#A Crumpled Memento

[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

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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

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“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.”

[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

[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.

[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.”

[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! 🩷

[radioactiverats]

i think 7.5 is definitely one of my favourite parts of this story! was the static starscream getting embarassed? what do you think would get his face glowing? huaahah

Thank you!!! I really enjoyed writing that one!!

Here is some crack... pure crack. I'M SORRYYYY

Mentor Starscream x seeker!reader (10/?)

Each bot carried a number of things in their subspace at all times. Ratchet carried an innumerable variation of medical tools, medical-grade energon, and indelible knowledge of what a spark felt like as it slipped through his servos. Starscream carried datapads, a specific type of energon jelly he knew you liked when rations allowed, and the insurmountable grief that accompanied the condemnation of being alone. Megatron, presumably, carried enough hatred to power the entire solar system and then some, but you wisely choose not to think too hard about that.

Now that Starscream was trying to cement your necessity to the Decepticon cause, you'd added a couple of important datapads to your subspace. In addition to bandages (you'd wanted to store the welder in your subspace, too, but Starscream vehemently disallowed it because it would unnecessarily weigh your frame down in flight. After some protesting on your part, he finally ex-vented and promised that he wouldn't get himself injured someplace you couldn't fix him), some energon jellies for after training (courtesy of Starscream), and... a crumpled poster.

You'd kept a memento from your time at the Academy - it was one of your most closely guarded secrets, because you'd perish on the spot from pure and utter embarrassment if anyone found out.

A poster of Starscream.

Back at the Academy, it would have been impossible to find a wall that hadn't fallen victim to the onslaught of posters - before the ones advertising the war effort against the Quintessons had taken over, the posters had been primarily motivational and featured high-profile seekers. Many of the cadets idolized Sunstorm - your roommate even had a wall full of stolen Sunstorm posters. His golden frame in flight, a glowing halo framing his helm. You agreed that Sunstorm was cool, but deep down, your idol was Starscream. There was no shortage of glossy Starscream posters around the Academy, and whoever ran the show had clearly poured a huge percentage of the budget into making new posters every semester. Many of them were illustrated, for reasons that had actually been explained before - Vosian illustrators tended to be trained in capturing the feeling of flight, rather than the appearance of it. You'd always been drawn to the posters of Starscream because of the emotions they sparked within you - Pride. Determination. Spark-lightening liberation. However, it was the final semester before the end of your first year when the publicity department had apparently decided they'd had enough of paintings, and it was time to try something new. Well, new. Ironically, it was a return to traditional photography.

When the new posters came out, you'd stared at it for so long that your roommate had come to drag you back before curfew, took one look at the poster and burst out laughing.

It was the cheesiest thing you'd ever seen. Starscream, hip cocked and a smug grin on his faceplate, pointing at the camera. SOAR HIGH! The poster enthused, in a garish font and colour that quite frankly hurt your optics. REACH FOR THE STARS!

You opened your intake, closed it. Reset your vocaliser twice. You were sure that your wings were vibrating at this point. To make matters worse... "Is Commander Starscream winking?" Your roommate wheezed, and a few cycles later, it was you who had to drag them back to your dorm instead other other way around before you were caught sneaking around after hours.

It was on the same day you'd all been given your celebratory allowance of high-grade jet fuel - amidst all the reveling, your roommate had elbowed their way through the crowd to you with a huge grin on their faceplate. "I have something for you," They said cheerily, and shoved a slightly crumpled roll of paper into your servos. Even without looking, you already knew what it was, and the garish pop of colour as soon as you unfurled it slightly only confirmed your suspicions. "Come on," You groan. "Couldn't you have stolen me one of the cooler ones?"

"I could have," They said. "But the look on your faceplate wouldn't be as hilarious." More laughter as you groan and bury your burning faceplate in your hands. "But," They continue thoughtfully, "don't you think this one kinda humanizes him a little?"

Huh. That night, you're still turning your roommate's words over in your processor. It's kind of endearing, in its own way. You'd never have imagined that Starscream would allow himself to be photographed in such a way, and it's kind of growing on you. You suppose it does break up the monotony of his previous posters somewhat. And that wink... Blushing furiously, you hide your face in your servos and thank your lucky stars that your roommate is sound asleep, so you don't get teased into the dirt.

That poster ended up being the only evidence that you had a roommate, because they didn't survive the attack. Not for lack of searching. You'd searched and searched, and found an arm. You stopped searching after that.

The poster had been stashed deep in your subspace for as long as you could remember. That was another thing you carried. Two things, actually. One, your guilt at being the only one left, and two, your embarrassing little crush on Starscream. Further guilt at allowing the two conflicting feelings to coexist may as well have been a third thing.

However, the years of war had more or less put a damper on dwelling on the past, because threats in the present were far more immediate. You decided it was a good thing that you'd been stuck in emotional limbo for a while now. Primus knows what would become of you if your emotions came back full force at this point.

It's a relatively quiet day when your little slip-up happens. Ever since you became entrusted with datapads needed for officers' meetings, you and Starscream had a brief routine in which you'd double-check that everything was accounted for before heading out. The only thing was that last night's recharge had been fraught with nightmares, and you couldn't deny the exhaustion that fogged your processor. As such, you were not functioning as well as you would have liked to be.

"Reports of the last mission?"

You place it in his outstretched servo. "Check."

"The one on Autobot activity."

"Check."

"Preliminary results of the Terran soil analysis."

Terran soil analysis? You dig around in your subspace. That sounded familiar. You definitely had it, but maybe you'd stashed it way back because you hadn't anticipated Megatron wanting to hear about soil samples. You frown, and dig a little further. Fingertips just managing to brush against something, and that must be it -

"Check," You quickly say, before Starscream can get impatient.

There's a few kliks of silence, which strikes you as strange, because Starscream normally carries a minimum of ten datapads into these meetings. You glance up at him, a question on your glossa - but as soon as you realise what he's looking at, your expression rapidly morphs to match his in one of utter mortification.

No.

Starscream's optic twitches. He holds the offending poster at arms' length - as if trying to put some distance between it and his frame.

It's that horrific poster of him. He'd fought tooth and nail not to have it published, because it was just so embarrassing. Unfortunately, he'd been overruled by the Academy's senior council, who for some Primus-forsaken reason absolutely loved it.

For the greater good! They'd said. The cadets look up to you, Starscream, it would do good to closen the distance between you, so they understand that they can one day be like you.

"Fine," Starscream had snarled, but was only too glad when they'd finally been removed.

Vorns later, he thought he was finally free of that - apparently not.

You can feel his accusing optics on you.

"Cadet."

"...Yes, sir."

"Care to tell me why this is in your possession?"

You gnaw at your lip plates.

"I'm waiting."

You shuffle your pedes. "Um," You mumble.

Why, indeed, had you kept it?

Defeated, you know you know the answer but have no chance of hiding it, because Starscream can absolutely tell when you're lying.

"I know it's one of the weirder ones," You mutter, thankfully missing the twitch of Starscream's optic, "but I liked your posters because of how they made me feel. Because of how you made me feel. Like I could do anything. Like as long as I worked hard, it would pay off, because you cared enough about us to see it happen."

You can't stop now that you've started. "If I had a choice, though, I would have picked the one where you're in your altmode at the edge of the stratosphere because that one was super cool, and I always wondered what it would be like to fly alongside you like that, as an equal. But it's okay because this poster makes me hope that we're not too far apart after all, it's kinda silly but it reminds me that you're my commander and hopefully you know that I really, really admire you -"

A choked crackle of static (mercifully) cuts your ramble off before you can embarrass yourself further.

"Sir?"

You chance a look at Starscream, and what you see renders you completely unable to retain fine motor control of your faceplate. This time, you really wish you could preserve his expression on a poster.

Starscream, former Air Commander of Vos, feared SIC of the Decpticons, is blushing.

You watch with rapt fascination as the blue blush of energon rises to settle prettily across his cheeks, only intensifying the more he stares at the poster. Now he's the one who's adamantly refusing to meet your optics.

"You -"

"Sorry, I misspoke, I shouldn't have-"

"No," Starscream cuts in. His voice is raspier than usual.

"It's... it's fine."

He glances once more at the rapidly fraying poster in his servos before shoving it back towards you.

"...But don't let me see that thing again."

You quickly roll it up and shove it back into your subspace. Now you definitely can't get rid of it.

Starscream still can't quite clear the static from his vocaliser, nor the blush on his faceplate. You take mercy on him and remain silent, lest his cooling fans kick on. It's probably for the best that he doesn't find out about the Commander Starscream Academy Fan Club.

"Now. Terran soil samples?"

Previous /

Edit: THE POSTER in all its technicolour glory by @bonkkix !!!!!

[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.

[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.

[orions-choker]

Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Serial Killers, Murder, Obsessions, Yandere tendencies, Gore, more to be added.

Chapter Fourteen

A/N: This is it! This is the end! Thank you to everyone who read this and put up with my horribly inconsistent updates I really appreciate it. I believe this is my longest fic to date and it was quite the undertaking so i hope it paid off in the end! <3 Love you all.

There was only a certain amount of comfort to be garnered from the return to her familiar dorm room. A considerable distance was put between her and her hometown that now haunted her dreams. Still she had foolishly brought it back with her. Pinched between her bed and box spring was the crumpled fabric that still smelled faintly of cinnamon, smoke mostly now. Sitting in the top compartment of her jewelry box was a lone earring that didn’t belong to her, nor did it belong to anyone still breathing. Tarnished and foggy from the persistent rubbing over her thumb over the metal. There was only so much solace she could find when she had purposefully brought back with her mementos of her fucked up summer. Yet still the guilt faded to a dull ache in the back of her mind, the pressure only worsening when she was alone in the dead of night, which thankfully was not very often. She was comforted mostly by the presence of her roommates' heavy breathing in the middle of the night. It did well to stave off the feeling of her guilt gripping at her. Left only were ghosts of cold fingers pressed into her skin, shadows dancing in the corners of her eyes. She was sure in time those would fade as well. In time. 

Winter rolled in with a wet cold typical of San Francisco that left her feeling even more empty. She had told her parents she wouldn’t be coming home for Christmas. She didn’t have many intentions to ever return back home. She cited a rough breakup with Kirk as the reason, too fresh and painful to bear accidentally seeing him. As expected her parents were fraught with disappointment but pressed the issue no further, promising to send something of a Christmas care package her way instead and murmuring that they and her dog missed her. She hoped Mavey was taking full advantage of her bed being free for the taking, the old girl deserved it.

Kirk had come home the same night she had arrived safely back in her dorm room. She had politely asked her parents not to tell her anything, though they had mentioned that any possible charges towards him had been dropped. Nothing tied him to the crime, he wasn't even so much as a suspect. The cases have gone cold. Kirk was innocent, more importantly he was a free man. Though it had been months and Y/N hoped that the fact she hadn’t heard from him was a good sign. On good days the whole thing seemed like nothing more than a distant bad dream. 

With long lithe limbs she bent her body in half, hair threatening to brush against the pavement as her fingers deftly worked at untying her off white shoelaces. With a tight tug she pulled the canvas of her shoes snug around her foot before quickly knotting the lace once more, once, twice. Wiggling her foot she smiled in satisfaction. As she moved to sit back up she couldn't help but overhear the soft flittering voices of two girls in her biology 211 course as they passed by her.

“No but he’s like, really cute right?” 

“You think, he’s kind of weird, plus have you seen him smile his teeth are fucked up beyond belief.” 

“God you’re such a shallow bitch.”

Giggling ensued but for some odd reason a deep pit had formed in Y/N’s stomach. She was being paranoid, of course. There were probably a million and one boys in the world who could be described with those two traits that weren’t Kirk. She swallowed hard and sat up straight, raking her fingers through her hair to push it back into place. Her body heaved under the weight of her bag as she slung it across her back once more. She entered through the top door of the lecture theatre of her first year English and Writing course. The second semester was about to be a bitch for her, she had already known this professor from taking this course the first time around. She was still convinced the old hag failed her on purpose.

Maybe she was naturally more perceptive now or maybe she was more on edge, but as she walked around the top of the theatre and slid into one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs her eyes landed on a sight that made her heart drop. How in a room of three hundred students did she manage to pick out the one head of dark wild curly hair. Sitting two rows from the front and about six rows down from her. She could only see the back of their head. She only realized she was paralyzed by fear when there was a not so gentle nudge into her side.

“Dude you're blocking the walkway.”

Quickly Y/N jumped from her stasis, finishing her movement to get into her seat and tugging her bag down to the floor between her feet. “Sorry!” She squeaked out a breathless apology to the student who simply huffed in response to her. Her eyes flicked back down but her view of the offending row was blocked from the broad shoulders in front of her. She worried her bottom lip between her lips, catching a piece of chapped skin and tugging until it ripped. She hissed and smeared the blood away with the pad of her thumb. She rubbed it against her index until the red smeared into her skin and disappeared.

She wasted her money for that lecture, her eyes remaining unfocused and ears fuzzy with static instead of paying attention to the material delivered. A great start to the winter semester, she was already dooming herself to fail this course again . All because she saw someone who maybe could have looked like her crazy ex-boyfriend. Decidedly she thought she would swing by the campus therapists office after class, it was probably worth it to utilize those five free counselling sessions. Not that five sessions could do much to fix whatever the fuck was going on in her head. 

When the hall cleared out Y/N took a moment to sit, allowing the rows to empty out from front to back. It was better than trying to push her way through the herd of people cramming themselves through too small doorways. It was some sort of miracle that she didn’t see that head of curls again, saving her from another sight that would send her into a deep spiral. It was nothing, she had to remind herself that. Would Kirk go through the trouble of university applications just to get close to her after months of no contact. Yes actually, yes he would, she shouldn't put it past him the dude murdered people for Christ sakes. Even still, she was sure her parents would have mentioned something of him moving out. They would have mentioned it off hand right? Even breakups aside, Kirk and his family had lived beside them for as long as she could remember so his leaving would be noteworthy enough to mention. She would have to call her parents today. Finally as the last of the straggling students shuffled out of the room Y/N pushed herself up onto her feet, her legs more unsteady than she would like, knees knocking together like a newborn fawn.

The cafe’s on campus were always needlessly busy, long lines and coffee less than mediocre. However it was routine that she met up with her roommate here every free afternoon they had together, Y/N had approximately forty-five minutes until her lab and that was enough time to engage in a productive gossip session and stale danish. With a  huff she tossed herself down across the table from her roommate. “Doctor Plemons is a bitch.” Was the first complaint Y/N was met with.

Raising her eyebrow she bit down into her pastry, uncaring of the way flaky dough clung to the corners of her lips as she spoke, words muffled by her mouthful. “Any professor who insists they be referred to as a doctor is gonna be a bitch dude.” She retorted, her hand resting in front of her mouth in a faux attempt to be polite and spare anyone from seeing her chewing. “Didn’t I tell you to take Psych with Pardall?”

Her roommate groaned and sank further into her chair, hands clutched around the flimsy paper cup holding her tea. “Man you totally did, they’re both p names I thought they were the same.” She whined. Y/N felt a foot gently tap her leg in a petulant kick and it made Y/N smile softly. She took a sip of her own drink to wash down the dry danish, tongue flicking out to swipe away the remnants of the liquid. “Anyways, how did your first lecture go?”

Y/N frowned at that and sighed. A shiver ran through her as one of the doors opened bringing with it a wave of slightly cooler air. She pulled her hoodie around her tighter. “Sucked man.” She said simply. “I think I’m going fucking crazy, I could have sworn I saw my ex in class with me.” She grumbled. Her roommate was nowhere near the truth on just how crazy Kirk was but she was vaguely aware of Y/N’s summer fling.

“Really?” The girl across from her mused, brows pulled tight in concern. “Did he ever talk about coming to Uni?” She cocked her head to the side, her long well manicured nail picking at the cardboard sleeve around the cup. Y/N looked down at her own fingers, nails long since bitten down to the flesh, always raw red and peeling. Anxiety was a bitch. “There's like no way in hell you know that right, there's like ten thousand students here.” She shook her head reassuring Y/N. “Plus if he was here I wouldn’t let him anywhere near you.” Playfully she flexed her arms.

The laugh that came from Y/N was forced. If only she knew just how wrong she would be. If only she knew that Y/N’s crazy Ex had a special interest in killing pretty girls just like her. Poor girl wouldn’t stand a chance. A feeling of cold dread washed through her at the thought, if Kirk was here would he hurt more people just to get to her. There hadn’t been any more murders back home and she hadn’t heard anything here. The campus would be in a frenzy otherwise. She smiled tight at her roommate. “Yeah, no you’re right, like I said I'm just being crazy.”

With a sympathetic nod she grasped Y/N’s hand across the table. “Dude I get it…well I don’t and that's why I think you probably have every reason to be freaked out.” She squeezed and Y/N squeezed back, her shoulders relaxing ever so slightly. “I have no idea what happened over the break but you came back a completely different person, whatever that fucker put you through you didn’t deserve.” 

I did deserve it, I deserve it all, it’s my fault I didn’t do anything more. Y/N thought to herself bitterly. She slipped her hand gently from beneath her roommates comforting touch and nodded. “Thanks babe.” She laughed softly and shrugged. “I’m getting through it though. I’ll be okay.” They dropped the conversation after that, it was clear Y/N didn’t feel like discussing it further and she was thankful the topic wasn’t pushed further. She was well aware how fucked up she had been when she returned. Stress induced hallucinations, waking up in a cold sweat screaming at the top of her lungs. They had more than their share of noise complaints from the other dorms. The constant anxious fiddling. She had tried to hide it all under a mask of normalcy, pretending to be the girl she used to be before the summer break. She didn’t think she would ever be that girl again. But it was getting better, it was. Which is exactly why she didn’t need to be worrying suddenly about seeing Kirk here.

Just for peace of mind she found herself pressed against the inside of a phone booth after her last class of the day. Pay phones were safe for her to use, they felt different to their regular home-phones. She was comforted with the shield that came with the anonymity of a payphone, no one could contact her through a payphone. She pushed her quarters into the slot and punched the numbers of her home phone. It only rang a few times, she had made sure both her parents were home from work and it was before dinner time. At the sound of her dads voice she sighed in relief. “Hey Daddy, how are you doing?” She asked sweetly. She engaged in casual pleasantries and warm wishes of missing each other before she dug her hands into the flesh of it all. She swallowed hard, and leaned back against the flimsy plastic walls, her fingers tapping idly on top of the machine. “How is…uh how’s next door?” She asked as gently as she could, it was the most casual way she could think of broaching the topic with out directly sayings “How is Kirk, have you seen him, any possible chance he packed up and came to my school?” 

There was a pause and she could hear the hesitance in her dads voice as he spoke, he knew all things Hammett had been a sore spot for her, he just didn’t know why. “It's been good, quiet.” Quiet, she didn’t like the sound of that. If there was one thing that her parents always complained about it was Kirks parties or the strum of loud guitar flowing through an amp turned up too high. She waited silently for him to continue. “We’re pretty sure Kirk moved out, just his mom there now, haven't seen him for a couple weeks now.”

There it was, that feeling of falling again. Her throat closing up and her heart hammering so hard she was sure it was going to break her ribs, rip from her chest and crush against the pavement beneath her. She sucked in a sharp breath and forced her voice out. “Oh.” She said, The cold fingers of death clawed up her spine and she shivered violently. In an instant she felt it, heavy eyes on her, watching her. She spun around the phone booth, looking out into the streets that were painted in a fiery sunset glow. Nothing stood out amongst the throngs of people walking to and from class. She needed to get home before it got dark. “Any idea where?”

“No, why? Is everything okay?”

Bless her dad sweet concern, no it wasn't fucking okay. She wasn’t okay. She knew, knew he had to be here. If not here then where else? She wanted to scream, sob into the phone for her dad to come pick her up, pack her in the car and drive her somewhere far away from here, maybe up north in Canada. She had a sinking feeling he would somehow still find her there. “Yeah everything's fine!” She forced out, she plastered a smile on her face because even if her dad couldn’t see it he could hear it in her voice. “Was just curious I guess, look dad I gotta' get going, just wanted to talk to you for a bit!”

She could hear the disbelief and concern in his voice as he responded, she wondered just how fucked up she had to sound to cause any sort of emotion out of that man. “You sure?” He asked and when he received her soft hum in response he sighed heavily into the phone. “Okay, talk to later sweetheart, me and your mom love you.”

The phone rattled with the force in which she slammed it down onto its holder. She scrambled to pick her bag off the ground beneath her and stumbled from the small phone booth. Her eyes were wide and wild as they danced across the streets before her, looking for any sign of him, that pretty tanned skin or wild curls, even a ghost of his sticky-sweet voice and boyish laugh. God she was going insane. She felt her fair share of unnerved stares from the people passing by her. It was enough to get her legs working properly once more.

Her dorm never felt further than it had in that moment. A ten minute walk felt like years, the shaking and panic had caused such exertion that she was heaving and panting, by the time she reached the front doors she was fully exhausted. She readjusted her bag as she pushed her finger into the sticky elevator button. The whole rickety metal box shook as she stepped on. Her eyes trained on the old carpet as she pressed the button to her floor. She followed the pattern of a dark old stain, watching the way it trickled like little drops before ending in a large splatter. It had been here since she started school, coffee. Blood her brain helpfully supplied. She shook the thought from her head with a grimace. The heavy creaking of rusty metal alerted her to her arrival and she stepped off quickly, eager to get to the safety of her dorm room.

As she rounded the corner down the hall to sanctuary the wind was knocked from her lungs. She saw the dark shoes first, worn down sneakers, followed by lean legs covered in dark stretch denim that may as well have been painted on with how tight they were. Softly tanned arms, with pretty familiar veins running beneath the skin, all on glorious display with the dark cut off misfits shirt.

She looked at his face last, too worried he would be staring back at her. She took a soft step backwards with every intention to run down the hall in the other direction. Every hope that he hadn’t seen her died in the all consuming void that had replaced her stomach. Her eyes flicked up only to immediately drown in the big dark sea of his gaze. Wide and soft, the never ending adoration she had grown accustomed to.

He was leaning with all the casualness in the world, like it was his god given right to be standing outside of her door. His face brightened into a smile that practically split him from ear to ear. Sweet crooked teeth on display excited like an overeager puppy dog. “Y/N,” He breathed out, pushing himself off the wall taking a hesitant step towards her. It felt like it had been years since she heard him speak her name.

Every sound of protest died strangled within her throat. Her eyes focused on him with a striking clarity like she really hadn’t been seeing anything clearly since she left. “Kirk,” She choked out in response. The straps of her bag slipped down her arms until it hit the floor with a heavy thud. He took another step closer and Y/N couldn’t bring herself to move back. “Why are you here?” 

It was a dumb question and he knew as much, the way he laughed, tossing his head back slightly, hair falling back over his shoulders. The tips of their shoes touched and he leaned down, crowding her with his oh-so familiar scent. She shivered. “I missed you.” He said simply, it was as good a reason as any he decided. His lips met hers gently and she whimpered. Soft plush flesh meeting her own chapped skin. His teeth tugged hard on her bottom lip, splitting open the wound she had caused earlier forcing a harsh hiss from her. His tongue flicked out to gather the blood just as she pushed him back.

Kirk didn’t budge, gave her a sweet laugh and stood up straight again. “You can’t be here, you have to leave, I don't want to see you.” Y/N insisted in a soft panic. She took a step back and breathed in relief when he didn’t follow her. She shook her head at him, feeling that uncomfortable sick feeling in her stomach once more at how easy he grinned at her. “Leave me alone.”

She took a step to the side to move past him towards her dorm room. The door was just out of reach, a few feet to safety. Foolish to think she could skirt around him so easily. His gentle hand came down on her shoulder, tugging her into his chest with one arm wrapped around her shoulders. “You don’t want to go in there, baby girl.” He hummed into the side of her head, lips pressed against her temple. A sharp strike of fear ran through her.

Having been too distracted by his very presence, Y/N hadn’t noticed the dripping blade held just out of view from her, not until she felt the warm wooden handle being pressed into the flat of her palm, Kirk's fingers guiding hers to wrap around it tightly. She looked between him and the blade in her hands in mortification. She could still feel the warmth of the blood that coated the silver, glossy and sticky. “What have you done?” She croaked, voice giving out to nothing more than a raspy whisper. Shock had its grip on her and she couldn’t move.

Kirk clicked his tongue and shook his head. “No no, what have we done?” He corrected her with an easy smile, his hand not removing itself from around hers, forcing her grip tight on the blade. “Both our prints are on there now, love.” He hummed, pleased with himself. The fucking bastard, of course, always one step ahead of her. How could he do this, oh god.

“She didn’t do anything you bastard,” She cried out, tears bubbling over the rims of her eyes. The scent of hot iron filled her nose as she looked down at the blade once more. Coated in innocent blood, her roommate didn't deserve this. Another victim of Y/N’s inaction. Kirk had been right, this was all her fault. She had caused this, she needed to fix this. Y/N twisted her wrist, aiming the blade in their shared grasp towards Kirk.

The instance she had made her move Kirk's grip on her tightened, so hard he was rubbing the bones in her hands together, crushing them. Y/N cried out in pain, her knees buckling. He yanked her wrist backwards at a near unnatural angle, forcing the point towards her, stepping forward slightly he pushed it against her skin, just enough to Knick the fabric of her shirt. “She threatened to get in the way of me seeing you.” He sighed like he was annoyed. Of course he had heard that, of course he had been that close to her. She would be foolish to think otherwise.

He pushed in a little closer and the tip dug into the flesh of her stomach. She choked out another sob of pain. Warmth spread across her stomach and through her shirt. It was just a surface wound, just enough to make her bleed, because he would never really hurt her. He couldn’t, he promised her as much. “Stop,” She cried. “Stop, make it stop.” She begged and he relented. The warm metal no longer digging into her skin as he pulled her close to his chest. She could feel the wet warmth from the knife against her back where he was holding her in a tight hug.

“Sorry, I’m sorry.” He shushed her gently, peppering soft kisses to the top of her head. “Just, never try to hurt me again, okay? I already let your little stunt with the police go.” He chided her like a small child. She couldn’t do anything but nod in resignation. How dumb had she been to think she could ever really get away from him, that he would let her just leave without incident. He would do anything to keep her tied to him. It was either accept him or die trying to escape her fate. “Now I’m gonna help you clean up the mess you made okay?”

The words curled around her brain. She wanted to protest that this wasn’t her mess, she didn’t do this. But she did, didn’t she? One measly phone call was enough to erase her complicity, not enough to scrub her clean from his sins she indulged. That much was clear from the shiny earring sitting in the most valued spot of her jewelry box. She was destined to forgive his crimes, more graceful than any god and all the more wicked. “Okay,” She mumbled into his chest.

His arms tightened around her, not comfortingly, a soft threat wrapped up in the warmth that came from being surrounded by him. “When someone helps you, don't you think that deserves some kind of acknowledgment?” He whined into her ear. Always so eager for praise. “C’mon Y/N.”

Swallowing the lump that had formed in her throat she nodded again. “Sorry,”  she whispered. “Thank you, thank you for helping me.” Her words were watery and wet, muffled by her own hot tears. Cautiously she wrapped her arms underneath his, her hands tangling tight into the fabric of his shirt. Heavy sobs course through her body, all her weight being held up by him. His soft hums and sweet mumblings into her ear doing little to soothe her.

“Good girl.” She could hear the saccharine smile in his voice. “Stay right here and I'm gonna take care of it all okay?” He pulled back and carefully pulled her hoodie around her, zipping it up with a tender care as he concealed the blood that had stained the front of her shirt. His hands smoothing over her shoulders lovingly. His face was just a little too soft, too sweet. “Then, why don't we take a trip somewhere?” He cocked his head with a closed lipped smile. Y/N found herself returning it too easily, nodding her head gently in agreement. 

As her cries quieted down, leaving nothing more than soft wet sniffles and reddened cheeks Kirk finally stepped back. She instantly missed the warmth and the grounding feeling of his hands heavy on her body. “I’ll be quick,” He told her as he wrapped his hand around the handle of her dorm. As the door creaked open she swore she heard the soft gurgling sounds of her roommate still choking on her own thick blood. Still alive. Y/N turned her head quickly and closed her eyes like it could drown out the noise.

“I love you,”

“I love you too.”

[ducksido]

Meeting Dahlia Spade and eating chocolate with Deuce (Deuce Valentine)

Valentine’s Day had arrived at Night Raven College, and while the atmosphere was buzzing with romantic confessions and sweet treats, Deuce Spade was dealing with a serious case of nerves.

He had spent the entire morning hyping himself up, pacing in his dorm room, rehearsing what he was going to say to Y/N. It wasn’t that asking them to be his Valentine was a scary idea—it was just that every time he tried to, the words got stuck in his throat.

Finally, after much internal debate (and some tough love from Ace, who told him to “just man up and do it already”), Deuce took a deep breath and found Y/N in the courtyard, sitting on a bench and enjoying the crisp February air.

“H-Hey, Y/N!” Deuce called out, voice cracking slightly. He cleared his throat in embarrassment, rubbing the back of his neck as he approached them. “Uh… mind if I sit with you?”

Y/N smiled and patted the empty space beside them. “Of course. What’s up, Deuce? You look a little… tense.”

Deuce swallowed hard. “So, um… it’s Valentine’s Day, right?”

They nodded, amused. “That’s right.”

Deuce fumbled inside his pocket, pulling out a slightly crumpled red envelope. “I-I wanted to give you this. And, uh, ask you something…”

Curious, Y/N opened the envelope and found a heartfelt, handwritten card inside. It wasn’t fancy—just simple, honest words from Deuce asking if they would be his Valentine. The effort and sincerity behind it made warmth bloom in their chest.

Y/N looked up at him, eyes soft. “Deuce, this is really sweet. I’d love to be your Valentine.”

Deuce’s face turned as red as Riddle’s hair. “R-Really? That’s… wow! I mean, great! I was, uh, kinda worried you’d say no.”

They chuckled. “Why would I say no? You’re kind, hardworking, and you’re always looking out for me.”

If it was even possible, Deuce’s face burned even hotter. He scratched his cheek and let out an awkward chuckle. “Geez, you’re gonna make me all flustered…”

Y/N grinned. “That’s the goal.”

After a moment of gathering his composure, Deuce perked up. “Actually, I was wondering if you’d like to come with me to visit my mom. She always makes a ton of sweets on Valentine’s Day, and I… I kinda want her to meet you.”

Y/N blinked in surprise. Meeting his mom? That was a big step, but the hopeful look in Deuce’s eyes made it clear that this was important to him.

They smiled. “I’d love to meet your mom.”

Later that evening, Deuce and Y/N arrived at his family home, a cozy little house that felt warm and welcoming. The moment they stepped inside, they were greeted by a cheerful voice.

“Deuce! Welcome home, sweetheart!” Dahlia Spade stepped out from the kitchen, apron on, her expression lighting up when she saw her son. Then her gaze shifted to Y/N, and her eyes twinkled. “And this must be the special guest I’ve heard so much about.”

“M-Mom!” Deuce spluttered, looking absolutely mortified. “I-I just said they were coming over! Not that they’re— I mean, they are, but—”

Y/N laughed, finding his flustered reaction adorable. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Spade. Deuce talks about you a lot.”

Dahlia chuckled, wiping her hands on her apron before clasping them together. “Well, that’s sweet to hear. I hope it’s all good things.”

“Of course!” Y/N reassured her. “He’s always telling me how much he looks up to you.”

Deuce groaned. “Y/N, please.”

His mother beamed with pride, ruffling his hair despite his protests. “That’s my boy. Now, come on, you two. I made chocolate-covered strawberries, cookies, and just about every sweet you could think of. You better have room for dessert!”

Y/N and Deuce shared a glance before grinning. Spending Valentine’s Day with Deuce was already special, but getting to meet his mom and share this moment with him? That made it even sweeter.

Later that night, after stuffing themselves with sweets, Deuce and Y/N found themselves lounging in Deuce’s old bedroom, surrounded by childhood mementos and trophies from his past. The two sat on the floor, passing a box of chocolates between them, the cozy atmosphere wrapping them in a warm glow.

Deuce popped a piece of chocolate into his mouth, sighing in satisfaction. "Man, I forgot how good Mom's chocolates are."

Y/N chuckled, watching as a smudge of melted chocolate clung to the corner of his lips. "Hold still for a sec."

Before Deuce could react, Y/N leaned in and kissed the chocolate away, their lips barely lingering before pulling back with a smirk.

Deuce’s eyes widened, and for a moment, he seemed frozen in place. Then, his face turned bright red, and he sputtered, "W-Wha—Y-Y/N!"

Y/N grinned mischievously. "What? You had chocolate on your face. Just helping you out."

Deuce covered his face with his hands, groaning dramatically. "You can't just do that without warning!"

Y/N laughed, nudging him playfully. "Guess you'll have to get used to it."

Despite his flustered state, Deuce couldn’t hide the smile forming on his lips. Maybe this was the best Valentine’s Day ever.

[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.