths to cheer you up, and you suddenly feel so grateful for Minho’s presence in your life. You didn't care in what shape he was in, you just needed him to be in it. Which in turn makes you think how bad it'd hurt if he ever leaves.

You don't want Minho to leave. You've gotten so attached to him that the thought of not talking to him again makes your heart race in panic.

Minho notices the change in your expression, suddenly melancholic once again. Your hand has gone limp in his, the thumb war long forgotten by you.

He curses under his breath, before looking at you. "If I dance for you, will you quit being so sad?"

"Dance for me?" you repeat incredulously and he nods, "Yes. I’ll show you an upcoming choreography just... Please smile?"

"Okay," you giggle, plastering a wide grin on your face.

"Not like that you look scary."

"Get to dancing!" you clap excitedly and he rolls his eyes, standing up and looking through his phone for a particular music.

"Oh and no comment!" he looks pointedly at you, and you nod, pretending to zip your mouth and throwing away the key.

'Finesse' by Bruno Mars starts playing and you are left mesmerized by the way Minho dances. It's short but it leaves you yearning to see more. His body moves smoothly, hitting each beat effortlessly. He made it look as if dancing was second nature to him, that it came as easily to him as breathing.

You were speechless, rightfully so. You wished you could build a world where all Minho did was dance.

"That was-" you start when he stops the music but he cuts you off instantly, "I said no comment."

"But--" Minho places his finger on your mouth to silence you, seemingly not thinking too much of it. But the feel of his finger on your lips makes you dizzy. Minho quickly takes off his hand, a blush evidently creeping up his neck.

"Let's just go home," he sighs in defeat and you laugh despite the intense feelings cursing through you.

You don't know if you are imagining it but you swear that your pinkies brush against each other on your walk back. As if there was this magnetic force pulling them together. You wondered what would happen if you just linked your pinky with his. Would he grab you by the hand or will he let go of you entirely?

You were too much of a coward to find out. You were scared of messing up anything with him. So, you'd settle for this. Stolen glances and random outings. You just need him in your life.

"Thank you for today," you tell Minho once you arrive and he shrugs, as what he did wasn't a big deal.

"No, I mean it. Thank you," you repeat, trying your best to convey how sincere you were being. You take in a deep breath, before grabbing his hand and squeezing it, for a fleeting second, before dropping it again.

Minho is sure that your hand will now be imprinted into his, that the lines tracing over your palm will merge with his as one. Your touch was barely there but it had electrocuted him. He wondered to himself if his body would be able to handle more from you. But he'd gladly burn in your fires for the sake of holding you. And he'd wait, unwaveringly, as time stretches alongside the two of you. He'd wait as long as it takes for you.

"Yn, I..." he stammers, taking a step closer to you. His scent engulfs you and you shamefully close your eyes, inhaling it. When you open them again, you find Minho glancing down at your lips. You gulp, dazzled by his proximity.

"You have a mole on your nose," you suddenly speak up and his eyes snap back to yours, an adorable confusion drawn on his features.

"I like that mole," you continue and you wish you could dig yourself a hole and bury yourself in it.

"Thank you," he chuckles and you nod vigorously, "You're welcome."

"Can I ask you something?" he says and your breath hitches in your throat. "Sure."

"You don't like it when people touch you, right?"

"Yeah."

"Can I ask why?"

You want to confide in him, to tell him that it’s because you long for it, you crave it so badly. That this need has woven itself into the very fabric of your being. An ache so raw that it scares you at times. You’ve never known what it feels like to be held- it was uncharted territory to you.

"Isn't everyone scared of the unknown?" you settle on saying, and he nods in understanding. Of course, he understood. No one knows you as well as him.

"It's okay. I just wanted to know if I ever overstepped my boundaries."

"You didn't," you reply instantly.

"Good. You'll tell me if I ever do, right?"

"I will."

"Okay."

"Um. I'll get going," you point behind you and Minho smiles at you, waving you off.

You walk for a few steps before coming back again quickly. You then grab Minho’s hand, gently squeezing it like before, "You are an amazing dancer."

And then you drop it, running back towards your apartment block without waiting for a reply.

Minho stays frozen in his place. You think he's an amazing dancer. And you held his hand for five seconds.

That's four seconds more than the first time.

Progress.

✹✹✹

You haven't gotten out of your house for the past three days.

Everything crashed around you rapidly, it made you realize that the ground you once stood on was only an illusion, elusive and fleeting.

You were doing well; you were getting better. But then Monday came and you went out for a walk in the park near you. As you sat there, you saw a little girl playing on the swings, delightful joy dancing across her features. But then she fell to the ground and you instinctively stood up to help her, only to notice her mother running to her.

The world stilled around you as you clearly saw it- how the little girl clung to her mother's embrace, her embodiment of hope and love. You never had that. You don’t even know what perfume your mother used because she never allowed you to get that close to her.

You stood up abruptly, quickly heading back to your apartment block. As you ran up the stairs, you ended up bumping into one of your neighbors. You were quick to apologize but they ignored you, and the feeling of being invisible came back to haunt you ten times fold.

You knew you shouldn’t have done it, you knew you should have deleted your mother’s number when she sent you away to university without a backward glance, relieved at the thought of you getting a full-ride scholarship and not needing her anymore. But you didn’t, you kept her number in the hopes that she’d call. On your birthday, on holidays, on a random Thursday to tell you that she did remember who you are.

With trembling hands, tears welling in your eyes, you dialed your mother’s number for the first time in a year. You didn’t know what you were expecting. Maybe she regrets it. Maybe she misses you. Maybe she didn’t find the courage to mend her wrongdoings and that's why she never called.

"Hello?" her voice rang through your apartment. Goosebumps erupted on your arms and your hold on the phone tightened. Her voice took you back to memories you thought you had buried. How you spent countless nights yearning to hear the sound of her voice, how you regretted it once she spoke to attack you.

You hate her. You miss her. You want to hang up. You need to ask if she's doing okay.

“Who is this?” Her voice was devoid of recognition, freezing you in your tracks. You felt as if a bucket of ice was thrown over your head, dousing the flame of hope that flickered in your heart.

She deleted your number.

You quickly hung up, placing your phone down on the table. The tears refused to fall. It was as if your body had long anticipated this outcome, leaving only your wounded soul to bear the pain.

Healing isn't linear, you've read about it in books and heard it in shows and movies. One step back doesn't mean that your entire progress is gone. You know this, you've memorized those sentences. So why do you not believe them? Why does it feel as if you can never be free from the past? Why does it feel as if you’ll always seek something out of her?

Those questions roamed your mind for the past three days, making you too tired at the prospect of lifting your limbs, let alone leaving your apartment. You sent your two friends a text, telling them that you're sick so they wouldn't worry. Not that you believed they would. Nothing made sense to you anymore.

You laid on your bed in utter silence- a tense quiet that was disrupted on the third day by someone knocking on your door. You didn't know who was there; you just hoped that they'd leave you alone.

To your surprise, you open the door to find Minho, some notes in his right hand and a coffee in his left. He sends an easy smile your way. You don't smile back.

"What do you want?" your voice is cold, but Minho doesn't bristle. A cheeky smile settles on his lips as he leans on your doorway.

"You didn't come to class for the past three days, so I brought you the notes. So, you wouldn't think our competition is unfair."

"Competition," you chuckle coldly, heading inside your apartment, and he follows suit. You start to pace around furiously, and Minho looks at you worriedly. "Competition?" you repeat, the word dripping off your tongue like venom. You turn around, marching towards Minho and standing a few inches from him. "You know what? Fuck you and your competition!"

"Yn-"

"Did it ever occur to you that I never wanted a part in this competition? That all I wanted was to be left alone?" you say, growing louder as you jab your finger into his chest repeatedly. "I never wanted any of this! Do you understand? I never wanted to be this way," you shout angrily in his face.

The worried look in Minho’s eyes snaps you out of your haze. You realize that you are being utterly ridiculous lashing out at Minho, when the one person you are mad at is yourself.

Your anger quickly deflates, leaving in its trail an agonizing sadness. It's so sudden that it knocks the breath out of you, and you clutch your chest as if it could soothe the burn in your heart. Suddenly you are twelve years old again, crying in your room because you feel like no one has ever loved you.

But this time you aren't alone. Minho is in front of you, and his eyebrows are so furrowed you want to lean forward to ease the tension between them. His eyebrows, you liked his eyebrows, they were arched, and they framed his eyes nicely, and his eyes are brown and so big, and they always look at you softly and why is it getting so hard to breathe-

"Did I do something to you? Whatever it is I’m sorry," Minho panics, cutting off your frantic train of thought. But now, the weight of guilt adds to your overwhelming emotions. You shouldn't have lashed out at him, he brought you coffee and you yelled at him. Maybe your mom was right after all.

You shake your head left and right furiously, your words coming out in hiccups. Since when did you start crying? "It isn't- it isn't you."

"Then let me help you-", he steps forward, hand outstretched, but you take three hurried steps back and wrap your hands around yourself protectively. "Don’t. Please, don't."

"Why are you pushing me away?" his tone isn't accusatory. You've learned time and time again that Minho wouldn't do anything that made you feel uncomfortable.

"You won't understand."

"Then make me."

"Because I’m afraid!" the words slip out of your mouth before you can stop them. "I’m afraid if you ever hug me, I wouldn't be able to go back to hugging myself. I'd need you and I can't afford to need someone else."

You regret the words as soon as they fleet away from your mouth. He would look at you differently, he would find you pathetic and then he’d leave. And you wanted him to leave. But you also wanted him to stay. It was all so confusing.

You felt as if your being was torn between two great forces, each one of them trying to win the war raging inside you. You wished someone else would make the decisions in your place, for once.

Minho places the coffee and notes on the ground before approaching you, his palms facing up in a gesture of surrender. "I won't leave you," he says softly. "I’ll be by your side for as long as you'll have me."

"Minho..." your voice catches in your throat as you utter his name- like a broken prayer. He stands before you, his eyes shimmering like the reflection of a river on a sunny day.

"Please, let me make it better."

You nod tentatively and Minho comes even closer to you. He was treating you like one would with a wounded animal, giving you a chance to ultimately back out. But for once, you listen to what your heart has been yearning for. Your bones are aching to be held, to feel the warmth of a body against your own, to feel safe and secure.

Minho embraces you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and bringing you to him. You slowly bring your arms up and lace them around his waist. You are afraid, deathly afraid. His grip is loose, and you almost can't feel him around you, but when you lay your head on his chest, he tightens his hold on you and you instinctively let out a sob.

He's hugging adult you, the woman whose heart was once again broken by her mom. But he's also hugging little you, the girl who was craving affection from everyone around her. In that instant, Minho is hugging every single version of you that ever needed a hug.

You were right to be scared because you don't want to let go, you want to stay in his arms because they feel safe, like a shield protecting you. You can't go back to not hugging Minho.

The sensation is overwhelming and your knees buckle underneath you. But instead of holding you up, Minho falls to the ground with you, as if you are two inseparable pieces of one puzzle. He isn’t here to fix you, he’s here to break down with you and help you pick up the scattered pieces.

You think back to that night in the park when Minho told you about Japanese vases. At this moment, it dawns on you that Minho has found a way to become a part of you. He was the molten gold binding your broken parts together. He was the invisible thread stitching your wounds back together.

Who were you fooling? It was him; it was him all along.

Minho rocks you gently as you cry and cry and cry. His hand finds your hair and he plays with it as you sob. He tells you you'll be okay, you'll feel better and you try to believe him, his words wrap around your bruises like a healing balm.

"There, there, love. You are okay", he murmurs, tenderly patting your head. A fresh set of tears wells up in your eyes. Love.

"I’m sorry. I'm so sorry," you apologize as you pull away from his embrace.

"Why are you apologizing? Is it because you wet my shirt? I don't mind," he reassures you with a smile and you shake your head.

"I was mean to you and you didn’t deserve it," you explain through hiccups.

"It's okay, you weren't mad at me, were you?" he asks, wiping your tears away so gently with his thumbs, careful not to irritate the sensitive skin.

"No. Still, it isn't okay and I’m sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Shh, don't apologize. It's okay." you look at him doubtfully and he rolls his eyes playfully, "Here I’ll even do your silly pinky promise, okay?" he laces his pinky with yours, but then he suddenly leans forward and places a chaste kiss on your thumb pad. "There, sealed forever."

You giggle faintly as a blush dusts your cheeks, "That's not how it works."

"I know."

Your giggle was far different from the ones Minho was accustomed to. It was small, and it didn't brighten up your face like usual. But he was grateful for it nonetheless. He realized how much he missed your laugh, and how all the other sounds in the world pale in comparison to it.

In that moment Minho thinks to himself that he'd do anything to make you smile again. He'd make a fool out of himself if it meant making you happy. He'd settle for a simple tug at the corners of your mouth, anything but the sadness that seemed etched in your face, as if it was blended into the colors that drew you.

You tentatively move around, before laying your head on his lap. Minho's hand instinctively finds your hair and he starts to gently play with it. It feels as if you've done this a million times before, when in fact it was the first.

There was something wildly intimate about laying on the floor with the man who just comforted you. It made you want to spill all your secrets to him, one by one, and have him hug you through them.

"Did you mean it? When you said you'll stay?" you felt so vulnerable in his hold, as if he could twist you whoever he liked. But you trusted him. You trusted yourself with Minho.

"I did. Your walls are always up. It's hard to peek behind them. But I don't want to tear them down. I want you to slowly unbuild them. I want you to do it for yourself."

To do it for yourself, it's hard to even know who you are anymore.

"I want to tell you."

"You don't need to."

"I know, but I want to."

"Okay. Take your time, kitten." he pats your head gently, and you try to sync your breathing to the rhythm of his touch. You were grateful that you were lying on his lap since you couldn't see his face. It made talking feel a little less daunting.

"On my 9th birthday... I was very excited. I'd been on my best behavior that month, trying to please my mom in the hope that, for once, we'd celebrate my birthday. Like a normal little family," you smile sadly, you were so hopeful back then.

"My birthday came, I woke up, excited. My mom was still asleep, nothing out of the ordinary. So, I made my breakfast and walked to my school. I wore my prettiest dress and put on pigtails with hair clips. It was my birthday after all," Minho smiles softly at your words, his hand now resting on your own.

"I got back home and waited for my mom to come back. She remembered my birthday, I thought. And then, she came but she didn't talk to me. So, I thought, oh a surprise party!" you chuckle, but this time the smile on Minho’s face is gone.

"It was then 11 pm, and the hope had slowly died in me. So, in my stupid innocent self, I went to my mom, and asked her "Did you forget my birthday?". And I remember... I remember the way she laughed. Cruelly. Like I had told her the funniest joke in the world. And then. Then she looked me dead in the eye and said 'I hate the fact that you are born. Why would I celebrate that?'"

Minho sucks in a deep breath at your words, and you exhale one right out. It felt comforting, to have someone else stomach the hurt for you. To take the weight off your shoulders, allowing you a few moments to breathe.

"I confronted her about it one day, but she said she doesn't remember saying that. It's funny how it was a random Thursday for her, but for me, it shaped my life." you smile bitterly, "I remember how jealous I was of the way the other kids talked about their mothers. They said the word so lightly. It must have reminded them of sunshine and ice cream and rainbows. But for me, it held an uncharacteristic heaviness to it. I grew to hate the word."

"I drove myself crazy, Min", you whisper and he brings you closer to his body, "was it me or was it her? When did it start? Was it because I was too loud as a child or maybe too quiet? Did I not cater to her fantasies of a kid? I wanted to remember every single thing that happened throughout my childhood, thread through every single memory. I tried to pinpoint the exact moment my mom stopped loving me."

Minho squeezes your hand tightly in his, and you feel as if he was pulling you away from the memory that had long trapped you. You were now watching it unfold from outside of the window, your hand in his, safe from the hurt it had inflicted on you.

"It's not you. It could never be you. Some people are simply not fit to be parents. It's never their kid's fault."

Minho tries his best to keep his touch soothing, to make his voice sound as soft as possible. But he was angry, he was so angry at the world for not taking care of you when you were younger. His heart broke, thinking of 9-year-old you being told such cruel words.

He wanted to turn back time and tell you that you were enough. He wanted to make the pain that seemed so anchored in you float back to the surface, and dissipate like sea foam meeting the shore.

But he couldn't do that. All he could do is comfort present you.

Minho gently pulls you up from his lap, making you sit upright. He crisscrosses his legs and you do the same. Your knees brush against each other and you feel a shiver run down your spine. You didn't know that even knees could emanate such warmth.

"Yn, look at me. The world wouldn't be the same without you in it," he cradles your face between his hands, "You hear me yn? I’m so thankful you exist."

His doe brown eyes are sincere, and it made you want to believe him badly. That's a good start, right?

"I’ll be back," he tells you, letting go of your face and standing up.

You hear Minho rummaging through the kitchen and you take the time to calm yourself down. Sharing those parts of you with Minho felt therapeutic. As if you were healing parts of your inner child. You have never talked about this with anyone before, maybe this is why it still hurt as badly.

Minho comes back five minutes later, his hands behind his back. You raise a brow at him inquisitively and he just smiles secretly at you. "Close your eyes," he tells you and you giggle, doing as he says. He crouches in front of you, and you hear him shuffle in his place for a bit.

Then, "Open your eyes yn," and you find him, in front of you, a cupcake you had stored in your fridge in his hands, and a makeshift candle lit up. "Happy 9th birthday, love. You did well."

You stare at him in utter bewilderment. You couldn't believe your eyes. How could this man be so thoughtful? He was wishing you a belated birthday, to compensate for the 9th birthday you didn't celebrate.

You panic, at the look in his eyes. You've never seen it, never dared to dream of it, of someone caring for you unconditionally. So, you try to scare him, to push him away. You didn't want him to regret knowing you.

"There are things I need you to know um", you chuckle nervously, "When I... When I throw up, I hold my hair, and when I’m sick I nurse myself back to health, and when I have a nightmare I- I hold my hand in the dark. It will be hard for me to hold yours instead."

"We'll start a finger at a time, yeah?"

"It will take time."

"I have time," he speaks easily, as if loving you was effortless and not a strenuous task. You couldn't fathom it.

"You are too busy-", he cuts you off instantly, "Not for you."

"The world doesn't stop because we need it to." Your voice is quiet; this is your very last try. You are tired of fighting. You are putting down your armor and waving a white flag.

"We'll make it stop. Here, the two of us. On this floor. We'll take as long as we need to."

"I never deemed you as an optimist", you smile a little, a hint of teasing in your tone.

"I’m not," he pauses, gazing down at the cupcake between his hands and then at you. "But I feel that we deserve a bit of happiness together, don't we?"

"We do."

"Then make a wish."

You close your eyes for a few seconds, before blowing on the candle.

"What did you wish for?" he asks a fond smile on his face.

The answer came naturally to you, you didn't even need to think about it. "I wished for you."

Minho's lips come crashing down on yours, and you imagine that this is what it feels like to see colors for the first time. To discover a new world beyond the one you've always known.

The kiss isn't urgent nor feverish, it is one of comfort. Your lips spilling the words you have not yet said to each other. "I love you," he kisses you, "I love you too," you kiss him back. "I need you to stay," you swipe your tongue across his bottom lip, "I’m never leaving you," he opens his mouth allowing you entrance.

As you kiss him, you remember a fact you once learned in high school. The human body possesses seven trillion nerves. And for the first time in your life, you feel as if each of these nerves is alive. You feel that even the smallest atom is electrocuted with Minho’s love and it’s all you know within you.

You feel as if the pain, the hurt, and the ache you've been through are slowly unraveled, and in their place, a timid happiness is starting to bloom. You imagine that when Minho’s lips met your own, the seven trillion nerves inside you exhaled in relief 'We've made it', they said, 'we'll finally be okay.'

Epilogue

You've always thought that epilogues were useless. How can you resume the rest of your life in one sentence, boil down the rest of your existence in mere pages? Because life doesn't stop at the epilogue, and a new book can start once again, right where you left it off.

But with Minho, you didn't mind an epilogue. On the contrary, you longed for a soft one. You wanted to rest on this last page, you wanted to lay your worries on the words and tuck them into the syllables. And you wanted to wake up anew.

And this wasn't the end of your story with Minho. A lot happened after it. But it didn't worry you, because epilogues are about the one thing that doesn't change throughout the long march of time. And luckily for you, that constant was Minho’s love for you. From that day he held you, he has never let go.

It took time, for his warmth to seep through your bones. It took time, for your heart to forget the cold. But you wanted to do it. With him. You wanted to love and be loved.

The sound of cats mewling fills your apartment, pudding can always be found in your fridge and you haven't felt invisible in years.

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yougavemeyourheartyouknow · 7 months

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Tell me how you hate me now (Miguel O’Hara x fem! Scientist! Reader) Drabble

Hiiii, so I know I said I’d focus on my main series and I am! But I just had to whip this up after my comment thread from my last post. In my head I imagine this being with Miguel from the game Edge of Time but it can be any Miguel variant. Not proofread, enjoy!

Cursing, workplace enemies to lovers, the girls are arguing 🤭, make out session, slight NSFW (just some ass squeezing) but no smut.

Word count: 750

Masterlist

—

“O’Hara! Hey O’Hara!” You called out to the figure that sat alone in the lab room. Your irrational only building when you didn’t get a response, not even a glance in your direction. Your pace quicken, white lab coat flaring out behind you as you close the gap between you and the other scientist. Angrily dropping a Manila folder onto his desk, the force of which made a few of his own papers fly a few inches off his desk. Finally making him look up at you with huff and a scowl.

You two have been working together for the last twelve years at Alchemax, and never had you two gotten alone. Always fighting about projects, butting heads about deadlines, everything about and between you both always ended with fighting and arguing.

“Do you know what this is?” The question was rhetorical, a manicured finger pointing at the file that had the name of your last project proposal printed on top. Your angry gaze on his face never wavering as you watch his tired eyes lazily drop to the folder, before looking up at you once more rather boredly.

“Your last project proposal?” He deadpanned.

“Yes, my last project proposal.” You scoffed, “The one that got rejected because you decided to bad mouth it to Stone.” You glared at him, feeling your blood pressure rising higher than it already was as you stood up straight and crossed your arms over your chest. Your eyes immediately connected with his brown ones as he turned his swivel chair to face you properly, arms coping your mannerisms as you both had a miniature stare down before he finally spoke.

“You're acting like this thing-“ he abruptly stood up, making you instinctively take a step back. Grabbing the proposal and using the back of his other hand to lightly hit the folder before dropping it back onto his desk. The pages spilling out from the hazardous manner, making your blood boil. “wasn't already garbage-“

“Garbage?!”

“Garbage.”

You had to close your eyes and take in a deep breath to stop yourself from lunging at the large man, wanting to tear him a new one. Once you were able to calm yourself down enough you looked back up at him. Despite his towering size over you, you didn’t find him all that intimidating.

“You’re just saying that because you wanted him to pick your project over mine-and don’t say I’m making shit up because you always do it, that’s how you got your project chosen last time!”

“Oh please, god forbid I don’t want to work under you for the next six months. It’s too chaotic! Just thinking about it gives me a migraine…” As if for dramatic effect, a hand goes up and he pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Oh yeah, because you’re so pleasant to be working for.” You rolled your eyes, sarcasm dripping from your mouth like venom from a snake’s. “If an intern so much as breathes the wrong way, you lose it.” You're too busy ranting to notice he was making his way towards you. “And don’t even get me started on how you micromanage everything-“

You were cut off by the sudden warmth of lips on yours, eyes wide as you blinked yourself back into the current moment. You had to be dreaming right? Why else would Miguel be kissing you. You didn’t even get to fully process the action before you felt his large hand slip to the small of your back, gently guiding you to make sure you didn’t trip over your own feet as he pushed you up against the wall.

Yeah you weren’t dreaming.

He licks your bottom lip in a silent plea to let him in, you couldn’t help but to melt into the kiss. Once the initial shock finally wore off, your body began to feel hot all over. Eyes flickering shut as your hands landed on his chest, running up to lock around his neck, no doubt leaving wrinkles in their wake. His hand came down to give your ass a firm squeeze, making you involuntarily moan at the movement.

You felt like you could drown in him, he pulled away for air before you got the chance too.

“Been wanting to kiss that pretty mouth shut for a long time.” He admitted between heavy breaths, “tell me how you hate me now with my tongue down your throat.” He taunted playfully, before closing the gap between your lips once more.

—

Taglist: @famouscattale @strawberryjuice9 @loser-alert @maomaimao @franceseca-the-1st @mcmiracles @mangoslushcrush @queerponcho

#miguel o hara fanfic #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara #miguel o’hara au #spiderman 2099 x reader #astv spiderman 2099 #astv miguel #miguel spiderverse #spiderman 2099 fanfic #miguel fanfic #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel ohara x reader #miguel x reader #miguel spiderman #miguel ohara spiderman #spiderman 2099 #miguel ohara #miguel o’hara drabble #spiderman 2099 drabble

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remcycl333 · 1 year

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STEP 1 - CHANGE WHAT YOU’RE AWARE OF

notes from “the creative use of imagination” by neville goddard 🤍

step 0 is to decide what you want. maybe you want money, or a new place to live, or an sp, or physical appearance changes.

step 1: begin to observe those thoughts and reactions towards the thing you want to manifest.

“to arrive at a certain definition of self, you must begin by uncritically observing your automatic reaction to an event, for your reaction defines your state” -NG

throughout this post, I will use the example of physical appearance change.

maybe throughout your day, you see pictures of other people on social media that you view as more attractive as you, and your reaction to that is “I wish I looked like them, this isn’t fair why am i not as attractive as them, what do I need to do to look like them” etc.

or maybe you see yourself in the mirror and you think “god why do i look like that, why am i not attractive? why hasn’t my face changed yet?” Etc

if you were in the state of having your desired physical appearance, would you be reacting that way to your 3D?

the first step to changing our state is to first learn the way our old state behaves and reacts to things. it is our current dwelling state that is reflecting in our 3d right now, and when you stop and observe your reactions to things, it becomes glaringly obvious how they’re creating your 3d. if you’re ruminating on how ugly you think you are all day long, you cannot be surprised when you look in the mirror and are dissatisfied with what you see.

“If you react to that which is being objectified, you bind yourself to a certain level of awareness, but if you refuse to react, the thread is broken.” -NG

“Only by observing your reactions to life can you find yourself.” -NG

how are you supposed to know what state you are in if you don’t observe your reactions? And once you begin to observe your reactions, Neville says you will be shocked by how deceitful you truly are. but he always urges the importance of uncritical observation. you should not shame yourself for what you find, or even feel bad. these observations are simply meant to show you your current state, and the ins and outs of it so you are able to change it more easily.

“always examine yourself uncritically, for the moment you become critical, you automatically justify your reactions and associate yourself with the thing observed.” -NG

once you begin to observe your reactions, you will become more aware of them when they happen. they’ll grow to become uncomfortable and glaring. they will feel like they don’t fit you anymore. maybe before they were just knee-jerk, unconscious reactions, but now you will feel them take up the space in your head whenever they arrive. and because of this, you will be able to shift your awareness to what you really want your 3d to reflect. you will be able to let go of the parts of yourself you no longer wish to identify with.

“be transformed by the renewing of your mind by changing the ideas planted there, for you cannot change your thinking until you change the ideas from which your thoughts flow.” -NG

your state creates your thoughts, not the other way around. it is critical to understand this if you wish to change your dwelling state. your thoughts are not your enemies. if you constantly battle against your thoughts, without ever paying mine to your state, you will not have much success.

“accept an idea as true. identify yourself with it and it will out-picture itself in your world. but if you do not accept the thought and identify yourself with it through feeling, you are free from its results. you must become very selective and learn not to associate yourself with unlovely thoughts.” -NG

this is not to confused with the term “mental diet.” when you react negatively to something, you have two options. 1) beat the thought down and panic and tell yourself the opposite without believing it to be true, or 2) choosing not to identify with it. remind yourself that this thought is just a thought. it has no power over you, and if you don’t want it to be manifested into your reality, it will not. Neville says if you do not consent to a thought as true, it will not manifest into your world. if you don’t associate your inner being with that thought, it will not come to pass in your 3D.

“start now to consent only to lovely thoughts of fulfilled desires prior to their confirmation by your senses, and give up the animal instinct of suffering and bathing yourself in the feelings of hurt and self-pity.” -NG

ruminating in unpleasant thoughts where your desire remain unfulfilled can be comfortable, and even habitual, but at the end of the day it is a choice. a choice that you have to stop making if you truly want better for yourself. this is something I struggled with a lot at the beginning of my manifestation journey. there was some twisted pleasure and comfort found in picking at scabs in my mind, and feeling sorry for myself, and imagining what would happen if my desire was never realized in my 3d. but eventually I had to choose better for myself, and I had to choose to stop giving so much attention to mental conversations like that.

“control your imagination with steady attention and dare to stand and be heard.” -NG

YOU create the happenings of your imagination, and your imagination creates your reality. do not feel silly or foolish deciding better for yourself in your own imagination. and do not let the logical restrictions of the 3d to tell you what you can and can not give yourself in imagination. give yourself what you want in imagination and stand firm in that, even if your 3d shows the opposite. stop silencing yourself in your own imagination!

this is my thoughts and notes only on the first two chapters of “the creative use of imagination” so more may come as I continue my re-read! 🤍 just wanted to share this :)

#law of assumption #neville goddard #states

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queenaeducan · 3 months

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In Defense of Spirits

Or, alternatively:

I. Introduction

Spirits are one of my favourite parts of the Dragon Age lore, but they didn't start that way! Initially with Origins the various demons I fought I considered little more than cannon fodder, enemies put in my way to cut down so I could move on with my mission. With the introduction of Justice in Awakening and Dragon Age II coupled with Merrill’s alternate perspective also introduced in the latter, my feelings about them started to change. Solas and Cole crack those feelings wide open come Inquisition, and when replaying the games I found myself questioning the motivations of encounters with people I once considered one-note enemies.

I wanted to compile a list of these alternate readings of the various spirits we meet throughout the series, starting first with Origins. I'll be detailing some common themes and, where it’s appropriate, to defend their actions. This list is not comprehensive as there are some encounters I don’t consider significant or interesting enough to mention, although if someone’s curious about a particular spirit I’m happy to oblige. For the purposes of clarity, if I use the word “spirit” I am still referring to all denizens of the Fade, whether they call themselves Pride or Compassion. I may use the word “demon,” as a treat.

The purpose of this retrospective is to reflect upon the motivations of the spirits we kill through the series and how I think Bioware successfully created a world where, in this instance, we were sucked into their preconceived biases regarding spirits. And hopefully to make you feel as bad as I do when I’m forced to kill spirits who probably are better people than my player characters. I am also not arguing that everything I put forth here was intended by the writers. I have the reach and flexibility to pull out threads they didn’t expect me to.

Finally, this won’t be an exhaustive examination. There are a lot of spirits and some don’t invite discussion on my part.

II. Analytical Lens

There are several recurring themes that will crop up when I’m recontextualising the motivations of the spirits throughout the series. We’ll be going over these in detail as we talk about individual spirits, but for now:

The Veil is a construct. There was initially no barrier stopping them from moving back and forth freely, and in many ways their desire to manifest physically outside the Fade is a natural inclination. The problem being that going there and back again isn’t as easy as it once was.

They don’t understand this world. Again, I think the presence of the Veil exacerbates this. Time and again we see spirits who do have enough will to manifest safely have difficulty adjusting.

Trying to help hurts. Spirits can’t sicken with Blight or the common cold (that we know of), but intense emotions or cruel intentions can twist them from their purposes. Those who reach out in the honest urge to help may find themselves burned, sometimes through no fault of either party.

Their design encourages dehumanisation. For lack of a better word, considering this is a land of elves, dwarves, qunari, and so on. Many of the spirits we’re asked to empathise with are humanoid, with those we are at odds with being more likely to be monstrous or animal in design, making it easier to justify why we need to choose violence.

III. Dragon Age: Origins

Mouse

Mouse is among the first spirit players will meet in Dragon Age, depending on whether or not they play the Mage origin or not. Narratively he is meant to introduce the player to the role spirits often play in the lives of mages, that is to say: an evil that is not always self-evident. He tells a sympathetic lie, presents himself as someone who was once in a position like the protagonist currently is, and wants to make sure they don’t end up like him, only for it to be revealed that the entire reason he’s there is to possess them. At least, nominally that’s his role. A second pass at Mouse’s actions does raise questions as to his true intentions.

Throughout the test Mouse encourages two things within the protagonist: their self-worth and their questioning of the ritual. The former makes sense, he is ultimately revealed to be a spirit of Pride and so to stoke the protagonist’s own pride may inflate their confidence to a point where they can’t see the potential harm in dealing with him. Still, in a society where magic is feared and mages prisoners, there is something radical in encouraging that in someone. Especially when paired with remarks Mouse makes where he questions the logic of the Harrowing itself:

“It isn’t right they do this, the Templars. Not to you, me, anyone.”

This is one of the first things he says to you, and is one of the first pieces of Circle critical rhetoric in the entire series. From the perspective of the protagonist at the time, it would seem he’s referring only to apprentices, but is he? Spirits are drawn into the Harrowing as much as mages, ostensibly willingly with the promise of a body to possess, but we see in rituals such as the one that drew Wisdom into the world that the Circle isn’t above shackling spirits into doing their bidding, be it as a means of protection or garnering information. Once inside, they’re subject to the will of the apprentice, who have been taught to fear and mistrust the Fade since they were first brought to the Circle. So is Mouse expressing bitterness about the situation of the apprentices, or is he looking at the situation as being equally unfair to all involved?

Furthermore, what’s most interesting about Mouse is he never actually tries to possess you. He makes some requests, which Surana or Amell can’t agree to, but even if you avoid catching onto his game for as long as you can it never goes farther than that. He reveals himself as the final test and before the Harrowing ends he dispenses the to-be Warden a warning:

“Simple killing is a warrior’s job. The real dangers of the Fade are preconceptions, careless trust… pride. Keep your wits about you, mage. True tests never end.”

A piece of wisdom, if you will.

I don’t believe Mouse ever truly intended to possess you, although it’s impossible to tell if he truly would or not without the ability to agree to his bargain. He gives up the game too quickly, with the Warden only needing to vaguely doubt his story before he reveals it. By following the Warden through their Harrowing he helps them successfully bargain with spirits like Valor and Sloth and safely introduces the idea that not everything here is as it seems. Rather than being purely a Pride demon, I think Mouse is a spirit of Wisdom influenced by the Warden’s preconceptions towards what some might call the darker aspect of the values he represents.

While I don’t think it’s out of the realm of possibility that Mouse was exactly what we’re led to believe, nevertheless I believe it probable that spirits aren’t always gleeful participants in the Harrowing and that the rite is damaging to them as well as the apprentice mages.

Desire

We go now to another spirit from the Circle, specifically the Desire demon we meet in the Broken Circle quest. When we come across her she’s possessed a Templar and letting him live out a fantasy of having a wife and children. When the Warden and their party come across her, she argues that she’s giving him what he wants and doesn’t see the harm in it. Upon my first playthrough I took this as a lie and killed her, although it was difficult not feeling bad, as from the perspective of the enthralled Templar he died defending his family from bandits. To him the Warden was unequivocally the bad guy, and it’s tragic thinking about what his final thoughts might have been.

As for Desire herself, I think there’s an argument to be made that she simply didn’t see a difference between her making a life for herself and the Templar all within his head and a physical, lived life. We see in Inquisition especially, where we talk to more spirits, that the nature of the physical world is as alien to them as the Fade is to mortals. Command wonders out loud why the rocks do not move at her command, and Cole asks Varric to talk to his shoelaces for him because they “don’t listen to him.” They existed in a world where will mattered more and where dreams were real, so it stands to reason that to Desire there is no discernable difference between giving him what he wants for real and dreaming it.

Interestingly, you can choose to let them both go, and we get no indication of where they go from the Circle. Leliana also approves because she thinks what counts is that he’s happy. Personally I don’t feel there’s a right option in this quest as either leaves the Templar in a tragic spot, but I do think the Desire demon’s motivations aren’t as evil or manipulative as they seemed on my first playthrough.

Lady of the Forest

The Lady is perhaps the first spirit in the series given a more complicated character than “spirit good, demon bad.” We have Valor in the mage origin, Wynne’s spirit of Faith, etc, but they aren’t given much characterisation and their benevolent nature is taken as a matter of fact. We have a biased introduction to her, we see the damage she has done to Zathrian’s clan and hear his side of the story. We go into the forest to carve the heart from her chest.

But when the time comes to actually speak with her, his bias and deception is plain. She has all the trappings of a demon: summoned at a point of great tragedy, as a tool of vengeance, enacting a literal curse upon Zathrian’s enemies. Yet now she is an advocate for non-violent solutions, only compelled to violence by desperation (she sent letters but Zathrian left her on read) or by the player’s encouragement (potentially). I do think this was an end she worked towards, and didn’t come by naturally, saying to the Warden at one point:

“Then the time has come to… set our rage aside. I apologise on Swiftrunner’s behalf. He struggles with his nature.”

While she is speaking of Swiftrunnher, given she is the curse’s origin, I think the same could be said of her nature (as it is her curse). Zathrian implies much the same, saying to her:

“Your nature compels it, as does mine.”

I think it’s very likely that had we encountered the Lady those hundred years ago when she was first made, she would have been to our eyes a demon, rather than the semi-benevolent force of nature she appears as in-game. Interestingly, her outward nature doesn’t change if she is compelled to kill the Dalish. She isn’t thrilled, but neither is her nature twisted. She’s pretty quick to move on, afterwards. Of the major spirits in DA:O, I do think she is an outlier in the series. Killing her is the bad option, especially when a mutually beneficial solution is forced upon you. She also has a stronger presence of mind than many of the other spirits, perhaps accounting to her age and the fact that she is tethered to the world through not only Zathrian but her ‘followers.’ It’s fitting that the Dalish quest is the one where a spirit is presented not only sympathetically, but (as far as I can tell) exclusively referred to as a spirit whether they are doing right or wrong.

Rage

We meet many Rage demons in Origins, and throughout the series, but the spirit I’m referring to are the ones we meet in the Alienage’s orphanage. The recent site of a massacre, the orphanage is now home to a spirit of Rage who attacks those who enter. Rage, I thought, was a curious choice, when Despair and Terror exist. Although the fact that they probably didn’t want to make a new spirit model for this one sidequest would probably explain it on a development level, but then I wondered— whose rage?

The spirits don’t seem to embody the rage of the people who massacred the orphanage, or even the rage of the victims. They tell the Warden and Ser Otto that they “do not belong here” and one is furious that the party has killed “my brood.” I think the presence of the spirits here is indicative of how helpful or benevolent spirits can be twisted by the horrors of our world, that they were drawn by the misery of what happened at the orphanage and upon witnessing it they became enraged. They are ultimately protecting nothing, just an empty building that’s probably best torn down or cleared out, or whatever the elves of Denerim’s Alienage decide they need to properly mourn. Yet as we walk through the building the screams of children still play around us, it’s still happening for its current residents.

In the final encounter of the quest, the Rage demon targets and kills Ser Otto (assuming those mabari you encounter like two minutes in don’t get him first, like they do for me every time if I’m not paying attention) first out of your entire party. It makes sense, although his motivation was pure, he is representative of the human justice that allows horrors like this, and what’s more— how many orphans were taken from the orphanage’s midst by people wearing armour just like his, never to return?

The rage demons had every right to be angry, even if their anger manifested in a harmful way. The tragedy is that, outside of Denerim’s Alienage, most people weren’t.

IV. Other

These are spirits whose roles I don’t have much to say about, for one reason or another.

Kitty. I don’t have much to say about Kitty, who as a reminder is the spirit held captive in the basement of Wilhelm, the former master of Shale. Given Kitty can agree to not possess Amalia, content simply to be free of the basement, and then doubles back on that promise once you complete the puzzle, I don’t have the highest opinion of Kitty. However, can I do want to point out that Wilhelm held Kitty captive in his basement for decades for his research. Research which, by the way, was to find ways to prevent mages from becoming possessed. A little ironic that he essentially possessed a spirit to do so. I want to point this out only because I think it highlights how spirits are casually used by people and at no point do we stop and wonder what decades of being locked up in a basement outside of their intended realm of existence might do to someone, even a metaphysical someone.

Herren. The merchant and life partner of the blacksmith Wade, who may have made your Warden some nice armour from all those endangered dragons they killed. In the Darkspawn Chronicles Herren is fought— as a desire demon. Gaider says this is not canon, but he doesn’t even go here anymore, so instead I’d like to put forth the idea that Herren is a desire demon taken physical form who lives out his existence peacefully (if somewhat grumpily) with his eccentric husband. I have no evidence of this being a fact, in fact I have the opposite of evidence, but I like my version better, so.

The Grand Oak. I think everyone with a modicum of taste likes this guy, but I do think he's an interesting lens to look at how spirits in Elvhenan might have lived. I like to think all of them had a period where they just vibed as a tree for a hundred years or so.

#dragon age #dragon age meta #dragon age lore #dragon age: origins #lady of the forest #mouse dragon age #long post #my writing #i have no idea what to tag this tbh

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eddiesghxst · 1 year

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PRICE OF FAME (PART 3/12)

ALRIGHTY HERE WE GO !!

————

18+ — MINORS DNI

pairing: rockstar!eddie x journalist!reader

summary: eddie and gareth don't get along and eddie thinks you look cute when you're sleeping

contains: enemies to lovers trope, smoking, alcohol use, maybe gareth's a bitch lol, scary feelings, a sprinkle of fluff, and eddie being down bad in every way, shape, and form <3

word count: 5.3k

| previous part | next part |

| series masterlist | -main masterlist- |

Breakfast has been your favorite part of joining Corroded Coffin on tour. Aside from the fluffy, soft, sweet pancakes, grease-dripping bacon, and toe-curling orgasmic coffee, breakfast has always been lighthearted and fun. Richie makes everybody sit at the table together like a family so there can be some sense of normalcy throughout the busy days; it’s nice.

You alternate with your seating, wanting to get to know all of the crew members as best as you can while you have the time, and you’ve had decent conversations amongst some awkward ones. On the first day, you sat next to Mitch, the light coordinator, and listened to his story about how he met his husband. They’re expecting a baby this fall, and you two bounced a few names off each other for him to consider. On the second day, you sat beside Kaylee, the tour stylist, and talked about your college horror stories. On the third day, you sat next to Brandon, a stage manager, and spoke about… well, you don’t really remember because he talked the entire time, and you kind of blanked out. Slowly, you’ve made your way around the table each day, learning little things about the group.

Today, however, there is not the usual lighthearted and familial atmosphere at the table.

You came down to the breakfast hall a bit late from your shower, and the second you stepped into the room, you could sense the tension still hanging from yesterday. You haven’t spoken to or seen Eddie since he confronted Gareth at the studio, and you’re not sure if he’d even want to see you, but you have no choice but to take the only open seat next to him.

You quietly say good morning to everyone, and Richie is the only one who gives you a warm response. “How’d you sleep, birdie?” He questions around a mouthful of eggs. You nod and settle in, “Good, I almost slept through my alarm.” You jokingly admit. Richie chuckles, “1500 thread count sheets will do that to you.” He says, causing the table to erupt in a soft symphony of laughter.

It falls awkwardly silent, and you try your best to avoid glancing at Gareth, but there’s no doubt everybody notices the shiner he’s sporting on his eye. The room is filled with sounds of forks clanking against plates and the quiet mumble of short, faint snippets of conversation until Richie clears his throat, “We’ve got an interview with the press at twelve and rehearsals at three, like always, so do what you need to do before then. We can’t be late for this interview, got it?” He reminds the crew, and everybody’s head nods in understanding, all but one.

“I’m not going.”

All eyes turn to Gareth, a full plate sitting untouched before him as he slumps back in his seat. Beside you, Eddie lights a cigarette, and you opt to busy yourself with taking a bite of your French toast, practically feeling the anger radiating from Eddie as he takes a drag. Richie clears his throat once again, scooting closer to the table and tilting his head with a look of confusion, “Um… why not?” He questions.

Gareth glances at him as best as he can with his black eye, “Because I’ve got an eye the size of a tennis ball on my face, Richie.” Everyone at the table seems to uncomfortably shift now that the elephant in the room has been addressed. Eddie doesn’t waste a second to speak up from beside you, “Nothing you didn’t deserve.” For the first time since yesterday, Eddie looks at Gareth and sees the swollen eye he left from yesterday. Eddie doesn’t show a single hint of regret.

The table returns to quietly eating as Gareth ignores Eddie’s comment, “I’m not going.” He reiterates. Richie sighs and rubs the coarse mustache on his face, “You have to go, Gareth. Just put some shades on.” He suggests, returning to his food as if the conversation finished, but Gareth holds up. “I’m not gonna sit there in shades like a fucking idiot, man.”

“Well, you don’t have a choice, son,” Richie snaps, dropping the fork in his plate to look at Gareth. You wish the floor would open up and swallow you whole, and you’re sure you’re not the only person with that wish when you look at the other crew members at the table. “This band has an album coming soon,” he reminds the group, “We don’t have time for rumors and gossip to start circulating; you need to show up as a unit. This isn’t up for debate.”

The conversation could’ve ended there because, quite frankly, it seemed like Gareth was willing to go with it, but Eddie couldn’t let the moment to say something slip, “Just let him go, Rich.” He shrugs. You glance at Eddie, watching as he taps his cigarette ash into his plate, “It’s not like he brings much to the table anyway.”

Across the table, from the corner of your eye, you see Gareth lean forward to glare at Eddie, “The fuck does that mean?” He snaps.

Eddie looks at Gareth for the second time and shrugs, “Means you’re a shit band member, man. Fuckin’ Mitch has done more for this band than you ever have or could’ve done.” He gestures towards Mitch, ignoring when the man slightly cowers in his seat. Gareth looks at Eddie with a stone-cold glare, saying nothing momentarily and letting the thick blanket of silence curl around everyone's neck. He leans forward and points a finger at Eddie, who’s not even looking at him anymore, “Fuck you. You wonder why Chrissy left you for Jason Carver, it’s because you’re a fucking asshole.”

“Jesus Christ, guys–” Jeff tries to interject, but Gareth continues speaking, “At least Jason acknowledges her. That’s more than you ever did.” He jabs. Eddie chuckles, shaking his head before speaking around a cloud of smoke, “You don’t know shit about me and Chrissy.”

Gareth tauntingly laughs, “Nah, she filled me in quite a fuckin’ bit.”

The invisible ticking time bomb seems to have gone off in Eddie’s mind. He stands up from his chair, a loud screeching noise grating everyone's ears as he flicks his cigarette into his plate, “The fuck did you just say?”

“Hey, hey, hey!” Richie interjects, standing up and raising his hands as a gesture to stop. “Enough. Fucking enough,” he glances between the two heated men in annoyance, “I don’t know what’s gotten into you boys, but you need to figure your shit out on your own time.” He snaps. Your hands rest in your lap, anxiously picking at the seam of your jeans, wanting to shrink into your seat because you can’t help but feel as if this is your fault. It was your journal he read anyway; you play some part in the issue, right?

Richie sits back down with an exhaustive huff, picking up his fork to resume eating, but before he picks up a piece of his food, he gestures at the table, “Either sit down and finish your goddamn meal, or fuck off somewhere. Both of you.”

Eddie stands for a moment before deciding to leave without another word.

By the time the press interview rolls around, you’re more anxious than you thought you’d be. Between the time frame of breakfast and now, you had more than enough time to ponder over the messy situation you’ve accidentally created between Gareth and Eddie.

Truthfully, you had no idea that the Chrissy Gareth had mentioned during your conversation was Eddie’s ex-girlfriend Chrissy; hell, you didn’t even know Eddie had an ex-girlfriend named Chrissy until yesterday!

On one of your few sit-downs with Gareth, you ended up discussing his love life, and you took the leap of faith to ask him if he’d ever been in love.

“…There was one girl. Her name was Chrissy; we went to high school together.”

“You dated?” “No,” Gareth shakes his head, “No, we never dated. But I always had this weird connection with her… like we understood each other in a deeper way.”

You smile in awe of the sweetness behind his words, jotting down little notes in your journal as he speaks. “I always admired her to an extent, but she, uh,” he clears his throat and scratches at his jaw, “she was in another relationship for most of the time I knew her.”

Gareth silently watches as you continue to write. You look up at him when you realize he’s been silent for a while, and you open your mouth to ask what is wrong, but he speaks before you, “Is this um,” he gestures towards your journal, “this bit isn’t going in the final publish, right?” He asks. You tilt your head, a few questions running through your mind, but you brush them off, “Um… well, I suppose I can leave some of it out, yes.”

Gareth nods, shifting in his chair and clearing his throat. “Okay, good. Um… well, anyways,” he begins, “Me and Chrissy didn’t hook up until I went back to Hawkins during our break off from last year's tour.”

Ultimately, Gareth had explained that Chrissy had recently left a three-year relationship when they’d hooked up. He explained that they crossed paths at a bar, and things took off from there, but he cut it off with her the following morning. He never told you why he cut it off, but you now understand the guilt of betraying his best friend had forced him to do so.

You had no idea that the entire conversation was pertaining to Eddie’s ex; if you had known, you would’ve never written it down. You wouldn’t have even finished the conversation if Gareth had told the whole truth because, quite honestly, you would rather not be in the mix of this disaster.

You’re disappointed. Upset that Gareth practically used you to get the guilt off his chest. And the truth is, that conversation did little to nothing for Gareth in the long run; he still felt guilty for never telling Eddie, and it’s only gotten worse with the added tension between them now that the secret is out.

Eddie was cold toward you before, but now he’s thicker than the ice in Antarctica. He’s avoiding you at all costs— and maybe he’s just avoiding everybody. Still, you can’t help but take his avoidance personally, especially when you’d thought you were finally reaching some sort of middle ground with him.

You sit off to the side of the stage with the rest of the band’s crew as you watch them take their seats for the press interview. Eddie sits on one end of the table while Gareth sits at the other end, the other two members filling the two seats in between. Gareth had no choice but to cover his black eye with a dark shade of glasses, and it seemed like nobody paid mind to it— typical rockstar wardrobe and all.

The interview was off to a good start, with reporters asking questions about the upcoming album, life on the road, and relatively anything about the music. Near the end, however, is when things seemed to get rocky. The questions became more of a filler than anything important, and boys were evidently tired of answering. It wasn’t until a journalist asked a specific question that things seemed to reach a tipping point.

“There’s been rumors that this album has more love songs than usual. Could you confirm or deny that?”

The boys look at each other, and Gareth leans forward to respond, but Eddie beats him to it. “There were a few, yeah, but um… They didn’t make the final cut, so maybe next time.”

The energy vividly shifts amongst the boys; Gareth looks at Eddie and scoffs before leaning back into his chair, clearly throwing in the towel for the rest of the interview. You don’t understand the apparent dispute just now, but you find out when the boys finish the interview and walk into the green room.

“What the fuck, man?” Gareth spits, walking a few paces behind Eddie. “We’re not cutting the song.” His loud voice booms through the room, not caring if anybody will overhear their dispute.

“I’m not putting a song out that you wrote about my fucking ex-girlfriend, Gareth. Are you out of your fucking mind?” Eddie snaps.

Richie turns to the band and crew members and motions for them to leave the room, which nobody even bothers to protest, eager to escape any more awkward conversations for the day. Everybody else makes a beeline for the tour bus, planning to fill in the few hours before rehearsal.

You glance back at the room where Eddie and Gareth are bickering, and you bravely choose to sit in the chair outside the doorway. You try not to stick your nose in their business, but they’re arguing loud enough for you to hear snippets either way. The conversation doesn’t last long before Gareth storms out of the room and down the hall, bursting through the doors and out of sight.

You glance back into the room where Eddie stands, fishing out his pack of cigarettes and sparking up. You figure now is better than ever, so you clench your bag strap and stand up, hesitantly stepping into the room. Clearing your throat once you’re a few steps away from Eddie, you watch as he exhales a cloud of smoke. He glances at you and turns away, “What do you want?”

You take one step closer, “I um… I wanted to apologize.” You begin. He looks at you again, brown eyes tired and riddled with pain— and you can’t imagine how much of a whirlwind the past twenty-four hours have been for him. “For what?” He asks, confusion and annoyance laced within his tone.

He’s turned to face you, shiny chains glistening on his hips beneath the building lights. You shake your head, struggling to find the words, because, was this really even your fault?

You obviously can’t apologize for Gareth fucking his ex-girlfriend— you had no part in that— and it’d seem silly to apologize for accidentally dropping your journal. So, what exactly do you apologize for? How do you let him know that you’re sorry this was how he found out, even if it isn’t entirely your fault?

You decide to try and redirect your wording, “I want you to know that I was never going to put that in the final article.” You say.

Eddie scoffs, taking a drag of his cigarette before responding, “And why would I believe that?” He questions.

He’s gazing at you like the first night you’d met when he was watching you from across the green room and commanding you to leave. You think he has the same intentions now, but Eddie has yet to learn that you’re stubborn.

“Well, for starters, Gareth asked me not to put it in,” you admit. Eddie’s jaw tenses and part of you feels as if you’ve tossed Gareth under the bus, but you had no choice. This was Gareth’s doing, and if you have to tell the ugly truth to save your image, then so be it. “He didn’t tell me why, but I know now. And now that I know the full truth behind that story, I definitely won’t write it in.”

Eddie watches you momentarily, intense eyes burning holes through you before he turns away. He scratches his jaw for a moment, taking a breath before returning to you. Eddie points to you, the burning cigarette hanging between his fingers as he speaks, “You know,” he begins, “somehow, you’ve managed to persuade everyone that you’re some sweet, innocent small-town journalist that just wants to ‘appreciate the artists,’ but that,” he gestures to your bag where he knows your journal is resting, ashes fluttering to the ground with each wave of his hand.

“That proved everything I believed about you.” He says. “People like you are fucking vampires. You suck the life out of people to keep you alive, and it’s fucked up.” He snaps.

Your face twists in anger, subtly shaking your head as you subconsciously step closer, “Eddie, I didn’t… I didn’t even know she was your ex, and if I did, I would’ve never written about it.” You exclaim, tossing your hands in exasperation. “And I’m sorry you found out the way you did, but you can’t hate me for something someone else did!”

Eddie frustratedly rubs his face, “That’s not the point!” He exclaims. “I read your journal. I saw everything I needed to see to confirm that I was right about everything with you and this fucking article.” He stresses, his loud voice echoing throughout the empty room.

“I'm not here to destroy your life, Eddie!” You snap, voice raising to match the level of his own. Eddie steps closer, towering over you and glaring so intensely into your eyes that you almost cower, “I don’t fucking believe that for a second.” He snaps back.

His chest rises and sinks like a rocky boat beneath his angry breaths, and he’s so close you can smell the cigarettes and mint on his breath. The scent of his cologne wrapping around you and choking you like a snake.

You don’t know how much more patient you can be with Eddie. You don’t know how much more of this back-and-forth you can take before it drives you insane. You want it to end. You want him to understand that you’re not his enemy; you never were.

You can only think of doing one thing: unzipping your bag and reaching in to grab your journal. Eddie watches with a hint of confusion in his eyes as you crack open the journal and start flipping through the pages. “What are you doing?” He asks in annoyance, patience running thin at your silence.

You flip through nearly half of the book before finding the pages you sought. You don’t think twice before ripping them out, not even caring if it destroys the binds of your precious journal. “The fuck are you doing?” Eddie asks again.

You tear each page out and drop the book to the floor, ignoring Eddie’s questions as you shred each torn-out page to pieces. Eddie watches in silent and hidden shock as each pen-soaked strip flutters to the ground, creating a heap of trash between where you both stand.

You tear the last piece and let it fall before looking at Eddie, watching as he gazes at the torn pages. Nearly five pages worth of writing, gone.

“There. It’s gone. Do you believe me now?”

Eddie says nothing when he drags his gaze up to look at you, shock-ridden across his face. “I’m not who you say I am, Eddie. I’m not here to ruin your life; that was never my intention.”

Eddie stays silent, seemingly lost for words, and even if you want him to say something, your braveness has begun to falter, and you itch to leave the room. You’re strong-willed, but you’re no fucking superwoman, and Eddie has pulled every exhausting breath out of you, and you can’t seem to get a grip because every time you breathe in, all you smell and feel is Eddie.

Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.

You grab your destroyed journal from the floor, not bothering to try and fix the binding before you shove it back into your bag, and you don’t say another word as you leave the room.

You’ve been writing for hours when you check the clock— twelve thirty-two. The band played a show tonight, but you decided to stay in your hotel to let your ankle rest— you haven’t been taking all the precautions the medic advised you to, so by the time lunch rolled around, you were in an uncomfortable fit of pain. You used your free time by tweaking the draft of your article— adding in new pieces of information and taking out unnecessary notes. You’re about twenty pages in, but by the end of the month, you’ll have compiled it all into ten; but for now, it seems your brain has become a muddled mess of words and ideas.

You suppose drinking three glasses of wine didn’t help fix that, either. You’re tipsy, teetering on the edge of drunk, and that’s a dangerous place to be when you’re practically working. You don’t even want to think of the past drunken works you’ve made; they’re worse than you’d like to admit.

You sigh, dropping your pen onto the hotel desk, leaning back in your chair, and rubbing your hand down your face in exhaustion. You glance over to the chair you’ve propped up to rest your injured leg, deciding that you should probably ice it since you’ve neglected to do so all day.

You figure you’re done writing for the day anyway, so you put your things in order before grabbing the ice bucket and making your way out of the room to find the ice machine.

What you don’t expect to find on your journey is a sleepy Eddie sitting in the hallway just a few doors down from yours. Maybe you drank four glasses of wine.

Out of common, drunk courtesy, you redirect your path and limp over to where he sits, arms folded across his chest and head leaned back against the wall with shut eyes.

You gently say his name to grab his attention, but he doesn’t budge. You shuffle closer, calling his name out again, and when that doesn’t work, you gently nudge him with your non-injured foot. His eyes flutter open, blinking away the light sleep from his eyes as he looks at you.

You tilt your head in question and ask, “What are you doing sleeping in the hallway?”

Eddie shifts in his spot, grunting and glancing at the bucket in your hands. From the looks of it, Eddie is as sober as can be, so you guess he decided to skip out on the after-show festivities they usually partake in. “I um… I lost the key card to my room.” He explains, gesturing to the door across from where he’s seated.

“The band is out for the night, and the lobby’s closed, so…”

You nod in understanding, glancing around the empty hallway, catching sight of a cleaning lady entering a room down the corridor. And technically, you don’t owe Eddie anything.

You could leave him here in the hallway to spend the night sleeping on the hard ground, and it probably wouldn’t bother him either way because Eddie clearly doesn’t like you, but fuck you feel bad.

You’re not a terrible person. You wouldn’t kick somebody when they’re already down, and Eddie… Eddie is clearly down.

Before you can thoroughly think it over, your liquor-weighted mouth speaks before you can stop yourself, “You could crash in my room for the night.”

Eddie looks at you with the blankest expression he could ever muster and blinks, “Why would I do that?”

God, he’s such a fucking asshole.

You shrug, gently swinging the bucket in your hand and glancing around again, “I don’t know, unless you'd like to sit here all night like a moron, then be my guest.”

Your ankle hurts as you stand and wait for Eddie to make up his mind, and just when you almost decide to throw in the towel and let him fend for himself, Eddie grumbles a short “Fine,” and gets up.

You watch as he reaches down to grab his leather jacket and turns to you, “You can go ahead; I have to get ice for my foot.” You tell him, pointing to your door so he knows where to go.

Eddie glances down at your injured leg and says nothing before he reaches forward and gently takes the bucket from your hands— cold, jewelry-covered fingers brushing up against your warm knuckles and sending shivers up your spine.

He hands you his jacket, and you stand silently, confused by the exchange. Before you can ask what he’s doing, he answers your question, “I’ll get the ice.” And he doesn’t even bother looking at you before turning around and leaving to find the ice machine.

You’re too drunk to figure out what that was about, and your ankle is starting to throb under the pressure of standing, so you walk back to your room clutching his jacket and trying your hardest not to let the familiar scent of Eddie knock you dead.

You leave the door slightly propped open for Eddie and place his jacket on the chair near the desk. In the meantime, you busy yourself with removing your suitcase and clothes you’d haphazardly tossed around from the extra bed where Eddie will be sleeping. You figure you’ll just head to bed once Eddie gets here, so you exchange your jeans and fitted top for shorts and a ratty old He-Man shirt from high school.

You’re setting your previous clothes aside when Eddie steps into the room, a bucket full of ice in one hand with a Coke and chips in the other. You raise an eyebrow, questioning the extra items, and he shrugs as he shuts the door with his foot, “What? The vending machine was right next to the ice, and I was hungry.” He explains as he places the bucket on the desk, making sure to avoid placing it on your work pages. He tries his best not to look at what you’ve written, and you don’t point it out when he clears his throat and diverts his attention to something else. He grabs the wine bottle and shakes it, raising an eyebrow when he realizes it’s less than halfway full, “I take it someone had a good time?”

You roll your eyes, walking over to take the bottle and put it back on the desk. “Not that it’s any of your business.” You respond, turning to grab a ziplock to fill with ice. Eddie takes the bag from you and shoos you away, “Go sit down, I’ll do it.”

Your face twists in confusion, “You’re starting to scare me. Are you gonna kill me?”

Eddie laughs and busies himself with scooping large chunks of ice and dropping them into the open ziplock. “I will if you don’t sit down.” He responds.

You relent and walk over to your bed, sitting at the head of the mattress to lean against the pillows near the headboard, doing your best to shove a pillow beneath your foot lazily. You sit silently, hands folded against your stomach, watching Eddie work.

He’s wearing his usual black jeans, decorated with hanging chains from his waist, and a plain white shirt, hidden muscles flexing beneath the soft cotton. His shoulders are broad yet hidden beneath the thick, curly mane of hair he has. Tattoos litter his arms, a few trickling down to his fingers, and you catch glimpses of his knuckles dripping with drops of water from the ice and— fuck.

There’s no way you’re checking out Eddie Munson, the asshole who’s made your life a living hell these past few weeks. You really can’t handle your liquor.

You panic and grab the TV remote, quickly turning it on to fill the silence. You distract yourself by watching the random sitcom playing until Eddie steps into your view. You must’ve been focused on the show because Eddie seems to have traveled to the restroom to get a towel to wrap around your makeshift ice pack. Your sheets are pulled back, leaving your bare legs on display, and you can’t help but squirm when Eddie stands at the foot of the bed and takes in the sight of you.

He says nothing as he gently lowers the ice onto your ankle. His inked fingers sink into the plush cotton of the towel, and if Eddie weren’t an artist, you bet he could land a job as a hand model. Or maybe you’ve really lost it.

His gaze flickers to catch your wide eyes, and you hold your breath when he speaks, “Is it too cold? Do you need another towel?” He asks. You stutter to answer him, so you shake your head no, eventually sputtering out a response of, “N-no, it’s fine. Thank you.”

Eddie turns to grab his snacks and falls into the other bed with a sigh, cracking open the bag of chips and popping a few into his mouth. You grimace and pull the sheets over your body as you comment, “If you bring ants to my room, I swear to god, Munson, I’ll hunt you down.”

Eddie chuckles, glancing at you as you shift around and get comfortable in bed, “Not with that broken foot, you won’t.”

You glare at him over the heap of expensive duvets and pillows, “I wonder whose fault that is?” You respond, falling back into bed when you see him roll his eyes.

Eddie clears his throat after a moment, “Speaking of that,” he begins; you peek over at him once again to watch as he puts the chips aside and grabs the remote to start flicking through channels. “Since we’re off these next four days, you should keep it light on your feet.”

You sarcastically laugh, “Don’t tell me you’re actually concerned for my well-being. This night keeps getting weirder and weirder.” You joke. Eddie pauses his task to glance at you, “No, I just…” You raise an eyebrow, urging him to continue. He rolls his eyes, “I’m not a complete asshole, you know?” He grumbles, turning back to the TV.

You’re snuggled into your sheets now as you watch Eddie flip through the channels, admiring how different features of his face light up under the different colors from the screen. He’s… pretty.

“What do you have planned for your days off?” You question behind a drawn-out yawn. You think you catch a glimpse of a smile on Eddie’s lips, but you can’t see very well in the dim lighting. “My Uncle Wayne is flying in, so… I’m spending time with him,” Eddie explains. You smile, “Your uncle?”

Eddie nods, and you hum, “That’s nice… Can I meet him?”

You’re never drinking wine again.

Eddie looks at you as if you’ve asked him the dumbest question on earth, “Why would… why?”

You shrug, “Maybe he’ll help me figure out why you’re such a grump.” You half-heartedly tease. Eddie scoffs, returning to watch the movie he’s landed on, “If you think I’m grumpy, you’re not equipped to meet Wayne.” He comments. And then something remarkable happens.

Eddie smiles to himself.

It’s small and obviously not meant for your eyes, but you see it either way, and it… fuck, it makes you feel things you would’ve never imagined you could for such an asshole of a man. What is going on?

“He can’t be any worse than you.” You joke. Eddie scoffs, “Nah, Wayne takes the cake for grumpiest man alive,” he bids.

Eddie tells you about Wayne, little memories he remembers that bleed into more memories until, eventually, he’s practically taking a walk down memory road. You go back and forth with him, commenting when you had a similar situation or when Eddie mentioned the same show you loved in high school.

At some point, Eddie’s stories and the low hum of the TV lull you to sleep, and you find yourself lying in cotton candy clouds, sinking into the softness and letting it surround you.

Eddie’s not sure when you checked out on him, but he figures he’d been talking to himself for a while because you're fast asleep when he looks over at you.

He watches you for a moment and appreciates the way the blue and white hues of the TV dance across your face. Your skin looks soft under the fluorescent lights, and he thinks the steady rise and fall of your breaths is more entertaining than any movie he could’ve landed on. And you’re so pretty— soft and molded to perfection, and Eddie thinks he might like you more like this; when you’re not talking and being the most obnoxious person he’s ever met. Eddie hates the feeling he gets in his chest from just looking at you.

You’re cute, he thinks.

He shakes his head to free himself from whatever weird feelings are spiraling through his mind, and he turns off the TV, letting the darkness swallow the room.

He’ll just have to worry about his feelings another time, he thinks.

————

part four

————

a/n: HII U MADE IT TO THE END, U CAN ALL THANK MY STINK @mmunson86 FOR THE TINY PIECE OF FLUFF, THIS WAS FOR U BAE <3 ANYWAYS, PLS LET ME KNOW HOW U LIKED THIS PART I ALWAYS LOVE TO HEAR UR FEEDBACK, ILY BYE

————

cutie lil taglist: @mastermindmiko @whataboutbibi @ryanmxrie @ihatepeanutss @tlclick73 @motherfckerrr @emxxblog @jesssssmaybankk @eddiesguitarskills @bibieddiesgf @chloe-6123 @micheledawn1975 @demxnicprxncess @emma77645 @sidthedollface2 @mvnsonslvt @s-u-t

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loverofstufflof · 1 month

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Black Myth: Wukong rant because I’m just… so tired of you people.

I hate the community this game has cultivated. I hate looking through the tags and seeing people tearing each other apart over a game based on a story I love.

There’s two stances:

Those who say that merely interacting with the game is in support of all the terrible things the developers have (allegedly) done. Who parade accusations that many have stated were mistranslated and that the situation is far more complicated than it appears.

Those who mock the former by making a straw man of their concerns while simultaneously displaying their misogyny, racism, homophobia, and general traits that make it clear they’ve never touched a woman in their life.

One is slightly more tolerable than the other. Neither make me feel welcome in enjoying this project I’ve been looking forward to for years.

I will be talking more about purple, because I don’t speak Chinese, and feel that I have no authority speaking too much on orange.

Purple people are beyond insufferable.

I think that most of this came from a Screen Rant review that listed one of the game’s flaws as “a lack of diversity.” This is an accurate analysis, and has been warped beyond belief.

I can understand the outrage… a bit. When playing a game surrounding Chinese culture, in which you play as an inhuman character fighting equally inhuman enemies, it doesn’t make too much sense to request racial representation. And when there isn’t any romance, representation for sexual orientations also wouldn’t work. Including anything in those merit would feel forced and out of place, I agree.

But you wanna know what the reviewer wrote?

She was concerned about the lack of women.

She felt unwelcome when playing a game made by rumoured misogynists because there were no women at all.

And she explicitly said that the game was still enjoyable despite this.

She gave it such a “low score” (3/5) because of the performance issues and repetitiveness. By her own rating, the game was listed as “Worth a shot despite its flaws.”

Everything got so bad they had to take down her name for her safety.

People in the purple category took this review to mean that the “woke left” was “pushing an agenda” and “trying to cancel this game for not having pansexual nonbinary black people.” Which, as I’m sure you can now understand, was not the case. The boycott surrounding this game is purely based on accusations targeted towards the developers, not the game’s content.

Of course, I don’t expect many of the aforementioned people in this category to care too much. I’ve seen the Steam reviews where they praise the lack of women. I’ve read the Reddit threads where they feel grateful that there’s “finally a company who understands the male authority.” I’ve scrolled through post after post on Tumblr that “no one would want to play a game where females jiggle their tits around while doing nothing.”

That last one gets me. It’s really telling what you can learn about a person when they say things like that.

The point is, these people make me feel very unwelcome in a community that previously made me most comfortable.

So let’s recap:

The people who I would find community with are portraying the mere interest in this game as a sin that’s worthy of being blocked and shamed over, and the people who are actually in this community remind me why I’m terrified to walk alone.

I have a lot more that I want to say on this, but I don’t really have the words quite yet, and still need to do a fair amount of research (which I probably won’t be doing because holy shit I’m so done with this). Maybe I’ll come back and add some more, but for now I just might block the tag entirely.

I just feel shitty ‘s’all ʅ（◞‿◟）ʃ

#this is a cry for help can a normal fan please find this post and mutual me #note that this post is about extremists and if you’re an orange person who’s cautiously enjoying the game despite the drama #I’m still vibing with you #it’s just that apparently the only people in this community are extremists #I also wanna make it clear I’ve been exclusively watching play throughs so I haven’t given a dime to the devs #black myth wukong #why can’t this fandom do silly things. like point out that the acronym is BMW and draw monkeys in cars

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t-lostinworlds · 2 months

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Warm Winter & Fiery Frost [2] | Bucky Barnes

》 PAIRING: bucky barnes x ex-HYDRA assassin!female!reader

》 TROPE/GENRE: grumpy x grumpy, enemies to lovers-ish, slow burn-ish, angst, fluff-ish

》 SUMMARY: They say opposites attract. You and Bucky were so alike—He was called The Winter Soldier and you were called Frost, for fucks sake—that it's probably the reason why you hated each other. Or was it the denying of powerful feelings in fear of getting hurt? You know, like how the cliché goes. Because you know what they also say: There's a fine line between love and hate.

》 WARNINGS: read full warnings here

》 WORD COUNT: 16.4k+

A/N: here's part two! this starts off right where the other one ended. this is also the last part, BUT BUT if you want to see more of these two or like more detailed scenes that were just mentioned in the fic just lemme know so maybe i can write it as a blurb! <3 enjoy reading!

📘 READ ON AO3 | ★ FIC MASTERPOST

📍 BLOG NAVIGATION✩ B. BARNES MASTERLIST ✩ MAIN MASTERLIST ✩

⊱ ─────.⋅♚ *｡･ﾟ.★. *｡･ﾟ✫*.

When the rest of the team was ushered into the conference room for a debrief, you and Bucky were ordered by the Captain himself to go into a separate office. It was obvious in Steve's tone that he was serious about it. So there was no room for argument. The second Sam ended up leading the way for you both, Bucky immediately knew what this was about.

Sam gestured towards the two seats in front of the desk. You didn't bother arguing and just took your place. Bucky sat across you with a sigh.

You wouldn't even look at him.

If this was any other day, you two would've been deep into a glare-off by now.

But nothing.

Even though Bucky was looking right at you, you couldn't even do as much as lift your head. You were just fixated on the one spot on your knee, picking at it like there was some loose thread when there obviously wasn't.

Bucky couldn't stand watching you act so timid and defeated like this, so he looked away.

"Nobody wants to speak? Fine, I'll speak." Sam said after a moment, hands clasped on the table. "What the actual hell, you two?"

It was such a vague question. But somehow, both of you already knew how out of line the whole argument was because you both looked at each other without much thought.

You were quick to avert your gaze, though.

"Look, I get it," Sam sighed, looking at you two pointedly. "Everything was tense back there. We definitely weren't in high spirits when things didn't go the way we wanted it to. But was that anyone's fault?"

You both shook your head no.

"And as far as I'm concerned, you were only looking out for each, just like how teammates would correct?"

You both nodded.

It honestly was starting to look like some preschool principal's office. Bucky would've found it funny if there weren't harsh words haphazardly thrown in the mix.

"Both of you said things out of anger, and I think we can all agree that both of you went out of line," Sam continued. "But I think I'm right in assuming that neither of you meant it, either."

Bucky nodded. You didn't respond.

"Now, look each other in the eye and apologize."

"I'm not going first," he grumbled out of stubbornness.

It was becoming a bad habit, one that only ever shines around you.

He wasn't proud of it.

"You started it, asshole," you huffed, the fire in your tone slowly coming back.

Bucky rolled his eyes. "Wow, that's real mature of you—"

"Quit it," Sam interrupted, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned in his seat, making himself comfortable. "You're not leaving here until you both apologize."

There was a beat.

You sighed deeply, your body slumping on your chair.

Another beat before you finally met his eyes.

"I'm sorry," you said, uncharacteristically gentle. "None of it was your fault. I know you didn't have a choice. I shouldn't have said what I said."

Bucky's face softened, brows raising in surprise.

He didn't expect to see guilt in your eyes, nor did he expect to hear absolute sincerity in your voice.

It made him feel even worse.

Of course he knew you didn't mean what you said. After his comment, despite not exactly planning for you to hear it, your reaction was to be expected.

It was never pleasant to be called a 'Useless bitch,' no matter the language.

But despite only saying it out of anger, and not at all meaning it, he wasn't quite sure if you knew that.

"What I said was out of line. I'm sorry," Bucky said, his heart aching when he saw the slight mist in your eyes. "I know he double-crossed you and if you hadn't pulled that trigger, countless young girls would've been sold to God knows who. You did the right thing."

You nodded and looked away.

"And you're not useless, Y/N," he said softly, your eyes snapping up to meet his.

It was the first time he ever said your name. Bucky never truly called you by anything before apart from the occasional printsessa just to get on your nerves. Your name felt so new on his tongue yet so right that he wanted to say it again and again.

"You never were."

You didn't say anything.

You simply looked at Sam, as if begging for this to be over with.

Bucky wouldn't lie and say that didn't sting a little.

"Alright, how about a truce?" Sam said, nodding at you both. "Shake on it."

Bucky put his hand out and you took it. But he only felt your skin on his for a second before it was gone. So brief he might as well have imagined it.

He tried saying something. But before he could even grasp what exactly it was he wanted to say, you stood up and walked out of the room.

Through the glass walls, he watched you wrap your arms around yourself, head down and never looking back.

He'd never seen you look so small.

Bucky hated that he was the cause of it.

•••

He couldn't sleep.

Bucky had been staring at the wall for hours now. The very wall that connected your room to his. He wasn't quite sure what was keeping him awake—the guilt, the worry, the longing, or everything else in between.

Sighing, he got out of bed and quietly went to your shared kitchen. He didn't want to wake you up in case you were already asleep.

But as he reached the end of the hallway, he saw that the hanging light above the island was on, a figure sitting on one of the stools with a bottle of some cheap wine on the counter.

He instantly knew it was you.

Bucky wasn't sure if you noticed him yet, contemplating if he should just leave you be and give you some space. Though he should've known better. You were a trained assassin—one of the best in his opinion. So of course you already knew he was standing there, despite being in the shadows of the hallway.

"Luka," you said, eyes glued to the something on the counter. "His name was Luka."

It took him a second to realize who you were talking about. Perhaps it was sheer curiosity, or perhaps he sensed that you probably needed this. Either way, Bucky crossed the distance and sat across you on the barstool.

That was when he noticed the brown folder just sitting there, all worn and discolored as if it's been through years of handling.

It was obvious what it was.

You took a swig of the bottle, Bucky's gaze swiftly moving over your face, his heart stinging at the sight of your bloodshot eyes. Whether from the alcohol or from crying, he wasn't quite sure. It was probably even both. Still, an air of sadness surrounded you, a melancholic look sketched on your beautiful features.

Bucky hated it.

"He was a few years older than me—nine years if you want the specifics—but the youngest leader of any operation HYDRA has ever done," you continued, still nothing meeting him in the eye. "He was the son of the Red Room's head scientist, Lyudmila Antonovna Kudrin. HYDRA recruited Luka, which gave him all the resources he needed to recreate his mother's genius."

"But you two became close," he asked.

"Luka was my teacher and my best friend," you said with such longing and grief that there was no doubt that you two had grown a strong bond. But then you met his gaze, a sad smile on your lips. "Or something you're probably more familiar with, my handler."

A chill ran down Bucky's spine.

He knew that there was something else going on, that it wasn't just a normal relationship. He just didn't expect it to be this deep and well, fucked up.

"Acted differently with me, though. He was sweet and kind—never laid a hand, never even raised his voice. He was patient, encouraging, affectionate. He'd make me laugh over the stupidest things, but also firm enough to make sure I give the best that I can. He was—" Your voice cracked, a sound so vulnerable it made his heart ache. "He used to sneak some snacks into my room at night even though it was against my training regime. We'd watch movies on this old, beat-up television until we'd fall asleep, cuddling with each other because my room didn't have a heater. He gave me cute nicknames—printsessa, was his favorite."

Bucky felt his throat dry up.

That explained so much of the animosity you had over the nickname.

Maybe that was why you weren't phased when people called you Frost, because it was a different name entirely that brought you harsh memories.

And Bucky was the only one who taunted it every single time.

"If people were to ask you to think of an evil scientist, he's never going to be the person that'd cross your mind."

"You never saw it coming," Bucky sighed.

You shook your head. "It was innocent at first, a friendship. But as I grew older we became more…intimate."

He hated how you looked so guilty and ashamed. None of it was your fault. It was obvious enough that this poor excuse of a guy manipulated you to a point where you thought there was something real between you two.

If this guy wasn't already dead Bucky couldn't even begin to describe what he'd do to him.

"That night was probably what he was waiting for. It was the best proof he could get that trusted him completely by giving him my—" You bit your lip and looked down.

Bucky didn't need you to say it to know.

He thought he'd be a little jealous to hear you talk about the intimacies of your relationship, with anyone for that matter. But all he felt was pure sadness and hurt. You gave all that you could to this guy—your trust, your affection, your love and he just spat it right back to your face.

"And I did. I fucking trusted him because I was young, impressionable, and stupid—"

"Stop that," Bucky said firmly. "You were not stupid."

"I still fell for it, didn't I?" you scoffed, shaking your head. "But when you get that little bit of sunshine in a cold harsh world, you hang on to it."

Bucky already knew what horrors HYDRA was capable of. Hell, he'd live through decades of it himself. But just as he thought they couldn't get any more cruel, they pulled something monstrous like this.

It was pure evil.

To make you believe that you had someone in your corner during those moments, that someone actually cared for you, someone who showered you with affection and made you feel like you were free, someone who made you laugh despite your circumstances.

Only for that person to end up being a complete monster who only ever used you for personal gain.

With Bucky, he always knew that all of them were evil bastards, that they never truly cared for him, and that they didn't even see him as a human. He always knew that he was just an asset and nothing more. HYDRA did so many wicked things to him, from physical, mental and emotional torture to countless abuse. But at least he knew what it was from the start.

With you?

They gave you warmth and hope only to snatch it away like it was some useless toy and slap you with it.

He couldn't even imagine how it must've felt, the betrayal, the hurt and heartbreak on top of all the physical and mental torture that was inflicted on you because they sure as hell weren't going to exempt you from that.

And all of this because of one person.

"I trusted him, blindly and completely. I let him lead me into this lab every single day even if I come out of it not knowing anything they were doing because I trusted him."

It was probably subconscious, the way you had been scratching the back of your neck from time to time.

Bucky understood why.

He used to do the same with his shoulder whenever he was recalling something from his past.

"A month in that lab, I woke up to something stinging in the back of my neck," you continued. "He told me not to worry about it, that it was going to help me be the best in my field, that it was there for communication Purposes. Well, he wasn't lying," you scoffed. "Not exactly."

"What did they give you in that lab?" he asked, despite already having an inkling. HYDRA was never one to stray too far away from their old ways.

"A variation of the super soldier serum, administered in small doses. They didn't perfect it yet, and after I've—" You took a deep breath. "The program was delayed after the incident since Luka was mostly the brains of the operation. So I ended up being more than your typical human, but not quite close to a super soldier. I was a бесполезная середина. They loved calling me that."

Bucky shut his eyes as the guilt punched him in the gut.

Useless middle.

How has he managed to do it twice?

"Ironic since I was their most used asset during my time there," you said, shrugging. "I mean, I've got a great immune system so it's rare for me to get sick, enhanced stamina, have that bit of extra strength. I age slower than most, not as slow as you and Steve but, slow enough."

No wonder why you were able to hold out your own during that spar against him. And while the serum did give you an advantage over most, Bucky didn't doubt that it merely aided your deadly skills. He truly did believe you could still give him a run for his money without it.

"And the chip?"

"Learned that the hard way. It did nothing for the first few months that I had it—not yet, I supposed since I was still willingly compliant with whatever they wanted me to do," you explained, shaking your head dejectedly. "It should've been enough of a warning that I was the only one who had it.

"The missions they assigned me to weren't much at first. Most of the time all I did was just steal technology or whatever it was they needed to build their weapons." A shadow crossed your face. "At least that was what they made me believe."

Bucky frowned. "Until that night."

You nodded. "As I was getting ready to do the op, one of the scientists was talking about how this shipment was crucial to the start of Program Six. It piqued my interest. Not only that but, despite being highly trained since he was part of the military, Luka preferred to be in the lab than out in the field. Yet somehow he wanted to join me during this one. So I was extra wary that night, looking for something even though I wasn't quite sure there was something to look for. But then I heard it—faint whimpers and sniffles and then a very tiny, sweet voice saying 'It'll be okay.'

"I was under strict instructions not to mess with the shipment in case some chemical might get displaced or whatever. But something in my gut just told me to open this one. So I did," you breathed out, blinking back tears before taking another swig of the bottle. "When I opened those doors and saw those little kids, not older than six or seven, mostly young girls…I was just so angry."

Despite your choice of words, the only thing that coated your voice was pure sadness. Bucky wanted to reach out to you and provide even the tiniest bit of comfort. But he figured it was best to just let you finish before anything else.

Besides, you weren't close.

He didn't know how you would react to any physical affection from him, no matter the intention.

"I felt so betrayed because he kept saying that it was only weapons we were stealing, it was only chemicals we were transporting. I was foolish enough to not look into it because I trusted him," you gritted, harshly slamming the bottle back on the counter, the glass cracking but not breaking.

"But he was feeding me half-truths the entire time. There were weapons they took for storage, I just wasn't made aware that it was going to be used for training these young kids. Chemicals were being transported, they just never mentioned the fact that it was used for the recreation of super soldier serum. But with the kids—" You shook your head. "I never knew. They were taking notes from the Red Room, I supposed. But with this program, they were going to be more merciless, get them used to wielding heavier artillery and fight like a soldier and be undetectable and cunning like a spy—a deadly combination of the Black Widow Program and the Winter Soldier Program."

"And you're the first," Bucky said, voice coming out rougher than he intended it to.

"His best and newest weapon," you laughed sarcastically. "I thought he cared about me—well, he did. Not me as his friend, not even as a person but as a symbol of his success, living proof of his genius, to make his мама proud. I was nothing more but his naïve little plaything."

Bucky's jaw clenched.

He would never wish for you to see that man ever again. But if Bucky could bring him back to life, he would—just so he could kill him again in the most brutal way he could. That monster didn't deserve your mercy of a quick death. It should have been very slow and excruciating. He would've made sure of it.

But, what's done was done. The bastard was gone, leaving you here with nothing but the ghosts and demons that were so fucking hard to escape from when they lived inside your mind.

"It was smart, making himself seem vulnerable with me, letting me believe that I had freedom, that I was his equal. After all, the best way to keep a prisoner from escaping is to make sure he never knows he’s in prison."

"Fyodor Dostoyevsky," Bucky grumbled. "Yeah, HYDRA tends to live by that."

"He probably thought he had me wrapped around his fingers that tightly when he told me all of this straight to my face. He was always proud. He underestimated just how much anger and heartbreak can do to a person. And that night all I saw was red and then he called me printsessa in the most condescending and degrading way and I just—" You breathed in shakily. "I shot him. No hesitation. No second thought. Right in between the eyes."

In the years that he'd been on this planet, Bucky had realized that the one thing that men like Luke had in common was the stupidity that only an unchecked ego can bring. They always get so high off the power they have over a person that they tend to forget that they aren't invincible.

This Luka bastard simply forgot what you were capable of. It was quite ironic since he technically created you—as fucked up as that sounds. He probably got a kick out of it, watching your heart break into pieces right in front of his eyes. He probably thought that by being so blatant with his betrayal, you were going to be weakened, that you were going to submit to him.

But everyone knows how the saying goes:

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

Bucky only saw a glimpse of this anger you were speaking of, and he would never want to be on the receiving end of it. He wasn't a genius, but he was smart enough to know that you were way too powerful. You could easily make him suffer if you truly wanted to, it didn't matter if he was a super soldier.

"That was how I knew what the microchip did. It sends signals to your brain that your body is in excruciating pain even when it's not," you explained. "It tricks your brain into feeling like you're getting shot without any trace of a gunshot wound. It's like torture without any physical consequences. No damage to my body meant no time wasted on recovery, so they were able to throw me into mission after mission, nonstop."

"How—"

"I was able to fight the pain long enough to grab his radio," you breathed out shakily, eyes everywhere else as your fingers picked at the torn label of the bottle.

Bucky couldn't even imagine what that experience was like. To stare at the corpse of someone you care about whose death was at your own hands, the searing pain that your mind was tricking you into, trying to save these young children as quickly as possible—all of that while harboring the guilt, the feeling of betrayal, the grief, the heartache at the same time.

"I don't know why but HYDRA liked to keep tabs on SHIELD so any information about them was known to most in the facility, including ways to contact them and intercept their lines," you elaborated. "For some unconscious reason, I was able to memorize one of their channels. Luckily enough, my call went straight to Nat's communication line. She traced it back to my location and was able to get the kids out."

"That's how she found you?"

"No." You shook your head. "I wasn't there when they arrived. I knew the chip was also a tracker. I couldn't stay there and lead HYDRA straight to the children. So I got into one of their vans and drove as far as I could go, trying to tell my mind that I didn't have any injuries, that it was a trick. I didn't know how long I was driving until I passed out from the pain. It wasn't long after that HYDRA inevitably found me and they were not happy."

That was an understatement.

HYDRA never took it lightly when one of their prisoners escaped. They were egotistical bastards. A crack in their system was unacceptable and they were going to try their hardest to rectify that—torturing escapees was just the start.

What more if said escapee killed the leader of their current program?

"After that, they returned to old ways," you said, your teary eyes finally meeting his. "Wiped my memory and controlled me with the chip like I was their real life video game character and all I could do was let them. Every time I fought it and gained consciousness and fought back—"

"The chip hurts you."

"I became their new favorite asset, molded me to become even more like their all time favorite," you snorted, raising the bottle to him with a nod before emptying it in one go. Despite everything you'd just told him, some humor managed to sneak into your tone. "At least they didn't name me Winter Soldier II. That would've been so fucking annoying."

"It would've." Bucky cracked a small smile. Though it was gone a second later. "How did you get out?"

"Natasha Romanoff and her stubbornness," you hummed, the corner of your lip lifting a little. "That night when I called her, a proof that I was actually still alive, it gave her enough courage to keep looking for me."

"But you've met before?"

"Briefly." You nodded. "Back in the Red Room. I was only nine when she was already close to graduating. Left an impression on her when I beat her at a spar."

"You didn't," Bucky couldn't help but chuckle. That must've been a sore spot for the Widow.

"I did," you hummed, smiling a little. It made his heart warm despite the gloomy atmosphere. "I was a feisty little girl, an absolute terror. Managed to cut her arm and it caught her off guard. It gave me enough time to pin her down."

Bucky wasn't surprised one bit.

There was an extremely valid reason why HYDRA took interest in you.

"She took me under her wing for most of it, me and this other girl, Yelena. It wasn't long until I saw them as my sisters. Sometimes you just bond quickly in that environment. But during Nat's graduation ceremony, a deal got closed. I was traded to HYDRA and I never saw them again," you continued, the sadness seeping back into your body. "She didn't stop looking for me though. Even more when she found a lead through the Red Room's system before destroying it. But then it was all just dead ends because HYDRA didn't stay in one place for long. They grew paranoid after what happened to Dreykov. Nat was starting to lose all hope until that call."

"But she didn't find you right after?"

You shook your head. "Not after years later. HYDRA kept me in the shadows as much as they could. So most of my missions were quick and under the radar. But when word got around that The Winter Soldier was now walking amongst civilians, they saw that as an opportunity. They thought it was worth the risk to send me even though I would be out in the open more."

Bucky straightened in his seat. "You were sent to kill me?"

"Do you really think they wanted their favorite child out of the picture?" you said, brow raised. "They just wanted me to extract you and take you back."

"But you never got close enough," Bucky said, unable to push aside his ego. "I would've noticed if you did."

You rolled your eyes. "No, I didn't. Not only did that intel leak, Nat has been tracking everything under the sun for any signs of me. So she and Steve got to me first."

Bucky vaguely remembered that mission.

He'd only been at the compound for a year when Steve and Nat suddenly disappeared for a couple of weeks. They said it was a simple recon mission at first. But then they never got back during the time they said they would be, kept saying that something new came up. The team was kept updated that they were fine and alive, but was never told any details.

When they did get back, the two of them would be in and out of the compound every other week and for days on end. They always did it together and Bucky found that a little suspicious. So he asked Steve if something was going on between the two. Even though Steve turned bright red he told Bucky it wasn't like that, and that whatever it was they were hiding, he'd find out soon enough.

Nine months later, the whole team was called for a meeting. Turns out, Steve and Nat had been looking after someone in Wakanda, someone who they heavily vouched to be a great addition to the team. There was a lot of back and forth during that time, especially given the background provided. But ultimately, they decided to give a second chance because, as Nat said so pointedly at everyone, that's what the Avengers were for.

The day after that meeting, you arrived at the compound.

"Nine years," Bucky said, gaze holding your confused ones. "You were controlled by the chip for nine years."

"I know. You went through it far longer than I have—"

"It's not a competition."

"Then why have you been acting like it is?" you scoffed. Bucky could do nothing but watch as you slowly build your walls back up. "Nat promised me a fresh start when I joined the Avengers, and it has been like that for the most part. But you can't seem to let go of where I've come from."

"Can you blame me?" he said, starting to get defensive.

"I get it, alright. An ex-HYDRA assassin just waltzing into your lives calls for extra precaution," you scoffed, shaking your head. "But you didn't have to be a fucking asshole about it."

Bucky clenched his jaw, glare now starting to match yours.

Why does it always end in an argument?

"You know what's funny? Steve talked so highly of you. He was so excited for us to meet, said how we both would get along, how we're going to be fast friends or whatever. But then I met you and you just hated me from the start."

"Don't fucking act as if you liked me," he argued.

"I just fucking couldn't!" you admitted, breathing starting to become heavy. "Because you remind me of him too much."

He scoffed, throwing his hands up. "How the fuck is that my fault?"

"Do you even remember what your first words to me were?"

Bucky looked away.

Of course he remembered.

It was the shittiest thing to say to a person at the first meeting.

"Luka was holding a file when I first met him," you gritted. "My file."

It wasn't intentional.

None of what Bucky did was ever intentional.

He didn't know.

But that somehow made it even scarier, how he was able to emulate a ghost from your past without much thought, hesitation or any effort.

"So that's why you hate me?" he said, defeated. "Because I remind you of him?"

You looked away.

It was an answer in itself.

Bucky deflated in his seat, any signs of mending whatever this was with you, to be civil or hopefully have a friendship, thrown out the window. Because how was he meant to compete with that? You hated him because seeing him reminds you of a trauma from your past. These things were out of his control.

Or were they?

Did it count when he'd been wearing a mask in front of you this whole time?

"Why tell me all of this then?" he asked glumly.

"That's why you don't trust me, isn't it? Because you didn't know much about what happened?" you said as if it was obvious. "Well, now you know. You can finally leave me alone." You hopped off your stool, pushing the folder towards him. "Your favorite thing to read."

As you were walking away, he called out,

"Y/N?"

His heart ached a little when you tensed.

You stopped but you didn't turn around.

"For what it's worth," he said, eyes carefully trained on your figure. "You're a good person and none of that was your fault."

He saw your shoulders drop a little. But you didn't say a word. You continued walking, leaving him there alone under the kitchen light.

Bucky looked at the file for what seemed like hours, just staring at the bold letters of a foreign language that covered the front. Still, he didn't need to be fluent in Russian to know what it was about. He was battling with himself, if there was any real need for him to read it, if he even wanted to.

Yet curiosity got the best of him.

The second he opened it, his blood ran cold.

The first thing he saw was a Polaroid photo of two people. He recognized you, obviously. You looked so much younger, though. Bucky didn't know if that was because this picture was taken so long ago, or it was the fact that you were smiling, so wide and bright, so innocent.

But that wasn't the unnerving part.

It was the man standing next to you with an arm around your waist, looking at you with a charming, almost boyish smile.

Bucky has never met this man in his life but dear God he looked too familiar it was fucking terrifying.

When you said Bucky reminded you of Luka, he thought you meant it as the way he'd been acting around you.

He didn't expect it to be physical too.

The man in the photo might as well have been Bucky.

If the picture wasn't faded, then maybe the difference would be obvious. But he doubted it. The same stature, the same bone structure to the face, the same eyebrows, the same hair—when it was longer, at least. He couldn't get a clear look of the eyes but he wouldn't put it past the universe that it was the same color as his as well. The resemblance wasn't close enough for them to look like identical twins, but this man could definitely pass as Bucky's brother.

It was so uncanny it made his skin crawl.

No wonder why you could barely look at him when you first got here.

With a shaky breath, he closed the folder without venturing further.

He left it outside your door as he went back to his room. Though, it was obvious he was going to have a hard time sleeping tonight.

•••

It was like being back to square one.

Well, not like you two truly ever moved past that phase.

You still left tiny traces of you around your shared floor so it wasn't like you'd turned into a complete ghost. And, unfortunately, your nightmares have been more frequent than before.

He felt a sense of guilt about that. Maybe him making you relive your past was the reason for it.

Either way, the arguments and bickering had been happening less. It was simply because you didn't say a word to him whenever he was around. You only acknowledged his presence whenever he would speak to you first—or should he say, got on your nerves.

It wasn't like he was picking fights with you out of the blue like a schoolboy trying to get your attention—okay, maybe it was close enough to that.

Bucky was being pedantic when it came to you. Whether that's correcting your stance during training when there really was no need, arguing about your choice of strategy out in the field, harping about why you changed the setting on the dishwasher to the wrong one, or complaining about the show you were watching despite not knowing anything about it.

He honestly wouldn't be surprised if you'd suddenly throw a knife at him one of these days.

You hadn't, though. You'd simply look at him calm and composed, get your final word—or insult, whichever came first—and walk away.

Somehow, your level-headed response annoyed him more than your quips and comebacks.

He couldn't truly explain why he was acting this way.

It could be that there was just something different about arguing with you now, like somehow there was no real animosity behind the words.

Despite you confirming that you did in fact hate him—for reasons he thought were quite unfair—Bucky didn't necessarily feel said hatred. Annoyance? Absolutely. But did you despise him? He wasn't quite sure.

He wasn't calling you a liar by any means. He simply thought that maybe, just maybe, there was something else hidden beneath the surface.

And in the days that followed, his assumptions had only been proven right more and more each time.

•••

Bucky jolted up from his bed drenched in sweat.

His nightmares had been happening so far in between lately, which he was grateful for. Getting to work on it daily in therapy definitely helped.

But that didn't mean they disappeared entirely.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, he closed his eyes and listened.

Whenever he woke up from a nightmare, he would always find a way to ground himself back. That was the advice given to him and it did work from time to time. Lately, he'd been doing it quite differently.

Ever since you moved to the room next to his, to be specific.

He didn't know why, but hearing your heartbeat or your calm breathing was enough to ground him in some way. Sure, it might have been a little creepy but, it wasn't like he was making his way into your room, standing there until he calmed down.

At first, he thought he was hearing your heartbeat through the wall. With his enhanced hearing, it wasn't far-fetched for that to be the case. But the more his senses slowly refocused, he realized that the sound seemed to come from a different direction.

Bucky stared at his bedroom door, brows deeply furrowed.

As quietly as he could, he got out of bed, making his way towards it and then pressing his ear against the surface.

Bucky felt his heart stutter when he heard it, heard you—soft yet shaky breaths, heart beating a little faster, fingers tapping nervously against the door that separated you both.

You were right there.

Have you always been right there?

You were fighting with yourself in your head, wondering if you should knock or just walk away. There was no need for him to be able to read your mind.

Bucky knew.

He knew because he'd done the same thing for you.

Sure, it was presumptuous. But why else would you be doing this, standing outside his room in the middle of the night, close enough that he could hear the loudly erratic beating of your heart through the thick and solid hardwood door?

Bucky contemplated opening it even if he didn't know what would happen if he did, so many possibilities because whatever this was between you two had always been unpredictable.

Or maybe it wasn't.

Maybe it was painfully obvious what this was, you two were simply too in denial and downright stubborn to admit it to yourselves, let alone, each other.

But before Bucky could come to a decision, he heard you sigh, long and deep, something akin to relief. You probably mistook the silence as him falling back to sleep. Not long after that, he heard your footsteps slowly fade away, and then your door closing.

Bucky was awake for the rest of the night.

Not because of the horrors that haunted his dreams, but because of the woman that made him so confused in more ways than one.

Yet this discovery simply pushed him to be more observant about things, to not let his emotions drive first, which has always been the case when you were in the picture.

It was then that Bucky started to see things differently.

During the day, you were the same feisty firecracker, never looking in his direction unless with a glare, only speaking to him in a tone of disdain.

But pushing all your hostility aside, he was now seeing the little things.

And Bucky has never felt so blind and stupid.

It had always been there, the little acts of kindness that most would overlook. He always appreciated it since it was something new to him after decades of only ever receiving horrible things from others. He simply assumed it was from everyone else. Whether that was from Steve or Sam or Wanda or Nat, or maybe even Tony from time to time when technology to enhance his comfort was involved.

Never you.

With how you two were with each other, it shouldn't have been surprising that he put you last on the list of people who would actually do something nice for him.

But as he stared at the pre-made coffee waiting for him in the morning, he couldn't stop wondering just how long you'd been doing this for him.

Sam, despite having a kitchen of his own, always seemed to migrate to yours every morning and ate his breakfast there. And whenever Bucky would wake up to the ruckus, there was always a cup of coffee already waiting for him while Wilson sipped his own mug. So he simply assumed that the man had made one for him, too.

But Sam wasn't in the compound at the moment, and wouldn't be for a couple of weeks.

Yet the coffee was still there, waiting for him.

How could one person be so blind?

Bucky should've clocked it the second he teased Sam about doing something nice for him for once. Wilson had looked confused at first, a split second where his eyes widened before nodding frantically. Saying stuff about it being the least he could do for always raiding the fridge.

You walked past Bucky a second later.

He didn't think much of it at that time, especially when you two started bickering immediately.

Now, it made so much sense.

Sure, this might all just be in his head and he was way off the mark. That was also plausible.

But then there was the reappearing tea on his bedside table when he was having a particularly hard week.

•••

Bucky jolted awake, grabbing the wrist of someone who was reaching over his bedside table.

His grip immediately slackened when he met the eyes of a very startled you.

"What are you doing?" he asked, voice gruff from sleep, especially when he hadn't been leaving his bed for some time now.

He wasn't exempted from having off days. He might not get sick due to the serum in his veins, but that didn't extend to the mental side of things, unfortunately. This week had been tough on him, especially after a rescue mission that didn't go as smoothly as planned. There were no casualties, thankfully, but when the injured involved the innocent, it was simply hard to deal with.

Given that he was at the forefront of said mission, he mostly took it more personal than the others. He was grateful the rest of the team was letting him be and leaving him alone. They knew it was what he needed so they didn't pester him about getting out of his room or simply didn't bother him at all.

Well, most of them.

Seemed like a certain someone couldn't resist any longer.

He hadn't seen you in days, so this was quite a lovely surprise to see you in his room. He couldn't even be bothered to think about how you got in.

Bucky was just happy that you were here.

"Steve ordered me to give you these so," you reasoned, shrugging to seem nonchalant but you wouldn't meet his eyes.

Bucky glanced at the mug you set on his nightstand, the smell of chamomile slowly invading his senses. Then it was followed by something chocolatey, which he later would find out was a slice of brownie.

As his eyes drifted back to you, he couldn't stop his lips from twitching into a small smile.

He had never seen you so flustered and most of all shy before.

It was adorable.

While Steve did check on him earlier today, he wasn't quite sure if he had something to do with your sweet gesture.

Nobody made you do anything, much less, something nice for him.

“Steve ordered you?”

“Mhmm,” you said, still looking anywhere but at him. "I—He wanted to see if you were still alive."

Bucky could tell you were lying. If not for the unsureness in your voice, then the way you looked so caught definitely gave it away.

"He busy or something?" he asked anyway, enjoying the way you squirmed.

Sue him, alright. He'd never seen you like this before. It was such a rare sight and you looked so fucking cute. He couldn't help but prolong it a little bit longer. It was making his heart warm.

You shrugged, your sock—one with bunnies on them—clad feet rubbing on your ankle. "Something, probably."

"Hmm." He tilted his head, eyes still carefully on you. "Are those brownies?"

"Yep. Store-bought," you said, nodding far too quickly for it to be convincing.

"Did Steve buy them?"

"No, I—" you paused, pursing your lips before sighing, "Yes."

He couldn't contain his chuckle.

That made you even more flustered.

"Can you—" You glanced at his fingers still wrapped around your wrist, wiggling it softly, silently asking him to let go. "—got, uhm, stuff to do."

"Okay, well, tell Steve thank you." he hummed, thumb softly stroking your wrist before he let you go. "I really appreciate this."

You only nodded, scurrying out of his room without even bothering to close his door.

Bucky chuckled at that.

Later that night when he went to the kitchen to grab a quick snack, he found the rest of the brownies in a glass container, sitting in the fridge. But what put a smile on his face was an empty box of brownie mix sitting in the trash.

Bucky was sure you baked them yourself.

Was it too presumptuous to say that you did it solely for him?

Maybe.

But one thing was for sure, things were starting to get clearer for him because the more he observed your behavior, the less complicated things seemed to be.

It was getting obvious, how your hatred for him was a façade—as time moved past anyway. Perhaps there was some disdain the first few months, especially when you started on the wrong foot.

He couldn't say when exactly it happened, but he could see that your animosity towards him had turned into a heavily enforced wall to protect yourself.

From what? Probably the same reason why Bucky's distaste towards you was nothing more than a shield.

Looking back to the first time he laid eyes on you. The emotions he felt were simply so intense and happened so quickly that, well, it scared him. So what did he do instead of confronting these feelings head-on? He denied, denied, denied—tried so fucking hard to find all your flaws and imperfections to put a damper to it.

It was a poor attempt to not get closebecause there obviously was something there, something that if left unattended, would grow powerful, leave him utterly vulnerable and at your mercy, so much to a point where it would be dangerous.

When he had already, wholeheartedly, admitted that he would let you burn the world down, how could it not be?

Yet as dangerous as it could be, would that really negate the fact that this thing with you—if it were to blossom—had the potential to make him so happy?

Bucky flopped back on his bed with a sigh, glancing at the now-empty mug on his bedside table. It was the fifth one that appeared on his nightstand this week, along with either a brownie or some other sweet treat.

And to say that he truly believed that these secret acts of kindness were one-sided.

He could almost hear Steve's all-knowing voice in his head.

"The two of you are more alike than you think."

•••

"The tea and brownies. She said you made her do it. Is that true?" Bucky decided to confront his best friend on one of their morning runs together.

Steve's eyes widened, cheeks turning red but he still refused to say anything.

He shot him a look.

"Buck…"

"I just want the truth, Steve."

"I caught her baking brownies when I went to check on you. I jokingly said how nice it was to do this for you and she immediately made me swear not to tell anyone. So, she's going to kill me for this," Steve caved, chuckling. "I didn't know it was a regular occurrence."

"Well, it kept appearing until I felt better," Bucky said, cheeks heating up. He turned to the other person who was watching the conversation with amusement. "And you?"

"Me?" Sam blinked.

"The coffee in the morning."

"She was giving me the death glare, what was I meant to do?" Sam defended before smirking. "And no offense, Buck, but I'm more afraid of her than I am of you."

"Great," he sighed, glaring at them both with no real heat behind it. "Now I see where both your allegiances lie."

"I genuinely thought you figured it out by now?"

He looked at Sam confused. "Figured out what?"

"The nice things she's been doing for you?" Sam said, eyes widening when Bucky didn't have a moment of clarity. "Oh wow. I didn't know you were this oblivious."

"What Sam is trying to say," Steve interjected. "She has done some nice things for you. Sometimes you're just too busy being angry or annoyed at her to notice."

Bucky already knew that.

It didn't make it less embarrassing to have someone else point it out for him, though.

"She gets angry and annoyed at me first," he grumbled—much like a child, he was aware.

"Probably on purpose." Sam shrugged, elaborating when they looked at him confused. "She probably doesn't want you to know in case you'd make fun of her for it. You two don't exactly have the greatest track record when it comes to being nice to each other. So she probably thinks you're going to take it the wrong way."

Was that why you were rendered so shy and perhaps, nervous when he caught you?

"Don't worry, Buck." Steve patted his back. "You two will figure it out eventually."

He didn't know what exactly he meant by that, yet somehow, Bucky felt hopeful that it would.

Eventually.

•••

"Wanda, can I ask you something?"

"She does," she answered before Bucky could even elaborate. "She does look out for you in the field. You're just too focused on keeping her safe to notice it."

Bucky's heart stuttered at that.

Since Wanda always had a high vantage point during missions so she could help whenever she was needed most, it wasn't farfetched that she'd actually see this play out.

It was probably quite an amusing sight to see you two watch each other's six discreetly enough to not let the other notice.

"Did you read my mind?" Bucky narrowed his eyes teasingly.

"No," she laughed. "Sam's just a blabbermouth."

"Yeah, figured it out as much."

"He couldn't stop talking about you debating if Y/N has been nice to you or not," Wanda elaborated, smiling into her tea. "But I can guarantee you that she has, evidently so. Which surprises me how you haven't noticed."

"Has it really been that obvious?"

She nodded. "You two have been defending each other behind your backs. It's always amusing to see her get so angry when someone insults you, especially when you're not there. She's been starting to get really specific with who she spars with just so she could avenge you in her own little way," she elaborated, tilting her head with a grin. "And I know for a fact you do the exact same thing."

"How are you so sure?" He narrowed his eyes.

"Well, that Liam guy didn't get that black eye out of nowhere, did he?"

"He was being a fucking pervert," Bucky grumbled, blushing when Wanda's grin widened.

"It is kinda cute," she hummed. "How you two somehow came up with this unspoken rule that nobody else gets to be mean to you except each other."

"But she has always hated me?"

"I don't see her action as her hating you," Wanda said. "I see it as someone who deep down cares, but is too afraid to even acknowledge it. Because the second you come to accept it, then it becomes real, right?"

•••

Bucky couldn't go back to sleep.

He usually never could whenever he'd get woken up by you having a nightmare. But maybe this time, he didn't necessarily want to go back to sleep.

When he heard your door open just as he entered his room, he'd been wondering if he should follow you.

Perhaps he was curious where you went, or maybe he was downright concerned. This was the first time you ever left your room after a nightmare, so Bucky could deduce that this one was difficult to shake off.

Sighing deeply, Bucky threw the covers off himself again because fuck it.

What could possibly go wrong?

Grabbing a shirt, he ventured out of his room and into the desolate halls of the compound. He had an inkling as to where you were, the sound of a punching bag being brutalized getting louder the more he walked proving him right.

Compared to the training room in the facility, the gym below the Avengers' residences was far smaller—well, enough to fit one boxing ring, at least.

Bucky found you in the middle of it.

Your movement wasn't calculated, nor were they graceful. Punches were thrown for the sake of it, kicks with power but no technique.

There was quite the distinction between training and exercise, over letting out sheer anger before it could consume you.

What you were doing was clearly the latter as your bare knuckles hit worn-down leather.

"Where are your gloves?"

You spun around with a yelp at the sound of his voice, eyes wide with shock as it landed on him.

It must've been quite the rough nightmare when you didn't even notice him walk in, especially when he wasn't at all discreet about his presence.

You immediately glared at him when the surprise wore off. "Will you ever leave me the fuck alone?"

"So you own the gym now?" Bucky scoffed, arms crossed before he shrugged. "It was just a question."

"Didn't feel like wearing one," you said, throwing a harsh jab at the bag.

"Can't sleep?"

You rolled those pretty eyes of yours. "Isn't that obvious?"

Bucky hummed, parting the ropes as he got in the ring.

You ignored him and continued your assault on the bag. That, until he walked over to the opposite side and grabbed it.

"What are you doing?" you huffed.

Bucky reached up, unclipped it from its hanger and tossed it to the side with ease.

"I was using that!"

He ignored you until he was standing in the middle of the ring, arms out as he faced you.

"Picture me as him."

It took you a second to realize what he was implying.

"Have you lost your mind?"

"You want to let off steam?" he said, going into a southpaw stance, nodding curtly. "Go for it."

Hands on your hips, you raised a brow. "What makes you think I won't seriously hurt you?"

"I trust you enough not to."

That caught you off guard.

"Unless you're scared—"

"As fucking if, Barnes."

Bucky smiled to himself.

Always works.

You threw the first punch.

Bucky never threw one.

He knew you needed to let this anger out so he let you. He was mostly on defense—blocking, evading, sidestepping and the occasional ducking whenever you'd throw in a kick for the fun of it.

Just your personal punching bag, really.

He could tell it was helping, though. The tense nature you had when he walked in was slowly fading, your punches and kicks now getting more precise instead of haphazardly thrown.

And when you gave him a look to say you needed more of a challenge, he gladly obliged.

This would mark the second time he'd sparred with you. Since the first one was extremely heated, nobody really tried to instigate another one again.

But this time around? Bucky could sense your playfulness.

It was both surprising and so addicting.

There was no ego and no animosity. Obviously, there was still a hint of competitiveness but it never truly felt serious. You weren't truly aiming to get a proper hit on him nor was he trying to one-up you in any way.

It was an innocent bout, a friendly spar.

Even when you suddenly pulled out a knife when he had you in a headlock.

Youtapped the flat of the blade against his right forearm, the very one he had around your neck.

He loosened his grip, letting you spin in his hold. You stepped back as you faced him, the tip of the knife pointed right in his face.

Tilting his head to the side, he met your eyes with a raised brow.

"You're not playing fair."

You shrugged, flipping the knife in the air and catching it on your other hand.

"You have a metal arm."

Bucky cracked a smile, one that widened when he saw the corner of your mouth lift just a little.

"Touche," he hummed, moving swiftly to disarm you but you clocked his attack right away. You countered with a sidestep, hitting his side with the butt of the knife and jumping out of reach.

"Gotta be faster than that, old man," you teased.

He scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Oh, so now we're playing the age card?"

"You're a hundred years old."

Shaking his head, he went after you running. You used the ropes to your advantage, climbing onto them and using their elasticity to jump over him. One hand grabbing his shoulder, your legs locked around his waist from behind, the knife immediately up against his neck.

He grabbed your ankles that were right on his abdomen, pinching the blade with his metal fingers. You jumped off his back before he could attempt to shake you off himself. Bucky turned only to be met by the knife right up his face.

Again.

"Do you always have a knife with you?" he asked out of genuine curiosity.

"Maybe."

"Where do you even keep them?"

"Places."

His brows shot up before he could even try and school his boyish reaction.

You gasped, "Don't be gross!"

"I didn't even say anything!" he chuckled, using the slim moment of distraction to grab your forearm. With one swift motion, he pulled it past the side of his head and held it against his shoulder, making you stumble forward. The knife fell with a soft clank. "Your mind went there."

"You were implying it!" you argued, the corner of your lip curling up. It was so small that if he hadn't been so close to you, he wouldn't have noticed.

Still, the twinkle in your eyes was unmistakable.

"Implying what?" he asked. "I mean, who knows where a woman keeps her knives."

You laughed.

For a stupid joke, you let out such a carefree laugh.

It made his heart do somersaults as it burst out of his chest and landed right at the palm of your hand.

To say you glowed would be an understatement—head thrown back, the corners of your eyes crinkling, a little scrunch of your nose with your smile so wide and breathtaking.

And for a moment, it didn't look like you had demons haunting you at night. It didn't look like you bore so much anger and pain in your well-being, valid yet all-consuming. It didn't look as if you had built so many walls around yourself, much less your heart.

For a moment, you looked so free of it all.

And at that moment, he couldn't hold it anymore.

For once ever since you first met, Bucky didn't let himself think too much. After everything that had happened, he'd always wanted to be in control from here on out. He always tried to plan everything, always trying to evaluate things before making the decisions—he always ran on logic.

Right now, he let his heart take the lead.

You were still smiling as your laugh turned to small chuckles, eyes shining as it settled back on him.

Carefully, he placed his hand on your waist.

He saw your smile dwindle, irises holding both shock, confusion and a touch of curiosity, your brows faintly knitting when he squeezed ever so softly.

But you didn't pull away.

Maybe it was a trick of the light, maybe it was purely his imagination, but he was sure you stepped even closer.

Still, it gave him that sliver of hope. Just enough to give him courage, for him to cup your face with his right hand, your shaky breath warm against his thumb as he ghosted it over your lips.

You glanced at his lips before hurriedly moving back to his gaze, your eyes covered in many emotions but he didn't see any doubt in them. So he leaned in, so close he could count your eyelashes if he tried. His nose was brushing against the bridge of yours, foreheads touching as you leaned into his palm.

Then, he paused.

It was his way of giving you the choice—to walk away if you wanted to. His hold on you was featherlight. And even if it wasn't, there was no doubt how easily you could escape him with how skilled you were.

But you stayed.

You tilted your head up as your eyes fluttered closed, your lips just a hair's breadth away from his own.

Bucky closed the distance and kissed you.

Slow, careful, tentative, lips just gently pressed against yours.

You were still for a moment, and Bucky was sure you were about to push him back as your free hand moved to his chest, palm right above his erratically beating heart.

But then…

You kissed him back.

Bucky couldn't stop his smile, warm and giddy as a satisfied hum rumbled in his chest.

He wrapped his arm fully around you then, the hand on your cheek gently cupping the side of your neck, his thumb softly caressing your jaw.

You tilted your head, your arms slowly wrapping around his shoulders, pulling him closer as your lips moved with his.

God you tasted so sweet.

His knees nearly buckled when your fingers got lost in his hair, a groan deep in his throat when you tugged.

And Bucky wanted more.

Hands taking home on your hips, his thumbs found their way underneath the hem of your shirt, stroking circles on your warm and soft skin. Then, he walked you backward towards the ropes.

Yet as soon you touched the rubber foam, you gasped and pulled away.

Bucky only saw it momentarily, the shock on your face before he hit the ropes with a grunt, your warmth leaving him completely.

Only a second ago you were so close to him.

Now you were an arm's length away, the tip of the knife against his throat adding distance between you two.

Yet the moment he met your eyes, Bucky could tell you were much, much farther away than that—into a place well guarded that he would have difficulty reaching you.

His heart ached at how quick and high your walls got built in only a few seconds.

"Do that again and I'll kill you."

Bucky stepped forward, the tip of the blade touching his skin.

"You won't."

You narrowed your eyes. "Yeah? What makes you so confident?"

"The fact that you don't hate me."

Your hand lowered slightly, a look crossing your face for a split second before you raised the blade with a glare.

"The knife against your throat begs to differ."

"Then tell me." Another step forward, he challenged, "Why do you hate me?"

Your glare turned sharper than the knife you held at his throat, speaking through gritted teeth, "You know very well why I hate you."

"Is it because I've been an asshole to you?"

You shrugged.

"Or is it because I remind you of him?" he said, shaking his head when you shrugged again. "We look the same, but that's where the similarities end."

"You didn't know him," you argued.

"No. But I'm not him and deep down you know that," Bucky pushed back, watching as the blade moved away from him little by little. He could tell you didn't even notice that you were doing it, slowly pulling it away the more he got closer.

With so many emotions swimming in your eyes, Bucky could only imagine what battle was happening in your mind.

"So tell me, why do you hate me?" he asked, voice soft yet eyes determined as they never left yours.

"I already told you—"

"No. I want the real reason," he interrupted, tilting his head knowingly. "Or do you want me to guess?"

You scoffed, eyes rolling. "You don't know me enough."

"Maybe," Bucky hummed, taking another step closer.

Your blade managed to prick his skin then, the distance between you closing in. But he didn't care. All he cared about was getting past this hard exterior you'd been wearing for years that now, it was starting to feel like second skin.

"But you remind me of someone I know," he said.

"Really?" you gasped with sarcastic enthusiasm. "Fine, I'll bite. Who?"

"Me."

Bucky saw your features soften ever so slightly, that if he wasn't so close to you, if he wasn't actively looking for a sliver of your reaction, he would've missed it.

But the small chip against your walls only had you placing two more bricks to cover it.

"We are nothing alike," you growled, as you took a step, unknowingly pressing the knife harder on his skin.

Bucky could feel the smallest drop of blood trickle down his neck.

His eyes remained on you.

"Aren't we?" he challenged. "You have a hard time trusting anyone because you never know who you could truly trust. Yet the second you even have that reassurance you shut it down. You build your walls so high so no one could get to you, telling yourself that you're safer and more protected that way but I know it makes you feel lonely too. I know because I've been there."

He saw your fingers loosen around the hilt, your eyes glistening under the light despite your sharp glare.

"You have this guilt in your heart you can't quite shake off, despite knowing, deep down, it wasn't your fault. There's a small voice that's telling you that you deserve better, that you deserve to be granted kindness, that what you did was completely out of your hands and you deserve to forgive yourself, and that you deserve happiness. But as that voice gets louder, the guilt comes back tenfold because how could you think these things after what you've done?"

"Stop," you gritted, your fingers now starting to tremble.

"You push away any person who gets too close to you because of the things you've gone through. You think anyone who tries is only doing it to gain something. But you also can't control how you feel, that despite trying so hard to deny it, despite doing everything to list out cons, despite telling yourself they will only hurt you, reminding yourself that you should never give them that power, you can't stop it because it's just too fucking strong."

You shook your head angrily, trying so hard to deny it but Bucky could see your resolve start to crumble.

So he kept going.

"I'm tired of this game, doll," he said, softly. "I'm tired of masking what I truly feel for you with hate just because I'm scared."

The surprise that crossed your face was so quick he might as well have imagined it.

"You hate me," you pressed, as if saying it would cement it as truth. But he knew it was simply your way of denying it.

"Because the second you come to accept it, then it becomes real, right?"

He was done denying it.

"I hate the way you smile at everyone but me. I hate it when you laugh at everyone's stupid jokes because I want to be the one to make you laugh. I hate that every time you look at me it's always with anger and annoyance or maybe even disgust. But you know what?" he sighed, gesturing at you with a small smile. "I'll take anything you give me as long as you're looking at me.

"And fuck, you make me feel so weak with a simple look, what more if you did as much as smile at me? You could hurt me any time, break my heart as you wish, and it's terrifying because I know I would just let you without hesitation as long as I get to be this close to you even for a second. That's how crazy I am for you."

"Stop manipulating me," you pleaded, voice starting to shake.

"I'm not, doll," he confessed. "I'm just finally being honest with you. I'm finally being honest with myself."

"No! No," you denied angrily. "You're just playing with my emotions."

It broke Bucky's heart just how conflicted you look. But he knew it all steamed from fear.

You just didn't want to get hurt again.

"It's confusing, isn't it?" he continued. "How your heart skips a beat whenever they're near, how you want to be closer to them but your brain immediately shuts it down. You're not used to being vulnerable so you mask it with the best way you know how and the only thing you've known for most of your life: You fight. With insults, with glares, with harsh words it doesn't matter what it looks like as long as you're fighting it.

"But deep down you care and you just can't help it," he said, eyes never leaving yours just so you could see how much he meant his words. "I know I haven't been showing it in the best way but maybe that's because I've been trying to bury it so deep. But it doesn't even matter how many times I try and hide it because I care about you so fucking much it just keeps coming out anyway."

"Stop," you gritted yet your voice trembled, eyes glistening under the light as the knife slowly started to lower.

"I can't," he admitted, wholeheartedly and unabashedly. "I'm falling for you and there's nothing I can do to stop it."

The knife fell on the floor.

Bucky gently took your hand, squeezing it softly before he placed your palm right above his heart.

"I know you feel it too," Bucky said softly, slowly dropping to his knees in front of you.

To show you how he meant every single word he said by letting his guard down, showing vulnerability in hopes you'd meet him halfway.

"Tell me I'm wrong," Bucky whispered. "Tell me I'm the only one and I'll leave you alone. For good."

His heart skipped with hope as you reached for him, your fingertips brushing against his lips before you cupped his cheek.

Instinctively, he leaned against your touch. Gaze holding yours, he turned his head to press a soft kiss against your palm.

But then you pulled back with a gasp, eyes wide with panic as if he had stung you.

You stepped back in haste, eyes brimming with tears as you shook your head frantically.

Before he could even say anything, you turned on your heel and rushed out of the gym, leaving Bucky kneeling on the ground—vulnerable and alone.

In the deafening silence, he could hear his heart break.

A stab from your knife would've hurt less.

•••

Everyone could sense the gloomy, gray cloud that followed you both.

He wasn't sure if anyone knew what transpired. Most of the team had merely looked confused about the whole thing. The only exception of the bunch was Natasha. Bucky had been met with her sympathetic eyes more than enough times for him to know you'd told her about what happened.

Still, everyone knew something happened.

How could they not when the usual loud arguments and nonstop bickering had now been reduced to the cold quietness?

It was such a glaring difference and Bucky was right at the center of it.

Your silence was far more painful than any of the spiteful words you'd thrown at him.

It wasn't for the lack of trying on his part. But how was he able to talk to you when you'd been so determined to avoid him?

The second you would even sense that he was nearby, you'd immediately leave the premises.

It was still the case as he entered the kitchen.

Sam was in the middle of telling a random story when your chair screeched, an excuse to leave tumbling out of your mouth before you hurriedly walked past Bucky and down the hall, the sound of your bedroom door shutting behind you.

You didn't even finish your breakfast, your bear coffee mug still half full. You left a toast that was barely eaten, the fading warmth of your presence and the lingering smell of your shampoo.

He didn't even hide his dejectedness as he prepared himself some coffee.

"You know, I'd take the arguing over this tense silence any day."

Bucky shot him a glare over his shoulder.

"What? I don't like seeing my friends looking like sad, kicked puppies," Sam simply said, eyeing him suspiciously when he took a seat across from him. "What did you do anyway?"

Bucky rolled his eyes. "Really? It's immediately my fault?"

"Hey, I'm just being observant," Sam elaborated. "When I mentioned your name she had this look on her face so…I'm assuming her mood has something to do with you."

"She didn't tell you anything?"

Sam shook his head. "Barely even said a word."

Bucky frowned.

If Sam himself couldn't even get you to talk then it was only a testament to just how much things had been weighing on you.

While Bucky didn't regret telling you the truth, he wondered if there was a different way he could've done it. But then again, you were so stubborn. He had the assumption that no matter how he went about things, you would've reacted the same way.

"I just—" His frown deepened as he shook his head. "I told her how I feel about her."

"Buck…"

"I told her how I'm falling for her and she—" he sighed, rubbing a frustrated hand over his nose. "She walked away."

Sam was too stunned to speak—well, not enough to resist throwing in a little joke, apparently.

"Damn, she didn't catch you huh?"

"Why did I even bother," Bucky grumbled as he stood from his seat.

"Hey! Come on, I'm kidding. Just wanted to cheer you up a little, man," Sam rushed, hands up in surrender before he shot him an honest smile. "But seriously, just give her time to process things. I'm sure her emotions are just as all over the place as yours."

Bucky nodded, sitting back down as he sipped his coffee and grimaced.

It didn't quite taste the same as how you made it.

•••

A week had gone by yet the clouds had no sign of dissipating any time soon.

Bucky had been respecting your space, knowing it was what you needed. But at the same time, he was scared that he might push you further away if he kept insisting.

Still, he missed you so fucking much.

His heart had been aching with longing when all he'd been able to do was simply catch glimpses of you.

It's been too long since Bucky had looked into your eyes, and the only time he had the chance to hear your voice was when it was far away, speaking to someone else. But there wasn't much he could do when you always found yourself leaving once he entered the room.

He could only watch as you walked away from Natasha as he stepped foot into the training room.

"Sam wasn't kidding with the looking like sad puppies part," the redhead teased when he got to her.

"Does he ever just…shut up?" Bucky sighed.

Natasha laughed, "It's all for the best of you. He's looking for reinforcement on how to fix this whole situation you'd got going on."

"Him and me both," he grumbled, eyes steady on you as you went down the hallway and disappeared into a corner.

"You know, I never thought I'd get to see two of the most emotionally constipated people exist at the same time, let alone be in the same room," Natasha hummed, shrugging. "Well, almost the same room."

"Shut up," he muttered. With a sigh, he asked, "How is she?"

"Conflicted and confused, a little tired and everything in between. But otherwise?" Natasha offered him a reassuring smile. "She's doing okay."

Bucky wondered how much you'd been sleeping. He barely heard anything from you despite still being in the room next door. It was either you figured out how to enable the soundproofing through FRIDAY or your nightmares had finally stopped.

Despite hoping it was the latter, Bucky knew it most probably was the former.

"Do you think I did it wrong?" he asked, a sense of doubt and insecurity settling in his heart. Bucky knew you told Nat everything, so he didn't feel like he needed to elaborate on what he meant.

"Honestly? I don't think it would've changed much if you did it a different way," Natasha said, confirming what he'd already been thinking. "Feelings are difficult to deal with as it is. In both your cases, it's even more complicated given your past trauma, especially hers."

Bucky nodded.

He knew all of these already. But it felt nice to have that validation.

Still, maybe he read everything wrong. Maybe he got way too into his head and concocted an idea out of nothing.

Maybe you simply didn't feel the same.

"Don't worry. She's just processing things," Nat said with a knowing smile as if she read his mind. "She'll come around eventually."

When she probably knew you better than anyone else here at the compound, Bucky could do nothing more but trust her word.

But he wished you would just give him the chance to prove himself to you, to show you that you could trust him. Bucky would do anything you asked of him, would give everything to you—his loyalty, his care, his whole being. He just wanted to let you see that he was yours, utterly and completely for the taking.

Bucky just needs that one chance.

The thing with the universe? It has quite an interesting way of granting what you wish for.

Bucky never expected his wish to be granted in the most cliché way possible.

•••

Things were not looking good.

He supposed, finding the nest and beating it with a stick—or in this case, heavy artillery and super-powered individuals—was never going to be good.

The fucking cockroaches in the form of HYDRA agents wouldn't stop appearing.

"Buck! Five more coming your way from the east wing!"

He grabbed an agent by the collar and threw him at full force towards the other one, both of them falling on the ground alongside the dozen he'd already taken care of. Bucky then turned towards the east wing hallway, ready to take on more only to find it empty. Yet in that split second of confusion, he was able to dodge the bullet hurtling towards him from behind.

Bucky rolled his eyes when he turned the other way and met the agents Steve was warning him about. "That's the west wing, punk!"

"Do you even know your left and right, Steven?"

"Probably not. At least you know my in and out, Natalia."

There was a collective protest of disgust over the connected comms, and Bucky wholeheartedly agreed with everyone.

"You've corrupted America's sweetheart, Romanoff. I hope you're happy," he teased, grabbing an agent by the collar and slamming them against the wall.

"Oh I am absolutely ecstatic."

"Loving the chit chat guys! If you have spare time I could use some assistance!"

Bucky was immediately on high alert at the sound of your voice, struggling and out of breath. His heart picked up the pace when you yelped.

"Where are you?!" he demanded, shooting an agent in the leg before hitting the side of their head with the butt of his gun.

You didn't say anything.

"Frost!" he gritted, slightly annoyed because he knew you were hesitating simply because it was him. "Location!"

You hissed, a gunshot, before you finally answered, "Outside the right exit."

"Hang in there. I'm headed your way."

Knocking out two more agents to the ground, Bucky immediately ran towards the exit.

•••

You were surrounded by a couple agents when he got there.

Cars were around the area, the black, armored vehicles a stark contrast to the white snow. They likely would've used them to get away if you hadn't gotten to them first. There were two agents to your right, three to your left who were closer to Bucky, and a man in a lab coat standing in front of you.

All of them were armed except the scientist.

All of them were aiming at you.

Bucky assumed that the only reason why nobody had opened fire was because of the gun you were pointing at the scientist's head. He recognized him as the same person who got away on the last mission.

So this definitely was someone very important to HYDRA.

Thankfully, they hadn't noticed him yet. He was glad he didn't come through guns blazing like he actually thought of doing. When it was you in danger, it took a while for his rational mind to function. Either way, he was glad for the extra time to think of a game plan.

While assessing the situation, he noticed you hugging your left arm to your chest. A white cloth was wrapped around your forearm, probably some poor man's lab coat. But he could see that your blood had already soaked through. There were a couple of cuts on your cheeks and a bruise forming on your lower lip. But you didn't seem fazed by it. If anything, you simply looked angrier.

"You haven't changed much at all, printsessa," the man taunted, hurriedly raising both hands when you clicked your safety off. "Oh sorry, my bad. Luka simply called you that too often. I was beginning to think it was your name."

"Still jealous he considered me more as his right-hand man than you, I assume?" you said, voice leveled despite your state. But then again, you were highly skilled. It wasn't a surprise that you'd be able to keep yourself calm under pressure. "You know, I always thought you were kinda in love with him, Dominik."

"Zakroy svoy gryaznyy rot, ty bespoleznaya suka!" the man hissed.

Shut your filthy mouth, you useless bitch.

Bucky was ready to throttle the man right then and there. But he waited. He figured he needed to find a way to alert you he was here as discreetly as he could.

"We were partners," Dominik boasted, taking a daring step closer to you. "He wouldn't have gotten close to cracking the code with those serums without my help. You wouldn't be where you are today if it wasn't for me."

You rolled your eyes. "Gee, thanks. I appreciate it."

Bucky carefully moved behind the parked vehicles. When he reached the one beside this Dominik guy, your gaze flickered over to him for a split second. Bucky raised his gun, ready to shoot until you every so subtly shook your head. Then, without as much as a wince even though he knew how it hurt, you brought your injured arm down to your side, hands open to show five fingers.

He immediately knew what you were doing.

"It wasn't me who was in love with him," the man smugly said. "Though, foolish of you to believe he loved your back."

Four.

"I wouldn't call infatuation love but what do you know about that." You shrugged, tilting your head with a grin. "At least I wasn't sleeping alone in my bed jerking off to my lab partner at night. Quite pathetic if you ask me."

Three.

"I'd be careful if I were you," Dominik taunted with a sarcastic laugh. "What is given can easily be taken away."

You scoffed, "What is it with you guys and these riddles?"

Two.

"It takes a great mind to understand these—"

One.

You shot Dominik in the chest while Bucky took down the three agents near him. You immediately turned to shoot the last two before he could react, but not without taking a graze on your thigh.

Bucky rushed to you in long strides, fussing over your form. "Shit. Let me see."

"I'm fine," you insisted, hissing when you did as much as move your arm and your leg.

He rolled his eyes. "Don't be stubborn."

"I'm not being stubborn. I—"

The movement behind you caught Bucky's eye. When he saw the barrel of a gun, he immediately pulled you behind him.

Bucky shot Dominik in the head with no hesitation.

When he turned back to you, he felt confused.

You looked panicked.

Bucky cupped your face hastily, worry seeping into his bones once he saw the tears brimming in your eyes.

"You okay?"

Bucky blinked.

Why did his voice sound like he was underwater?

You nodded frantically, your uninjured hand pressed against his stomach. He saw your lips move but he couldn't hear you. This dull ringing in his ears was preventing him. With knitted brows, he tried blinking away the haze that covered his eyes, a slight fog muddling his brain as he tried to decipher what was going on.

When you pressed harder on his stomach, Bucky glanced down.

Your hand was covered in blood.

His blood.

And when he met your fear-covered eyes, he wiped away the tears that ran down your cheeks, barely recognizing his own voice telling you he was going to be okay.

It was the last thing he saw before the darkness consumed him.

•••

Bucky couldn't remember the last time he lost consciousness over a wound. When he healed fast, it was rare to come by. He also didn't remember ever feeling so groggy after a few hours of sleep.

Despite the ache in his whole body, the first thing he realized was how heavy his right arm felt. He obviously remembered what happened so he was sure his injury wasn't anywhere near there.

Glancing down, the heart monitor beeped a little faster at the sight of you.

You were practically cuddling his whole forearm.

Eyes closed with your hand in his, your cheek pressed against his skin, you were hunched over his bedside table, fast asleep.

You looked so adorable and peaceful.

Even with the bandages that covered your face, even with that little drool escaping your parted lips.

"She hasn't left that chair in a while."

Bucky's head snapped toward the direction of the voice, finding Steve leaning against the door frame with a knowing smile.

"Well, apart from Nat dragging her out to eat and take a shower," he added, closing the door behind him as he walked towards the opposite side of the bed.

Bucky frowned at that.

He couldn't have been in the med bay for that long, right?

"You were out for two weeks, bud," Steve answered as if reading his mind.

"What?" He stared at him, waiting for him to say he was joking. But he only gave him a sad smile. Bucky shook his head. "But the serum—"

"Well, if it weren't for the serum you would've already been dead," Steve said grimly. "The bullet was laced with some poison. Banner ran some tests on it and he suspects it's designed to neutralize any fast healing and to kill the person immediately. But since the blood they probably tested it on didn't have the full super soldier serum, it only affected you mildly. So you were healing slower than usual but still faster than most humans."

A shadow crossed his face. "So you mean if the bullet had gotten her—"

"She would've been killed on the spot."

Bucky nodded grimly, eyes landing on you.

"Good thing I took it for her then, huh," he hummed, squeezing your hand that was placed in his. He couldn't help his concern about your position though. "Her back is going to kill her."

"Yeah well, every day I've been trying to take her place so she can rest properly for a few hours. Wouldn't budge," Steve said, smiling. "She's almost as stubborn as you."

Bucky shook his head with a chuckle, "Maybe I can see some similarities."

He tried reaching for you with his left arm but he couldn't. Then he saw the prosthetic lying down on the bench, now shiny and devoid of any dirt or the blood of his enemies—as dramatic as that sounds. But they were on the battlefield the last time he used it.

"Cleaned that herself, too," Steve said when he caught where he was looking for it. "Do you want me to—"

"Please." Bucky nodded, heat covering his cheeks when the heart monitor started beating loudly again due to the somersaults his heart was doing.

After helping him put his arm back on and handing him a glass of water, Steve called in Dr. Cho. Once she was done with her round of check-ups, the rest of the team slowly filtered in and out to check up on him. All of them spoke in hushed tones when he shot them a glare when their voices got too loud. It was a task to eat a sandwich—which Steve gave him—with one hand, but he managed.

Because even with all the commotion happening, you were still asleep.

It could mean you were a heavy sleeper by nature, you were extremely tired given the situation, or both.

Bucky was also inclined to think you were a cuddly person when you never let go of his arm. He didn't even care if the muscles were dead asleep at this point.

When the sky started to tint orange, and his room had gone quiet after they finally left him alone with you, Bucky couldn't help it. He found himself stroking your face as softly as he could with a smile painted on his lips.

You were here, bearing the uncomfortable position because you cared.

It was then you started to stir.

He remained still and watched your eyes slowly blink open. Brows furrowed, you reached for some tissues on his nightstand, wiping away your drool with a curse.

You never let go of his hand when you did so. And you also didn't notice that he was watching you fuss around, mumbling how embarrassing it was to drool like some dog.

He couldn't stop his chuckle.

You jumped at the sound, eyes wide when they landed on him.

Blinking once, twice, you blurted,

"You're awake."

You tried to pull your hand away but Bucky only held it a little tighter.

"Hi," he murmured, stroking the back of your hand with his thumb.

"How long have you been watching me sleep?" you joked, eyes refusing to look at him.

Bucky tilted his head, grinning. "Not as long as you have, apparently."

You shot him a glare before turning away. He noticed your gaze settle on his stomach, the blanket covering his legs barely hiding the bandage that was wrapped around it.

"You shouldn't have done that," you said.

The corner of his lips quirked up, head tilting to try and catch your eyes.

"A 'thank you' would be nice," he teased, squeezing your hand reassuringly. "I don't regret it, if that's what you're wondering. And I'd do it again without question."

You nodded, lip caught between your teeth as you let out a shaky sigh. It took five seconds for you to meet his eyes.

His heart ached at the sadness and worry along with a few specks of guilt that coated your irises. He could only imagine what you went through with the whole thing.

Steve told him how you didn't want to let him go when the rest of the team finally came to help. The captain got scared out of his kind when the first thing they saw was you crying over Bucky's body lying on the snow, the white ground tainted with his blood. It took Wanda having to use her powers to hold you back for just a few seconds so they could get him into the Quinjet. You didn't leave his side the whole journey home, still crying.

It must've shaken the whole team because they have never seen you cry.

When they finally got him into the med bay and had to roll him into surgery, you put up a fight again and obviously, you were winning. So they unfortunately had to sedate you. They used that time to patch you up as well.

Then you waited two weeks for him to wake up.

If you felt the same as he did, Bucky didn't even want to think how scared you must've been.

He sure as hell would have acted much worse if the roles were reversed.

"Thank you for saving my life, Bucky," you whispered, voice vulnerable but not any less sincere.

His heart skipped the sound of his name falling from your lips.

It was the first time you had called him by that name and God did it feel like a finally.

Bucky shook his head with a smile, interlacing your fingers together.

"I'd do it again in a heartbeat."

You nodded with a grateful smile, one that faded as you regarded him, guilt now swimming in your eyes.

"I'm sorry."

"For what?" he asked, confused.

It took you a few seconds before you spoke again.

"I know I hurt you that night," you elaborated. "When I walked away."

"It's okay—"

You shook your head vehemently, "It's not."

"It is," he insisted, tugging you out of your seat, pulling you closer so that he was able to cup your face and wipe away the stray tear on your cheek.

"I just—I got so scared," you let out a shaky breath, leaning into his touch. "Everything was just so overwhelming a-and there were so many things happening in my head and it kept arguing with my heart. I just—I wanted to trust you, I wanted tobelieve you but I'm just so scared to get hurt again because everything I felt for you was just too strong. I didn't want to lose control of it in case it's only going to end badly. It would kill me. But still, it's not an excuse to hurt you and then ignore it—ignore you for weeks. I could've just handled it like a normal fucking person—"

"Hey, hey," he interrupted softly, taking your face in both his hands. "It's okay. I know, doll. I understand you, remember?"

You nodded with shaky deep breaths, wrapping your fingers around his wrist, not pulling his touch away but simply holding it there.

It made his heart warm.

"I don't like saying you're right." you let out a teary chuckle.

Bucky laughed at that, "It doesn't happen often."

You nodded, smiling timidly. "Let me make it up to you?"

"Yeah?" he hummed, grinning. "How are you going to do that?"

"How about dinner?" you asked shyly.

He couldn't help the smug smirk that played on his lips.

"Are you asking me out?"

You groaned, trying to pull away.

"Hey! Nope, you stay here," he chuckled, scooting a little to the side before tugging your hand so you would sit beside him. You did, and he immediately wrapped an arm around your waist. "So, are you asking me out or not?"

"Can you stop—"

"It's a simple yes or no, doll."

"Yes," you grumbled, rolling your eyes when his grin widened. "Don't get used to it, Barnes."

"I would be honored to go out with you," he said with a teasing tone but with a sincere smile before tilting his head knowingly. "But since I'm bed-bound, can I ask something in advance to make me feel better?"

You narrowed your eyes, suspicious of his request. "What?"

"A kiss."

"Really?" You rolled your eyes, yet the smile on your lips widened.

He groaned suddenly, clutching his stomach with his left arm.

"Shit! Are you okay?" you asked frantically, checking him over as worry colored your face.

"It hurts," he whimpered. "Jumping in front of a bullet for a girl you're falling for really hurts and she won't even give me a kiss to make me feel better."

You froze.

Then, you smacked him on the arm.

"Jesus Christ," he chuckled, rubbing his skin which barely even stung. "Have you no sympathy, woman?"

"Asshole," you muttered.

He pouted with his best puppy eyes. "Why are you so mean—"

Bucky wasn't able to finish his sentence when you more or less shut him up with a kiss.

The feeling of your lips on his again was like a huge breath of relief. It was soft and sweet, unhurried yet still a little careful. But it wasn't short of all the emotions you wanted to convey, the appreciation and adoration, your gratefulness to the utmost care you could muster. All the things that you still weren't ready to voice out loud you poured into the kiss.

Bucky did the exact same thing as he tilted his head, moving his lips against yours in a sweet caress as he held your face in his hand to be closer.

"You look so cute when you're worried," he hummed once you pulled away for air, nudging your nose with his.

"And you're more insufferable than I thought," you muttered, rolling those pretty eyes of yours.

Bucky was now starting to see the action as something affectionate.

"You like that about me," he said smugly.

You sighed in feigned dejection. "Unfortunately."

Bucky only kissed you again in response.

Of all the times he had wondered about ways to just get you to shut up during your random arguments, this was definitely at the top. And while he hoped for it to be the case, his expectations were quite low. He never thought it was actually going to be a reality, especially with how you two were with each other.

Yet look at him now, grinning from ear to ear with your lips pressed against his.

Bucky knew things weren't going to be smooth sailing from here on out. There were still a lot of conversations to be had. You two still had your issues that needed working through, whether that was individually or together.

You were definitely still going to bicker, it simply seemed like it was part of your dynamic. Albeit this time, it'd be more out of affection than animosity.

But as he pulled away and was met by the hopeful glow on your face and the adoration in your eyes that reflected his, he knew that no matter what, this was where he needed to be—with you.

Bucky knew that through thick and thin, through the fire that would light you both aflame, the ups and downs, through spring, summer, fall, Winter and Frost—

You two will be okay.

✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ♛ *.

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tlkfaerie · 1 year

Text

Impossible

Pairing: Sihtric x reader x Finan ✩࿐

⋆｡˚☾⋆｡𖦹 °✩ wc: 5.9k

note: I'm sensing a pattern arising where the reader is related to Uhtred in my writing pffft I just love it lol. this fic is a bit shameless of me tbh, consider Sihtric and Finan to be your mindless Kens in this.

summary: Sihtric and Finan do not take kindly to your attitude after they catch you with another warrior, leading to a night filled with confession and obsession. ✧˖°

MDNI! 18+ ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･TW!: mentions of potential assault, period-typical misogyny, mentions of blood, pining, F/M/M, oral (male receiving), p in v, slight domination etc

You had been resting all day, abandoning any duties that had been bestowed on you by Beocca or the others. Osferth had been with you for a while, but had run as soon as he saw some of your lady friends approaching, fearing that they would hassle him. Though he was sweet, he was incredibly oblivious, a trait that had gotten him into serious trouble - and by default, you too.

It was always you that seemed to be involved in some kind of dilemma, Uhtred's sister, clumsy and short-tempered. You always likened yourself more to Brida, wanting to follow in her wild, mildly assaulting ways with people. Ragnar cherished you, but always decided that Uhtred would be able to keep you safer, as he had a mixed band of trustworthy individuals.

You wandered in the nearby woods, collecting random flowers that interested you and occasionally stuffing them in-between the threading of your dress, which by now was soaked with a layer of mud from the terrain beneath your feet. Thyra had warned you not to arrive back too late. You knew that you shouldn't be too long, not on your own like this, but for now, everything in Uhtred's world seemed remarkably peaceful. For someone who liked to play with Alfred's commands, this was a miracle.

You revelled in your own company for a little longer, feeling your heart stop when your peace was finally disturbed by hooves. Before you turned around, you feared the worst, that it was some enemy of Uhtred's come to claim you and sell you for ransom. Fingertips going cold, you rested your thumb on the hiding place that you usually kept a small blade in, feeling its absence and cursing wildly.

Shit.

"And why do I find you out here all alone, lady?" you vaguely recognised the voice to be Gudrun, one of your brother's warriors and somewhat of a childhood acquaintance. You turned swiftly, to find the man looking down at you from his horse. He was handsome in his own right - but you had often seen him night after night sitting with a cup of ale, and whatever company he could find for the night. You did not blame him, finding yourself at the mercy of ale from time to time, but wondered why he squandered his talents on such wasteful hobbies so often.

"Please don't let me stop you on your journey Gudrun, I wouldn't want to slow you down," you began to dismiss him somewhat, feeling a fool for straying so far from the village with so little to protect you. You knew he was one of Uhtred's men, but the company of men was a tumultuous one.

"Not at all, Y/N. In fact, I can think of no better way for my journey to be disturbed," he smiled rather darkly, a tone of strange flirtation in his voice. You assumed he was harmless, relaxing a little as you accepted his compliment. You wanted Uhtred to come behind him at any moment to protect you, but he had his own children and wife to worry about now, so you were forced to remain.

"That's too kind, Gudrun, where are you headed?"

"To Lunden, just on some small duty. It's nothing serious. You should accompany me, lady."

You grimaced at that, knowing what had occurred at Lunden not too long ago. Gudrun seemed pleased at your discomfort. You felt bad for characterising him as a brute, wanting to remain pleasant to him, but you had observed how he was with his women before, often leaving them bruised and in need of comfort.

You politely refuse, wanting to be done with the situation, but then he dismounts from his horse, the poor thing jolting slightly. You watched the animal relax, returning your gaze to the much taller man who now hovered above you, blonde hair cascading in layered pieces around his face.

You stood your ground when he spoke. "Are you sure, pretty? I would not want to leave you out here alone, where any man could claim you for his own," he whispered, forehead practically touching yours as he took a few steps closer. You didn't like what he was saying, cheeks burning with his words, feeling your own brows furrowing. You were perfectly capable of defending yourself, or at least you thought you were.

Uhtred's best men and your closest friends, Sihtric and Finan, spent hours with you teaching you basic movements of defence, and when you were in the company of Brida and Ragnar, which wasn't often, you often challenged them to silly fights that you had occasionally won.

You didn't think before you shouted at him, "have the weight of your disgusting balls dragged your brain down with them? Or did you not hear what I said?"

You realised all too late that you had escalated the situation, watching the surprise on his face grow into anger, stalking backwards as you realised Gudrun's intentions may not have been as pure as you once thought. You didn't want to cause Uhtred any more unnecessary problems or create new tensions, but the way Gudrun was now staring at you reminded you that you were truly at his mercy.

"Those are such vulgar words for a lady like you, Y/N. I could have your tongue for that, but I can think of a better use for it first," he grinned, closing in on you. Your back quickly hit a tree, and you felt an immediate flush of nervousness. Nevertheless, it quickly subsided, and you allowed yourself a moment to breathe, readying your next words carefully.

"What would your mother think of the way you speak?" you were quick to spit in his face, acutely aware of the danger you were putting yourself in, but strangely loving it, "have the women around you not civilised you? Not taught you manners? Or were you raised by wretched wolves?"

Slipping away from under him and past the tree, you had expected to make somewhat of a swift escape, but Gudrun grabbed you before you could even think, his entire hand encircling your arm, squeezing until you felt yourself going cold, a tear making its way down your cheek.

"So stubborn for such a pestilent whore," he returned the favour, spitting onto your cheek as he bared his teeth at you, almost growling, "so stupid. I was taught how to treat a woman, and I will show you-"

Before he could continue, the scene was disturbed by more galloping, and the unsheathing of a sword. You recognised the voice that you heard next to be Finan's, and you resented it.

"Gudrun, what the hell do you think you're doing? Is this what you call being a warrior?" He shouted, immediately dismounting from his horse, sword in hand. He looked at you, eyes swimming in concern for you, which you returned with a scowl. You hated that he had come to your aid, and what was worse, you could see Sihtric coming towards the three of you as well.

Normally, you would be happy to see the two of them, but not on this occasion. The three of you had become incredibly close as things had settled down. Before, they had always seemed too busy, but over the year they had sought your company more and more. But their attention meant a watchful eye was always on you. As Uhtred built his family, you thought you had escaped your scoldings, but to no avail, the two of them always had something to say.

And now they were saving you. As they always seemed to do when you were in trouble. It infuriated you; feeling so inferior to the both of them, hating the way they coddled you as though you were some sort of child. You wanted them to see you as a woman. The whole situation made you act in a way you weren't entirely proud of.

"Finan just leave this, I can handle myself," you yelled, feeling shame run through you as Gudrun still gripped you tightly, not allowing you to go anywhere as you pulled and thrashed, practically kicking him. You wanted to literally sink into the ground when you felt Finan's eyes on you. He stood in all his seriousness, but knowing that he would win this altercation with Gudrun, there was also a hint of amusement.

"I'd listen to the lady, Finan, just leave me with her tits and I'll be finished."

Sihtric, who until now had been quiet, looked at you disapprovingly, which only spurred you on further. You loved him at the best of times, but the feeling of inferiority was eating you alive. You kicked and scratched, watching as Gudrun's sword went from pointing to Finan to pointing at you, its sharp end slightly piercing your arm.

"You bastard!" you practically screamed, but it fell on deaf ears. Sihtric, always careful, stepped slowly to your left, as Finan moved to your right, dominating Gudrun's line of sight.

"Go on, Gudrun, go to Lunden, spend all your money on women as you always do, forget this one," Sihtric taunted, rendering your own words invisible as you saw how Gudrun reacted. It seemed as though you had lost your voice. You huffed, wriggling further in his grip, which caused his sword to pierce you even more, drawing blood.

Finan tutted, looking over the both of you to Sihtric, as though they shared an invisible sort of signal that had you torn from Gudrun in seconds. Now you felt yourself in Sihtric's arms, binding you to him. Finan wasted no time, stabbing Gudrun's leg, leaving him there. He whispered something in Gudrun's ear, most likely a warning not to come back , which you thought was wise.

Just as quickly as he had finished with Gudrun, Finan stormed over to you and Sihtric. You hated to admit that Sihtric's grip was warm and welcome, and relief had you practically melting into him, but you knew what was to come.

"How I've missed your childish insolence," Finan remarked, smiling despite your very obvious scowl. Sihtric, however, was more serious, tending to your arm as blood seemed to pour from it endlessly. "You were naive to think you could take him, Y/N, you should not have further endangered yourself." He was quiet, raising a cloth to your wound, pursing his lips as the fabric quickly soaked into a dark mess.

"I had no choice, what would you have me do? Let him take me right then and there?" you knew you were digging yourself a deeper hole, ripping your arm from Sihtric's grasp, letting the cloth he had been holding fall to the floor.

"You know what Sihtric means. You shouldn't have to reason with him, I know, let's just be glad the prick is passed out." Finan kicked the unconscious body of Gudrun, which rocked, but did not muster. Finan looked at you, sensing frustration. He understood you, that you had been placed in an impossible situation, but they had truly only wanted to help you.

The three of you had briefly explained to Uhtred why he would be missing a man from now on, and with that you avoided Sihtric and Finan like the plague for over a week, much to their mutual dismay.

Both Sihtric and Finan sat on a table outside of the ale house, Osferth off somewhere training whilst Uhtred had gone to help Gisela with the children. Left to their own conversation, which was usually a blessing to the both of them, they began to talk about you.

You who hadn't been seen leaving your own home in days other than to bathe or eat. You who used to wander so recklessly, spending days in fields and forests with whoever you could get to join you.

They missed you pestering them with silly questions of battle and fighting, how you observed them with awe when they told stories of their lives before they had met you. Your innocent eyes no longer lit up in front of them, bringing them a pure sense of life after days of death and destruction.

"I must have left my mind on the battlefield," Finan muttered, Sihtric responding with a quiet grin as he sipped on ale. He knew what Finan was saying; the two of them had gained somewhat of an understanding over the past few days, realising that they both had feelings for you.

"Just what the world needs," Sihtric responded, looking at Finan, "two men in love with the same woman who speaks to neither of them." They both chuckled, refusing to let such a thing come between them.

"Something needs to be done, we can't just sit here like miserable bastards." Finan spoke, giving Sihtric a knowing glance. Sihtric scowled as he usually did, wanting to act entirely irrationally but holding himself back for the sake of everyone in the village.

As if their prayers had been answered, you came stumbling out of your home not even seconds later, in full view of the ale house and the two men you sought. Sihtric and Finan, you mentally scoffed.

Your frustration had been brewing for an entire week now. How embarrassed you had been at your outburst, and at your rejection of Finan's help and Sihtric's aid. You were equally as furious at the constant prominence of men in your life. They were everywhere all at once, consuming you, believing they could take whatever they wanted from you.

But what was even more sickly was that you missed your two friends dearly. Playing stupid games of stones with Finan who laughed at the most utterly unfunny things, and Sihtric, ever the affectionate friend, always one step ahead to ensure your safety. You felt like a fool for not realising that you liked them. You really liked them.

You set your sights on the hall and the ale house, where you knew they would surely be, stomping over as if it were your birthright. Once you saw the two of them sitting outside, you recognised their smiles. Wanting to make that short lived, you struck the back of their heads at the same time, plonking down onto the bench nearest to them.

"Y/N-" Sihtric began, but you held up a finger in his face, wagging it infuriatingly.

"No. You must listen to me. I am thankful for what you did to help me with Gudrun, and I'm sorry I haven't reacted as though I were. I was merely upset that a man felt he could do such a thing to me, and that I couldn't do anything about it without help," you didn't even manage a breath as you continued, "I just don't want to be seen as some kind of incompetent fool that needs to be saved. And what makes it worse is that I wanted to teach you both a lesson by being independent, you slugs!'

"Y/N, breathe." Finan chastised, causing your eyes to widen.

"Shut up and let me finish!" you stomped your foot, aggravated by his pretty smile and the way he seemed to unconsciously reach for the hem of your dress to play with. Sihtric also amused you for a second, his expression one of deadly seriousness as he listened to you intently.

"There's more I could say, but I just think I'd rather we go back to normal," you huffed, slightly annoyed at their downcast expressions, "and against all of my judgements about men, I've found myself pining pathetically for the both of you."

"Well, sorry for inconveniencing you so much, lady." Finan smiled, simply thankful that you were back on speaking terms with them. Your anger sat well within him though, and they didn't want to take advantage of the moment, not when your point was very much valid.

"We will teach you to be a great warrior, Y/N," Sihtric smirked rather proudly, punching your arm, to which you responded with a slap and a request for ale. Looking down at your hands, you briefly missed the longing look that the two men gave you.

Another week had passed, and the two men still hadn't confessed to you of their true affections, but the three of you understood that there had been some sort of shift in your relationship. Uhtred had been called to and from King Alfred's company once or twice, leaving you absent of your friends for a few days.

This didn't bother you at all, in fact, you were somewhat relieved from the break. Gisela kept you busy, with walking and games that Beocca had gifted her, you had even swum once or twice with her, entirely free and content. But when she took up her motherly duties, you were free to roam as you pleased, ignoring all civilisation as you wandered further and further from the village.

It was hours later that you returned, feeling anything but fresh, with some cuts and bruises from when you had decided to climb up a tree to take an hour's rest. Much to your dismay, you were not very good at climbing trees.

You hadn't even been entirely sure where your brother and the others had been sent to, as they were constantly marching north and south for some reason, but you had not expected to see them all gathered in the centre of the village walls when you returned from your own rough excursion.

Uhtred ran to you, picking you up in a forceful hug, laughing at your state. "I see you do not know how to stay out of trouble, Y/N. You limp like a fat man!" His shining eyes were somehow swimming with both excitement and exhaustion, and you returned his affections, realising he most likely needed them.

"I see things went your way this time, Uhtred." you let him hug you for just a little longer, sensing he must have faced great struggle to be so affectionate towards you. "How was everything?"

"Fine, sister, fine. I faced nothing quite as fearsome as you." Uhtred allowed his fondness for you to take over him for a moment, glad to be reminded of home and family. You rolled your eyes, patting his shoulder and letting him return to his children.

The air caught in your throat when you finally saw both Sihtric and Finan, talking casually with a few other warriors in the corner. They were dirty, even bloody, furs and capes draped over their enormous frames, sharp faces laughing as they were finally free from duties for a little while longer.

Finan spotted you first, a smile growing on his face as his arms opened warmly to greet you. He had removed the straps clinging to him, so that his sword fell to the floor. You walked slowly towards them, head tilted to the side when you welcomed Finan's embrace, not wanting to say too much as you felt his grip tighten.

You opened your scrunched eyes briefly to see Sihtric next to the two of you, placing a gloved hand on your head, patting it slightly. You blushed at the way he looked at you, realising you had been staring slightly too long, and that Finan had been hugging you for a while now, chin resting on your head.

Finan took you in, your once clean dress swimming in mud and loose leaves. Your braids unravelling slowly, a tad of mud on your face. You looked like you had gone on the journey with them. But, as he stared into your wide eyes, he thought that you had never looked more beautiful.

"I missed the two of you," you finally spoke, words hanging in the air. Sihtric looked down, grabbing your hand and holding tightly. Finan busied himself by fiddling with your braid.

"We missed you. I swear I saw Sihtric cryin' at one point, poor rat was devastated to leave our weakness." Though he spoke in an amusing manner, his eyebrows remained firm, and his smile did not last. The tension was ripe.

"Hey, Finan was the one telling all the men about you. Uhtred nearly had to send him away," the Dane responded, lightening the tone, but confusing you even more. They had been talking about you as their weakness, missing you, and now they couldn't stop touching you in some small form. Why didn't they just do something?

You knew they were polite men in their own regard, and that it would be up to you to initiate something. But what you didn't know, is that once you did, there would never be any going back. The two men wanted you so desperately; they had been discussing logistically how two men could share one woman forever, and had come to the conclusion that they simply just would. Now they were bursting at the seams waiting for you to say you wanted it too. They needed your confirmation.

"You should both come to my home," you said to them, shuffling your feet in the direction of your house. Gisela had taught you a little something about seduction whilst the men had been away, and you wanted to be the one in control of the situation. For now, at least. "For food, I mean. And drink."

"I never knew you could be such a kind hostess, Y/N." Finan said, pulling Sihtric towards him. You scoffed, squinting your eyes at him which caused him to stick out his tongue, a slight chuckle from Sihtric.

They had been to your house plenty of times, even staying over sometimes with Osferth or even Uhtred when they wanted peace and quiet. But this time, something in the pit of your stomach told you it was going to be different. You trotted quickly as they prowled behind you, already knowing the way themselves.

You felt their eyes burning holes into the back of your head as you stood at your door, the two me hovering over you, heads above you. You fumbled a little with the door, sighing in frustration.

"Take your time." mumbled Sihtric, surprising you slightly. Your face burnt like molten lava, and you refused to look at them. The two men gave each other a knowing look, a sense of unfinished business hovering in the air.

Sihtric's words affected you more than you had realised, his soft, deep voice reverberating in your head. You felt a hand on your shoulder, unaware as to which of the men it belonged to, and before you could control your reaction, a minuscule whimper came shooting out of your mouth.

Thankfully, you managed to regain consciousness for the moment and opened the door, ignoring any consequences of the sickly noise you had just let out. Little did you know, the noise had stirred Finan's cock, and Sihtric had had to take a deep breath to control himself, nostrils flaring.

You were teasing them, and you had no idea. Soon realising you had actually promised them food, you decided to make good on that, telling them to sit down, where some meats and a little fruit and bread were waiting. You took a moment to breathe, unable to focus on anything but their figures as they passed you and made a point of touching you as they did.

After some normal chatter, you realised that they weren't eating. At first you thought the food you had brought to them was sour, but upon further inspection of them, you began to fidget in your seat. They were practically ogling you, Finan's eyes carrying a sort of apologetic lust, whilst Sihtric gazed at you as though he was drunk.

A shiver ran down your spine, which caused you to fidget even more, hands picking at your dress. This movement did not go unnoticed by Sihtric, who took this as the perfect opportunity to initiate what you were all clearly thinking,

"You are cold, Y/N, you should come closer," his lips parted, and he truly felt in this moment that the Gods had gifted him with some kind of angel, as you stared open-eyed at him. He felt himself getting impatient, reaching out to you with an open palm when you stood hesitantly, like some sort of animal trapped between wolves.

Finan seemed to enjoy this, stretching back into the chair as you made your way to Sihtric, accepting his hand, not entirely sure on what to do next. After a moment of lingering, Finan answered your prayers with a simple "Sit, Y/N."

Sihtric groaned when you finally placed yourself in his lap, staring into his dual-toned eyes, unable to keep his intimidating gaze for longer than a second. Though you knew in reality he was a sweetheart, in this moment, he seemed dangerous.

Before you could lower your chin, Sihtric gripped it with his rough fingers, forcing you back up to face him, his other hand sliding down to your backside. He did nothing for a moment, each movement incredibly slow.

Other than the crackling fire in the corner of the seating area, all was silent. You realised your braids had unravelled entirely now, wild hair hanging loosely around your face. You hadn't realised how close Finan was until you saw him behind you, standing above you and Sihtric, a tight grip on your loose hair forcing your face even higher. The way he looked down at you, eyebrows furrowing and seemingly glazed with lust, you almost couldn't take it.

"She likes this," Finan muttered, Sihtric humming in agreement. You gasped when the iron grip tightened, forgetting that you were in the presence of two of the greatest warriors in the realm. It turned you on to no end.

Sihtric took advantage of your open mouth, sliding a finger inside, the others holding your chin still. You sucked on the digit rather insatiably, to your own embarrassment, unable to be satisfied until it was soaked and you yourself were drooling onto his trousers. But just as the moment was getting good, as they always did, they found a way to chastise you.

This had been a long, long time coming.

"You must never ignore us like that again, lady," Finan said, "I mean, could you not have just spoken to us? I imagine that would have been a whole lot easier."

The patronising tone had you feeling mildly embarrassed, but the sickly sort of degradation came with sweet caresses, so you managed to forget your pride for a moment.

Instead, despite the grip in your hair and the fingers in your mouth, you nodded, moaning profusely as your eyes rolled back when Sihtric forced another finger in.

"I'd ask for a verbal answer, angel, but I see that probably won't happen." he observed sarcastically, finally loosening his hold for just a moment, your head lolling to the side, wanting to be closer to the both of them. You were rather ashamed of the mess they had turned you into in a matter of minutes.

The feigned sympathy on Sihtric's face was infuriatingly attractive, so much so that you found it within yourself to quickly nip his fingers as he was removing them from your mouth, earning a genuine smile and a strike to the thigh, which was now exposed as your dress had bunched up.

"We own you now, Y/N," Sihtric finally spoke, voice barely above a whisper, "We both own you. You are our woman to love." That was all the confirmation you needed.

As quickly as you could possibly manage, you were kissing Sihtric, barely remembering to breather as you moved rhythmically on his lap, lips disconnecting and soon returning to a forceful kiss with Finan. You were beside yourself, wild like some kind of animal as you felt Sihtric on your neck and Finan on your lips.

It was all too much, and the feeling in your arms seemed to give way, not helping your case as you began to push the both of them.

"What do you need, love?" Sihtric asked, entirely ready to give you everything you needed. If only you could find the words. You didn't answer as Finan worked some sort of sorcery on your neck, sucking and biting just where you felt the most sensitive. "I should not have to ask again."

Sihtric's eye contact became so strong that you immediately cowered, any snide comments you had exiting your brain for the moment.

"Please, please just do something, take me," you panted, Finan's subtle laughter doing nothing to stop your whining. With that, you were transferred into Finan's arms as Sihtric rose, removing unnecessary leathers and protection, leaving himself only in his tunic. Meanwhile, Finan so gracefully laid you down on the bed of furs, your head leaning against the headboard.

"My lady," he half joked, quick to join Sihtric in the removal of his clothing. You followed their lead, untying the laces at the back of your dress with great effort before letting it slide off, kicking it to the ground.

"God," Finan stood staring at you, at your breasts, watching as your skin reacted harshly to the cold. You were drowning in the furs around you, your naked body like some sort of holy piece that priests would surely covet. Sihtric was by your side in seconds, bare chest colliding with your own skin, ecstasy rushing through you.

"we shall have to keep you like this forever, lady." Sihtric wasted no time in fulfilling your pleas, fingers inside of you before you could react, so filling and long, reaching every crevice inside of you. The welcome intrusion was heightened by Finan's body on your other side, playing with your clit, rubbing over and over until the stimulation became unbearable.

A void inside of you had been entirely filled, and your two friends were now wrapping you slowly around their fingers. A part of you wondered what Uhtred would think, whether he would welcome the strange union or dismiss it altogether, but there was no time for that, not when Sihtric was pumping into you, whilst Finan methodically worked his fingers, making you scream.

"Poor thing," Finan drawled out, watching your trembling frame as if it was pure entertainment. "Should we give you what you want? I think we should." Without consulting you, he simply looked at Sihtric, who seemed to have different ideas.

"I don't think she deserves it, I think that temper needs to be controlled a little more." You flinched as his fingers curled inside of you. Finan gave you an apologetic glance, and you couldn't believe he was listening to Sihtric in this moment . . .

"But!-"

"No," Sihtric mumbled, and Finan saved himself from your glare by hiding his face in the crook of your neck, his finger's methodical patterns becoming slower and slower, delaying your release. You were becoming numb at this point.

"Perhaps things could change if you told us who you belonged to?"

You grunted as you were kept on the edge, feeling constant resistance, and unable to admit your feelings. That was until Finan pinched your clit, and Sihtric slapped your inner thigh, rubbing the red skin as he worked himself in and out of you slowly.

"mmfph"

"Who?"

"Sihtric," you breathed, "And Finan."

"Good," Finan moved now, quickening his pace on the outside whilst Sihtric also followed through on his promise, "good girl".

That was all you needed, the praise making your chest blister and ache. It was intoxicating, being able to come entirely undone beneath the two men, feeling them observe you, kiss you, worship you.

"Our turn now."

One of them mumbled. You weren't entirely sure, blinded by your orgasm, feeling muscles in your thighs twitch as your back arched off of the bed. Before you could even come down, You were flipped onto your stomach. The action was nothing to the two men, so strong they could barely feel the effect they had on you. They made you feel weightless.

Finan couldn't help himself, gripping your ass so tightly you felt like it would bruise. The skin ached when he gave it a small pinch, enjoying your jolt into Sihtric as he kneeled close to your face, petting your hair as he often did, except never in this context.

A kiss to your forehead drew you back into consciousness for the moment, but it did nothing to distract you from Finan's actions behind, his cock now trailing up and down your sex, an agitated grunt coming from the Irishman.

"Good god," Finan muttered, no longer uttering some quip or joke, instead relishing in the feeling of the both of you two against one another. Your softness did something to him, tore deep inside of him; a man so consumed with life of battle did not deserve something so pure, he thought.

On the other hand, Sihtric felt like a God himself. His thumb returned to your mouth, feeding the oral fixation you didn't know you had. "Will you take the both os us?" He taunted you, asking you questions while he filled your mouth. The thought of them both intimidated you, and you shuddered when Finan aligned himself with your entrance, slowly pushing in before you could even think.

"Yes, yes, yes," you chanted like a mad woman, drool slipping past your lips in excess amounts, pleasing Sihtric, whose thumb was soon replaced with his thick cock. It slid straight to the back of your throat, slowly beginning to match the pace of Finan's thrusts.

Though Finan was attempting to be gentle, he did not recognise his own strength, apologising out of habit when you squealed. The sound was muffled by Sihtric's cock, his pelvis now hitting your nose. Both men shared a look above you, in silent agreement, realising this is exactly what they wanted in life. You.

In all of Winchester, nothing had more of a pull to them like you did. Not even Uhtred's command would keep them away from you now.

"Fuck," Finan practically spat, his hips quickening their pace, his long cock coming inside and outside of you, feeling the tightness grip harder and harder until he was nearly coming.

Sihtric equally had his way with you, hand in your hair simply moving you as he pleased, loving the way your tongue lolled out to welcome his cock.

"You are so beautiful, lady." Finan moaned, head facing the sky as if in prayer. It did not take much longer before he was coming undone within you, cursing as he realised he had selfishly come before both you and Sihtric.

Sihtric gave one final stroke before he too came straight down your throat, a choke coming from you as he waited before moving out of you. He decided that he wanted to take you next.

"Swallow."

His final command had you tightening around Finan, disturbing him from his moment of meditation with great force. Gritting his teeth, Finan barely managed to keep his composure as he finally slid from you, both men letting you slump underneath them.

Exhaustion hit you with a sharp thump, and your eyes began to close before you could say anything to the two men above you. Your eyes glazed over as Finan turned you onto your back to face them. They towered over you, Finan smiling, assuring you he was only trying to help when he let go of you for a moment, going to fetch a rag.

"When can we bind you to this bed? I want to keep you here forever."

#sihtric #sihtric x reader #finan #sihtric smut #the last kingdom #finan x reader #tlk finan #the last kingdom x reader #finan imagine #the last kingdom fluff #uhtred x reader #sihtric x reader x finan #finan smut #tlk #tlk fanfic #tlk fandom #sihtric kjartansson #finan the agile

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helvegen-s · 5 months

Text

Rage, rage | four

index

Pairing: Azriel x Hybern!Princess!OC

Summary: Nimue was a gift for the King of Hybern. His shining jewel, the perfect heir. However, she is clear about who the villain of the story is. When she saves her father's enemies from a tragic end, she realizes that now it's the Cauldron who has a gift for her: a mate.

Warnings: blood, bad language, talking about trauma, bad familiar relationships (King of hybern father of the year)

Sitting in that chair, Nimue did nothing but absorb everything she saw around her: the paintings hanging on the walls, the rugs covering the floor, every detail placed on the shelves, the books arranged alphabetically...

It was all perfect. She had never imagined what the physical representation of the word "home" would be like, yet she felt it should be like this. In every carefully placed thing, she saw the affection behind it.

She stopped daydreaming and returned to the most pressing matter: the fact that, for some reason, she was tied to that chair.

Bound, but without seeing the ropes. It was an invisible force that pushed her against the wood of the armrests and the cushion of the backrest. She tried to suppress a laugh with little success because she knew effortlessly she could free herself from those ties. But well, if it made them feel safer, so be it.

She looked up, first to that male: Azriel, as she had heard others call him.

She still felt that sensation pulsing right in the middle of her being, making her gaze involuntarily go to him even in that room full of people.

Azriel felt like he was going to explode. He stood, leaning against the back of one of the sofas in the living room, positioned between Rhysand and Amren. With his arms crossed over his chest, he tried to control his breathing, counting to ten and releasing the air, counting again.

His wings trembled upon hearing the small laugh that escaped from the lips of that stranger. "What the hell are you laughing at? Do you find the situation funny?" he barked at the girl. She seemed surprised as her expression changed abruptly.

"No," she replied, furrowing her brow. She could feel the man's anger through that invisible thread connecting her to him. She tried to clear her mind. "It's just amusing that you have me tied up here. I can free myself at any moment, and if I don't, it's because I know you're afraid of me."

Rhysand's face must have been a sight. Afraid of her? He reinforced even more the restraints binding the girl to the chair, and with a sly smile, he took a step forward. "Dare to let yourself go, and you'll see what happens."

Was that some kind of sarcasm? Nimue didn't understand, she was just used to people speaking to her clearly, if only to avoid being in her presence more than necessary.

So she stood up, crossing the restraints of the High Lord like someone walking against a gentle breeze. Everyone jumped in their seats, reaching for their weapons or preparing to defend themselves.

But Nimue simply stood there, scanning from one to another: from the High Lord to Azriel, from the petite woman to Cassian, as she had heard Rhysand call him.

"I know you don't understand what I am or who I am right now, but it's okay. I'll explain it calmly, but you have to be willing to listen to me. You need me more than I need you."

Cassian let out a mocking laugh, "And why did you help us if you say you don't need us?"

And then silence fell.

Why had she helped them?

She had acted without thinking, that's for sure. She had never contradicted her father, and for the first time it was under such circumstances that something didn't fit deep within her conscience. She could excuse it with those memories that weren't hers: seeing those two humans in the Cauldron had awakened in her those memories from twenty years ago. But it wasn't just that.

Yes, she knew that within her, that idea of killing her father, ending him, stopping that plan he wanted to carry out and doing good had always been germinating. But in between there was always that rotten and unconditional love she felt for the King of Hybern, which was written in every cell of her being from the day she emerged.

"I needed an excuse," she said aloud. All the attention of those present was on her, and she kept talking. "I always knew my father was never the good one. I'm missing pieces of the story, I only know what he told me through filters. I know there are people in Prythian, I know there's going to be a war, I know everything revolves around the Cauldron. But I don't know much more."

My father.

When the girl uttered those words, Azriel felt a surge rising from the depths of his throat. How could a monster like the King of Hybern have sired such a beautiful creature?

Yes, beautiful. She is beautiful.

He stopped his thoughts abruptly, trying to ignore his own shadow's whispers. He was hallucinating, again.

"I also know that my father expected me to fight for him in this war, to incinerate Prythian's forces. He counted on an easy victory, however now..." Nimue's hands couldn't stop playing with the fabric of the dress she was wearing. It was then that she realized the pristine white fabric of her skirt was stained with blood, the blood of the Illyrians. She took a deep breath and continued speaking, "He's not going to take it very well that I've done this. That I've... betrayed him.”

"Well, don't tell me."

Nimue looked up at Azriel. Was that irony again?

Rhysand gave the Shadowsinger a stern look, and everyone fell silent again, waiting for the girl to speak.

But she didn't know where to continue. What should she tell them about herself? Should she tell them what she was?

And in the midst of the prolonged silence, the High Lord spoke up, "No one knew of the existence of a princess of Hybern. If you claim to be so powerful, why did your father never boast about you?"

There was something that didn't add up in all of this and had Rhysand uneasy. He felt the presence of the female, a pale, pulsating white light in the middle of the room. It was a strange magic, something he couldn't quite categorize within the fae magic that flowed through his veins. His gaze shifted to Amren, hoping she could shed some light on the situation, but to his surprise, she looked just as bewildered as he did.

"My father never wanted my existence to be known. I..." Nimue bit her lip, weighing how much revealing everything to this group of strangers would be a good idea. "I've never left Hybern. In fact, I've never left the castle."

"How old are you, girl? Have you been locked up in there your whole life?" Amren asked.

"It's hard to say how old I am. In this body, I've lived twenty years of yours. Before that... my memories are clouded."

"In this body? Before that?" Azriel inquired. He felt like he was going crazy, wanting to pull his hair out and scream. What was happening? Of all the outcomes he had predicted for today, this was certainly one he wouldn't have even dreamed of. "Tell us the truth, or I swear I'll slit your throat."

Nimue smiled, a poisonous smile she had learned from her father.

"I doubt it. If I have to kick your ass again like I did out there, I will," she held Azriel's gaze. And added, "And with pleasure."

Azriel snorted, baring his teeth in an aggressive gesture and reaching for his dagger. Nimue simply smiled, holding his gaze without flinching.

With that mask she had learned to wear.

Rhysand rolled his eyes and brought his hands to his face, trying to process everything that was happening.

They hadn't obtained the Cauldron, they had learned of Tamlin's betrayal, they had transformed his mate's sisters, and now this. It had been a very eventful day, to say the least.

"So you're trying to tell us that you've been in this world for twenty years, but before that, you were somewhere else, right? Do you remember where?"

"Yes," said Nimue. She tried to hold back another laugh at the absurdity of the situation. "In the Cauldron."

And they fell silent again.

The expressions on everyone's faces were like something out of a painting, and Nimue let out a quiet laugh.

She had never had to explain who or what she was; everyone where she came from knew. They all knew her.

"Well," she began calmly, "we all know my father, the King of Hybern. The fanatic, lunatic and power-hungry one."

"Yes, unfortunately."

"He impregnated one of his royal concubines, and in the midst of that madness, he decided to put her in the Cauldron. I don't know if it was under coercion from the Cauldron itself, if it was a demand my father made, or what. But the woman died instantly, and in exchange for her life, I came out of the Cauldron."

"So, you're telling me that the Cauldron not only has the power to turn humans into fae, as we've seen with Feyre's sisters. You're telling me," Rhysand took a deep breath, trying to organize his thoughts, "that the Cauldron granted the King a daughter in exchange for a sacrifice, no more, no less."

"Yes, but it's not something that will happen again. The Cauldron created me as its own whim, just as it has done with those two humans you mentioned. Feyre’s sisters…"

“Elain and Nesta.”

"Yes," said Nimue. "What it has done with them won't happen again. Not for a long time, at least. The Cauldron only responds to its own impulses, and I don't even understand them myself. Our fae minds aren't made to understand what the Cauldron is or how it acts. Not even the mind of that creature."

Nimue pointed at Amren, who crossed her arms with a sly smile.

"Well, on that you're right. Not even this creature," she said, pointing to herself, "is capable of understanding under what desires that pot acts."

And they all fell silent again, weighing the situation and assimilating what the girl had said.

Azriel was simply angry, furious. He couldn't feel anything else at that moment. He didn't care much about the Cauldron's affairs, nor did he lose sleep over trying to understand how it worked.

He just wanted to know why he had the misfortune of finding out that his mate, whom he had been waiting to meet since he was a child, had to be the damn daughter of the King of Hybern.

"And regarding your problem," Nimue continued, this time addressing only Azriel, "well, our problem. I never knew what a mate was, as you called it. I knew that the Cauldron forged the souls of people to be incomplete, so that if they were lucky, they would find the other half they were missing during their life. But when I saw you, when I felt it, I was able to understand. I'm sorry if it's been a disappointment, but it is what it is."

Azriel frowned, his arms crossed and the hair on his arms bristling. He felt like he was trembling with rage.

"I didn't ask for this, princess."

Nimue didn't want to admit it, but the pull of disdain she felt on the other side of the bond made her heart shrink.

"Great, neither did I."

Taglist:

@lilah-asteria @agentsofsheilds @leptitlu @just-here-reading @glitterypirateduck @saltedcoffeescotch @donttellthecats @annblvd

#acotar #acotar fanfiction #acotar fic #azriel imagine #azriel #azriel x female!reader #azriel x reader #azriel x oc #cassian #rhysand

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rhiaden · 3 months

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I just like Ascended Astarion.

No. I will not be giving any caveats, no, I will not be saying I think he would be bad IRL. I might explain why I like the route but not because you demand that I justify it. He makes me happy. My chars have a blast with him. He has helped me have a RL breakthrough. I am sorry if you dont like him. Luckily other companions exist and other routes for him. Oh, I also won't be hopping into your tags and flairs and comment threads to tell you why I am totally not thinking about the companion you prefer...definitely not thinking about him, nope....but here is a thesis about how I definitely dont spend hours fantasising about him..but in a moral and pure way you understand, because I spend hours thinking about how nasty he is to my character and you just have fun with him and that is wrong....Also I would never tell you that you are only doing it for sexualizing the companion while I keep a save of their romance scene before smashing that reload button For real, it is ok if you want to play AA route....we don't judge you for it...we have a wide variety of HC and ways we enjoy him in the fandom. I promise you will be able to find people who enjoy him the same way you do and even if you don't....we won't tell you how to enjoy him. We are just happy to have people enjoying the route. Go full dark evil HC, go full political machinations, go turbo romantic..go clownst..ok, maybe not clown (j/k) Hell, I make the most ridiculously romantic videos with him because I can. Most of my friends love some very dark AA, some of them love dark and twisted AA. My Tavs/DU and AA? we are political schemers who get puppets in all the important places and rule from the shadows. (Well, apart from my gnome who..likes being fired from cannons at the circus and then getting our political enemies to take the ride too because its safe! - My gnome and AA now own the circus after it was shut down for OSHA violations! My gnome is the brattiest thing in Faerun, and AA loves it) We have some really good art too! I promise you the church of our Lord is a broad church with room for many takes on him. You don't need to frame your like of him as a moral lecture to get purity points (And let's be real, I have read your HC about him...so maybe it is a bit late to be trying to get those purity points..) Come on in, you are halfway there with the amount of time you spend thinking about him already (I swear its more than I do, and I have 700 hours ingame with AA alone...and have written a load of fics with him, and made...25 videos set to songs with him) We don't judge over here. You should try it sometime.

#ascended astarion #astarion #baldur's gate 3 #lord astarion #bg3

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film-in-my-soul · 2 months

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A Fucking Written Invitation | 9,563 | Desdemon / @hailaphrodite & chaya / @fieldbears

Summary: "Jesus, Steve, I just had to explain to a ninety-something year old ex-killer that it was normal to have dreams and wake up with unusual physical attributes and, and listen, we have to get him a male GP, a, a man, because when I asked him why he hadn't just called her to discuss this he looked at me like I'd suggested he slap her in the face."

if the bad times are coming let 'em come | 9,688 | suzukiblu / @suzukiblu

Summary: “I think I’m gonna have to hurt some people,” Steve Rogers says, voice tight with rage. The asset assumes that will be him, then laughs at himself for the thought. He’s not people.

A Thread of Light | 9,694 | Dira Sudis (dsudis) / @dsudis

Summary: Steve got down on his knees, put his hands around Bucky's throat, and whispered, "You're mine. I stole you and now you belong to me, and I won't let anyone take you away or hurt you. You're mine, and I'll tell you what to do to make me happy. All you have to do is listen to me. You're mine now, Bucky."

Care and Maintenance | 9,862 | Dira Sudis (dsudis) / @dsudis

Summary: "Before a mission and before I went into the ice, somebody would have to clean me. Mostly it was a chore they got stuck with. Sometimes--some handlers insisted on doing it themselves."

(see below for more recommendations!)

Things We'd Held in Secret | 11,146 | Dira Sudis (dsudis) / @dsudis

Summary: Steve and Bucky were trapped together behind enemy lines in 1944. Bucky was badly injured, and for days Steve fed him the only way he could with no supplies on hand but a sharp knife. Bucky didn't understand what was happening at the time, and afterward there was never a good time to tell him--but now that Steve knows what he really did for Bucky, the secret is going to have to come out.

Dinner for Two | 12,405 | Dira Sudis (dsudis) / @dsudis

Summary: Bucky had followed him to the kitchen and was kneeling naked in the doorway. He was staring up at Steve with the slightly glassy expression Steve knew all too well, although he'd never seen it like this. Bucky called it going into a pattern, not programming, because his actions weren't predetermined; he just had a limited range of responses to whatever was happening around him.

Higher Ground | 13,002 | EmilianaDarling / @emilianadarling

Summary: “S’okay,” Bucky murmurs quietly, and Steve sucks in a sharp breath at the brush of Bucky’s lips against his ear, his breath hot against the side of Steve’s neck. There’s a hint of a grin in Bucky’s voice; amused affection and confidence and something heated beneath it all, a familiar tone from so long ago that makes Steve’s heart clench and his cock twitch helplessly in his jeans. “S’okay, Stevie,” he says again, and Steve can feel the curl of Bucky’s lips against his throat when he smiles. His metal thumb is rubbing circles on Steve’s shoulder. “M’gonna take care of you.”

Good Boy | 13,473 | triedunture / @triedunture

Summary: Bucky is still adjusting to life with the Avengers, and Steve is willing to do whatever it takes to make him feel comfortable. Increasingly, though, what seems to make him comfortable is strangely intimate. Surprise, Steve! You're a gentle dom and Bucky wants to be your pretty pet!

the hand you want to hold is a weapon (and you're nothing but skin) | 13,854 | voxofthevoid / @voxofthevoid

Summary: “Alien…aphrodisiac.” James blinks and takes a few deep breaths, absorbing the information to scratch his head over later. Steve’s the priority now. “At least tell me he didn’t leap into the path of the alien whatever.” The Widow laughs. It’s half for show, James knows, but he thinks he can see genuine amusement in her cool green eyes. Steve’s better at reading her, but Steve’s apparently busy rubbing one out in the bathroom. “Not this time,” she says. “It’s not a weapon. One of the scientists grabbed the first thing they could in a panic. Steve was the only one in the room with them and got a faceful of blue dust. The effects took a couple of hours to show.” “And the scientist who used it?” “Was trying to fuck a wall, last I saw.” James grimaces. “It’s not very dignified,” the Widow adds, noting his expression. “Like I said, either the serum’s handling the worst of it, or Steve’s real superpower is his moral compass.”

Run To You | 14,038 | accol / @accol-fics

Summary: What kind of idiot forgets that they're shipping out tomorrow? The kind that meets the most aggravating, fiery, talented, selfless asshole at the bus station. Good thing that asshole is patient, too, because recovery is hard. A story about heroes taking the hard road to a happy ending.

Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes | 14,372 | Speranza / @cesperanza

Summary: His eyes were dark and unreadable: there was only a faint ring of blue around the pupils. He stared at Steve down the gun barrel and muttered: "Are you really my friend?"

deep dive | 16,065 | Deisderium

Summary: Bucky knew it would be hot, so he brought a bottle of water, but the sip he takes from it does absolutely nothing to quench his thirst, because the dive team coach is a fucking mountain of muscle barely contained by a pair of floral board shorts and a white tank with low-enough armholes that Bucky can see the muscles densely packed around his ribs. His arms, it must be said, are fucking huge, and Bucky can see the bronze hairs on his forearm glinting in the sunlight even from across the pool.

The Happiness of Perverts | 16,470 | Dira Sudis (dsudis) / @dsudis

Summary: This was the Bucky no one saw but Steve. Bucky wasn't just mischievous or occasionally reckless. Bucky could be cruel when he was alone with Steve; he could glory in it. This Bucky was only Steve's, and Steve all by himself loved this secret, wicked Bucky more than any thousand people could ever love That Nice Bucky Barnes.

The Way Out Is The Way Down | 17,610 | Speranza / @cesperanza

Summary: "We’re alive in defiance of the law, now,” Natasha said bitterly. “Well,” Steve said, and pushed his plate away. “We’ll just have to break in and get them.” “Right, let’s take it from the top,” Natasha said wearily. “The Raft is a fully submersible supermax prison—“ “We can do it,” Steve said.

Steve Rogers. Cheerfully Slutty. | 20,201 | relenafanel / @relenafanel

Summary: Steve Rogers. Cheerfully Slutty. But not going to take your shit about it. Bucky Barnes. Voted most likely to fall in love first.

maybe tomorrow (i'll find my way home) | 26,320 | obsessivereader / @yetanotherobsessivereader & SD_Ryan / @this-simple-mind

Summary: A man exits the building. Approximately 5’6”, thin, tired-looking. A suitable target. He needs someone he can overpower quickly and quietly. He’s injured from the fight on the helicarriers, and weak from hunger, and blood-loss. A streetlight illuminates the target’s face as he passes under it. That one brief glimpse of a narrow face and glowing blond hair sets his heart rate climbing. Something presses at the edges of his mind, like the wingbeats of night moths against a pane of glass. He ignores it, like he ignores the phantom voice that comes when he’s too long out of cryo. He walks towards the target, knife in hand.

Summer Don't Own Me No More | 28,349 | Nonymos

Summary: Bucky Barnes, weary soldier, illegal immigrant, sarcastic sex worker. Steve Rogers, miracle of science, lonely man, disillusioned cop. Both of them on a collision course in this brave new world, like that's not gonna end in sex and explosions.

We'll meet again in Brooklyn | 33,668 | Gfawkes / @gfawkesphoenixchokingonashes

Summary: “I should go. You’ve got therapy and —” Steve took a step back and pointed to the tied sleeve at Bucky’s left shoulder. There was something monumental in such a small act, leaning forward to catch the tips of those long, thin fingers. The extending of an arm, unfolding and folding of fingers so that they intertwined, overlapped, joined. The clutch in Bucky's chest didn’t help either. There were things he wanted to say, priorities and promises and past mistakes to admit to. But the only thing he could force around the lump in his throat was: “Stay.”

Things That Go Bump in the Night | 38,266 | velleities

Summary: Many an odd critter and item have ended up on the front porch of the property Bucky house-sits in the Middle Of Nowhere, but a bleeding blond man is a first. A short inspection reveals the man to be none other than Steve Rogers; ex-Captain America, vigilante, and a wanted fugitive. Steve’s stay of a few days of recovery is prolonged, under instructions for him to lie low until the Avengers can sort out the mess that has become the Sokovia Accords. Bucky is pretty sure that he’s committing an act of treason by providing Steve a place to stay. He is also pretty sure that lengthy interaction with Steve makes one prone to impending headaches and possibly ulcers. And he is certain that he is, very assuredly, in danger of falling in love with Steve.

Closed Book | 38,880 | AggressiveWhenStartled / @aggressivewhenstartled

Summary: Bucky woke up with a headache, a mouth that tasted like something had died in it, and hands-down, swear-to-god, the most beautiful man he had ever seen asleep in his lap. Bucky was also, he realized after a moment, strapped down to a hospital bed with about six different monitors making unsynced, equally piercing, beeps. Beyond that he couldn’t quite see—there was a hideous floral curtain pulled around the bed, and while he could just make out figures moving in the room beyond it, the pattern made his head pound even worse the longer he looked at it. So. That was concerning.

His Arms Held All the Songs I Needed | 40,181 | The_She_Devil

Summary: Steve becomes enamored with the lead singer of a local band. If only he could keep his cool long enough to not make a complete and utter fool out of himself.

I just met you (and this is crazy) | 41,784 | littlesystems / @littlesystems

Summary: After Steve gets outed by a grainy cell phone picture, it takes the media less than 24 hours to discover Captain America’s secret relationship with James Barnes: classical musician, teen heartthrob, and son of a former president. The only problem? Steve has never met James Barnes in his life.

The Supersoldier's Amnesiac Groom | 48,240 | casspeach

Summary: Steve Rogers has always known that the supersoldier serum was a gift, and he's never been afraid to do what's right. When Uncle Sam asks him to unite the two sides of the Cold War by taking part in a symbolic union with a fabled Russian assassin, Captain America doesn't hesitate to do his duty. Little does he know how thoroughly his world is going to be turned upside down.

Mine is the Shining Future | 48,332 | brideofquiet / @bride-ofquiet

Summary: He could have a life here, but what would it be? He could be a grocer; he could marry a girl who remembers hearing his name on the prayer list nearly every Sunday mass. He could fill sketchbooks in his spare time and stuff them into a trunk under his bed when he’s exhausted their pages, never to be seen again. He could live and die on Friary Street. It would be a fine life, if a simple one. Something similar was enough for his mother. It should be enough for him, too. Is it?

Choices We're Given | 51,534 | ecaitlin

Summary: Steve Rogers is a good man and a good agent. There's really no excuse for the assassin in his bed.

20th Century Limited | 52,010 | Speranza / @cesperanza

Summary: "Where am I? Where is this?" and he was in Brooklyn, he was on a beach, the train was shaking around him. He was in the plane, ice splintering up onto the windshield. He was in a tank, tubes trailing from his face, from his groin. Christ, he was cold. There was still ice on his fingers. He was in the Grand Canyon. He was in Times Square. This couldn't be Times Square. Where the hell was this? "Tell me! Where am I, who are you, where's—" —Bucky?

despite the threatening sky and shuddering earth (they remained) | 71,532 | praximeter (Zimario) / @praximeter

Summary: “They really didn’t want the mask to come off.” Hill thumbed through the scans, and pulled out a film that she then handed over to Sam, face mostly expressionless but for the flat line of her pursed lips. Sam accepted the film and held it up to the light, angling so both he and Steve could see it, squinting at the outline of the Winter Soldier’s skull, and the blips of unnatural white that showed up, God, in his brain, not to mention about half his teeth, plus the mask, with its thin protrusions— “Those are pins,” Steve realized. He looked over at Hill. “The mask—it’s nailed to his face.” Hill’s face was as unmoved as ever. “Like I said. They really didn’t want it coming off.”

Scents and Sensibility: The Working Assassin's Guide to Supersoldier Seduction | 93,218 | galwednesday / @galwednesday & silentwalrus & skellerbvvt / @skellerbvvt

Summary: Captain America wakes up from the ice in 2013. The Winter Soldier wakes up in 2009, or rather defects from HYDRA, for a value of defect that’s closer to decimate. He ends up working for SHIELD. In April 2014, he’s assigned to Captain America’s mission as a sniper. Steve’s just trying to get some kind of life together. Bucky is too, or at least he was until tall, blond and Captain shows up and starts just - being there, all the time. It’s terrible. It’s the worst. He has to do something about it.

War, Children | 106,589 | Nonymos

Summary: After Bucky was released from the hospital, it only took him a couple of weeks to give up on himself. Difficult to believe in any kind of future when the simple act of staying alive was almost too big an effort. Out the frosted window, across the street, there was a tiny homeless guy burrowing under an awning.

The Fool in the Mirror | 111,489 | thepinupchemist / @scarlettshazam - @sergeantscarlett

Summary: The Avengers, SHIELD, and the world at large have underestimated the pain that Steve Rogers is in. The night after a near brush with a suicide attempt, Steve discovers the world of support omegas, and in his desperation for relief from the battlefield of his brain, demands to have one. Enter Bucky Barnes: retired marine, millennial, amputee, brother, son, and support omega. He maybe, just maybe, can help a broken alpha heal in the twenty-first century.

2024 Reclists · INBOX · Blog Updates

#stucky #steve/bucky #steve x bucky #stucky reclist #mcu reclist #fic reclist

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nilboxes · 4 months

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I didn't know who to say this too but i was about to explode thinking about this and you are one of the few people in hsr fandom that i trust to understand ratio so my apologies to be dumping this on you all of a sudden but... I think Ratio's technique is so interesting in a way and speaks more about him than people give it credit for. Like...creating a fake version of himself that aggros the enemy is already very meta of how hsr fandom tends to see him, esp with the number of people that started hating him after that "betrayal" scene in 2.1 xD And it makes me wonder about his voiceline where he says something like "im fine with showing my true self if it helps me teach students/cures patients but i find that doing so is counterproductive most of the time"...wdym "true self" sir...and why are your character details completely devoid of any details from your own pov...and why do you get so evasive when anyone tries to ask about your past (going by that one interview when someone asked him what he was like as a child and he's just like "what a silly question, i was a normal boy")...it seems to me the princess is hiding something...

Thank you for your ask OP! It's really interesting to think about your question, and I'm humbled by your trust! I hope whatever I cook can satisfy you in some way. It's going to be a bit long!!

Let's start by saying I do operate under the belief that we know a lot about Dr Ratio and at the same time we only know what he wants us to know, which I find incredibly interesting to his character.

It can go many different ways. A lot of people use this mysteriousness to hint at the following:

1. something sinister (I am not necessarily saying you are doing this)

2. suggesting that he is more than who he is, like he may be more than who he presents to be (may or may not be evil in alignment but just more)

3. he really just thinks divulging further personal information about him is pointless and he values his privacy as an individual rather than a prominent figure

Let me now unpack the most wrongest [sic] take, number 1, which I find to be antithetical to his character, because Dr Ratio has always been aligned with doing good. He isn't your typical good person, but he is morally pushing for good (eradication of ignorance, people finding and reaching their potential etc), and he rather he reminds me of a very stern but nonetheless kind educator who genuinely demands good be brought into the world through one's aptitude and ability (just like himself) and not relying on others to solve problems for you

Number 2 is a little tricky, since we cannot really confirm nor deny that Ratio is no longer truly following Nous after he realizes he will never be acknowledged, he may be aligned to another Aeon or none entirely! I personally dislike the Mythus/Fictionologist take, because again it is antithetical to who he is as a character. Fictionologists will rewrite history and twists facts in order to create the possibility of uncovering more, but this is akin to something called accelerationism, which is in plain words to incite chaos (bad) in the slim chances that from the chaos a great good might emerge/ be produced/discovered etc, a practice and ideology I feel Dr Ratio as he is characterized now would be extremely against. Now I do subscribe to the fact that Dr Ratio may not be following an Aeon at all or we aren't privy to who they are yet, but this is a possibility that there is a facet to Dr Ratio we have not seen yet and will down the line so...

Number 3 is where I am at now, I really, genuinely think Dr Ratio just thinks of himself as some guy who was gifted with the equivalent of 8 genius brains but it isn't anything exceptional. From how he acts, he feels like some guy who had a rather normal childhood (if not really lonely, which I talk about in my twitter thread here) and grew up to be exceptional except in all the ways he wanted/was taught to want/thought he might want.

So I operate on several headcanons about Ratio just genuinely being so smart in a planet that is presumably the remnants of the civilization in the Laurel Wreath Galaxy where a Philosopher King/Philosopher Union was mentioned. This headcanon is heavily colored by this excellent theory a fellow fan made and I have to admit I can scarcely distinguish between mine and theirs while I turn him around in my brain so do give them/their thread a read too when you can, but I do also subscribe to how Ratio must have been exceptional in a civilization that prizes scholarship and enlightenment.

Knowing this, I presume he grew up with a lot of expectations placed upon him, particularly that of gaining the gaze or glance of Nous and ascending as a genius society member or more! That is a lot to place on an individual, especially someone like Ratio who is very much hinted to have grown up very fast due to his vast knowledge and while it's a stretch to say he was forced into growing up fast, because he def wasn't, he was nevertheless seemingly not really given much opportunities to be a child, as the push for him to start university very early could suggest that his aptitude and potential were so valued that it overridden any other needs he may have. If we wanted to ask about his childhood, he would have very dull things to say too, so to speak. I imagine it wasn't eventful at all, but filled with just studies.

Where am I going with this about his statues? They are called Mold of Idolatry! Idolatry meaning the extreme adoration or love of someone. That Dr Ratio makes the statues of himself never seems like the narcissistic sort, that would imply he holds himself in an extremely high regard to the detriment of others, but Dr Ratio isn't narcissistic, he would be a vastly different character if he was. The key to narcissism is that there is a great need, to the point of detriment, for admiration.

Now, look over to how Dr Ratio presents himself to us in his 1.6 quests. He wears his plaster head as not to be recognized by others, to remain incognito if you will, and is content to sit at the sidelines nudging things along in the background rather than swoop in and take the credit as the hero when Duke Inferno was trying to wreak havoc on the Space Station. His heroic deeds are never realized by the people he saved from being spaced, that is not an action of a narcissistic man who would gloat about saving other people. No, he sees his job is done and he walks away without fanfare, without even so much as seeking a thank you from the people he saved. That's one of the clearest and most well-thought of character introductions/demonstrations in the game and a solid proof that he isn't a narcissist (again self-centeredness is different!)

With that in mind, what does the statue imply?

Dr Ratio operates by redirecting attention not to himself so he can freely move in the background. That it looks like him in funny poses speaks to a silliness I feel he never really gets a chance to let loose too often, so his "art" is his outlet. That it directs enemies to attack that instead of him, I can't help but feel like there's a sense of "look at this 'image of me' others have built up, pour your love/expectations/wants/aspirations (and the extreme opposite of that maybe?) to that likeness of me instead, and let me be free from that to be who I could be without all of that baggage"

tl;dr -- it's not that deep but it is?? I feel like Ratio just wants to be left alone to do his thing and that's what the Mold of Idolatry represents.

I hope that satisfies you, anon! Thank you for your question, since I do have more insights to Dr Ratio now. I think I'll also find a way to condense this into a Twitter thread sometime.

#honkai star rail #dr ratio #dr ratio analysis #asks #thank you anon <3 #hsr dr ratio #dr ratio hsr #dr ratio honkai star rail

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studentinpursuitofclouds · 6 months

Note

are you accepting requsts for 1.6 stuff? if so, may i get all of the SVE bachelors (especially magnus) reacting to their spouse witnessing the new Mr Qi event at the summit and becoming Very intimidated by him? bonus points if the farmer went through the SVE ??? mature event

⚠️Warning: Spoilers for SDV 1.6 update event and SVE Mr. Qi mature event under the cut!

Ok, a little preface: I had a little trouble comparing the logic of opening the Summit location in vanilla SDV and SVE (I know it's just a game and a lot of things don't make sense, but it's important to me, so shhhh!). In SDV the location is available after reaching Perfection, and naturally the new 1.6. event with Qi will be when the Farmer reaches Summit before reaching Perfection. Whereas in SVE this location can be opened earlier with the help of Clint.

So. Let's pretend this is the situation in SVE when Farmer hasn't yet accessed Summit with Clint, and they reached that location using "cheat" magic. I just don't really want to break 4 walls and imagine that this world is just a game, so let's consider it magic (scythe and glitch magic, lol).

Thanks for the ask, dear anon, and enjoy! 💕

Lance:

Too much, it's all too much. The second time Farmer has been admitted to Harvey's clinic in critical condition, they haven't told Lance anything about what happened, and they're still enveloped by thin threads of unnatural magic. Very powerful and dark magic. Not their magic. Good thing thar clever pink-haired adventurer had managed to inform Camilla, Magnus, and the heads of the Ministry about this strange occurrence that still plagues the Farmer. Except that even Lance didn't expect things to be this bad.... He longs for action to protect his dear spouse, but the Ministry has ordered him to bide his time, and that's what kills him the most... This feeling of helplessness before an unseen enemy and Farmer's face that tries to hide the fear and pain behind a fake smile. Lance isn't vindictive and doesn't usually harbour grudges, but when he finds the culprit behind all their troubles, he'll make this person pay for every second the Farmer has spent in misery and horror.

Victor:

Victor is already in total despair. He sought help and advice from everyone he knows: friends, his mother, even some folks from Zuzu City. The poor guy was asking everyone since the Farmer themself wouldn't tell him anything, always saying that "everything is fine." Fine?! It's not fine! Victor knows that the job of an adventurer is difficult and challenging, but in his heart he senses something wrong. And while the worried young man stood on the porch, completely absorbed in anxious thoughts about his spouse, a mysterious woman appeared to him out of nowhere. "We're guessing what happened to Farmer, but we're not 100% sure." Victor could barely restrain himself from rushing over to Camilla and grabbing her by the shoulders, begging her to tell him what she knew and why his Farmer was acting like this. "Shh, there's no need to panic. We'll try to do whatever is necessary, but we need your help." Is it really that dangerous? But he's willing to take the risk, for Farmer's sake.

Magnus Rasmodius:

"What do you mean we can't find the source of this damn magic?!" It had been a long time since Magnus' colleagues had seen him in such a rage, but what was there to be surprised about? Almost any man whose spouse had been subjected to possible abuse, cursing, and maybe even physical or psychological torture would have gone berserk. Magnus was no exception. However, this enemy was no ordinary man at all, but the very same obscure individual that the Ministry had long been wary of. And now they came again and started to frighten Farmer. It is not known why the stranger is so interested in his spouse, but no one dares to harm Farmer. Even if the Ministry doesn't help him, to hell with it. Magnus has enough friends and colleagues who will not leave him in trouble and, if anything, will protect Farmer.

#sdv #stardew valley #stardew valley expanded #sve #thanks for the ask!#sdv mr qi #sve lance #sve victor #sdv wizard #sdv rasmodius #sve magnus #sdv farmer #sve headcanon

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starfellforyou · 6 months

Text

imperfect for you ✧⋆｡˚

❛ ༉‧₊˚ featuring: neuvillette x treasure hoarder!reader

❛ ༉‧₊˚ premise: the iudex of fontaine is renowned for his impartiality, objectivity, and unwavering principles. he resolves the court’s cases with precision, wielding a sharp blade of virtue against any misconduct that arises before him. but when a pesky treasure hoarder with a crude tongue and an eye for jewels crosses his path, she threatens to obliterate everything he’s ever stood for…

❛ ༉‧₊˚ genres: fluff, angst, enemies to lovers, class divide

❛ ༉‧₊˚ word count: 4k+

♪ imperfect for you - ariana grande (slowed + reverb)

Sometimes, to make a living, you’ve got to get your hands a little dirty.

I would know. The life of a Treasure Hoarder, to the disagreement of many, is no easy feat. I’m not going to act like it’s a righteous path, but it’s the only path for the likes of me; and unlike my fellow bandits, I don’t burn my cash nearly as quickly as they do.

Fontaine is like an open treasure chest, full of twinkling gems and glittering jewels, a realm of luxury and riches. I normally sneak slices of warm bread into my satchel. But I’m tired of always struggling to get by. I’m sick of making ends meet when I could be weaving a tapestry of opulent threads.

I want to steal something bigger. Brighter. Feed my brothers and sisters without having to worry about warm bread.

I hear the Court of Fontaine is stocking up on a sackful of precious goods from all over the nation - and I intend to get my hands on them.

…

Sneaking into the court was surprisingly easy. All I had to do was put on an old hat and pretend I’d been sent to deliver the week’s paper.

“I’m here to collect a stack of news, sir.” I tip my hat politely, a paragon of manners and humility.

And just like that, I’m in. This isn’t my first time breaking into the court; after all, it’s terribly troublesome for non-aristocrats to find themselves welcome in a high-society breeding ground like this one.

I stroll down the frilly lanes of Quartier Narbonnais, taking my time to avoid suspicion. Parasols and silky dresses line the streets, hushed chatter and gossip filling the air like the incessant chips of Bluecrown Finches. Something to the left catches my eye.

It’s a child standing on the tips of his toes, arms outstretched towards a small roll of sapphire-blue ribbon on a tall wooden shelf. I realize I’m standing in front of the Chioriya Boutique. Huh. Such beautiful dresses… The boy’s clothes are slightly tattered, his skin marked with dirt. My heart pangs with sympathy at the thought that this child is just like my little brother; anxious, alone, and with nothing to his name.

I point a finger towards the bushes next to the shop and shout, “Look! Over there!”

The ladies looming nearby gasp with curiosity, craning their necks to get a good look of whatever it is that’s caught my eager attention. I yank the roll of ribbon off the shelf without making a sound, a devious act that only one with years of practice could master. her

Handing it to the boy, I ask him what he needs it for and pull him to the side.

“My sister’s dress is missing a blue ribbon. I figured I’d find her a replacement…” He trails off, uneasy. “Unfortunately, I don’t have any money to pay you, mademoiselle…”

“Consider it a favor.” I pause. “You owe me one, that’s all.”

The boy nods, his adorable features lighting up. I ruffle his hair and tell him to scurry off.

“Make sure you don’t get caught, little one!”

“Caught doing what, exactly, young lady?”

A deep, commanding voice speaks from a few feet behind, startling me - though I do not show it.

I turn to face the man in a relaxed, casual manner. His face surprises me even more than his voice does. He’s an elegant, poised man, tall and intimidating, yet not in a bad way. He does reek of sophistication, nevertheless. I curse myself for being so careless. What are you, an amateur?

“Why, by his sister, of course! Children these days, always running about.” I chuckle for effect.

It doesn’t seem to faze him.

“I have reason to believe you have stolen something from this establishment, miss. I’ll have my officers take you in for further questioning immediately.”

What a jerk! I can hardly believe such cold-hearted individuals exist. I glance over his fanciful robes and twinkling accessories with disdain, remembering exactly why I proclaim law enforcement in Teyvat to be a terribly corrupt system run by frauds. I need to think fast if I want to make it back out of the court alive.

Criminals like me have no place in a respectable region like this.

“Of course, my lord. I will obey your orders without a word of complaint.” I bow to him despite myself.

“Very well then. Come with me.” He starts forward, footsteps strong and chin held high. “You must be from the villa–”

I’ve snuck behind the nearest bush and climbed up a wall, as swift and soundless as ever. Watching from above, I giggle at the officer’s notable confusion.

“Show yourself!” He shouts, eyes frantically searching his surroundings but to no avail. Clearly frustrated, he curses under his breath, attracting the attention of the ladies nearby, who swoon once they meet his gaze.

“My apologies.” He mutters under his breath, eyebrows knitted together in a scowl.

He storms off into the crowd.

…

It isn't until I return to base that I realize that was no ordinary officer. The way he was dressed, the power in his voice when he spoke to me… It all seemed very peculiar.

“The Iudex. You spoke to the Iudex of Fontaine. There’s no way.” My younger sister seems to be in a state of shock.

“The Chief Justice? Nahhh. It couldn’t have been him. I mean, what’s he doing next to a women’s boutique?”

“Based on your descriptions, I think it’s safe to say that it really was him. I have heard that he enjoys strolling amongst the locals.”

I have a hard time believing it all. Indeed, my sister has always been the most well-read of us, but surely if I’d come face to face with the Iudex of Fontaine himself, I’d have known, right?

It all just seems absurd.

But I guess anything is possible in the Land of Justice. Now that I’ve found myself on the Chief Justice’s radar, it would benefit me to be more careful with my thieving endeavors in the court.

A minor inconvenience isn’t going to stop me now.

…

In an ornate, oversized office, Neuvillette sits by the fireplace, pondering.

He’s infuriated that someone dared defy his word in his presence. He’s puzzled about the thief’s identity, her next move. Most passionately of all, he feels foolish.

Utterly ashamed that he let a young woman escape with her pride right under his nose.

He calls out for a servant. “Have a Melusine troop assembled by tomorrow morning. I must catch this thief if it’s the last thing I do.”

“Of course, sire.” The servant hesitates, unsure. “Don’t mind my prying, sire, but this girl seems like nothing more than a petty thief. Why are you so hung up on bringing her in?”

Neuvillette rests his head on a gloved hand, elbow propped up on his polished spruce-wood desk.

“Because no one… escapes from the law.”

…

No one, of course, but me.

I spent the next two weeks stealing all sorts of interesting artifacts from within the court, some that sparkle and some that whir. With the money I’ve been bringing in, my siblings are finally able to have meals that contain more than just mushrooms and a few slices of bread.

Multiple times a member of the Iudex’s troop - occasionally the Iudex himself - managed to catch me, but each and every time I got out unscathed. I think I enjoy this life of crime.

Or rather, I enjoy the look on his face when he realizes I’ve slithered out of his reaches. The thrill of coming this close to facing him again, each and every time.

I received word that a masquerade ball is being hosted at the Vasari Passage tomorrow night, and that many fine ladies and gentlemen of society will be there. Naturally, I decide that my next cause of action is to “borrow” a pretty ball gown for my grand entrance.

I choose the most exquisite of gowns from the shop’s dusty attic - a rich purple shade to match my eyes - and brace myself for a possible run-in with the Iudex. I can’t risk him capturing me again. There’s no way he’d still recognise me. It’s been ages. Besides, I’m sure he has other bandits on his list.

…

The ball is an extravagant affair; I’ve never seen this much Hydro in one place - on land, of course. I have to admit, it really is quite enchanting.

Throughout the evening, I’m careful not to expose my face. I must be the most wanted petty criminal in Fontaine. In the unlikely event that anyone should identify me as the thief that’s been stealing their goods, it would only mean more trouble for me. With grace and finesse I whisk through the crowds, yanking one pearl necklace after another from the necks of oblivious aristocrats, stashing my finds safely away in the pocket strapped to my leg.

Just as I’ve gotten my hands on a marvelous emerald bracelet, I bump into someone I didn’t notice was standing right in front of me. As I recover, I’m struck with the familiar sight of flowing sapphire robes, a head of long hair as pristine and pure as snow. Oh, Archons.

Before I can even begin to protest, he grabs me by the waist with a firm hand and pulls me into a back garden, far enough away from the bustle of the ball. A glowing waterfall splashes gently to my left, and a couple dozen fireflies light up the Romaritime bushes that surround us.

I watch him carefully as he flexes his jaw. Though his face is partly concealed by a mask, I can tell he’s been driven mad with contempt - no, irritation. He’s been waiting a long time for this moment.

“It’s you.”

“To what do I owe the pleasure, my lord?”

“Enough of your games.” He spits out the words as if they’re poison on his tongue. “You cannot run forever. I know people like you well. It never ends well for them, running from the law.”

This pisses me off.

“Because the law protects the high and mighty, like you. Like the people out there. There’s no room in the law for people like me. Those who have to fight to survive. Those who can’t find work. Those who can’t put food on the table without stealing it.”

I watch as he falls silent, seemingly at a loss for words.

“What you are doing, while worthy of sympathy, is still illegal. It is my duty as Iudex to uphold the law and bring justice to all.”

“What about my family? What justice do they receive then, you bastard?”

He seems taken aback by my choice of words, a small frown written across his brows. Did I just insult the Chief Justice? I try to think of a way out of this situation; it’s gotten far too messy for my liking.

But a part of me doesn’t want to leave him here. This game we're playing - it excites me. Sometimes, it feels as though he lets me go on purpose. And while I do credit myself for being an excellent thief, I can’t help but feel as if I’ve gotten myself entangled with the law in more ways than one.

“I must take you in immediately. You will return all of the items you’ve stolen, precious or not. Fontaine is no place for such thie–”

I take a step forward and kiss him on the cheek.

Just a peck; a gentle act of intimacy that lasts no longer than a second. It shocks me as much as it does him, and I swear that beneath his mask, I can see his cheekbones flush a deep crimson red.

“P-Pardon me, my lord.” I take the opportunity to flee, leaving whatever just happened in the garden behind me.

He must’ve been too disgusted to follow me.

…

The following days passed with little to no thievery. I couldn’t explain it, but a part of me felt… guilty, for the first time in my life. Maybe not for stealing all those things from the hands of the wealthy, but for kissing him the way I did, in an attempt to save my own ass.

But that was the tricky part; did I really kiss him just to save my own ass?

I shake my head, desperate to prevent these frightening thoughts from clouding my judgment. I still have a family to feed.

I’m just about to sneak a sack of berries into my satchel when I feel his presence wash over me, watching me. I spin around to survey my surroundings, and sure enough, there he is. The Iudex in all of his dignified glory - staring at me from across the street. I return the sack to its position in the pile and walk over to him, my footsteps light and quick.

“I didn’t steal.”

“You would have.”

“But I didn’t.”

He sighs, exasperated. “I have been lenient to you. Whether or not you agree, I have shown you kindness by not exacting harsher measures in response to your… intemperance.”

I suppose that is true, especially after what I pulled that night. I remain silent.

“And despite every fiber of my being telling me to put you behind bars this instant, I wish to ask you a few questions before I do so.”

“And what’s in it for me, wise-ass?”

If he’s offended, he’s doing a great job concealing it. “I’ve called off the search. And, you’ll get to ask a few questions of me.” He tilts his head cautiously.. “Something tells me you would find that most enticing.”

He’s right. I hate that he’s right.

“Fine. Shall we head to somewhere more private, my lord?”

…

For some reason, he brings me to his office in the Palais Mermonia. We enter through a secret entrance hidden from the public eye, and manage to remain unseen. He’s very serious about keeping our arrangement confidential.

The building is lavishly decorated, its shiny walls a reflection of its equally shiny inhabitants. At every turn I’m awed by the sheer magnificence of it all; by how I’m likely to never set foot in a place like this again.

“Please, have a seat.” His voice is low. He almost looks uncomfortable.

“So. What’d you wanna ask me?” I lift both feet and rest them atop his desk, crossing my right leg over the left. This is my first and last time in a room as cushy as this one, after all - I might as well make myself at home. “If you don't mind, I’d like you to answer my questions before I answer yours.”

He doesn’t object. I continue, “Why are you so unwilling to turn a blind eye to a few measly scoundrels? The people they’re stealing from already have far too much - and yet, you are complicit with their greed.”

There’s a distant look in his eyes. “Ever since I’d been issued the position of Iudex, there’s been an immeasurable… weight on my back. To uphold the law, standards of safety, fairness… That has been my job for as long as I can remember. I have dedicated my life to ensuring that Fontaine is the splitting image of perfection.”

“You speak as if you are old.” I scoff, feigning sophistication in my voice. “You’re a young man yourself. Shouldn’t you, of all people, understand that achieving perfection is impossible? Not when there is so much filth and corruption manifesting beneath the surface?”

My words seem to have struck him. “...I suppose there is truth to your words.”

“So stop. Let me and my people live as we have been. We don’t go around attacking the rich unprovoked, you know, despite what most people think.”

We share a pleasant silence for a moment. It feels as if I’m getting to him; as if we’re beginning to really see each other.

“You really do have the most exquisite eyes.”

This takes me by surprise. Did the Chief Justice of Fontaine just compliment my eyes? I try to suppress the redness growing across my cheeks.

He speaks again, his unfaltering gaze fixed on mine. “I never quite got your name, Miss…”

“Y/N,” I answer hastily. “And, you are…?”

“Neuvillette. My given name.”

Neuvillette. It’s never occurred to me how much I don’t know about the affairs of the city. About him.

“I have another question, Neuvillette.” He nods. “Why are you so intent on bringing me in? Are there no other criminals in Fontaine that demand more pressing attention?” I push further. “And why are you talking to me now, rather than locking me up?”

He looks speechless, as if troubled by something. “Because…” My heart stutters as I anticipate what he’s about to say. “Because I have something to ask of you.”

I deflate. “Oh. What is it?”

“I’m willing to offer you a job - an esteemed position in the Maison Gardiennage. You’d be an excellent addition to the team, and you won’t have to worry about a single piece of Mora from now on–”

My heart stops stuttering. It sinks. “So that’s what this is about.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You pity me. This whole time–you’ve been trying to recruit me for your–your–battalion! To use me!” I feel betrayed. Blindsided. I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid.

I rush to stand up, and he gets up just as quick. “I assure you, that is not my intention, Miss Y/N–”

“You just want me taken care of so I can stop stealing and you can go back to your precious duties.” And to think that maybe we shared something. “I thought you were different. I really did. Now I see I was mistaken.”

“Miss Y/N, you must not keep stealing.” He sounds desperate, as if about to lose the composure he so carefully maintains.

I can’t do this. I swing the door to the hallway open, fuming. “You call us Treasure Hoarders, but you fail to realize that the ones who hoard treasure are yourselves.”

I spin around one final time, taking in the sight of him. He’s standing less than an inch away from me now. I notice that it physically pains me to be this close to him. “I hope I’m not spotted, for your sake. Archons forbid what being seen with me might do to your reputation.”

I slam the door behind me.

…

For the first time, Neuvillette doesn’t have a solution for any of this. He can’t let her keep stealing, that’s for sure. But is that really all that’s troubling him? Is that the real reason why he’s so worked up about all of this?

He swats at an invisible thought in the air. Focus. A royal auction is to be held tomorrow evening, and there’s a lot to be done.

…

I can’t bear to stay in the court for much longer. Everything is just… too much.

If I am to stop stealing in the court, all while ensuring that my family is fed and happy, I’ll have to end my business here with a bang. Steal something truly valuable that’ll guarantee I’ll never have to steal again.

Therefore, when I receive news of the Annual Court Auction being held the following day, I can hardly contain my anticipation.

This will be the heist of all heists. My family’s lives are on the line.

I must sneak in unnoticed, snag the one-of-a-kind Hunter’s Brooch from wherever it is backstage, and sneak back out where I came from. Make sure I avoid running into Neuvillette, at all costs.

…

As the clock strikes six, the auction begins. A dense crowd fills the ballroom, the stench of elitism wafting through the air.

I managed to steal a servant’s uniform while he was distracted and put on my disguise, determined to get the job done once and for all. As I pretend to refill my tray, I listen closely as the auctioneer projects his booming voice. “Going once, going twice… SOLD to the lady in pink!”

The Hunter’s Brooch is up next. I glide through the crowd, offering tiny pastries and shot glasses to the haughty noblemen as I pass.

“Next up: the Hunter’s Brooch!” The crowd oohs and aahs, captivated by its remarkable beauty. “Do I hear one-million?”

I inch closer and closer to the stage as bidders furiously compete with one another for the brooch. I hear numbers I have never heard in my life.

“Do I hear fifteen-million? Going once, going twice…” The crowd falls silent, seemingly bested.

“Twenty-million.”

My head whips around so fast I almost drop my tray. Neuvillette.

“SOLD to our Chief Justice!”

I take a deep breath and try to calm my nerves. Seeing him from afar is somehow a thousand times worse than seeing him up close.

I remind myself what I came here for. I attempt to ignore the pounding in my chest and sneak past the guards in front of the stage. There it is.

The brooch sits on a cushioned plinth backstage, sparkling despite the darkness. I yank it from its display in the blink of an eye and stuff it into my satchel. Hugging it under my arm, I latch on to the wall behind the stage and begin climbing towards the landing on the second floor.

Just as I reach the surface, I pick up a swarm of hurried footsteps headed in my direction. I try to steady myself as hastily as possible, but by the time I look up, it’s too late.

Guards.

They grab me by the arms and pull me away from the auction. From my grand plan. From my dreams of never having to steal again.

…

A trial. I’m to sit in front of the Iudex tonight and face him for the first time in days. I’m to relive the embarrassment of getting caught, of encountering my first defeat. I’m to look him in the eye as he finally decides to throw me in jail for good.

Time passes rather quickly in a holding cell, contrary to popular belief. Before I know it, I’m sitting in a courtroom, anxiously waiting for the Iudex to walk in.

My pulse quickens when the thick ivory doors swing open.

He remains the paradigm of grace and regality; able to command an entire room without ever so much as uttering a word.

Despite all the guilt, all the shame I’m feeling sitting in this chair, I can’t seem to take my eyes off him.

He moves to take his seat on the elevated throne in the middle of the room, and for a moment - just a tiny sliver of a second - we lock eyes. He looks conflicted, tired, as if he hadn’t slept a wink last night.

The trial proceeded as one normally would; everyone was represented by someone, though the loaded old man I’d stolen from had obviously hired a greater amount of skill.

It’s now time for the final judgment to be made.

The Iudex’s eyes are downcast, his forehead creased. His gloved hands seem to be restless and unsure. Please, Neuvillette. Don’t do this.

A pause that stretches on for an eternity passes, and he whispers something unintelligible to the court orderly standing next to him. A bewildered expression appears on the orderly’s face, but Neuvillette has already gotten up to exit, halting all further questions.

He charges out of the courtroom, leaving hushed exclamations and gasps of surprise in his wake. Neuvillette… Did you betray me? We all look to the court orderly.

“The Chief Justice of Fontaine has declared the defendant… not guilty.”

…

“So does that mean you’re free to go now?”

“Yep.” I smile at my sister with a sigh. “I’m never going back there again.”

“What? Why not? I thought you said the city was our golden opportunity.”

“It was. But I’ve come to realize that I can’t keep stealing from the hand that feeds me. It’s too much. It’s not… fair.”

“Who are you and what have you done with my sister?” She wriggles her eyebrows at me.

I give her a hard nudge, playfully. “There are other prospects, you know. I heard Liyue possesses treasures beyond even our wildest dreams. We shall aim to relocate by the end of the month.”

“Not yet done with your scheming, Miss Y/N?”

No. It can’t be.

I jump to my feet so quickly my sister flinches. “Hey, could you maybe…”

She runs off towards the camp, leaving the two of us standing face to face atop the most beautiful hill in the region.

“I wasn’t expecting you.” My voice comes out shaky, as if I haven’t spoken in years.

Neuvillette searches my eyes, vulnerable and sincere. “Did you really think you could hide from me for long?”

Inhale. Exhale. “I don’t understand. Why didn’t you lock me up? Why come all the way here after two weeks?”

“You must know…” He trails off, stares at the setting sun just above the horizon. “My every waking moment is plagued by thoughts of… of you.”

I stop breathing.

“At night, I dream of you. The criminal I cannot seem to capture. The thief I cannot seem to subdue.” He takes a step forward. “Your words echo in my mind, your eyes pierce my soul. Your insolence, obscenity, rebelliousness… All of it. It-It vexes me.” Another step. “You are a thief, Y/N, for you have stolen more than just precious gems and sparkling jewels.”

I’m rendered speechless. All I want to do is run into his arms.

“Please. Don’t leave. I beg of you.”

My heart feels so… so full. I rush to close the distance between us, beaming so widely it must look strange.

“Only if you promise to let me keep stealing your stuff.”

He rolls his eyes. “Your wish is my command. I suppose it will do the nation some good if all of its inhabitants remain healthy and fed.” I smile. “You’ve made up your mind, then? No law enforcement work for you?”

“Actually… I’ve yet to give it any thought. You sure you’d want a Treasure Hoarder amongst your ranks?”

“You make a good point. But right now…” He’s staring again, lips mere inches away from mine. “All I want… is you.”

“But my lord, surely that’s against the law,” I tease.

“The law has no place here.”

And he kisses me, hungry and passionate.

For the first time in ages, I finally feel well off.

❛ ༉‧₊˚ author's note: i had to stop myself from writing a commentary on class divide and remember i'm in love with neuvillette lol (two things can be true at once) hope you like this one! typically this would've been a multiple-chapter fic on ao3 but oh well here goes nothing

✧ starfellforyou

#— ‧ ₊˚ 𝘴𝘧𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘳𝘺 🌸✩#genshin impact #neuvillette #neuvillete x reader #genshin #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #neuvilette genshin #genshin neuvillette #fontaine

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