#Not to mention ((this is not his taste this is MINE)) the narrow sloping shoulders and the small waist UGH 😩

[little-candy-store-of-horrors]

Did you know that foxes are my favourite animals ;-B>

[dizzydancingdreamer]

Persephone's Symphony | Day Two | Persephone

Hey my lovelies a month later here is the next installment! When I was planning my chapters out a month or so ago I wrote at the top of this one "Sunny day, go outside, FLUFFY" (exact words)-- I regret to inform you that this is almost pure angst LOL. I deviated from that but the next chapter should bring some much needed fluff. Thank you all for your patience and support-- it means the entire world to me. All my love, until next time <3

Synopsis: In which he is the bad one— the dangerous one, the clunky one, the one who only knows how to break things— and she is the good one— the fragile one, the soft one, the one who knows how to put things back together— and he has to keep her alive long enough for anyone else— anyone who can do more than kill— to save her like she deserves to be saved— to save her from him. There are no pomegranates, no three headed dogs, and no requirement to stay— that is, if they don’t count an assassin on the loose out for her neck. In that case, three days in a safe house doesn’t feel like a long time— just long enough for Persephone and Hades to remember why opposites attract.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader (third person)

Warnings: Mentions of death, anxiety, PTSD, nightmares, angst things, self-hatred, terrible Greek myth references, this ones big angst but necessary for the plot line

Word count: 5.2k

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Master List

He likes his coffee iced.

Black and iced.

She watches as Bucky lifts the glass— the one filled with more cubes than coffee— to his lips, wincing when his throat bobs. It’s seven in the morning. Sure, neither of them slept that much last night— something which makes her gut twist, knowing quite well that it’s her fault— but still. It can’t be as refreshing as he’s making it look. Iced coffee is meant for afternoons. And meant with as much sugar and cream as she can get her hands on. Never just straight dark roast. She clutches her own mug closer to her, taking a sip of the warm, sweet liquid. This is how it should be.

“Got something you wanna’ say, doll?” He takes another sip and she scrunches her nose, both trying to keep her eyes off his pink lips and trying not to force her own mug into his hands— she would be doing him a favor.

If the slight smirk— the millimeter tick in his cheek— is anything to go by then she would say he knows how hard this is for her. A sadist. His lips pull up a touch higher, as though reading her mind. A handsome sadist. Her face flushes under his gaze and she drags in a lungful of air through her nose, holding it for a moment— one, two, three moments— before blowing it back out her mouth.

She lets the hint of coffee leftover on her tongue carve a syrupy smile across her face. “Nope— nothing at all.”

He nods once, blue eyes creasing at the corners as he stares at her from over the glass. He knows. He lazily swirls the coffee, the ice cubes clinking together. Mocking her. She clenches her jaw, fighting the growing urge to snatch the bitter drink and dump it down the sink. The liquid is so dark that she almost gags, picturing what it must taste like. Bitter. Tangy. Vile. It’s the same color as his hair— brown but practically black. Unlike his hair, though, she doesn’t want to be anywhere near that coffee. He needs something warm. Something soft.

Something like her—

“You sure?” Bucky’s voice is mocking too but lacking the ice— the bitterness— his mocking is sweet.

He’s tilting his head now, his black and gold hand settling on the table between them, glinting in the dregs of sunlight starting to break past the curtain. To think yesterday she had been afraid to meet his gaze— afraid of her own feet creaking against the hardwood and of messing up his lunch. Now look at her, less than twenty-four hours later and she can’t look away from him. She doesn’t want to look away. Forget about being afraid to burn the grilled-cheese— she’s about to spartan kick the glass off the table if he takes one more sip.

“Oh I’m sure.” She simpers, fingers curling a touch tighter around her mug. “Why, is there something you would like to say, Bucky?”

His eyes sparkle, not backing down from the challenge. “Nothing at all.”

In that moment— in the one, two, three moments that it takes for his head to slope to the other side, still tilted but somehow more taunting— it’s almost impossible to hold in the scowl threatening her lips. “I see.”

She doesn’t know what she’s expecting but it certainly isn’t Bucky’s laugh— loud and raspy and rushing over her in a tidal wave of energy stronger than the caffeine on her tongue— as he throws his head back. He had laughed yesterday but it wasn’t like this. It wasn’t so pure. It’s all she can do to hold her breath as his eyes flutter closed, creasing at the corners, and wonder if she looks that wonderful when she laughs too. If she, too, looks like an angel falling from the sun, burning in the inkling of light the curtain allows. Does the kitchen haze halo around her hair as well? Does it make it look like her skin is gold— the same way he looks like a statue, sculpted and frozen from precious metal?

There’s just no way.

“You look like you wanna’ leap across the table—” his hand presses against his mouth, flesh fingers closed in a fist as his shoulders shake— “why— why do you look so determined? C’mon, fill me in please— I’m—” he has to pause, laugh turning silent from the force of it— “I’m dyin’ here.”

Her own laughs come in short huffs, airy and just barely making a noise. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep finally getting her— that would explain both of their laughs actually. She hasn’t felt giddy in months. It kind of hurts, how hard her stomach contracts upon seeing his eyes blinking at her, bright blue and glassy, swallowing his chuckles the same way she gasps for the breath needed to answer him.

She finally caves, finger pointing to the glass in front of him and a smile so wide on her lips that her cheeks hurt. “There’s just no way that tastes good.”

He glances down, looking at his offensive beverage, before looking back up, his eyes brighter than she’s yet to have seen them. “That’s what this is about? My coffee? I knew it.”

Nodding, she lifts her own mug, tilting it just enough for him to see the contents. “This is coffee— not that sludge. That cold sludge. Is there any sugar in there? Like, even one grain?”

“Quit bein’ dramatic—” he snorts— apparently the big bad bodyguard snorts— and it’s cuter than she would like to admit— “just because I don’t load my coffee with additives. S’there even any coffee in yours, doll? It looks more like milk if you ask me.”

Her face flushes hot and she doesn’t know if it’s from the nickname or the fact that he just called her out— so what if she likes sugar and cream?

She meets his smug gaze with her own, narrowed-eyed glance. “Sugar and cream aren’t additives, Bucky— they’re good.”

“But not good for you.” He counters, dark brows quirking.

She scoffs— scoff, swoon, same thing— “Not everything has to be a superfood to be healthy— at least mine isn’t iced.”

Bucky’s eyes glint upon hearing that, picking up his glass and swirling the ice cubes once more before taking a long sip. His eyes never leave hers as he peers over the rim, taking his sweet time to down the liquid. Does he know that even when he’s being arrogant he looks like an angel? Her hand curls tighter around her mug, testing the durability of the ceramic as his throat bobs again. Her palm stings in warning— a little hey maybe you should let go. She doesn’t— somehow shattering the mug seems like a better option than breaking her composure.

Her grip loosens a fraction when he finally sets his glass back down. “What’s wrong with iced coffee— isn’t it a California staple?”

“Not before eight it isn’t.”

“It’s refreshing.” He deadpans.

“It’s cold.” She deadpans back, fingers tapping against her mug— maybe she can hypnotize him into not wanting to finish it. “Californians don’t like the cold. At least not in So-Cal we don’t. Maybe Brooklyn’s different.”

Eyeing his drink, she contemplates the schematics of the mission at hand. It truly doesn’t seem that difficult. She could just reach over and grab it and he wouldn’t even see it coming. He’s already distracted, right? She stops tapping, casually— well, as casual as one can be when actually trying to be— laying her palm on the table. His eyes, thankfully, stay glued to her own, lips parting with a huff.

“New Yorkers just want coffee, no time for all that fancy stuff.”

“Oh yeah?” She drawls. “What does fancy stuff entail exactly?”

She can only hope that her voice sounds interested— her eyes are still locked on his but her attention is entirely elsewhere. She needs to keep him talking— to keep him distracted. His huffs as she crawls her fingers closer, drawing his focus to her shrug, making sure he never glances away. This is too easy.

“All that cappuccino, frappuccino, whatever the hell it’s called nowadays—”

This time she huffs. “Is that what you think we drink?”

She inches her palm even closer to his glass—

“I know it’s what you drin— Hey!” Bucky laughs again, tugging his glass towards him with a cheshire grin— okay so maybe he would see it coming— “keep your hands where I can see them—”

Whatever he says next falls deaf into the space between them, cut off by the sudden rushing of blood in her ears. It’s like his words hit a barrier between them, one hastily constructed of thin glass and terror. Every thought of coffee rushes out of her mind in an instant. She blinks, mouth going dry, heart stopping. A switch flips inside her— keep your hands where I can see them or what?

What did he hear?

He must have heard something.

Why can’t she hear him?

She can see him— see the way his lips form around his sentence, his smile starting to wane but still slightly holding in place— but she can’t hear him. She can see the way his laugh drops but she can’t hear the explosion of it hitting the table. She can only perceive the collision in the fall of his lips, echoed in the creasing of his brows. Her hands catch in mid air, hitting the glass as well— she can’t save it. Him. She’s trying— instinctively reaching for him— but she can’t pull the smile back up or smooth the lines on his forehead. She’s helpless— useless.

He knows— he must know.

What did she say last night?

Why can’t she break the glass?

The wall is too much.

She tries to tell Bucky— I’m so scared I can’t breathe— but when her gaze snaps to his none of the blue that she’s been memorizing for the last day is visible. There’s only blackness— blackness in the now dimming light of the bright room and blackness in his eyes, even the whites, and blackness in her own vision as she, too, drops. One minute she’s there, sitting at the table, watching the confusion pool into his features that were only seconds ago coated in mirth, and then next she’s back. She’s dreaming. She’s in the house that haunts her every night.

She’s not asleep but—

She’s in the coat closet of her parent’s home. It still smells the way she remembers— like sunscreen and lemon Pine-Sol. Her mother uses it to keep the wooden fixtures around the house oiled. Apparently that’s a thing. She’s never really understood why but at least it smells nice— like sunshine and laughter and her mother. Like her home. She doesn’t understand but, regardless, any other time she would be closing her eyes and drawing in as much of the citrus as possible, too content to be confused.

Not today, though— she’s too excited to do any such thing today.

She hasn’t told anyone that she’s coming home for the weekend; she wants it to be a surprise. Her brother always surprises her. His birthday is just around the corner and for once she wants to be the one to do the surprising. Hell, she even bought a cake with an inscription— the very same cake that’s nestled next to her feet as she rummages through the shelves. Happy 29th Birthday! She has a whole plan in place. Have Susan drop her off while her family is out and set up the celebration before they return. It isn’t a hard plan. It’s supposed to be simple— not hard and very simple.

And then the door opens.

Not the closet door but the front door. She hears the familiar tread of her family— her mother’s eco-friendly slip-ons and her fathers clunky, also eco-friendly, sandals, followed by the heavy thudding of her brother’s combat boots. Despite her mother’s pleading— and the fact that he hasn’t been deployed in over a year— he still wears them religiously. Still, her interest peaks— it doesn’t make sense. The only time he doesn’t wear them is when he goes to the beach and she could have sworn one of them had sent her a text earlier today asking if she had wanted to go with them—

“Keep your hands where I can see them, you hear me!”

She freezes, hands clamping around the towel in her grasp as she whirls around and squints through the grate in the closet door. She can’t make out everything in front of her but she can make out enough to know that something isn’t right. There are four people standing in the foyer. Not three— not just her mother, brother, and father— but four. She sees her mother shoved behind her father, his arm curled around her hip, and her brother, his hands held out in front of him towards the fourth person. His face, while slightly distorted from the grate, is terrified. Him— the man who’s faced the worst of the war— terrified.

Something is terribly wrong.

She pushes her gaze to the fourth figure, trying desperately to understand what’s happening. Dressed in all black, their back towards her, there isn’t much to go off of. Their stance is rigid, steps heavy as they slam the front door and lock it. Is her family being robbed? Is that what this is? She knows they’re well off— more than that. She knows her family is rich. But her neighbourhood is guarded— enclosed. She’s never heard of something like this happening—

She bites back a scream as the person shouts at her family, voice staticy as it crackles through what sounds like a modifier. “On your knees— now!”

Her mother’s cry rings through the air, piercing her chest like a bullet. She wants to scream too but something inside her catches the sound before she can. Maybe it’s common sense— her street smarts coming out to play for once in her life. Maybe it’s fear— the scream dissipating into a barely audible huff of air as she watches her brother sink wordlessly to the floor. Solidarity, perhaps. Maybe, though, it's the slab of iron in the person’s hand, pressed against her father’s head and winking at her in the bright foyer light.

A gun— whoever is in her home has a gun and is pointing it at her family.

“Please don’t hurt my family—” it’s her father this time, his hands in the air and voice deadly calm— how he manages that she has no idea— “I’ll give you whatever you want. Money, jewelry, whatever you want, it’s yours— just please don’t hurt them.”

It’s surreal— she’s heard that phrase in movies and shows— hell, she heard it in a theatre production one time— a macabre commentary about something she couldn’t remember if her life depended on it— does her life depend on it right now?— of course it doesn’t snap out of it y/n! She’s losing her mind, her throat is burning and her palms are starting to sting— the point is she never thought she would hear those words said aloud. She certainly never thought they would come from her own father as he covers her mother’s body with his own.

“I don’t want your money!” The intruder growls, their voice so low and grainy that she almost doesn’t understand.

What she does understand is the sharp click of the gun’s safety being released— she understands the way the muscles in her body tense all at once. In that moment the unthinkable happens—

She drops the towel.

It doesn’t make much of a sound at all, only a small thud as it falls, but it’s enough to make her jolt backwards, foot landing heavy in her brother’s cake. The heady scent of the cream-cheese icing melds with the Pine-Sol and she has to swallow the vomit that rises in her throat, not daring to lift her foot let alone move an inch as the hulking figure rises.

They spin around quickly, facing the closet with a covered face and squinted black eyes, and her heart stops dead in her chest. Can they see her? Do they know she’s in there? She had made a beeline for the closet when Susan dropped her off, not bothering to stop long enough to kick her shoes off until inside the small space. She hasn’t even turned the light on— there’s been enough pouring in through the grate to do without. Perhaps there’s a chance they don’t know she’s here.

She holds her breath as the figure steps forward, arms pressed tightly to her chest. Whoever it is get’s so close to the grate that for a moment she can’t see her family at all. It’s only a few seconds before they turn away— logically it can’t be more or else she’d be gasping for air— but it feels like a lifetime, her toes curling in the red-velvet and a steady bead of sweat rolling down the back of her neck. She prays the entire time— she doesn’t know to who— she doesn’t know if she’s being heard— but she prays.

And the figure turns around.

Her hands fly to her jeans immediately, frantically pressing against the material but coming away empty. Fuck— where the hell is her cellphone? She could have sworn it was in her pocket! She wracks her brain, trying to think of where it could be. She hadn’t brought her purse or a coat— why would she, she was only going home. She has both of those things in her bedroom upstairs. She had just slipped her debit card into her phone case and ran to meet Susan—

Fuck— no, no, no!

An image of Susan’s console jumps into her mind, her phone sitting in the cupholder, forgotten as she animatedly waves her hands around. She can’t even remember the story she’d been telling now. It was nothing important— now she knows that. Nothing important enough to warrant forgetting her phone. She never forgets her phone.

She sees movement from the corner of her eye and her gaze darts to her mother whose head is now turned towards the closet, her eyes— the very eyes she’s spent years wishing she could have inherited instead of her father’s because they’re just so lovely— locked on hers. They pierce through the thin opening, softening a fraction, and her heart jumps, restarting.

She sees her.

She knows— her mother knows that she’s there. She’s watching and she knows. It’s both relieving and terrifying, knowing that she isn’t alone but also what would happen if she’s caught. Y/n’s lips peel open instinctively and, ever her persistent mother, she shakes her head. It takes everything in her to not call out for her— to not burst through the closet doors and rush into her arms. But her mother’s instincts have always been better than her own.

So she doesn’t speak— doesn’t move— she just watches.

It all happens so fast— the time it would take someone to blink is the time it takes to watch everything she’s ever known crumble.

She watches as the intruder turns, deciding that the closet is empty and that there are more important matters. Matters meaning her family. Matters meaning the gun in their hand.

She watches as her brother lunges forward, his arms wrapping around the intruder and bringing them both to the ground with a thud that threatens to bring the entire house down around them. It all happens in slow motion— yet another thing she never thought she would experience off the big screen. They roll around for a moment, battling for control. For that moment her chest sags— he’s going to win. He’s a trained soldier and he’s strong and his birthday is in three days. He has to win.

But then a gunshot rings through the air and a cloud of smoke erupts from between their bodies.

And one of them slumps but it isn’t the one in the mask.

It smells like fireworks, the gunpowder. Like the fourth of July or labor day weekend. Like she should be celebrating with the neighborhood and not pressing her fist against her mouth, helpless as her brother’s body caves in on itself. She doesn’t even get time to process the crimson pooling from the corner of his mouth as his head slots towards her before the intruder is back on their feet.

She watches as the monster aims the gun again— matters being dealt with— and she watches as her mother nods ever so slightly, her mouth just barely forming one last ‘I love you’— different matters but she would later come to find that they were also being closed. Her mother has never been one to leave things unresolved.

The second gunshot doesn’t smell like fireworks— it smells like lemon Pine-Sol.

It smells like blood.

No, she’s not asleep but she’s definitely not awake.

In hindsight maybe she should have taken that breath. She would have, had she known. Hindsight is funny like that. No. Funny is the wrong word. Hindsight is cruel like that. Better. It makes her wish that she had just closed her eyes— that she smelled the lemon oil one last time before it mingled with the metal of her family’s death. In hindsight she wouldn’t have left her phone in Susan’s car. Or dropped the towel. Or said no to the beach. Or any other thing that led her to stand in the coat closet. And those are just the things she wouldn’t do.

She still can’t think about the things she would do— not without bile rushing into her mouth.

Bucky clears his throat and— like the towel— the mug almost slips from her fingers.

“You sure you don’t want to talk ‘bout it?” His voice is gentle— well, as gentle as she’s sure he can make it— and that’s all she needs to understand that he really has no idea as to what’s going on in her head.

Surely if he did then he wouldn’t be gazing at her with that look in his eyes.

Shrugging, she keeps her attention focused on her mug— the coffee doesn’t look nearly as appetizing as it had before. She raises it anyway, her lips sealing around the porcelain and pulling in another mouthful of the liquid. Somehow, despite the steam that had been rising from it only minutes ago, it’s ice cold now. She grimaces but swallows it anyway, if only to buy herself a few seconds to think of a suitable answer. Maybe that’s why Bucky drinks it too— as a distraction. As a guise.

The mug thunks off the table when she sets it down, her hand landing much heavier than she intends. Of course it does— gods can she ever do anything normally? She winces, passing him a look she hopes conveys that it was an accident. She doesn’t want him to think she’s angry with him. Not when it feels like he’s the only person she isn’t mad at. These days that’s hard to come by. Thankfully his blue eyes remain soft. Maybe he gets it.

“I, uh—” she twists her fingers together, dropping her gaze to his cheek— this isn’t the kind of thing you say while looking someone in the eye. Maybe she’s just a coward, though— “I had a dream. Erm— about that night. A memory. Kind of.”

Her voice cracks and she swallows, trailing off. She didn’t mean to say the last part but it’s like it forced itself past her lips, her psyche unable— unwilling— to withhold the truth from him. Well, not all of it at least.

It’s not the whole story. It’s not even close. What she doesn’t say is that it’s her fault. All of it. That if she had just acted— if she had done anything at all worth something then she would still have her parents. Her brother. That she may as well have killed them herself because she sure as hell didn’t do anything to stop it. She doesn’t tell him that she’s nothing but a scared, stupid girl who— when it came down to it— froze. A monster— The Queen of Death.

Aren’t queens supposed to save the people they care about?

“A memory?” He sounds confused but all she can see is the grain of the table, her eyes now refusing to look at even his skin.

It’s all she can do to play off the way her chin drops— the way the air gets sucked out of her lungs— as a nod. “Yeah.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything in return and she’s not about to pick her chin up from her chest to demand an answer. She likes him. She doesn’t exactly want him to know she’s a killer. Well, more so than he already does. He’s here, though, so it’s not like he doesn’t know that the people closest to her always end up dead. Mother, father, brother— dead, dead, dead. He just doesn’t know the extent of it— or that she’s the harbinger.

That there’s a little part of her that wonders if he’s going to end up dead too just for sitting across from her.

Would she save him or would she only watch from the closet as his body caved to the floor?

Bucky hums softly— reverently— and she remembers the way his skin had glowed only minutes ago— Icarus meeting the sun— and the way he had laughed— Icarus humming his praise to the sun— and she feels like she’s been submerged in ice.

Icarus falling.

What happens when Icarus hits the ocean? Will it smell like lemon Pine-Sol?

Nevermind, she doesn’t want to know the answer.

Bile pools over her tongue and she swallows it as a tapping sound catches her attention in the stillness, her eyes darting to the cause. Sparkling metal— his fingers. The gold gleams even more now that the sun has risen higher. It’s not raining today— was it raining the day Icarus fell? She can’t tear her gaze away from his metal digits as they thrum a beat against the table, the steady motion mesmerizing. It’s not raining but his fingers could fool her. It’s nothing dramatic— nothing harsh. Just the tap, tap, tap of his index and middle fingers, a little heavier than had it been his flesh hand.

It’s a normal motion— she misses normal.

Tap, tap, tap.

She misses the rain.

It hits her like a truck how much she longs for the grey haze of yesterday’s sky. The sun is too bright— her skin is too exposed. It feels like it’s beaming right through her hoodie, cutting through the heavy fabric and burning the flesh from her bones just to prove that they’re not the ivory they should be but rather charred and black. It feels like the sun is out for her blood— out to watch the citrus ichor drip from her veins through the veiled window. If her feet weren’t rooted to the floor, her toes digging painfully into the harwood, she’s sure she would be sinking below the table to escape the rays. She can’t breathe— her mouth tastes like acid. Like lemons.

She misses the rain.

Tap, tap, tap— it’s not the rain but surely it’s close enough, right?

Icarus would think it’s enough, right?

So why does it make her shoulders tense?

“A memory.” Bucky breaks the silence, repeating his words but this time they aren’t a question— not yet. “What d’you mea—” he stops, sentence dropping before picking up on a new, clearer note— “You were there?”

Maybe because it’s the sound of the puzzle pieces clicking together in his head.

It’s not an accusation— there’s no charge in his tone— but still she flinches, hands pressed together at the wrists, fingers tangled together, guilty. She’s yet to confess but she’s already been caught— she can feel it— red handed in red velvet and wondering if— when she glances past the table— she’ll see her foot still smeared in the cream cheese icing. She had stood in it for so long that she wouldn’t doubt it. It’s a part of her now.

She nods, not trusting her voice. Not trusting herself to not reveal more than she already has. She isn’t being accused but her heart is pounding so hard that she feels like she’s in the interrogation room again. She wiggles her toes— are they sticky or is she just imagining it? Her shoulders burn where the sun has managed to cut through the crack in the curtain. She misses the rain.

Tap, tap, ta— his fingers stop.

Her eyes dart back to his metal hand, the black and gold frozen mid tap.

“Holy shit—” there’s a pause, his fingers flex before straightening, flattening against the table before— “they didn’t tell me that.”

Bucky’s voice is so low that she almost doesn’t hear it— she probably wasn’t supposed to. She has to force herself to keep her gaze leveled below his, her voice steady despite the fact that she’s almost certain the sun has seared through her vocal cords. Her throat burns. Maybe he wasn’t so far off with the iced coffee after all. She wouldn’t mind it right now.

“I wasn’t sure if they would.” She croaks and then winces, swallowing before her throat can close on it’s own— she needs at least the semblance of control.

It’s the truth— she didn’t know. It would have made sense to tell him, though. It would have been polite, at the very least. She’s damaged, they should have told him. Watch out. They should have given him the papers— the records of the month she spent in a hospital bed. They should have told him. Maybe they were trying to help her— maybe they were trying to save him. But they should have warned him regardless.

She’s unstable; she’s liable to shut down in the worst moments.

She doesn’t sleep at night; she just screams and screams and screams.

She’s deadly; she won’t help you, Icarus.

His fingers start again but this time it sounds less like rain.

Tap, tap, tap. Mother, father, brother.

“They should have.” Bucky grinds out, voice thick— angry? “They should have told me.”

Is he angry with her? She squeezes her hands together tighter, her nails digging into her knuckles. Please no. She shouldn’t have said anything— she should have kept her mouth shut. Isn’t that supposed to be the one thing she’s good at? Not speaking out? Not talking? The thought of the dark haired man being angry at her is like poison in her blood. The tension rolls over her bones in a heavy wave, settling like a blanket, suffocating her.

She can’t breathe.

She needs to breathe.

“I know—” she pushes through her teeth, voice finally cracking— “I’m sorry.”

She doesn’t know who she’s apologizing to— Bucky already told her not to apologize to him. She can’t help it though, the words are always on her tongue. Always haunting her.

I’m sorry I didn’t go to the beach— I know I missed a lot of family trips last year.

I’m sorry I left my phone in Susan’s car— I know you’re always telling me how forgetful I am.

I’m sorry I missed your birthday— I just wanted it to be a surprise.

Her skin itches, toes curling against the hardwood and the icing. It hurts. Everything hurts. The sun— the Pine-Sol. The sticky tinge to her skin where the blood had spattered through the grate. She needs out.

Tap, tap, tap. Mother, father, brother. Dead, dead, de— if she doesn’t get out of here right now there’s a good chance she’s going to explode.

“Do— ah— do you think maybe it would be okay to get some fresh air?”

Tag List: @xhollycowx @remembered-license @dumble-daddy @hellotvshowtrash @thesummerbucky @elijahs-wife @cari1bunny @im-just-star-dust @motherofallthesmallthings​ @hazardoushallucination​ @em-august @nuttytani @brown-eyed-babes

[kaiparker-avengerssmut]

Our Doll 2//Awake

B.Barnes x S.Rogers, B.Barnes x Stark!Reader, S.Rogers x Stark!Reader

Series Synopsis | After the events of the horrific past, y/n Stark, Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes have finally admitted their feelings for each other. But is life as an avenger whilst dating two super soldiers any easier than anything y/n’s experienced in the past?

sequel Series to Their Doll

Series Warnings | smut, violence, torture, swearing, threesomes

Chapter Summary | y/n finds a way to cope with the stress

Warnings | smut, vaginal sex, swearing, mentions of drug usage

A/n | This is a sequel book/series to my fic Their Doll! This book loosely follows the mcu timeline, starting in CAWS in book one and starting just before AOU in this book. Bucky had been recovered and is safe, and Peter was taken under Tony's wing when he was much younger.

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

"G'morning, baby." Steve mumbled huskily, one eye opening into a squint so her could look at me without being blinded by the unforgiving sun spilling like water through the curtains that we may or may not have forgotten to close in our lustful hurry last night.

"Morning." I whispered back, fully aware of the brunet super soldier laying peacefully asleep behind me, cool metal arm sling over my waist atop the duvet. His hot, steady breath fanned over my neck, his nose buried into my hair. I was laying on my side, simply watching steve as he slept until he had clearly awoken.

"It's rude to stare, you know." He mumbled back lazily, eyes finally fluttering open. A wide smile played on my lips, as it always did when I could look so deeply into those ocean blue eyes.

"Sorry." I smile back, eyes pleading. A chuckle, low and rumbling, came from Steve at the sound of my disjointed, broken morning voice. "Hey!" I whisper-shouted, untucking my hand from under my head to slap Steve's bare chest, but he caught my wrist with ease. He slowly pulled it up to his face, pressing a soft kiss to the back of my hand, lips feathering against my skin.

"Now I'm sorry. I somehow forgot how you're still recovering." Steve apologised, continuing to press his lips to my hand, eyes looking into mine. I shuddered slightly, letting my free hand raise to my neck, my fingers dancing faintly over the long, horizontal scar spanning the space. The memory, the pain, still haunted me. Haunted me like a ghost that was sent for me, and only me. My dreams had often been filled with these images - ones of a flashing silver blade, sinister splatters of blood, grotesque and open wounds. The thought made me shudder again, as if to shake off the bad memories.

"You know that one won't be awake for a while." I mumbled, taking a glance at the clock over Steve's shoulder, seeing that it was barely nine am. Steve smiled against my hand, eyes loving.

"I know. So why don't we have a little fun while we wait?" He grinned, almost boyishly, a level of lust clouding the pure blue that usually dazzled across his eyes. I quirked a brow, expectantly, as Steve kept looking at my mischievously from under his long lashes, lips travelling quickly towards my neck.

He grabbed my other wrist, chuckling lowly as I giggled when he flipped us, gently pulling me from Bucky's grasp which earnest us a longing groan but not even a stir, before I was under Captain America in his bed.

Steve's lips didn't leave my skin once, his skin soft against mine as put naked bodies rutted into one another, my head thrown against the pillows now as I felt the surge of arousal pang at my core. One of this thick fingers traced my slit, circling my cliff lightly before he was pulling it away, offering the digit for me to lick clean. I moan at my taste, the sound matching Steve's groan as his cock hardened watching my suck off his finger.

"Ready baby?" He breathed, lining himself up with my dripping heat and pushing in when I whispered with a nod. His palm covered my mouth, strangling my moans and muffling any noise as he begun to thrust, slow but hard, the headboard slowly knocking into the wall behind us. The thumping of wood against plaster only made me more aroused, the realisation of how strong to man above me actually was.

With his free hand, Steve ran his fingers over my arm and up my wrist, before tangling them with mine and pressing my hand into the pillow beside me face, gripping me tight. His face was buried in the joint where my neck and shoulder met, his soft grunts disguised by my flesh as he bit down on my skin to keep himself quiet. My other hand claws at his back, harsh enough for boy of us to know there'd be lines down his back when this was done.

The trimmed patch of hair at the base of his cock scraped across my clit with every thrust, sending jolts of pleasure through me and causing stars to cloud my vision.

It was obvious we were both getting close when we heard Bucky speak.

"Getting started without me?" His raspy husk of a morning voice pondered, the bed dipping by my shoulder as he propped himself up on a fore arm. Steve groaned, lifting his face from my neck and turning it to the side, giving Bucky a glare. But his hips never stopped moving into mine. In fact, they only seemed to speed up, his pelvis slapping into mine hard enough to leave bruises.

"Don't mind me. I think it's a rather lovely sight to wake up to." Bucky grinned, his tongue tracing his bottom lip as he watch steve lift his palm from my mouth, tangling his hand with mine as a jumble of moans and pleas finally fell from my lips. "Make her cum."

And with those words alone I was seeing white splotches across my vision, my hips bucking up desperately and Steve threw his head back, the tightness of my walls from my orgasm causing his own.

"F-fuck! Y/n!" He moaned loudly, collapsing on top of me as he painted my walls with his seed. My eyes were still lost somewhere in my skull, chest heaving as I slowly ran my fingers through Steve's hair, his head resting against my chest.

"How about we fill in Bucky on what he's missed?" Steve murmured in my ear, teeth nipping along my neck, a smirk tugging at our lips.

...

Pulling her hood up further over her head, y/n quickened her steps. One of the other downsides that came from the night Bucky returned was that her face was now well know. With the amount of reporters and just cameras in general that were at the party her dad had originally thrown to celebrate the first proper steps of her recovery, y/n's face was probably the most well-know one in New York second to maybe only Tony Stark's himself.

The pavement slapped beneath the rubber soles on her shoes, the dirtied black trainers helping y/n blend in against the see of clearly struggling people. Her eyes stayed narrow, fixated on my target as she eyed the small alleyway, three doors away from Benjies, a little run-down cafe that no one wanted to buy and no one could afford to buy. The bricks swallowed any hint of safety, dark shadows lurked almost as anxiously as the people they concealed.

Sharply turning on her heel, y/n pivoted into the dingy space between two broken buildings, litters of waste, used joints and other miscellaneous junk scattered the crumbled tarmac floor, the gaps between bricks stuffed full with moss and wrappers whilst the bricks themselves were marked up with paints of all colours, forming poetic pieces of scrabbling artwork that decorated the discarded buildings.

Y/n cleared her throat, nerves bubbling as she approached the also hooded-figure who was leant casually against the left wall, giving the illusion he knew it well. But y/n could tell from the way his slender body was slightly tensed, brown eyes darting as the drips of clinging water shattered against stone and the way his hand rested over the side of his thigh - ready to pull out the small gun at a splits second notice that he was only once familiar with this place, but had neglected it - even fled it, for a long while now.

"You sure you wanna do this, kid?" His voice was soothing, a complete contrast to y/n's abused, scratchy one as she gritted through her teeth,

"Don't tell me what to do, Sam. You promised you'd give me the name of your supplier, no questions asked." She ground the last words out, hands falling from her pockets and balling to fists at her side. Sam sighed deeply, pushing himself from the wall and sauntering closer, closing the gap between him and y/n as he rolled his eyes obnoxiously at her irked stance.

"I know, just consider what you're doing. This shit can really fuck you up, I stopped for a reason." Sam suggested, fingers curling over her shoulder his his hand settled there, a comforting gesture.

"I know what I'm doing. I just- I can't keep up with the stress." Y/n admitted, a vulnerable crunch behind her grit teeth as she tried to spit the words out. Sam held his hands up in surrender, backing up a step when he saw the dangerous lurk to y/n's eyes.

"I know, I know." He offered a small smile, dipping a hand into the back pocket of his jeans and fishing out a small slip of paper, torn edges and all. He crammed the piece into y/n's waiting hand, but didn't let go as he looked directly into her eyes. "I'm sorry. I know it's tough, and I get why. Hell, it's exactly what I did. But it's a steep slope, one that few get off of." He warned.

"I understand, are we done now?" Y/n scoffed, her indifference unnerving yet the facade held cracks that few could see.

"Just don't let your boys know I gave that number to you. I know both of them would give me hell if they ever found out I was involved." Sam requested, and y/n gave him a cert nod.

"They won't find out. Promise." Y/n even punctuated her words with a tight smile, although it didn't quite touch her eyes. Sam returned the gesture, all be it slightly warmer, before he was brushing past her, clearly desperate to leave the little alleyway before anyone could catch him.

[componentsofconstruction]

ON THIS DAY...

in the year of our lord 2020, we gather to appreciate JAMES “BUCKY” BARNES as written by @rayshippouuchiha in The Components of Construction universe.

———————————————————————

FIRST UP: If you’re looking for AWKWARD MURDER KITTEN Bucky... I present to you Grip. Chamber. Sights.:

“You need something, handsome?” She’s relaxed for once, open and soft. He wants her to be like that always, to be like that forever, unguarded and comfortable.

He would let his hands run ruby red with blood to make it so.

“I would gut anyone who touched you without your consent.” The words spill out and this time he isn’t even sorry for them.

Beside her Sam chokes on his beer, claps a hand to his mouth to keep from spitting, and stares at Bucky wide eyed and shoulders shaking.

Toni blinks up at him, eyes wide and mouth slack for a split second before she seems to regain her composure.

“That’s … sweet?” Toni narrows her eyes at him but this time he’s sure there’s a small puzzled smile flirting with the corners of her mouth. “Openly homicidal and blatantly illegal, but still kind of sweet.”

———————————————————————

If you’re looking for SEXY BLOODTHIRSTY Bucky, I recommend The Devouring of Hearts:

“I want you in my bed, James. In my house, my life. Mine to keep.”

James shudders, his hands coming up to settle on her thighs, fingers flexing against the lace of her skirt.

“Think about it. All of the blood, the heat,” Toni breathes. “All of the things you’ll let me do to you. All of the things I’ll let you do to me. Imagine it. Remember how good I taste? Think about how much better I’ll feel. About how good I’ll make you feel.”

“Kрасавица,” James groans, hands clenching in her skirt for a split second before he forces them to relax.

“Don’t you want it too, James?” Toni asks as she pulls him even closer, legs spreading to welcome him into her space as his hands shift up to grip at the back of the bench. “Don’t you want me?”

“Да,” he agrees roughly. “I want.”

———————————————————————

SOFT GOD OF DEATH Bucky? Look no further than The Guiding of Death:

“Wake up, moy tsvetok,” James’ voice is a low rumble from where he’s leaning over her, propped up on one elbow. His metal hand is busy brushing the asphodel blossom he’s holding gently across her cheeks, the slope of her nose, the swell of her mouth.

“Why?” Toni asks softly as she lets her eyes slip closed again, face turned upwards towards him.

“I don’t get you home and Rhodes and Vision might hunt me down and leave me for dead,” James admits wryly, something like amusement and appreciation in his voice as he leans further down and ghosts his lips across her cheek. “Be a shame to die when I’ve just got something to really live for.”

Toni melts just a bit in the face of his declaration, a response she’s nowhere near beginning to get used to.

James has a way about him, the ability to slip beneath her skin with ease.

Toni knows it should be unsettling, the way he can get to her with just a few sweet words.

But instead it just makes her feel warm. Like sunlight streaming over her skin, like flowers are blossoming to life inside of her.

She likes it.

———————————————————————

Honorable mentions include WELL-ADJUSTED PROTECTIVE Bucky in Salt. Swells. Undertows. and LITERAL DEMON Bucky in Demons. Dreams. Desires.

All your options are good options! Do with this information what you will.

[codyfernmorelikedaddyfern]

Medicine - Jim x fem!reader // Part Two

I miss Jim Mason and I can’t stop writing about him, i need help. This part is loosely inspired by Do I Wanna Know? by Arctic Monkeys :)

You can read part One here.

Description: After a bonfire night welcoming (Y/N)’s new family in Palos Verdes, Jim and her found themselves enjoying each other more than they could admit.

Warnings: Mention of masturbation (both male and female), alcohol and drug abuse

Word count: 3.1k+

“Honey, we’re going now” the voice of her mother rang over the sound of the waves. (Y/N) looked back behind her, her arms were cooped under her legs, desperately trying to keep her body heat close to her while the drawing turned into chatter. “Okay, cool! I’ll walk home in a bit” she responded, waving the woman goodbye. A few word were exchanged between her parents and she noticed her father pulling his spouse away, the both of them wishing her a good time.

A loud escaped the teenager’s lips as she looked back to Medina who was sitting in the sand next to her. Then her gaze fell upon the body of her sibling, sprawled on his back, a soft snore escaping his nose. The conversation picked up again as the flames burned down to embers.

The artist’s shivering body was not left unnoticed by her blonde friend while they discussed travelling plans. Waking up her twin who had falling asleep, she mumbled to him to go upstairs to finish his night in his own bed. “I don’t want to go in alone” he whimpered, his voice tangled with sleep. “Okay well let’s at least bring (Y/N) home, come on” her hands pulled his larger frame while he groggily.

Without asking anyone’s opinion, Medina hooked her fingers around Jim’s shoulder, peeling off the jacket from his back. “Hey, that’s mine” he jokingly whined noticing the quivering hands of their guest before the denim covered her small frame. Rubbing her arms quickly to help the cold dissipate. His twin just gave him a look as if to say “She has been freezing for the past 45 minutes”. They had always had that telepathic like connection and, more often than not, no words needed to be spoken. He shrugged it off as they made their way up the slope.

“Go up, I’ll take care of the fire”, he mumbled, practically jogging back to the embers. (Y/N) raised a curious eyebrows, looking back at the figure before sheepishly turning the way at the sound of his fly coming undone. “Well that’s one way to do it” the girls giggled as they climbed up the mound of sand.

Interest peaked again and the teenager looked back. She couldn’t see much from where she was but she could see the broad shoulders under his semi loose fitting white tee-shirt. She could assume the definition of his back and his arms. She could definitely see him buckling his belt and dashing back to them, pushing past them and jogging to the kitchen sink to wash his hands.

“At least, I didn’t have to remind him” said the Mason daughter as another giggle passed the new girl’s lips. She could see it again. The image of his tall frame as his back was facing them. She could also see the look in his eyes as they stared back at each other, the faintest bit of concern as he looked back at her. It only lasted half a second but his features were burned in her mind.

His gentle Roman nose, the definition of his cheekbones and his soft chin. His full upturned lips. His narrow, bright and very sad eyes.

Like a carbon copy, it was embedded in her head and the only thing that pulled her out of daydream was Medina gently pulling her towards the front of her house, readying herself to escort her home. Jim quickly joined them, quiet yet smiling. That was something else she could keep in her head. His smile.

Trying to keep some small talk on the way back, (Y/N) thanked the twins for not letting her get lost in the streets of Palos Verdes. Quicker than Jim and her had hoped, she noticed her house, and then she was due to give back the warm coat, hoping the faint smell of cigarette and body odour would linger on her skin.

But it was her scent that hung in the Sherpa and denim. Medina launched forward, embracing her new friend quickly. Her shy gaze met Jim’s and he offered her a soft smile, toothy this time. It felt like her heart skipped a beat as the blonde pulled from her arms.

Would it be appropriate for her to launch herself in his hug? No, it wouldn’t. Maybe he could just read her mind or maybe the look she gave him made her desperate. His arms snaked around her. It felt like butterflies erupted from his touch as his fingertips gently grazed the surface of her skin. Her hands rested awkwardly on his back and for a second, he was scared she could feel his halting breath staggering in his chest.

A silent queue pushed them apart and (Y/N) climbed the short flight of stairs before opening the door of her house, quickly waving the twins goodbye. She pressed her back to the front door after twisting the lock. He could still feel her hands nestled between his shoulder blades. She could still feel his fingertips grazing against her skin.

Like the lingering taste of a cigarette, they kept this reminder in the back of their minds as he mumbled to his sister on his way back while she considered asking her father if they lived close enough for his to count as the neighbor she had a crush on. She slumped on her bed after kicking her clothes off and wrapping herself in her pyjamas, ready for the night to take her.

The high pitch ringing of her alarm pulled Jim out of his slumber, his hand still tugged beneath his boxers, his digits still sticky from the events that transpired the night before, tangled around himself still. Cold sweat burst across his skin as the sudden realisation slapped him. He couldn't keep his mind still, all he could think about was the way (Y/N) crinkled her nose as she focused on her paper, how she kept on blowing her (Y/H/C) locks away from her eyes, how she smeared her lead on her forehead in a attempt to keep the strands at bay. But Medina had beaten him at rubbing it off in a fit of giggles.

The reminder of her soft face burned his lower stomach once more but before he could try and relief himself at the thought of the gentle girl, his twin barged in the room in a huff, turning off his alarm.

“Y-You should really knock next time, he blabbered, pulling the heavy duvet over part of his legs and chest in a poor attempt to cover up his own mess.

- Maybe you should turn off your alarm when it's blaring for 15 minutes straight! She defended herself, already dressed and nearly ready to go to school.

- Sorry, his raspy voice whispered, I just had a weird... night.

- I could hear you, Jimmy. You forgot some here, she pointed at the remnants staining his chin.”

Hiding her annoyance was not in the cards for Medina. Jim was the most charismatic one from the duo and now that she had finally managed to make a friend, she was livid at the idea that her twin would swoop in and take her away. She envied how easy it was for him to touch people and keep them around. She had a much different experience with bonding.

He quickly pulled himself together under the cold shower he chose to endure. Barely sinking in his bowl of cereal, he avoided the nosey questions his father was cooking him with. Yes, he had a good time. Yes, the “new girl” seemed nice. No, he didn't like her. A lie his sister could read through.

What was wrong with having a small crush on her? Was it the fact he his so called relationship with Heather had just ended? Or the fact that he promised himself he wouldn't let himself  like a girl as easily as he was finding himself right now. A little crush never hurt anyone though, right? He slipped his backpack and shoes on and grabbed his and his twin's bicycle and camped by the door while she sunk her feet in her sneakers.

And it only took him a minute for (Y/N)'s soft features to slip in his mind. If the feeling of her fingers pressed between his shoulder blades subsided and the soft fluttering of his heart did too, would it be so bad? If he told her that the only way he managed to pull himself to bad was to wear himself out while repeating the images of her in his mind. If he told her he thought he liked her, would he care to know if she thought she liked him too? Would she mind watching him kill himself slowly in drugs and alcohol?

Medina quickly made her way to her new classmate as soon as she could dismiss her brother. It looked like she had not had much sleep either but was it simply because she had retrieved her bed much later than usual or was it because she had participated in the same sort of activities she could hear her twin partake? Her gut clenched at the feeling of betrayal nesting in her stomach.

Despite her best efforts, (Y/N) could not wrap her head around her classes. It wasn't due to the fact that she could not help but dig deeper in her friend's mind in whispered conversations or the fact that she had simply joined the school two months before the end of the school year and she had shifted to a totally different program. It was the pair of narrow blue eyes that would fall upon her when she walked down the halls. The goose bump that covered her soft skin when his fingers brushed it. The soft sound of his laugh that she could hear from the other side of the cafeteria. To have a crush was something. To be constantly reminded of him in her daydreams was something else and she did not know how much of that slight obsession she was ready to explore.

It was her father who noticed her lack of appetite first then the fact that she was always sitting on the rocks by the back of the house. He noticed how she would stare at the horizon, secretly wishing her eyes would fall upon the twins who had decided to surf nearby.

But she didn't know anything about surfing and never saw anyone riding the waves in the stretch at the cusp of her backyard. All she knew was that the days passed and her notebook was nearly full again but this afternoon of June, she had miraculously kept her phone with her instead of clumsily leaving it on her desk like most of the time.

And, as if she had been waiting for some sort of sign, her phone rang, the screen brightly lit up with “Medina” scrolling across it. A deep breath filled her lungs before she picked up.

“Hi! Is this (Y/N), the manly voice asked nearly as soon as she answered the call.

- Erm, yes, who is this?

- Oh, hi, it's Jim. I didn't have your number so I borrowed Medi's phone.

- I see, she nearly whispered. How can I help?

- Well, I'm kind of calling for my dad, he's trying to plan some sort of gathering and wanted to know if you guys wanted to come and join?”

He bit the inside of his cheek. Wouldn't it have been easier to ask her if she wanted to come see him instead? Sure, his father did have a gathering. Sure, his father wanted to know if he wanted to invite his friends. But she wasn't his friend, she was Medina's friend.

“Sure! At what time do we need to be over?” she replied, leading Jim to release a sigh of relief he was unaware of. Quickly rethinking his father's words, he invited them to join at 7pm. The call shortly ended to his dismay. He had thought of calling her when he had a few over the length of time she has crawled in the dark corners of his mind.

Practically sprinting to his sister, he dropped her phone next to her as he sat on her bed. “So, you're sure she's single, right?” he asked the blonde for what felt like the 100th time. Her eyes rolled as she repeated herself. “Once again, she has never mentioned any boyfriend or girlfriend”. She had pried him open when he noticed how he would shift in his seat when she tried to help him with certain homework the rare moments (Y/N) would come back to their house after class. She felt it. When her name came on the table for any reasons possible, she would find his eyes turning into the most glittery starry night sky and his smile would grow wide.

Despite her trying to keep her friend for herself, she could not pass up the sad look in her brother's eyes. Deep down she understood what made her stick in her mind. She was pretty, smart, creative and talented. She was respectful and poised. Damn she really was pretty. He told her how he could feel a small spark in the darkness when he found himself sitting on the harsh rocks next to her while his twin excused herself to retrieve something inside.

It felt meaningful to have her around. And he wanted to help fix the glimmer that the broken girl had twinkling in her eyes. He wondered if two wrongs could make it right sometimes. That's what one of the songs she played one night they stayed late next to a bonfire was about. And he played it on repeat as he fell asleep, his dreams picturing the both of them fixed and running away.

Maybe running away would help him stop his reckless behaviour? Maybe he was the one who needed fixing and she was the help he desperately needed. The doorbell rang as he finished spraying one of his body sprays, making him jump our of his bones.

The voice of her father was invited in by Phil. Jim's heart fluttered when her light voice called out for Medina, the two girls starting a whispered conversation. Gripping all of his courage, he shook off the sweat that accumulated above his brow, opened the door of the bathroom and made his way to his sister's bedroom, gently waving and the  two peas in a pod sitting on the bed.

His clammy hands helped him decide on his next move. He left the bedroom and nearly jumped down the flight of stairs, meeting the adults in the kitchen and sneaking a pack of beer down to the usual spot where he sits.

It felt like he waited for ever when the two figures showed up but he failed to notice the lack of clothes covering her. Dashing for the water, his sibling and crush crashed in the cool water and Jim knew if needed to dive straight in it too. Not to be with them as they apparently were having enough fun together, but to ward off the thoughts in his head. He cursed himself for feeling driven by his hormones as he opened the first bottle of beer of the pack, hoping it would be the last one.

But it wasn't. Another one followed, then a spliff and another one. He laid against the rocks, looks at the changing sky when an icy pair hands wrapped around his ankles. Shouting in surprise, he looked down to see her angelic smile, laughing happily at his squeal. Drops of water soaked her hair and rolled off her body. She leaned towards him, nearly whispering in the shell of his ear. “Medina told me your secret” she giggled and his heart nearly dropped to his knees. He tried to suppress the uncomfortable pain in his chest and he leaned in too, failing to notice the colours blossoming in her cheeks as his breath, scented with weed and beer, reached her ears “and which secret would that be, missy?” he attempted to tease before she sat back when her blonde friends told them to “get a room” at the evident proximity of their bodies. “She told me about the booze” she whispered before Jim's body slumped back.

She had never touched a drop of alcohol however she could not imagine a safer environment to try it out, with her best friend and the boy who constantly sprouted red across her cheeks or blossomed butterflies in her stomach. “Can I try some?” she sheepishly asked as he brought his half empty can. He gave her a small nod, holding the drink towards her. His eyes fell in hers as she gulped on the sour liquid, wincing a bit before getting used to the taste.

“You can finish it” he mumbled, Medina agreeing that he probably had enough already. She excused herself, claiming she was going to fetch some burgers.

But she never came back. She left the two of them to discuss and get intoxicated. She watched from the pool side as the gently drifted closer and closer, their shoulders rubbing. She swore she could notice how he was constantly on the cusp of kissing her and how she drunk his words.

“You're really cute (Y/N)” he surprised himself, her lips parted in a soft laugh and his eyes were glued to them, watching closely what he wished to make them his next target. But she was the bold one and her lips crashed first, smacking against his cheekbones to his dismay. He took his lips between his teeth, his feet happily and quickly moving from left to right. “You're such a dork, James” she whispered against his cheek. His heart skipped the heaviest beat.

He side eyed her lips and started to turn his head. She looked at him and for a second, she rejoiced herself, practically begging for his lips against her but her mother's voice pulled their attentions to her. Home time it was and he calmly prayed and hoped she would stay. But if she did, she wouldn't stay for him, she would stay for her best friend but he was happy with that.

And that night, like every night he got the chance to watch her bloom in the moonlight, he would wear himself out by wrapping his hand under his boxers hoping it was her fingers, imagining her doing similar things to herself. If only he knew it wasn't just his imagination and that she would wake up with a similar mess in her pyjamas, it might put his broken mind at ease.

_________________________________________________

Taglist anyone?

[samingtonwilson]

Relationship Tutor: (Epilogue) Post-Modern Fortress Architecture

relationship tutor masterlist

Summary: College AU. Bucky, a relationship novice, asks for your help in dating your friend. Unable to say no to him, you agree despite everyone and everything telling you not to.

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Warnings: language, quite fluffy, very slight mentions of marijuana

A/N: RT IS OFFICIALLY DONE! YAY! thank you to everyone that decided to indulge the ridiculousness! this isn’t really a traditional epilogue but it’s keeping with the tone of the series so it’s funny and weird hfkgdfgh LOVE Y’ALL SO MUCH! 

The closet was dark, lonely, and quiet, a welcomed change from every other corner of your apartment.

Students you’d never met, students you highly regretted ever having met, and people that somehow conned you into becoming friends with them filled your home with celebratory dancing, drinking, and, more often than you would have liked, screaming. Black polyester graduation gowns littered the ground, as did caps, orange tassels, and the occasional satin sash— it was almost as if the entire graduating class shared Sam’s mindset and taste for corny party themes.

He’d announced it on Facebook. Made an event page a month in advance, contacted each person that he knew had “the hook-up” with local liquor stores for a discount, and bought his graduation regalia early along with a burgundy satin pajama set, complete with collared button-up shirt, matching shorts, and warm suede slippers.

You were obviously less excited than he was, reluctantly clicking the “Will attend!” button and unpacking your graduation gown two nights before you’d originally planned to do so just to get the deep-set wrinkles out. Though you knew the pajamas you’d wear underneath were nothing special— just a black henley Bucky had left in your bedroom and a pair of light blue satin shorts— and you knew Sam’s promised bribe— a pre-rolled joint filled with your favorite strain— would eventually prove itself to be not at all worth it, you feigned excited energy and didn’t actively discourage his plans like you normally would have.

After all, you could only really graduate alongside your favorite people once and doing what any of them wanted— especially what Sam wanted— was well worth the pain it would cause you. And seeing all of your classmates don pajamas that ranged from highly sexualized to extremely geared towards comfort under their graduation garb was guaranteed to cause you degrees of amusement almost on par with the promised degrees of discomfort parties brought about inherently.

You rolled the lit joint between your index fingertip and thumb, exhaling so the smoke washed against the door and spread over your hung clothes. Your phone was set on silent and placed atop your closed wicker hamper, the bulb Sam had bought you from a smoke shop as a joke hanging overhead to provide a dim red light reminding you of some terrible Justin Bieber music video.

There was a brief set of knocks before the door clicked open, your arm immediately going behind your back to hide the tiny bit of the joint that remained until Bucky’s facial features were bathed in red light.

He wore a smile of relief when he spotted you in the far right corner of the surprisingly roomy walk-in closet, shutting the door as he moved to sit beside you. He leant his back against the wall as you did, stretching his legs out before himself and kicking his own suede and satin slippers off. “Wilson said you were hiding.”

“I’m not hiding, I just needed a few minutes to myself.”

“And your closet’s the best place for that?”

You nodded, tipping your nose to the ceiling and sighing out. “The blonde from 4-D insists on using my bed as a place to cry to her friend about her ex-boyfriend.”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“You love Sam’s parties.”

“Yeah, well, I love you more,” he replied, narrowing his eyes at you and taking the joint you offered him. He inhaled the smoke deeply and held his breath for a few seconds, exhaling upwards and sighing as he tossed the burning paper into the cup of water you held out to him.

He still wore his graduation gown over the simple t-shirt and plaid flannel trousers he’d decided would suffice as his theme-required pajamas, his now-longer hair smoothed out of his face. “Nat was looking for you.”

“Yeah, she wanted to borrow some shoes for tomorrow. I’ll find her later.” Your head lolled against the wall, your eyes half-lidded. “How’s Steve?”

“Still trying his level-hardest with Wanda,” Bucky laughed, shaking his head. “She’s loving it, too. S’almost like he’s found someone just as fuckin’ dorky as he is.”

“She’s not dorky, she’s just a little weird.”

“Well, whatever she is, she’s indulging Steve’s inability to flirt. I’ve never seen someone wearing that much black eyeliner laugh so much.”

Rolling your eyes, you turned your face to look at Bucky. You followed the slope of his nose with your eyes and smiled a bit when he met your gaze. “So we graduate tomorrow.”

“Do we? Thought we were all joining a Buddhist monastery or something,” he joked, waving his arms around to emphasize the flowiness of his unzipped gown. He took one of your hands in both of his as you laughed quietly, toying with your fingers. “You’re not nervous, are you?”

“Considering it’s just walking across a stage to get a rolled up piece of paper from the dean,” you began, bumping your shoulder against his. “No, I’m good.”

“Really? You? Master of stress? Walking across a stage in front of the entire graduating class and everyone’s families?”

You narrowed your eyes. “First of all, mistress of stress. Secondly, are you trying to stress me out?”

“Misery loves company.”

“Wow, look at you, using idioms. It’s like you want me to have sex with you right here in this closet.” You leant into him, laying your head against his shoulder that shook in silent laughter. “You think you’re gonna trip on stage, or something?”

He shook his head. “It’s not the ceremony.”

“Is it the dinner with your parents afterwards? I’m planning on lying to get out of being with my family, you could do the same. Tell them you’re sick, have dinner with me in this closet.”

“Why in the closet?”

“So my parents can’t find me when they realize it’s a lie. This,” you motioned to the dimly lit closet, “is my fortress, Barnes.”

He snorted, expression and voice losing all traces of humor as he squeezed your hand. “You remember last summer? When you barely returned my texts, said you were too busy to see anyone, and pretended you didn’t know who I was right before fall semester?”

“God, I’m so funny.” You lifted your head and noticed his solemn expression, shaking your head. “I mean, fuck me, that was terrible of me to do.”

He smirked momentarily. “It wasn’t terrible of you to do. I just— I know we probably won’t be around each other as much as we are now and I don’t want things to change.”

“They’re still going to change, though.”

He scoffed, dropping your hand and tilting his head back. “Thanks, doll, that makes me feel a lot better.”

You smiled and shook your head, maneuvering so you could straddle his lap, adjusting your legs around him and raising an eyebrow when he opened his eyes to meet yours. You set your hands on either side of his face, your fingers wrapping around the back of his neck and your thumbs below his cheekbones.

He hesitated for a moment before his hands slipped under the hem of the shirt you wore, rough palms against your smooth skin and fingers protectively tight— almost as if you were already leaving him, as if the empty boxes that were littered over your bedroom floor were filled and sealed.

“Breathe.”

Exhaling through parted lips, he complied.

“Last summer was… I spent the three months having sex, drinking, working, having more sex—”

He clicked his tongue and looked away, shaking his head.

You laughed. “Sorry, sorry, sorry. Not the time for jokes.”

“I was a mess last summer,” you continued. “I was stuck here, taking summer classes, while all of you idiots abandoned me to have lives. Sam was gone, Steve was gone, you were gone. Figured I’d use the time to get over my little crush on you.”

A brief smile crossed his features.

You leant forward to press a kiss to his forehead, doing away with the creases denting his otherwise smooth skin. You then pressed your lips to his right temple, his left temple, and his left cheek slowly. “It didn’t really take. Then again, how could it when you texted me to check on me every week and offered to visit every time I told you I had an exam?”

His hands slid upwards, your body arching into his in response. “Told you I’ve been in love with you for a while.”

You hummed as you kissed his right cheek and stopped inches before his lips, nose brushing his. “The pretending not to know you when you came back was a joke— Steve’s idea.”

“That fuckin’ punk ass—”

“I don’t plan on moving on from you after graduation,” you told him, leaning away an inch or two to focus a little better. “But things will change. I mean, I’m going to be unemployed for the foreseeable future, you’ll be stuck at that startup doing dead-end marketing, and we won’t live within three minutes of each other but—” your head tilted. “Wait.”

He hummed, nodding upwards questioningly.

“Was all of this a preamble into you asking me to move in with you?”

He shook his head, frowning contemplatively. “It wasn’t, but now that you mention it—”

“Don’t,” you interrupted, eyes wide. 

“Don’t what?” 

“Don’t ask me.”

“It was your idea.” 

“It was my suspicion.” 

“Eh, semantics,” he said dismissively, chuckling when you pushed at his chest. “S’a good idea, though. No Sam or Steve to interrupt us at the worst times, no need to keep it down.”

“Living together entails more than just sex, Bucky.” 

“I’m aware. I like the other things it entails, too.” 

You gave him a skeptical look. “So you like the idea of me using your razor when I can’t find mine, me making you do all the cooking because I can barely boil water, me being around all the damn time?” 

He hummed in what sounded like contentment and his hands slid up your back, your spine involuntarily curving towards him once more. “I’m bankin’ on you being around all the damn time.” 

“We’re already an old married couple. You’ll get sick of me.” 

“And you’ll get sick of me,” his voice was dreamy, a laugh escaping him when you scowled. “Come on, we’ve basically been married fifty years-- s’about time we live together. So will you please--”

“No,” you nearly shouted as you shook your head vigorously. “Not when I’m sitting in your lap and can feel your half-chub under me.”

He snorted. “Half-chub. Did you join a frat without telling me?”

“Don’t ask me to move-in with you like this! You were just spiraling, and we’re in my closet with this fucking rasta light on, and I’m wearing a graduation gown with silk shorts and no underwear, and—”

“You’re not wearing underwear?”

“Of course not,” you practically laughed with a roll of your eyes, ignoring the way his teeth fell into his bottom lip and his eyes flitted in the direction of your hips. You slapped your hand against his shoulder. “Bucky, you can’t ask me to move-in with you after telling me you’re nervous that we’ll drift apart after graduation!”

“Why not?”

“Because— Because—” You shrugged with a sigh. “I don’t know! Shouldn’t this be something you think about for a while and not something you jump at just because I had a suspicion?”

“Why should I have to think about it for a while?”

You opened your mouth to reply and he shook his head before you could speak. “You aren’t my tutor on this relationship shit anymore, but you told me that there’s no perfect time for anything. There isn’t a perfect time for me to ask you this, it’s right when it’s right.”

“I’m going to be broke as shit, Bucky. I have no job lined up and I’m pretty sure I’m gonna need a master’s degree before I can even start applying again.” You took your hands from his skin and sat back. “My parents are okay with me freeloading off of them and I’m totally okay with taking advantage of that— but I’m not going to take advantage of you.”

“So you can’t pay your half of the rent for a few months,” he shrugged dismissively. “Wilson’s been doing that here and it’s not like you resent him for it.”

“Well, no— but this is different. What if we break-up?”

“Then life will fuckin’ suck and I’ll likely need therapy for the inevitable alcoholism.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Not cute.”

“Neither is all this ‘what if’ nonsense.” He took your hands in his, lacing his fingers through yours and sighing. “The apartment I was planning on leasing is fuckin’ ugly. The carpet is at least ten years old, there’s only one sink in the bathroom, and I’m pretty sure someone living on the floor below sells crack.”

“Jesus.”

“Look for somewhere new with me.”

“Bucky, —”

“Would it help if I asked you to marry me?”

Your eyes widened. “No! What the fuck—”

He released your hands and held his up in innocence, laughing as you stared at him. “Kidding.”

“You’re not only asking because of that nervous spiraling?”

He shook his head. “No.” 

“And not just because I was suspicious?”

“No.”

“You haven’t been drinking?”

“No.”

“You’re sure you’re okay with taking care of rent for a while?”

“Yes.”

“We can adopt a dog?”

He grinned. “Nothing that sheds like Rebecca’s fuckin’ cat.”

“Sam can have a key?”

“As long as Steve can.”

You nodded and narrowed your eyes. “And you remember that I’m not wearing underwear right now?”

His hands on your hips once more, he hauled your body flush against his, emphasizing his current state with an upward press of his pelvis into yours. “Trust me, I remember that.”

tag list, hopefully y’all get notified lmao: @sweetstilesofmine@dugan365@lowkeysebby @eufeme @marveling-at-marvel@anyakinamidala@spookyscaryscully@sighodinson@feelmyroarrrr@sarahp879@spidey-linquentimagines@mackenziesmarvelousgalaxy@aholland01@lostinspace33@clairedycat1810@softwhispers@apolleo@sebstancial@buckylovelybarnes@chrys-1029 @sheddingpounds@brooke-supernatural16 @seargantbcky@someonekindalikeyou@marvel-trash07@chuckennuggets1213@captainmisfit13@ailynalonso15@lilypalmer1987@nasasoldier@snuggleducky @acebabe@melswolf19 @e-g-b-o-k@iamzion-therealhabesha@fancybasementpersona@hercrazyfandomobsession@ohmybuckybarnes@sarahp879@lovely-geek @void-imaginations @mad-girl-without-a-box@stomachfilledwithbutterflies@joulien@followeroonieclassic@tomdarlingholland@rebelfuckingblack@bakerstgirl@starkxpotts@jimmyisfab @jehun-prouvaire @peachy-vixen@mcheung0314@wowbarnes @thiccmillions@sumafamouxx @quinn-n-quill@amcrasnow@wheneggsymetbucky @krockszz @brokenanxiety@addictionmarvel@closerstars@captainradicalpassion@rockagurl@directionerfae@shawnsassymendes@irella-nyari@cadence-jeannette@rebel-emerald @blacwings-and-bucky-barnes @little-miss-headphones@winternatalias@iwishiwasnicki @writingcroissant@finallybreathee @saul-buttson@potterglory@samijolles@justahappylilblog@rebeljupiter@poopybadwi @fandomlover03@acunningstargazer@magnitude101999@sinfullyinnocentinthebestway@airforcecollins@demonsandfaries-blog-blog @myboyfriendgiriboy@impalaanddemons@kozmicrock@randomtwistedlife @darthseph@brooke0297@kiera-hastings@justdiasporathings@coruscaret @justweirdjess @littlebigfishes @roronoarengi @ragingsavage @asteroidshirogane @thelastxgoodthing@shuriismyqueen@biologik @halmel02 @bornfortherainydays @yesixoxo @caffeinated-at-bedtime@mizzzpink @eves-library @evolutionofkatep @commonarthoe @heyrogers @just-add-butter @5-seconds-of-sarcasmm@sergeant-james-bbarnes @burningbiatch @papi-chulo-seb @hopeladybug@bekah-mikaelsxn @96hyungs @a-bit-of-contained-galaxies@samwinchxtr@sireennotsiren @ordinarybandgirl @nerdyxb @ravensglory @oddly-drawn-muse @jemjem-chan @coal000 @who-cares-rn @hoe4sebstan @jxbuckybarnes

[lawlight-week]

Lawlight Week Exchange

Title: To Dust Name of creator: @shipaholic Created for: @archangelarts Prompt: L and Light having a taboo relationship as an angel and demon (you can choose who is which) Characters: Light, L, Mikami gets a mention Rating, warnings and no. of words (for fics): R; mild-ish gore/body horror, non-explicit sex; 2943

They meet on rooftops. The one in the suit and tie stands straight-backed as the wind pummels him. His hair and clothes do not move, or dampen when it rains. The one in the dingy coat, once green, now the colour of mud, hunches into the gale. Water runs down his face and out of his sleeves. It seems stronger around him, as if the sky is punishing him. When their meeting has concluded, they disappear, one sucked into the air, the other the ground. They leave behind a lightning scorch mark and a pile of wet ash on the concrete.

They meet in cafes. Nobody serves them, but the golden-skinned man sips black coffee while the pale one stuffs sugar packets up his sleeves. When they’re done, one melts into the air like mist, leaving a neat stack of napkins and his half of the table gleaming clean. The other vanishes in a pop. The electric light above his chair blows out, but no-one sees.

They meet at the back of lecture halls. One picks up a textbook by the corner and reads it suspended sideways in the air. His long grey finger traces the letters and obliterates them, oily blackness coating the page. The student he took it from doesn’t look at him. When they’ve gone, she picks it back up and stares with glazed eyes at the smears on the page.

—

This time, to be cruel, Light has them meet in a church.

—

L’s skin begins to peel as soon as he materialises next to Light in the pew. Light doesn’t look up, but his form is an illusion and his Eyes see everything in the room. They see the ghoulish pallor L chooses to cloak himself in blackening and flaking off onto his seat. The priest will have to sweep it up later.

L doesn’t speak. He rummages in his horrid little coat and extracts a paper bag. L opens it with disintegrating fingertips, and pulls out a wine gum.

“No thank you,” Light says, before L can offer. His sweet-munching is an annoying human affectation.

L pops the sweet in his mouth, then takes another two. “So. What brings you here.” Another wine gum is tucked into his cheek, like a squirrel. “Besides it being your natural habitat, I suppose.”

Light gives his most pleasant smile. “Atmosphere.”

“Ah.” L slurps on his mouthful of sweets. “Maybe we can make this a short one? I’m not sure how long this body will hold together.”

“If you will insist on walking around in a meat suit…”

“I do. I find it gives me insight into my work.”

“What insight is it providing now?”

L pauses his sucking. He looks at Light with his wide, blank eyes.

“Sweets are delicious, and having your skin fall off is unpleasant.”

Light doesn’t sigh, but he suspects he would if he, like L, had opted for a body that breathed. “Fascinating. Very well, let’s keep this short. What did you want to discuss?”

L digs out three sweets from the bag that have stuck together and slips them between his lips. Through the bulging shape of his tongue behind the skin, Light gathers he is shifting the entire half-chewed mass to one side of his mouth.

“Murder.”

Light blinks.

“Well, my side is against it,” he says.

“That’s the interesting part.”

Light does sigh at this. It’s an unsettling sensation, drawing incense-soured air into his mouth, releasing it like a smoker.

“To take a human life is an abomination. It is not ‘interesting’.”

“These ones are.”

The rest of the bag is tipped into L’s open mouth. Light sees the insides blistering before L closes his lips and resumes his loud chewing.

L says, through his stuffed-full mouth: “They weren’t committed by humans.”

For a moment, the church falls silent.

Light shakes his head as if to dislodge water from his ears. The usual background hum comes back.

“That’s nonsense. I would have heard about it.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t pick up on it yourself. Your observation and intellect are the equals of mine.”

“How could a murder - no, multiple murders - have been committed by one of your side without all of us being aware?”

“Who said it was my side?”

Light’s hand flies out and grips L’s arm. He twists just slightly, digs in a bit too hard. Bones light up through the back, knuckles shine white against his golden skin. L’s arm is long and thin under the weatherbeaten coat.

“You’re in bad shape already. Watch yourself before you blaspheme in a church.”

L’s eyes are coals, sitting dormant and dull in his pale face. But there is something in them, a spark threatening to light.

“Very well. I’ll continue my story on neutral turf. You’ll want to hear it, so don’t hide from me. Same time tomorrow? I’ll pick the place.”

He clambers down from the pew, shaking ash onto the wood floor.

“Wait,” Light says.

L steps into the nave, but goes no further. He gazes up at Light, a skinny, sloped figure in too-large clothes. Every part of him where skin is visible is now a horrorshow. Light doesn’t care, L can just go crawling back to Hell and bargain for a new body.

“Tell me now. You can choose another location, but we’ll go there immediately. I don’t have time to spend an extra day on you.”

L shrugs. “If you insist. Follow me.” He begins to trek up the centre of the church to the front doors.

Light follows. He passes the priest on the way, a tall, broad man. On impulse, Light ducks into the man’s shadow, leans close and places a hand on his shoulder. The priest falls still. A look of peaceful wonderment overtakes his features. Light whispers in his ear, a couple of basic rites. The priest rocks in place. His breath catches. His mouth forms a quivering smile, even as tears gush down the crags of his face. He dips his head and makes a sign of the cross with shaking hands, before falling into a reverent mumbled prayer.

Light glides to where L is waiting by the doors. L’s blank bug eyes are taking in the scene. Light smiles. It’s a smile for himself, but it doesn’t matter if L sees it.

“Very moving. Shall we?” L puts his hand on the door.

Light gives a final look back at the priest. Still in a reverie, the man is drifting down the aisle, praying feverishly.

Suddenly, he stops. He has reached the pew where Light and L were sitting. Light watches the man’s wrinkled hand reach over and pick something up. He holds it in the air, bushy white eyebrows scrunching together. It is L’s packet of wine gums.

Light clearly hears the man snap, “Jesus, not again.”

L coughs. “Oh dear. Anyway…” He pushes the door open.

Light aims a heavenly glare at his back. Sadly, no thunderbolt appears to incinerate him.

—

When they’re outside, L turns and grabs Light by the hand.

Light jumps. The sensation of a raw, flaking palm sliding into his own is not pleasant. He opens his mouth to protest, but already L is tugging him forward and the world around them is blurring as if it, and they, are being sucked down a funnel.

Light’s feet hit the floor and he shakes himself loose of L. They’re in a hotel room, it seems - the lamps are off, the TV is a black monolith on the desk. It’s still night. The open curtains let in a little light from office blocks.

Light stares at his palm. He expects to see charred flesh-marks, but there is only a faint outline of L’s slim hand, each long finger imprinted on Light’s palm in a wrap-around pattern. Light rubs over the marks, feeling somehow defiled all the same.

When he looks up, L is a mirror of him. One pale hand splays in mid air, turning over gently and then back. Light gets a jolt when he sees the marred skin is back to normal. L is studying it like a lab specimen.

“That went better than expected.”

L’s voice is a murmur. It’s the part of him that is least tainted with affected humanity. It makes Light shiver.

Light’s defences are down and he gets no warning when L suddenly crowds him and grips his head, one healed hand and one still burned black. Light has no time to yell before his mouth is smothered with the taste of ash. Something pulls out of him, a scream or a curse, but it gets lost inside the dark wet pressure that he now realises is L’s mouth, L’s kiss. Fury rises up inside him like a knife. He grabs L’s shoulders, summons heavenly power into his arms and shoves.

Pure white light sparks from their bodies. Every window in the buildings outside flickers and goes dark. Their hotel room is plunged into blackness. L sprawls back and Light wipes his mouth.

“Don’t ever touch me again,” he hisses.

L’s face glows pale in the dark. Light realises that it is smooth and unmarked.

“What did you take from me?” Light would throttle him if it wasn’t taboo.

“It is your fault I’m in this situation.” L sits on the end of the bed. His eyes are twin moons in the dark. “I’m going to need you to heal the rest of me.”

“What did you take?” Light looks around wildly for a mirror. He scrubs his mouth hard with the hand L did not grab.

“Nothing permanent. A bit of life force. You have plenty to spare, and it will replenish naturally. If you’re concerned about your appearance, don’t be. You’ll look like yourself, perhaps a little hungover, that’s all.”

Light stares at the figure crouched on the bed. “Tell me about the murders. If I decide you’re worth the effort, I’ll consider healing the rest of you.” He has no intention of doing so. Hopefully L knows nothing of value and he can use this as a pretext to refuse.

L bites the tip of his healed thumb. “I’m not handing over my one bargaining chip. Would you really prefer to hear this from somebody else? What if that very enthusiastic colleague of yours got the news before you did? Mikami, I believe…”

Light’s eyes narrow. This is grossly childish manipulation on L’s part. Mikami is not a threat, for all he considers himself Light’s rival.

“…Very well, I suppose I’ll have to trust you.” L tucks his feet up on the bed. He folds into his usual crouch, more like a gargoyle than ever in the dark. “Approximately one-hundred humans have suffered unscheduled heart attacks in the past week. All have died.”

Light bursts out laughing. The sound is slightly mad, and he lets it go on longer than he should. “So they’ve been murdered via natural causes? Remarkable. You know that we cannot see a human’s cause of death ahead of time. How have you determined that these heart attacks were unscheduled?”

“The victims had a few things in common. Most were middle-aged or younger. Below the expected age for heart failure.”

“Which, given that there are only a hundred of them, is not statistically remarkable.”

“And all of them departed the mortal world with a peculiar expression.”

Light pauses. “Humans often look most peculiar at the moment of death. It is a sensation beyond what they can handle. Fortunately they don’t have to handle it for very long.”

“It is common for a human’s face to freeze in a manner that I gather is distressing for the still-living, yes. These humans died with a look of overpowering wonderment.”

An alarm-bell goes off in Light’s head. He grits his teeth. “…That is also not unheard of. Brain chemicals do odd things when the brain is shutting down.”

“And they were all… good people.”

“…Pardon?”

“Mostly good. But not too good. That was the interesting part.”

Light folds his arms. He resists the urge to pace. “L, I’m going to need you to stop talking nonsense.”

L tilts his dark head to the side. Light feels pinned down under the weight of his outsized unblinking stare. “They were good, but they contained the potential to slide into bad. Upon their deaths, they will have gone to heaven. Had they been allowed to live out their natural lifespan… perhaps not.” L bites the tip of his healed thumb. “Lucky for them, in a way.”

“And from these broad coincidences, affecting a mere one hundred people on the entire planet, you have put together a theory of supernatural murder.” Light smiles. Good, L has nothing. “Clearly you are accusing my side of committing atrocities, sinning against God for the sake of an extra hundred souls. As if any of us would take the risk. Or be capable of that degree of moral decay. Your problem, L, is that you treat us as two sides in a chess game. In truth, you are bastardised versions of us. We are not like you, and we do not act as you do. But if you want to humiliate yourself, I recommend taking this theory higher up. Sorry - it’s lower down for you, isn’t it?”

L stares up at him, finger in his mouth.

“You talk too much, Light,” he says, mildly.

He hops back down onto the hotel carpet and draws himself up to his proper height. Without the slouching, he is a match for Light. He raises his hands, both ghoulishly skinny with thin, flexible wrists. The charred one flutters in the air; it’s the healthy one he uses to draw Light closer. Light has a moment, this time, to realise what is happening before their mouths meet.

He suspects that more kissing is not essential for L’s healing, but L seems to want it and Light is feeling generous after having it confirmed that L knows nothing dangerous. Now that he’s back in control, he can feel the flow of energy from himself to L, a harmless warmth. He pours lifeforce into L’s mouth, enjoying the way L grips him tightly. Yes, this is good. L needing him.

L’s clothes have to come off for the rest of it. Light ascertains quickly that his human form includes a sexual response function. Light hadn’t bothered with one; it had seemed unlikely he would need it. He feels a small tug of regret, watching L squirm on the mattress. He tells himself it is worth it to stay in command of this encounter. Besides, this way he isn’t breaking the taboo against angel and demon fornication.

Light uses his hands on the ruined parts of L’s body, then adds his mouth when things are proceeding too slowly. L makes it to completion twice by the time he is finished. Light helps him directly the third time. Just because he can, he pours a little angelic bliss into L, to make the final throes that much sweeter. The noises L makes are surprisingly pleasing to the ear. Light watches his shudders die away until he is limp and panting.

Light disentangles himself, stands and straightens his cuffs. He feels well, despite having just siphoned his life force into a demon. He spares a glance at the bed. L looks far less accusatory with his huge eyes half-lidded. He seems healthier than normal, better rested, his skin less grey. Light smirks. He must be good.

“I hope that was enough to tide you over.” Light runs his fingers through his hair. It feels like it usually does, sleek and soft.

“Mmmm. Thank you, Light. That was a unique experience.” L rolls out of bed, a bit slower and more wobbly than usual. He drifts over to his pile of clothes and begins pulling the horrible rags back on.

Light supposes this is it. For now. Obviously he’ll be watching L closely, see if he needs to intervene if L is thinking of making an investigation out of his stupid hunch. Maybe it’ll be worth making this type of encounter a regular thing. L might be distracted. Better still, addicted. Angels have driven themselves to ruin, overindulging in their own bliss. Demons could be just as corruptible.

“By the way,” L calls over. He has pulled on his baggy jeans, but his torso is still bare. With his back turned, Light can count the notches in his spine. “Is that how you killed them?”

Light freezes.

“It’s surprisingly perverted. I assume you gave them a stronger dose than me.” L shucks on his shapeless white shirt. “No, my mistake, it wouldn’t have been sexual. It would have been more like that priest back in the church. Yes? You needed them to come to Jesus before their deaths.”

Light’s hands have balled into fists. Maybe he could take L out from here. Pump him full of heaven’s light and watch him burn alive.

“Oh well. I suppose I can’t prove anything.” L turns around, swathed in his mangy coat once again. He is smiling. He takes a step forward and peers into Light’s face. His blank eyes are shining with something like triumph.

“Well, goodbye Light. Until next time. Thanks for the life force. Maybe someday I can return the favour.”

“Get back to Hell,” Light spits.

L’s smile widens. “I might see you there.”

He vanishes. A strong smell of ash is left behind.

Light clutches his head and howls, a horrible long note that vibrates every object in the room.

When he, too, vanishes, he is already plotting how to make L die.