#A Crumpled Memento

[wolvietxt]

Hey! Could you do Bucky Barnes with this prompt?? 👀

grumpy’s soft side: sunshine accidentally finds grumpy’s secret stash of cute little things they’ve kept as mementos - like a doodle sunshine made or a pressed flower from a walk they took together. grumpy tries to act embarrassed, but sunshine can see the fondness in their eyes.

BUCKY BARNES was many things - grumpy, stoic, and impossible to read most of the time. but sentimental? that didn’t seem to fit, or at least, that’s what you thought.

until today.

it had started innocently enough. bucky had left to grab groceries, grumbling something about you forgetting the eggs, leaving you alone in his apartment. with some extra time on your hands, you decided to tidy up his desk - a cluttered corner of his otherwise neat space.

you knew bucky wasn’t the most organized person. papers and odds and ends were scattered everywhere, some of them clearly years old. while straightening a stack of books, you noticed a small drawer slightly ajar. curiosity got the better of you, and you slid it open, intending to tuck away the loose papers.

instead, you froze.

the contents weren’t what you’d expected.

a tiny doodle you’d drawn months ago sat on top of the pile, the edges a little crumpled but otherwise intact. it was a quick sketch you’d made while teasing bucky - an exaggerated cartoon version of him with a cat on his head. he’d scoffed at it at the time, rolling his eyes, but apparently, he hadn’t thrown it away.

beneath it was a pressed flower, carefully preserved between wax paper. it was from a walk you’d taken one spring afternoon, when you’d playfully tucked the flower behind your ear and teased bucky for being grumpy even on such a beautiful day.

there were other things too: a stray button from his jacket you’d helped sew back on, a photo booth strip from an impromptu outing, and a receipt with your handwriting scrawled across the back.

your heart twisted, warmth spreading through your chest as you took it all in.

bucky barnes, who rarely let his guard down, who always acted like nothing phased him, had been keeping these little pieces of you.

the sound of the front door opening pulled you from your thoughts.

“damn cashier was slower than molasses,” bucky muttered as he walked in, shaking his head. he stopped short when he saw you standing by his desk, the pressed flower in your hand.

his blue eyes narrowed. “what’re you doin’?”

you turned to him, holding up the doodle with a small smile. “you kept all this?”

a flicker of panic crossed his face as he strode over, snatching the drawing from your hand and shoving it back into the drawer. “it’s nothin’,” he mumbled, slamming the drawer shut.

“it’s not nothing, bucky.” you took a step closer, your smile widening. “you kept a doodle, a flower… even a button? this is -“

“don’t say it,” he cut in, pointing a finger at you. “don’t you dare call it cute.”

you bit back a laugh, unable to help the way your eyes sparkled. “but it is cute. bucky, this is adorable.”

his jaw tightened, and he rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “it ain’t cute,” he grumbled. “just stuff I didn’t get around to throwin’ out.”

you raised an eyebrow. “a pressed flower isn’t exactly something you ‘forget’ to throw away, buck.”

his gaze darted to the side, avoiding yours. “it doesn’t mean nothin’,” he muttered, his voice quieter now.

“doesn’t mean nothing?” you echoed, stepping closer until you were standing right in front of him. “bucky, it means something to me.”

his eyes flicked back to yours, guarded but softening just a little. “you’re makin’ a big deal outta nothin’, doll.”

“because it is a big deal,” you said, your voice gentle but firm. “you kept these things because they remind you of me, don’t they?”

he let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through his hair. “maybe,” he admitted, his tone reluctant. “but don’t go readin’ too much into it.”

your smile softened, and you reached out to place a hand on his arm. “too late. i’m already reading into it.”

he groaned, his cheeks turning the faintest shade of pink. “you’re impossible, you know that?”

“and you’re a big softie,” you shot back, your grin widening.

he huffed, crossing his arms over his chest in an attempt to look annoyed. but the way his lips twitched betrayed him, the corners tilting upward despite his best efforts.

“fine,” he muttered after a moment, his voice gruff. “maybe i kept ‘em ‘cause they remind me of you. happy now?”

your heart swelled at his quiet admission, and you leaned up to press a kiss to his cheek. “very.”

he froze for a second before letting out another sigh, his arms falling to his sides. “you’re gonna tease me about this forever, aren’t you?”

“oh, absolutely,” you said, your eyes sparkling with mischief.

despite his grumbling, bucky reached out to pull you closer, wrapping an arm around your waist. “just don’t tell anyone, okay?”

you laughed, resting your head against his chest. “your secret’s safe with me.”

he relaxed a little at that, his hand settling on the small of your back.

“you’re lucky you’re cute,” he mumbled, his voice low but affectionate.

“you’re luckier,” you teased, earning a low chuckle from him.

and as he held you there, the warmth of his embrace and the steady beat of his heart grounding you, you couldn’t help but smile. because as much as he tried to act grumpy, bucky barnes had the biggest heart of anyone you’d ever known.

ᰔ bucky barnes : @notacleangirl, @v3lv3tf0x, @dugiioh, @whxtewolf, @lemoanaid

@yvespecially, @hhiggs, @darlingsoulbeautifulthoughts, @seasonofthenerd, @superlegend216

@withasideofmeg, @pvndomi, @flamin-hot-cheetos, @bbittenapples, @hazydespair

@aoi_targaryen, @person-005, @corvuscattus

taglist form linked in pinned post :3

[lonely-cowboy]

HEY HEY CAN I REQUEST ANYTHING FLUFFY W CONNOR X FEM READER

YOU WORK IS SO GOODDD

MY DARLINGS FORGIVE ME

requests started coming in hot right as i started my midterms so pls forgive me for taking so long to get through my requests (which i'm loving btw i'm so excited to get to all of them)

with that being said i'll stop yapping and let you read in peace

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

framed

pairing: connor (rk800) x f!reader

summary: you're very confused when you find a photograph of yourself on connor's desk.

word count: 1k

warnings: none

author's note: i said i'm done yapping and i mean it i have nothing to say. (except i do wanna say this was inspired by the person that said my connor was very you are in love coded bc that made me happy and got me thinking)

masterlist ⟡ requests

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“What do androids do in their free time, anyway?”

“Plot against humanity? I dunno.”

Hank’s laugh came out in a quiet huff, one that indicated he didn’t think your answer was too far from the truth. 

You had come into the precinct hoping to interview Hank and Connor on their latest investigation surrounding a human cult determined to wipe out every single android. As head journalist for the Detroit Free Press, you were desperate to get word before everyone else. And as Connor’s friend, you were sure you could sweet-talk it out of him. 

But when you got to the precinct, Connor was, strangely, nowhere to be found. Usually, he trailed behind Hank like a lost puppy, but not even Hank knew of Connor’s whereabouts. His unusual absence only led to conversations about what the hell an android could be doing on his lonesome. Neither of you had any clue.

“Have a seat, kid,” Hank offered, nudging his chin over to Connor’s desk. “You know he’d feel bad if you were standin’ around waiting for him.” 

Rounding the table, you took a seat in Connor’s chair. You sat stiffly with your hands atop your thighs, the exact same way Connor would. The realization made you chuckle softly to yourself. Even when he wasn’t here, his presence always made itself known in the subtlest of ways.

Your eyes wandered across Connor’s desk, noticing that it was relatively barren. Hank’s desk was littered with mementos– old donut boxes, Detroit Gears merchandise, anti-android propaganda that he’d crumpled up and intended to trash. But Connor’s desk was plain and organized. A single blue pen sat exactly parallel to his recent case file that had been neatly folded. On top of his case file was a quarter like the one he always fidgeted with. You wondered idly how many quarters he had lying around, having never seen him without one. But the only belonging of actual interest was a picture frame right beside his terminal.

Your brows furrowed as your gaze latched onto the photograph. You were staring directly at a picture of yourself.

Believing it to be a trick of the light, you reached for the picture frame and brought it closer. Sure enough, it was you.  

You stared at a version of yourself who was mid-laugh. You could almost hear your own laughter ringing in your ears. It was that genuine kind of laughter, you knew. The kind that was an obnoxious cackle you always wanted to hide. Why on earth would Connor have a picture like that framed?

Come to think of it, where did Connor even get this picture? You didn’t recognize it at all. You couldn’t even place where it was taken. There were zero clues in the photograph as you were the only focus. Nothing else, just you.

You were about to ask Hank about it when a voice over your shoulder startled you, “I really like that picture.”

An inhuman yelp escaped your lips as you spun around in Connor’s chair. You found him looking down at you with a pleasant smile, not even remotely embarrassed to be caught having a photo of you.

“Why… what even… what?” you stammered.

Connor cocked his head curiously, waiting for you to get your words out. But you couldn’t. You were so utterly confused that your brain couldn’t remember a single word in existence. You just stared at Connor with a gaping mouth, holding the picture up for his viewing pleasure. 

When you didn’t say anything, Connor’s eyebrows furrowed for only a moment before easing. An endearing habit of his that made your heart flutter. He definitely was not helping you find the right words. 

“I’d like to clear your confusion as best I can, but… I’m afraid I don’t understand its cause,” Connor said gently.

From behind, you heard Hank’s quiet snort. He wasn’t helping either.

“Well… Connor,” you started slowly like you were gradually putting the puzzle pieces together. No matter how hard you tried, the pieces weren’t fitting. “Why do you have a picture of me?”

The corners of his lips raised into a small grin, his hands moving to clasp in front of him. You knew this stance to mean he was about to tell a story.

“I asked Lieutenant Anderson about the keepsakes on his desk. I was curious as to why these particular items were objects of significance and what classified them as such,” Connor explained cheerfully. “As I recall, he said ‘I don’t know, they’re just alright, I guess.’ Perhaps my interpretation was incorrect, but I took that to mean those items made him happy.”

Connor’s smile widened slightly. That meant he was finished. He didn’t clear any of your confusion.

“Okay…?” you prompted.

“I wanted to do something similar. I thought it could help me accommodate to deviancy, so I decided to surround myself with things that make me happy.”

Your mouth clamped shut as your confused look turned to one of shock. You were almost sure you hadn’t heard him right, but another laugh (hidden behind a cough) from Hank made you confident that you had.

“I… make you happy?” you clarified.

“Yes,” Connor answered curtly. There was another long pause as you waited for Connor to continue. He seemed to get the hint by now, elaborating further. “I always enjoy your company. I look forward to seeing you when we have scheduled plans. This wasn’t a scheduled visit, so I was pleased to see you were here. It made me smile. Seeing you makes me smile.”

With all his talk of smiling, you couldn’t help cracking one of your own. Seeing your smile made Connor brighten.

“Like that,” he said. “If I could photograph and frame you right now, I would.”

You were so giddy with affection that you couldn’t help but laugh. You had never known Connor to be so poetic with his words.

“You know, Connor,” you said with careless laughter. “I came here to sweet-talk you into an interview for the Press. But here you are sweet-talking me.”

Connor looked pleased with himself, standing a little straighter. “I hope that made you smile.”

“It certainly did.”

[the-winter-spider]

Invisible | Part 10

Pairings: Bucky x Reader AU

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: Angst, stupidity, annoyingness lol

A/N: This is the shortest chapter i have lol i also lowkey might add flashbacks into each chapter to add more depth and show more of the before.

The door slams behind you, leaving the apartment in silence, and for a moment, Bucky just stands there, his fists clenched, heart pounding as he processes what just happened. His chest is tight, and he feels the rage and regret building up until it erupts.

With a frustrated yell, he grabs the nearest lamp and hurls it across the room. The shattering glass echoes, cutting through the silence like a knife. Pieces scatter across the floor, a reflection of the chaos inside him.

“Goddammit!” he shouts, his voice cracking as he rakes his hands through his hair, pacing in circles like a caged animal. His breaths come fast and shallow, his mind racing through the night, every word exchanged like a dagger twisting deeper into his chest.

For a few seconds, he just stands there, staring at the broken lamp, his hands trembling. But the stillness is unbearable. He bolts for the door, flinging it open and stepping out into the hallway, shouting your name, his voice raw and desperate. He runs outside looking up and down the sidewalk “ Come on, don’t do this—please!”

But his voice is swallowed by the noise of a New York City Saturday night—distant laughter, honking horns, the steady hum of life moving on without him. He looks up and down the street, hoping, praying for even a glimpse of you, but you’re gone.

His pulse quickens, panic clawing its way into his chest. He rushes back inside, snatching his phone off the coffee table. His fingers fumble over the screen as he types out a frantic message.

Where are you? Please come back.

He hits send, but the empty silence that follows feels like a punch to the gut. He types again, his hands shaking as his heart pounds against his ribs.

I’m sorry. Just tell me you’re okay.

The seconds stretch into eternity as he stares at the screen, waiting for something—anything. When nothing comes, he dials your number, his thumb trembling as he presses the call button. He presses the phone to his ear, the ringing tone like a ticking clock in his mind.

Then he hears it: a faint buzzing, too close. His stomach drops as he turns toward the ceramic bowl by the door—the one he’d made for you last year on your birthday. A bowl meant for keys, little mementos… or your phone. He steps toward it slowly, as if delaying the inevitable, and peers inside. His chest tightens when he sees your phone lying there, abandoned.

“Dammit,” he whispers, his voice cracking. His hand hovers over it for a moment before he picks it up, his knuckles white around the edges. You’d left it behind. The weight of it all—the fight, his words, the reality of you walking out like that—hits him like a freight train.

He sinks down onto the floor, clutching your phone in his lap, his head falling into his hands. His breaths come in uneven gasps, and for the first time in years, tears spill freely down his face. He sees it all replaying in his mind: the way your face crumpled as you turned away, the sound of the door slamming behind you, the silence that followed.

Go. I don’t want you here.

The words ring in his ears, echoing with all the venom and finality he hadn’t meant but couldn’t take back. They were born out of fear and frustration, but now they feel like the truth—like he’s pushed you away for good.

After a moment, he wipes at his face, sniffs, and forces himself to his feet. This isn’t over. It can’t be.

He throws on his coat and rushes out the door, his mind racing as he retraces all the places you might have gone. First, the bar down the street—the one you’ve spent countless nights in, laughing over drinks, sharing secrets you wouldn’t tell anyone else. But it’s packed, unfamiliar faces filling the space where you should be.

Next, the café where you always get your Sunday morning coffee. The lights are dimmed, chairs stacked on tables. Closed. His heart sinks, but he presses on.

The bookstore is next. The one with late hours, where you could spend hours flipping through old paperbacks and laughing at obscure poetry collections. But it’s empty too, the familiar warmth of the shop now a cold reminder of how lost you are.

Finally, he heads to the park. The park where you’d spent so many nights sitting on the old wooden benches, talking under the stars. It’s quiet here, the hum of the city fading into the background. He sits down on one of those benches, his head falling into his hands as his shoulders shake.

He’s failed you. He’s failed himself. The weight of everything he’s been holding back—the fear, the love, the guilt—crashes down all at once. Silent tears stream down his face as he tilts his head up toward the sky, the stars blurring through his tears.

Then his phone buzzes in his pocket.

He scrambles for it, hope surging in his chest, but when he sees the name, his heart twists painfully.

Steve.

His thumb hovers over the screen before he opens the message.

She’s here. She walked from the apartment without her phone or coat. You let her walk out like that? What the hell were you thinking?

Bucky’s throat tightens, and his fingers curl around the phone. His vision blurs as he reads the words over and over, Steve’s anger matching his own self-loathing. He types out a response, but his fingers falter, and he deletes it. What could he say? There was no excuse for what he’d done.

Instead, he slips the phone back into his pocket and leans forward, burying his face in his hands. The ache in his chest deepens, and for the first time, he lets himself feel the full weight of what he’s lost.

He stares up at the sky again, the stars offering no comfort, only the cold realization that he might have pushed you away for good.

And he doesn’t know if he’ll ever get you back. But he never really had you in the first place.

As you step out of the shower, the quiet hum of voices drifts down the hall. Curiosity—and a bit of anxiety—tugs at you as you wrap yourself in a towel and press your ear to the bathroom door. Relief washes over you when you recognize Natasha and Wanda’s voices mixed with Sam and Steve’s, and you close your eyes, exhaling slowly. They’re here; you’re not alone.

Gathering yourself, you open the door and step into the living room, where Natasha is pacing, visibly agitated, while Wanda sits on the couch, her face full of concern. Sam and Steve stand nearby, leaning against the counter, both looking serious. When they see you, the conversation pauses, and Natasha stops mid-rant.

“Hey, there you are,” Wanda says softly, standing up to meet you. “Are you feeling any better?”

You offer a small smile. “Yeah, thanks. Just… processing, I guess.”

Wanda nods, gently placing a hand on your shoulder. “We’re here for you. Whatever you need.”

Natasha, however, looks ready to explode. She crosses her arms, her eyes flashing with anger. “It is not okay,” she says firmly. “You don’t just let your so-called best friend walk out alone at night, without so much as a phone or coat.”

You shrug, avoiding everyone’s eyes as you tuck a damp strand of hair behind your ear. “Maybe… maybe we were never really friends. Maybe it was just the convenience of it all, you know?”

Wanda’s eyes widen slightly as she squeezes your shoulder, her voice soft. “You don’t mean that.”

You don’t answer because you know thats just bullshit, but thinking that hurts less, you sigh running a hand through your wet hair, glancing down as the hurt lingers in your chest. The silence stretches for a moment before Natasha breaks it, her tone gentler now.

“So… how was your date with Dean?” she asks, a note of curiosity softening her expression.

A sad smile tugs at your lips. “It was… everything a girl could dream of. He was respectful, charming… and he actually listened to me.” You laugh quietly, shaking your head. “It was perfect.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow, looking hopeful. “So… are you going to go on another one with him?”

You hesitate, glancing in Steve’s direction for a brief second before looking back at Natasha. “Yeah… I think so.”

Sam shifts, clearing his throat, a hesitant look on his face. “So, I hate to be the bearer of bad news here, but… you and Bucky still live together. What’s the plan?”

You feel everyone’s eyes on you, and for a moment, the weight of it all settles heavily. You swallow, looking down, and shrug. “I don’t know,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t just… keep going back to the way things were. But I don’t know what comes next either. He’s Bucky yknow?”

Steve watches you, his face soft and understanding, and he offers a reassuring nod. You take a deep breath and settle onto the couch, feeling the weight of everyone’s concerned gazes. After a pause, you look around, your voice soft but firm. “Look, you guys can’t just be here for me. You’ve gotta be there for Bucky, too.”

Natasha scoffs, crossing her arms and shooting you a look. “As if! He’s the one who let you walk out in the middle of the night!....In New York!!! You’re too good of a friend if you’re even thinking about him right now.”

You give her a sad smile, shrugging slightly. “It’s… not about that, even if it was i wouldn’t of let him stop me, i made the decision to leave, i-i could have went to my room and --”

Natasha throws her arms up “Really? Are you kidding me? I love you babe but you’ve been defending him your whole life, he needs to take fault!”

You shake your head, your voice slight rasing “Its not that simple Nat and you know it” You hear her grumble before continuing “He’s going through something too. We’re all friends for a reason, right? We don’t get to just pick sides.”

Natasha rolls her eyes, groaning. “You’re way too good of a friend. Honestly, you’re killing me here.”

You manage a weak chuckle, but before you can respond, you hear Sam moving toward the door. He grabs his keys and his phone, his expression resolute.

Steve raises an eyebrow, looking over at him. “Where are you going?”

Sam glances back, determination in his gaze. “You heard the woman,” he says, nodding toward you. “I’m gonna go be a friend to one of my best friends.”

A surge of gratitude rises in you, and you give him a small, sincere smile. “Thank you, Sammy.”

He nods, a soft smile playing on his lips as he looks at you, and his voice holds a quiet warmth. “What are friends for?”

1 month ago

The air was crisp, filled with the mingling scents of freshly baked bread, blooming flowers, and sizzling street food. The bustling energy of the farmer’s market buzzed around you as you strolled through the vibrant stalls. Your arm was linked with Bucky’s, the two of you laughing as you navigated through the crowd, the warm Sunday morning sun casting a golden glow over everything.

Natasha and Wanda were a few stalls back, rifling through retro furniture pieces and vinyl records for their new apartment. Sam was predictably at a food truck, enthusiastically sampling every free bite they offered.

“You know where we’re headed,” you said with a grin, gently tugging Bucky toward the familiar book stall at the far end of the market.

He chuckled, squeezing your arm lightly. “Obviously. Can’t leave without finding something we don’t have space for on our shelves.”

You both were English majors, and literature had always been your shared sanctuary. The book stall was a small haven of dog-eared novels, rare editions, and hidden gems that called to you like an old friend.

But as you approached, Bucky suddenly stopped in his tracks. His grip on your arm loosened, and his head turned sharply, his expression shifting. “Kate?” he said, more to himself than to you.

Before you could even process it, his arm slipped out of yours, and he was weaving through the crowd, heading toward a figure you hadn’t noticed until now. A brunette. He didn’t say another word, leaving you standing there, your heart sinking as his back disappeared into the sea of people.

You blinked, dumbfounded. “Okay… what just happened?”

“Hey,” a familiar voice said behind you. You turned to see Steve approaching, a paper bag of pastries in hand. His brow furrowed slightly as he glanced around. “Where’d Bucky go?”

You shrugged, trying to keep your voice light. “He saw someone he knew. An old friend, I guess.”

Steve nodded slowly, his concern softening into curiosity. “Did you two make it to the books yet?”

You forced a small smile. “No, not yet. We were about to.”

Steve tilted his head, offering his arm with a warm smile. “Well, do you want to look somewhere else while we wait for him to come back?”

Your heart ached a little, but his kindness made it easier. “Sure,” you said, linking your arm with his. Steve always had a way of making things feel okay, even when they weren’t.

He led you toward the next section of the market, where stalls displayed vintage jewellery, scarves, and other unique trinkets. As you browsed, your eyes caught on something that made you gasp softly—a locket, its delicate gold surface glinting in the sunlight. It looked almost identical to the one you’d lost at some stupid college party that led to a panic attack, it had been so precious to you because it was a family heirloom passed down multiple generations that you of all people lost. It hit you hard.

You picked it up carefully, running your thumb over its intricate design. It was beautiful, and for a moment, you felt that familiar pang of nostalgia, of longing. But when you flipped it over, searching for a price tag, you found none. You sighed quietly, already knowing what that meant. You’d only set aside money for books today—not for a locket, no matter how much it tugged at your heart.

Reluctantly, you set it back down, giving it one last wistful glance before turning back to Steve. He’d been watching you, his expression soft, but before he could say anything, Bucky reappeared, his usual grin plastered on his face.

“Sorry about that,” Bucky said, running a hand through his hair. “I saw someone from college.”

You raised an eyebrow, forcing your smile to stay in place. “Oh?”

“Yeah, remember that girl I had the project with in our last year? Kate. That was her,” he said, nodding toward where she’d vanished into the crowd. “Haven’t seen her since graduation. Got her number, though!”

“Cool,” you said, your voice light but not quite steady. Your chest ached, but you buried it quickly. Even the farmer’s market wasn’t safe from heartbreak, it seemed.

Bucky held out his arm again, his smile as warm as ever. “Shall we?”

You nodded, linking your arm with his once more. “Sure,” you said, glancing over at Steve. “You coming with?”

Steve shook his head, a soft smile on his lips. “No, I’m gonna check out one more stand. Meet you guys at the benches for lunch?”

“Sounds good,” Bucky said, steering you back into the crowd. “Don’t take too long, Rogers. Sam’s probably already ordered for everyone.”

Steve waved you off, waiting until you and Bucky were out of sight. Then, he turned back to the vendor, his gaze settling on the locket you’d been admiring.

“I’ll take that locket, please,” Steve said quietly, pulling out his wallet.

[sweetimpurity]

*ೃ༄ day 10! this became really fluff unexpectedly wc: 1.5k cw: talks of body shape and insecurities. for us curvy girls! enjoy! ༊*·˚ masterlist

“Ugh…come on…” You groan. Sifting through endless clothing in your closet. Pulling the piles of clothes out and sorting through them. Your mind is set on a specific pair of jeans. Some bootcut light-wash jeans with pink threaded stitching. Very specific and you’d never have thrown them away. You would have stored them away for the summer. Now that the weather is turning you know they’d be perfect with a new sweater you just bought. If only you could find the damn things. 

“Woah, what’s… up?” Miguel strolls into the bedroom. Brow raising at the mess of clothing all over the bed, all around the floor. Pulling his phone out of his pocket and slumping on the bed. Lying across the blankets on his back with a huff. Avoiding lying directly on the clothes you’ve been going through and folding. Tossing his phone on the pillows before turning his attention to you. 

“Well I started going through my closet and my dresser… sorting through my summer stuff and winter stuff… but then I remembered these jeans. Do you know my light blue jeans with the… they have pink thread on them…” 

His brow quirks in thought. Wracking through his mind. Although he’s sure when he’s looking at your jeans, he’s more focused on your ass and less on the pink thread. “I don’t know, baby…” 

His voice is like sweet honey and melted chocolate. Looking at you with the softest eyes. Watching you in this frazzled state. It’s pretty adorable. 

“I just… I don't know where they went. I wore them last year…” You sigh. Moving around and going through the closet to keep searching. Miguel smiles, eyes trailing down your back. Picking up his phone and scrolling mindlessly. The two of you just basking in quiet for a little while. The soft shuffling of clothes and containers. The sliding of dresser drawers. Sounds of the city wafting in through the open window. 

“Found it!” You finally exclaim. Finding the long lost pair of jeans in a bin at the back of the closet. A bin you thought was full of old college textbooks and childhood mementos from your mom’s house.

He looks over, smiling and nodding when you hold them up. There they are. Light-wash, bootcut, pink threaded swirls on the butt. You sigh and smile in relief and excitement. Immediately pulling down your sweatpants to put them on. Miguel’s attention piques. Rolling onto his side, watching you standing there in your underwear. Then watching your ass as you turn to the mirror, sticking your feet through the pants and pulling them on. Only they don’t go up all the way. 

“What..?” You huff. Frowning and pulling on the material. Trying to pull them up over your hips. Miguel watches with low lidded eyes and a smirk, watching your bum in your black panties and hypnotized by the way it’s pushed up every time you try to pull the jeans on. He doesn’t seem to notice your struggle. 

“They’re the same size as they were last year…” You mumble, craning to peer at the tag in the back. Pulling your tank top up halfway so you can have a better look, trying to pull the pants on. It’s not like the jeans would have shrunk just sitting in your closet. You sigh. Looking at yourself in the mirror. A wave of frustration and dysphoria coming over you. 

“What’s wrong?” You hear his voice behind you. He seems to have escaped his trance. Sitting up more and seeing that look on your face reflected in the mirror. The pants only pulled up to the top of your hips and not all the way. “They don’t fit…” You mumble softly. Disappointment. Not only do the pants you’ve been searching for not fit so you can’t even wear them with the outfit you planned. But have you really gained that much that these pants wouldn’t fit you? You wore them last year. Your eyes flick over your body in the mirror. Your tummy, the way your hips spill over the denim material. You push the jeans down, stepping out of them, letting them crumple into a ball on the floor. Pulling the cottony material of your tank top back down. Wrapping your arms around your middle. 

“We can get some new ones… what’s the brand?” He asks. It’s a nice thought and a sweet offer. To get a bigger size that would fit you. But it’s not the same. “I don’t want new ones…” You mumble, turning to him with a pout. “I want to wear those ones…” 

You sigh, glancing at the pants on the floor. The pants that are almost mocking you at this point. The mirror too. Miguel can see it. And he’s not an idiot, he knows what you’re thinking. He knows what’s wrong, of course he does. It’s almost embarrassing for you to think about. 

“Babe, it’s okay… it’s just… that’s just what happens…” He sighs, climbing across the bed to sit on the edge in front of you. He’s no stranger to the fact that you’ve struggled with body image before. You shared that with him a long time ago and he’s tried his best to protect you from your own mind at times. You pout at him. Has he noticed? Have you just not noticed? “Do you think I’m like… do I look different?” You ask, your arms still wrapped around your torso, trying subconsciously to hide from him. 

“You look perfect…” He whispers with a smile, his hands going to your arms and trying to gently coax them down. There’s no need to shield yourself from him like that. “That’s not what I asked, Mig…” You hum with a pout. His hands guiding your arms up around his shoulders. 

“You… are perfect. You were perfect last year when you fit in the pants… and you’re perfect now when you don’t.” He says honestly. He knows better than to sugar coat things with you. You see right through that. And it’s not helpful. “And I honestly haven’t thought to myself “Hey she looks different today”... never. It’s natural to change… it’s natural to be different than you were last year. Doesn’t mean you’re any less perfect than before.” 

Your brow quirks at his words. How did he go from mindlessly scrolling on his phone to soothing all your insecurities within 30 seconds of each other? “I think you’re perfect too…” You smile now, innocently. Looking in his eyes, feeling his arms wrap around your waist, his hands running down your ass gently, over your panties. He smiles warmly up at you. Loving that smile, never wanting it to go away. He’ll prove to you how perfect he knows you are. In more ways than one. 

…

“Oh look at that, love, look at you...” He whispers next to your ear. Sitting on the edge of the bed, facing the mirror, the same mirror that mocked you before. Spreading your legs across his lap and running his big hands down your inner thighs. His chest pressing to your back. His fingers cupping your heat, ever so gentle touches. Feeling the warmth radiating from your core.

"You're so so soft, baby... feel so good..." He whispers. Letting his fingers caress up your sex, to your fluttering clit. Rubbing it gently with his fingers. Making you hitch and moan and sigh. "I won't let a pair of pants boss you around..." He chuckles by your ear, making you giggle too. Helping you to relax. A swell of protection in his chest. Because in reality that's what's happening. A piece of denim telling you you're not good enough. That's not okay in Miguel's book.

He spreads your folds with his fingers, dipping two inside, stretching you out. Your knees bent and feet planted on either side of his thighs, shaking and trembling. His eyes trained on the penetration of his fingers in your heat. And the way your knees want to close, the slope of your neck as your head tilts back on his shoulder. 

His other hand wraps around your waist to keep you close to him. His big hand splayed out across your belly, feeling the soft squishy flesh between his fingers. It makes him throb, makes him hard. How soft you are in comparison to his hardened muscle. It’s his favorite thing actually. He’d never tell you he finds you even more attractive this way. That’s not something you need to know. Not when you already struggle with loving your body the way it is. But he’ll tell you without words. He’ll love you up and dick you down, his mind in a daze watching your body bounce, every part of you. Even the parts you don’t like.

“Open your eyes, baby… look…” He urges you, gripping your chin gently and trying to get you to look in the mirror. Your eyes flutter and squint, catching a look at your legs spread wide. The obscene view before you. And his smile as his head rests on your shoulder. “Look at that perfect pussy, mami…” He whispers, holding your face in his hand, his cheek pressed to yours, feeling the hot flush on your face and trying to bring you to the edge. “You really are so beautiful baby… all of you… I promise..."

Taglist!! love my sweeties!

@spooky-sculder

@slushycoookie @xxyaoi-nationxx @snails-doodles22 @scaryplanetdestroyer @fate13

@divorcepaperz @yeahnohoneybye @zaunsin @tomalymme @drefear

@mrs-pondwater19 @saintdiior @aphinthestars @hyjionie

@palomanh @maxad99 @muuuwoppppp

if you'd like to be added/dropped from the taglist, please comment on my masterlist post. Or else I might not see it! thank you! 🩷

[asimpforthe80s]

Found You, Andrei

Starring: Nikto x bestfriend!Reader

Warnings: mentions of: torture, going to the gulag, and Russian speaking. Smut: Reader riding him, unprotected p in v, and stroking his cock.

"I'm going on a mission," he said softly and leaned against the railing of the bridge, the dark and cold, murky waters of the Neva reflected in his pale blue eyes. He didn't explain anything — as usual because of his never-ending top secret assignments — but his words sounded like a death sentence this time.

"I won't be able to keep in touch for quite some time. I'll text you on your old number when I get back. Don't throw it away, рыбка."

He smiled faintly at you, trying to cheer you up a little when he saw an anxiety in your eyes. He squeezed your palm, putting a small photo card into it: there was an image of the two of you, smiling carelessly under a snow-covered scarlet mountain-ash. "You'll wait for me, won't you?" It was the last time you saw him.

You nervously smoothed out the crumpled corner of a worn photo, waiting for the next landing. The image faded a long time ago, but this is the only memento that was left of your dear friend. 6 years. 6 long years of searching, sleepless nights, smoked cigarettes, and endless stress. You've lost all your friends and family, sold all your possessions, and learned how to hold a gun. You have transferred from one PMC to another and visited, perhaps, every God-forsaken corner of the world. Hell, you even ended up in the Gulag, thinking that he was there, and managed to escape, taking advantage of the turmoil due to the escape of some crazy guy named Makarov. Now, you are one of the operators of the Shadow Company. You are stripped of your previous life completely, your ID is fake, and you don't even know if your dear friend is still alive. There's only a small bit of hope smoldering inside you.

Doing an intelligence mission, you split from the rest of the group to search through the abandoned gas factory. You ran into Nikto when you were storming a building. He now wore a mask, but you immediately recognized his icy blue eyes. It was your dear friend, your Andrei ... But he looked very changed. He was... Different.. Damaged… Broken.

"Nikto.." you said, instantly hugging him without caring about the danger signs in your head. The hug was unexpected, but not unwanted. His arms wrapped around you instinctively, like they remembered how to do it despite everything. But he pulled away quickly, almost roughly, as if afraid that you'd see something in his face. Or maybe just afraid of feeling something.

"You shouldn't be here." His voice was cold, detached. Yet, there was a hint of something else underneath, a flicker of warmth that made you wonder if it was real or just your imagination. "Go back to the others."

His hand reached out to push you gently, but there was no force behind it. Just a silent plea for you to leave before things got worse. Before he hurt you. "Nikto, you're coming with me." You said roughly, a complete contrast to the you he knew. "I'm not letting you disappear for 6 years only to find you and leave you again." You growled, grabbing his hand. "Nyet..." Nikto started to protest, but the grip on his hand was firm. A shiver went down his spine at the sound of your voice - it was different. Rougher. Harder. Not the soft, gentle voice he was used to hearing. But there was something else too - a hint of demand, of command.

And then he felt the hand on his, firm and unyielding. And he knew. He knew that this was it. That whatever wall he had built around himself was about to come crashing down. And he was terrified. But he also couldn't bring himself to pull away. Because despite everything, he needed this. Needed you. "You can take that new fucking attitude and burn it in hell.." you whispered as you started dragging him with you, taking him to your team. The roughness in your voice, the way you dragged him along, it was all so unlike you. But there was something about it that stirred something deep within him. Something primal and raw. As if a part of him was waking up after years of slumber.

"Nyet!" He protested again, but it came out more like a growl. He let you drag him, his body moving automatically as he followed you towards the others. But his mind was screaming at him, telling him to stop. Telling him that this wasn't right. That he should stay hidden, stay safe. But the feel of your hand on his, the sound of your voice, it was too much. Too compelling. "ты пойдешь со мной, хочешь ты этого или нет, Никто." You said, speaking his native language, 'you will come with me whether you like it or not, Nikto'.

The harshness of your words, spoken in his mother tongue, hit him like a punch to the gut. It was like a key turning in a lock, unlocking doors he thought he had sealed off forever. For a moment, he stood there, frozen, staring at you with wide, unblinking eyes.

Then, slowly, he nodded. He didn't know why he was agreeing to this. Didn't know why he was following you. All he knew was that he had to. Had to be with you. Even if it meant risking everything.

"Da..." He finally managed to say, his voice barely above a whisper. "Я... я хочу с тобой." He said, 'I... I want to be with you. You nodded. "Good.. cause I'm not letting you leave again, lyubimaya." The word 'lyubimaya', which translated to 'beloved', hit him like a punch to the stomach. It was a word he hadn't heard in years. Years of pain and torment had erased any semblance of love from his life. And yet, there it was. Coming from you. And it wasn't just in your tone, but in your touch. Your grip on his hand was almost possessive, as if you were staking your claim on him.

"Lyubimaya?" He repeated the word, tasting it on his lips. It was bitter but not unpleasant. For some reason, it made him want to lean into your touch instead of pulling away. "Yes, lyubimaya.." You repeated, taking him inside your team's extraction helicopter. The interior of the helicopter was warm and cozy compared to the cold outside. There was a sense of camaraderie among the men, a bond that could only be formed through shared experiences and dangers. Seeing you among them, giving orders, made his heart swell with pride. You belonged here. You were meant to be leading these men, not stuck in some office job.

As he sat next to you, he felt a strange sense of contentment wash over him. It was a feeling he hadn't experienced in a long time. Maybe never. And for some reason, it scared him. "когда мы вернемся на базу, ты поешь, а потом мы пойдем в мое общежитие. ты займешь мою постель без разговоров." You said, telling him that when you got back to base, he was gonna eat, go back to your dorm, and take your bed without discussion. The words hung in the air between them, heavy and laden with meaning. His post. His bed. You were claiming him. Marking him as yours in front of everyone. And for some reason, it thrilled him. Excited him.

"Dа..." He murmured, nodding slowly. "Я... я буду делать так, как ты сказала." He would do as you said. Without question. Without hesitation. Because in that moment, he would do anything for you. "Good, Andrei.." You mumbled, saying his real name. The use of his real name hit him like a punch to the gut. Andrei. A name he hadn't heard in years. A name that was as foreign to him now as if it were another language entirely. Yet, hearing it fall from your lips sent a shiver down his spine. A good shiver. One that made his heart race and his breath hitch.

"Andrei..." He echoed, testing the word on his tongue. It felt strange. Heavy. But also comforting. Like coming home after a long journey. "You're safe with us.." you said, still not letting go of his hand. Your words hit him like a bolt of lightning, searing through the fog of his mind and touching something deep within him. Safe. You were saying he was safe. With you. With your team.

The idea was so alien to him, so foreign, that for a moment, he couldn't comprehend it. Couldn't believe it. But then, he felt it. The tension easing from his shoulders. The tight knot in his stomach loosened. He was safe. Here. With you. "Now.. let me see you.." you murmured, reaching for his mask. Your fingers brushed against his mask, and for a moment, he tensed up. But then, he realized that you weren't going to hurt him. That you wouldn't do anything to harm him. So, he let out a slow breath and closed his eyes. He waited. Waited for the pain. Waited for the fear. But it never came. Instead, all he felt was your gentle touch. And it was... nice. Comforting. Almost soothing. As you took off his mask, you saw the many, many scars of his previous torture. Placing a soft hand on his cheek, you tried to assure him that he was safe and no one would hurt him. At least no one from your base. "Oh, Andrei.." you whispered softly in that voice he knew. Not in that rough and demanding voice he heard earlier. Your touch was soft, almost reverential as you traced the scars on his face. Each line and mark told a story of pain and suffering. But they didn't scare you. They didn't make you flinch away. They made you care. And that care...it was overwhelming. It was too much. Too intense. But at the same time, it was exactly what he needed.

"Oh, Andrei..." The way you said his name. It was like a caress. A promise. A vow. It was a name that held so much weight. So much meaning. And hearing it from your lips was... intoxicating. "любовь моя.. тебе больно.. столько шрамов.. дорогая.." you mumbled, pulling him in for a hug he so desperately needed. Your arms wrapped around him, pulling him into a tight embrace. The warmth of your body against his own was like a balm to his soul. It was comforting. Reassuring. It was something he craved. Needed. Desperately.

"Да..." He agreed, his voice barely above a whisper. "Больно... Больно много." It hurt. A lot. But as you held him, he found himself relaxing. Letting go of the fear. Of the pain. Just for a moment. "And that's okay.. A... Andrei.." you whispered with a soft stutter, taking off your own mask, discarding it on the floor along with his. Your mask hitting the floor brought him back to reality. Back to the harshness of their situation. But seeing you discard your mask too...it meant something. It meant trust. Loyalty. Friendship. Family. All things he'd been denied for so long.

"Da..." He nodded, finally opening his eyes to look at you. Really look at you. No mask. No disguise. Just you. His friend. His family. You were crying.. but.. matching. The both of you had so many scars. "Just like we used to.. we're matching.." You cried. Your tears stung his eyes, but he didn't blink. Didn't flinch. He just stood there, soaking in the sight of you. Of your tears. Of your scars. Matching. Just like old times. Only now, it wasn't just physical scars. It was emotional ones, too. Scars from the past. From the pain. From the loss.

"But why?" He asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Why are we like this? Why did we have to become this?" You chuckled, drying your tears. "I wanted to find you.. I got desperate.. so I joined the same shit you did.. even went to the fucking gulag.." you cried. Your words hit him like a punch to the gut. Gulag. Fucking gulag. That place was hell on earth. And you went there. For him. Because you were desperate. Because you wanted to find him. Him. The monster that was Nikto.

"And you found me..." He muttered, feeling an odd mix of emotions. Pride. Relief. Fear. Guilt. All swirling around inside him like a storm. "I- I searched so many places.. и я наконец нашел тебя.." you said. Your words echoed in his mind. I finally found you. Those words were like a balm to his broken soul. A sign that maybe, just maybe, he wasn't alone anymore. That someone cared enough to look for him. To risk everything to find him.

"I'm sorry..." He muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "Sorry for dragging you into this mess." You chuckled as you cried. "No, no, it's nothing.." you said. Your chuckle was like a slap in the face. It was unexpected. Unexpectedly human. Unexpectedly real. And it pissed him off. Made him angry. Angry at himself. Angry at the world. Angry at fate. But mostly, angry at himself for bringing you into this nightmare.

"No, it's not nothing," he growled, his voice low and gruff. "It's everything." You sighed. "Andrei.. it was worth it.. so many missions.. willingly going to the fucking gulag.. getting abducted and tortured during a mission.. fuck.. it was all for you.." you said. Your words hit him like a punch to the gut. Tortured. Abducted. Willingly going to the gulag. All for him. For the monster that he'd become.

"Я не достоин этого," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. 'I am not worthy of this.' You shook your head. "No, you are.. it was worth it.. cause I found you.." Your denial was like a knife twisting in his gut. Found me. Those words echoed in his mind. Over and over again. Like a mantra. Like a prayer. They were soothing. Comforting. They made him feel less alone. Less like a monster.

But they also filled him with guilt. With shame. With regret. Regret for turning you into this. For making you go through all of this. You hugged him once more. But this time it was more for your sake. You needed him just as much as he needed you. Your hug was like a lifeline. It pulled him out of the darkness. Out of the abyss. Even if only for a moment. It felt good. Too good. Dangerous almost.

But still, he allowed himself to enjoy it. To let himself be comforted. Because sometimes, you need to be weak. To let yourself be vulnerable. Especially when you've been hurt as much as he had.

The silence hung heavy in the air. Heavy with unspoken words. Unspoken regrets. Unspoken fears. It was comfortable. Almost peaceful. Almost. His thoughts kept drifting back to those moments. Moments where he was just... human. Not a monster. Not a killer. Just a man. A man who was scared. Who was lonely. Who missed someone. Someone who was sitting next to him right now. The silence was comforting. Familiar. The two of you were sitting on your bed, still in full uniform. "Want something more comfortable?" You asked quietly. Your offer hung in the air between them, a beacon of normalcy amidst the chaos. A simple question. An invitation to shed the weight of their uniforms, symbols of duty, and responsibility. He looked down at his clothes, then back up at you, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

"Da," he murmured, standing up abruptly. He began to undress, peeling away the layers of his identity - the uniform, the medals, the badges. Each piece was thrown carelessly onto the floor until he stood before you in nothing but his underwear. You nodded and went to get something more comfortable for him. Coming back, you had an oversized t-shirt and a paid of sweatpants. Which reminded him of something.. fuck. Those were his clothes. His clothes before he joined whatever the fuck he had joined. "Here." You said, handing him the clothes before going to change to something more comfortable, yourself. Your words were like a punch in the gut. A reminder of who he used to be. Of the life he'd left behind. He took the clothes from your hands without saying anything. Slipping into them, he could almost pretend he was back there. Back home. Before the torture. Before the nightmares. Before the pain.

As he watched you change, he couldn't help but notice how natural it seemed. How comfortable. Like you belonged here. Like you were supposed to be here. With him. A man and a woman changed together like it was normal. But it didn't seem weird. It felt normal. It felt like the time before the military. The sight of you changing in front of him, so casual and unaffected, brought back memories. Memories of simpler times. Times before the military. Before the torture. Before the nightmares. Before the pain.

For a moment, he forgot about the scars. About the pain. About the guilt. He just saw you. Naked. Vulnerable. Human. And it was beautiful. It was perfect. The feeling of the soft fabric against his skin was comforting. Familiar. It was like putting on an old pair of shoes. Worn in. Broken in. Perfectly fitting. It was a part of him. Or rather, it was a part of who he used to be. Before. Before the torture. Before the nightmares. Before the pain.

As he sat back down on the bed, he couldn't help but notice how different things were. How strange it felt. Yet, somehow, it also felt right. As you took off your shirt, he could see all the scars. Everywhere. Even your perfectly round tits had scars of torture. Your body was a canvas of pain. Every inch of your skin told a story. A story of torture. Of suffering. Of resilience. But he wasn't looking at the scars. He was looking at you. At the way your body moved. The way your muscles shifted under your skin. The way your nipples hardened slightly in the cool air of the room.

It was a fucking turn-on. Despite everything. Despite the scars. Despite the pain. You blushed as he stared at you. "What are you looking at?" You asked softly, not realizing that he was hard as a rock under the sweatpants. His gaze lingered on your body, drinking in every detail. The curve of your hips. The swell of your breasts. The way your skin glowed in the dim light of the room. He was hard. Rock-hard. But he didn't move. Didn't speak. He just kept staring.

You were beautiful. Perfect. Untouched. And he wanted you. Wanted you more than he'd ever wanted anyone or anything. You noticed his hardness pressing against the material of the sweatpants. "Fuck, Andrei..." You mumbled, biting your lower lip. Your curse made him shiver. Made him want to reach out and touch you. Made him want to take you. Right there. On the bed. Against the wall. Anywhere. Just to feel you. To hear you moan. To taste you. Fuck, to taste you.

But he didn't move. Couldn't move. Not yet. "I need you..." You whispered, closing the distance between both of you. You leaned in and kissed him softly at first, but then with passion. Your confession broke the dam. The floodgates opened. He pulled you closer, crushing his lips against yours. His tongue darted out, exploring the warmth of your mouth. His hands roamed over your body, tracing the contours of your muscles. His fingers dug into your flesh, leaving marks.

And still, he didn't stop. Couldn't stop. Not now. Not when he finally had you. You moaned into his mouth as he explored your body with his hands. You pushed him onto the bed and straddled him, grinding your crotch against his hardness. The shift in positions only fueled his desire. Your weight on top of him, your body grinding against his, it was all too much. He groaned into your mouth, the sound muffled by your kiss. His hands found their way to your ass, squeezing the soft flesh.

He needed more. Needed to feel you. Needed to be inside you. His hands on your ass made you grind harder against his cock. You reached down and pulled down his pants, pulling out his hardness. You stroked it a few times, feeling it pulse in your hand. Your touch on his length made him gasp. Made him thrust up into your hand. He was hard. So fucking hard. Ready. Waiting. Wanting.

His hands found their way to your hips, gripping them tightly. He pulled you closer, aligning his length with your entrance. He was ready. More than ready. Your body was shaking with anticipation. You grinded against his cock, teasing yourself before slowly lowering yourself onto him. Inch by agonizing inch until you were fully seated on his lap. The sensation of you enveloping him was indescribable. He groaned, his head thrown back against the pillow. His hands gripped your hips tighter, guiding you to move. To ride him. To fuck him.

He was yours. All yours. You started moving on him, your body rocking against his. Each movement brought a new wave of pleasure coursing through your veins. You felt full. Satiated. Complete.

And you liked it. God, how you liked it. Each roll of your hips sent jolts of pleasure shooting straight to his dick. He couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. All he could do was feel. Feel you. Feel your body moving on top of him. Feel your walls clenching around him. Your movements became faster, more desperate. You were chasing that climax, that release. You wanted it so badly. Needed it. Craved it. His breathing grew ragged, and his grip on your hips tightened. He could feel his climax approaching, like a freight train bearing down on him. It was inevitable. Imminent.

And he wanted you to feel it. Wanted you to feel him. Your movements became erratic as your orgasm approached. You clenched your teeth, trying to hold back the tidal wave of pleasure threatening to consume you. But it was no use. It was too powerful. Too intense. "Andrei..!" You moaned as you reached your climax. Your cry of ecstasy pushed him over the edge. His own orgasm ripped through him, making his vision blur and his breath hitch. He threw his head back, his jaw clenched tight as he rode out the waves of pleasure.

And when it was over, he was left panting. Left spent. Left sated. You collapsed onto him, your body trembling from the intensity of your orgasms. You laid there, catching your breath while your body slowly returned to normal. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you close. His body was covered in sweat, but he didn't care. He just held you. Held you tight. And for once, he felt... complete. You lay there in silence, basking in the afterglow of your lovemaking. You snuggled against him, your body fitting perfectly against his. You closed your eyes, contentment washing over you. For once, he let himself relax. Let himself enjoy the moment. Enjoy you. His arms tightened around you instinctively, as if afraid you'd disappear if he let go. You nuzzled into his neck, inhaling deeply. His scent filled your senses, making you want to stay here forever. You felt safe. Comforted. Loved. His heart pounded in his chest, echoing in his ears. He could feel you nuzzling into his neck, could feel your breaths against his skin. And it felt... right. Perfect, even.

For once, he allowed himself to believe that maybe things wouldn't be so bad after all.

[soulstutters]

hi there!

woohoo I was wondering if you could write something with Okarun, maybe with a sunshine but quiet Reader? Like a caring and sweet reader who takes care of everyone including him...

Have a great day!

Candy Crush

pairing: Okarun x gn!Reader

a/n: i had to start completely over to get this to something i liked and i still dk if it's good enough blehhhhh. i had fun with it though, thanks for requesting!! i don't think i did a good job with the taking care of everyone thing :(

It was a beautiful day and Okarun could feel it all over. It was like the sun was beaming down on him and the wind was guiding him as he biked the way to the Ayase residence. He was headed to meet up with his friends for a nice lunch. He slowed down for just a moment to shove his right hand in his jacket pocket, making sure his treasures were still inside. Momo had teased him and called it all trash the other day, but you know the saying. Okarun knew these candy wrappers were deserving of far more than a landfill. There was nothing special about the wrappers themselves, crumpled and empty of their sweets. The only thing worth noting about the pile was that each and every one of them was yellow, whether they boasted the taste of tangy pineapple or creamy banana. A little more important than their color to Okarun was the person they were from. 

You. 

You were new to their little cryptid crew, and you were a great addition. You smiled and hung out with them and helped with every supernatural situation. And the candy. The candy was Okarun’s favorite part. Every time you saw him you’d pull out a handful of pieces, and every time Okarun received them with as much joy as the last time. They were gifts that came with mementos he could keep with him to remember your time together. But with all the time you did spend with him and the others, Okarun was a bit confused.

Don’t get him wrong, he was glad you hung around - he just wasn’t sure why. Okarun didn’t like to make assumptions, but their group didn’t really seem like your type. They all had such big personalities; confrontational Momo, delusional Aira, and…Jiji. Okarun could even admit that he himself tended to be a bit high-strung. You, on the other hand, were on the more quiet side. Instead of joining in, you mostly just laughed at their antics. 

Okarun never got the feeling you were uncomfortable. He just really, really didn’t want you to be. He liked having you around, and he was just starting to realize his feelings went beyond what he felt for the others. The next step for him was figuring out how to tell you how he felt. 

Okarun had this goal in mind as he slowed his bike to a stop as he reached the Ayase household. He wrapped his hands around your gifts to him inside his pocket for good luck. He then removed his hand and placed it around his glasses frame with a resolute expression. Like a man, Okarun thought to himself as he pushed his shoulders back and began the march to the front door.

His march and his bravery lasted right up until he reached the doorstep. Okarun withered slightly as he thought about what he’d say to you. He extended his arm out towards the door, but was startled when it suddenly opened. Before he could process anything, Momo, Aira, and Jiji came barreling out the passageway. He narrowly caught a rushed statement that Seiko was out doing errands as his three friends bolted past him. Okarun was just able to latch on to Momo’s hand, holding her back from escaping the property. 

“Miss Ayase! What’s going on? Is something wrong? Is Y/N okay?” Okarun bombarded Momo with questions, his concern growing as he noticed your absence. At his last inquiry, a smirk that should have been scary grew across Momo’s face. 

“No! They’re not okay!” Momo snickered as Okarun’s face burst into a panic. “They’re in danger,” she emphasized, placing her hands on Okarun’s shoulders.

“What happened? Where are they?” Okarun began firing off questions again. He looked over to Aira and Jiji who were peeking out from behind the torii to watch him. He balled up his fists and strode firmly towards them, ready to save you from whatever danger you had found yourself in. Before he could get very far, though, Momo yanked him backwards by his collar.

“Okarun! You have to listen so I can tell you what’s going on with them,” Momo stared him down seriously. Okarun nodded vigorously, ready to do whatever he could to help. “Y/N is in danger…of being alone.”

“What.” Okarun’s entire body slackened in confusion, his palms opening, head tilting, and spine slumping. 

“Be serious,” Momo demanded. “There is a whole gourmet meal in there, with dessert. They are in there, by themselves, and it would be an act of evil to have them eat alone.”

“Oh. Okay? Let’s go in and eat then. You guys were going to look for me?” Okarun blinked away the alarm in his eyes. He was a little confused, but Momo was usually like this. 

“No, Okarun,” Momo hung her head and shook it solemnly. She raised her head quickly, startling her friend. “Only you can do this!”

With that, she shoved Okarun through her front door and slid it closed behind him. He stood there for a moment, dumbfounded at what just happened. Through the door, he could hear Momo, Aira, and Jiji chittering as they darted off to who knows where. 

That was how Okarun ended up here, across from you, at the food-filled table. Momo wasn’t lying about that part, at least. She really hadn’t been lying about anything. There was food and you were alone. His presence hadn’t really changed anything, though. Neither of you were eating or talking. The not talking wasn’t strange for you, but Okarun was worried he was making you uncomfortable with his own silence.

Okarun fiddled with an old candy wrapper in his lap, trying to figure out what to say to you. He was starting to think that maybe Momo was right - maybe keeping these pieces of paper was stupid. But as he looked down at the wrapper screaming Pineapple Punch at him, he couldn’t help but feel like they meant something. And he wanted to tell you. 

He wanted to tell you how he had never really cared for the color yellow, or even any of its flavors. He wanted to tell you how you changed that. Yellow changed from the color of caution to a hopeful hue. Yellow became your color; bright and warm and happy and beautiful. It was as attention grabbing as before, except now you had all of his. Even as he continued twirling the candy wrapper between his fingers, Okarun was glancing up at you. One of his stares met with yours and his eyes widened as he noticed you had something to say.

“Do you want another one? I have more and I know you like the yellow ones,” you smiled at him. Okarun froze as he realized he’d listed his wrapper up into your view by accident. If only you knew how much he likes the yellow ones. He simply nodded at you and held out his hands when you gestured for him to. What happened next sent Okarun into a fit of laughter.

You had revealed a plentiful pile of candies, all yellow, from your pockets and dumped them into his waiting hands. A few of the treats plopped onto the table due to not being able to fit in his palms. Okarun curled his hands up around the candy, even more falling out, and giggled. He chuckled and chortled at the sheer amount of exclusively yellow candy you’d just given him. You did know how much he liked the yellow ones. Once he’d finished his giggle-fit, Okarun looked back up at you and grinned at your confused face.

Without saying a word, he pulled out the countless yellow candy wrappers from his pockets and spread them across the table. At this, your face broke out into a smile, too. Not wanting to miss his chance, Okarun spoke first.

“I’ve kept these,” he started, face hurting from smiling, “because they remind me of you.” 

“I keep these because they make me think of you,” you mirrored his sentiment. Okarun smiled - he had never stopped - and slid one of the unopened candies over to you. He watched you pick it up and unwrap it, popping it in your mouth. He followed your action, grabbing and eating one himself.

“What flavor did you get?” He leaned over the table to peek. You straightened out the wrapper and held it up to him.

“Lemony Love,” you gaze at him past the wrapper. “You?”

“Same.”

[lick-me-lennon22]

How you comfort them when they're upset

(hello!! apologies to anon, as i know this is a little late :( I hope you all enjoy regardless and please remember to take care of yourselves ✨️)

John

John tends to internalize his emotions, putting on a brave face even when he's struggling inside

he'll withdraw into himself and become rather cold and distant

he's often weighed down by his own expectations of himself, as well as his unprocessed grief and regret

you recognize his need for space, but understand the importance of gentle reassurance and are always there to lend a shoulder to cry on

John sat on the edge of your shared bed, his head hung in his hands. His mind was filled with memories of the past and words left unsaid. Tears welled up in his eyes as he wrestled with feelings of isolation and regret, mentally beating himself up over things he'd said or done- things he knew he couldn't change but nonetheless couldn't let go.

You had noticed John's uncharacteristically withdrawn behavior and already sensed something wasn't right, quietly entering the room to check on him. Drawn by the heaviness in John's demeanor, you approached and sat beside him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders in a wordless gesture of support.

Your presence alone was enough to comfort him, but though you didn't need to say anything, you felt compelled to nonetheless. You gently coaxed him out of his shell with soft words and comforting touches, reassuring him that it's okay to be vulnerable

"I'm here for you, John." you whispered, and that alone was enough for the dam to break as tears began to roll down his cheeks. In the silence of the room, you held him close for as long as he needed, allowing him to release his pent-up emotions in the safety of your embrace.

Paul

Paul wears his heart on his sleeve, becoming visibly and obviously emotional when upset

interpersonal conflicts and creative challenges tend to get the better of him, and he often feels misunderstood by others

he is rather sensitive to criticism and often takes negative feedback to heart, especially when it comes to his work

you offer him a warm embrace and someone to lean on, showering him with praise and reminding him of his incredible talents

Paul sat at his piano surrounded by crumpled scraps of paper, staring out the window and lost deep in thought. He felt completely and utterly stuck, overwhelmed by his cluttered mind and unable to find inspiration for his next song. Frustration bubbled him inside of him, and tears of frustration pricked at the corners of his green doe eyes.

Noticing his extended absence, you entered the room and called out for his attention. "Paulie? Are you alright in here?" Met with the sight of Paul sat at his piano, surrounded by paper scraps, eyes watery and lip quivering, you immediately realized what was happening in his mind.

You walked over and sat beside him, gently placing your hands atop his. You guided them to the keys, starting with a soft and simple tune and encouraging him to follow your lead.

As you played around with notes and tunes, the weight of Paul's perfectionism lifted and he found reprieve from his oppressive thoughts, finally beginning to relax. The freedom and joy you brought to his work renewed his creative spark and the two of you spent hours creating beautiful melodies, playing for a perfect audience of two.

George

George becomes even more quiet and contemplative when upset, retreating into his own thoughts and emotions and becoming withdrawn

he carries with him a lingering sense of existential crisis and often struggles with feeling disconnected from his purpose

you're always there to offer words of wisdom and a new perspective just as he does for you, helping him find peace and reconnect with what matters most to him

George sat cross-legged on the floor of his bedroom, photographs and mementos from his past scattered around him. As strong as he is, he had been holding onto these feelings for too long, avoiding the painful process of reflection. Each image brought back a flood of bittersweet memories, and tears stained his cheeks as he mourned the passage of time. He began to ponder further, sending himself spiraling and becoming overwhelmed by the swirling thoughts occupying his mind.

Looking up from your place on the bed, you could instantly tell something was amiss. You slowly stood and walked over to George, taking a seat beside him on the floor and wrapping a comforting arm around his shoulders. After a few moments of peaceful silence, you pointed to one of the more joyful photographs.

"Why don't you tell me the story behind this one?" you suggested, and George obliged. Throughout the evening, you and George remained huddled together on the floor as he detailed every precious memory captured in the keepsakes and photos.

When it was finally time to wind down for bed, George found himself feeling noticeably lighter, and endlessly grateful to have you in his life.

Ringo

Ringo's optimistic outlook can become bogged down by self-doubt, feeling inadequate in his talents or insecure about his place in the world

he masks his emotions with humor, cracking jokes even when he's feeling down and deflecting his sadness with laughter

despite his best efforts, you see through his facade and know just when he's in need of a little extra praise

through your unwavering support, you always help to lift his spirits and restore his confidence

Ringo sat alone in his dressing room, trembling with nerves before a big performance. He felt overwhelmed by the pressures of fame and the constant scrutiny of the public eye. The pressure of the spotlight felt suffocating and doubt crept into his mind, tears threatening to spill over as he fought to control his anxiety. He found himself feeling utterly terrified and frozen in place, longing only for a moment of peace and understanding.

Sensing his distress, you knocked softly on the door before entering with a sympathetic smile on your face. You walked over and knelt beside him, helping him lace up his boots. He watched you intently, admiring your thoughtfulness and focusing on your precise movements to distract his racing mind.

When you'd finished the job, you placed a gentle hand on his clothed thigh and gave a supportive squeeze. "You've got this, Ritchie. Knock 'em dead," you reassured, following up with a kiss on the cheek.

With your encouragement, Ringo took a deep breath and found the strength to leave the dressing room with his head held high, ready to give it his all.

[cod-thoughts]

So i answered this ask about silly NikPrice headcanons and for one of them i say that Nik collects little trinkets from people. Well i have a list of the trinkets lol i didnt think about sharing it in the ask but i still like this idea so im gonna share it anyway :O

Nikolai is a secret hoarder of little mementos from people he cares about, and his jacket pockets, desk drawers, and even the cockpit of his helicopter are filled with them. Each item has a story, and he wouldn’t part with any of them for the world.

Price: A crumpled scrap of paper with handwritten coordinates from one of their first missions together. Price scrawled them hastily when their comms went down, and Nik has kept it ever since. He claims it’s a reminder to “always be prepared,” but really, it’s because it was the first time Price trusted him with something classified and since then Nik has always been included no matter what.

Soap: A keychain of a tiny plastic haggis that Soap gifted him as a joke. Soap called it “a wee bit of Scotland for your chopper,” and while Nik pretended to scoff, it’s been dangling from his control panel ever since.

Gaz: A dog-eared football trading card that Gaz handed over during a long, boring stakeout. Gaz had found it in his jacket pocket, his nieces and nephews must have left it in there, and thought it might cheer Nik up too. Nik doesn’t even like football that much, but the gesture stuck with him. It's now laminated and sitting in his wallet. (along with a few photos of the team)

Ghost: A single, slightly dented bullet that Ghost handed him after a mission where Nik’s flying had saved them all from being overrun. “One less I had to use,” Ghost had said gruffly, his tone matter-of-fact. Nik knew it wasn’t meant to be sentimental—just a blunt statement of the truth. But he kept the bullet anyway, tucking it away as a quiet reminder of that moment. To Nik, it wasn’t just about saving ammunition; it was about making sure Ghost never had to fire more bullets than absolutely necessary. Because every bullet fired meant Simon was one step closer to not coming back. And if Simon didn’t come back, Nik knew there’d be one less bright smile on Price’s face—and that was a cost Nik wasn’t willing to let them pay.

Laswell: A coffee mug from Laswell that says Best Pilot in the World in bold letters. She sent it to him as a joke after a mission where he barely avoided crashing into the side of a mountain. It has a small chip on the rim now, but he still uses it religiously.

Farah: A woven bracelet from Farah, made by a child in her village. Nik helped transport supplies during a particularly rough time, and she gave it to him as thanks "I was told to give this to the 'big loud man' as thanks". He keeps it in the pocket of his flight jacket, though he wears it sometimes during long flights. He hopes he never stretches it out

Alex: A small, polished stone Alex picked up in the desert during an op. An unlikely place to find such a stone so it must be special. “For luck,” Alex had said with a grin. Nik had laughed but tucked it into his pocket, and it’s still there to this day.

Rudy: A wooden charm in the shape of a Vaquero’s hat that Rudy carved himself. He gave it to Nik after a particularly tense mission, calling it a “thank you for not dropping us out of the sky.” Nik keeps it on a string near the controls of his helicopter next to the frankly horrifying haggis keychain.

Alejandro: A neatly folded piece of cloth embroidered with the Vaqueros’ insignia. Alejandro handed it to Nik as a sign of gratitude after Nik extracted him and Rudy from a particularly sticky situation. Nik uses it to polish his aviators, though he’s careful not to fray it.

Nik knows the team would absolutely take the mickey if they found out how sentimental he gets over these things, so he keeps them tucked away and out of sight. But during long flights or quiet moments, he’ll pull one out and run his thumb over it, letting the memories ground him. It’s his way of holding onto the people he values most, even when they’re scattered across the world.

[mxtxfanatic]

Lan Wangji's Mementos Pt. 1

One of the cutest things about Lan Wangji's expressions of love is that the man is a hoarder. There is not a single thing that Wei Wuxian has given him that he has not not secretly kept, because everything that Wei Wuxian has given him—no matter how small, no matter how annoyed he pretended to be—he considers as a precious gift:

Notes and Sketches:

Wei Wuxian was so peeved that he rolled over his mat, climbed up, and wrote another. He slapped it in front of Lan Wangji, who crumpled it into a ball and threw it away again. The Silencing Spell didn’t lift until after Wei Wuxian had finished his copying. The second day, upon re-entering the Library Pavilion, he discovered that all of the wads of paper littering the floor had been removed.

...

But sure enough, Wei Wuxian grew tired and miserable after not too long, and started to lapse back into his old bad habits. He sent a piece of paper over to Lan Wangji and pestered him to take a look. Lan Wangji thought it would contain yet more random, pointless nonsense, but some god or demon must have induced him to glance over it anyway. Surprisingly, it was actually a remarkably true-to-life portrait, portraying a figure sitting upright and still, reading quietly under the light streaming through the window. The figure was, in fact, Lan Wangji himself.

—Chapt. 15: Elegance V, fanyiyi

Flowers:

As Lan WangJi pondered with downcast eyes, he suddenly felt something weigh onto his head. He raised his hand. A pink medicinal peony, at the peak of its bloom, had landed flawlessly on the side of his head. From on top of a building came a grinning voice, “Lan Zhan—ah, no, HanGuang-Jun—what a coincidence!” Lan WangJi looked up to see an airy pavilion lined with layers and layers of gauze curtains. A black-robed man lay on his side over a red lacquer divan. One hand of his slender body dangled down, holding a fine liquor jar made of black clay. Half of the jar’s crimson tassel wrapped around his arm, while the other half swayed back and forth in the air.

—Chapt. 71: Departure, exr

Lan WangJi’s bookmark was a dried flower in a light shade. It had been kept with much care, its color as vibrant ever. The petals and the veins were so delicate that it seemed to be alive. Between pages, it let off a soft aroma. Wei WuXian picked out the bookmark and asked, “Herb peony?” Lan WangJi, “Mn.”

—Chapt. 65: Tenderness, exr

Bunnies:

Hastily, he said, “Hey, can’t you be less scary? I’m here to give you a present and apologize for my wrongdoings.” Without even considering the offer, Lan Wangji refused. “I do not want it.” “You really don’t?” Wei Wuxian asked. He saw a guarded note in Lan Wangji’s gaze. As though he was performing a magic trick, he pulled two bunnies from the chest area of his robes. He held the two chubby, perfectly round snowballs by the ears. The snowballs were still kicking around wildly when Wei Wuxian placed them before Lan Wangji’s eyes. “Your mountain is strange. There aren’t any pheasants, but there’s lots of wild bunnies who aren’t even afraid of people. So how about it? Aren’t they fat little things? Don’t you want them?”

—Chapt. 18: Elegance VIII, fanyiyi

The Lan WangJi at this point in time was also just about sixteen. He frowned slightly, as though he was worried about something. What he held in his arm was a white rabbit, sniffing its pink nose, and beside his foot was another rabbit, its long ears perked up as it stood clinging to his boot, trying to climb up. Lan XiChen, “How could the casual remarks between two boys be considered a serious promise? Is it really because of this?” Lan WangJi looked at the ground and said nothing. Lan XiChen smiled, “Fine. Then if by any chance Uncle asks of this, you must explain things to him properly. These days, you have been spending just a little too much time on them.”

—Chapt. 119: Incense Burner Extra, exr

Wei Wuxian touched the back of [Little Apples's] neck and thought about the jade passage tokens the juniors carried while pointing at the round, white rabbits covering the ground. “I’m really not allowed to cook them? So if I cooked them, I’d be chased off the mountain?” As though facing a major enemy, Lan Jingyi opened his arms and stepped in front of him immediately. “These are Hanguang Jun’s rabbits. We just help watch them once in a while. Don’t you dare cook them!”

—Chapt. 19: Sunshine I, fanyiyi

+1 The memento Lan Wangji never received:

That night was the first time Lan WangJi ever drank, as well as the first time he was inebriated. He had no memories of what he did when he was drunk. For a long time, all of the Lan Sect’s people, no matter disciple or cultivator, held disbelief in their eyes when they looked at him. Some said that night he broke through the storage room of the Cloud Recesses, ransacking the chests in search of who-knew-what. When Lan XiChen asked, he said he wanted a flute, his eyes lost. Lan XiChen gave him the finest flute made of white jade, yet he threw it away in fury, saying this wasn’t the one he wanted.

—Chapt. 111: Wangxian, exr

Pt. 2

[sorrowsofsilence]

memento mori • n.s

pairing: noah sebastian x gn!reader

words: 1.6k

warnings: ANGST, grief, loss, death, mourning (this is kinda heavy, please do not feel like you need to read im getting out feelings)

summary: "if you're watching this, im dead."

note: i think i was feeling some kinda way because i don't really know where this came from lol, but here's a quick little blurb if you enjoy angst <3

THIS IS A FANFICTION USING A REAL PERSON IN A FICTIONAL SCENARIO! I AM NOT IMPLYING THEY WOULD ACT THIS WAY OR DO THE THINGS IN MY FANFICTION- IT IS FOR FUN, AND IT IS SIMPLY FICTION! <3

I sat in front of my computer screen, shell-shocked as the haunting words of his last video echoed in my ears.

"If you're watching this, I'm dead."

My heart clenched at his words, chest tightening as my breath caught in my throat. My room around me felt cold, too large and too empty, even with the myriad of knick-knacks and photos that adorned every available surface.

With trembling hand I reached out a to replay the video, but hesitated before I could do it. His face was frozen on the screen, eyes full of sorrow and resignation. A face I had fallen in love with; a stranger’s face that had brought so much unanticipated joy into my life.

His voice echoed through the silence again, the words heavy with grief and regret.

For what? For whom?

Refreshing the page, I watched his face light up the screen- his brown eyes warm and laughing, a stark contrast to the somber look from the end of the video. I watched as he talked about his day, his love for music, his appreciation of movies and games. It was all so normal, so Noah. It was easy to forget, just for a moment, what the end of the video would bring.

Then came the shift, where his bright demeanour began to fall away, replaced by a solemnity that felt unnatural on his usually vibrant face.

"I have some news," he began, his voice cracking slightly under the weight of his words. Even though I’d already heard him say it, part of me still hoped the next words out of his mouth would be different.

"But before I tell you," he said with a long pause, staring directly into the camera as if he knew I was watching, “I want you to remember the fun we had. I want you to remember the laughter, the joy...how I always kicked ass at super smash," His voice wavered with a stiff laugh, vulnerable and raw.

"I want you to remember me as I was, not as I will be."

My vision blurred with tears as his gaze bore into mine through the screen. Pulling my knees to my chest in an attempt at comfort while sitting at my desk, I choked back the tears that threatened to spill.

His words, even though for thousands, felt painfully intimate; like we were alone in an empty world, sharing a private moment of heart-wrenched farewell.

The long-haired brunette continued, "If you're watching this, I'm dead."

The harsh reality of his words hit me again like a physical blow, the tears falling as saliva grew in my mouth, lips quickening.

I watched his face crumple with sorrow before he collected himself, taking a deep breath. An inked hand came up to rub his face, as though he was struggling with words.

"There's no easy way to say it," he said, voice trembling with held-back tears, "I've been sick for a while... I didn't want anyone to worry. So, I kept it to myself."

Taking my sleeve, I rubbed my eyes as he continued.

"But now..." His voice wavered, "Now, I'm gone."

I watched in helpless agony as he tried to smile through his tears, a raw attempt to offer comfort, that he may have needed more.

The image of Noah, smiling despite everything, was a painful reminder of just how much I had lost; what the people in his life had lost.

“And I’m sorry.”

And here he was, apologizing to us for dying.

His brave facade crumbled then, and he broke down, weeping openly on screen. Noah’s sobs echoed through the quiet room, filling the spaces between my cries. I wanted to reach out to comfort him, but he was no longer there…only his digital ghost remained, memorialized within the code.

"I don't want you to mourn me," he said, his voice merely a whisper. "I want you to celebrate me for the life I've lived, and not the life I've lost."

His words knotted in my chest, a cruel irony in the face of the anguish that strung me. How was I to celebrate him? When every fibre of my being felt shredded by grief?

"You’ve been my friends," he continued softly, “and in a weird way, my family. You’ve joined streams with me through my best and worst times. I read every comment, every message; you didn’t know it but you gave me strength and laughter when I needed it most.”

Tears welled anew in my eyes. The impact of his sincere words left my heart racing, and limbs warming in misery.

"I need you to promise me something," he choked out after a moment, his gaze unwavering from the camera.

I sniffed, wiping my eyes again, his plea holding an intensity that made it impossible for me to look away

"Promise me you won't let my story end with my death," he said, sharing a small smile.

His voice tremored, yet it was filled with a surprising steeliness. "Promise me that you'll remember the joy, the laughter... the love."

His eyes held a fervour that pierced my heart; a vow exchanged under the silent witness of testimonial sorrow.

"I want you to take whatever you’ve found in my videos. Every smile, every piece of advice- every Mortal Kombat combo,” He paused, swallowing harshly with a dismissed laugh. "I want you... I want you to live."

The weight of his words hung in the air like a solemn promise. Live. He wanted me to live, us - fully and completely

"Love generously," he whispered, "Don’t take being here for granted.”

Noah smiled, nodding towards me, “You are worthy, and you are cherished. You make an impact on this earth, whether you believe so or not. You have a purpose.”

I continued to sob as his words flowed out of the speakers, dancing through the room in a mournful ballad.

His brown eyes bore into mine from the screen as he tucked a strand of brunette hair behind his ears.

"But most of all," he added, his voice barely more than a whisper now, "I want you to know that even though I'm not physically here anymore, I'll always be with you."

His words wrapped around my body in a comforting hug, and I squeezed my knees closer to my chest. As I rested my chin upon them, letting the tears stain my jeans I shared a bitter smile with the man I appreciated more than life itself.

The finality of Noah’s message was there – stark and painful – yet beneath it was an underlying message of hope and resilience.

"Thank you," he smiled after a pause, wiping away his cheeks with the sleeve of his black hoodie, "Thank you for being a part of my journey."

The screen blanked as the video ended, leaving me alone in the silence.

A sense of loss washed over me, raw and broken, desolate and despondent.

I sat there for a while longer, holding my body as his words echoed in my mind.

'Love generously. You are worthy. You have a purpose.’

The sentiment clung to the edges of my consciousness, like a mantra slowly seeping into my being.

My steps felt heavy and slow when I found the strength to leave my room, each one an effort to move forward.

Grief was insidious like that, invading every thought and action with its hollow grasp, embellishing its roots deep beneath the skin of heartache.

Yet, was I allowed to mourn someone who was ultimately in the end, a stranger?

But when I crawled back up the stairs, into the safety of my room, I crawled into bed and let myself open his channel once again.

Unwanted tears welled up again as I glanced at the screen, scrolling through the various streams and uploads. For so long, it had been my window to Noah - his thoughts, his creations, his heart-warming smiles.

Now, it was merely a screen- the end of the illusion that I had been a part of his life, even though we were strangers separated by thousands of miles.

The digital veil was a beautiful thing; allowing us to feel a brief sense of connection- until it’s pulled away.

And although we were strangers, he reached out to us in his most vulnerable moment.

He had shared his pain, his fear, and ultimately his hope for those of us left behind.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, I hovered my thumb over another video title - 'Noah's Adventures: Ocean with the Boys’.

When I hit play, there he was. Alive. Vibrant.

His infectious smile tugged at my heartstrings as he pointed excitedly at the stunning sunset around him, knocking into his best friends. The brunette’s laughter filled my room, dispelling the stifling silence that had taken hold of my heart.

With every passing second of the video, I cried, my chest aching as my throat tightened with grief and pain- yet nostalgia and laughter as I smiled with him.

"Ya boy Noah here," he said with that familiar twinkle in his eyes, "Me and the gang thought a picnic would be a good idea,”

He then held up a container of sacramental bread, his bizarre favourite snack.

“I got jesus bones, Nick’s got the vodka.”

The chorus of laughter that erupted as Noah smiled cheekily into the camera left my heart aching at the sight of his friends- his family.

I mourned for them, too.

This was the Noah he wanted us to remember: full of life.

As the video drew to an end, the screen filled the brilliant hues of orange and purple splashed across the sky, as if painted by an ardent artist.

Noah looked at the camera with a serene smile.

"Life is a masterpiece," he said, out of breath as he stood upon the hill, capturing the water behind him, "Each day is a new brush stroke adding to its beauty.”

The video ended with a shot of the sky, Noah's laughter dancing into the twilight.

His last phrase lingered into the silence:

"Remember to appreciate it."

memento mori.

tags:

@thefallennightmare @xxkittenkissesxx @deathblacksmoke @nyxisnotok @anameunmusical

@sitkowski @sammyjoeee @cookiesupplier @th4t-em0-k1d @dsireland86

@whenthesummerdies @spicywhenspeaking @veronicaphoenix @lma1986 @calleyx13

@somewhere-diamond @auratheopossumwitch @blackveilomens @skulliecadaver-blog @silentglassbreak

@darkmxgician @sprokat @thatchickwiththecamera @reyadawn @xserenax-13

@philomenie @into-the-grey @amelia-acero @blend-in-with-the-madness @rumoured-whispers

@anything-more-than-human @blacksoul-27 @sweetwombatpizza

[sashaisready]

This Must Be The Place: Chapter 10 - I'm just an animal looking for a home

Biker!Bucky x Femme Reader

Back at your beloved late grandmother's home to pack up her house, you have a run-in with the town's biker gang 'The Howling Commandos' and find yourself entangled with the metal armed President.

Series Masterlist

Warnings: Angst, betrayal mentions of grief, mentions of abandoned animals

I'm so sorry...is all I can say....

You didn’t tell Bucky how you felt.

How could you?

You had both agreed to enter into a casual, physical relationship, no commitments – no labels or heavy stuff. And it wasn’t just that you wanted to explore if it could turn into something more…you were in love with this man! You’d tried your best to deny your feelings, to remind yourself it was casual – a mantra you repeated to yourself over and over in your head like a prayer.

But praying wasn’t working.

You continued the same dance with him. The same routine, the same dynamic. Every tender kiss he gave you, every knowing look, every sweet word. Hell, even the teasing had you hooked. You were in too deep, foolishly wading further and further in, despite the rising water threatening to swallow you whole.

Not to mention the added complication of only being here temporarily…

You knew you should break it off. Withdraw from him and protect your heart. Even quit the bar to ensure you didn’t get hurt further down the line. But every time you tried, your resolve faltered as he smiled at you, as he scooped your hair behind your ear, and suddenly you were back in his arms as he weighted you like an anchor. Every part of you screamed to leave, to preserve yourself and protect your peace, but you simply couldn’t pull away. You never were very good at resisting temptation. And you always fell hard.

You tried to channel your energy into other things. Productive things. Distracting yourself from your inner turmoil. In the background you continued to chip away at Granny’s house: donating her belongings, putting stuff on local free pages, painting walls, varnishing wood, sorting her photos and keeping them safe. You still hadn’t fixed the damn fence yet, but you’d bought the wood at least. It was shaping up well.

One afternoon you were sorting through a closet upstairs, killing time before your bar shift and doing your best to keep your mind off you-know-who. As you stacked boxes and vacuumed dust, you came across a shoebox of mementos stuffed under some winter blankets. Pressed flowers, letters from Granny’s friends, souvenirs she’d bought on vacations. You smiled to yourself, always happy to find a piece of her as you rummaged. It felt wrong to throw this stuff out, this was a life lived.

At the very bottom of the box laid a musty, discoloured envelope. You picked it up, inspecting the yellowed paper. Written across the front, in Granny’s instantly recognisable scrawl, read ‘For the animal shelter’. You nearly choked up as you opened it, finding a stack of old bills sealed inside. Crumpled and worn dollars, mainly small bills, she must’ve added a buck or two here and there every time she had change. You counted it carefully – around $175 in total, meticulously grown over what might’ve been months...maybe years.

Granny had loved all animals, but she had a deep affection for cats and dogs. Especially the senior ones, the disabled ones, the ‘difficult’ ones that nobody else wanted. You knew the shelter in town well, she volunteered there years ago and would often drag moody, teenage you along with her – not stoked to be mopping up elderly dogs’ pee or getting scratched up by some feral cat. But Granny loved them all, even if she did take more bites and scratches to her arms than you’d expect an elderly lady to manage.

$175 was hardly an earth-shattering sum of money, but it was a physical reminder of Granny’s passion for animals. Adding a dollar ever so often from her pension, the odd cleaning job she sometimes did around town – this was a labour of love. You closed the envelope back up and held it tightly to your chest as you felt the tears swim in your eyes, the least you could do was get it to the shelter for her.

You got to work – calling the shelter and explaining, the lady on the phone remembered your Granny and was delighted to hear from you. You shared anecdotes about Granny’s shelter days, laughing fondly about how fearless she was when giving the cats their baths, wearing oven mitts like armour. It felt good, like a piece of her was still with you.

You agreed you’d drop the cash off and hung up, carefully removing the wad from the envelope, and putting it in your purse. But after getting swept up in a myriad of tasks – cleaning, painting, organising, (occasional Bucky pining), the day got away from you. Before you knew it, it was dusk – and your shift was starting shortly. You threw on some jeans and a flannel shirt, grabbing your purse and heading out to your car. You’d go to the shelter tomorrow, instead.

As you sat in the driver’s seat, your phone buzzed. You picked it up and read the message from a number you didn’t recognise.

Hey…It’s Peter, from the snake pit? I asked you for your number a few weeks ago? From the plant...you probably get hit on all the time so I wanted to specify. Sorry I haven’t been in touch, I thought I lost the napkin you wrote your number on but just found it again. I’d still love to hang out if you wanna?

You smiled to yourself. You’d forgotten about Peter!

Bucky had made sure of that.

You still liked him, but now the plot had thickened with Bucky you couldn’t really meet up. If you were honest, your heart was with another man…even if you weren’t sure how it was all going to pan out. It would be wrong to lead Peter on while you were…distracted.

You didn’t have the bandwidth to compose an eloquent text that said all that kindly, so you put your phone down and made a mental note to respond later.

*

The Snake Pit was already pretty busy when you arrived, a steady thrum of activity at the bar as Tom panickily tried to keep up with the beers being ordered by a large group of rambunctious guys. One was dressed in a pink and fluffy tutu, but nothing surprised you working here. You greeted Steve as you moved behind the bar and jumped into work. He was holding a security camera again.

“Bachelor party,” he said nonchalantly as he fiddled with a screwdriver. “Been here a while”.

“I figured,” you laughed as you gestured to the man in the pink. “Looks fun”.

Steve grunted in response and carried on with his task.

“Camera gone again?”

“Mm. We got the repair guy coming tomorrow. Just seeing if I can get it working for tonight as we got a blind spot over the bar”.

“Damn thing,” you muttered as you moved to serve another customer.

Bucky suddenly appeared from the back office, shooting you a warm smile as he passed.

“Hey, Sugar,” he said softly.

“Hey Buck. Busy tonight,” you replied as you gave the customer his drink. You felt a surge of butterflies as Bucky beamed at you.

“How we like it. Let me know if you need any help back here, okay Sug? Happy to jump in and save you if needed,” he grinned as he leaned over the bar and looked at you devilishly.

You nodded bashfully as he winked and headed over to the rest of the MC in their usual corner.

As you looked back at Steve, he was watching you questioningly.

“What?” you asked, a little sharper than intended as you felt his piercing gaze.

Steve didn’t respond, he just looked over at Bucky then back at you. He knows, he definitely knows. You felt your face flush, but Steve didn’t elaborate – going back to his broken camera as if nothing had been said.

*

The night rumbled on; all business as usual. Steve couldn’t get the camera working so eventually took up his usual post in the corner booth, overseeing the kingdom.

The bachelor party kept you busy, ordering huge rounds at a time – multiple shots and mixed drinks. At one point, feeling a little overwhelmed, you glanced over at Bucky who was already looking over in your direction. You didn’t say anything, but he saw the fatigue on your face and nodded – making his way over. Wordlessly he slipped between you and Tom, easing the workload, and taking a few orders. You gave his hand a gentle squeeze under the bar, a silent thank-you for coming to help. His eyes met yours and he smiled, and for a second it was just the two of you there – the noise of the bar fading to silence as you looked at one another.

The night continued, the MC playing pool and darts and laughing as they mingled with the customers. Even Amber had turned up at some point, which surprised you, but she seemed to be having fun with her friends and didn’t try to talk to Bucky. Thor had somehow ended up wearing the pink tutu from the bachelor party, which made you laugh.

You worked alongside Bucky who would steal touches every chance he got, your waist…your hip…and you’d make conspiratorial eye contact before going back to work. It all felt right and easy, like it had always been the two of you here.

Maybe it was the energy of the room, or working shoulder to shoulder to Bucky, your sheer exhaustion, or the emotional punch of Granny’s shelter money earlier…but you found yourself hurtling towards a decision.

You were going to tell Bucky how you felt.

If he rejected you…that would hurt. But at least you’d know you tried. You wouldn’t always wonder what might have been, you wouldn’t beat yourself up years later about the question mark hovering over the one that got away. You’d be living your truth, that was the most important thing. Granny had taught you that. You owed it to her memory.

And if he reciprocated your feelings? What did that mean for you leaving?

Well…that was a little more complicated. But you’d figure it out.

“My place tonight, Sug?” Bucky whispered in your ear as you restocked the bottle fridge.

You nodded as you stood up, smiling as he cheekily patted your ass and glanced around to check he had gone unseen. You elbowed him playfully. “Down, boy”.

*

You felt yourself buzzing as the night drew to a close, practically vibrating with anticipation. You didn’t know exactly what you were going to say, you were just going to be honest and tell him everything. You felt a mix of nausea and excitement as you cleaned up.

“Gotta go…I got an early morning,” Tom said urgently as he rushed past you.

“Okay. See ya!” you shot back cheerily as he hastily waved and catapulted out of the door.

You wiped down the bar as Bucky cashed out the register. A few members of the MC sat on bar stools, sipping after-hours beers and shooting the shit. Amber and the girls were there too, giggling with Thor and admiring the tutu he was somehow still wearing all these hours later.

“All good?” Steve asked Bucky.

You looked up, surprised to see Bucky’s brow furrowed as he peered between the cash bags and a handful of receipts.

“The register is down some…” he muttered as he looked back at the receipts. “Nearly a couple hundred bucks…”

Steve mirrored his friend’s frown. “Weird…” he commented as he moved to look himself, picking up the receipts. “Normally we can be out $20-30 if someone hit the wrong button once or twice…but that’s a lot…”

“Yeah. Must be a mistake…” Bucky grumbled and turned to you. “Sug, were you aware of any register fuck-ups tonight?” his voice was calm, not accusatory. “Any chance Tom put through a glass of wine as a bottle or something?”

You furrowed your brow, shaking your head. “Normally Tom tells me if he makes a mistake…and he’s been much better, lately. It was busy tonight so its possible mistakes were made, but I can’t think of anything that would cause such a large discrepancy…”

Bucky shrugged as Steve began to re-count the bills. “I’m sure there’s an explanation…maybe I’m just terrible at math,” he winked at you roguishly.

You smiled fondly at him as you contained to wipe up and Bucky disappeared into the back.

“Oohh who’s got sticky fingers??” joked Sam from his bar stool as he elbowed Scott. “Someone helping themselves to a lil’ bonus?”

The group laughed and mock accused each other. You began to giggle as Sam dramatically mimed a burglar stance and pretended to lean over the register to pilfer cash. One of the girls pretended to be a cop, chasing him around the bar with a box of napkins.

Everyone’s laughter and merriment was halted when Bucky suddenly re-emerged, shouting your name so loudly that each head snapped to look in his direction. The entire room was now silent as he stood facing you.

You felt your blood run cold. The tone he had used was never one you’d heard from him before. It was…icy and soulless. Even when he’d been mad at you he’d never called to you liked that. You blinked in confusion as he glared at you, his face an angry snarl. There were no traces of the softness and affection you’d seen in those same eyes just minutes before. This was the President of the Howling Commandos MC addressing you, not Bucky.

“Buck…” you started but he cut you off, lobbing your purse onto the bar in front of you.

You stared at it in confusion as he suddenly dipped his hand inside, throwing its contents out as you could only stare, your bewilderment fusing you to the spot and rendering you speechless. Your keys, your wallet, your water bottle all bouncing off the bar as the group began to protest.

“Bucky man what the fu-”

“Dude! Not cool! What?”

And then silence as he held up what he’d been looking for.

A wad of cash.

The room went silent again bar a few gasps and mumbled whispers. Your heart fell into your stomach as you realised what he thought it was.

“Bucky…that’s not-” you futilely tried to explain.

“What? It’s not what?” he barked as he slammed the cash onto the bar. His eyes were ablaze with rage. “Not the cash you stole from the register? Just a pile of bills that made its way into your bag?”

“No! No! It’s my Granny’s! I found it at her house!” you shot back desperately, your voice high from the horror of the accusation. “She wanted to donate it…I found it in an envelope in her closet. I was going to drop it off today but I lost track of time and-”

“Save it,” he warned through gritted teeth. “Don’t lie to my face. Don’t try and use your dead grandmother to cover up your lie”.

You blanched, your face crumpling as you took a step back in horror. How…how could he think this of you? How could he say that?

“I’m not lying,” you said softly.

“Can we check the security footage?” Sam asked calmly. “If she says she didn’t do it…the footage will show that-”

“That camera’s out,” Steve interjected monotonously. “Blind spot”.

“And she knew that…” Bucky snarled.

“I didn’t do it,” you squeaked out, the humiliation swelling as tears fell down your face. You could feel the collective gaze of the Howling Commandos on you but were too mortified to look at them.

“If she says she didn’t do it…” Nat reasoned, but Bucky cut her off as he glared at you.

“I can’t believe you’d do this. After everything. I give you a job here. I get you all set up. I trusted you…I…I…” he looked pained, running his hand through his hair.

You thought he was going to say something about the two of you, but you watched him swallow and look around, then he suddenly seemed to remember the others were there. You tried to explain yourself, babbling with objection but he continued to talk over you.

“I…And you lied to my face about it? And even now I’m holding the money and you still deny it? And you know the worst thing? If you needed cash…I would’ve helped you out. If you had just asked rather than stuck your hand in the register…Shit. Is this the first time? Or just the first time you got caught? Have you been doing it since day one?”

“Buck…” Steve said, his tone difficult to establish.

Your insides swirled as your eyes focused on the discarded purse in front of you. You simply couldn’t believe he would do this to you. In front of everyone. Did he really think you were a thief? That you were capable of such a thing? That you’d lay in his bed and kiss him awake each morning, hold him tightly and whisper sweet nothings to him, then steal a few dollars from his business? Did he really think you’d risk your job and your relationship with him for less than two hundred bucks? Did he think you’d do that to the person you loved?

Well. Yes. Clearly, he did.

Your heartbreak became something hotter as your tears felt warm on your face. You thought about the betrayal of him digging through your bag in the back office, despite being sweet as pie to you beforehand. How he didn’t believe you, didn’t even want to hear you out. It was clear he had never trusted you. Even after everything. It suddenly hit you that he could never return your feelings, not if this is how he treated you.

Your hands twisted into fists at your sides, and you finally looked up at him, your face flushed, your hairline sweaty.

“I didn’t do it,” you told him flatly. He scoffed and tried to interrupt but you kept going, your voice starting to even out as your anger focused and grounded you.

“I told you. That money is for the animal shelter. Don’t believe me? Call them. I spoke to them about it today. I told them I was dropping off $175 in cash from Granny”.

You picked up the bills and pushed them into his chest. “Look at them. Look at how old they are, how they’re obviously stale and untouched. They’re not fresh out of a register from some guy’s wallet, they’re old and they’ve clearly been in stored somewhere a bundle for a while”.

You snatched them away and forced them into Steve’s hands. “See?”

He looked down at them, his brows furrowed with concern as one of his fingers ran over the crease of the pile. His eyes flickered to Bucky then back to you. “They do look kinda old…”

Bucky didn’t speak, but you saw a suggestion of panic in his eyes.

“I don’t steal. And I don’t need this job,” you barked, throwing the cleaning rag onto the ground. “I don’t work for people who don’t trust me. Maybe ask your buddy Tom about this, the guy who still can’t get through a shift without at least one fuck up, who also knew about the camera, and and zoomed outta here like he’d just been paroled”.

“Tom wouldn’t…” began Bucky but you cut him off again, your tone dripping with venom.

“Stick this job up your ass. Stick your head up your ass. And keep the damn cash. I’ll fund the donation myself”.

You threw the cash at Bucky who flinched. His eyes suddenly wouldn’t meet yours. You then picked up the tossed items from your purse and quickly shoved them all back in, your hands shaking. You wiped your eyes on the the back of your hand and looked up at the MC, who all stared back at you solemnly. Their expressions ranged from confusion to pity.

You nodded at them, then made your way to the door on wobbly legs.

“Wait…” called out a voice.

You turned, coming face to face with Amber who watched you with interest. Your heart sank. You couldn’t take anything else. Alright. She won. Take him. Just leave you be.

“I believe you,” she said gently, then offered a small, sad smile.

You smiled back as you choked on your surprise, chewing on the sides of your mouth as you tried to stop the tears. Who would’ve thought she’d be your one ally?

“Thank you, Amber”, you managed quietly.

Bucky had his back to you, seemingly unable to face you. Coward, you thought.

And then you were gone.

[synthetickitsune]

The8 (Seventeen) | Bookmark fluff | 0.8k | gn!reader

“You kept this?” 

His voice is as soft as the sound of rain filling the room. Fresh scent flows in through the open window. The gray light makes him look younger, somehow. Not much, just enough, just by a couple of years - the age he was when he’s given you the wildflower he's so carefully holding. 

He twirls the dried flower between his fingers. The faded blue petals are as fragile as your trust has been back then. They could be crumpled any moment but unlike back then, you know that Minghao would never do such a thing. 

His eyes are filled with wonder. Like this he looks ethereal - a being not of this world, colliding with it and discovering its beauty for the first time. He holds the relic of your past with so much care, so much love, it makes something in your chest squeeze painfully.

“Of course,” you smile, sitting down next to him. He was meant to bring you the book he holds open in his other hand but he must have gotten distracted by the familiar soft blue peaking out. “It's the first one you got me.”

It would be impossible to preserve all the flowers he's given you through the years but the first one held too much significance. The memory of his smile - one that was genuine and so carefree under the summer sky - as he oh so gently put the flower behind your ear was too precious not to keep a memento of. 

He finally looks at you, only taking his eyes of the dried flower in his hand with great difficulty. He looks as awestruck as he did when he first picked it up. You chuckle, shuffling closer to him. When you reach to cover his hand with yours, he eyes you warily. Like you would try to damage the token turned bookmark.

“Why?” he asks, voice barely heard over the falling rain.

“Just because,” you shrug, then: “It felt surreal, like something out of a book and I think it was the first time I saw you smile for real, so…” 

You trail off. He frowns, his lips form a hint of a pout. You know what he wants to say before he actually does. 

“It was the first time,” you smirk, “Before that you were always too polite and tense.” 

“I was nervous,” he admits, his pout melting into a soft smile, “I never thought you’d keep it.” 

“It's a nice memory and I'm a nostalgic person,” you smile and lean into him, “I hope you don't mind.” 

“I was just surprised,” he hums. A beat later, as if he wants to get back at you, he continues: “I wouldn't think you of all people would manage without crushing it.”

“Hey!” you protest, slipping away from him, fully intending to sulk. He's quick but cautious as he wraps his arms around you, mindful of the blossom now in your hand. It's much harder to be upset with your back against his chest and his silky voice speaking right into your ear. 

“I'm just joking,” he says with a long squeeze. His arms engulf you so entirely and nicely. If you focus, you can feel his heart beating in his chest. “It's nice that you care.”

“Wouldn't think you would find it anything but cute,” you tease some back but settle in his arms and close your eyes. You take in his warmth and the slight chill creeping in from the open window. This is why you wanted to read in the first place. Today's ambience was just perfect but now you’re too comfortable being hugged by him to move. 

“I like to feel loved and appreciated,” he whispers, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, “And this makes me feel that way.” 

He takes the flower from your hand again and places it gently between the pages where it belongs. He closes the book, to your surprise, and puts it back on the night table.

“Come here,” he says, moving to sit higher on the bed, his back against the headboard. You do, and he surprises you again when he opens his arms for you to snuggle into. And then he just holds you. It's not unheard of, but it’s certainly rare. You think you understand, though. So you give into his hug, melt against him as he holds you and his lips meet the top of your head.

Later, after he’s had his fill, he hands you the book again and carefully places the dried flower to the side. He holds you as you read, reading something himself on his phone. You try to keep your heart from fluttering too hard. Minghao doesn't like to read on his phone but this evening he can't be bothered to let you go if only for a minute.

[literary-motif]

Act I — The Proposal

Scene i — The Hospital

overview // read on ao3 // next scene

Warnings: grief/mourning, panic/anxiety attack and feelings of unreality

Asirel was hunched over, the hard metal of the chair digging into his skin. He could feel its coldness seeping into his bones, traveling to his chest where it warred with the oppressive heat spreading through his body. Cold sweat clung to him, and he shivered despite the stale warmth of the air. 

One of the white tiles in front of him was cracked. He stared at it, the spreading cold leaving behind a numbness that made his heart ache. His tie was squeezing his neck, uncomfortably tight in its chokehold. He couldn’t breathe. 

His ears were ringing, static drowning out the world around him. It had all faded to nothing as the nurse’s words hit him. Her sleek blonde hair was pulled into a ponytail that made her eyes look sharp. They studied him closely, waiting for his reaction as her eyebrows knit together in well-practiced sympathy. 

She had delivered the news he had traveled here to get. No matter how completely he tried to convince himself it was not so — as he got into the car, barking orders at his driver to go, go, go — he knew he would be too late. He knew he would get there only to receive the words he wanted to will away. He was prepared to hear them, or so he told himself, but that did not make them hurt any less. 

‘Sir, I am very sorry,’ she had said, fiddling with the crumpled edge of the paper on her clipboard as her eyes remained on him, strangely looking through him as if fixing on the word ‘son’ that must have been written in his eyes. ‘Your father—’

Memento mori, he supposed. Remember that you must die. 

It was a philosophy his father had instilled in him more than anyone else, the stoic’s life of purpose and control a perfect tether to the world when he was drowning in his power. You must die. It was a humbling thought, briefly reflecting on this inevitability as he stepped into a meeting, knowing every day might be his last. Remembering to make it count so as not to waste his time and fulfill the purpose he placed upon himself. 

In the end, he knew he needed to reconcile the idea of having the world at his fingertips with the raw vulnerability of being merely human. He could change the world. He wanted to when the time was right, but there were things outside his control that would drive him to madness if he could not let them go, unused to the feeling of sheer helplessness in the face of these unshakable certainties. 

Death was one such thing. Death he had to accept. Death he could not escape — neither his own nor that of those around him.

No matter how prepared for it he thought himself, being aware of the fact of death — its inevitability, its absolute certainty — it still came unexpected, leaving him rattled in a way he knew he should not allow himself to be. No matter how much he thought it was unable to surprise him, Asirel still wound up collapsed in one of these uncomfortable hospital chairs. 

So much for his stoicism. Memento mori. He should have chased away the feeling of being untouchable while he still had his father to guide him, reflect on the briefness of time a little more, and stave off his complex ideas for the shape of the world for later. 

Now he was here. Later was now. What would he do? 

He could already feel the air growing thinner. The grief in his chest brought forth a feeling of inadequacy. His new responsibilities were crushing him already, the fall of his father raising him to incomprehensible heights he did not know how to breathe in. He was weightless, high above the clouds, but crushed nearly into nonexistence, buried deeper than they would lower his father. 

He thought he would have more time to prepare for this. He was not ready yet to roam in these heights, not when the fall was so steep and he could hardly see the tightrope keeping him afloat. What would he do now?

The world spun around him as he raised his head, searching for answers the cracked tile could not give him. He saw his mother through the open door, standing at the foot of the bed with one arm wrapped around herself to self-soothe, wiping away silent tears with the tissue she clutched in her shaking hand. 

The black suit she wore fit the occasion in a way she could not have foreseen when she put it on this morning. Her soft brown locks were straightened to go out, knowing her husband’s lips would curl into a smile once he saw her in the evening, pulling her into his chest to play with the smooth strands he loved to feel between his fingers. 

Now she was here instead, standing in front of the cooling corpse and trying to ignore how the hair falling into her face felt like gentle caresses as her body shook with suppressed sobs. 

His sister stood beside her, expression deadly blank as she nodded to what the nurse was saying. She was listening closely, filing away the information because she knew her mother was not listening — could not listen over the sound of her heart breaking and the burning silence of her husband’s stillness — so she could tell her later, fill her in on what the hospital had told her and gently guide her through the details as she clutched a pillow. 

And him. 

Asirel felt wretched watching her neutrality, hearing the faint sound of her voice as if from underwater as she opened her mouth to ask a clarifying question. It should be him instead, standing beside his mother, taking care of things while his little sister was allowed to sob, give way to her grief, and feel the extent of her loss fully because she knew he would be there to take care of things. 

It was his job. It should be him keeping his composure, keeping a tight hold on his mind and spiraling emotions so they didn’t have to. 

But he could not pull himself together. The world kept spinning. His vision was flat. Everything felt so very far away and he could not help feeling that he would keel over any moment, crumble to the ground like a marionette with its strings cut. He could not make up a single word in the nurse’s constant stream of sounds, knowing she was talking but he just couldn’t understand. He had no strength to concentrate, lead weighing down his limbs so much it took all his effort to tighten his hold on the chair to keep him from toppling over. 

He knew he should find his way back to the world around him, knew he should catch himself in this downward spiral, but every time he tried to hold onto an appearing ledge, it disappeared under his grasp and he just slipped deeper. 

His little sister was bearing the brunt of this crushing weight, but he could not stop himself from falling, slipping deeper and deeper into a void of pure panic and pain and grief until the drop was all he knew, all he could feel through the cycle of numbness and too much as the tar of the darkness around him constricted, swallowing him whole. 

He gasped, moving his hand to loosen his tie with clumsy fingers. They were trembling, barely obeying as the fabric slipped between them, feeling muted and unreal. It was the striped black and gold tie his father had gifted him, along with a deputy position — which he had earned — and a mountain of responsibilities when he had turned twenty-five. 

That mountain had just tripled. It was shaking. He was being crushed by an avalanche. 

No, this felt like a bad nightmare. One of those from which he awoke with a silent scream on his lips, drenched in sweat and shaking in fear as he heaved down gulps of breath, clutching the comforter to ground himself against the tide of his mind, trying to drag him into the ocean to drown. 

No, no. This could not be real. It did not feel real. Any moment now he would wake up, heave a sigh of relief through the sob building up in his throat, and throw open the window, taking calming breaths of the cool night air as he realized that he still had time. Time, time.

He squeezed his eyes shut. The startling pull of waking never came. He was not dragged upwards. Instead, he continued to drop, sinking deeper into this new reality of bleak, black, crushing walls, granite grappling in his chest and tearing him apart from the inside. 

He felt hollow. Color drained from the world, leaving only a flat gray as the hospital walls and the tiles and the fucking chairs on the other end of the corridor twisted before him. His mother’s black suit morphed into a mass of darkness. His sister’s bright, white-dyed hair turned to nothing but a speck of light in the distance, one of many dancing in his vision. 

He needed to get out. He needed a breath of fresh air.

Waking evaded him, and with every moment he continued to fall, drop, sink in this new reality, the thought solidified itself that this was, in fact, reality. 

This was his life now. 

This was the changed status quo he should have been preparing himself for, instead of clinging to the foolish certainty that he was above such things as death and grief when he should have known better, told himself that he knew better. 

Memento mori — except he forgot to remember. Truly remember, past the grim assurances he made himself that death was an inevitable part of life. Internalizing this sentiment was a whole other issue he had glossed over, and it was leaving him in shambles now when he should be keeping it together — for his family’s sake at least.

But he could not even do that. 

Asirel gripped the armrest, heaving himself up on unsteady feet. The world dipped, and he squeezed his eyes shut, listening to the door of the ward fall shut loudly and wondering if he was coming up from the depths of his mind, or if his senses were merely heightened before the inevitable crash. 

He would not faint. He would not. 

Cold sweat coated his forehead, making him feel stuffy and wet in his suit jacket as his white dress shirt clung to him. He took a step forward carefully, willing himself to let go of the armrest. He trailed a hand along the washed-out white wall, just in case his wobbly legs threatened to give out. He was only vaguely conscious about where he was going, the wall beside him giving him enough direction that he felt less like floating through the empty corridor. 

The entire ward was empty, a safety precaution his father had installed long ago. No doctors and nurses were rushing about. No patients were being transported from one room to another. No body bag was being wheeled down the clean, white tiles yet.

The image made his stomach turn. He clasped a hand over his mouth to swallow the nausea, listening to the ring of silence beyond the rushing and whistling in his ears. He was dead, yes. 

His father was dead. This was his reality. 

The air in the hospital ward, stale and laced with the smell of linoleum and hand sanitizer, turned suffocating. Every breath he took felt like a lungful of dust in his chest, making his head spin until he could no longer tell if he was upright at all. Light flashed in his vision, little stars of sparkling white letting him know that he was done for. Any moment he would tumble to the ground, crushed under the weight of his mind and dragged down by his heavy heart. Any moment. He was burning, falling, suffocating. 

The drop was imminent, and it would leave his insides spilling across the floor, damaged beyond repair as the cold, thin air of his newfound power vanished in his grasp, replaced with this stifling, warm nothingness. 

His hand caught on something, a ledge that did not recede. He pushed against it, stumbling over the threshold and nearly falling into the cold gust of wind that met him. 

He was on the terrace, the hospital’s smoking area. Why such a thing existed was beyond him, but he did not care as he listened to the wind, taking deep breaths of the blessedly cold air that felt like a blam to his burning insides. 

The terrace was simple, the night perhaps hiding things that would have turned the brutalist structure less dull. It was clean and decisive, entirely practical. Its dark stone furnishings were gray in the darkness, benches made of stone blocks adorning the space where visitors could sit down and breathe. Asirel paid the architecture no mind, walking past it all to lean over the edge instead, resting his arms against the thick stone that made up the railing. 

The specks of light in his vision were replaced with the glinting city lights, sparkling right before him. A mixture of yellow, white, and blue (from the approaching ambulance). The colors twisted together until he blinked his tears away, and saw them clearly once more. They were a reminder that the world was still there, very much still turning despite the tragedy playing out in room two hundred-seventeen.  

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes to block out the lights he knew he had to return to soon enough. Reality. His reality. He allowed the fresh air to soothe his nerves and lessen the sharp ache in his chest. There was no escaping this. His father was dead, and responsibility fell on him.

The image of his sister returned to his mind, nodding along to the nurse, a blankness in her eyes that made his blood turncold. He hung his head in shame — responsibility fell on him — and fought to get it together again. The thought alone of stepping back inside was overwhelming, threatening him with another spiral of panic that would suck him into the void depths of his pain. His mouth was dry. 

The city lights twinkled on, and he tensed, raising his head instinctively in alarm as he heard the door to the terrace fall shut. 

He was not alone. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” you asked, voice filtering through the oppressiveness of the night. Your tone was light but carried an edge that made him weary. The gentle question seemed wrapped in concern, hesitation at its core he could not quite grasp because you hid it well, slicing through your uncertainty with a well-practiced flick of a knife.

Asirel did not turn, frozen in place as his mind ran in circles, trying to understand if you were a friend or foe. The line was often blurry, most people changing sides frequently to further their own interests. He kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, waiting for your next move, and suppressing the fear cursing through him at having his back turned to someone whom he did not trust. 

If you wanted to hurt him, you could. He was in no state to defend himself. The security posted further down the corridor had no chance of reaching him in time. If you wanted, you could kill him.

It would put an end to his troubles at the very least. 

Your footsteps drew nearer, measured and steady like waves crashing on the shore. Unstoppable and relentless. You walked up beside him, leaning against the banister. 

He risked a glance, expecting to find himself staring down the barrel of a gun. He looked at your profile instead, your head turned to gaze at the city spreading out before you. 

Somehow, as you kept your gaze locked on it and the lights reflected in your eyes, it looked less like the world was weighing you down — less like it was happening to you, and you simply had to endure — and more like you were appraising it, eyes glancing over the lights as if checking if they were working as they should, making sure the design of reality aligned with your expectations of it.

You looked ethereal, striking with your arms loosely crossed, resting on the gray stone. He glanced at the paper cup in your hand, remembering the water dispenser near the end of the corridor, eyeing the clear liquid in it. The long black coat you wore fluttered in the breeze, but your rapt attention was unwavering, focusing on the city as you looked at it with an unreadable expression. 

Asirel was intrigued, enraptured by the air around you and your very essence. There was something about you that radiated power — vice-like control he could not help but envy — while you looked out of place against the mundane simplicity of the hospital. You seemed larger than life, a taste of the importance his father always carried creeping up on his tongue as he stared at you. The choking sorrow of death felt beneath you, the shining tiles not polished enough to catch your attention and the time not passing by sufficiently quickly as you wasted yours in here. 

He wondered briefly how you had gotten past the security posted at every entrance with strict orders to repel everyone. The question was quickly answered as he caught a glimpse of the ring on your finger, cold silver shining on the right hand holding the cup. 

A sudden pang of familiarity hit him. He had the strange impression that he had seen you before, in a picture his father showed him or from a brief encounter in the hallway of his mansion. The furrow in your brow looked familiar, and as you turned your head to look at him, he got the feeling that he had experienced the intensity of your piercing gaze once before. 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” you noted politely, expression somber as your lips narrowed in a thin line. You were appraising him, he knew, shrinking a little under your gaze and balling his hands into fists to hide their shaking. 

Vulnerability was a weakness, and he could not allow himself to slip so soon on his uphill climb to power. And you looked like a powerful enemy to make. You were here for a reason, and on the off chance you would be working together from now on, he did not want to give you fodder to grind him under your heel. 

You held out the paper cup for him to take. It looked more like an olive branch in the low light. “Perhaps you remember me? I thought I made a lasting impression in Switzerland from the way your eyes shone.” 

The memory flooded his mind, clicking his perception into place. The deep, rich browns of the Hotel Bellevue Palace. The sparkling chandeliers and floors polished to a shine. The rich smell of tobacco from the cigar his father smoked — a rare indulgence — and the sweet taste of the vanilla whiskey on his tongue as the caramel tones of the bar materialized in his mind’s eye. 

It was a chance encounter, a meeting that felt like it had been an eternity ago although it could not have been more than two years.

What his father had done in Switzerland he had never revealed. Asirel had accompanied him for business of his own in Bern. You had been there, sitting by the counter of the hotel bar next to the lobby, the gold and brown shimmering around you. His father had stopped — and how he had spotted you Asirel never understood because you fit into the surroundings perfectly, adorning them like thorns did a rose.

You had looked at the mountain scenery outside, absentmindedly nibbling on a gourmet pastry as you waited for your drink. When you noticed them, you had looked at his father for a long moment, barely concealing the glint of contentment in your eyes. He introduced you to Asirel, your sharp gaze making him shiver unnoticed as he held your gaze.

You had taken a sip of your drink after both of them had declined your invitation to join them, pulling out a diamond ring and pressing it into his father’s hands with the simple words ‘greetings from the eminence.’

His father had never explained. It felt unnecessary to ask now. Whatever had happened before was lifetimes away. 

Asirel took the offered cup — friend or foe? He trusted his father’s instincts — and sipped the water. Immediate relief hit him. The water was cool, grounding as it cleared his mind. The ringing in his ears subsided, the world stopped twisting as he drank some more, and the feeling of suffocation had nearly vanished by the time he emptied the cup.

“Why are you here?” he asked, no bite to his words. The subtle gratitude in his tone did not evade you, and you smiled faintly as you rubbed your hands together, warming them against the chill. 

You took a moment to answer, letting the silence linger. “I have worked closely with your father,” you said, choosing your words carefully. “I would go so far as to call him a friend.”

That did not answer his question. Asirel crumpled the empty cup. “I doubt you are here out of sentimentality,” he said, pressing for an answer. A part of him was glad that you stalled, dreading the idea of returning inside, fixing his eyes on the lifeless shell that had once been a man he admired above everyone.

“Sentimentality,” you echoed, chuckling faintly. The sound felt pained as if you were amused at a cosmic joke that he was not in on, its underlying tragedy something that could only be born with lightheartedness. “What makes you think I cannot be sentimental about death? But I concede, I have ulterior motives. I am here on business, so to speak. His death is business, as much as I wish it could be entirely sentimental.” 

There is was — proof that the world kept spinning. You were the very fact incorporated, shielding your emotions to be five paces ahead, shying away from the mundane to revel in the extraordinary. Looking at a corpse in a hospital bed did not further you in any way, and Asirel was not naive enough to think that you would waste your precious time to look at the empty shell of his father. 

No, you were busy guarding his legacy. 

His father was dead, and although Asirel could break down and cry at this bitter injustice, tear out his heart, and claw at the ground in a fruitless attempt to stop reality from sinking its teeth into him, the world had already moved on.

You had already moved on. He just hoped he could keep up with the pace. 

“Well?” he asked, keeping his voice neutral. He could guess what you had come here to do, assure yourself that the position his father had left vacant would be filled immediately. Make sure he would return to the room and retrieve the silver ring on his finger, commanding it to be adjusted to his size. 

“I would like to propose an alliance,” you said instead, watching as his eyes widened in disbelief. “If you would be amenable, I propose your loyalty for my knowledge. Nothing untoward, of course. Only your support when I need it and the certainty that I can count on you. I offer guidance in these— these wuthering heights,” you finished, hiding a smile at the reference. 

Asirel blinked, failing to make out the details of your expression in the darkness. “My loyalty for guidance,” he surmised, gaze falling to the ground beneath. 

The thirty-storey drop made a shiver run down his spine. He feared the fall, of course he did. That was as good a reason as any. If his father's endless hours and trice heightened security were any indication, people plummeted into the depths all the time. 

“Who are you? Mephistopheles?” 

You chuckled, feeling the first bridge built between you. “I understand you need time to ponder this Faustian Bargain, as you view it.” The humor at the requited literary reference was gone in a blink as you sobered, reminding yourself of the gravity of the situation. “It is a tough world, and it is made tougher by wanting to tackle everything on your own. Allies are never superfluous, Asirel. Your father taught me that. Think about this carefully.”

The body had not even gone cold yet, and here you were, already snatching up his replacement. The world was sickeningly fast-paced. But he supposed in this line of work — in yours, in his — there was no minute to waste. 

He had wasted enough time already. Reality could only be avoided for so long, and he had overindulged.

“We are colleagues now, I believe,” he said, holding out a hand for you to shake. If you were amused, you did not show it, taking it instantly. “A pleasure to meet you properly this time.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” you said, squeezing firmly. 

He eyed the ring on your finger, the drawing of the pentagon on it a physical symbol of the responsibility he now carried, a pillar of the structure that kept the world in order.

“Welcome to the Collective, Mr. Cain. And a special welcome to the inner circle. We look forward to working with you.”

“Thank you,” he bit out, ignoring the bile rising in his throat. 

He could only ignore reality for so long. 

[vaporwavebeach-writes]

Kinktober Day 18 (Body Modification)

Victor Zsasz x Reader (NSFW)

(1,152 Words)

Summary: Zsasz makes his mark

Warnings/Tags: 18+, female reader (I got self indulgent sorry LMAO), knifeplay, bloodplay, scarification, penetrative sex, love confessions (yeah, I got REALLY self indulgent), aftercare, fluff (SLAYYY)

Notes: God, I love him. I got SO self indulgent with this one bc I’ve been having a shitty week. All my mutuals should’ve seen this one coming LMAO anyway, enjoy the fic!!!

-

Victor Zsasz loves to make his mark. Most infamously known, are the vast array of tally marks that are carved into his skin. Every mark, a symbol of every life he’s ever taken; every light that’s been snuffed out. In his mind, the marks serve as mementos; being made in the moment as a reminder for a lifetime. It’s an act of permanence. It’s an act of devotion.

So to him, it only makes sense to mark you just as he marks himself.

Apprehension and anticipation linger all around you. You sit there, completely still. Your upper half is completely exposed to him, save for your bra, leaving every inch of your blank, unmarked flesh in his view. Your shirt is discarded, laying in a crumpled pile on the floor. The soft sound of Victor’s footsteps fill you ears, pacing slowly behind you. Suspense and excitement fill your stomach. A deep inhale makes its way into your chest when you feel the cold metal of his switchblade touch your skin.

“I’m not gonna lie to you,” his voice is honest, firm, yet comforting. “This is gonna hurt…” you can feel the warmth of his hand on your shoulder, smoothing down your arm. “…A lot.”

“I appreciate you doing this Victor,” you turn to look at him. “But honestly, I’m a little scared.”

He stands over you. The blade, lightly trails along your chest, just below your collarbone, where you assume the mark will be made, your nerves spike, but you choose to swallow them down, knowing this is how Victor expresses love, in his own, sick way- not that you minded. He kneels, making his way down to your level. His hand guides you chin down to gaze into his dark eyes, filled with reassurance.

“I can promise you,” you feel his thumb gently rub over your cheek, “The pain won’t last long.”

His gaze is intense. Taking a deep breath in, you nod. “I trust you.”

He lets out a grin, tucking your hair behind you ear. He plants a soft kiss to your cheek where he was caressing over it. “Attagirl.”

Your heart flutters at his assurance. For someone so keen on sadism, getting off on the pain of others, Victor was being surprisingly comforting with you.

You can feel his body looming over you, feeling his head look over you to find the exact spot where he would mark you. He makes contact with your eyes, giving each other nodded approval to do it.

The metal is cold and exceedingly sharp. You can hardly feel it when he cuts you. The sensation almost feels pleasant as the blade glides through your flesh. You feel yourself bite back a shriek when he digs the knife deeper into your skin, making sure the cut will leave a lasting scar. Your breath hitches in your chest as he continues dragging the knife into you. Fresh crimson spills out from the cuts being left in the blade’s wake.

“God,” Victor lets out a soft growl, “I wish you could see how beautiful you look right now.”

He’s in awe of the blood trickling down your chest. It coats your chest, running down, nearly dripping down to your bra. You let out an abrupt whimper, unable to hold in the increasing pain.

“Fuck!” you cry out. Your bra strap slips past your shoulder. You feel Victor’s body directly behind you, almost in an hug. His hand smoothes your shoulder firmly, comforting.

“It’s okay,” He hushes you. “I know, I know.”

Those next few seconds, the pain is excruciating. You get up, turning around and steadying yourself on him, wanting nothing more to be enveloped in his embrace. Your eyes meet his, gazing at each other for just a second before crashing your lips together.

You feel yourself being carried over to the bed, feeling Victor’s hungry grasp taking off your already disarrayed bra. You suck in a harsh breath, feeling his tongue lick up the blood that dripped down your tits.

“You did so well,” Victor praises as he devours your bloodied flesh, slowly trailing downward, “I’m proud of you, taking that like a champ.”

“Oh god, V-Victor,” you whimper. You feel your pants being slipped off from under you. Your cunt aches, dripping with arousal as Victor thumbs your clit through your underwear. “I fucking need you.”

Victor gazes at you, carnally. His eyelids are hooded, lust swirling within his eyes. He pulls out a condom from his pocket, tearing the wrapper quickly with his teeth. He urgently slides the rubber onto his cock and eases himself inside you.

You can feel Victor’s body on top of yours, being careful to avoid the cut-up area of your chest. He positions himself, leaning on his shoulders to look at you. He rocks into you slowly, feeling your soaked cunt clench around his cock. As he picks up the pace, he presses his lips to yours feeling yourself moan into his mouth. His tongue feels heavenly and you feel yourself melting into him, letting out a hushed breath when he bites your lip, pulling away.

“You like that?” He asks breathlessly

“Y-yes,” you grunt out tenderly. “You feel fucking amazing.”

Victor chuckled, rolling his hips. You feel your cunt flutter around him as he continues to fuck you. You grip onto him tightly, nails sure to leave some marks on his back. He lets out an amorous groan, enjoying the way you hurt him.

“I love what you do to me,” Victor moans. His pace is rapid, hitting the deepest parts of you, making it hard to keep yourself quiet. You can feel your orgasm swiftly approaching, and judging by his pace- utterly frantic, so could Victor. “Your my girl, and I fucking love you.”

You’re taken aback by his abrupt confession, but honestly? You feel the same. Your hand drops down to your clit, rubbing it quickly, desperate for release. You cry out after he hits a particularly sensitive spot, once again slamming your mouth to his as you ride out your orgasm. He thrusts himself deep into you, a guttural groan escaping his lips as his orgasm isn’t far behind yours.

When all is said and done, you’re completely fucked out, disheveled, and exhausted. The air grows thick, heavy around you as he crashes onto your uncut side.

“Thank you,” you breathe out. “You are so good to me.”

Victor smiles, pressing a loving kiss to your lips. He runs a hand through your hair, before holding out a hand, pulling you up. He turns around, grabbing some towels and antibiotics for the cut “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“Hey Victor,” he looks over at you, head cocked curiously. “I love you too.”

You couldn’t wait for the cut to heal. The healed scar in the shape of a heart would soon be a testament to the love you have for one another.

[howdyrat]

Percy's box - baby teeth

Percy has formed a collection over the years, filling up a box full of items that remind him of all the tiny moments that came from different stages of life. Doing it for Molly soon turned into mementos for himself. It started with Molly, being a busy women with many children to take care of, trying to collect things from each child in different grades was difficult. She would become forgetful and throw it out thinking it was clutter, or didn't have the energy to put it away and it got damaged. Being tossed by an unaware sibling or tired Arthur, the possibilities went on. Percy felt like it was his job to protect the items, he found some joy in collecting things for himself, his brothers, and sister. A couple of baby teeth kept in small containers with chicken scratch labeled names. Most were knocked out from the rough housing (Twins) mixed with clumsiness(Bill, Charlie, & Ron), but in Ginny's case a string and doorknob. Drawings of a stick figure family on yellow tinted pages that showed them all holding hands (Ron). Funny notes made by the Twins inviting Percy to their blanket fort, and small notes left from their dad in the morning written to their mum. Baby clothing folded and hidden away so the treads wouldn't unravel with overuse or be given away. He kept the items in a shrunken box underneath his bed sometimes he locks his door and reminisces about his childhood. There are things from his older brothers that are nestled deep in-between clothing and papers. The paper achievements from Hogwarts and crumpled pictures taken on Arthur's muggle camera dug out from the back of stuffy closets. Percy's favorite item is the hand sewn mouse he made as the Weasley family's pet because they couldn't afford one.

[trishacollins]

Memento Mori

It was possible, Marinette reflected, to live with only half of her soul.

Brutal, sure, devastating. But possible.

She could live. She could get up. She could still get up without his hand to help her to her feet.

She was staggering, stumbling steps that led her forward.

(To a world without him, a world where there was no Chat Noir waiting for her, no laughing cat to lift her spirits. Alone echoed in her soul.)

She didn't know what Gabriel Agreste hoped to gain from the memorial. But she both hated him for it and appreciated it.

There was no grave for her kitty, no body to mourn, no place but the spot where he died to be close to him.

Adrien looked haggard, with dark circles under his eyes and hands shaking slightly.

She landed next to him, and his eyes flickered in her direction before his body turned to her. "Ladybug."

She inclined her head slightly, not willing to risk her voice with speaking. She was going to cry today; nothing would stop it. The grief that had been festering inside her would have a public outlet.

She didn't want to be here. She couldn't stay away, couldn't refuse to honor her partner. She had wanted to be able to experience the statue privately, but grand gestures demanded an audience. The press was all around her.

"The charm." He said slowly, as though he was struggling with the words.

The wristband. Black and green braided ribbon, a bell, a pawprint. "Marinette." She cleared the lump in her throat. "Marinette made them for her class. She-" her voice died, eyes burning.

"I'm sorry." Adrien looked miserable. "Ladybug- I." He twisted the ring on his finger back and forth.

The skin was red around it. It was clearly not the first time.

She felt the hollowness of the smile she offered him and saw the emptiness in the answering smile.

"Ladybug." Mr. Agreste stepped closer, and she watched him, wary. "We are sympathetic towards your loss; all of Paris mourns with you. I hope that this memorial-" He reached for her hand, and she pulled it away.

She didn't want to be touched. Not right now. Not today.

Mr. Agreste dropped the hand, exhaling and glancing at his son.

Adrien refused to look at him, eyes fixed on her feet.

"I hope this memorial eases your pain." Mr. Agreste said.

She jerked her head in a small nod. She was still bleeding; the wound was sluggish. But still it bled.

She hated him for making her do this. She shouldn't hate him. He was the reason the memorial was here.

But she hated him.

She turned away from both of them, shoulders hunched inwards. Félix was leaning against the stage, a bit away from them, his eyes like Adrien's- and yet nothing like them. Félix's gaze was accessing everything and everyone around him, and they only belatedly landed on her.

Her fists twisted at her sides, the sharpness of her breath searing through her lungs.

She wondered how many hits it would take to destroy his smugness. Her anger was more accessible than her grief, feet carrying her to stand above him.

"You shouldn't be here." She hissed. "This never would have happened without you. This is *your* fault."

Félix studied her, lips pursing slightly. "This was not my play."

"You still caused it." She spat. "You as good as killed him yourself."

There was a shift of weight behind her, a foot scuff, an indrawn breath. 

And her stupid heart stuttered, her mind playing the cruelest trick. Ladybug and Chat Noir knew each other- a sixth sense. 

She was sure he was a step behind her for just a moment, backing her up.

But it was Adrien. Adrien looked so concerned when her face crumpled, her knees shook, and the sob tore through her. She clapped a hand to her mouth to muffle the sound but knew Adrien and Félix heard the pained noise.

Something passed between them too quickly for her to follow.

"I can't." She whispered when Adrien started to reach for her. Her yoyo caught above them, and she lifted from the stage and out of sight. 

~*~

Félix had not been consulted about Adrien's outro as Chat Noir - if he had, he probably would have objected strenuously to it.

It was an impulsive decision on the part of Gabriel. Impulsive and wrong, honestly. Now, they had made an enemy of Ladybug.

They could have used Chat Noir to get the earrings.

They could have used Chat Noir to find out who she was. As often as the pair had switched Miraculous, it would have been easy to have Adrien walk away with both of them, make the wish, and put everything back to rights.

But Gabriel had done this - to punish Adrien, maybe. To establish his claim on his son once and for all. Felix didn't know what the man had been thinking, and Gabriel hadn't been able to give him an answer.

Not that Gabriel had even told him what was happening; Felix had just gotten the delightful experience of waking up to a flood of suicidal ideation swamping his mind and a grieving Adrien screaming in the middle of it all.

A part of Adrien hadn't stopped screaming since, even though he outwardly seemed fine. He still wasn't sure if Adrien would bother to wake up one day, willing himself to stop breathing.

Like an animal gnawing off its leg to get out of a trap.

Gabriel's choice had ripped through Adrien like a wrecking ball. Adrien's grief roiled through his mind; he was sure he could hear it even without the Peacock currently under his jacket.

Watching him interact with Ladybug - feeling him interacting, the pulse radiating from them - he wanted to curse.

He had thought Adrien had been bad before.

Adrien was never going to be able to forgive this, and Gabriel was a fool if he thought it would ever be possible for Adrien to let this go.

Ladybug saw him, and he tensed as the hero stalked to him.

Her blame was expected - perhaps even deserved - Adrien's guilt was also expected.

The way he dropped into her shadow was as if he belonged there, and her stance shifted to accept him there until she realized she had done it. It was unexpected.

Adrien's defeat as she swept away from them, the way his body hitched forward, the half step, the slight crouch- as though he had been about to follow her.

He was not transformed; he wouldn't even be wearing the ring if Plagg hadn't threatened to Cataclysm it if Gabriel tried to remove it from Adrien. Whatever instincts the Miraculous gave him should be at their lowest.

Gabriel had put them in a situation. One he doubted his uncle had a clue about the depth of.

His eyes found his uncle across the stage, but Gabriel only had eyes for the line of Adrien's shoulders. 

"Adrien."

Adrien's head dropped, shoulders slumping as he curled into himself. "Not now, Felix."

The most alive he had been in the past few months, and now the poisoned grief was back.

Damn.

*~*

His father was standing close behind him, almost invasive. But Adrien had eyes only for Ladybug's form curled up on the rooftop.

It had been the closest he had been to her since...since.

Tears burned at his eyes, and he blinked them away, refusing to look at his father as he turned around.

He didn't want the stupid statue. Whatever his father thought the statue would do, all that it had done was make him angry.

It was a statue to a lie. He wasn't dead.

Dead would be finished, done.

This wasn't alive; he was still breathing, but his life had ended.

"Adrien." His father touched his shoulder.

He pulled away, walking to the edge of the stage.

"It's not even a good statue," Felix muttered.

He snorted because it was better than sobbing. "I hate you."

"Less than anyone else right now." Felix was right, but. Telling him that.

He didn't want....he didn't.

"I don't want to be here." He whispered.

"Ten more minutes?" Felix offered.

His eyes found Ladybug, locking onto her, his entire existence centered on her. She had been so close. The closest he had been in months.

He was hurting her. He was still hurting her, even though he was gone. 

The presentation continued without them, and he never took his eyes away from Ladybug.

His Lady.

'I'm sorry. I'm sorry.'

'She can't hear you.' Felix's voice was quiet in his head.

The ceremony was solemn; nobody applauded when the cover was removed from the statue.

Adrien didn't look at it. He just kept his eyes on Ladybug and watched her watch. His heart reached for her. 

Because his hands no longer could.

For @wackus-bonkus-maximus who is kindly allowing me to play in her sandbox while I work out my brain block for my own.