#I want this etched into the stone of my grave!

[distortedclouds]

MY SKIN IS CLEAR, MY CROPS ARE FLOURISHING, MY GRADES ARE UP, AND MY DEPRESSION IS CURED!!!

[eu-nicola]

her memory

summary: After Grace's death, you offer to take care of Charlie, Thomas, who lives tormented by his pain, accepts. As both spend more time together, both begin to develop something but neither you or him don't know how to accept it.

warnings: mention of death, nothing more i think

word counter: 7682

author's note: english is not my first language

The cold wind cut through the morning with a cruel indifference, as if the world kept turning without stopping for anyone's mourning. The tombstones stood as silent reminders of lives past, names etched in stone, stories that had ended. Among them all, one stood out: Grace Shelby. The letters were carved with precision, the name reflecting both love and tragedy.

You, Grace's younger sister, held a bouquet of white lilies with numb fingers. You had chosen those flowers because they were Grace's favorite, although now the detail seemed ironic. You couldn't remember the last time you had brought her flowers when she was alive. Maybe you had never done so. Guilt nibbled at the edges of your conscience as you walked down the gravel path.

In the distance, a familiar figure emerged from the mist: Thomas. He was dressed in strict black, his face impassive as always. His eyes, though, those blue eyes that always seemed to be calculating, now reflected something deeper. Pain. Or maybe just tiredness.

You hadn’t spoken to Thomas since Grace’s funeral, and before that, your interactions had been tense, at best. You’d made it clear from the start that you didn’t trust him. “He’s not a good man for you, Grace,” you’d warned him more than once, but Grace always found a way to justify it. “You don’t know him like I do,” she’d reply with a smile that was now just a painful memory.

Thomas stopped in his tracks when he saw you standing by the grave. There were no words of greeting or gestures of courtesy. Neither did they need them. You were both there for the same reason.

You carefully placed the flowers on the grave and knelt down, closing your eyes for a moment. The silence between you and Thomas was thick, heavy with everything that had never been said and everything that would never be said. Finally, you stood up, feeling Thomas’ gaze on you.

“She always talked about you,” Thomas said, his voice low and rough, like he hadn’t used it in days.

You looked at him, surprised by the comment. There was an honesty in his tone that was disarming, something rare about him.

“And what did she say?” you asked, not because you really wanted to know, but because you needed to fill the void.

Thomas lit a cigarette, letting the smoke mix with the cold air. His eyes never left the tombstone.

“She said you were strong. Stronger than you believed yourself. That you had always been her rock, even when you didn’t know it.” He paused, as if choosing his words carefully. “And that you were the only one who could tell her the truth, even if it hurt.”

You felt a lump in your throat. Grace had always been the mediator between you and the world, softening your harshest words, interpreting your silences. Now that she was gone, you felt disoriented, like you’d lost your compass.

“I always thought I was protecting her,” you admitted quietly, your gaze fixed on the grave. “But maybe I was just trying to protect myself. I didn’t want to see her suffer for someone who couldn’t give her what she deserved.”

Thomas didn’t answer right away. When he finally spoke, his voice held a tone you’d never heard before: vulnerability.

“Grace gave me more than I deserved. And I gave her back less than I needed.” He stubbed out his cigarette in the dirt and looked up at you. “But I loved her. In my own way, I loved her.”

His words fell heavily in the air. For a moment, you wanted to respond as harshly as ever, to point out that his love hadn’t been enough, that his world of violence and power had dragged her to the grave. But something stopped you. Maybe it was the pain you saw reflected in his face. Or maybe you were just tired of fighting.

“Grace loved you too,” you said at last, almost in a whisper. “I never doubted that.”

Silence settled between you again. Thomas nodded slightly, as if that statement were enough. You both knew that the relationship between you and him would never be cordial, but at that moment, you shared something that transcended your differences: the loss of the woman who had been the center of your lives.

Finally, Thomas took a step back, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat.

“I’ll always be here if you need me,” he said, not looking directly at you. Then, without waiting for an answer, he turned and began walking toward the exit of the cemetery.

You watched his figure walk away until it disappeared into the fog. The fog slowly dissipated as you walked away, leaving the tombstone and the memories behind.

After that encounter, you knew that you didn’t want to part with what little was left of Grace. The decision didn’t come immediately, but rather as a persistent murmur in the back of your mind. The image of Grace, always smiling with her baby in her arms, was etched ever deeper into your memory. Charlie was the only part of her left in this world, a small piece of light in the midst of all the darkness her death had left. And you wanted, no, needed, to be a part of her life.

Days later, you found yourself in front of the door of the Shelby house. You hesitated for a moment, looking at the imposing facade. You hadn’t set foot in that place since Grace’s funeral. You sighed deeply and knocked on the door. It was Polly who opened it, her sharp gaze examining you immediately.

“What are you doing here?” she asked bluntly, her tone neither hostile nor friendly, just expectant.

“I need to talk to Thomas,” you said, straightening up.

Polly arched an eyebrow, but didn’t ask any more questions. She waved you in and led you to the living room, where Thomas sat behind his desk, papers strewn in front of him, a glass of whiskey in his hand.

He looked up as you entered, his expression unfazed.

“Another telling off, then?” she asked sarcastically, though there was a hint of curiosity in her tone.

You shook your head, gently shaking your head as you sat across from him.

“I’m not here to fight, Thomas. I’m here for Charlie.”

He set the glass down on the table, his gaze fixed on you.

“What about Charlie?”

You took a moment before answering, your hands clenched in your lap.

“I want to help. I want to be in his life. I know this may sound strange, but I would like to be his nanny.” You hesitated for a second, but continued before he could interrupt. “I want to be close to him, to help raise him. I don’t want him to grow up without having a connection to his maternal family.”

Thomas watched you silently for a few moments. His face was a mask of calm, but his eyes betrayed that he was processing each word carefully.

“Why now?” he asked finally. “You don’t trust me, you never have. Why would you want to get more involved?”

You leaned forward a little, trying to convey the sincerity of your intentions.

“Grace loved Charlie more than anything. And if I can’t have her, I at least want to make sure her son grows up surrounded by love, by family. This isn’t about you, Thomas. This is about him.” You paused, letting your words sink in. “And because Grace would want us to be there for him.” Both of you.

Thomas leaned back in his chair, bringing his hands to his face for a moment before running them through his hair. Finally, he nodded slowly.

“Fine. If that’s what you want, you can start tomorrow. Polly will show you Charlie’s routines. But I warn you,” he said, his voice lower and more serious, “this world is dangerous. I don’t want you to go near it if you ever think you can’t handle it.”

You agreed with a slight nod, knowing there was no turning back.

The next morning, Polly greeted you with a mix of surprise and silent approval. She wasn’t a woman of many words, but she seemed to appreciate your willingness.

“Charlie is a calm boy, but he needs stability,” she said as she led you to the little boy’s room. “His mother was his refuge, and now it’s up to you to fill some of that void.”

When you entered Charlie’s room, your heart tightened. The boy, who couldn’t have been more than two years old, was sitting in his crib, playing with a teddy bear. His eyes were the spitting image of Grace: big, curious, and bright. Seeing you, he tilted his head in curiosity.

You slowly approached, smiling.

“Hey, little one,” you said quietly, feeling excitement fill your chest.

Charlie watched you for a moment before extending his arms to you, an immediate sign of trust that nearly brought tears to your eyes. You picked him up carefully, feeling his warmth against you. He rested his small head on your shoulder, and for the first time in a long time, you felt like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

The rest of the day passed in unexpected calm. You fed him, played with him, and took him for a walk in the garden. As you walked, you couldn’t help but notice that Charlie seemed more relaxed with you than you had anticipated. It was as if, somehow, he knew you were a part of his mother, a connection he still needed.

The passage of time hadn’t eased the void left by Grace, but caring for Charlie filled your days with a kind of purpose you’d never felt before. The little boy had a laugh that lit up even the gloomiest of rooms, and his small hands reached for yours with a trust that melted you. With each day you spent with him, you felt like you were helping keep a part of Grace alive.

Charlie followed you everywhere, whether it was in the garden, where he clung to your wobbly fingers as he tried to walk, or in the kitchen, where he babbled incomprehensible words as you prepared his food. What touched you most was the way he clung to you at night, his small hands tangled in your shirt as you rocked him to sleep.

You were aware that every smile you elicited from him was a silent defiance of the pain his mother’s death had left behind. Though you tried hard to stay strong, there were times when Grace’s absence was too much. On those nights, when Charlie finally fell asleep, you stayed by his side a little longer, whispering stories about his mother to him, wishing that, somehow, he could remember her.

One of those nights, after putting Charlie to bed, you went down to the kitchen in search of something warm to drink. The house was silent, save for the occasional creak of wood beneath your feet. The air was cold, and the light from the fireplace in the living room barely illuminated the hallway.

That was when you saw him. Thomas was sitting in one of the armchairs in front of the fire, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees, a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the table beside him. His eyes, normally sharp and watchful, were darkened by a deep sadness. His face, always controlled, now seemed vulnerable, almost unfamiliar.

For a moment, you hesitated. You had seen Thomas in many facets: calculating, furious, even protective. But never like this, broken.

“Thomas, are you okay?” you asked quietly, though the answer was obvious.

He looked up slowly, his blue eyes piercing through you, filled with a pain that seemed to have no end. He didn’t answer right away, instead taking another long sip from the bottle before setting it down on the table with a thud.

“I didn’t know you were awake,” he finally said, his voice hoarse.

You approached cautiously, sitting down on the armchair in front of him. The distance between you both seemed so short and, at the same time, infinite.

“I was thinking about Grace,” you murmured, trying to connect.

Thomas gave a bitter smile, but his eyes didn’t light up.

“There’s not a single moment when I don’t see her. Every corner of this damn house reminds me of her.”

The silence that followed was thick. You felt like any words you could say would be insufficient, but you couldn't just leave him in that state.

“Grace would never want to see you like this, Thomas,” you said softly. “She always saw the best in you, even when you didn’t.”

He let out a dry, humorless laugh.

“Grace was always better than I deserved. I brought her into this world, into danger, and it killed her.” His words came out laden with guilt. “Everything I touch breaks.”

You leaned forward, meeting his eyes.

“Grace chose to be with you. She knew who you were and what your world meant, but she still loved you. You can’t carry all the blame, Thomas.”

For the first time, Thomas seemed to truly hear you. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, you both shared a pain only you could understand. He let out a heavy sigh, as if he’d been carrying too great a weight for years.

“Charlie gives me a reason to keep going,” he admitted quietly. “But I can’t help but think of everything he lost. What I took from him.”

The pain in his voice tore at you. Without thinking, you stood up and walked over to him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“You’re not alone in this, Thomas. Charlie has a lot of people who love him. And so do you.” You paused, measuring your words. “I’m here.”

Thomas lifted his head, surprised by the openness in your voice.

“Thank you,” he finally said, his whisper barely audible.

You stayed by his side as the night wore on, both of you silent, but this time it wasn’t an awkward silence. It was the kind of stillness that comes from sharing a common pain.

The days in the Shelby house followed a steady, almost predictable rhythm. The mornings were Charlie's: from the first light of day, the little boy filled the house with his laughter and babbling, and you were there for each of those moments. But the nights... the nights were different.

Since that first time you found Thomas broken in front of the fireplace, something had changed between the two of you. They didn't always talk, but the presence of each other was enough. So, every night after putting Charlie to bed, your steps inevitably led you to the living room, where Thomas waited for you, his silhouette illuminated by the flames of the fire.

The first few nights were a timid exchange of words. Thomas offered you a glass of whiskey, which you accepted although you barely touched it, and the two of you sat in silence, watching the flames dance. Every now and then, he shared fragments of memories about Grace, little anecdotes that made you smile or sometimes let out a stifled laugh.

“Grace always made fun of my smoking,” he commented one night, with a slight smile. “She said I looked like a cheap actor trying to look sophisticated.”

You laughed softly, imagining your sister with her sharp wit and love of little jokes.

“That sounds like Grace,” you said, your voice heavy with nostalgia.

Over time, conversations became more fluid, less restrained. You shared memories of your childhood with Grace, little secrets that only the two of you knew. Thomas listened intently, his eyes softening with each story, as if through your words he could feel his wife’s presence again.

“You know?” you said, staring into the fire. “I always thought you were Grace’s worst mistake.”

Thomas, who had been staring at his glass of whiskey, looked up slowly, one eyebrow arched.

“And now?” he asked, his tone neutral, but his eyes heavy with curiosity.

You sighed, playing with the rim of your glass.

“Now… I’m not so sure.” You looked at him, your words softer than you’d planned. “Grace was happy with you. And that’s what matters, isn’t it?”

Thomas didn’t answer right away. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he watched you closely.

“I’m not a good man,” he finally said, his voice low, almost a whisper. “I never have been. But with Grace… she made me want to be better.”

You nodded slowly, understanding the weight of his words.

“We all have our shadows, Thomas. But I’ve seen how you are with Charlie, how you talk about Grace. Maybe you’re not as bad as I always thought.”

He let out a dry laugh, but there was a glint of something else in his eyes, something that seemed like a mix of relief and gratitude.

“That’s the closest thing to a compliment I’ve heard from you,” he said, his tone mocking, though his smile was genuine.

“Don’t get used to it,” you replied, smiling back.

With each passing night, the relationship between the two of you transformed. The conversations became deeper, more sincere. Thomas showed you a side that few knew about: the man behind the boss, the husband, the father struggling to find balance in a world full of chaos.

One night, after a long silence, Thomas confessed something that surprised you.

“I didn’t think you could forgive me,” he said, his words laden with a weight he seemed to have been carrying for a long time. “Not after everything.”

You stared at him, sensing the sincerity in his voice.

“It’s not easy to forgive, Thomas. But I also know that life is too short to hold on to hate.”

For a moment, you thought you were going to see tears in his eyes, but Thomas just nodded, clenching his jaw as he looked away.

Even if everything was fine between you and Thomas, there was always something off. The next day, the sun was shining softly that afternoon, and a light breeze rustled the leaves, making everything seem almost calm, almost normal.

Charlie was swinging happily in a baby swing that Thomas had had installed months ago. You stood nearby, watching him with a smile as you gently pushed the swing, making sure it wasn’t too high.

Charlie giggled, and when the swing stopped, he raised his arms to you, asking to be pulled out. You picked him up easily, holding him against your hip as he wrapped his arms around your neck. He looked at you with those big, bright eyes that reminded you so much of Grace, and something in your chest tightened.

“I love you, little one,” you murmured, gently kissing his forehead.

The little boy stared at you for a moment, then rested his little head on your shoulder and, in a barely audible voice, whispered,

“Mommy.”

The world seemed to stop. The air became thick, and for an instant, you couldn’t move or breathe. Your heart skipped a beat as the weight of that word fell upon you. You didn’t know what to say. Charlie didn’t fully understand what he had just said, but to you, the meaning was overwhelming.

Before you could react, a deep, sharp voice broke the silence.

“What did you say?”

You turned around suddenly and saw Thomas standing a few feet away. His face was tense, his eyes dark and filled with a mix of surprise and suppressed fury. He had returned earlier than expected and had clearly heard his son’s words.

—Thomas… —you started to say, trying to calm him down.

—Why is he calling you "Mom"? —he interrupted, his voice low but full of intensity.

Charlie, oblivious to the tension, clung to you with an innocent smile, his small hands playing with your hair. The image must have been a shock to Thomas, a painful reminder of what he’d lost.

“He’s just a kid, Thomas,” you said calmly, setting Charlie down so he could play again. “He doesn’t know what he’s saying. I would never try to take Grace’s place.”

Thomas took a step forward, his posture rigid.

“But you are,” he said, his voice raspy. “You’re looking out for him, you’re comforting him, and now he thinks you—” He paused, as if the words were too painful to say out loud.

“I’m here because I wanted Charlie to have someone to look out for him, to love him. I’m not trying to replace Grace, Thomas. I never could,” you replied, trying to keep your composure.

“Oh, yeah?” he snapped, his tone bitter. “And what do you think is going to happen if you keep this up?” He’ll see you as his mother.

His words were like blades, and you felt a lump in your throat, but you weren’t going to back down.

“That’s not fair!” you exclaimed, raising your voice. “I’ve done everything you asked of me, Thomas. I’ve been here, taking care of Charlie, helping you keep this home standing. And now you’re blaming me for something I can’t even control?”

Thomas clenched his fists, his eyes burning with frustration.

“You don’t understand. This isn’t your place. You’re not his mother. You never will be.”

The words were like a blow, but you refused to let them affect you any more than necessary.

“You’re right, Thomas,” you said, your voice cold. “I’m not his mother. But at least I’m here for him. And you? Where are you when he needs you? Or do you prefer to hide behind your whiskey and your business, letting others deal with the pain?”

Thomas took a step closer, his face now just inches from yours.

“Be careful what you say.”

“Why?” you replied, challenging him with your gaze. “Because you don’t like hearing the truth?”

The silence that followed was sharp, both of you breathing heavily, the tension between you almost tangible. Finally, Thomas took a step back, his face hardening.

“If you can’t understand your place here, then maybe you shouldn’t be here.”

Those words were a final blow. You nodded slowly, your expression cold but hurt.

“Understood.”

Without saying anything else, you turned and walked into the house, leaving Thomas alone in the garden. You felt a mix of rage and sadness as you climbed the stairs to your room. Everything you had done, all the effort, seemed to have been in vain. You leaned against the closed door, trying to control the tears that threatened to spill out.

The days that followed that tense confrontation with Thomas were tinged with an awkward silence in the house. The air seemed heavier, as if the very walls held back unspoken words and hurt feelings. But the most noticeable change was in Charlie.

The little boy, who used to be an endless source of laughter and energy, now seemed to be caught in a cloud of restlessness. His demeanor changed dramatically; laughter had been replaced by sobs, and his usual enthusiasm for play had given way to an irritable, brooding attitude. Every little inconvenience, from a toy that didn't work the way he wanted it to the lack of his favorite snack, made him burst into tears.

It hurt to see him like this, but the worst thing was that you knew why. Charlie missed the closest thing he'd had to a mother in the last few months. And even though you'd tried to keep your distance after the argument with Thomas, you couldn't help but worry about the boy.

That afternoon, Charlie was sitting on the living room floor, tightly hugging a teddy bear that Grace had given him. Tears ran down his cheeks as he murmured between sobs:

"Mom..."

You knelt beside him, feeling a lump in your throat.

"I know, honey," you said softly, stroking his hair. "I know you miss her."

Charlie turned to you, his little eyes full of desperation.

"Mom," he said.

It was like a dagger straight to the heart. Your instinct was to hug him, but you stopped, remembering Thomas' words.

“Oh, little Charlie,” you said finally, your voice breaking.

The little boy didn’t understand, and you knew it. To him, absence was a void that was impossible to fill. His sobs increased, and in the end, you couldn’t hold back any longer. You lifted him into your arms, holding him tightly as he cried against your chest.

“I’m here now,” you murmured, trying to calm him down. “I’m not leaving, okay?”

At that moment, the door opened, and Thomas entered the room. His gaze hardened as he took in the scene before him: you holding Charlie, trying to comfort him like a mother would.

“What’s going on here?” he asked, his voice cold.

Charlie turned to his father, his little face still wet with tears.

“Dad… Mom.”

Thomas tensed his jaw, his gaze darkening even further. He took a step toward you, his eyes fixed on you.

The boy clung to you, but was eventually led to his room by a maid. Once he was out of the room, Thomas turned to you.

“What part of ‘you can’t be his mother’ didn’t you understand?” he said, his voice low but filled with contained anger.

You stood up, crossing your arms.

“Thomas, don’t you see what’s happening? Charlie is hurting. He misses his mother, and for now, I’m the closest thing he has. Why can’t you just accept it?”

Thomas laughed, but there was no humor in his voice.

“Accept it? You want me to accept my son starting to call you mom while Grace is in her grave? Is that what you want?”

“No, what I want is for you to stop being so selfish,” you replied, raising your voice. “This isn’t about you, Thomas. It’s about Charles. He needs someone, and you can’t be everything to him.”

Thomas took a step closer, his presence imposing.

“You don’t decide what my son needs. I’m his father.”

“And I’m the only person who’s been here for him while you drown in your own pain,” you said, not backing down. “But it’s okay, Thomas. If that’s what you want, I’ll leave. But when Charlie keeps crying at night, when he asks you why I left him, you’ll be the one responsible.”

Thomas didn’t answer right away. His gaze was hard, but there was something else going on, too: an internal struggle, a battle between his pride and the reality that was hitting him harder and harder.

Finally, he took a step back, breaking eye contact.

“Do what you want,” he murmured, before exiting the room and leaving you alone.

The next few days were marked by an awkward silence between you and Thomas. Even though he had made it clear that he didn’t want you anywhere near Charlie, you couldn’t just walk away. Not when the little boy needed you more than ever. So, defying Thomas’ orders, you continued to look after the boy. After all, someone had to do it.

That night, the Shelby house was unusually quiet. Charlie had had a long day and was restless, his small body still shaking from time to time from residual sobs. You held him in your arms, gently rocking him as you walked around the room, whispering soothing words to him. Eventually, his eyes began to close, and his breathing became more rhythmic.

The house was empty. Thomas had gone out, as he often did lately, immersing himself in his business and affairs. Everything seemed calm, but there was an uneasiness in the air that you couldn’t shake.

Suddenly, a noise downstairs broke the silence. At first you thought maybe Thomas had returned, but a quick glance at the clock made you dismiss that idea. You clutched Charlie to your chest, your senses heightening. Another noise, this time clearer: the creaking of a door carefully opening.

Your heart began to pound, but you kept your cool. You couldn’t allow yourself to lose control. Slowly, you made your way to the bedroom door, making sure Charlie was safe in your arms.

The sound of footsteps ascending the stairs grew clearer and clearer. Then, a figure appeared in the doorway, a tall, burly man with a cold, cruel gaze. He held a gun, his face partially hidden by a handkerchief.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” the man said, his voice deep and full of mockery. “I didn’t expect to find a babysitter.”

You said nothing, your mind working quickly. The man pointed the gun at you, a gesture that made it clear he wasn’t there to talk.

“Where’s Shelby?” he asked, taking a step forward. “I know she’s not far away. But in the meantime…” his eyes fell on Charlie, who began to fidget in your arms, sensing danger. “Maybe we can send her a message, huh?”

“You don’t have to do this,” you said in a firm, yet calm voice. “Thomas will be back soon, and when he does, you won’t want to be here.”

The man laughed, a harsh, cruel sound.

“And what are you going to do?” he snapped. “Another empty threat? I’m here to settle a score, and if it means hurting the one you care about most…” He motioned to Charlie with a shake of his head.

Charlie began to cry, his small fists clinging to your shirt. Your instinct was to protect him, positioning him so that his body was out of reach of the gun. Despite the fear you felt, you kept your voice calm.

“You’re not going to touch him. If it’s Thomas you want, then he’s him you’ll face. But not a child.”

The man paused, considering your words, but his expression showed no sign of mercy.

“The world is not so kind, young lady.”

Before he could move, another noise echoed through the house. This time, the unmistakable thud of a door slamming shut. The man turned quickly, raising the gun, but before he could react, Thomas appeared in the doorway.

His gaze was deadly. In a quick, calculated move, he pulled out his pistol and fired without hesitation. The sound was deafening in the small room, and the man fell to the floor with a thud, the gun slipping from his hand.

Thomas moved forward slowly, his eyes fixed on the intruder’s body to make sure he posed no further threat. When he was sure, he turned his attention back to you and Charlie.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice low but urgent.

Charlie was still crying, his tears soaking your shirt. You nodded, though your heart was still pounding.

“Yeah, we’re okay,” you murmured, trying to calm Charlie as you cradled him against you.

Thomas moved closer, placing a firm but gentle hand on your shoulder.

“Take him downstairs,” he said. “I’ll take care of this.”

You nodded again, walking out of the room with Charlie still in your arms. His sobs began to subside as you descended the stairs, the warmth of your embrace providing him with a modicum of comfort.

When you reached the living room, you sat down on the couch, holding Charlie close. Shortly after, Thomas came down, his steps slower, his expression hardened. He sat down in front of you, his gaze assessing you.

“I shouldn’t have left you alone with him,” he finally said, his voice heavy with a mix of guilt and concern.

“Thomas… it’s not your fault,” you replied, though you knew it wasn’t enough to ease his burden.

For the first time in days, his eyes showed something other than fury. There was fear there, fear of what could have happened if he had arrived a minute later.

As you rocked gently, Charlie’s little face buried in your chest, while you ran your fingers through his hair, murmuring soothing words.

Thomas sat across from you, his elbows resting on his knees and his hands clasped together, staring at the floor as if he was trapped in thought. The dim light from the lamp cast deep shadows on his face, highlighting the hardness of his features. But his eyes… his eyes showed something different that night: vulnerability.

“I shouldn’t have taken you away from Charlie,” he said suddenly, breaking the silence with a low tone, almost a whisper. He wasn’t looking at you, but his voice was heavy with remorse. “It was a mistake.”

You look up, surprised by his words. You had expected many things from Thomas Shelby, but not an apology.

“Thomas…” you began, but he held up a hand, indicating that he wasn’t finished yet.

“Ever since Grace died, I’ve tried to protect him, protect us both. But in doing so, all I’ve done is fail him. I can’t give him what he needs.” He finally looked up, his eyes meeting yours. “But you can.”

The words hit you with a mix of relief and pain. You knew how much it had cost him to admit that, how much it meant to him to acknowledge that he couldn’t do everything alone.

“Charlie needs you, more than I wanted to admit. I’ve seen you with him, how he calms down in your arms, how he trusts you.” Thomas ran a hand over his face, sighing deeply. “And I was an idiot to try to push you away from him.”

You looked down at Charlie, who was breathing easier now, his fingers gently clinging to your shirt. A feeling of warmth and relief settled in your chest. You had been willing to do anything for that little boy, even if it meant facing Thomas Shelby.

“Thank you for saying it, Thomas,” you finally said, your voice soft but firm. “But I need you to trust me, to understand that I would never do anything to hurt him.”

Thomas nodded slowly, his eyes still locked with yours. There was a weight in his gaze, but also a sort of unspoken truce.

“I know,” he admitted. “And I’m grateful. More than I can express.”

He leaned forward, his hands resting on his knees as he watched Charlie with a mix of tenderness and pain.

“I never wanted him to grow up without a mother. And I know you’ll never be able to replace Grace, but what you do for him… that’s the closest thing to a home I can offer him now.”

The lump in your throat tightened, but you forced yourself to keep your composure.

“I’ll do everything I can for him, Thomas. Always.”

For the first time in what seemed like weeks, Thomas smiled, albeit a weak, tired smile.

“I know,” he said simply.

Silence fell between you again, but this time it wasn’t awkward. It was a silence of understanding, of acceptance. Charlie had fallen asleep, his little rhythmic sighs filling the room.

Thomas stood up, walking towards you with slow steps. He leaned down slightly, placing a hand on Charlie’s head and stroking his hair gently. Then, his eyes met yours again.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice barely audible, but loaded with meaning.

You simply nodded, no need for words.

The next few days were quieter in the house. Thomas allowed you to care for Charlie without interference, and even began to participate more in the moments you shared with the little one. There was a routine that was beginning to feel, if not normal, at least less tense.

You and Thomas also began to talk more. At first, it was practical conversations, about Charlie or about how to reinforce the security of the house. But little by little, those dialogues transformed into something more personal. Moments when, for a brief moment, Thomas Shelby wasn’t the ruthless leader of the Peaky Blinders, but simply a man trying to navigate loss.

One night, after you’d put Charlie to bed, you found Thomas in the living room, a glass of whiskey in his hand. The soft light from the table lamp illuminated the room, creating a warm, almost intimate atmosphere. He was sitting in the armchair by the fireplace, his gaze lost in the flames.

“Everything okay?” you asked, carefully entering the room.

Thomas looked up, his expression relaxing at the sight of you.

“Yeah,” he replied, though his tone said otherwise. “Just… thinking.”

You walked over and sat on the couch across from him. You didn’t want to push him, but there was something in his gaze that night that worried you.

“About Grace?” you asked softly.

He nodded, taking a sip of his whiskey before setting the glass down on the table beside him.

“Always Grace,” he murmured. “There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think about her. What could have been if…” He paused, his jaw tightening.

You didn’t say anything, allowing him space to speak if he needed to. You knew that, as hard as it was for him, these moments of vulnerability were important.

“Sometimes I think I’m losing her,” he continued, his voice barely a whisper. “Her face, her voice… it’s all fading away, and that scares me more than anything.”

Your heart clenched at his confession. Thomas, the man who always seemed so strong, was pouring his soul out in front of you. Without thinking too hard, you stood up and walked over, standing next to him.

“You won’t lose her, Thomas,” you said softly. “She’ll always be a part of you, of Charlie. Nothing will change that.”

He looked at you, his blue eyes shining in the firelight. There was something in his gaze, a mix of pain, gratitude, and something else you couldn’t quite put your finger on. Without thinking, he raised a hand and gently brushed it against your cheek.

The gesture took you by surprise, but you didn’t pull away. Instead, you found yourself leaning slightly into him, until his lips met yours in a soft kiss, laden with repressed emotion. It was a brief moment, but it was intense, as if both of you were allowing yourselves to feel something you’d been denying for far too long.

But as soon as it was over, Thomas pulled away, his expression changing from vulnerability to guilt in an instant.

“This shouldn’t have happened,” he said, his voice hard and laden with regret. He stood up quickly, moving away from you as if the contact had burned. “I can’t… I can’t do this to Grace.”

The pain in his voice was palpable, but it didn’t hurt any less that his words were hurting you, too. You stayed on the couch, trying to process what had just happened.

“Thomas…” you tried to speak, but he held up a hand to stop you.

“No. I can’t,” he repeated, his tone harsher. “It was a mistake. I shouldn’t have…”

You stood up, the lump in your throat getting tighter with each word he said.

“A mistake?” you asked, your voice shaking slightly.

He didn’t answer, but his silence was enough to confirm it. You felt your eyes begin to fill with tears, but you refused to let them fall in front of him.

“I understand,” you finally said, your voice firmer than you expected. “Maybe I shouldn’t have stayed so long.”

Without giving him a chance to respond, you turned and walked out of the room, your heart pounding in your chest. You climbed the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last, until you reached your room. You closed the door behind you, letting the tears finally fall.

The days following the kiss and the rejection were unbearably tense. You and Thomas had gone back to barely speaking beyond what was necessary. Conversations were limited to the basics: directions for Charlie, changes around the house, or simple mechanical greetings. Any vestige of the connection you had begun to build seemed to have faded, leaving an awkward chasm between you.

It hurt, more than you wanted to admit. You had accepted that Thomas still carried Grace in his heart, but you hadn’t expected the kiss you shared, brief but full of meaning, to become a wall between you.

Finally, one night, after you had put Charlie to sleep, you found yourself unable to bear the coldness any longer. You knew you couldn’t continue living in the same house, taking care of Charlie, and pretending everything was okay when it wasn’t.

You found him in the living room, as always, with a glass of whiskey in his hand. He barely looked up when you entered, but you didn’t say anything right away. You closed the door behind you and stood there, watching him.

“How long are we going to keep this up, Thomas?” you finally asked, breaking the silence with a voice filled with frustration.

Thomas didn’t even flinch. He took a sip of his whiskey before answering, his tone indifferent.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Your jaw tightened, and you took a step forward.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about. This. Us. Pretending like nothing happened, when we both know it did.”

Thomas finally looked up, his blue eyes cold and calculating.

“There is no ‘us,’” he said harshly. “There can’t be.”

His words were like a punch to the gut, but you didn’t back down.

“And that’s it?” you replied, your voice rising slightly. “Are you going to keep hiding behind Grace’s memory, using your guilt as an excuse to keep everyone at a distance?”

Thomas�� expression hardened, and he set his glass down with a thud.

“Be careful what you say,” he warned, his voice low but dangerous.

But you were too furious to stop yourself. The pressure of the past few days, the built-up tension, it all came crashing down.

“Careful?” you repeated, taking a step closer. “I’m tired of walking on eggshells around you, Thomas. What’s wrong with you? Why do you insist on pushing everyone away?”

Thomas stood up suddenly, his imposing presence filling the room.

“Because that’s what I do,” he snapped. Because the people I care about always end up hurt or dead.

“And that’s an excuse to treat me like that?” You took a step closer, your eyes flashing with fury. “I’m not Grace! You can’t keep punishing me for something I can’t change.”

The tension in the room was palpable, each word a sharp dart. Before you could think, you grabbed an empty glass from the table and threw it hard. The glass crashed into the wall behind him, shattering into pieces.

Thomas reacted immediately, crossing the distance between you in a matter of seconds. Before you could move, he roughly grabbed you by the arms, his grip firm but not painful. His eyes burned with an intensity that took your breath away.

“Enough!” he growled, his voice hoarse and heavy with repressed emotion.

You were about to retort, to fight against his hold, when suddenly, without warning, his lips crashed against yours. It was a desperate, hungry kiss, as if both of them were trying to drown all the pain, frustration, and guilt in that moment.

You resisted for a moment, surprised by the abruptness, but quickly gave in, kissing him back with equal intensity. His hands, which had previously held you tightly, slid down to your waist, pulling you closer.

The world around you disappeared. There was no more arguing, no more awkward silences. Just the warmth of his lips, the frantic beat of your heart, and the feeling of being, for the first time in days, completely alive.

His lips left yours for an instant, moving down to your neck, as his hands eagerly explored. Everything about him was urgency, need held back for too long. There were no words between you, just the ragged sound of breaths and the steady throb of a dormant desire that had finally exploded.

“Tommy…” you murmured in whispers, your fingers getting lost in his dark hair as he lifted you slightly, leaning you against the nearby wall.

He responded with a growl, capturing your lips again, as if afraid that moving away for a second might break the connection. It was a forbidden moment, but you were both too far away to stop.

The room seemed to fill with heat as every barrier crumbled. Thomas was all fire, and you consumed yourself with it without remorse.

Finally, when the intensity subsided, you both lay still, breathing hard, still entwined. His eyes searched you, and for an instant, you saw something more than desire. It was a vulnerability he rarely showed, an acknowledgement that he needed you more than he was willing to admit.

He didn’t apologize this time. There was no room for words; the silence between you spoke for itself. And in that moment, you knew nothing would ever be the same again.

[nvuy]

palingenesis — il capitano

summary. oh, to the gods, and to be reborn again from your rib.

notes. “nvuy do the corpse bride capitano fic” said about three people so i did it. is this actually corpse bride? no. do i care? also no. my halloween present that only certified freaks are allowed to read. capitano is geniunely not mentioned by his name or his status, so LOWKEY. you could read this as any male lead you want, i guess. but uh… it’s capitano. well. it’s supposed to be.

warnings. mentions of death. mentions of decay (but the khaenri’ah version of decay). capitano is literally a dead man walking. tangents about god and love. standard nvuy fic where everyone is miserable. angst if you squint.

“You used to love me for me, but I don’t even know what I am anymore.” 

There’s a small huff of laughter as you bring your knees to your chest. You wonder how he would react to you after all these years. You surely look different, and rot has set its teeth into your skin, and it morphs into his least favourite colour. 

You wonder briefly, if he would even remember you, was he to ever return. How childish.

You pick up a lone stick in the soil next to you and poke at the withered and abandoned white and yellow orchards surrounding the stone. 

His grave sits idly, silent. 

“I lost myself the day you died,” you admit. Your throat constricts for a moment and you struggle to breathe. “I had no idea what to do.” You lean against the tree stump, as you always do. “I still don’t.” 

His name is etched from many many centuries ago. Not by you, no. You hadn’t even attended the funeral, and to this day, you regretted it. Regret was a terrible ache that never quelled nor strayed too far from your heart. 

The flowers were dead now. You’d laid them here almost a hundred years ago. You hadn’t expected them to live, but the petals were now an ashy black, and the edges that used to be soft and rubbery were now crumbling like paper against your fingers. The petals fell to small pieces. 

The land was withering. Of course, the flowers would rot as well. 

“You’d hate what your home has become,” you tell him. “We’re all rotting. And it all hurts.” You grimace next, but almost playfully. “Everything is blue. You hate blue. You used to tell me it upset you.” You look down at your forearm, and the withering aches upon your skin. “Even I’m turning blue.” It’s more so black than it is blue, but whatever colour it may be, it scars and will never leave. It is your fate, as it is your people’s. 

The forest is quiet. 

His body was buried amongst his favourite orchard field, but those flowers are long gone now, and all that remains is the black and blue prickly grass that you sit in, and a stone with his name left in it. He is somewhere below the ground, his body long decayed and faded and given life to the soil that once grew the most beautiful greenery you’d ever seen. 

Not even that remained. 

“If you were alive, you’d… y’know…” You tilt your head. “You’d rot, too. And for that, I’m grateful you died with glory.” You stare out into the dead fields. “Though, I can’t help but be selfish. I think it would hurt less if you were here.” 

And there it is. 

You hum soundly. “Yeah… you made everything hurt less.” 

There’s a ring in your palm. It’s small, just large enough to slot nicely around the swell of your fourth finger, but the rot has dug into your flesh just enough that it doesn’t fit anymore. Not the way it used to. 

It’s beautiful, however. Silver with white and blue diamonds. He bestowed it to you one night, though it was significantly after his proposal. The proposal itself was… special. Not in a bad way — but in his way. He had been missing for several days after his army had been struck with an ambush. Only a few men had initially returned to seek refuge and aid from the city. 

It was only two months later, after the city had mourned the soldiers’ losses, that they had returned. Bloodied, battered, beaten, but they had returned. 

He’d spotted you that day when he’d ventured out alone to visit his favourite field of flowers. You were sitting amidst the orchards, because this was where he’d usually be. 

And by your wishes, he returned. 

“It’s you,” you heard him whisper. 

You’d never heard a more beautiful sound. 

You turned quickly and dropped the flower from your hands. The colour almost drained from your face before a newfound pleasantry blossomed across your cheeks. You smiled, and it’s the first time you’ve done so in months. “You’re alive.” 

You took a hesitant step forward, as if unsure if his body would crumble to dust the moment you touched him. 

You sobbed pathetically. You held his face, or what remained of it. “You’re here. I thought you–” 

“I am here.” 

You think it silly now, believing he was dead over and over again. Every time he departed he’d come after the expected arrival date, and even then you used to panic and flourish and do everything but accept he was really gone this time. 

And now. 

Now that he is gone, it only took you three-hundred and ninety-four years to accept it. The rest of those you were busy returning to his grave and retelling your day as if he was alive and listening. 

The few people that were left on this side of the city pitied you. Even the grand old Mage had whispered that you’d better off leaving the dead to sleep soundly before he’d left for Snezhnaya. There was nothing you could have done to prevent this, or what occurred afterward. 

You had asked the Mage, once, if necromancy was truly a thing possible. 

“I am sure, even if it was, living dead is worse than living alive,” he had told you one day. “The past is finished.” 

“Is it selfish to think this way?” 

He looked down at you, and there was pity in his glance. “Very.” You eyed the ring still captured around your finger. “But, love is selfish. To want one person for yourself. It is indulgent.” 

“I suppose,” you whispered. “But possession is beautiful.”

And it had been beautiful. 

Just you and him. 

It was hard to adapt. Still is, really. You forget him for days at a time, and then you remember, and then you return. You stop and stare at walls. You glance to where he would be standing if he was around; next to you, at the dinner table, on his side of the bed. You never truly made the bed your very own. It was his, once. 

Just as your heart was — you weren’t able to develop the courage to move onwards with your life, so you were trapped within purgatory; swindled in a void of pure blue, like his eyes. 

Because isn’t being someone’s everything so special? 

Especially someone like him. 

Someone so brave, and courteous, and gentle. 

You never deserved that, really. So it makes sense why he disappeared just as quickly as he appeared in your life. Unfairness. 

You look down at the ring again. 

“You would be mine?” he asked one day, laying beside you in the field. “If I asked?”

You stared up at the sky. “I already am.” 

That pulled a small puff of laughter from him, and he sat up. You followed shortly, facing him. “I have a ring. And a proposition.” 

Oh. You looked down on what he was offering you. 

“It is your burden to oblige, and it is your choice.” You couldn’t see his face clearly through his armour, but there was a flash of that awful treacherous blue he hated so much. “But, if you’ll have me, I will have you. In this life, you and I will be as one, and never apart again.” 

“That is a bold claim to make,” you told him. “There is no guarantee you will not die soon.” 

“To which I rephrase: even when I am gone and you still walk these plains, you will be mine, and I will be yours, and my love for you will blossom through the soil and bloom the flowers that you love so much.” 

You laugh gently. Such a stupid man. 

You want to crush the ring until it welds flat and unwearable. 

Marriage is a privilege to the blessed, and you’re far from it. You receive no watchful eye from the Gods; they don’t care. They killed everyone you ever knew, and loved, and shared this miserable life with. 

The jewel squeaks in its confines as you squeeze. 

Such a stupid ring. 

You breathe in shakily. Stupid, stupid fantasy. Stupid games. Stupid delusions and useless pining and all of this heartache was for nothing and–

How hard do you have to believe in love to love the same person for an eternity? How hard do you have to imagine a world where everything is perfect when what is foretold to be eternal dies with the soul and the flowers in the rot? 

How long do man and Gods have to continue fighting each other before they realise it is futile? Gods are not kind, man even less so. 

Beautiful rot and ruin. 

That’s the world. 

The crows that sing in the trees screech their awful song to mock you. 

So, you drop the ring. You abandon it right where he had abandoned you in the soil. The silver rolls along the stone until it comes to a stop on the cracks. 

And it sits. 

You consider picking it back up. 

You don’t. 

Instead, you stand and turn to leave. 

Fate is fickle, however. 

If you had picked the ring back up, perhaps none of this would’ve happened. 

The breeze hits hard behind you and it sends chills down your spine. 

You glance up. 

The crows are making awful noises again, and you grimace. Though the spindly trees are ugly, you find there’s nothing uglier than the sound of those birds. 

He rather liked them.  

You step away.

Something sharp scratches against your ankle and then twists, and you scream. 

It’s a branch of some sort, and it moves and wriggles like a worm when you free your foot from its grasp. It twitches as if it has not moved in years, as if the bones inside of it were finally coming to life. 

It retreats into the soil beside his grave. 

Then, nothing. 

Nothing moves. 

The crows still and quiet, and you feel as though you can’t find the energy or courage to breathe. Your ankle is covered in soil and scratches, and you’re sure from how weak it stands when you try to apply weight to it that it’s twisted at best and completely sprained at worst. 

The soil does not stir. 

Until it does.

A hand pops a hole through the ground, and it is as still as the branch was, twitching and writhing and feeling through the open air for leverage. 

A hand. A hand like yours—covered in rot and ruin, purple and blue, and the phalanges are swollen with wither and time.

You step back and bite your tongue. A wrist reveals itself next, consistent with blue and bruise, and it reaches until the bloodied terrible fingers squeeze the soil and begin to pull. The hand claws and claws and digs itself from the ground, fingernails dirtied and brown. 

You want to scream. 

Nobody would hear you all the way out here. 

An elbow. It climbs and climbs, revealing more rot and decay. It writhes as if in pain, and you don’t doubt it so. 

You swallow hard. 

A shoulder. Sides of the neck reveal itself through the soil, caked in mud and wear and tear. It’s other arm tears free from the ground. 

And then a face. 

A face unidentifiable and ruined. Sullied with rot and bruise and wear and fade and filth. Two horrific blue lights of sort cast through the pain and the shadow that shrouds its face, and it only prompts you to step back even further. 

To that, the creature leans forward as best it can to try and grab your ankle. It’s waist is stuck in the soil, and it tries to pull itself out, despite how weak it is. 

“It’s you…” the creature whispers. 

You can’t move. You don’t even blink. Your breathing only comes out in short pathetic bursts. 

You’re not sure what it is, but rot has completely disfigured it beyond recognition. It’s sickening to look at. It’s worse than anything you could ever comprehend, and you imagine one day that you will appear the same. 

It manages to free itself from the confines of the soil, though it cannot stand. It hasn’t done so in centuries, nd the feeling of moving limbs are foreign to it, being entrapped below the ground for so long. 

It tries again to reach for you. It’s fingers brush just shy of your foot.  

You swallow hard. “Who…” You feel as though you already know the answer. 

There’s a single eye that you barely recognise. Deep blue like violet satin robes. Darker than the dead blue spruce. Darker than the sky, and lighter than the depths of the ocean where the sun could not reach. 

You know him. 

You bite your tongue. 

Waves of black hair as deep as shadows drown you on both sides until the world has swallowed the two of you whole. 

“I’m yours,” he reminds. “Correct?” He raises the ring you let go of.

It is him. 

You fall to your knees in front of him despite the fear and nausea churning in your stomach. He almost leaps on top of you, but settles in front, hands reaching forward to rest on your legs. He has not felt the warmth of another person, or anything, for five-hundred years, and he only simply freezes at the feeling. 

You furrow your brows and try to control your breathing. You try to push him off to sit up, but he does not budge. 

“You kept my ring.”

Your fingers curl around what remains of his shoulders and he takes your hand. 

“It is you,” you whisper. “How’re you–” 

His old uniform he was buried in is caked in soil, and it’s covered you, as well. He does not bring himself off of the floor, but he leans back just enough to allow you to sit up. You feel you can’t turn to run just yet, and you’re not sure if you want to. 

You can’t steady your breathing. 

He cannot move his legs properly, and so while you freeze, he uses your corpse as leverage to climb further up and rest upon your shoulder. He is heavy, as heavy as a corpse is, but you find comfort in the weight, somewhere. 

“You look so different,” he comments. Rotten fingers come forth to graze the same textured remainders of true flesh across your cheek. “What has this world done to you?” 

“You died,” you say. His lips rest against your cheek and he hums. “I…” 

“I abandoned you.” 

“I grieved over you for five centuries,” you quickly finish. “You were alive this entire time in the ground?” 

“I don’t know,” he answers. “I don’t think so. I feel as though time hasn’t moved at all. But it has.” He looks around, your face still in his hands. “This is the field.” 

You nod briskly. 

“Everything’s dead,” he comments. 

“It has been,” you reply. “For years.” You look elsewhere. “Everyone’s dead.” 

He holds you tight. “I left you in a world like this.” His hair is matted and disgusting, but you reach up and rest a hand on his crown. Guilt presses into his chest like a weight, and he wills himself to ignore it, despite how heavy it is. 

He is a corpse. A corpse. Like you. Like everyone that remains in this place. 

And he scares you. 

Despite how tight he holds you, you fear him. You feel for a moment you are hallucinating; this can’t be real. Your husband cannot spring from the soil and restate his love. Not like this. 

True death was incurable, and he had died many moons before the war in battle. He had sacrificed himself for victory and peace, only for it to end when the Archons set forth and destroyed your home. You still remember them, even if most of them were dead now. That Barbatos and Rex Lapis remained, despite everything, and you wanted them both dead in return. Dead and buried and never to return in the soil. 

“This isn’t real,” you whisper. 

“It is.” 

“No,” you try. “You died. You cannot reverse death.” 

“It is not reversed. I am still dead.” He wants to kiss you, but the fleeting warmth of your skin as you try to pull away and the soil and filth that rests upon his face shies you away with a flinch. “I can be yours again.” His fingers grace over the rot along your face. 

“It doesn’t make sense.” 

“I proposed that I would never part from you, and you I, even after death.” He holds the ring close to your face before he takes your hand. He rests it against your knuckles, perhaps admiring how the silver still shimmers against your skin. “It was a vow.” 

A vow, he says. Your face scrunches up in frustration. “I never married you.” 

“Marriage or not, the ring was a promise of my word, and you kept it all these years.” 

He takes your fingers gently before he parts them and slots the ring where it belongs. It nestles gently close to your knuckle and you swallow. Your finger felt strange without the piece, and wearing it again after only minutes satiated that discomfort. 

His face is… nothing you remember. 

His eyes are barely the same as they were before, and you turn away when he draws close again with a shaky breath.  

“Are you afraid of me?” He’d asked you that many years ago, many times. 

Even now, you feel the same. “Should I be?” You look out towards the dead fields, and you feel something cold bump against your cheek. 

His nose squishes against your skin when he kisses you close to your ear. “No.” 

It is only then through a gentle whisper and his lips do you muster the courage to look at him. He is so different. 

But, he’s still yours. 

“Are you the same man you were five-hundred years ago?” you ask him. 

He leans in as close as he can and his nose brushes against yours. His fingers lock tight around your hand and he squeezes; the silver ring imprints on your finger. 

He smiles, and you fall in love again. 

“I can be.” 

[yandere-sins]

Not to be the monsterfucker y'all know and love but I was running around, clearing the map today a bit while I was waiting for a visitor and I found these absolute UNITS of skeletons (They are called Death Shepherds):

Like HELLO???? I don't even mean that sexually but WHY ARE THEY SO FREAKIN' HOT???? (Sorry for the crap resolution on the first pic, I forgot screenshot's existed and used my phone, but then I remembered.)

Also they were HUGE BOYS (yes, plural, there were 2. Like Gale certainly has BJ height at most next to them, they were MASSIVE CHUNKS OF SKELETON AND ARMOR!!) compared to everyone else, even my Dragonborn Tav, and they kept reanimating the ghouls (which weren't as pretty), so I told my friend who was obviously appalled by how infatuated I was with the skeletons really tickled my inspiration for them, and I was thinking...

Yandere skeletons that are just your scary dog privilege, protection squad.

(And no, we are not sexualizing this time, this is not Sans Undertale.)

You should have died that day you met them, but without any apparent reason, they didn't attack you. They just watch you with their holes for eyes, ever so slightly creeping closer. It's not until the ghouls sticking around them notice you that you get into grave danger. You see those hungry, violent creatures charge at you, their claws scraping over stone and dirt as they come for your life, when, suddenly, the sound of a sharp blade cutting through the air and then flesh fills the crossroad where your unfortunate encounter takes place.

The scream ripping from your throat gets stuck as the head of the ghoul that attacked you rolls up to your feet, a now bloody sword lowering again as you hear the other ghouls whimper—whimper!—before they take off the other way. Instead, the two skeletons stalk closer, their armor rattling as if they were still living, breathing beings going off to war. Instead, one bends down, inspecting you with soulless eyes, its hand coming up to cup your cheek as if concerned with the horror etched into your face.

There's no getting rid of them. After standing around for what feels like ages, you are as confused as you are increasingly in a hurry to get away. Once you take enough steps away to turn your back to them without fearing being struck down, you make a mad dash for your life, running until your thighs burn and lungs beg for a moment to breathe—only to hear their armor rattle behind you.

Honestly, purely from a travel companion point of view, you cannot ask for anyone better. They are swift and skilled in battle, scaring away anyone who dares to come close to you, and incredibly low maintenance, as they don't need food or shelter, really. But they aren't mindless goons either, and that's where things get crazy.

Because one night, they decide they deserve cuddles for all the good they do.

As if being watched by the darkness in their eye sockets while you sleep isn't bad enough, you feel the hard armor press to your back one night, an arm—clothed but mere bones—wrapping around you from behind, face nestling into the nape of your neck. You can kind of come to terms with them trotting behind you all day, never saying anything, never leaving your side. You might even be thankful for their help when they keep robbers and goblins at bay and you out of any harm's way. Hell, you let them watch you do anything like eat, sleep, and—despite feeling unwarranted shame rake its claws down your body—bathe. But this was getting out of hand.

It could have been okay if it had only been a moment, but learning that these creatures sought out contact this intimate freaks you out. And it's never just a moment of putting their souls at ease, no. Because no matter how much you wriggle, they won't let go of you, their scraggy fingers digging into your flesh. You'll have to wait for them to switch if you want to try and escape, leaving everything behind to make a run for it in the middle of the night. But in stark contrast to you, who ran into the darkness without the time to collect things, they have all their belongings on them if they pick up their swords, and they can run endlessly without worrying about aches and stamina, catching up to you quickly. You'll just hang your head and be escorted back to camp when you decide to stop panicking, only for them to take the opportunity to rearrange and occupy both sides of your bedroll as they please once you want to lay down for another sleepless night.

It's not like you can get rid of them. You can't take them both on and if one falls, the other will just bring it back to life in an endless circle. You saw it before; no doubt it will happen again. Even if you talk to them, ask them questions, or shoo them away, they don't budge and cannot answer, getting into motion again only if you do. The most they ever give you to indicate their thoughts is laying their head to the side as if they don't understand you. Or admire you. Or stare at you adoringly. Who knows.

Things turn from bad to worse when you decide to end your adventure and return home. The stares you receive when you enter the city you live in with your hulking, undead companions are mortifying. Some people faint on the spot; others scream. And the two try to fight anyone trying to squeeze past them, seeing them as possible enemies to you. They made sure your life will never be the same. Neither friends nor family can get close to you, and no one dares to talk with you, trade, or even look your way. These two are creating a life where you'll be separated from anyone but them, and you begin to doubt they are doing it unintentionally. You'll never be able to free yourself unless you find a group that manages to actually kill them both.

But then again, as you stare at the night sky, stars twinkling above you, you can't help but feel bad for the two boney companions hugging you and resting their hard heads on your chest. The same ones that are so scarily indifferent, yet swift and merciless in a fight, straight out of a horror story with blood splattered on their white faces and swords in hand. Yet, they pick up flowers for you on the way or clean your equipment while you're asleep, hunting food for you and preparing it so you can cook and eat it right away. They are like needy puppies, putting their heads on top of yours while you read the map or admire the scenery, or hold onto your sleeve as you walk through a dark cave so you don't get lost. Clearly, they have some lingering sentiment, searching for warmth and affection from you. There's nowhere for you to run or hide, as they have all the time and strength to go after you. Maybe you shouldn't have given them names, shouldn't have treated them kindly when you started to travel together. But all these regrets come now when it's already too late.

Because they will let nothing and no one take you from them, no matter who or what they have to fight, just so they can have you all to themselves.

Their pretty, little, alive darling with a heart that races so fast whenever they do anything, be it scare or love you. 

__________________

Bonus points for you somehow dying despite their efforts (traps and magic are a bitch to avoid), so they keep reviving you, and they either... 

a.) succeed, and now you owe them your life and have to live with the knowledge of what it's like to die and that they'll most likely keep reviving you, even if you die of old age. So you'll suffer eternally with them.

b.) don't succeed, and can't accept/don't understand you're dead, so they carry your body around, trying to show you all the pretty things they learned you like as you slowly decay in their arms until you are a mere skeleton like them, so they lay you to rest in a grave with them, coming alive only when someone tries to rob your grave before returning to slumber next to you. You three won't even be apart in death.

Like, sorry guys, that's my emotional support yandere skeleton beloved ♥

[rheanyraaaa]

Water Lilly Part 4

Enemies To Lovers

Robb Stark x Frey!Reader (F)

summary: Robb & You married via forced/arranged marriage between Starks and the Frey’s, yet the two of you refuse to get along.

——————————————————————————

The wind howled outside the tent, a bleak reminder of the late autumn chill that had settled across the camp. Inside, however, there was only silence, heavy and strained as you sat on opposite ends of the space you now shared with Robb. He was sharpening his sword, the steady scrape of metal against stone echoing like an accusation in the quiet. The air between you felt thick, weighted with everything unsaid, each one of you refusing to break first.

For a while, the only sounds were the crackling of the small fire and the rhythmic rasp of Robb’s whetstone. You could feel his eyes flicker to you every so often, though whenever you glanced up, he looked away, as if he could barely summon the interest to even meet your gaze.

Finally, he spoke, his voice rough and detached. “How is the child?”

The question caught you off guard. It had been so long since he’d asked you anything directly about the baby. Not even bothering to look up from your seat, you answered curtly, “Well I’m just a few weeks now. No visible bump yet, but the healer says it’s developing well.”

Robb merely nodded, his expression unreadable. “Good,” he murmured, his voice flat, almost as though he were discussing the state of his armor rather than the life of his unborn child. The lack of feeling in his tone sparked something angry within you, and before you could stop yourself, you felt the words slip out.

“Don’t pretend to care if you don’t,” you said, your voice sharper than you intended. “It doesn’t make you sound noble. If you’re uninterested, you could simply say nothing.”

Robb looked up, his blue eyes narrowing as he studied you with a mixture of irritation and something close to surprise. “I’m trying to show an interest, my lady,” he replied, his voice cool. “Would you rather I pretend the child doesn’t exist?”

You scoffed, setting down the small embroidery piece you’d been working on in an attempt to steady your nerves. “What difference would it make?” you asked, fixing him with a steady glare. “You spend more time planning battles and with… your healer than you do with me. I’d think I was a ghost if not for your hand on my stomach at meetings.”

A flicker of something crossed his face defensiveness or even guilt but it was quickly masked. He set his sword down, running a hand through his hair as he looked back at you with a mixture of frustration and exhaustion. “I have responsibilities,” he said, as if that were excuse enough.

“So do I,” you replied, unwilling to back down. “Or do you forget that I’m here against my will as well, playing the dutiful wife to a man who doesn’t want me?”

His jaw tightened, and he took a step closer, the shadows of the tent dancing across his features, casting him in a harsh, almost unforgiving light. “You’re here because your father made an agreement, not because I chose this,” he snapped, his voice low. “And forgive me if I’m distracted by the task of keeping us all alive.”

“And I’m here because I had no choice either,” you shot back, rising to meet him, unwilling to be looked down upon. “I didn’t ask for this marriage, this… charade. But you could at least pretend to care for appearances, or does that take too much effort?”

Before he could reply, a voice called from outside the tent.

“Lord Stark?” It was one of Robb’s commanders, a grizzled man with a scar across his cheek and a stoic expression that seemed permanently etched into his features. Robb exhaled, stepping back and shaking his head as though to clear his frustration.

“Enter,” he called, his tone clipped. he stepped in, his eyes briefly glancing between the two of you with a look of concern.

“Apologies for the intrusion, but there’s news from the south,” the man said, his tone grave. “Lannister forces are moving, and they’re cutting off supply lines through the river routes. If we don’t address it, our men could be starved out before winter’s end.”

Robb nodded, his expression hardening into a familiar mask of focus. “We’ll meet in the command tent. I want a full report.”

With a quick bow, he left, and Robb turned back to you. The tension between you remained, thick and unresolved, but there was something almost pleading in his gaze, as though he wished to say something but didn’t know how.

“If you want to join us, you’re welcome to,” he muttered, his voice softer. It was as close to a peace offering as he could manage.

But the idea of sitting in that tent, at his side as he strategized, his cold demeanor, a reminder of the distance between you, was more than you could bear. “No, thank you,” you replied curtly. “I think I’ll find my own company more pleasant.”

Robb’s gaze darkened, a flash of frustration flaring in his eyes, but he said nothing more, only turning and leaving the tent without a backward glance.

The silence he left in his wake was oppressive, and despite your anger, a pang of something lonelier, sharper, cut through you. Alone, you wrapped your arms around yourself, feeling the emptiness in the tent like a second skin.

The hours passed slowly, and evening fell. You took a walk through the camp, trying to ease your mind, but everywhere you went, you felt eyes on you, whispers trailing in your wake. The men respected you as Robb’s wife, but you could tell they sensed the distance between you two. Some even looked at you with pity, others with confusion, unsure of the bond they assumed must exist between the Stark lord and his Frey bride.

Eventually, you found yourself at the healer’s tent, where Talisa was working over a soldier with a nasty leg wound. You paused in the doorway, watching her ease his pain with a touch far gentler than the one Robb had ever shown you.

Talisa looked up, her gaze meeting yours. For a moment, she studied you, a quiet empathy in her eyes, and you wondered if she knew the nature of the rift between you and Robb.

“My lady,” she greeted, her voice warm and steady, but with an undertone of awareness. “Is there something I can help you with?”

You forced a polite smile. “No, thank you. I was just… walking. I thought I’d see how things were here.”

She nodded, sensing your discomfort, and returned her attention to the soldier. It was no secret that she held Robb’s favor, nor was it hard to see why. She was kind, assured, capable in ways that made you feel inadequate, a reminder of the gap between you and your husband.

Feeling restless, you returned to your own tent, wondering how much longer you could keep up this performance. But as you stepped inside, you were startled to find Robb already there, waiting.

He looked at you, his expression unreadable, though a flicker of something softer crossed his face.

“What is it?” you asked warily, crossing your arms.

He hesitated, the silence stretching between you until it grew almost unbearable. Finally, he spoke, his voice low. “I know this isn’t what you wanted,” he said, surprising you with the uncharacteristic vulnerability in his tone. “But I’m trying to make the best of it.”

You regarded him, the bitterness in your heart softening just a fraction, though your voice was still guarded. “If you’re trying, it’s a poor effort, Robb. You treat me like another pawn on the board, something useful only when it suits you.”

He looked down, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “This isn’t easy for me, either. I didn’t want to marry for alliance or duty, but here we are.”

The words hung between you, an uncomfortable truth neither of you had admitted aloud before. For the first time, you saw a glimpse of the boy behind the hardened lord, the man who perhaps hadn’t asked for this life of war and responsibility but had it thrust upon him.

——————————————————————————

Tags!!

@samieree @maysileeewrites

[pursuitseternal]

🕯️🐦‍⬛ “𝕷𝖎𝖆𝖗𝖘’ 𝕹𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙:” 🦇🕯️

Cordehlia and Aatarion embark on a new adventure in Waterdeep. Yes it’ll include Gale (much to Aatarion’s chagrin). 🎃 Halloween Special Companion Quest for “Our Blood is Thicker”

Lord Astarion x Cordehlia | E | 2.1K

📸 by @aristenfromwarsaw

Summary: At the request of their old Wizard companion, the Ascendant and his Raven arrive in Waterdeep the night before Liars’ Night. “A matter of utmost importance” needs their aid, a dangerous prospect with enemy Vampires, secret artifacts, and a good old fashioned Masquerade for the holiday 🎭🎃

CW: one impatient nepo baby Vampire Ascendant, one loving consort, and a silent graveyard in which they pass the time… (semi-public oral sex)

𝓒𝓱𝓪𝓹𝓽𝓮𝓻 1: 𝓢𝓲𝓵𝓮𝓷𝓽 𝓪𝓼 𝓽��𝓮 𝓖𝓻𝓪𝓿𝓮

Ao3 link | Ao3 series | Masterlist

The sea air swept around them, chilling and salty, the damp clinging to their skin as they stood on the hill. Waterdeep was aptly named, Astarion thought with a roll of his eyes and pulled his cloak tightly, only the best wool to keep off the autumn bite from his precious skin. His eyes scanned the expanse beneath them. Tombs. The City of the Dead or some nonsense it was named. Stones and monuments sprawled out in every direction, a few mausoleums dotting the darkness here and there. He tried not to think too long on the strongest memory that occurred in such a plot… his own turning, the moment he crawled his way to the surface from his own grave. He tapped the bottom of his staff on the rock headstone beneath him. And it drew her attention, just as he hoped it would.

Cordehlia rounded on him, a glower on her pale face that chided him in the moonlight. “Keep it down, Astarion,” she hissed in that tone he had heard for decades, the one that still corrected him like he was a brat. She crossed over where he sat on a grave, grabbing the elegant black wooden stick and snatching it from his fingers. “Gale said it was a matter of utmost secrecy.”

A snort tore from his nose as Astarion snatched his stick back. “Please, my love. Gale couldn’t be more stereotypical. He decided to meet two vampires… in the City of the Dead… on the eve of Liar’s Night.” His hand gesticulated grandly to the perfect picture of a tawdry horror story. His crimson eyes rolled so far back in his skull, Cordehlia thought for a moment they would finally be stuck there.

“Gale, our friend, asked for our help,” she corrected.

“Well, he could have done it with more panache and less predictability,” he snapped in reply, pushing his lithe frame up from the stone. He crossed over towards Cordehlia, her black leather armor polished to a shine and catching the moonlight. A smirk turned his lips, his tongue wetting them and tasting the salt in the air as he licked. Astarion would never tire of that sight, the way her armor laid flawlessly sculpted over her curves, the body beneath even more deadly since she turned. Since she became his Bride. “You know,” he broke the silence, voice dripping with honeyed seduction, “have I told you enough how delicious you look in your armor, my Raven?” he purred, rubbing his finger over the etched swirls of feathers inlaid over her shoulders.

“You do mention it… every time I dress in it, and every time you undress me from it, my love,” Cordehlia replied, a tone in her voice that was supposed to sound annoyed…

But Astarion knew what it really meant. It meant she wanted him, wanting to taste him just as badly as he wanted to feast on her. “Hmm,” he hummed a laugh, his fingers tracing to her neck, featherlight in touch as he caressed the exposed skin, tracing the twin bite marks in the sweet vein on her right side. “You sound angry, are you perchance thirsty… or is there something else you want down your throat while we wait for the esteemed Wizard?”

Now it was Cordehlia who rolled her blood red eyes at the lewd insinuation, but she didn’t deny his assertion. Nor did she reject his offer….

“Well, my love,” his breath bathed her cheek as he leaned in to whisper, “on your knees if you care for a taste.”

Cordehlia leveled that look at him, the one that arched a brow and screwed her face to say, ‘You’ve got to be joking…’ But still she slid closer, licking her lips. Crickets chirped in the night, the call of night birds was the only other sound to break the deathly quiet in the graveyard. Until she sank to her knees and took his hand in hers, sucking his fingers inside her full and smiling lips.

Then, Astarion groaned, bracing one hand behind him on the closest monument. Her fangs, still sharp as ever, nicked the pad of his fingers, letting his blood coat her eager tongue. And gods, did she suck, hard enough to bring his fingers deep in her throat. Her little hums of feeding tickled his digits, reverberating through his nerves. “Hells, Cordehlia,” he groaned, “slow down, or this is going to be a short dalliance among the dead.”

She flashed those scarlet eyes up at him, opening her mouth to roll his fingers noisily around with her tongue. “Want to bet on how quickly I can make you come undone? Or would you rather be caught by our old friend with your pants down in a graveyard?”

The laugh that left his mouth was embarrassingly breathy, but Astarion couldn’t help it as she bit his finger harder and drank. Dramatically loud sucks made his pointed ears wiggle to hear them. Another loud groan slipped from his slacked mouth as her hands wandered up the soft velvet of his breeches to snap open the fasteners. Her undead breath was still warmer than the night sea air, her inhale and exhale over his length instantly made him ache and tighten. Anticipation. She was ruthless with it.

Her hair was tied back, off her face. But even still, those ginger tendrils at her temple always seemed to slip free, and Astarion twirled them, sliding his fingers into the mess at the nape of her neck, savoring the way her head bobbed and turned as she took him inside.

“Hells,” he cursed again as she sucked with abandon. Her jaw strained to take him deeper, those little hums of delight adding to the tingle of arousal in his sex.

Releasing him, she laved her tongue up his shaft from base to cockhead, laughing. “Think if I make you say that enough times, you summon a portal?” she taunted, flicking her tongue over that weeping slit at the tip.

Astarion just chuckled, pushing her back to sucking. “I’d rather not. I don’t want to see another of Gale’s ‘I’m so disappointed in you’ expressions…” He would have kept complaining, but the way Cordehlia began to take him with such ferocity now stilted his breath and made his knees bend and go weak. A high-pitched whine left his lips as he bent forward, just a bit, just enough to enjoy the sight of his cock disappearing into her sucking lips and hollowed cheeks.

Fingers gripped tighter in her hair, almost as tight as his balls drew up just as he grew closer to that sweet release. “Yes… my love,” he praised, “hurry…”

And Cordehlia obeyed giving his cock just the right touches and licks in just the right places until he lost himself. His gasp of pleasure escaped him, fingers curled tight in her fiery hair as she swallowed his cum. Pulse after pulse, he felt nearly dizzy as he came, the world around him narrowed down to her tongue swirling and her throat closing on his cock as she savored the taste of him.

“Mmmm,” he finally purred, voice warm and pleased as he caressed her cheek. “I think I’ll be able to endure Gale’s presence so much better now, now that I’m sated.”

“Wouldn’t want you in a crabby mood, would we, Lord Astarion…” that warm, familiar voice sounded from beside them, just over the broken headstone near them.

“Shit,” Astarion cursed as he stowed his cock quickly. Then he turned, finding just the thing to irritate him the most. Gale’s face frowning, brown eyes narrowed and head wagging back and forth to say, ‘I’m so disappointed in you….”

Cordhelia gave her cheekiest, innocent grin as she stood. “I told him he’d be caught with his pants down,” her voice was pure petulant taunting, sing-song and mocking. And Astarion gave her a proper swat on her ass as payment.

“So insolent;” he scolded, that playful look on his face.

“Alright, alright,” Gale came closer, oozing exasperation. “Glad to see the time apart hasn’t changed the fact that you’re both a perfect pair of matching menaces.”

Astarion shrugged, “Well, when you look this good dead, and when it feels this good to…”

“Yes, alright!” Gale snapped, “Don’t push your luck, or I will cast Silence on you.”

Even as Astarion opened his mouth again, his face twisted in a sadistic and mischievous grin, Cordehlia interrupted, stepping between the men. “It’s good to see you Gale,” she chimed, her musical voice bringing an instant smile on the Wizard’s lips.

“The feeling is decidedly mutual,” he replied, looking squarely at Cordehlia. And not at her mate. “I am so very gratified you came. Your help is quintessential to the success of this venture that is imperative….”

“Yes, big important mission needs the Vampire Ascendant and his Bride,” Astarion crooned, repeating details from the missive they had received at the palace. Dramatically waving his hand, his lace cuff flapped in the breeze.

“Well… it’s more a requirement that I have the stealthiest couple in Toril, and the best Rogue I’ve ever encountered for such an ambitious endeavor. But before I impart any more of the sordid details, we must find a place more conducive for illicit activities and intrigue,” Gale held up a single finger before his lips.

Astarion’s eye twitched, that little tick in the corner of his right eye. “Rogue?” He exclaimed, the deep offense taken at the title saturating the single word. “You brought me all the way out here in the cold, damp air because you needed a… rogue?” Hip cocked, hands akimbo, face skewed in indignation, Astarion’s voice grew shriller and shriller. “I’ll have you know I gave up throwing the finest, most hedonistic affair Baldur’s Gate would ever have seen just to drag my sorry undead ass here to—”

His words were drowned out as a portal opened beside them, the hissing and sting of magic flowing around them in bright purple waves. Before another complaint could come from the Vampire Lord, Cordehlia grabbed his hand and yanked him with all her own undead strength through the portal.

The scent of parchment and old books, of woodsmoke and mint filled her nose as Cordehlia stepped to the otherside, dragging her love after him. Aatarion drew up short, instantly pulling his hand from her hold. “You’re joking,” he chuffed. “All that secrecy to end up in your bloody tower? I swear to all the gods except Mystra, you are melodramatic. You could have just had us come here where…”

Gale folded his arms. The mere look of chastisement on his face, the disapproving school teacher, so honed in the time since their adventures, instantly shut the vampire lord up. “It's not that I’m being inhospitable, far from, my friends. I’m being watched. This tower is being watched. And it’s a particular coven of Vampires that has me under their scrutiny.”

Aatarion’s stare hardened. “Alright, I’ll bite. Why do you have Vampires after you, Gale? You're about as boring and… tasteless… as they come.” The grin on his pale face showed he meant every bit of his insulting pun.

Gale couldn’t help but give a humored chuckle as he wagged his finger. “Always good for a laugh, you are.” The Wizard sat himself in the well-worn armchair near the fire, the mantle beside him sooty and black with constant use. But that fire, it danced and roared, the very image of merry warmth. After the cold bite of the autumn wind and the wet chill of the graveyard, Cordhelia couldn’t help but warm her undead hands over it. Gale gestured to the chair opposite. “Please, Astarion…” he smiled with equal cheeriness. “Or must I address you formally?”

“My lord would suffice,” Astarion smirked, flipping the tails of his coat as he sat himself down. “But for you, I won’t stand on ceremony, not for a friend.”

Gale’s smile quirked to one side. “Seems your Raven has had a most domesticating effect on you, Astarion. Tell me, Cordehlia, is he housebroken yet?”

Cordehlia snorted her laugh. “Never,” she teased back. “But maybe you had better tell us your purpose before you insult the Ascendant’s sensibilities beyond repair.”

Suddenly, a weight seemed to fall on their companion’s shoulders, his frame slumping forward as he began to stare into the fire, as he was want to do. “I’ve made some enemies, dear friends. In my relentless pursuit of knowledge for the betterment of academia, I crossed the coven of Vampires here in Waterdeep. I had something they wanted. They took this most invaluable treasure from me before I could claim it. Now…” he lifted his gaze to the pairs of crimson eyes locked on him. “I need a fighter and a rogue to help me take it back.”

[skyfallslayer]

A Stitch In Time || Prologue

-Bucky Barnes x Daughter!Reader-

Series Masterlist

° Series Summary: A Time Heist mission goes wrong, and some of the Avengers end up in the 1950s. Desperately clinging to their lives, they wind up in a place subconsciously. And unfortunately for Steve, and especially to Bucky, they find themselves face to face with someone they wish not to see.

° Chapter Summary: Worried about how his mission may go, Bucky visits a ‘touchy’ place, and recalls the short life he had with you.

° Date: 7/20

° Rating: Teen

° Word Count: 4,569

° Warning: Talks about death/dying; Reference to Suicide; Guilt; Child Abandonment; Talks of Fertility Issues; Alcohol; Allusions to Depression. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!

° A/N: The only excuse I have for taking so long to get this out is because I had an expected mental health break. One that was needed. But I'm back! And I'm slowly updating some of my other stories! So be on the look out for those! Also, let me know if I missed any warnings! Enjoy!

The freshly wetted grass squished underneath his boots with each and every step. His shoulders were slacked, but his wrists were tense as he held the delicate bouquet with both of his hands. He was always nervous to be here, even though he’s done it so many times after finding it, the nervousness never went away. The nausea never stopped too… or the guilt… the fear… the sadness. Nothing ever stopped like he so desperately wanted to. Was this a curse he was stuck with for helping to bring another child into this cruel world?

He reaches the end of his line, just a few short inches away from where his toes could touch the stone; The stone etched with words and numbers that made his heart ache. And when his knees felt weak he lowered himself to the ground, sitting back on his heels. With a bittersweet expression on his features, he removes the old lilies and replaces them with your favorite, pearly white ones. The ones you always smelled like when you came back from playing in the park. Who knew he would miss such a fragrance? 

He takes a deep inhale through his nose, and exhales quietly, gathering his thoughts. “Hey, baby girl. It’s been some… time since I’ve visited. I honestly thought I should wait until your half birthday, but…” He trails off, frowning. “But uh, I’m heading off on another mission tomorrow, a… potentially dangerous one.” He chuckles dryly. “You know the deal with those.”

He pauses like he’s waiting for your answer he knows he won’t get, letting the hot summer wind touch his face and through his chocolate locks. He waited for that as his cue to continue on.

“Uh… so…”

It hurts to even think about it.

“I was just…”

Should he even say it?

“Wondering again if it goes south I can…”

Should he repeat what he always says to your grave?

“Be next to you?”

Another pause, this time it felt more painful. It always hurts to be here. It always hurts to say those words because it wasn’t like he had a death wish, it wasn’t like he was afraid of death, he just… didn’t know if he deserved to be next to you. You were his whole world and he fucked it up. Fucked it up so bad that it makes him more anxious to want to hold you, and hug you, and kiss you, and just talk to you. He loves you. 

He’s loved you since the very beginning.

.

.

.

Bucky would have fallen back in shock if it wasn’t for the small bundle in his arms. His ex-girlfriend had just said some words that he didn’t need to hear right now. Couldn’t even comprehend it.

No, it wasn’t, ‘Can we get back together? I made a mistake’.

No, It wasn’t, ‘The baby isn’t yours’.

No it was–

“What do you mean you’re leaving?” He asked, disbelief etched in his words. There was also an underlying sense of anger and betrayal, because–

She couldn’t be serious...

Right?

He watched the woman standing in front of him roll her eyes, snatching her purse from his living room’s couch while responding, “I don’t want her. I only had her because you wanted to keep the baby after finding out I was pregnant.”

He nearly doubled over when he heard the disgust in her voice. “So you’re just going to leave?” Bucky asked, seeing his ex now putting on her winter coat. “But our daughter needs a mother figu–”

“YOUR daughter.” His ex snapped, poison on her tongue. “That baby–” She points furiously. “That baby is a spitting image of you. All the way from the shape of her face to the way she smiles. Everything. Which is fine by me, I don’t want someone looking like me out in the world.”

Bucky opened his mouth to speak as he followed her behind as she walked towards the front door. Unfortunately, she beats him to it. “As for a mother figure, you’ve got three sisters and a mom. That baby can pick up skills from them.”

She swings the door open, letting in the cold breeze of February. Snowflakes flew in, sticking to her clothes and curly hair. Bucky immediately stood sideways and drew you as far away as he could from the freezing air.

(Was she trying to freeze you?!)

“Dottie!” He called out from the doorway, stopping her on the porch.

She wasn’t even going to look back at him, wasn’t she? Or even look at you? Did she truly not feel anything?

He doesn’t know why but his voice cracked, and although he and his ex’s relationship was always rocky, and they both knew that whatever was between them wasn’t going to work out, he still doesn’t want her to leave him alone with a one week old.

“Come on…” He continued, quietly. “At least stay for a couple months until I can do this on my own.” His lower lip quivered slightly. “Please?”

He felt you shift a bit in his arms, probably from the weather, and waited for her to turn around…

But she never did.

“Goodbye, James.” Dottie said, before trailing across the snow covered path to the sidewalk. 

Bucky watches her disappear into the night, his feet glued to the floor even when part of his mind told him to run after her. It would be a lie if he said that he didn’t want to go after her, thinking that maybe she’ll change her mind if actually begs, but the mere thought went out the door when you started to get fussy and cry.

Something deep within him kicked in, probably that parental instincts he’s heard about from his own parents, and all his attention was turned to you cradled in a lilac colored blanket.

“Hey…” He whispered, readjust his hold so that he could gently brush their–

No.

That’s officially gone out the window. 

It’s just his daughter. His.

He readjust his hold so that he could gently brush HIS daughter’s cheek. To brush your cheek like a soft paint brush across a canvas. “Hey. Don’t cry.” He says, soothingly.

He makes a soft shushing sound as he closes the front door with his hip, before carefully guiding himself to sit near the fireplace. He lays you cautiously in his lap, almost in awe as he sees your eyes peeking open for the first time.

(Y/E/C) eyes. 

So beautiful like the world itself. He almost wanted to start taking pictures.

Maybe later though.

He chuckles sadly, tears in his own as he brushes your cheeks again. “Don’t cry. Don’t cry, I got you.” He said, smiling down. “I got you, baby girl.”

You cooed quietly, staring back at him with a bit of curiosity. The look you were giving him melted his heart, but it also made him feel like he didn’t deserve any of this.

“I’m sorry…”  He croaks, sniffling. “It looks like it’s just going to be me and you, doll. I’m so sorry. I hope you can forgive me.”

You made the cute sounds that took his breath away again, taking up his whole surroundings. However, if it wasn’t for his military training, he probably wouldn’t have even heard someone tumbling down the stairs. Bucky glances at the living room entrance, finding a certain skinny blond that he called his best friend. He saw his chest move slightly, and could almost hear him panting from here.

“S-Sorry.” Steve exhales, leaning against the door frame. “Your mom sent me down here when we heard everything go quiet.”

Bucky smiled a little. “She got worried?”

Steve copies him with a chuckle.  “Yeah. She wanted to make sure you hadn’t run off with her grandchild.”

The brunette shakes his head. “That sounds like my mother.” He turns his attention back on you, but from the corner of his eye he could see his friend shifting uncomfortably, almost hesitantly, in his spot. His smile grows. “Come here.”

“What?” The blond said, genuinely confused. 

“Come here, Steve. You can see her.”

He stiffens up a bit, looking unsure. “H-Her… A-Are you… are you sure?” Steve asked, pointing towards the stairs in the hallway. “I-I shouldn’t be the one seeing your baby first. Shouldn’t I–”

“Get your ass over here, Rogers.” Bucky said, almost wishing he could free his hand up and drag him by the ear (he was always so timid and too cautious sometimes).

Not even daring to question his best friend’s wish, Steve wandered over and took a seat on the couch next to Bucky. He leans in close, examining the small bundle in the soldier’s arms.

Steve’s big blue eyes lit up with joy. “Wow, Buck. She’s adorable.” He said, as you scrunch up your nose to show off your cute, chubby cheeks.

“She is.” Bucky said, fighting back the stinging sensation in his eyes again. He now wonders…

(Is this what it's going to feel like all the time now?)

After a moment of silence, Bucky threw his friend through another loop. “Wanna hold her?”

Steve held his hands up in defense almost immediately after those words left his tongue. “Oh, no. I shouldn’t.”

“I trust you.” Bucky holds you out a little, a reassuring look on his face.

Steve raises a cautious eyebrow. “You sure?”

“Yes.” Bucky laughs. “I’ll show you.”

Bucky then takes his time showing Steve how to hold you, giving him pointers and readjusting everyone once and awhile until he has you in a good position. The blond’s nerves seemed to vanish into thin air when he started to see that you were looking at him with the same curious eyes you made at your father. Those eyes of yours could melt anyone’s hard shells at this point.

Steve chuckles, and grins as he gets butterflies in his stomach from you. “What’s her name?” He asks, sparing a glance at your dad for a split second. “Did Dottie ever give her one?”

Bucky shakes his head sadly. “No.” He said, his voice feeling rather small at the moment. “No she didn’t. I’m tasked with giving her one.”

“Have you thought of any? I know you were looking through some books a few weeks back.”

“I have and I think…” He takes another good look at you, making sure the name was the right choice. “I was thinking… (Y/N).”

“(Y/N)?” The blond repeats back, testing it out like an echo chamber for his friend who nodded back.

“Yeah. (Y/N).” Bucky tests it out his lips as other names start to form. “(Y/N)... Stevie Barnes.”

He looks up in surprise. “Stevie?” Steve asks in disbelief again. 

Bucky smiles. “Well, I heard Stevie is the girl version of Steve, so…”

“But…” His blue eyes look away again, looking completely torn.

Your father raises an eyebrow over this. “But what?”

“You’re flattering me way too much, Bucky.”

“Am I?” Bucky asked, tilting his head, slightly puzzled.

“Y-Yes!” Steve said, shaking his head. “Y-You can’t– You shouldn’t name your kid after me.”

Now it was his turn to be even more confused. “Why not?”

“Because, I’m– y-you have sisters! Parents. Y-You should name her after them. Not me.”

“But, Steve, you’re my brother. Besides…” Bucky shifted in his seat, knowing what he’ll say next is touchy. “I know… the doctor said you might not be able to have kids so… think of this as me… giving you a small piece of that.”

Silence befell, the subject was something that really hurt Steve when he heard it the first time; Hell, it even hurt his mother who was present at the time. It kind of haunted him for a while because what could he offer to a person who wanted to share his life? 

Steve stares at him for a while before tearing up, laughing quietly and looking away. “Jesus, Bucky. You’re making me cry.”

A chuckle. “Well don’t, ‘cause I’ll start crying again.” Bucky says, making them belly laugh. 

The blond sniffles and tests the name out on his own. “(Y/N) Stevie Barnes.” He looks back down at you, his smile returning fully. “Not bad, Buck.”

Your father looked at him teasingly. “And what’s that supposed to mean, Steven?”

“Nothing.” Steve replies, holding back another laugh as he watches you start to drift back to sleep. “I’m really happy for you, man.”

“Thanks.” 

A few moments more passed before you were carefully placed back in your father’s arms, where all he did was stare back at you as you pulled yourself to sleep. His happy face started to falter, and there was a heavy amount of doubt in his ocean blue orbs. 

“I don’t know what I’m going to do, Steve.” He finally admits before swallowing the lump in his throat. He soon felt his friend’s hand on his leg, giving it a comforting squeeze.

“You don’t have to do this alone, Bucky. You’ve got your family and you’ve got me.” Steve said, honestly. “And you know this. However, don’t doubt yourself, you got this. You’re going to be a great dad.”

Bucky’s lip curled up a bit, not caring that he was about to cry again. “Steve Rogers. The man who always knows what to say.”

“What can I say? I try.” He asked, coping with his expression.

“And you think I’ll be great? Even with me being a soldier and everything else that comes with it?” Your father asked, doubt was still just lingering on the surface no matter what he did.

Steve gives another gentle squeeze. “I know you’ll be great. I know you’ll do anything to make sure she’ll be okay. So don’t worry too much, okay? (Y/N)’s going to be lucky she has you.”

Bucky hums, truly grateful for a friend like him. 

And without an ounce of hesitation, he bends down slowly and kisses your sleeping forehead. 

“I already loved you so much, (Y/N). I hope you realize that.” He whispers, lovingly. “And I’ll do anything to make sure you’re safe.”

He swears at that moment he saw you smile.

.

.

.

Bucky brushed his flesh fingers against the words in the stone, tracing your name and important dates. February 23rd, 1936. A snowy, snowy day. Cool and crisp. Although he had to wait and wait until you were a week old to hold you, a week old to realize he was on his own, a week to realize that he truly loved you. No upcoming birthday surprises could top this one. But if he loved you so much then…

Why were you cursed to be underground?

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

When Bucky got back home to his apartment, he found himself subconsciously grabbing the bottle of scotch in his cabinet. Although he knew he couldn’t technically get drunk, the feeling he got after a couple glasses was close enough. Sometimes… he liked the quietness in his home, the time to relax, untouched and left alone to be himself; But most of the time, after so many years of being alone in his head, he loathes being alone. Friends and family were everything to him growing up. You were everything to him growing up. 

He still wonders what it would be like if you were here, running around, asking him twenty questions, painting his toes, etcetera. He always wondered what you were like when you got older, the side of you he never got to see. He always wondered what those short years did for you.

Why did he have to get taken from you so soon?

.

.

.

You dove around your grandparents and aunts’ legs as you made your way out of the house, ignoring how your father’s duffle bag, that subconsciously you hated, was laying on the porch steps. You stumble around a bit on your five year old legs, before finding the person you wanted to see. 

“Uncle Steve!!!” You yelled, throwing your arms up.

“Hey, Pumpkin.” He said, teasingly. He wastes no time to scoop you up, and carefully holds you close to him (it’s been years and he’s still afraid he’ll drop you). “Have you gotten smaller?”

You scrunched up your nose at him, shaking your head. “No.” You giggled at the silly nickname, and it all was because you were pocket size.

“No?” Steve said, tilting his head, all cocky. “Are you sure?”

You giggled again. “Yes.”

He grins. “Just checking.”

A sigh came from inside, before the two of you saw your father exiting his parents house, all dressed in his neatly ironed uniform. He looked miserable as he gazed at his bag on the porch.

“Ready?” Steve asked, readjusting his hold on you as he frowned himself.

“Unfortunately.” Bucky mumbled, not ready for what’s yet to come. However, when he faces you his whole expression changes for the better. “And there’s my little girl!”

“Papa!” You yelled, holding your arms out. He takes you in his arms, hugging you gently. “Are you leaving, Papa?”

“Oh, baby doll, I am.” He said, pulling back to look at you. “But don’t worry, I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He taps your nose. “Okay?”

You nodded slowly and smiled. “Okay!”

“Good.” He gives you a big kiss on your head, before peppering your face with some more making you laugh. “I love you, (Y/N).”

“I love you, too, Papa.”

“I love you more.”

He gives you one more kiss and one more hug before transferring you over back to Steve. They both give each other a strong hug and pat on the back, smiling bittersweetly.

“Be safe, Bucky.” Steve said, trying to hide his concern.

“I will. You too. The both of you.” Bucky said, grabbing his bag and making sure his voice was stern.

“We will. I’ll keep an eye on her.”

“Thank you, Steve.” 

He bid them goodbye, and you and Steve watched him walk down the path to the military jeep parked nearby. It was chilling almost to watch, and your five year old mind couldn’t quite comprehend the heavy feeling you felt underneath the surface.

“Uncle Steve?” You asked, prying his eyes away from the moving vehicle. 

“Yeah?” He said, softly.

You looked at him all puzzled, something wasn’t adding up. “I thought you told me you were going with him?” You swear he mentioned something like that to you yesterday. Right?

His eyes look away from you, almost like he was recollecting himself before giving you his answer. “I am. But not yet.” He replies, honestly. His orbs finally meet yours again. “Not until I know you're okay.”

“Really?” You asked, tilting your head to the side with curiosity.

“Sure am.” He smiles once more. “Now, what do you want to do? You want to see what Grandpa and Grandma are doing?”

Your eyes light up at their names. “Yes!!!” 

He laughs at your enthusiasm. “Okay, okay. Let’s go see them.”

.

.

.

Bucky throws a bottle of scotch across the room, shattering somewhere. He didn’t care though. It’s not like he even batted an eye.

Five years old. 

That was it.

That’s the last time he ever saw you.

And that hurt like a bitch.

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

He doesn’t know when…

But everything suddenly just…

Clicked.

Memories of his flooded in like a broken dam. He starts to recall who he was before and after the fall. Before and after the war. Before and after everything. So as he made his way to Siberia with his friend, Steve, he remembers something that was like a knife to his heart.

“I have a daughter.” Bucky said abruptly, cutting Steve off.

When he was on the run after the helicarriers fell, he remembers his time growing up in the early 1900s. The (multiple) times he saved his best friend’s ass from being picked on, or the way he took his younger siblings to the park, or helping his mother bake, or fixing the car with his dad. But there were a few memories he was confused by for a long time.

First he only heard little laughs, or someone trying to sing a child’s song. Then he saw little toys and dresses. Then he saw a little face with big, wondrous eyes. It didn’t take him long to realize who she was.

He met with his friend’s eyes quickly, almost getting choked up by an emotion that had been under lock and key for so long. “...I have a daughter… don’t I?”

Steve, who seemed taken back by his sudden string of words, opens and closes his mouth a few times, before settling his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Yes, Bucky. You do.”

Bucky looked away, the confirmation sending his mind spiraling again, and the Captain could tell. He decides to approach this carefully since he knows his friend isn’t hundred percent in his right mind yet.

“Do you remember her?” Steve asked, watching him nod slowly. “What do you remember?”

Bucky thinks long and hard about this. What did he remember about you?

“Uh… I remember she was tiny… always tiny.” He chuckles quietly, making Steve smile. “She uh… had um… (Y/H/C) hair that was kind of wavy when she got older. Um… big, bright (Y/E/C) eyes. She… she um… smiled a lot… I think?”

“Yeah, she did Buck. All the time.” Steve said, patting his shoulder gently as he could see the joy it was bringing to his friend.

Bucky laughs again. “Uh… you used to call her by a weird nickname. What was it? Uh…” He purses his lips. “Po… Potato?”

Now it was the blond’s turn to laugh. “N-No. No. Close… Starts with a P, though.”

“Um…” His eyes light a spark. “Oh. Yeah. I remember now. We took her to her first Halloween pumpkin patch when I could hold in one hand because she was so tiny.”

“Yep. That’s what I called her.” He says with a nod. “Your Ma tried to dress her up like one.”

“Oh, yeah, she did.”

And then it got quiet, and Steve saw the bright light in his friend’s eyes go out when the wheels started to turn again. He held his breath, knowing what he was recalling next.

Bucky swayed on the balls of his feet a bit, looking at the floor. “She was five the last time I saw her.” He says, bittersweetly. “I remember, the night before, I took her to Coney Island, and we just played games and ate until our bellies ached. I got her a stuffed bear on the ring toss…”

Steve squeezed his shoulder, trying to give him some comfort because he knew there was no stopping any memories of you.

“She was with you when I left. I gave her hugs, and kisses and…” His voice starts to break. “I love you’s…. Um…”

“Bucky–” Steve begins, hating how hurt he looked.

“Steve. W-Was that last time you saw h-her too?”

Steve closed his mouth, thinking to himself. He couldn’t lie. He was a terrible liar which the brunette always sees through. So what was the point of even trying?

Cap shakes his head. “No. I saw her when she was nine. ‘Bout to be nine.”

“N-Nine?” Bucky asked, just above a whisper. “W-Why?”

“Um…” He swallows. “I had to…. I had to tell your family about, you know… the train… and you.”

The Soldier went distant. “O-Oh…”

“I wanted to make sure I was the one to tell them.” 

“Oh…” Bucky started to get teary eyed. “D-Did you tell her?"

Steve held his breath again. It was like his mind started to relive that day.

You looked so happy to see him, but he watched that expression vanish when you saw his sadden face. It hurts to take you by the hand and into your room. It hurts to see how you’ve grown, and to think he got to see it and not your dad made the situation a whole lot worse.

He wanted to lie and tell you your dad was hurt. 

He wanted to lie and tell you your dad was still at war and won’t be home for a while.

He wanted to lie and say everything was going to be okay.

But he couldn’t, and felt like it was his duty to tell you what happened to your father, to his best friend.

He knew if the situation was reversed, Bucky would be doing the very same thing now.

And when he did tell you, he hated how you kept on denying it. You called him a liar, and god he wished he was.

“I-I did…” He said, feeling his eyes sting as well. 

Bucky jaw clenches. “A-And?”

Steve looks away for a second. “She cried for three hours.”

“O-Oh…” Bucky looks away too. “I always h-hated when s-she cries.”

With his hand still on the brunette shoulder, he gave him another comforting squeeze. “She…” Cap chokes, his memories flooding in all at once. “S-She um… she gave me her blanket, the one that she came home with. She um, wanted me… to promise to come back to her. But um… I failed at that, I guess.”

Bucky frowns. “Steve–"

“I tried finding her, Buck.” He finally looks at him. “When I came out of the ice, SHIELD managed to give me some of my things from the war. I kept the blanket in my chest, so… I tried finding her, because I didn’t want to break that promise to (Y/N), but…”

“You didn’t find anything?”

Steve shakes his head. “Not exactly.” He whispers, exhaling shaky. 

“Not exactly?” Bucky asked, wanting an answer. “What does that mean?”

Now it was Steve’s turn to look all messed up. Especially since he couldn’t make eye contact again. He swallows a lump in his throat and says, “I’m so sorry, Bucky…”

“Sorry about what?” Bucky couldn’t understand what was happening and it was honestly starting to scare him. “What are you sorry about?”

“(Y/N)...” He sighs quietly, and forces himself to look in his best friend’s eyes. “Pneumonia. She, uh… got pneumonia in ‘54 and passed.” 

Now the knife has dug deeper, chilling his bones too. “She’s dead?” He said, barely audible. 

“Yeah. She’s dead.” The Captain replies, dispirit. “I found the spot where she’s buried. I can take you there if you–”

“Thank you, Steve.” The soldier says, ignoring the blond’s confused state. “I mean it. You were always so good to her, and to think you never stopped looking after all this time means A LOT to me. Do you understand? You helped my daughter when she was at her lowest, and you even found her for me. I thank you for that.”

Steve smiles bittersweetly. “No need to. I said I’ll always be there for the both of you.”

Bucky returns the gesture. “As will I.”

“Now, let’s finish this, shall we?”

.

.

.

“-Bucky.” Steve says, touching his shoulder and getting a small jolt from the man. Surprised eyes fell on him as he returned with concerned ones. “You ready?”

“Uh…” Bucky looked around quickly, remembering it was standing in the locker room changing. He didn’t even realize he had zoned out. “Y-Yeah.” He said, zipping up the front of his Quantum Suit. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

Steve tilts his head, the worriedness never vanishing. “You sure?”

“Yeah.” He nods. “Let’s get this mission completed.”

And those were the words that would change -everything-.

(TBC)

-Taglist Is Open-

@navs-bhat @liarasstuff @justmewoo @thed1v1n3

@luckyzipperscissorsbat @like-a-domino @kissesofdeadforme

@audigay

[sycamorelibrary754]

The Afterglow

Summary: You finally visit Natasha’s grave a year after she passed away. You don’t know what you expected to find or feel when you get there, but you want to feel something. Maybe Yelena does too.

Pairings: Natasha x reader, Yelena x reader (Platonic)

Genre: Angst, Comfort

Word Count: 918 words

Warnings: Grief, mentions of death.

A/N: I can't believe today is finally here. I wasn't planning on writing anything today, but I was listening to Afterglow by Ed Sheeran, and this came out. Lyrics from Afterglow are italicized. Credit to the writers of WandaVision for the final line. I miss Natasha Romanoff.

October used to be your favorite month—a million colors of hazel, golden, and red. Natasha would do anything to make the fall season memorable for you. Lighting your favorite apple cinnamon-scented candle, attempting homemade hot chocolate for you, even indulging you in wearing matching fall sweaters when she was not a fluffy sweater person. You were both love drunk.

It had been a year since Natasha’s death—three hundred and sixty-five days without her strength, her protection, her vulnerability, her love. The inability to visit her grave made it all feel even more symbolic. Her physical form was lost to the dark depths of Vormir; it was an incapacitating fact you couldn't bring yourself to dwell on. I knew the remaining team had made the journey to Ohio, and it was no secret that Yelena had quietly bought a small house there just to be close to her sister again.

You decided to go, unsure what to expect or how you would feel when you arrived. At that moment, you just craved some emotion. You set off without informing anyone of your plans, not wanting to be swayed by others' opinions. She was your love, and you were hers.

The flight was mercifully short, but it seemed to stretch on endlessly. Lost in thought, memories surfaced with a bittersweet ache. Absentmindedly, you found yourself on an isolated dirt road, the car coming to a stop. The crisp sound of fallen leaves underfoot accompanied your stroll along the road, embraced by the gentle trees. Admitting to yourself, it was a picturesque setting - unassuming yet undeniably beautiful. It was undoubtedly the kind of place Natasha would have cherished.

As I made my way up the path, a small collection of headstones appeared, each adorned with the warm rays of sunlight. It didn't take long to spot her headstone, positioned right in the center of the area, just like she always was. The sight was quite moving - her headstone was the only one lovingly blanketed in a colorful array of flowers, cuddly teddy bears, and handwritten notes. Etched on the headstone were the words "Natasha Romanoff. Daughter. Sister. Avenger."

As you kneel in front of her headstone, the rough texture of the cold stone sends shivers through your fingertips. The only sounds that reach your ears are the distant chirping of the birds and the gentle fluttering of the wind through the trees. In this moment, it feels like the world has vanished, leaving you alone in your love. Your world has disappeared, and the painful truth is that it will never return. You were lost in a moment of solitary grief; a sudden whistle slices through the heavy silence. You close your eyes and draw a deep breath, refusing to move from your spot on the ground.

"I gave up hoping that she would whistle back a few months back," a Russian voice announced, catching your attention.

You rise to your feet, not bothering to turn around. You already knew who it was. Keeping your gaze fixed ahead, Yelena walks up and stands beside you in front of the headstone. "More people visit this place than you'd expect, considering how isolated it is," Yelena murmurs. "I try to come here a few times a week to tidy up, be close to her, and feel her presence wherever she is now."

You remain silent, simply nodding in response. 

I was hoping you would show up today," Yelena confessed. "I considered calling you, but I didn't want to feel like I was imposing.

"Honestly, I was worried that you might be mad at me for taking so long to get here," you confessed. 

"I could never do that. Who am I to dictate how you should deal with losing the love of your life?" she said as you gazed up at the swaying treetops.

"It's strange. Natasha and I used to live life in vibrant color, but now it feels like I'm just existing in black and white," your voice trailing off.

"In our childhood, we would spend evenings chasing after fireflies in the backyard. I remember Melina explained that their glow was created through the fascinating chemical process of bioluminescence," reminisced Yelena.

"Always the inquisitive scientist," you sighed.

"After a lifetime of searching, I finally realized the glow I've been pursuing was always hers," the young widow confessed.

As you gaze at Yelena, you notice the subtle shimmer in her eyes, reflecting the unshed tears. Reaching out for her hand, you feel the delicate coolness of her rings as your fingers gently intertwine with hers.

I would give anything to have had more time with her," she whispered, her voice filled with longing and sorrow. "I'll spend the rest of my life trying to make her proud.

"Yelena, Nat was always so proud of you. And she always will be," you said, your voice trembling with emotion.

Now Yelena is the one who nods silently.

Y/n, she loved you," Yelena finally says after silent reflection. "You broke down the walls that she had built around her heart. Her entire life, she believed that love was only for children. It wasn't until you came into her life that she started to believe that maybe, just maybe, love was meant for her too. You showed her that love knows no boundaries and that it's possible for her to be loved in a way she never thought was possible.

"I loved her too... I always will," tears began to trickle down your cheeks, silently expressing your grief.

Yelena's grip on your hand tightens. "She burned so brightly. We have to hold on to the afterglow. Forever."

The weight of it all became too much. You both leaned into each other, wrapping your arms around one another as tears fell. No words were needed; the embrace conveyed a multitude of emotions – sorrow and affection. It was as if all the pent-up sentiments from the past year were finally released, allowing you to feel something once again truly.

What is grief, if not love persevering? 

[f1nalboys]

Hey... Ya know what would be cool or whatever?

*Gently kicks rock with my hands in my pockets trying not to show how much I crave this*

If you'd make The Creature!Randy as a short story au yearning for Reader/Lisa... I don't know I think it be neat...Just saying.

spooky ur a GENIUS!!!!! have not stopped thinking abt this since i watched the movie and <3333333 randy is the perfect undead husband i fear to say!!! this is a little short and really just focuses on the beginning of everything, but i hope its enjoyable nonetheless!!!!

From The Grave - Randy Meeks

The Creature!Randy Meeks x GN!Reader

WORD COUNT: 1025

WARNINGS: post death randy, the briefest description of corpse randy, mention of roadkill, nothing too graphic tho <3, reader is around randys age when he died but no specifc age is said, inspired by lisa frankenstein <3

His grave was tucked underneath a large willow tree, the branches hanging low and wide, hiding his lone headstone. You discovered it a few months ago on a warm spring afternoon as you carefully made your way through the abandoned graveyard in Woodsboro, stepping over gnarled roots and vines. The headstone was cracked, covered in moss and dirt, but you could just barely make out some of the writing on it as you got closer, your hand swinging by your side as the leaves of the tree shaded you from the sun.

“Randy Meeks. 1978-1997.” 

He was young, like you. Alone, too, if the state of his grave was any indication. Despite passing the other graves, all in similar states of disrepair, something about this one stood out to you. Maybe it was the fact you knew nothing of him; other headstones told you that buried deep in the ground was a husband, a wife, a child, but here there was nothing. Or, maybe, it was the fact that he was of similar age to you and was hidden away like you so often felt. 

Regardless, you spent the next hour carefully scraping the moss off of the stone with your finger and, when the grime became too hard to simply push off, with your pen. You didn’t have any water or soap and as you stand, wiping your hands off onto your jeans with a pleased smile at the progress, you resolve to come back tomorrow and finish cleaning it up. Sure, no one ever came through here, and the grass was as high as your knees in some parts of the cemetery, and you swore when you turned your back to his grave you could feel someone staring at you, but you were going to finish your job here. 

And so you did. The next day, bright and early, you clean up Randy Meeks’s headstone until it sparkles in the sunlight that broke through the gaps of the leaves. But then you come back the next day, and the next, and the next. For weeks, whenever you have the chance to, you make your way through the rusted iron fence and through the thick grass to him. 

Always to him.

You eventually wear down a path to his grave, the grass around the headstone itself squashed down from your constant pacing as you talk out loud. Talking helped clear your mind, and despite no response, you felt more seen and understood by him than you ever had before. You sometimes caught yourself pausing after a sentence as if waiting for a response and everytime you swore the wind would pick up and the leaves above you would rustle his answer.

Each time you left the cemetery, you’d write off whatever you felt in the moment and resign yourself back to your lonely existence. 

And then the strange storm happened. Dark, green, swirling clouds loomed in the sky above you, but they couldn't deter you. You made your way to the cemetery, rested your head on his gravestone, fingers tracing the etching of his name, and cried. Your whispers came out quick and harsh, cut off with random gulps of air, as you told him how you just wished you and he could be together. How your life was awful, how all you wanted was to be seen and loved and be treated how you knew he would treat you. 

You wanted to join him in death since he couldn't join you in life.

There was a crack of thunder, a flash of light, and when your eyes opened you were back home. You shake it off, sure you made your way home on auto-pilot. As you stumble through your routine to get ready for bed, you pause at the sound of a groan outside. Just as you turn your head to investigate, your front window shatters and a foul smell reminiscent of the decomposing fox on the side of the road you pass by everyday wafts in. Your hand covers your mouth and nose to stop from hurling just as he crawls through your window. 

After a few laps around your house, you sit across from him in your bedroom, staring at him wearily. “Who are you?” Is the only thing you can think to ask, though it doesn’t result in much. The man keeps grunting, getting increasingly more frustrated at your lack of understanding. He’s caked in mud and god knows what else, his eyes a bright blue. He can’t talk and you can’t understand him, but you swear you know him from somewhere. You run through the list of men you know, name after name, but he shakes his head after each one, his fingers drumming on his bent knee.

Eventually you stand and give him a notebook and a pen, hoping he can write. You watch as he takes it, his eyes focused on the paper in front of him, his tongue poking out from his lips as he concentrates. Finally, he looks up and meets your eye, an intensity in them you hadn't seen before. You take the notebook and look down, gasping quietly as you read the name.

“Randy?” You ask, eyes widening slightly as you look back towards him. He nods. “My Randy? From the graveyard?” Another nod and the closest thing to a smile you’ve seen him make yet. None of it makes sense. You knew that the real Randy Meeks had been dead for years but here he was in front of you. “Could you hear me? When I spoke to you?”

He nods his head once again, reaching his large hand out for yours. You grimace slightly at the feeling of the mud and viscera on his skin but you don't pull away. Instead, you watch with a morbid curiosity as he brings your hand to his undead lips, pressing them against your hand. Your hand tingles, a lightning bolt crawling up your arm. 

It was him. He was here for you. Somehow, someway, he clawed his way out of death to find you. 

It was the most romantic thing you could think of.

[rederiswrites]

I feel so drained. It's been such a week. The same pain we're all feeling, of course, with a few extra things thrown in for fun. Animal death to follow, if you don't want to deal with that.

The kids all adapted readily to a classroom environment, despite my worry, and did so well so calmly that I'm very proud and much reassured. It was still four plus hours away from the house every day. They all helped keep the chores done, so the drain was mainly psychological. But I don't like driving, and sorry everyone, I don't like being in town. The seagulls I could hear from my parked car the fourth day were almost hilariously welcome. Parking lot rats, but that reminder that nature exists was a balm to my soul.

Kiki died yesterday. He'd been in rough shape, but still enjoying life. We knew it was a matter of time til something critical failed, and that there wasn't anything likely to help him short of truly major expensive things that still might well not help. Then he declined rapidly this week. I held him for the last three hours. He cried terribly if he wasn't held, and Phantom had to hold him while I got dressed, so at least we know being held was a comfort to him. It was an expected death, and timely in its way, but when at last he didn't draw another breath, I was so, so tired.

I put him where Ciri could check him out and understand, however her mind understands these things. I didn't think to do that when Hrothgar died, and Ciri went around the house meowing for him for a week. It seems to have worked, because she's quiet today. After he died, I went straight to bed and slept til it was time to leave for class, and then stayed parked next to the class and slept in the car.

When I woke up, the car wouldn't start. Left something on, I guess, though I couldn't figure out what. Jacob was on his way home, but turned around, and the car jumped and started up just fine. In fact, before @mythicalfungi0-0 's dad showed to collect her, so before we would have left anyhow. So again, nothing but a psychological drain, really.

On the way home, we listened to music--Phantom has some great tunes fit to the times that I'll have to share with you. After a period of silence, I said, "OH! We need crocus bulbs." And Phantom said, "Oh! Right!" to the bewilderment of the Borrowed Girl. Crocuses, to go on Kiki's grave, next to Hrothgar's by the pond. It lies next to a large rock projecting from the ground. Someday we'll etch their names into the stone. I've ordered them, in a different color than the ones on Hrothgar's, so that we can think of both of them when they bloom.

I got a good night's sleep last night. Spoke to my friend who fosters kittens this morning. Today, I will keep planting flowers. I think the future will have flowers.

[kizudnyy]

Aubrey's Sunset 2019 

― You stand before the grave of a young soul, a bittersweet smile spreading across your face as tears slowly spill down your cheeks. Your one true love is gone, and there’s no changing that. 

“Have we met before?” The voice of the dead rang inside your head.  Unable to process everything as reality struck you hard. You have repeated the cycle once more. 

"I…" you begin, your voice trembling as a weary chuckle escapes your lips. "I guess we have, huh?" 

I know the fandom and the whole ordeal itself is dead at this point, but I don’t fucking care cause the hyper fixation just got back to me and – As a writer, it is my DAMN duty to project my thoughts into the archives! To hell with the 2023-2024 problematic shit! 

CHAPTER 1: My deepest regrets, is to never tell you that ‘I love you’ 

The sun was beginning to set, casting a long shadow over the cemetery. The world around you have never felt so eerily still, so numb, and so-so cold. It was as if reality itself has taken a huge disliking to you and you only, letting you suffer such great consequences, and yet despite everything, it had held its breath for the presence of such deep sorrow. You could hardly believe that you were standing here once again, above the soil that had buried someone so important. A grave, a person’s spot that marked a resting place of one person who had meant everything to you. 

'Do you think we will be together in another universe?'

'I hope so.'

You took a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself. The memories kept replaying back to your mind. Memories of your time together played in your mind like a film reel, each scene more vivid than the last. His laughter, his smile, the way he always seemed to know how to make you feel better—everything about him was etched into your heart.  

But now, he was gone. And you were left with only the remnants of what once was. 

“Why does it have to always end like this?” You muttered to no one in particular, your voice barely a whisper, making it seem like the question was meant to be answered by you. “Alex, Alex, Alex. Why!” Your voice was already trembling with emotion. The weight of the cycles that you went through, the endless repetition – a curse of finding him at your very lowest, to losing him at his peak. It was becoming too much to bear, too much for your little heart. 

But now, he was gone. And you were left with only the remnants of what once was. 

"Why does it always have to end like this?" you whispered to no one in particular, your voice trembling with emotion. The weight of the cycles you had lived through, the endless repetition of finding him and losing him, was becoming too much to bear. 

You knelt beside the grave, your fingers tracing the letters of his name carved into the stone. It felt cold and distant, a stark contrast to the warmth you had known in his embrace. Tears blurred your vision, but you didn’t bother wiping them away. This moment, this heartache, was all too familiar. 

And then, as if summoned by your grief, his voice echoed in your mind once more. "Have we met before?" 

The question lingered in the air, a cruel reminder of the countless times you had met, loved, and lost him. Each cycle was different, yet the outcome was always the same—his life cut short, leaving you to mourn him over and over again. 

"I…" Your voice cracked as you tried to respond, the words getting caught in your throat. A bitter laugh bubbled up inside you, born of frustration and sadness. "I guess so, huh?" 

You leaned back on your heels, letting the stillness of the evening wash over you. The sky above was a canvas of orange and pink, the colors fading into twilight. It was beautiful, yet the beauty felt hollow in the face of your pain. 

A part of you wanted to give up, to let the cycle break and leave this endless loop behind. But another part, the part that still clung to hope, refused to let go. You knew that as long as there was even the slightest chance of saving him, you would continue to fight. 

The device that had brought you here, that had allowed you to travel through time, was still tucked safely in your pocket. It was both a blessing and a curse—your only means of seeing him again, and the very thing that condemned you to relive this tragedy. 

You pulled the device out, your fingers brushing over its smooth surface. It was small and vintage, yet it held the power to alter the course of history. But no matter how many times you used it, no matter how many variations of the past you lived through, you could never seem to change his fate. 

‘Remember, history isn't meant to be rewritten, even for love. It serves a purpose beyond our understanding.’ 

"One more time," you murmured, your resolve hardening. "Just one more time." 

‘...’ 

With a deep breath, you activated the device. The world around you began to blur, the colors bleeding into one another until everything was a whirl of light and sound. You closed your eyes, focusing on the one person you wanted to see more than anything. 

When you opened them again, you were no longer in the cemetery. The grave was gone, replaced by the familiar surroundings of a bustling town square. People milled about, unaware of the time traveler in their midst. 

And there, in the distance, was the boy you had come to find. He was younger, full of life and energy, completely oblivious to the fate that awaited him. Your heart ached at the sight, knowing what was to come, but you couldn’t stay away. 

You had to try. Even if it meant risking everything. 

As you made your way toward him, the sound of his laughter reached your ears—a sound you had missed more than anything. You swallowed the lump in your throat and called out his name, your voice trembling with a mixture of fear and hope. 

He turned, his eyes meeting yours with a look of surprise. For a moment, you saw a flicker of recognition in his gaze, as if some part of him remembered you, even if he couldn’t place it. 

"Have we met before?" he asked, his head tilting slightly to the side. 

You smiled softly, the words tasting bittersweet on your tongue as you replied, "In a way… yes." 

KIZU'S MULTI-FANDOM MASTERLIST

[infernalodie]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐞 || 𝐌𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐳

Inspo: Emile Mosseri - Jacob and the Stone

Pairing: Maddy Perez x Gn!reader

Summary: The stone that stood tall and would never full leave her memory...

Warnings: Angst throughout with mentions of suicide.

Words: 1770

DNI IF YOU’RE YOUNGER THAN 18!

There was this stone Maddy used to go to.

Somewhere in the density of a forest right outside of Highland. Practically resting near the long breaks of the open countryside, this place resided.

It’d been a complete chance that she came to this location. Her car broke down with her friends and their goal to live the night up was still on the list of plans. So, they ventured into this forest and found this large stone.

She remembers Cassie being a ruckus and being the emotional drunk she was. Lexi was reserved and just talked with Kat. Rue and Jules were holding one another. But Maddy found you staring at this stone, perplexed or fascinated by it.

Maddy remembers you dragging your hand across the texture of the rock. Lips twitched faintly as the tips of your fingers gently caught the grooves; scars of its past and present. And something about it made you say, “It’s beautiful.”

Everyone knew you found beauty in the strangest of places. If it is some random obscured painting or one of those poems you would write in your free time–there was nothing you couldn’t find positives in. It had been what made Maddy fall in love with you in the first place.

And she remembers how you looked back at her. A look in your eye that was almost contentful. Like something had been decided the moment you saw this large stone. You had said, “If I ever die, I want to be buried here. I’ll even write it in my will.”

She punched your arm for saying something like that. Warning you that she would be the one to do the job if you brought something like that up. You smiled and laughed. And she remembers your arms curling around her and holding her against your chest tightly. Your face tucked in her hair where you pressed gentle kisses.

That had only been a week before everything happened. That was the last memory she had of you before you were gone. Swept up and taken wherever was after this life. And now, even after all these years, she hadn’t been able to bring herself to go back to that forest–to relive that moment all over again in a place that she imagine still had your lingering presence.

Today, it was the anniversary of your death. So, with the urging encouragement of Lexi and Rue, she drove up to the forest. She walked amongst the trees that the further she got, blocked out the sun that had been beating down on her since she got back from Highland. It left a massive veil between her and the outside world that hoped hadn’t desecrated this sacred land.

Then she finally arrived at the stone. It stood tall- maybe even taller than she had once realized. Its exterior was jaded–chips having fallen off from years of weather conditioning. And in a traditional fashion, your initials were etched into its face. Your name, your birthday and the day of your passing. Each letter and number is rough around the edges, but perfect as its own; much like you.

Flowers were scattered around the marked grave. Much of them came from friends that had specifically come down to visit and pay respects to you. There were postcards from Jules; she believed that in some way, they might make it to you somehow. There were stuffies from Rue who knew of your unhealthy obsession with said items. Lexi left some of your favourite books from your guys’ friendship being built from that.

But Maddy had nothing to offer. Perhaps she thought her visit was enough considering the time she’d pushed to avoid the inevitable.

Exhaling heavily, she forced a smile. “Hey, baby.”

She sat beside the grave with the faint outline of where it had been dug. She clasped her hands together, saying, “I would ask you how you were doing, but I think we both know that would just be stupid of me.”

Painful silence. She didn’t know what to say. What was there to honestly say? You had given up. Maybe you lost sight of the beauty in this world. Lost all hope for society and decided to clock out before you saw anything get worse. Or maybe you had been depressed the whole time but she was too blind to see it. People wore masks–some of who no one would expect. Maybe you were a part of that few.

But since you left, she tried to keep to what she had been before you left–be the person that you loved. So, she wasn’t going to try and beat around the bush with any fruitless questions or statements. “I want to say you left because you couldn’t handle living anymore. But somehow-” she laughed, shaking her head. “-something tells me your sick mind thought that becoming one with the earth was beautiful, huh? I mean, we both know that’s how your mind worked.”

In some way, with your passing, she felt like she had finally grown as close as she could get to you. With your family left in shambles from your death, Maddy had taken it upon herself to be the one to pack your belongings up. Place your clothes in boxes, trinkets in boxes, and all the little handwritten notes that lined your walls. And on the final day, there was only one poem left and she just sat in the center of your room and stared at it. Then she cried. Harder than she ever thought she could. She screamed and fought against the harsh grasp of reality that was; once she took that final paper, you were officially gone. You would be gone from her life forever.

But from time to time, when she came down to Highland to visit her parents, she stopped by your family’s house. She had dinner with them, talked about life, made plans for future holidays and then she would ask to look at the boxes.

There would always be a silence that fell over the kitchen. The uneven breaths from your mother who would purse her lips, forcing a broken smile that could crack as she grabbed Maddy’s hands and hold them tightly. Which would always be contradictory because of the tears in her eyes. And your mom would always say, “Honey, don’t ever feel like you need to ask.”

And your dad would sit there quietly, avoiding eye contact that could betray the tough exterior he had to keep. When, in fact, the wound of your passing was still fresh and it would always stay that way. No child is supposed to go before their parents.

But you did. You defied every expectation; good and bad. You believed in most people who didn’t deserve it. You found lessons in situations you had labelled, “misconstrued control”. Each of those lessons made you grow and in any way you could, you tried to pass this knowledge on to others. But you gave up and in Maddy’s mind and that substituted everything else out. Your action to leave so soon was unforgivable to her.

You gave up when things were getting good for the two of you. When your guys’ story was starting to pick up make things interesting.

“I started reading some of those poems you had taped up on your walls.” A faint smile twitched on her lips. “They almost looked like etchings of thoughts you never said to me.” Maddy’s lips trembled. She remembered clearing out your room and spending hours sitting in the center of that room. Unable to take her eyes off of all the deep and meaningful quotes that you were so infatuated with. If she’d known that she returned to your house in her dreams, finding you standing and staring at each poem with a smile, she would’ve never laid a foot inside that room.

Bowing her head slightly as she swayed. Sniffling harshly, she said, “If you must die, I’ll envy even the earth that wraps around your body.” Her tearful eyes lifted to the inscription of your name carved meaningfully into the boulder. Face twisting with her voice giving way. “And I fucking miss you, Y/n. I hate knowing something else will give you warmth when I could’ve filled that spot for you.”

Her voice cracked. A sob fell from her lips. “I shouldn’t be sad. You fucking left me!” She fell to her hands, slowly lowering herself where blades of grass brushed across her rosy cheeks that kissed the earth. Her body trembled as she sought the feeling of your arms once more. Fingers delving into the dirt, hoping to find your hands interlocking with hers the further she reached. “But I want you here. Even in my dreams, I just want one more day with you.”

It was a distant and unforgeable wish, she knew that. But she was desperate. She had to wake up most nights and cry herself back to sleep because that would be the only way to reunite with you once more. Through the pain, she was healed by your smile. And she trying to find a middle ground between acceptance and refusal.

But that was the thing–no one can have both. When someone is gone, we can’t do anything to bring them back. And with time, we will heal. It’ll hurt like hell and it’ll feel like that wound will always be open, but that’s what comes with acceptance. And when we least expect it, when we find someone that makes our hearts skip a beat like the person before once did, we’ll realize how far we’ve come. How much pain we were able to take and keep moving forward.

It's a sign to try again.

And it hurt Maddy to admit it, but she wanted to keep going. Keep you close to her heart, but far enough that she was allowed to think about the good times instead of the worst.

And what helped was for her to think about how your mind worked–your beliefs that she never could wrap her head around. With time, she learned more about herself and where she stood on the unappreciated qualities of life and the world she lived in. Maddy believed that in some alternate reality, the both of you were still together and thriving. And acknowledging that was beautiful in its own way because she got to experience it for some time–a small sliver compared to a counterpart, but still a gift. But a different version of her would feel it until her last breath.

Something like that was poetic, wasn’t it?

[accordingtolauren]

My dying wish.

All the cemeteries

That plague these neighborhoods

Are overrated in their standing

Who would want to curse their love into the ground?

A compact grief forever etched in stone

Tied to the lands that have been cursed by an unforsaken hand

As the bouquets wilt amongst their partners

Mimicking the dead that lay beneath them

Six feet under

If it was the end of the world

I’d ask you to flay my skeleton upon a flame

As all the life would reduce to ash

Speckles that once were remnants of a past life

And scatter me amongst the seas

So I’d drift away with the roaring tides

Pushing and pulling, pushing and pulling

Succumbing to the salty waters

With nothing more than the sound of a child’s laughter

And the crashing of waves

Would you do this for me, my love?

For I fear I may rot within a casket

During my untimely demise

Lost between the underground and another plane of existence

As I trace my fingertips upon the wood, counting the imperfections

Unable to let go for the worry that I may remain

In an unmarked landmark

A rusted grave with overgrown ivy

Envious of my neighbors

And their dwindling visitors

I will never have peace

Trapped under the ground

Unless you crawl in beside me

And embrace me

During my slumbers

-lauren a.p

[winters8child]

It´s been a long, long time

Chapter 98

"It is right over here," Steve said softly, guiding me through the stone memorials etched with countless names. There were a few people scattered around, some quietly searching for their loved ones’ names, but the space felt empty and still. The cold December air bit at my skin, and I regretted not wearing gloves as my breath became visible with every exhale.

After months of Steve asking me to join him, I finally agreed to come. It felt like the right step, a part of moving forward. We had been trying to build something new—talking with the architect, planning the house, trying to embrace the future. This visit felt like a necessary step in that journey, even if I wasn’t sure I was ready.

My therapist had been thrilled when I told her about it, so much so that she even suggested reducing our sessions to bi-weekly. I wasn’t entirely convinced I was ready for that, though.

"Here we are," Steve said, placing the flowers we had brought down gently on the ground. Fewer and fewer people were leaving flowers now, as Steve had mentioned. Time had passed, but for us, the weight of Bucky’s absence still felt fresh.

"James Buchanan Barnes," I read aloud in a near whisper, tracing my fingers over the cold, black letters. The chill of the stone against my skin made it feel all the more real. This wasn’t even his real grave—there was no body beneath it—but somehow, it still felt final. Steve slipped his arm around my shoulders and pressed a kiss into my hair, his presence warm and reassuring.

Guilt tightened my chest as I thought about how many times Steve had come here alone. "I'm sorry," I whispered, my voice thick with emotion. "I should have come sooner with you."

He stroked my arm gently, his voice low and soothing. "It's okay. I know this isn’t easy."

I leaned into his touch, letting myself feel both the pain and the comfort of being here with him. "I can't believe he's gone," I whispered, my voice trembling as I wiped away a tear that had slipped down my cheek. "It's not fair... after everything he went through... he was finally at peace."

The weight of the words hit me harder than I expected, the finality of it all sinking in. I breathed out shakily and stepped forward, placing my fingers on the cold stone once more. The reality of it felt unbearable, but there was nothing left to do but say the words I had been holding onto for so long.

"Goodbye, Bucky," I whispered softly, my voice catching. "We will always love you."

I turned around to face Steve, who stood there with a sad smile, his hands tucked into his pockets. His eyes held the weight of his own grief, yet they remained soft and understanding.

"I want to go home," I said quietly, my voice tired and worn.

He nodded, not saying a word, and gently threw his arm around me, pulling me close as we turned to leave.

Life was beginning to feel normal—or at least, closer to normal than it had been in a long time. After several meetings with the architect, construction on our dream home had finally started. We wanted an open-plan kitchen, a cozy library, enough rooms for guests, and a large garden with a pool. It was everything we’d ever envisioned, a fresh start for us both.

But when the architect asked about future plans for children and whether we wanted to include space for a nursery, the mood shifted. I still remember the look on Steve's face when I softly said there was no need for one. His smile faltered, and the unspoken grief between us hung in the air, heavier than ever.

We moved on with the plans, but that moment lingered between us like a shadow. Steve never brought it up again, and I didn’t have the heart to revisit it. The house would have plenty of rooms if we ever changed our minds, but deep down, I couldn't see that happening. The idea of a future with children felt distant, almost unreachable.

Over time, even my nightmares began to fade. Most nights, I didn’t dream at all, and I felt… content. Maybe even happy, on good days. But then there were days like today when I found myself standing in front of the mirror, dissecting everything that felt wrong.

As the bathtub filled, I dropped my robe and caught a glimpse of my reflection in the fogged-up glass. To anyone else, my body looked normal, flawless even, thanks to the serum. But my eyes were drawn to my stomach, where I expected to see scars—proof of what had been taken from me, what Hydra had stolen. There were none. The serum had healed me completely as if my baby had never existed.

My body was whole, but inside, the healing was slower. The deeper wounds were still there, and I was terrified that someday when they finally closed, I might forget.

A knock on the door jolted me back to the present. Steve’s voice came from the other side, soft but tinged with concern. "Are you alright? The water’s been running for a while." I could hear the worry in his voice, that constant worry he carried with him since everything changed. In his eyes, I was still fragile, still breakable. And I hated it.

"Can I come in?" he asked when I didn’t respond.

I took a breath, still gripping the sink, eyes fixed on my reflection. "You can," I said quietly.

The door opened slowly, and Steve stepped inside, his gaze sweeping over me. I stood there, naked and exposed, my eyes glued to my reflection as if it held the answers to questions I didn’t even know how to ask. He looked at me, his face unreadable for a moment, before his eyes softened. He saw me, all of me—every scar that didn’t exist on the outside but still bled inside.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice gentle, but I could feel the tension behind it.

Steve stepped up behind me, his presence grounding me, as his eyes locked with mine in the mirror. His hands gently rested on my shoulders, warm against my skin. I looked up into his eyes, trying to find something—maybe reassurance, maybe understanding. His fingers trailed down my arms in soft strokes, sending a shiver through me.

He was always gentle, always careful, but I could feel the way his touch lingered just a bit longer, the way his gaze flickered with desire. No matter how much care he took, seeing me like this still stirred something in him. There was a tension between us—unspoken but palpable.

"You're beautiful," he whispered, his voice thick, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from my reflection.

Steve's lips brushed against my neck, his kisses trailing down to my shoulder as his hands continued their slow, deliberate path across my skin. I closed my eyes, letting the warmth of his touch wash over me. His fingers found my breasts, caressing me with that careful tenderness I had come to know so well, but it was laced with a deeper need tonight.

His hands moved lower, making my breath hitch as he touched me, his body pressing firmly against mine. I could feel his arousal against my back, hard and insistent, and for a moment, the world outside the bathroom faded away.

I leaned back into him, surrendering to the sensations, to the safety of being in his arms. Steve's kisses deepened, turning from soft caresses to hungry, passionate bites against my neck. Each kiss, each nip, sent waves of heat coursing through me. His fingers moved with purpose, sliding into my slick folds, and I gasped, my grip tightening on the counter as my knees weakened beneath me.

The pace of his touch quickened, and the pleasure built rapidly, overwhelming my senses. I whimpered, my breath coming in short, heated bursts, the mirror fogging up even more from the heat radiating between us. Every movement, every sound, felt electric as I shuddered under his touch, losing myself completely in him.

I came undone, my legs nearly giving way, but Steve held me close, kissing my jaw as I struggled to catch my breath. Just as I was starting to regain my composure, I heard him slip out of his shorts and position himself at my entrance. Gripping the sink once more, I gasped as he pushed inside me.

He filled me completely, his hands gripping my hips to steady us both. The intensity of the moment sent a fresh wave of heat through me, and my breath was still uneven from the release I had just experienced.

He moved slowly at first, allowing me to adjust, each thrust sending sparks of pleasure coursing through my body. His lips found my jaw again, peppering it with soft kisses that contrasted with the building intensity between us. I could feel his arousal, his need, and it matched my own as we moved together in perfect rhythm.

My eyes were closed, but I could hear him wiping away the fog from the mirror. When he held my jaw and turned my head to face the reflection, I opened my eyes to see myself.

I had never seen myself in such a situation, though I often wondered what I might look like. My cheeks were flushed, my hair was disheveled, and my breasts bounced with every thrust. I felt a blush creep over me at the sight and considered closing my eyes again, but Steve's voice broke through the haze of my thoughts.

"Look at yourself," he panted. "You are the most beautiful thing I've ever laid eyes on. I want you to see yourself the way I do."

His eyes were filled with lust, but there was love there too; I could feel it in every touch and hear it in his voice. He quickened the pace, his hands gripping my hips as our breaths grew more fervent. We were locked in each other’s gaze in the mirror, and from the look on his face, it was clear he was getting close.

With every deep thrust, he pushed me closer to the edge. I could hear the wet sounds of our bodies moving together, mixing with our heavy breaths. It felt primal, and the tension in the air was electric.

"Steve," I gasped, my voice trembling as I felt that familiar coil tightening within me. "I’m so close..."

"Let go for me," he urged, his voice a low growl. "I’ve got you. Just let it happen."

As he quickened his pace, driving into me with relentless force, I felt the pressure building, ready to explode. My body quivered, and with a final thrust, I surrendered to the overwhelming pleasure, crying out his name as I came undone around him.

The sensation washed over me in waves, and I could feel him tightening his grip on my hips as he chased his own release. With a few more powerful thrusts, he buried himself deep inside me, groaning my name as he found his peak, his body pressed firmly against mine.

We stood there, panting, our reflections in the mirror capturing the raw intimacy of the moment, both of us breathless and entwined in each other's arms. He planted a soft kiss on my shoulder before turning off the running water and leading me into the bathtub.

I shivered as the hot water enveloped my skin, splashing out of the tub when I settled in. He joined me, sitting behind me and wrapping his arms around me as I leaned back against his solid chest.

A contented sigh escaped me, the warmth of the water mingling with his comforting presence. "I could get used to this," I whispered, a smile creeping onto my lips.

He chuckled softly, his breath warm against my ear. "We’re definitely going to need a bigger tub in our new house." He shifted slightly, trying to find a comfortable position in the snug confines of the tub.

“Uhm, no, I like it this way,” I said with a smile, snuggling even closer to him. The warmth of the water and his body wrapped around me created a cocoon of comfort. This felt like one of the good days.

Next Chapter

[coffeecakefanfics]

Home with You ~ Astarion Smut/ F!reader

Summary: Basically, just the grave scene inspired by In A Week by Hozier.

Warnings: Fingering, oral (f receiving), PiV, mild fluff.

*I haven't written smut in probably three years so bear with me being rusty lol.*

Also the biggest of thank you's goes to celestialoutsider for beta reading and editing for me <3

~

The moonbeams that danced between the branches illuminated the cold stone in front of Astarion and (Y/n).  His name etched into the stone was still covered in a thin layer of dirt, but for the first time his grave was adorned with a single flower.  A gentle, loving hand had placed it there.  So many emotions swirled through the pale elf’s mind at the gesture.  The one that stuck out to him the most was the one that sent warmth through his chest, if he thought about it for more than a second, he might have recognized it as a mix of love and gratitude.

“I have a gift for you” the voice next to him drew his gaze to her face.  We watched with curiosity as she untied the small bag of holding from her side and rummaged inside.  “Ah there it is!” she beamed as her fingers finally grazed what she was looking for.  The dark red liquid splashed against the glass.  Astarion cracked a smile and gingerly took the bottle from his lover. 

“This looks expensive,” He commented, turning the bottle over in his hands.  The gold lettering shimmered in the moonlight, and the wine inside looked deep and rich. 

“It was,” (Y/n) bit back a smile, “But I thought it was worth it.  I was saving it for when we finally got these worms out of our heads,” she took the bottle from him and popped it open. The sweet smell went straight to his taste buds, saliva gathering in his mouth.  It had been so long without a good wine. 

“This however feels like a much better occasion to celebrate,” She smiled at him, and held the bottle out to him.  With a bowed thank you he took a sip.  Gods it would have paired so nicely with a creamy cheese or tender steak.  It was in fact rich, and sweet, it was a wonderful change from the vinegar they had at the grove party.  

“That really must have cost a fortune,” he smiled and took another sip before passing it off to her. 

“I’d argue that your taste is the reason it was so expensive,” she smirked and took a sip.  Astarion laid a hand on his chest in mock offense. 

“I can’t say you’re wrong, but it still hurts,” his grin was spreading wider. 

 The pair sat and drank over half of the bottle before the giggling started.  It was a wonderful change of pace from the fighting for their lives.  Here, under the moon, wrapped in the warmth of a good wine it was just the two of them, safe and happy.  The emotions swirled in his head now, everything else was clouded by the woman sitting next to him giggling over a dumb joke that he couldn’t bother to remember.  It was loud and unbothered, followed by a sush and giggles from him.  The smile on his face never faltered.  His ruby eyes took in (Y/n) fully, how she threw her head back when she laughed, how her eyes softened and pupils blew wide at the sight of him, how the wine had flushed her cheeks, how the sight of him made his undead heart leap. 

“You’re perfect.” the words had slipped out.  (Y/n) pursed her lips, her cheeks flushing more. 

“Well, you’re amazing,” she smiled at him, scooting closer to him till their knees touched. His nails scraped against the side of her scalp gently as he pushed her hair away from her face. Her own eyes took him in now.  His face softened as she scanned his features.

“Thank you,” his voice was hushed so that only she could hear the words spilling from wine touched lips, “for everything.  You’ve given me a second chance at life, and I want to live it with you at my side.”  

She placed her hand over the one holding her head, the other finding its way onto his chest, right over his heart. “I’m here with you, for as long as you want me,” she spoke tenderly. 

He captured her lips in a gentle kiss in response.  They moved as one, perfectly in tandem.  He slid his body over hers, laying them down onto the damp grass of the cemetery.  She sighed into his mouth as his leg slid up to spread her legs in order to rest between them. (Y/n)’s hands slid into his silver curls tugging him impossibly closer, earning her own groan from the man above her. He leaned his weight onto one elbow and used the other to cradle her face in his hand. He held her so gently, like she would spook and run away from him still.  After what felt like forever they parted for air, moving back just far enough to look each other in the eyes.  Their chests heaved, eyes were blown wide, lips wet and swollen, and smiles plastered wide across their faces. 

(Y/n) tugged his tunic off of him, running her hands down his torso after he was free from the garment.  Her fingers were so warm against his cold skin.  They ignited a fire in his belly as they softly roamed the expanse of his chest down his belly and toyed with the band of his pants.  He pressed his lips to hers again as her hands continued to explore his body. Her lips danced across his throat and up the edge of his ear, biting gently causing a moan to fall from him.  

“What a tease,” he said through a grin. 

“I learned from the best,” she breathed with a matching wide smile.  Her fingertips ran up his sides and over his shoulders using the position of her arms to tug him down to her.  His desire for her pressed down onto her clothed heat, earning a small sound from them both. Their restraint was chipping away at every roll of their hips against each other.  Astarion slid his own hand up (Y/n)’s shirt, he pulled away from her embrace to remove it from her body. 

“Look at you,” he let his eyes rake over her frame hungirly.  It was his turn to explore her body.  He pressed soft kisses to the sides of her jaw and down her neck, sucking over her pulse and nipping at the faded spot he feeds from, and she moaned in response.  Gods how he wanted to drink from her, to feel her blood coursing through his veins, becoming one in a different way for a little while. 

Another time he thought to himself, dragging his lips across her collar bones and down the valley of her breasts.  His fingers were ice against her perked nipples.  A gasp left her lips as her chest arched into his touch.  Astarion smirked at how responsive she was to him already.  His mouth found her other nipple causing another moan to tumble out of her mouth.  He took his time toying with each breast before kissing his way down to her waistband.  His lips followed behind the garment kissing down her right leg and crawled back up her left leg after discarding it into the dirt. 

“You’re so beautiful my love,” his voice was low and Desperate.  His eyes looked so dark and hungry, the sight above her made (Y/n) shudder with anticipation.  His fingers traced the tops of her thighs, teasing. “You’ll let me taste you, won't you?” she couldn’t tell if he was begging or wanting her to beg but she nodded her head furiously either way. 

“Please Star,” her voice was soft and dripping with a need that made his cock impossibly harder in his pants. “Please touch me, I need to feel you,” she begged.  How could he say no to such a pretty thing?  He found his way down to meet her sex.  The sight of her dripping for him had him licking his lips before spreading her and licking a wide strip from her entrance to her clit. (Y/n) threw her head back and loosed a loud, lewd moan.  The feeling of his mouth on her finally aiding in the burning desire that had been dancing in her belly since he laid her in the grass.  The sounds she was making as Astarion circled her clit were music to his pointy ears.  The way she was gripping his hair and grinding onto his tongue made his head swim.  

Astarion pulled away from her heat for a moment, earning him a whine.  He licked her essence from his lips and leaned against her left leg, using his middle finger to toy with her entrance.  Her moans filled the air again as she ground against him. “Come on sweet thing, I know you can use that pretty voice to ask” he teased.  She whined in response but managed to find her voice. 

“Please make me feel good. Want it so bad,” her hips rolled as his fingers brushed her clit. “I can take it Star, please,” her voice cracked slightly. He bit his lip at her honeyed words, his fang slightly dug into the skin.  His own need was growing unbearable at this point, and maybe he felt a little guilty at ripping her from the edge.  He slid his finger into her.  Thank yous tumbled out of her lips, more sweet music as he added another.  His dexterity quickly brought her back up to that peak.  Astarion growled and brought his lips back to her clit.  With a loud moan she snapped, white hot pleasure surged through her body as she gushed on his fingers and mouth. 

“That’s my good girl,” he praised, working her through the pleasure. He gently ran his hands up and down her thighs, coaxing her back to him. She looked so beautiful fucked out below him.  Her hair splayed messily around her like a halo, her cheeks ever flushed, and her lips parted as her chest rose and fell with deep breaths. 

“Can you give me another sweet girl?” he asked tenderly.  She simply nodded at him with hooded eyes and croaked a “Yes.”  Her throat was raw from the moans that had ripped through it.  He moaned at the feeling of his cock finally being let free of his pants.  (Y/n) licked her lips at the sight of him kneeled over her.  He gave himself a few pumps before lining himself up with her entrance.  He let his head and eyes roll back and he sunk into her, relishing in how warm and wet she was for him.  

“Is this all for me darling?” he asked, pulling his hips back.

“It’s all for you, always” Her mewls fed his ego. He held the backs of her knees holding her legs open as he thrust back into her.  The snap of his hips had her crying out in pleasure and rolling her head to the side. Throwing all caution to the wind he didn’t hold back his moans, letting her know just how much he was enjoying himself. 

She was surrounding him, her cunt, her smell, her touch as her hands gripped his shoulders.  He felt her flutter around him.  The way she was squeezing him was enough to make his thrusts falter.  He released her legs and wrapped an arm around her back, pulling her into him, the last bit of self-control he had gone.  He laid his head on her shoulder breathing in her scent.  “You’re gonna make me cum,” his voice was no more than a whimper.  

“Please, with me” was all she managed to let slip before he gave her a particularly deep thrust, spilling ropes of his cum in her.  Her own orgasm hit her right after, causing her walls to flutter and her legs to squeeze his hips.  They lay there tangled together catching their breaths for a minute before he pulled out and laid on the soft grass next to (Y/n).  She turned onto her side and brushed a curl that had fallen out of his face.  She gave him a tired smile.  He found her hand and pressed a kiss onto her palm.  This felt right to him, laying with her, loving her.  He decided that he could die there again and die happy.  He didn’t care if they found them decomposing under the wisteria tree, he was with her.  He was where he belonged.  He was home.

[throneofsapphics]

I just read 'have your little girlfriend' part eight, and I scream! Low-key thought you were going to pull the rug out from under us and have y/n like die or something, because ....they don't deserve her! And they know it! Now I'm thinking what were they reaction be if she did die and the like found her grave or something..... Anyway, I love the whole series!

Thank you so so much! That series was my baby for a long time, and I'm so glad you liked it.

That could be a *fun* alternate ending to write...

Aelin spotted the etching of her name, just the beginnings of a few few letters, over the small fence separating the graveyard from the street.

No. It couldn't.

She'd refused to believe the mating bond had broken a few months ago, and wanted to refuse to believe it today. But ... that was your name, and Rowan stood next to her, frozen, lethal rage spilling from every inch of him. Aelin was in denial.

A man stood before the mound of freshly sewn earth, the marker carved from stone. Unfamiliar, but the various hints of her scent lingered on him. He looked as if he hadn't changed his clothes in days. She wanted to kill him for bearing her scent, but as he scampered off and the grave came into full view, she stepped over the fence without a second thought, daring anyone to try and stop her.

Something in her chest ached as she knelt before the lump of soil, smoothing it out with her fingers.

The gravestone was beautifully carved, and sure enough read her name.

Maybe she'd faked her death, she wouldn't put it past her.

"We need to figure out what happened," Rowan said hoarsely.

"She's still alive. I can feel it," Aelin insisted. But she couldn't, not really. She could feel the tears dripping down her cheeks as they wet the soil, she could feel her other mate's hand on her shoulder, and she could feel the growing emptiness she'd left behind her.