#When something has been out for over 3 months+ it's considered 'old' at that point (imo).

[tekutiger]

For a while now I've been looking for a setting in FFXIV and I've finally found it. It's not NEW, but I don't think it's commonly known either.

I wanted the setting that changes the player's name color in chat, according to their role. For example, if they are tank, their name would be blue, if they are healer, their name would be green, and if they are DPS, their name would be red.

At first I thought it was this ⤵️

The "Apply colors according to role." check mark option. But what that does, is this;

It may be a bit difficult to tell here because I tried to edit names in the screenshot (attempting to be considerate of people). It's really hard to see the ONE tank in my Alliance (B). But that option color codes the names of players above their head, in your party. And It doesn't effect other players in your alliance. (I have my alliance name plates set to a color very similar to that green apparently... I might change it.)

After learning this (literally today), I went searching again and found the real thing. It's this ⤵️

Found in Character Configuration > Log Window Settings > Button at the top right that says "Name Display Settings"

It'll open a new window called "Chat Log Name Display Settings".

I feel like this is rather hidden tbh 😅. But I was going over this topic with a couple friends in Discord and honestly this find is nice. We're all going to be using it 👌���

You can mess with the settings and apply them, and view how they'll look real time at the bottom with the small chat 'example' they provide.

It's just one of those small quality of life things, y'know? It's not game breaking, but it's nice to have 😊

[sincerelyneo]

omg hello! i missed you so much!!! 💖 would you consider reposting arcade again?? it was legit the best thing i’ve ever read omg i was so sad when i couldnt find it anymore

its fine if you cant tho!! im glad youre backkkk💖💖💖

ofc i can, i’m glad you liked it <3

arcade | p.js

“i’m out of control, full power up”

💿now playing: arcade by nct dream

❯ summary: Jisung’s been nothing but busy lately, so when you hear he got the weekend of your anniversary off, you can’t help but plan something to spend time with him. Expect, the only thing jisung wants after his busy month is you — and he’s not gonna let your silly arcade date get in the way of that.

❯ pairings: jisung x fem!reader

❯ genre: established relationship, smut, fluffish.

❯ words: 3.5k

❯ tags: 18+ minors dni!, smut, fingering, exhibitionism, reader uses she/her pronouns, use of the name baby, jisung takes pictures whilst fingering reader in a photobooth idk???

"You brought us to an arcade for our three year anniversary?"

You look over to Jisung standing by your side as the pair of you stood in front of the arcade entryway with the giant neon sign above your heads.

"Yeah, surprise - who doesn't love a date night with pizza and an arcade?" You grin, trying to hide the look of nervousness fighting to show once you notice his frown.

“Baby,” he groans, whiny, “I thought we were gonna go home after the pizza.”

You may have lied to him about that.

When you told Jisung about tonight’s date, he originally objected. He wanted to have a chilled night in with just the two of you — alone. Something he hadn’t had for the past four weeks he’d been strung up at work. Yet, you insisted that the two of you celebrated your three year anniversary just like you had done for your first and second.

So instead, the two of you came up with a compromise: head to your favourite pizza place, then come home and watch a movie snuggled together on the couch. In Jisung’s mind ‘watch a movie’ was code for letting his hands roam all over your body whilst he watched you whither and squirm, but he figured it was best to not discuss the minute details.

But don’t get him wrong. Just because he wanted to have a quiet night in didn't mean he hasn’t missed you — because oh he has. He’s only bothered the rest of the dreamies with his annual ‘I miss her’ speech every other hour.

And whilst typically Jisung loved to spend every passing minute of the day with you; right now, all he could think about was how much he wanted to be balls deep in the cunt he’d missed so much — not spending his time in some arcade.

"I haven't been inside one of these since I was a little kid," you tell him. “Please Sungie, just for an hour.” You begin tugging on his hands.

“I don’t know, Y/N. Aren’t we a bit too old to be playing in the arcade?” he rubs the back of his neck sheepishly.

“Pretty please!”

You hope the small flutter in your eyelashes is enough to win over the hesitant man. And you know it will because he’s told you several times not to give him those signature doe eyes, because he can’t ever bring himself to say no to them.

"Fine."

He grasps your hand, threading your fingers together as he starts to lead the two of you inside. You're instantly greeted with the loud electronic sound effects from the various games, along with the random music playing inside.

There's lights flashing everywhere, and you notice a bunch of people sitting at the bar and in booths near the front of the arcade, along with a bunch wandering around all of the games.

Jisung looks sideways before gesturing his head to the row of retro games, "what do you wanna play?" He asks.

“You can pick first, because I’m such a good girlfriend.”

He can’t help but smile at you — because he knows you're right.

“How about we play some pinball?

"I take it back," you say with a pointed look, "I’ve seen you play that with Chenle and I’m definitely gonna lose.”

“Too late, you’ve already given me the power,” he shrugs and pulls your arm over to where the game is situated.

“Ugh, Jisung. There’s no point, I already know I’m gonna lose,” you try to protest.

“Stop complaining,” he grasps your hips to turn you around to face the pinball machine then comes to stand behind you.

He takes your hands and places them on the buttons either side of the machine in front of you. You feel your cheeks flush when you feel Jisung’s chin rest on your shoulder, as he guides your fingers over the controls and silently coaches you through the game.

You don’t know how he always does it but even here, he's managing to create some form of sexual tension between the two of you at a pinball machine.

“Jisung..” you whisper as he places teasing kisses along your neck.

“Shhh, I’m just trying to help you out,” his lips brush against your neck as he continues hitting the buttons at a constant steady speed. “Besides, I think I’ve found my new favourite way to play pinball tonight."

Eventually, the ball shoots straight down between the two flippers, drawing the game to an end. He’d been doing so well that you wanted to turn around and kiss him but he pressed you harder against the machine, dipping into the crook of your neck to tease your ear.

"You've got no idea how badly I wish I could bend you over this and fuck you right here, right now."

It sent shivers down your whole body as you felt him grin against your skin when he noticed the sharp inhale of air you sucked in at his words.

Jisung knows you're shy, so he’s not surprised that you try to snake away from his grip at his crude remark.

"Look, we got a new high score," he says while he slips his hands from over yours and slides them up your arms. Pretending he didn't just whisper something that dirty. “We make a pretty good team.”

“Yeah ‘cause you did all the work,” you sulk.

You see the red digital writing flashing on the scoreboard, then his arms snake around to link across your lower stomach and pull you firmer against him. To anyone watching you look like a typical couple being affectionate, but the tension makes it feel the furthest thing from innocent.

"You know exactly what you're doing right now, Jisung Park," you huff, trying to control how flustered you feel, "We’re here to play games."

He presses a kiss to your cheek, before murmuring, "I am playing games. And so far I think I'm winning."

As he speaks he lets one of his hands slip down to graze over the front of your crotch, which he swears is an accident when you sternly say his name. But you can’t deny the way the touch made you jolt before he pulls away and steps back. You’d missed his touch — missed being with him like this.

But this was not the place. So you take his hand and turn the two of you to walk off like nothing happened.

The two of you continued to play a handful of arcade games. The classics, retro games, new games — Jisung had even managed to secure you a fluffy teddy bear from the claw game after you mentioned it being ‘impossible’.

You’d been taking it in turns to choose a game each, but when you mentioned the arcade photo booth, your boyfriend had started to get apprehensive.

After some of your amazing buttering up skills with puppy dog eyes, he agreed and he pulled the curtain back for you to get inside, then closes the door on the booth.

He sat down first on the small seat, and when you went to sit next to him he grabbed your waist and pulled you down onto his lap instead. He takes some coins from his pocket and starts putting them in the slot.

You try to get off his lap to sit beside him before the timer starts but he doesn’t let you.

“Just look at the camera and smile."

Once you hear the timer counting down the two of you start posing. But just before the last beep sounds, you get the idea to grab hold of Jisung’s face and let your lips mush against his cheek causing him to scrunch his nose up.

"That’s not fair," he says the second he hears the beeping start again.You stick your tongue out at him and his eyes narrow. “Fine, if that’s the game we’re playing.”

You both look back at the camera and offer smiles, kisses and peace signs. But at the last beep, Jisung gets the idea to move both of his hands to cup over your chest, groping your boobs.

Your mouth falls open as you gasp in shock while Jisung starts laughing.

You try to pull his hands away, "Okay fine, point taken mister grabby hands."

Jisung is practically giggling to himself, whilst you wait for the timer to start again.

“Alright alright, we'll take a serious one now.” He says, placing his chin on your shoulder, as you both look at the camera.

But once again, as the third beeping starts he quickly says, “Do you think people would notice if I made you cum while we're in here?"

Your body stiffens in shock as the picture is taken. Jisung is bursting with laughter and you're taken aback.

Jisung likes sex. He loves sex in fact — especially with you. But he never does this. Sure he teases you when you're out and about — how could he not when you’re so beautiful and perfect for him. But he’s never insinuated doing something so sexual in public like this before.

But here the two of you are. Waiting for the timer to start again, but this time you’re anticipating the shit he was going to pull when the final beep comes — and he does not disappoint. Because his hands slide up your legs, dipping into your inner thighs and squeezing them.

"Jisung," you warn him, "behave yourself."

The beeping starts again, but Jisung doesn't move his hands, and starts to massage his fingers higher.

When the last tick happens, he moves his face to press a kiss to your jaw, and you feel his breath hitting your skin from his nose.

He starts to inch your legs a bit further apart to let his thumbs graze over the crease where your thighs meet your pelvis.

“Ive missed you so fucking much baby,” he whines. “I need you so bad.”

“Jisung not here,” you sigh as his hands start working to warm up your skin.

“Why not? Wouldn’t you like the thought of me getting you off in here? Trying not to get caught?"

If his face wasn't so close to yours you wouldn't be able to hear him over the loud music in the arcade and how low his voice has gotten.

You give him a confused frown, thinking he surely can't be fucking serious but when you do he takes the opportunity to press his lips against you, kissing you while the camera snaps the last picture.

Your stomach is knotting along with your heart beating faster and you feel that familiar heat between your legs but you’d never tell him that — and he’d never tell you that he knows you keep it from him.

"Would you?" He asks again when he breaks the kiss.

You look at him like he's lost his mind. "You're joking right?" You can't be serious - Jisung people get their pictures taken in here, someone could walk in, you can't-"

He makes your words stop and your breath hitch in your throat as he moves his hand up under your skirt and cups his hand between your legs.

"That's not what I asked you," he says letting his eyes trace over your face, then leans closer, "Would you enjoy it?"

“Jisung, this is so unlike you, are you even hearing what you’re asking me?”

He moves his leg a bit and wedges his heel against the edge of the door so it can't be pulled open, "I know exactly what I’m asking you, so answer me."

"We’re supposed to be taking pictures, Sung,” you try changing the subject, and ignore the pressure of his hand pressed against you.

"Oh god we will," he says like it should be obvious.

And now you’re looking even more caught off guard.

“I'd fucking kill to have some pictures of you getting off. Have them to look at them whenever I’m needy and miss you.”

Jisung starts to massage the heel of his palm very slowly against you, adding more pressure over your underwear as you try to squeeze your legs closed but he holds them with his other hand to keep them apart.

"We can't-" it takes very fibre in your body to attempt to protest this, but you easily allow him to cut you off.

"Yes we fucking can," he has that sly look on his face, "But if you don't want to, we won't. It's up to you. Should I stop?"

You exhale a weak breath as he replaces the heel of his palm with his fingers dancing over your underwear, massaging slow circles that make your hips shift.

"Won’t people think it's weird if we're in here too long." you fumble over your words which makes Jisung smile while he bites on his lip.

"Don't worry I'll be quick," he says knowing you’re only making excuses instead of admitting what you really want.

Your eyes drift closed as you sigh, feeling his fingers move against you to create a friction that's only making the throb between your legs worsen. You have absolutely no common sense when it comes to this man and his fucking fingers.

"Should I stop?" He repeats in a low voice, moving his mouth to start to kiss along your jaw.

As usual with him, your functioning brain checks out while your subconscious takes over and you shake your head feeling your breathing start to go shallow.

"You want me to make you cum, yeah? Is that right baby?" His words are slightly muffled as he moves his free hand from your inner thigh and brushes your hair back over your shoulder so he can move his mouth to your neck, "I need words baby."

You should be rational and tell him to stop. But you don't. You wouldn’t dare. You didn’t want him to. So instead you say what you do want, and breathe out a quiet "yes."

Jisung’s own breathing is getting heavier, and the tension in this small enclosed space feels like it's compressing both of you closer together. When he hears your approval, his hand between your legs bunches up the front of your skirt. When he slips it up he snakes his hand over your stomach to push down into your underwear.

A faint groan echoes in Jisung’s throat the second his fingers feel your bare skin, exploring around your underwear to feel the slickness there.

"You’ve made a mess. Missed me this much, huh?” his voice is low, while he drags his warm lips up your neck.

You only manage to nod your head, your brain focused on squirming your hips to find some kind of friction again. He finally rests the pads of his fingers against your throbbing clit, starting to tease circles that force a quiet whimper out of you. Your eyes are still closed as excitement and neediness flood your nerves.

For doing something that should be wrong, it feels so damn right, and it's all you can think of. Feeling him is all you can think about.

"You sure I can take some pictures?" He checks, keeping his movements steady as your hips start to circle against his hand,

You don't respond at first—you can’t—too caught up in how this is feeling, and when he dips his fingers down to your pussy to collect more arousal on his fingers before moving back to your clit and applying more pressure, your head falls forward as you pant out a strained, "You - fuck, yes, you can."

He chuckles hearing how fucked out you are for him, and he’s only just started. But it’s when you hold onto the thigh he’s been using to pry your legs open that his eyes darken with need.

He keeps his fingers moving while he manages to get some coins he had in his pocket, reaching forward to put them into the coin slot, then pressing the button to start the timer.

When he relaxes back he applies a firmer pressure, and starts to massage your clit in quicker circles; making your mouth drop open with a gasped moan. You can barely hear the beep for the picture anymore, everything around you turning blurry, and all you can hear is your heart beat mixed your heavy breathing.

"That's it baby," he coos, with a gravel to his voice from the tension in it, "God I wish I could fuck you right now. I’ve been dying for it.”

Your skin is burning up, and all you can manage in response is the pants from your open mouth, desperately trying to keep yourself quiet.

You start to grind yourself against him as his fingers work, and feel the hard bulge forming in his pants underneath your ass.

He wasn't kidding when he said he'd be quick, he's already building the pressure in your lower belly, making your stomach muscles tighten, while he moves his fingers in the exact way he knows you love it.

That knot in your lower half tightens, and your legs start to tremble as a louder moan you can't stop comes out of your mouth.

"Fuck—Jisung," you whimper, with your chest starting to heave with rapid uneven breaths.

He only quickens his fingers driving with determination and speed, making sure to keep repeating the same movements that are getting the best reactions from you and when your head falls back as you moan again; his free hand comes up to cover your mouth.

"Shhhh—quiet, remember?" He hushes against your ear, groaning at the feeling of you grinding against him, "I know you wanna cum baby, but there’s no way I’m letting anyone else hear how you sound for me.”

All you can manage is a muffled "mhm" against his hand as your eyes squeeze tighter. That familiar sensation starts to ripple from your centre down your legs and into the rest of your limbs.

The orgasm is speeding towards you, faster than anticipated causing your back to arch up as your hips writhe. Your mind is foggy only able to make out quiet whispers of encouragement coming from Jisung.

As the release ripples through your body and your moans are muted against his hand, Jisung groans again, feeling you shake on top of him. He can’t help but snap his hand away to grasp at your jaw to turn your face and kiss you hard while you ride through your climax.

The kiss is mostly open lips grazing against each other, or trying to connect in messy motions with both of your laboured breathing mixing together. His fingers only pause when you try to pull yourself away from them.

Once your eyes drift open to see Jisung’s, the look in them makes you want to squeeze your legs together again if you could move them currently.

Jisung brings his hand up, and grazes his pointer and middle finger he just used to send your body into a frenzy against your lower lip as a silent request for you to open your mouth. You don’t deny it, taking them into your mouth to taste yourself.

“Fucking hell,” his eyes dart back and forth from your eyes to your mouth. His head rolls back against the wall behind you and he whines in the quiet, "God fucking help me."

Your body is still buzzing, floating down dazed from the high it was on, and you watch Jisung bite down on his lower lip as his brows knit tight together, as his hips shift beneath you.

"Everything okay, Sungie?" It’s the only thing your mushed brain can think of saying as you look down at his strained pants.

"Fuck no," he mumbles, looking like he's trying to compose himself, "But it’s my own fault. I suggested we do this. I’ll deal with myself later.”

"Later?" You ask.

Jisung lifts his head back up, leaning forward to press a kiss to your cheek as he rubs his palm up and down your thigh, "Yeah, later. When we get home and we watch that movie you promised me.”

He thinks you don’t know that he uses the movie thing as a code to fuck you — but you do know — and that’s why you’ve never protested when he puts on another one of those Harry Potter movies he loves.

"You sure you'll be able to wait that long?"

Jisung’s lips lift up at the corners, "I’ve waited weeks for this, I’m sure I can manage a couple more hours.”

He hugs you against him with his arms around your stomach, and back against his firm chest.

"But then again,” he begins “Now I have the memory of how fucking hot watching you get off in here was. That makes waiting like some kind of sick torture to me."

You let out a weak laugh, feeling your cheeks flush more than they already were, "I still can't believe we just did this."

"I can, and there's pictures to prove it," he smiles, pulling the strip of three black and white photos from the dispenser.

[yougavemeyourheartyouknow]

Alludes to Miguel bring depressed, usage of alcohol.

Thinking about heartbroken baby daddy!Miguel O’Hara who spent the next week rotting in bed whenever he could, curtains drawn shut and sad music playing from his phone as he scrolled through all your old photos together. Feeling exactly how he did when you two had split 9 years ago.

Heartbroken baby daddy!Miguel who started to reply the last 12 years over and over in his head, from the moment he sat next to you during his first stats lecture to the moment he found himself in front of your front door in an attempt to ask for a second chance only to find out it’s too late form the smirk on your new boyfriend’s face. To the point of him getting distracted during everyday activities, like over serving his coffee and sitting at a greenlight until someone honked at him.

Heartbroken baby daddy!Miguel who starts to have trouble keeping up with his physical appearance. The same man who could get the asscrack of dawn to go on a run or to the gym, always clean shaved, hair always slicked back, never in his pjs unless need be, started to walk around with a 5 o'clock shadow, starts to drop off or pick his daughter up in his sweatpants and tank top he sleeps in, eyes more sunken in they they usually are.

Heartbroken baby daddy!Miguel who has a silent breakdown everytime you post something while out on a date with your new boyfriend.having to grip his phone so hard to the point his knuckles turn white to stop himself from bursting into tears while Gabriella is eating dinner in the next room.

Heartbroken baby daddy!Miguel who had a few too many drinks while Gabri was at a sleepover, calling up first his younger brother then his best friend. Rambling about how he should have seen the signs sooner, how he should have never let you go in the first place, because now you were in the arms of another man, and considering that it’s been over 3 months it looks like he’s there to stay.

Heartbroken baby daddy!Miguel who thought he was hallucinating from drinking too much when you showed up at his place at 11:30 at night

—

“I-I just, if… if I knew that I still loved-“ he interrupted himself to hiccup before continuing to speak to Peter over his phone, placing down another empty beer bottle on his living room coffee table. “I still loved her, I wouldn’t have let-let her get a new boyfriend in the first place ya know?” He slurred, hearing Peter’s response but none of the words registering. His mind calmed from the temporary haze the alcohol provided.

Knock knock.

Miguel rolled his eyes with a groan as he slowly got up from his seat on the couch. “I thought I told you I didn’t need you to come over Peter.” Miguel said as he grabbed the empty bottles and quickly placed them in the kitchen, his friend on the phone expressing his confusion as Miguel made his way to the front door with his phone between his shoulder and ear.

“Huh? I’m not at your door-“ The rest of the sentence turned into background static, not noticing Peter’s calls for him and asking if he was listening. Miguel was too busy being in shock. He blinked once, twice.

You were still there.

Bloodshot eyes, runny nose, rosey and tear stained cheeks, your shoulders shaking a bit as you hugged yourself. He didn’t even get a chance to ask what was wrong before you spoke.

“Can I come in?” You croaked, throat tense as you attempted to keep your voice from wavering.

He opened the door wider.

—

Part 4<

Part 5.5<

Not proofread.

Word count: 600

Taglist: @ginnysculture @mishaglass @wusyanamee @mangoslushcrush @queerponcho @bunnibitez @miguelzslvtz @migueloharastruelove @dahehow @sinners-98-world @othersideoftheparadise @toyfortoji @yeshajane @yvesbi @strawberryjuice9 @hanjisgf @deljojeisbackagain @safixiovi @emmalandry @maxinemus3 @lauraolar14 @aaaaslaaaan @kenz-ee @esmedelacroix @whattheshock @lauraolar14 @migueloharasoulmate @famouscattale @loser-alert @maomaimao @syler-griffin @comeonatmebruh @xwonderlandresidentx @m4dyy @mcmiracles @the-pan-liquid @lilbrababe99 @jxstanemo @badbitchhour @freehentai @sillysillygoofygoose @nj452896 @jadeloverxd @faretheeoscar @miguelsfavwife @ce3stvu @scorpihoooe @blossomofbismuths

[shurisneakers]

saturn

summary: you die. bucky tries to bring you back (or) close to a year after you die, bucky's desperation finally finds an answer. but it may not be the one he's hoping for.

warnings: angst. death. being revived from death and the processes that follow. sickness. war or something. swearing. there is also fluf here and there

a/n: im drunk as fuck <3 i haven't really looked at this since December. the title is taken from saturn by sleeping at last because i couldn't think of anything better. enjoy <3333333333333

He occasionally catches a glimpse of his face in the lake.

His skin is worn from months of sun damage, splotchy and incorrectly healed. His beard has grown well past the point of respectability, with strands of grey he didn’t realise could sprout from him. Eyes sunken and half-lidded always.

Bucky waits everyday for the reaper to pull him underwater. Every day is another spent on dry, barren land.

_____________

It was closing in on a year and a half. Time moves like aged honey when you're punished, slow and grasping.

He steps off the bed and into the resolute silence of the cabin. There was a hole by his bedroom door after a regrettable night of alcohol. Mead. Something that had his head spinning and bile stuck to the walls of his throat, and of which he doesn't even remember the name of the next morning.

It's all fleeting, anyway. Names, labels, lives.

He cooks himself breakfast on an old pan.  The room is bone-cold, and the floorboards creak when he drags the decades old chair from the dining room to the porch.

Paint peels under his feet, and his toe curls. A dull, faded orchestra of evergreens as far as he can see. He's had a target on his back since he was a kid, always under the gaze of something beyond his understanding. Always making sure he doesn't take a step out of line, or let too much life into his heart.

It's been a while since he's felt that. Like it had finally decided he learnt his lesson, that he wouldn't dare to take a new breath without considering if he deserved it. And so he doesn't wonder if there are irises staring back at him with the same lifelessness with which he watches them, day after day, hour after hour.

The outside cools his blood to a standstill, and he is almost entirely certain he is alone. The vast expanse of an empty sky, bearing no clouds, no birds. Some days, he almost thinks he can feel you when the winds move.

He thinks he's past the point of insane.

__________

His friends are kinder than he is. To a fault, almost. God knows he hasn't given them a reason to be.

After a couple of months of shifting to the middle of nowhere, there are fifteen fucking knocks to the door.

Bucky flings it open, ready to chew someone’s head off. Raging, still in the ratty old t-shirt and sweatpants and socks with holes in them that you swore you would burn. He is armed with a battalion of curses and threats, only for words to die a quick death at the tip of his tongue.

“Hey.”

Bucky's muscles tense to the point where they might crack, but he forces his arm to lower. 

“Been a while,” Sam says, arms crossed over his chest.

He doesn't know how he's hunted him down, given the nature of his disappearance, but Sam was nothing if not determined in his humanity.

With nowhere else to turn, Bucky silently pushes the door open.

________

“I like what you’ve done with the place.”

Bucky glances around the house. There are cobwebs hanging from each corner he sees. Bulbs coated with dust. Fine china starting to fade with unuse, and utensils slowly beginning to gather rust.

He doesn’t reply. He’s offered him water, but Sam declines.

“You get cell coverage out here?”

“Don’t make a lotta calls,” Bucky’s vocal chords sound like they’re lined with gravel.

“We noticed.” Sam leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Talked to Dr. Canmore?"

"Yep." Not since the psychiatrist was forced to clear him after Bucky showed no signs of violence, or returning back to him. To him, that concluded the purpose of their relationship.

"And?"

"There's nothing to say, Sam," he rebukes, gruff. "'M fine."

Sam looks like wants to raise an eyebrow, but the patience he's grown over the years from dealing with those worse than the mess setting in front of him disallows him. "Get enough food?"

Bucky flashes him a thumbs-up, and feels the onset of a migraine.

"Sunlight? Water?"

"'M not a fuckin' plan--" he begins harshly, but clears his throat. "You?"

"Doin' alright." Sam shrugs. "Been training a buncha new recruits, getting in touch with new ones. Superheroes are poppin' up all over the place. Got a girl saying she can control squirrels."

Bucky nods absent-mindedly, picking at the hem of his shirt. He thinks you would have found that amusing, considering that you thought Scott Lang's schtick was a bit on-the-nose too.

“Do you want to?”

Bucky sharply shifts back into focus. “What?”

“Help out,” Sam clarifies. “Recruit, train.”

Bucky’s jaw inadvertently tightens. “No,” he says sharply.

"Could be good for you."

""M done with that life." 

Sam's eyes reflect a reality that's different, but he still relents, "Okay. Whatever works for you."

Bucky can’t say he retired, exactly. He’d unceremoniously quit and had gone AWOL, but it had never been on paper. SHIELD was gracious enough to accept in whatever form they had, sending him funds every month as an unofficial pension.

“You should drop by sometime. Compound's all re-done."

Bucky shifts in his seat like the chair is too small for him. “‘M not exactly a joy to be around.”

“You’re actin’ like that’s somethin’ new,” he riffs, mouth curling into a smile. “Still.”

Sam's a good man who often lets his instincts lead the way, and if he's insisting on Bucky to return then something must be worth listening to. But his only company's been the thoughts in his head for a while now, and they're no good. What's impure about him surely wraps its tendrils around the world around him, poisoning them.

It's difficult, impossible, even to shake the suspicion growing on him, crawling up his back.

“Alright, well–” Sam pushes himself off the couch “-- just give us a call if there’s anything you need help with.”

Bucky may not have as many words as he used to, but he hasn’t forgotten his manners. He walks Sam to the front, where his truck lay parked, all polished from the last time he saw it.

"You got everything you need?” Sam asks again, and something inside him ignites a spark.

“Yes.”

Sam nods, hand on the hood of the truck, giving him a final look up and down. The few seconds of a leeway fans the spark into a red-hot anger, one that has Bucky's muscles painfully tight.

"Right. See you aro-"

"Why'd you come here?" Bucky interrupts. "To check if I'm losin’ it again? SHIELD couldn't get Dr. Canmore on the line so they send their next bet to tranquilise me?

Sam's eyebrows raise this time, and Bucky thinks he's finally managed to piss off the last person who cares if he's dead or alive, but everything in him is too hot, too scathing to bother.

He wants someone to get it, what it's like to claw at concrete walls with raw fingertips and broken nails. He wants someone to see what it's like, living like they've been injected over and over with needles.

"I know it’s hard, man," Sam replies, gentle like cool water on a burn.

Bucky's hands freeze, because he realises very quickly he wanted someone to hurt.

"Just thought you could use knowin' you had someone there," he continues. "Got flowers too, but I wasn't sure if you'd..."

Something in Bucky deflates, and he wants to cower into a ball. Bury himself so deep underground that he doesn't have to deal with how his ribs feel like they're cracking into splinters all over again.

Sam's already moved towards the passenger side door, and pulled from it a beautiful arrangement of evening primroses and jasmines. Of course Sam remembered.

You would have loved it.

"I don't have anywhere to keep it," Bucky croaks. He's turned the home he bought into a tomb, and he's closed the door to any remainder of life waiting to be lived.

Sam simply hands it to him, and Bucky takes it cautiously like it'll wither in a second. His touch is venomous and his want is a death-sentence, but the flowers stay alive.

"If you ever find a place," Sam says, squeezing his shoulder, "leave something there, too. Might help."

________

He'd add 'liar' to the list of words he's chosen to describe himself, if he said he didn't think about it every second since you died.

The idea initially comes to him like a snake, slithering and winding its way up his shoulder to hiss into his ear. He shudders the first time, jaws clenching, and dismisses it immediately.

But 'sinner' is a word he would use, and so on nights when he's awake too long and when your laugh sounds like a draft in his ear, he entertains the thought.

Indulges in it, grotesquely allows himself to think of an alternate ending, where his presence had not corrupted your fate, and you would have been alive and vibrant and trying out new flavours of gelato from the corner store. Stealing kisses from him, half awake, and dragging him to watch sunrises from the roof.

He thinks of things he'd do differently. Retire a lot faster. Took you to the National Parks like he said he would. Make sure your scent seared itself like a tattoo on all his clothes, because there's nothing on earth that replicated it and he's turned it inside out trying.

When the air is icy and the skin aches where his metal arm meets flesh, he thinks of how you always flicked his shoulder when he passed an off-hand comment under his breath, but muffled a laugh when his insults got more creative.

But soon, it will be closing in on two years since Bucky's last heard you groan at his stupid comments and the lake is just as pristine as the day he bought the cabin. The water glimmers like shards of diamond and there are days he thinks it's too still for even his liking.

"Have you ever been to Asgard?" you ask one night, legs splayed over his thighs.

He looks up from the book he's reading, pencil tucked into his ear. "I have not."

"Not even once?" you ask, distracted from whatever show you had gotten hooked on on TLC. Ever since you'd discovered the channel, you were convinced it was the best way to learn about "his culture". Sometimes he tuned in to learn about updates to "his culture" in the years he was gone.

"Strictly earthbound," he replies.

You nod, eyes drifting back to the TV. He watches you for a few seconds, hand gently squeezing the arm closest to his.

As it always was, your posture was pin-straight. Always ready. Like sitting still wasn't even an option. He used to think it was because you were never truly comfortable around him, until he realises that that was simply a part of you.

Bucky re-adjusts his glasses. He was getting old. His back pained and creaked like an old door hinge more each time.

He didn't think he'd get here. He's growing to love it. Mission reminders and target locations get replaced more and more with reminders that he still has to put the leftovers in the fridge from the date earlier that night, and that your shampoo needed a re-stock.

"Would you want to come with me one day?" you ask suddenly.

He puts the book down, and you turn away from the TV again. 

He can always tell when you're thinking. The world buzzes a bit. When you're older than a few galaxies, the universe and you become not so distinct.

"Might be a bit too grand for a fella like me."

"I think you'd like it," you counter, "and you're in a relationship with me. You'd fit in as well as anyone could."

He's still not sure how he's managed to accomplish the second part but you must have liked something about his ragtag sarcasm and social isolating tendencies.

Bucky's growing older each day. You're the closest thing he's seen to eternity. He doesn't think he would fit in, not with his thrift shop t-shirts and unbridled insecurities.

"Do you want me to?" he asks, hesitant.

He's met Thor, and he's heard mostly about Loki through childhood tales and news reports. Thor didn't seem to mind him, but then again, Thor saw the best in everyone.

"I'd like to show you the place I grew up," you reply, playing with his metal fingers. "You showed me yours."

"That's a couple'a streets from here, sweetheart," he reminds playfully. "Not exactly another realm."

The corners of your mouth lift slightly. "But you feel connected to it, don't you? That it is a part of you?"

Bucky intertwines your grins and keeps it there. He's always felt something towards Brooklyn. Something that kept him going when Siberian frost nipped at his skin. Tethered.

But when he'd shown you the place he grew up in, it wasn't the same. Brickwall had been overlaid with plaster and paint. Doors ripped off their hinges, wallpaper a ghastly white instead of the stained floral print his sister and he drew on. It was unease, trepidation.

It didn't feel like his anymore. Probably because Bucky didn't feel like him anymore.

"Yeah," he replies after some thought, even though it's not entirely right.

"I feel that way about Asgard," you continue the thought. "Being here is lovely, and I love learning of all the things your people do, but--"

"It's not the same," he interjects gently. "I get you."

You look at him and smile, and Bucky feels the same gnawing feeling that this is something that's too good, too pure for him.

God of the Night Sky and the Mortal of Blood Stained Hands.

It shouldn't work, but you've already got a drawer in his shelf for your belongings. You've talked about moving to a cabin by the woods if you ever wanted to settle down. You kissed him that morning, and once more on his shoulder, and the last time he's laughed this much in one dinner was the one he had the night before with you.

"Whichever day you're ready," you promise. "I've got a feeling you'll be convinced."

Bucky presses a kiss to your fingers, and you turn back to the TV with a smile.

He watches you for a while. Your fingers continue to play with his. Bucky thinks getting older may just be worth it.

You made a dozen or so trips back to Asgard since the conversation, and he pushed his involvement on each one with the unfailing and ultimately misplaced  certainty that he'd have time.

__________

You wouldn't approve of the way he'd kept the cabin. You wouldn't approve of the way he lived. He knows that, but he also knows if you were around then he'd have a reason to actually sow more than vegetables in the land he keeps digging up. He'd make sure of the table cloth that he found stashed away, leave the blinds open more to allow light to reach his room.

He looks at the bouquet of flowers by his feet and thinks that laying it by a boulder would be insignificant.

So for the first time in a long while, he prays the act of creation will bring him some respite and builds. 

A little hut, with sticks he finds around the place, and makes it big enough to house Sam's bouquet from the wind and sun. He carves out your name onto the boulder, painstakingly with his pocket knife until each letter was guaranteed to last a century. He adds the year of your birth, and can't find it in himself to add the year you died.

He steps back and exhales. It's a memorial. It's a start.

__________

Bucky spends most of the day digging up dirt, sitting out on the porch and looking for firewood. He’s learnt how to grow his own vegetables, and how to go into town unnoticed for other essentials.

And now he has something to tend to.

It starts with fickle sticks and grows into something sturdier. He brings the memorial stronger wood, and bands to hold it together. He looks for wildflowers and pretty leaves, bunches them together and leaves them under the protection of the small roof.

It's the most he's done in over a year.

Months go from crawling to a standstill when it nears October. Bucky leaves the house less often.Truth is, the sky has never entirely recovered since you were gone. It's never truly dark-- a faint navy blue or even azure in the days leading up to the anniversary.

He's seen people puzzle over it-- call it the newest effects of light pollution or climate change. There is no reasonable answer, but the one that exists is that you left and you took the constellations with you.

Still, evening always comes faster and he can't quite stand being out at that time, when there is a void where he used to feel you the most. Instead he stays asleep for as long as he can. He makes use of the brief time he has to fix himself some food, and bare minimum upkeep.

He gathers the last of the flowers he can see around, some leaves that hadn't entirely been lost and makes his way to the lake.

"Forgive me, sweetheart. Season's changin' and I don't got a lot of options," he says lowly and to the hut that's managed to stay up.

Bucky looks at the sparse flowers in his hands and thinks that he'll make the godforsaken trip into civilisation to get you better ones. Ones you really liked, colourful and dynamic.

For now, he tries tying them together with a blade of grass to make it look less pathetic. It breaks every single time-- he's never been very good at being delicate.

Something around his wrist catches his attention. Some days he forgets it isn't a part of him.

His hair whips rather majestically around his head. He’s used to the sting when it strikes his skin, only reflexively reaching up to tuck it behind his ear.

“Hair tie?”

His eyes snap to yours in surprise. You've never really talked to him before, just brief nods and smiles along the way. Bucky wasn't exactly the patron saint for socialising either. He's always thought something about you was otherworldly. He didn't consider himself significant enough to be going out of your way to talk to either.

“Would you like a hair tie?” you repeat. “It’s rather bad out there.”

“Uh, yeah,” he replies, though he’s never considered that as a solution. “Sure, if you’ve got one.”

“We’ve learnt to carry them around when you fight alongside the likes of Thor and Volstagg.” You smile, reaching into the compartment of your belt. “Long hair looks good. Doesn’t always work that way.”

Bucky gives you a tight smile, feeling slightly embarrassed but a voice in him compels him to accept the kindness you’re offering.

He quickly secures his hair into a lower bun, giving more show to cheeks dusted pink.

“I’ll give it back after the mission,” he promises.

“Don’t.” You pause, giving him a once-over. “It suits you.”

Most days he remembers it's one of the only things he's still got of you. Still, he ties the flowers together with your hair tie-- and they stay this time.

"See you next week," he says, and a wind blows past him. Pathetically, he dares to hope it's a sign from you.

___________

Two sharp knocks on the door, but his eyes are open before the second one. It wasn’t like he was getting much sleep anyway.

When his arm doesn’t keep him up, it’s the ache in the rest of his body to be near you. Trailing kisses up your arm and watching wildfire heat spread through his neck when fingers tip up his chin. Lips trying to catch each other until panting breaths matched.

He flips over to the other side. Both sides of the pillow are drenched with his sweat. Christ, if this was how it was going to be in the days leading up to the anniversary, he can't imagine what would happen the day of. 

Someone rapps intently at the door, only picking up pace when Bucky chooses to ignore it. By all means, he’s retired. That alone should entitle him to some fucking peace, but no. 

He curses as he drags himself out of bed and pulls on a shirt, shuffling to the door. When he pulls it open, his eyes are probably murderous, but there is no one to catch the daggers. There is a simple brown cardboard box, labelled with his name.

Bucky, with a narrowed gaze, takes a step away from the box and instead heads into the open air. But there is not a soul, even as he stalks around the cabin and really stops to listen.

He comes back to the threshold and eyes the box. Using his foot, he swiftly kicks the lid off it and braces for an impact that doesn’t come.

There are shirts. And a mug. He frowns, kneeling down to shuffle through the contents, only to find bits and pieces of things he just…left behind when he left the compound.

Pictures he never really got framed. Socks with torn toes. Sweatpants. Laptop.

And there’s a tiny box. His chest twists the second he lays eyes on it so much that he thinks he’s been injured.

There’s a ring in there. Not really even an engagement ring, since you were gone before he had a chance.

Just a ring. But it’s enough to make him suddenly feel the weight of the air around him and he’s forced to take a seat right there on the steps. There’s nothing else in there of you, just old mission reports that mention your active involvement. Maybe if the smell of cardboard hadn’t permeated through the fabric of his shirts, he’d have traces of your scent.

Fragmented parts of his life, like snapshots of his history, running through his mind like an old film. It makes him question, for a second, if death was finally catching up to him.

Well, it was late. He’d been kept waiting for years.

_____________

The day itself is grey and sullen. In crackles of electricity, he can almost feel Thor’s state of mind. He tries not to think that in a few years, you’d be gone for longer than he knew you.

He rounds up leaves as orange as mandarins and ties them together with the hairtie. He clears up the last bunch he’d left and takes a seat on the shore of the lake. Cloudless and barren. Chill.

He can sense the end of the battle is near– he sees Sam a lot less overhead, even his gun didn’t require as many re-stocks. His pace slows to match the few that are left around him, and he’s already wondering how he can finish this quicker to get to help with search and rescue.

But Bucky didn’t even have to be told. Mid-punch, something in the air shifts and a deep shiver runs up the curve of his spine.

Before he even straightens up the sky explodes from the early azure of dawn to a blinding white to a blood-curdling crimson. His body reacts faster than he does, because the speed at which his stomach drops is only rivalled by how fast he was sprinting to your last known location.

He yells names through open comms-- yours, Thor's, Sam's-- turning the corner and immediately feeling the full force of a blast shove him onto his back.

With a groan and the force of his left hand, he presses into his ears to stop the excruciating ringing. He feels someone pull him up– blue, red and white kevlar against bruised skin and he’s already pushing away.

“Sam, where–” he blinks furiously, trying to read what word’s Sam’s got on his mouth because his head is still spinning. “She–”

He hears something about Thor and building and searching and forces himself to look at the force of a multistory highrise that’s collapsed into rubble on the street.

Something about impaled and sacrificed and he feels like vomiting violently, shoving Sam aside to stumble through the dust and smoke, teeth clamping down on his heart in his mouth.

Thoughts of you waiting under rocks, choking while fly ash turned your lungs to rock, suffocating.  Every second of his incompetence is a second you spend wasting away where he couldn't find you.

It takes hours for Thor to give up searching through the rubble. It takes Bucky days.

It took a few seconds for the sky to turn red. It took weeks to turn from crimson to the ghost of blue it still remains.

God of the Night Sky and A Man Too Slow.

Your body is never found, and Bucky never forgives himself. It takes a whole month to be able to look at the night. Some days he hides his face from the moon, afraid of wrath.

____________

When Bucky gets the call, he isn’t exactly sure how to respond. One, because he didn’t even know you had his number memorised and two, he’s not sure how you’ve allowed yourself to get arrested. But it’s 2am and he’s on his motorcycle, on the way to the police station, still entirely confused about what exactly was going on.

“That’s him.” You point, jumping up from behind the bars.

You look lovely– someone’s gotten you out of the battle armour he usually sees you in, and into something that passes as authentically Earth-like.

He makes a mental comment to tell you, but to still be discreet about it. He's not really sure where the both of you stand these days. You've got him agreeing to braids in his hair like a viking, and sitting next to him during team nights. He's got you reading the entirety of Lord of the Rings and going to museums with him to steal back his belongings. But he's not really sure.

Bucky’s eyebrow twitches at the fact that they’ve got you locked up, but you look entirely unfazed like it’s a new restaurant or escape room you’re checking out. Excited, even.

"Hey,” he says calmly to whoever wants to listen, “what the fuck?”

The grin you give him is sheepish and he already kinda wants to laugh, but he fights back a smile.

“Broke two tables at the bar two blocks down,” the officer replies. “Looks like she was going for a third.”

“I promise, I did not mean to,” you swear to him. “I did not realise your furniture would be so weak.”

Bucky looks at the officer wearily. “Had t’lock her up for that?”

Whatever the officer was expecting, it was not Bucky's lack of respect for the law or private property.

“Well– superpowers– we’re not really sure–” he stammers.

You watch the man curiously, while Bucky's eyes flicker over to you. He knows you could bend the bars of the jail cell and walk right out, so indulging them was clearly a choice.

“I’m an Avenger, I’ll take it from here,” he interrupts, making his way over to you.

“I’m gonna need to see some ID–”

“Google it,” he bites back, before turning to you. “Y’okay?” 

“I’m great,” you reply, full of life as if it wasn’t the middle of the fucking night. “It was a lot of fun.”

“How’d you know my number?” He mentions for the guard to unlock the gate, ignoring the swelling in his stupid chest.

“We are friends, are we not?” you ask, a bit confused.  

Bucky can't figure out if he's surprised or disappointed- a good mix of both, perhaps. He's glad you consider him a friend, but something in him aches dully. He positively despises it and how often it's been creeping up on him whenever he sees you around the compound. He was a 100 years old, not some lovesick fuckin' teenager.

“Yeah. We are,” he agrees, turning to glare at the officer who was holding up his phone, eyes darting between it and Bucky’s face. “Could y’move faster? It’s late.”

The guy hurriedly unlocks it and you step out, stretching your arms over your head before waving goodbye to the guy and sauntering off. He watches you go for a second before pressing back a small smile.

“The bar-”

“Tell them to get stronger tables,” Bucky calls from over his shoulder, not even waiting for a reaction. “Send the paperwork to the Avengers office, and put the bail on the tab.”

He finds you outside, arms crossed over your chest while you wait for him.

“Thank you.” You give him a smile. “I forgot that it would be late for you.”

“Don’t mention it,” he waves off. “Wild night, huh?”

He had heard that some of the agents who had shifted here recently were checking out the hubs around town, but he had no idea that you’d be with them. It made sense in hindsight. More often than not, you were seeking recommendations and guides on how to learn what it was like here.

“I’ve seen worse.” Your eyes shine, and for a second he thinks that they even glimmer like starlight. “I did not realise breaking tables would be such an issue.”

“Yeah, we tend to be possessive over stuff,” he scratches his neck, almost embarrassed for his kind. “Coulda kept the cops out of it, don’t know why they had to go through all this.”

“I will have them replaced. Ours will not break, they’re made for Asgardian parties after victories in battle.”

He nods slowly and wonders if a crane would be enough to lift the table into the joint. It was nearly 3am, and he was out here with you in front of a police station, and he can't stop his stomach from fluttering. He wants to punch himself.

“Are you hungry?” you ask suddenly.

Bucky’s head tilts. He definitely had dinner….maybe. Half a leftover burrito and an apple.

“I’m starving,” you add. “I saw this place along the way here–”

Not to rub it in, but Bucky Barnes, smooth player and charmer extraordinaire, blanks. He's about sixty years off his game, and sure, he thinks you’re real pretty and that maybe he’s always wanted to know what it’d be like to buy you dinner and maybe hold your hand? If you were good with that? Maybe even–

“Like a date?” he blurts out and immediately wrings his fingers.

You falter and he wishes he was never born. “A date?”

“Like– getting dinner together,” he tries to remedy. “Breakfast. What time is it?”

“Yes, that is what I asked.” Your head cocks to the side to match his in confusion.

“No, like– like different. Not just dinner– yeah, dinner, but more–” Christ alive, he wishes he could run into traffic, but the road was deserted.

You wait for him to explain a little better where he was trying to get at. He can feel his ears burning bright.

He just shuts up instead.

“Dinner-breakfast, but more,” you test slowly.

“...more romantic?” he tries finally, defeated. “A date. Romantic date– I’m tryin' to ask you out here.”

"Oh.”

The world is very still. He thinks he will hand in his resignation tomorrow and disappear.

He had done his part, embarrassed his mother and every internet poll that deemed him the most suave and mysterious Avenger, and could now die in peace.

“A date it is, then. Breakfast-dinner, but more,” you reply.

Oh. He thinks he’s probably going to combust but you lean over to press a small kiss to his cheek, and now he’s sure he’s going to combust.

“Humans think too much,” you say simply.

"Think I'm more of an exception than the norm,” he mumbles.

"Aren't I lucky," you tease, and tap on the helmet. “Don’t suppose you’ve got an extra?”

Bucky’s eyes fly open, and the blankets get kicked off in a frenzy. His chest heaves as he sits up, rubbing furiously at his eyes.

He knew it was going to be bad, but he didn’t think it would be this fucking insidious. 

He moves to wipe the sweat from his brow but comes back dry. The air is still cold even though he keeps the window shut, and he turns to it to see a thunderstorm taking place outside.

He watches the drops pelt against the window and trees shake violently for a moment, forcing himself to breathe as he rakes his hand through his hair.

Before it clicks, and his stomach drops.

“Fuck,” he hisses, not even bothering to throw on a jacket before bolting outside.

The path that he’s trodden a thousand times before looks entirely unknown, and had he not been reliant on his muscle memory he would have had no clue where he was heading. Inky blue trees, harsh and sharp, and he's sure he's gotten a few scratches on his face already as he sprints through the forest to the lake.

The boulder is there, the carving of your name remains but the hut of sticks and leaves-- it lays strewn across the land.

And the hair tie. The fucking hair tie.

He crawls miserably on his arms and knees, relying on the light from a clouded moon to guide him through every inch of grass. Eyes burning red, he continues to scour until morning breaks with twilight.

6 years he’s kept it with him. 6 years, and it’s gone with the rain.

He lets out a cry, fist driving into the earth, barely met with any resistance.

God of the Night, and Devil of Misery.

_______

The flowers had dried up and left him to rot with them. The lake was troubled on more days than not. He had a ring that was neither entirely yours, neither entirely his and no more than the traces of your skin in his memory.

So this time when the idea appears to him like a snake, crawling and inching up his back to tell him that he deserves it, you deserve it. It would solve everything.

He is no stronger than Eve. He had fallen from grace a long time ago. He shudders just as he did the first time, but now it felt like more reprieve.

_____________

“James,” it greets, hollow like a windchime.

His voice comes out more gruffer than he expects from months of unuse, “Got a minute?”

The light retreats further into the house, away from him. He watches it fade as it travels, unsure of what to do until it pauses, hovering in one spot.

It waits for him, he realises. He slips the beanie off his head and into his pocket, before hesitantly taking a step into the cabin. The floorboards creak under the weight of him the way his own used to months ago. Now they were well-worn and all the corners that made the most noise were identified and memorised. The house and its resident both stayed silent.

Bucky finds Wanda with her eyes closed, palms pressed into her knees as she sits midair, body levitating like she was held up by a marionette.

The room is lit dimly, the only light enough to see Wanda and he understands that the woman he met years ago and the one in front of him now were not the same. Even without his serum, he has a feeling the hair on his body would be standing up, adrenaline replacing desperation and fingers bound tightly into a fist. But even with his senses on high alert, Bucky finds it hard to find a reason to care.

“You found me.”

They gave him back his laptop. He knew the Avengers had eyes on her– but only because she was allowing them.

“What brings you here?” she asks, eyes still closed.

“I need a favour,” Bucky replies, voice unnaturally strong.

“Most do,” she hums, bones cracking when her head creaks to the side. “What is it that you want, James?”

“Got a feeling you already know,” he replies.

“Humour me.”

Bucky’s eyes burn the more he continues to stare. He feels sweat trickle down his back in a clean line. The room felt like it was closing in on him with every pulse of light, crawling into his skin and scraping up and down his bones until–

“I want to bring her back from the dead.”

Wanda’s eyes stay shut but a sick, twisted sort of smile works at the corner of her mouth. “Who?”

“You know who,” he swallows thickly.

Wanda straightens her head till she is sitting pin straight again, eerily firm as if her spine had been replaced with a rod.

“It has been months. Nature would not have been kind to her.”

“But it’s possible,” he says– asks, really.

“Anything is,” Wanda tuts. “But all that time would have eroded away at her.”

“We never found the body." He hates how his voice quivers for a second. “And she’s not from this Earth. That’s gotta count for something.”

“Depends.”

“Can you do it?”

“I can.”

Bucky feels relief flood into his system, an ecstatic sort of euphoria that has his heart lead–

“But I won't.”

And it goes back to how it was. Cold. Bitter. Was this some sick fucking joke?

“Why?” His voice drops an octave.

“Time will heal you. Getting in the way of that is only harmful to you.”

Real fuckin’ rich coming from you, he wants to scream.

“I tell you this because I know from experience.” It’s almost as if she reads his mind. Probably does. “Bringing someone back from the dead is not what you think it is.”

“I’ll handle it. Whatever it is.”

“Can you?”

Bucky wavers, brows furrowing. “Yes.”

Wanda hums, the same smile from before returning to her face. “Your spirit is admirable. But I’m afraid I can’t grant you this wish.”

Bucky feels white hot inside, and like his world crumbles into a dark heaving mess. “Wanda–”

“It’s for your own good, James.” If he wasn’t so full of rage he’d maybe hear the fondness that hid behind a few of her words.

“How would you know?” he snaps. “Vision wasn’t human–”

Wanda’s eyes snap open. Bucky is forcefully shoved a step back, arm jumping up in front of him in a second. For the first time he notices that the light wasn’t shining on Wanda– it was coming from her. Crimson red and pulsating as fast as the blood raced through her veins.

“You think Vision was the first time I’ve lost someone?” Her voice is cold. “You met him, James. You knew his name.”

Bucky’s grown to carry guilt on his back like Atlas. A little bit more is hardly a burden. “This– it’s going to be different,” he says. “She’s not a mutant, she’s a God, Wanda–”

“So you think you can match up to that by playing one?” Wanda’s voice raises. “You don’t get to pick who stays dead. You don’t get to choose. I didn’t. None of us did.”

“I wasn’t there when she died. If I was, then maybe–”

“That doesn’t mean anything. I cannot give you this favour.”

“Then consider it repayment. Of a debt,” he finally exclaims. “You said it. You owed me one. I’m cashin’ it in.”

Days of starvation just so that the kids could eat. If his handlers knew, they’d make him kill them with his bare hands. He gladly accepts fifteen more broken bones just so that the twins are kept together, and even when he goes back under, the sight of their big eyes, too big for their faces, staring at him haunts him in his nightmare.

“I just want another chance.” Bucky’s stare is strong, voice steady. “I’m tired of praying. I’m sick of it. I’ve been begging my whole life for a second chance at everything. You think I want to be here? That I get to be the one that’s still alive?”

The glow around Wanda looks like it should burn her. All consuming and vicious, like blood splattered on a wall.

“Please,” his voice reduces to the strength of a child. “Just try. That’s all I’m askin’.”

Bucky watches as the light slowly dims to a silhouette, leaving him blinking back the burn on his iris. He loosens his fist, knowing later that his fingernails probably broke through the skin of his palm.

Wanda’s chest rises and falls.

She closes her eyes. “Leave.”

He wordlessly turns on his heel. It was stupid of him to hope, he supposes.

______________

Autumn dies for December to grow, and he starts staying inside more than he already does. Snowfall covers the roof and the treetops. He swaps eggs for soup and makes batches large enough to last the whole day. The ground freezes over, and he looks for ways to keep his self-sustaining system going, but trips to town become more frequent.

Sam visits once more, and brings some more things with him this time. Books, a journal, some old box sets of shows. Bucky nods along to the conversation, asks after his family and when the time comes, rejects another offer to come to spend Christmas at the compound.

He accepts Sam’s flowers with more grace than the last time. The door closes, and he leaves it by the couch.

__________

He attempts to rebuild it. Pulls together some stronger branches and heavier stones. A new memorial lays together half-heartedly. Dejected. A little miserable looking.

He stares at it a little too long before one swoop of his arm cracks it in half and leaves it strewn across the grass.

Bucky doesn't try again.

__________

“Did you come up with the constellations?”

It's a stupid question, but he's always curious about you.  

“Hm,” you reply at first. “Not in the sense that you’d think.”

Bucky turns away from looking into the abyss and towards you. His flesh hand continues to trace shapes into your skin as your neck rests on his bicep.

“I didn’t place them in a way that was meant to be drawn,” you reply. “My mother used to tell me when I was a child that the spirits of those I cherished would live on through parts of our creations. For others, it would be through groves of orchards, or rain that corrode caves into mountains.”

Bucky watches the fingers of your free hand dance nimbly, while the other stays tucked between the both of you.

“I was young when I realised that certain lights were brighter when I felt too much for someone. Pain, joy, rage,” you continue, fingertips pointing upwards, “Those stars, satellites– whatever you wanted to call them– they were the ties I had to those I loved. So sometimes, I would move them with me so that every time I looked up, I would see that I had company.”

He tears his eyes away from you and towards where you were gesturing. It’s subtle at first, but then he sees– stars moving faster than they should, darting all around the canvas of the night like runaway splotches.

“Over time, those on earth noticed patterns and called them constellations. I’ve always seen it as my family,” you say, gently dragging a barely lit star from the corner of his eye towards the centre.

“That’s for Thor. Sif.” You take turns to point. “Loki. Fandrall. Hogun. My parents.”

Each seems to glow a little brighter as you call out their name. “There’s one for you, as well.” Your finger drops, finding its way back to comfort on his chest.

Bucky’s eyebrows raise.  

“You’ll have to see for yourself which one it is.” You leave a kiss on his jawline, and he instinctively tugs you a bit closer. “It won’t be any fun if I tell you.”

He doesn’t need to ask. There’s one slightly to your left, that’s glowing a little brighter tonight than the rest. His chest swells, and there's a profound sort of speechlessness that engulfs him. He never really knows what to say around you anyway.

“Really fuckin’ love you, you know that?” he mumbles into your the skin of your temples.

“I’ve got a clue or two.” You laugh and along with you, so does the sky.

___________

Bucky eyes fly open, fingers digging deep into the pillow. Not because of the way his brain was choosing to torture him again.

But the fact that the fucking person from before was back at his door, even though it was the middle of the fucking night.

He lets the first three knocks go unanswered but by the fifth one, he’s ready to unleash the force of the shitty month he’s had into whoever was here to drop off the next box of fucking whatever.

He doesn’t even bother pulling on shoes or straightening out his clothes. Hair wild and untamed and fury in his eyes, he marches down the steps of the cabin with a select choice of words for SHIELD and their stupid protocols.

With enough force to pull the door from its hinges, he yanks the door open, eyes ablaze and mouth set in a scowl.

And the earth stops spinning. 

The absolute wind gets knocked out of him and he’s scared to even blink because this has happened to him before. It’s happened, and his eyes have closed and it’s left and he can’t afford that again–

He freezes when a hand reaches out to touch his bicep. Because that has never happened before. He’s always woken up before this.

At the threshold of the cabin, he falls to his knees. His joints ache the same way they did in church all that time ago when his fury was masked with tears.

“Oh,” he whispers, kneeling before the essence of a God he thought abandoned him.

“Bucky?” you ask, confused and soft, hand reaching out to cup his cheek before lowering yourself to his height.

Bucky makes somewhere between a strangled noise and a strange laugh, head reeling.

“You’re back.” His hands fall at your waist lightly like he’s afraid to disrupt still water.

“What’s–” your sentence is interrupted when your eyes roll back into your head.

Moments later it goes limp, and his reflexes move faster than he can comprehend as he grabs you, body springing into action when his mind gives up on him.

He lets out a sigh of relief loud enough to be a sob, fervently holding up the dead weight and a rhythm returns to the stillness of the night, one he’d forgotten the sound of. If he was even the slightest bit aware, more than grateful, he would see the signs from then. His vibranium doesn’t warm when it meets the sliver of skin as he bunches up your shirt in his grip. It feels like he’s breathing in Antarctic air, not spring drafts.

“Thank you,” he whispers against your shoulder to whoever is listening. “Fuck– God, thank you.”

_______

"It's been a month."

"A week, and that's pushing it."

"You're pushing it," you mumble, tightening the straps of your armour, "I do not know how you live like this. Do you always just stare at the ceiling when you're bored?"

"Sometimes I like to switch it up. Look at the floor," Bucky adds gruffly, to a roll of your eyes. "Maybe the door on the days I'm feelin' real fancy."

"You will just let your TV lay that way? With half the screen missing?"

He shrugs half-heartedly. "Sports season's done. Got nothin' to watch."

"Hmm," you pause a second. "'No' to your offer then. You may take that as my formal reply."

"'No' to Thai takeout later?" Bucky squints out into the twilight through the window of the ammunition room. "Lebanese then?"

You raise your eyebrows, tightening the leather around your wrists. "Goodbye, Barnes."

"Bye," he replies, checking to see if his knives sat securely in his old tactical pants.

You send him a nod before you start striding towards the door.  The jet had landed a while ago, still onloading agents and recruits from the compound. 

Bucky's arm jets out to grab your elbow, pulling you back into him. He's well aware it's only because you let him.

"I'm kiddin'," Bucky laughs at the matching smile on your face. "I'll get it fixed. I'll fix it myself. Just marry me, please. I'm growin' old here, sweetheart. All this questioning's not good for my heart."

"You're already old. And we will talk about it when we get back," your fingers press gently into his chest, and he can feel your touch even through the bulletproof vest. "Your laws-"

"There's no law out there that says ex-enemies of the state and Gods can't marry. Even if there is, it'll be just another one I have to break."

Your eyes twinkle when you laugh. Bucky sees remnants of old cosmos in there, as he always has.

"We'll talk about it when we get back," you promise. "Be safe."

"Can't guarantee that."

"Try not to die, then."

"Always."

He can't remember a time when he wasn't the last one on the jet, owing to goodbyes like this. You never opted to join them, reaching the same way Thor does.

The night was uncharacteristically calm, especially since he knew that miles away you were about to step into another battle. But it's good. The night means you will be at your strongest, and that is what he hopes for.

Bucky allows a few seconds of silence to take you in, skin glowing even against harsh fluorescent lighting and a cool air of confidence around you. You raise an eyebrow at him, because this is far from the first time he has done this. He would never divulge why.

He takes a chance to press a quick kiss to your lips, humming. "I'll get the TV fixed when we're back."

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Barnes." You smile, thumb swiping across the dent in his nose, an imperfection in a sea of many. "Thai for dinner?"

"Lemme check my calendar." Bucky takes a step back, feeling his heart constrict in a way that he's gotten used to craving. "I may have an opening."

"Please, don't try too hard."

"I'll have my secretary get back to you."

You roll your eyes, fighting a smile. "I love you."

"So, that's a yes then?"

"Get on the plane, Bucky." You sigh. "You already know the answer."

"Love you more." He grins at you, bright and like he's never known sadness. "Catch you later."

____________

In the days that pass, he doesn’t know how to be.

His body leaves him no choice–  staying up all night, waiting for Wanda to show up at the door, fingers burning to take it all back. He keeps the doors locked and windows shut, as if ageing wood would provide any sort of a barrier when it came to her will.

Bucky walks around in a trance, eyes glossy and body stiff like he isn’t sure how much of what he’s seeing is real.

Your body, housed in his old clothes, looks three seconds away from death. He keeps a bucket by the bed from when you cough up dust, the last remainder of old organs. He massages leg spasms, and muscle cramps from your neck.

He keeps a towel close by for the nausea and anything in between as your body fights off the shock of a rebirth. Allopathy is useless when you're a God either way, so he resorts to herbs and roots to alleviate as much as he can.

Your lungs struggle for air at night. He’s already awake, propping you up to make sure you’re breathing better. He rubs at your back in circles the same way he used to do for Steve and finally takes a breath when the wheezing subsidies.

He fervently tells you he loves you every time you slip back under, and wipes at your forehead with a wet cloth to ease the warmth. He’s met with coughing fits and clenched eyes.

Exactly one week from your return, a trip downstairs to gather more firewood for the room and Bucky falters to a stop near the kitchen.

There's a note pinned to the dining table with no indication as to how it got there.

The debt is repaid. This was by your will. Whatever happens next will be by hers.

Every hour, he watches rotting flesh, dissolved muscles and clotted blood crawl out of your mouth. He forces himself to watch. It was his choice after all.

Bringing you back from the dead was never going to be easy.

_________

A week later, the remains of your old body stop exhuming itself. Perspiration beads line your forehead, and he thinks the salt of sweat is your first act of creation. 

Your breath steadies. Nights go smoother. He learns he can live off of two hours of sleep. 

He toys with the idea of telling someone. Sam. Thor, even.  But your lips are bluer than he’s ever seen, even more than when he’d introduced you to blueberry juice pops when the heat beat down on you both in July, and you’d kissed his red-stained ones. 

The longer he stares at you, he dismisses the idea. Something in him says that beyond being something they could accept, they could actively bring a stop to what he was doing right now. 

He couldn’t afford that. Not now, not ever; not when he’s let you down once before already. It’s a secret for now, then. For as long as it needs to be. 

__________

In the days later your nervous system seems to be rewiring itself. The first time he sees you with your eyes open, the plates he’s holding clatter to the floor. 

“Hey,” he whispers, fingers clutching the side of the bed, “Hey, honey. Can you hear me?”

But your eyes never meet his. He slowly follows your gaze to the closed window, eyes glassy and surrounded by strings of red. 

He sees you mouth something, and desperate as he is, he never truly understands what it is before you’re gone again.  

His exhale leaves staggering, head dipping to your arm as he clenches his eyes tight till he sees spots. 

_____________

Bucky starts leaving the windows open. The ones in your room, at least, and only when he's there to keep watch.

It becomes a mission then. The next time you opened your eyes couldn’t be to the desolation he lived in for months. He looks for flowers. Vines. Anything to make the place look less dreary and miserable. He cleans the blinds, and dusts the paintings in the room.

The cells in your body seem to be working overtime– every day there is a little bit less that reminds him of where you came from. Scabs fall away faster than they grow, leaving unbroken skin.

He notices it late. There is only one wound that remains-- a red, jagged scar along your stomach. It looks angry. Heals slower than the rest of them. It is the only place Bucky sees specks of gold instead of bronze when you exert yourself too much.

__________

It takes a good amount of time. He should have anticipated it— the next time you awake, and the next few times after that are only when the sun chases beyond the horizon. 

He drops to your side with questions of “can you hear me?” or “does something hurt?” but each time, something outside the widow holds your attention dear to its chest and unwilling to share.

The moon rays become an elixir more powerful than anything from this Earth. Light almost surrounds you like a cloak, sinking into your skin and drowning in your bones. 

He stays up at night, massaging your arms and your temples, but you are still so cold to the touch he isn’t sure the blood is circulating at all. So he gets more firewood. Makes sure the house is warm all the fucking time.  

Stagnant. Still. Some nights he thinks he can see you looking at him from the corner of your eye.

The second he turns, you lay unmoving as before.

________

He stands labouring over the stove. There's a batch of rich tomato soup, with bread toasting in a skillet nearby. He alternates between wiping down the bowl to serve you in, though you still haven’t eaten, and stirring the soup to stop it from sticking to the bottom of the pan. 

He makes note that he still has to get more gauze from the town, and proper tools to sand down the chairs before he can even think of--

But something interrupts his to-do list. It's so soft, he thinks for a second he's imagining it. But the ladle he's holding clangs against the pot, and he abandons the bowls with such hurry that he wouldn't be surprised if it's in shards.

He races up the stairs, three at a time, his heart is thumping louder than the floorboards creaking.

It’s silent. He can hear his own arm whirring quietly.

He lets out a breath when he sees you haven’t changed positions since he last saw you, and wordlessly turns to head back downstairs to an over-bubbling cauldron of soup. 

"Bucky?"

It’s almost like eternity whooshes past his ears when he realises that he wasn't imagining it.

“Hey.” He drops without a second thought to your bedside, knees scraping against the wood. “Hey. Hi sweetheart. What do you need?”

“Water,” your voice is hoarse and just above a whisper, but you’re looking at him.

You’re fucking looking at him, and your eyes are a share darker than he remembers them being.

He makes a grab for the jug by your bed and holds a full glass to your lips carefully, watching as water treacles in through chapped lips. 

"How are you feelin’?" He hates how shaky his voice sounds, as if he wasn't prepared. As if he hadn’t been waiting.

It takes a second for you to form the word. "Tired."

His fingers brush against your cheek. "What can I do for you?"

You don’t respond, and he watches your chest rise and fall heavily again. You were asleep again.

He bites into his lower lip so hard he can taste the rust of his blood. Moonlight filters in through your curtain and he runs his thumb over the corner of your eye, placing a kiss on your forehead.

It was a start.

___________

Bucky grew up with siblings he outlasted and an absolute wildfire of a friend. It was safe to say the man had more patience than most.

The same conversation repeats three more times over the next few days, and he answers each time with as much tender refrain as the first, begging to know where he can help and what he can do.

“Tired” turns to “I’m tired” turns to “I’m just tired”, and with each he is as proud and hopeful as he was when you talked the first time. 

You begin to eat finally, and he hopes his skills aren’t bad enough to send you to the other side again. Spoonfuls of soup. Bites of bread. A glass of water, and then two. 

“Buck,” you rasp.

And he’s as ready as he was the previous day, with a gentle, “Tell me, sweetheart.”

You’ve already gotten a slice of bread into you today, and you’ve slept through the night. He’s considering this one of the best days you’ve had so far, and that alone is triumph enough to ease the anxiety that pervades him. 

“I was dead.” But this was new. 

Bucky blinks, not sure if he heard you right. Your eyebrows knitted together tells him he did. 

“You were,” he confirms, not daring to breathe. 

“But now…” you trail off, as if you were expecting to wake up that minute. 

His Adam’s apple shifts up and down. “Things changed.”

“How?” you ask, eyebrows pulling together even tighter, and he worries it takes energy that could be used elsewhere.

The muscles in his jaw tighten anxiously. The floorboards press into his knees. 

"You did something?" your voice comes back quietly. 

His silence is enough of an answer.

"How long was I gone?"

"It’s been a while, honey," he replies, eyes never leaving yours. 

Your head turns to face the ceiling, a deep exhale working its way through you. Bucky's eyes drift to the scar on your stomach, hidden under the fabric. Thorny and broken.

"Who knows?"

His gaze shifts back to your face, but you aren't looking at him.

"Only me," he says, voice unwittingly dropping before adding, "and Wanda."

"Wanda," you repeat quietly. "It was magic."

Something familiar sets into Bucky's chest. Heavy, pressing down on his throat and making the bile rise.

"I'll get you more water," he says, pausing briefly to look at you, but you continue to stare at the roof. "I'll be right back."

You don’t have a response for him. As he makes his way to the door, it follows like a shadow. He pauses by the frame to look at you once again, but your eyes have closed.

Bucky watches for a second, swallowing thickly. It feels all too similar to guilt.

__________

Bucky dedicates himself even more vigorously to the house. He finally takes out the cutlery, cleans it up the best he can and wipes down the table every single day.  He spends the day collecting fruits for juices and vegetables for broth. Firewood. Making sure everything is sharp enough to use, and the traps he set up in his initial time here were still functional.

He checks to see if the trees can take the weight of the swing he’s hoping to fashion out of bark. How fast it would take to polish the porch chairs and flooring, and what exactly it would take to do that.

No matter how much he cleans, it isn’t enough to wipe the look on your face from where it was seared into his brain like hot iron.  

A week later he's in the garden, digging up the ground to plant seeds. It's January, and it's still fucking freezing, but he's gonna fucking try anyway.

He's got a hold of seeds of poppy, marigold, daisies and who knows what else, and plenty of fucking time.

"You garden now?"

He looks up in surprise. You lean against the backdoor, no winter coat on even though it's freezing. It flashes in his mind that you look paler than you used to, and he wonders if that will go in time. 

“I’ve always gardened,” Bucky defends weakly, and tries to keep his tone normal. “Just– not well.”

Arms crossed over your chest, you ask, “Has that changed?"

“Can’t say it has, sweetheart." He looks at the mess he's created on the ground. "'M tryin', though.”

The corner of your lip upturns into a faint smile. His stomach twists painfully.

"You're up," he says, a little too late. It came faster than he thought it would. Then again, you weren’t human. You didn’t always listen to the laws of nature. 

"Y'feeling cold?" he adds quickly. 

You shrug, pushing off from the door to slowly take a seat. Your legs dangle off the ledge of the porch, barefoot. Bucky waits for you to swing your legs like you always have but you stay still.

He dusts his hands on his jeans and stands, tugging his jacket off his shoulders and holding it out to you. "Can I?" 

"Go on," you allow, and he drapes it around your shoulders, making sure it isn't likely to slip off before stepping back.

A draft blows past you both without either of you saying a word. Discarding the little shovel on the ground, Bucky chooses to take a seat beside you instead.

"You will feel cold, won't you?" 

"I'll be fine, don't worry 'bout me," he reassures. 

"Seems like you have it covered already," you say, making a motion to imitate the shape of his beard. "Mighty fine mane you've got there, James. You could give Odin a run for his money."

He gives a short chuckle, threading his hands through his hair that reaches down to his shoulders.

He’s finding it hard to formulate words. He couldn’t even tell if his mind was racing or entirely blank.

"You've got grey in your beard now," you observe. It sounds wistful. Sad even, and all of a sudden he’s left realising that he doesn't know how long it has been for you.

"Been a while since I got a haircut." 

Christ, he was drier than a brick. His conversational skills and charm had deserted him along with the rest of his luck. 

You lift your eyes from his beard to his face, scanning from his hairline down to his chin. "You look as handsome as you always have," you say and his heart jumps. "Just a bit..."

Sadder. Tired. Mistrusting.

"Older," you settle on.

He'd grown more wrinkles than he could count, and his skin didn't bounce back as much as it used to.

Beyond that, he smiled a lot less. He spent more time thinking than verbalising.

“You need help?” He hears you ask faintly, head gesturing to the patch of dug-up mud.

“You need to get rest,” Bucky shakes himself out of it. “I’ll get you some–”

“I’ve rested long enough, Buck,” you say assertively. 

He wonders if you did. Bucky remembers what you told him of Asgardian funerals. How your body is set floating along a river, and your soul lifts towards the sky to rest. You never got to have that. He doesn’t even know if they sent an empty log along a cold river.

"Tomorrow?" he delays.  

You look at him briefly before nodding.The ground stays untouched and the sky still greys. Bucky sees you take a few deep breaths, shuddering when a draft of wind blows by. He silently shrugs off his scarf too, and wraps it around your neck loosely.

You simply let him. Minutes pass in silence, and neither of you make any motion to move. 

You bump your shoulder into his. "I see you haven't fixed the TV yet."

A swift exhale leaves him in the form of a laugh. He turns away so that you don't see how his eyes begin to burn.   

"Sorry, honey," he croaks out, "I've been distracted."

The smile you give him is melancholic, and that's enough to dissolve his red eyes from a warning into tears.

_________

Bucky buys every single streaming platform available, and every channel available on cable.

That night he takes apart every single component of the television, wipes it down and puts it back together better than before. He only rests when it's 2am and the sound of late night commercials softly flood the living room.

__________

Bucky takes the guest bedroom, initially, a floor away from you to give you the space you need. 

He then realises it's too far, it's too risky. Sheepishly, he shifts to the same room as you, but makes himself a place to sleep on the floor with blankets and a pillow.

You voice your protest, and even though he’s spent three years curled up beside your sleeping frame, he says his back could use the hard surface now. 

He gets you clothes from town. Sweaters and socks, scarves. Things he knew you used to like and things he always promised he'd get if he had another chance. You take them with a small smile and a thanks. He sees you wear them around the house, and while they're exactly the size they should be, and the colours he knows you love.

There's a nagging feeling in him that they don't sit right. They don't look right. Still, you wear them on the days you can leave the bed. He shows you around the house. The good parts, at least, and pretends like that’s how he’s always lived even though he can tell you see right through his facade. 

He’s there when you thrash around at night. Bucky's up before the minute is even over, at your side and gently calling your name till you jolt awake. He hands you glass after glass of chilled water, rubbing your back in circles till the wave passes. It’s entirely too reminiscent of what you used to do for him, and he hopes the familiarity would do you good. 

Sometimes you tell him what you saw. Darkness enveloping you for hours, holding you close and sliding its vines over you, binding your limbs like rope before you're shoved into blinding light.

“Last I remember was the fight," you say one night, as he wipes the sweat from your forehead. "I cannot tell how much of it was real, it's--"

And you pause and struggle, and he's at a loss for words because you never have been. You've always known what to say. You've always had a thought you wanted to share. 

"Thor told me a little bit," he offers quietly. "If you'd want, I'd tell ya."

You look at him, conflict raging behind drained irises. "I was fighting. I heard them say something about-- there was a building with civilians hiding."

"Yeah, there was," he confirms, voice tight.

"They wanted to-- do something to it." You close your eyes, brows furrowing in concentration. "I told Thor I would get them out before anything happens. We had done it so many times before."

"He said there was an explosion."

The sky explodes from the early azure of dawn to a blinding white to a blood-curdling crimson.

And Bucky was too slow to get you out.

"I don't remember that," you say and his eyebrows furrow. "I remember--"

Bucky watches you hesitate for a second before your hands nimbly move the fabric of your shirt slightly to reveal the outline of the scar, inhaling sharply. 

"I wasn't careful enough. There were civilians I was getting out and someone from behind--"

It dawns in a slow realisation the reason why the scar hadn’t healed yet. Why it stood out from the others that littered your skin. Bucky had thought for this long that you'd died in a blaze, trapped under bricks and mortar. That you had been left suffocating because he hadn't been fast enough, that he wasn't good enough.

"I knew I would not be awake for long. I just wanted to get rid of as many of them as I could."

"The building came down." He swallows the rock in his throat. "We spent days searching through it."

"I think I was gone before the explosion happened."

It makes sense-- the sky shifted all too quickly that day. You were gone before he even had the chance. Your fate had already been sealed. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I should have been there.”

“I’m glad you weren’t. It wasn’t a pretty sight.”

"That's not–" his words come out in a rush, stumbling over each other, insistent. "If I was there--"

"There is no point in punishing yourself," you interrupt his spiral. "It was a choice I made. I would do it again. It was what had to be done."

He swallows thickly when he knows the conversation ends there. 

__________

Some nights Bucky settles on pressing a kiss to your knuckles, and lingers there for a second longer than he should. 

You turn to face him from your place on the bed, looking at him like you've known him for centuries. Some nights it feels like you have.

_________

Bucky builds you a swing. It's a little ridiculous, and it takes a whole week to do it.

But your face breaks into the biggest smile he's seen since you got here, and he can taste the sun on his tongue. The strange feeling in his stomach is alleviated for a moment, and replaced with something closer to pride.

You spend hours on it while he works on parts of the house. He makes sure you've got a blanket with you at all times, even though you’ve never once told him you feel cold.

You ask him questions about everything. Him, the world; like you’re trying to relearn what you’ve lost.

"How long ago did you buy this place?" 

"Nearly two years ago," he replies, paintbrush in hand as he swipes up and down the deck. "Owners hadn't come here in a while and they wanted it off their hands quick, so I made an offer."

You hum, using the balls of your feet to swing yourself higher. "I have always wondered what it would be like to live in a place like this."

Bucky’s painting halts for a second as he fights a smile, but he doesn't respond. The squeaking of the swing stops. He looks over to you, only to find you already looking at him.

"Is this why you bought it?" you accuse.

Bucky returns to painting the wood, face turned away.

"You are far more of a hopeless romantic than I ever remember you being."

He scoffs out a laugh. "You'd'a run away."

"I wouldn’t have." You narrow your eyes. "I have had suitors in the past who've done far worse. You are far from the most embarrassing."

"You laughed when we kissed for the first time," he points out, amused.

Your jaw drops. "That was because I wasn't expecting it. You'd been courting me for months, I thought you were never going to move beyond that."

"I was tryin' t'be a gentleman," he defends. "I didn't know how they do it in Asgard."

"Well, for starters, they don't kiss someone after dropping tiramisu all over them."

He cringes, but it doesn't escape him that memories of the both of you feel like they're accompanied by a light this time, instead of dread. "Could you blame a fella for bein' nervous?"

"I do not know why, you had no reason to be."

He wants to ask if you've seen yourself before. He was damn near pissing himself whenever you got too close to him. The tiramisu was just collateral damage from when you chose to wipe cream smudged at the corner of his lip that night. 

When he lifts his head to look at you, you're back to swinging. Back to your own world. A new one you seem to have constructed for yourself since you came back. Back then he was privy to all your thoughts, no matter how mundane they were.

Right before he goes back to painting the deck, his brain makes a small connection. It's a small detail, but one that holds a lot more weight the more he begins to notice.

Your back curves in on itself ever so slightly. No longer pin-straight. His grip on the brush grows a little tighter.  

__________

February rolls around. Bucky's only managed to work up the courage to hold your hand occasionally when you go for walks.

Fingers laced in yours, he shows you parts of the woods he's discovered that stray from the main path. The shrubs that look like they're alight when the sunset catches them. The trees that have a hole right through the centre, like they've taken a bullet.

You keep him out longer and longer, and by now he’s run out of things to show you. He ends up repeating a lot, but you look glad each time, like you’re learning something new about him each day even though he’s dredged you through the same mud path at least thrice now.

He wants to think that it’s because you like having longer to hold his hand. 

You listen intently, asking questions whenever you could. You let him know what parts you like better, and parts you’re glad he’s left behind, even if it was recent. 

Bucky blushes from head to toe when you pick a flower and tuck it into his hair, and you smile it away with a swing of your hand. 

"You get visitors?" Your mouth moves in tandem with your fingers that weave together a crown from stray leaves and blades of grass. You tell him, even though he remembers, that it was something you learnt from Sif growing up. 

"Sam drops by every now 'n then."

"Do you visit them?" you ask, hands twisting deftly and with skill of someone who’s done this all too many times. "How has everyone been?"

Should he tell you he's been sequestered? That he dropped everything and disappeared overnight because the questions of 'are you fine?' and 'do you want to talk?' became as suffocating as a thick cloud of smoke.

"Last I heard, they were doin' alright." He hopes it's enough.

"I tried talking to Thor," you tell him casually, but it feels like a cold fist clamps down on his chest. 

“And?”

“I couldn’t hear him,” you tell him, just as normally and he’s disgusted that he feels even the tiniest bit of relief. “I couldn’t hear Heimdall either. I know he’d respond if he could hear me, so I can only assume he hasn’t.” 

“You’re sayin’ you’re not able to talk to them?” His voice sounds small.

“I believe I lost the ability to communicate with them,” you tell him, tying the last bit of grass together. “I don’t think there is precedence for when someone comes back from the dead.”

You hand him the crown, and Bucky doesn't dare to meet your eyes. It’s too small for him. It’s closer to the size for a child. 

"'M sorry, honey," he mumbles. It returns to his stomach. The sick, gnawing feeling that he’s tried to obtain salvation for.

"I still have you,” you tell him, “But you were here for this long without anyone. It must have been lonely.”

Truth be told, he never really noticed. It almost seems like he’s forgotten how it felt.

"Hasn't been for a while, now." He squeezes your hand.

"I don't like the idea of you staying here alone.” Your eyes scan his face. "You deserve to be around others."

Bucky doesn't know what it is about the way you say it-- like you're not entirely sure you're here either. Like you aren't real. 

He calls your name, unsure, scared even. You answer with a hum. 

"Are you okay with being here?" It’s too late to be asking this. 

Your face pulls together thoughtfully, but he can't decipher what you're thinking.

"I like spending time with you. Always." 

Your head leans on his shoulder, and you resume the tune you’re humming. Bucky tries not to think about the fact that you haven't quite answered his question.

_________

He wakes up on the ground again, not to your muffled groans or bed sheets being thrown to the ground.

You're not in bed. The window is open. There's scattering downstairs, and it's followed by a strange scent, and for a second he panics.

He scrambles down the stairs, mind already conjuring pictures and images so vile and ghastly--

But all he sees is you in his biggest shirt, one that you yourself once got him as a joke for a punchline he can’t really remember right now.

And you're surrounded by broken pans, bent forks and an entirely indiscernible charred mass on the bottom of a skillet.

"I tried to cook," you admit, "like on TLC."

"And you broke the pan?" he asks, a little stunned, a lot more in love. 

"I did not realise your cookware would be so weak." You try so desperately to hide a smile. "Tried to scrape it off using the fork."

He looks at the misshapen piece of cutlery.

"And what's that?" He slowly makes his way into the kitchen towards you.

"The remnants of a frittata." You hold it out to him.

Bucky takes the handleless skillet from you and looks at the ashes.

"What do you think?" you ask.

Bucky holds it back out to you. "Could use a few more minutes on the stove."

The smile you try to hold back breaks into laughter and his face lights up in surprise. It's the first time since you've gotten here, and the first time in years since he's been graced with the sound.

He bites his lip when you take it back from him, all while still giggling, like he doesn't quite believe his ears.

"I do believe I would fare better at toas-- oof."

Bucky pulls you into his chest, arms wrapping around you like a weighted blanket. The pan drops to the counter as his head falls to your shoulders.

"I missed you so fuckin' much," he utters desperately into your neck, clenching his eyes closed so tight it hurts.  

"I missed you too," you say softly, arms circling his waist, pulling him closer.

___________

The days start to get warmer. Your skin still stays cool to the touch. It's something he's getting used to. For years he was used to waking up at night to turn down the thermostat, just so that he could stay under the covers with you without burning up.

But while good days increase, there are the ones you spend too feverish to get out of bed. You sleep the whole day, only waking when he brings you food.

March fades the dark circles around your eyes as much as it can, but they never truly go. The scar on your stomach doesn't heal beyond a certain point, and is always ready to turn garish and violent on days you can't get your head to lift.

Bucky wonders if you’ll ever get better. 

Fevers break when the mornings do. You tell him you dream of the same thing over and over. Darkness, holding onto you with the same tenacity as a mother stops a child from running into a flame.

You walk with your shoulders drooped, and always some sleep in your smile. Sometimes he hears you call for your parents, who he knows haven't been around for a few hundred years. He hears Thor's name, and Loki's during nights that are more peaceful.

On days that are good, you spend time helping with the garden and for once, the flowers start growing. Tree bark he can't break into two, you manage with one hand. You watch shows together on the couch, and he massages your head when it's in his lap.

And finally, Bucky shows you the lake when it thaws over. Crystal clear waters let you peer at the little plants growing on the bottom, and the sunlight glows in the ripples.

You notice the engraving on the boulder before he has the chance to divert your attention. When you ask, he tells you about the little memorial and the rain and the loss of the hair tie. 

Your hand squeezes his a bit tighter. He thinks no memorial can hold a candle to that.

You look at your reflection in the water a lot. Bucky sits beside you, skipping stones to see how far it can go, like he did in the harbour as a kid. Steve always used to win, no matter how much Bucky tried. 

"There was a lake by my school when I was child," you tell him. "When I was mad, I used to skip class to go sit there for hours."

“What made you mad?” He chuckles.

“A lot of things. I had too much energy to just sit there, and that was ‘unbecoming of a future leader of Asgard’.” Your face pulls into one of distaste. “I always thought there was more to learn about the world than what their books contained.”

Bucky collects a few pebbles from around him. "Did the lake make you feel better?"

"Always." You take a stone from him to skip across the surface. "Sometimes my friends used to join. Our elders said the water had the ability to remember. Loki used to make faces, and it would always linger for a few seconds before it disappeared. Even after we thought he was gone, I'd see his face there."

Bucky stays quiet, nodding at points to let you know he was listening.

"I used to see younger versions of myself sometimes," you continue, voice distant. "It always surprised me. I thought I used to know what I looked like. It was different each time."

You inch towards the shoreline, leaning forward on your knees. The clear water looks like an open sky underneath you. "I look different now, too," you say. "But I can't remember what I used to look like."

Bucky discards his stones to come join you, leaning down to where you were. The face staring back at him pulls a sick, twisted feeling in his gut. Deep in him, he knows what you're talking about extends beyond immediate impressions. Centuries of being intertwined with the universe had always given you lines and traces that transcended your physical appearance. 

You have always felt like the God of the Night.

Now you have been to the other side and returned, seen things others haven't and still kept intact. While he doesn't have the courage to admit it, he knows in his blood what you feel like. 

He's scheduled an appointment with him many times, but always just missed it.

Now, you feel closer to the God of Death.

"You've always been beautiful. Still are." It's a band aid on a gaping, festering wound.

Even still, you look at him with a smile. "So are you."

Bucky makes the mistake of looking at his visage in the water, and immediately recoils.

"Christ," he grunts at the difference between the both of you. "What a fuckin' mess."

"Oh, it isn't that bad," you laugh, watching him contort his face.

"Easy for you to say, you look stunning." He points to your reflection. "I look like I was raised by wolves."

"You just need a shave," you hum.

"I need a new face."

You leave aside his last comment to propose something entirely new instead, "I could do that for you."

"What? Give me a new face?" he asks and you give him a pointed look. "Oh. Shave my beard?"

"Same thing, no?"

He supposes so. "Alright," he agrees, with a certainty reserved for no one else. 

A small smile appears on your face, even though you aren't really looking at him.

Bucky watches you lean forward. Your fingers dip into the water, disturbing the reflection.

_____

Late evening finds you settled on the counter, armed and ready. "Lot of trust you're putting in me."

"I'd trust you with anything," he says, looking in the mirror to check once again that foam covers every inch of hair on his jaw. "You know this."

"Still," you note, watching him tilt his chin up. "I could do this with a dagger, if you'd like."

"This works fine, thanks."

You let out a laugh, and he finally steps in front of you, satisfied with his part. You swish the razor into water once again just in case, before leaning forward.

The first swipe goes agonisingly slow. Bucky watches your face screw up in concentration as you scrape down his left cheek.

You pull back and make a face. He raises his eyebrow in question.

"You are too far away," you declare, wrapping an arm around his bicep and tugging him closer.

Your legs wrap around his waist to keep him in place, locking behind his back. His breath hitches in his throat the proximity but you appear entirely unfazed, washing the razor again.

"Are you okay?" you ask, keeping one hand on his neck for balance as you get a much better go at his face.

"Yep," he thinks he says. It may just have been a sound.

You could have spent hours there for all he cares. He's too focused on the pressure of your legs on the small of his back and the way he's basically melted into your hand.

"Your eyes have always been my favourite feature," you tell him, blade carefully running down the curve of his jaw. "When you smile hard, there are these lines in the corner. It's like you can't handle being that happy."

He can't tear his sight from you, and from the fact that this is the closest you’ve been in years. You may as well have been telling him utter nonsense, and he'd still find it hard to control his breathing.

"But I have a soft spot for this." You lightly tap the bridge of his nose. He knows immediately what you're talking about. "I will never forget how stupid you were. Throwing yourself in front of danger like that."

"Couldn't let that guy touch you," his voice comes out an octave lower than what it was. "I'd gladly take a few more punches."

"That's why they stopped pairing us up on missions." The corner of your lip upturns, and you swish the razor around in water again. "You were being reckless."

"I'd do it again."

"One scar is enough." You tilt his jaw to see if you'd gotten everything. "I don't enjoy you getting hurt on my account."

Bucky exhales deeply when you get started on the other side. His hands itch to hold your waist, pull you closer like it’s been carved into the strands of his being, but they stay by his side. 

"I tried for so long after you were gone," he tells you instead, to gain a sense of control. "I went to the therapist. I tried talkin' about it. No one got it. It was the same thing over, and over."

How do you explain that it wasn't simply a person. He thought that that was where it ended-- everything in his life had finally culminated. And that was taken too.

"Went back to the roof a month after everything happened," he continues, studying your reaction. "It was s'ppsed to be a clear night. There was nothing in the sky. I couldn't see the constellations. I couldn't see your family-- I couldn't see you."

You listen intently, but never stop working at him. The longer you spent there, the more of his old face revealed itself to you. Worn, and aged a thousand years in a few months, but it was still the still face you swore to love and cherish for aeons. 

"They took all your stuff. Said it belonged to Asgard, they couldn't keep it here. Thor went off grid. All I had was pictures of us and the hair tie you gave me."

You clean the razor off in water, eyebrows furrowing at the information.

"It felt like you were never here. Like I'd just made you up all those years." You can hear the faint trembling in his voice. "But I had memories of you in all these places-- and I couldn't stay. It was easier to move here and start again."

Looking back at him, you realise you've already finished. There was nothing left on his face to clear.

"Was it hard?" you ask finally, letting go of the razor in the water. 

He looks at you, and you know he's struggling to form the right words. He looked like he wanted to scream, rip the hair out of his scalp, punch a hole through the mirror. 

"More than anything.” His voice comes out raw and peeling. 

Bucky watches you look at him for a long moment, and he wonders if he’s said too much too soon.

But instead you kiss him.

His arms find its way back home around your waist, and he feels you sigh against his mouth before your body relaxes, tilting your head to deepen it.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there,” you breathe, forehead leaning against his. 

"Don't," he begs.

You search his eyes for any kind of a message.

He kisses you harder, pulling you flush against him.

__________

Bucky moves into your bed after you threaten him well and good, and he knows you intend to keep your promises.

For the first time since he can remember, he keeps the windows open throughout the night and throughout the day.

It’s foolish, to think he was invincible. That what you had had finally cemented itself as final.  

You both stay in as long as you want. There is no hurry, nothing to get to. You talk a lot more. You begin to tell him sometimes at night that you see glimpses of what seemed like beyond the end.

Gold. Blood of ichor. Warriors fallen in battle go to Valhalla. Trees that kissed the skies, and valleys so green it hurt. Sometimes, in the corner of your eyes, you could see those you'd lost over the years waiting for you, hand outstretched.

No matter how hard he tries, Bucky doesn’t seem to get it. Every time he thought he was dead, there was only jet black silence and crushing pain. Then again, he never truly died.

But he isn’t ignorant. Fevers and fatigue that initially lasted a day, now knock you out for a week. There are times you throw up more than you've eaten, and the dark circles look like abysses.

He worries to the point of his stomach churning. You look like you don't have the energy to be here, even though you kiss him like you do. 

Bucky runs his hands over your scalp and tells you stories of his childhood. What he felt when you moved in with him, how anxiety made space for comfort. He reads you tales from other mythologies and marks the similarities in the stories you've told him over the years.

Each time you come around your smile gets more tired. Your shoulders grow heavier and your skin loses colour.

You still cook breakfast together. You still watch TLC together to figure out the culture on earth because even after all this while, you still maintain that's the best way to do it.

Things could still be good. But more often than not, Bucky wonders if he’s unknowingly surrendered you to a life you do not wish to live. 

_______

"Sweetheart?"

You continue to drag your finger through the water, oblivious to what he's saying. 

He calls your name, and there's still no response. April sees this happening more often, and Bucky's learnt that no matter what he does, it only seems to worsen.

He touches your shoulder lightly and you almost jump.

"It's getting late. Wanna head back?" he asks, because you’ve skipped out on lunch to stay by the shore the whole day. It seems like it’s the only place you want to be. 

"Yeah." You give him a small smile, wiping your hands on your pants.

"Want a hand?" he asks, holding out his.

You grab it, and pull yourself up, giving him a small peck on the lips along the way.

It feels comically normal. He wants to pretend that it is.

"Pasta tonight?" you ask breezily, slipping your hand into his.

Your fingers are ice cold to the touch. He forces back a shudder.

"Anything you want," he promises.

__________

He catches you humming as you water the plants, when you walk with him, while you read from the end of the bed. 

It's the song of my people, you tell him. They used to sing it when everyone was together.

He listens to the tune and tries to commit it to memory, but it changes far too often.

May catches you staring a lot more often. At walls. The trees. The lake is the worst.

On what would have been the fifth anniversary of the both of you being together, he brings you a cake. The both of you share it over a glass of wine, even though it clashes terribly and leaves an aftertaste.

You laugh harder than you have in the last few weeks and he gets to feel triumphant for an evening. 

You chase the frosting on his lips with a searing kiss, and that's that.

“What do you suppose it means?” you ask later that night, arm wrapped around his middle.

“What?” he mumbles, drowsy from a full stomach and good time.

“That I got a second chance and others didn’t?” your voice sounds distant.

Bucky is suddenly very awake.

“It couldn’t be that they weren’t as loved," you continue. "So then what made me different?"

He doesn’t have an answer.

He rolls over to look at you. But you are staring at the ceiling once again.

_________

His unwavering faith that he can learn to live with it feels like it’s eroding. 

Death changes everyone. He knows that before Steve left a few years ago, he wasn't the same Brooklyn-born spitfire. Steve's died a dozen or so times. He was reborn into a different soul each time.

Spring bounds towards you with warmth and life. The grass is greener, and Bucky's learnt there's more to life than just casseroles and toast.

You bring him more flowers to tuck into his hair. He wears them dutifully, and then learns to press them in between pages of books you both buy from old bookshops.

You give him wider smiles. You talk a lot less. 

Bucky learns that silence doesn't have to be filled. He's loved you in the winter, and he loves you in spring.

But there is always a tension simmering under the surface, just out of reach, like the sky reflecting in the lake. 

Sometimes you say things that he can't quite make sense of. Sometimes it's a lot more obvious, and the same feeling of guilt returns to his chest and flowers under his ribs.

So he asks you one day. You're on the couch, head in his lap while he reads a book you've annotated the week before. The only disturbances are when he stops occasionally to ask you why you liked a line, or why you drew a heart next to another.

You're humming the tune he can’t catch. 

There's nothing really wrong, but he knows. He can feel it in his marrow.

“Sweetheart," he calls gently. 

You look up at him. 

"Are you– are you happy?” And he leaves his heart, raw and unprotected on the line.  

You don’t look surprised. Not entirely knowing either.

A beat passes before you open your mouth to speak. 

“I like being here with you. I love you, I always have, and I will always love being here with you,” you choose your words carefully. “But I don’t know if I can feel that anymore. Happiness, I mean. Or sadness.”

Bucky keeps the book down. You don't lift your head from his lap.

“I feel like there’s a void where my body should be,” you continue in a chance to explain, “I feel like I'm made of air.”

“Are you feeling under the weather?” Bucky tries to find a rationalisation. Anything, that he can fix. That he can control.

You slight him a smile. “Not since the last bout.”

He doesn't know. He doesn't want to get it. He’s always felt that he was selfish, that that was ultimately what led to his punishments. This was a whole new level.

“I was born on Asgard. I have always felt like I was a part of the mud and the riverbed. They were a part of me as much as I was, them. I don’t know if that’s still…”

You pause, and Bucky feels time come to a standstill around him. 

“I’ve been reborn here,” you continue. “I don’t feel like anything is mine. I don’t feel like… I am a part of something. Even the night.”

He knew. Though he knows in his dreams he can still feel traces of Brooklyn carved into his bones, it had jaded over time, been eroded by years of waking up in places he couldn't place.

You sit up to look at him. Your eyes have an intensity to it that even the universe couldn't mask. 

“Do you really like who I am now?” you ask finally.

“I love all of you. Every one.” Ever changing, transient.

“How?” you ask softly. “I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

He swallows thickly and wills himself to ignore the chill creeping into his body. In truth there is so much he wants to say. He doesn't think that as a war-fractured man from the thirties who grew up in bloodshed will really have the sufficient words.

“I just do. Can’t help it.”

Even if you aren’t satisfied with his answer, he will never know it. He has known for a while now that he's been letting you down since the day he walked into Wanda's cabin.

You give him a slight smile. Lay your head back down on his lap. His book remains unread.

It felt like the beginning of the end.

It's a simple decision then. It would have been, for anyone who wasn’t born with a soul as corrupt as his.

One more week that is hard for you to get up from bed, turns into two. One more week that your face morphs into something he can’t quite recognise. He's never wanted to harm someone he loves, but he seems to do a fine job at it.

It's a simple decision, really. But simple didn't mean easy-- God knows he is anything but a saint.

When you see it finally, the fruits of a labour that took far too less time to manifest than justified the time he spent putting it off, the smile that appears on your face is blinding, he wonders how the sun even has the gall to shine.

“Thor,” you breathe out, only seconds before being engulfed in the most bone-crushing hug you’ve ever received.

Bucky watches from the sidelines, fingers wringing and entirely ready to be smithed to ashes.

“I came as soon as I heard,” he breathes into your shoulder. "I cannot believe this."

You pull back, and standing next to Thor gives Bucky a new frame of reference. One that isn't dependent on how you looked the week prior. He doesn't know how it slipped past him, how he hadn't noticed that you looked so different.

“You look wonderful." You grin at the behemoth of a man. "Your hair has grown out once more."

"They can try cutting it off my dead body," he replies defiantly, arms clasping at your shoulders to keep enough distance to study you from head to toe. "You'll have to give me a second. I didn't think this would be true, when Heimdall gave me James' message."

You look over at Bucky whose lips pull together in a tight line. 

He looks embarrassed. Unsure. Afraid. Guilty, and prepared to be berated for how long it took him. 

"It's true," you reply instead, giving him a smile. "Here, in the flesh."

Thor squeezes your shoulder once more, and laughs the same laugh he's always had around you. Loud, boisterous and entirely free. 

"The others will be thrilled. Sif, Hogun-- you have no idea how the past two years have been. There is so much to catch you up on."

Bucky knows. The fact that you're standing there today is living proof that he knows so well.

“I cannot wait to meet them." The corner of your lips upturn wider at his enthusiasm. "I've missed them terribly."

"We did not get to give you a proper farewell. Your welcome back will be a thousand times better," Thor says brightly. "We can return as soon as you say the word."

You look to Bucky, not for permission, but as a question he's known has been awaiting him a long time.

"Ready?" you ask softly.

He knows you didn't have to ask. That if you'd left him there and never returned, he'd deserve it and worse.

But you're you-- patient and kind. And he thinks that he can try to start redeeming himself.

__________

Turns out he wasn't wrong. Asgard really is too grand for a fella like him.

It is opulence-- gold and towering heights that bleed the love of its citizens and a history richer than words can contain.

Thor is smart. Aside from Heimdall, who greets you with the hug a father gives a child who's been away for too long, no one knows of your appearance until you are ready.

You get a few days in the tower to yourself, to breathe in the air that grew your lungs and touch the marble you've split your head open against in the past. The help are sworn to secrecy, and no one knows who Bucky is anyway except as the man who has been specifically allotted to the same room as you upon your request.

It doesn't take long for your face to pick up. Your skin comes alive with a vibrancy he didn't think he'd see again. You sleep sounder at night, and you eat more than you've had the appetite for in the last few months.

He trails behind you and Thor initially, not wanting to eavesdrop into conversations he has no place being a part of.

But you grab his hand, lace your fingers in his and tug him along as if to say that this is his home too.

He sees what you mean when you say that you are connected to the land. Clothes on Earth have never fit you right. Silks from Asgard decorate you like you are one in the same, like it flows from you.

_________

Reunions are a tearful affair. Lots of hugs are exchanged, punches to the shoulder, and kisses to various parts of your face.

“You have been alive for months, and we are just now learning of it,” Sif holds your hands in hers. 

“It took me a while to recover.” You give her a small smile. 

“We would have come as soon as you called,” she continues. “You did not have to heal alone.”

“I wasn’t alone.”

Eyes turn over to Bucky, and he’s suddenly very aware that the clothes he’s been given are too rich for him, too grand. He feels small, like they drown him out.

Despite what he’s saying, he feels as though he has deprived you. He knows that he has, and he has no one else to blame but himself. 

“Thank you,” Sif says instead, taking him by surprise. “We will remember this.”

“Don’t mention it,” he replies weakly.  

__________

It takes days to meet the closest of your friends, until they decide they had their fill. Bucky is slowly introduced to all of them. Boisterous and loud, most greet him with a wide appreciation. Others are less quick to warm, and he gives himself no room to blame them either. 

Upon insistence, he joins you for your welcome back dinner, and gets a seat right beside you. 

Your hand holds his the entire night, squeezing tighter when something makes you laugh, or when someone is particularly embarrassing.

When there is a lull in the conversation after hours, sly grins are exchanged.

"So, this is the one you raved on and on about." 

His eyebrows quirk in amusement.

"I did not rave," you huff. "I simply informed you--"

"For hours. Days even,” they drag on. “A great warrior from earth with eyes that could rival storms--"

Bucky chokes on his wine. You award your friends with several curses and glares.

"Long hair past his shoulders. Oh, and arms to die for--"

You take in the way his face has gone red, all the way up to his ears. You laugh and grip his hand tightly with an unabashed shrug.

"I am only glad that that's all you remember," you joke.

He thinks he should be buried in the garden for his sanity.

_________

Walks around the castle become increasingly common at night. You are mostly left undisturbed, and you take the opportunity to show him everything you've ached to.

Where you've learnt, where you first scraped your knee. The first arrow you shot. Where your parents met. The first and last time you cried over a friend gone astray.

He can't fathom why he ever thought he wouldn't be ready to know this. As if knowing more about you would cement the fact that he was lesser than.

“You look ethereal,” Bucky tells you one night, honest and true.

You look at him, a bit taken aback. There was nothing particularly different about you this evening. In fact, you’d chosen to stay away from festivities today to lie around the gardens with him, citing a headache.

“I should have said yes earlier,” he continues. “You belong here. It shows.”

A laugh leaves you as an exhale. “It feels different.” You run your fingers through his hair. “I don’t know if it would be the same if I brought you here years ago.”

“Different how?” Bucky closes his eyes and revels in the feeling of your touch.

“I don’t know,” you tell him. “I am not sure it is what I remember it to be.”

You don’t say anymore. Bucky doesn’t ask. 

He lays with you under a clear night sky, and your fingers deftly move the faint lights in the sky to mimic shapes of fishes and hunters. 

He notices the sky here, too, has taken the same fate as it has on earth. Not as full as it could be, always just a little less bright.

He assumed it would change when you came back. He assumed it would change when you came to Asgard.

The sinking feeling in his stomach reminds him of what he already knows is going to come.

_____________

There are nights you are dragged off by your friends for things that don't include him.

You shoot him a sorry smile and he tells you to just go with steady reassurance.

Bucky takes to exploring. He's been given robes to blend in. They always fit in a way that's too soft.

He looks at statues erected, memorials in place for those who've given up their lives for a bigger cause. He spots your name in there as well, as if they've not yet entirely sure that you're back. He spends hours at the library, reading up on things he couldn't find on Earth. Where heroes slain in battle actually go, what it's like over there. Stories of when they are brought back. None of them end well.

Thor finds him, and introduces Bucky to Asgardian mead that he swears got Steve tipsy. Bucky’s had a rough couple of years. He’s in no place to turn down a drink. 

He remembers what it's like to be 21 and drunk again and like nothing bad can ever happen.  When you choose to join in with them, Bucky finds he’s a lot braver and a lot smoother with liquor flowing through his veins. 

Stumbling through tower hallways, giggling and stealing open-mouthed kisses in the shadows like a bunch of teenagers until he has your back pressed up against the bedroom door. 

“Eager?” you breathe out when he nips at your neck, hands scouring every inch of you he can find. 

“What gave it away?” he mutters, pulling away to look you. 

Wild eyes and equally untamed hair, and there is a light in his eyes that outshines supernovae. 

“I love you,” you tell him, and it’s a startling moment of clarity in the middle of a juvenile hour. “I hope that always remains with you.”

Before he can respond, you thread your hands behind his neck and steer him towards the bed, mouth never once leaving his. 

________

Another solitary night, and it's by pure accident that he ends up retracing his steps to the first place he was introduced to in Asgard. He wonders how much of it was intentional, his conscience forcing him to a reckoning long awaiting him. 

Heimdall is there as always, standing tall with a grace that is still threatening. Bucky is not a fool-- he knows he can sense his presence.

Still, he looks only for a moment before making leave. 

"I hear it was magic that brought her back," Heimdall voices.

Bucky pauses in his tracks.

"Yes," he says, like he’s forced to respond.

"Are you aware of what it takes to bring a body back from the dead?" Heimdall asks, tone still. "Cells are broken and reattached if they do not malfunction. The brain is attacked with sensation after being dormant for months. The heart pumps degraded blood through vessels that have collapsed."

Bucky feels bile rise to his mouth at a memory that seems so far away. Enough has happened since.

Heimdall looks at him, steel cut eyes boring into his. “Our ancestors have tried this for centuries,” he says slowly. “It has always ended the same way.”

Bucky keeps silent. Wonders if the God can hear him swallow the lump in his throat– probably can.

“Tempering with fate has never fared well.”

“I’m not trying to play with fate,” Bucky finds himself moving on its own accord. “If this wasn’t supposed to happen, it wouldn’t have. I am not a God.”

Heimdall stares into his soul and Bucky feels suffocatingly exposed. “The separation between divinity and mortals is thinner than you may imagine.”

“I have no interest in crossing it.”

“Haven’t you?” Heimdall’s eyes flicker over to the direction you were last going in. “When your will supersedes reality– what else do you call it?”

“Luck.” His voice comes back stonily.

Heimdall gives him a wry smile. “No such thing.”

Bucky’s palms feel clammy, his stomach twisting into knots.

“Your grief is natural. But do not let it overpower your love,” Heimdall adds. “I am sorry you had to go through this. I'm afraid sooner or later you will have to see that you cannot disrupt the natural order of things.”

"Why?" His voice cracks and he curses himself.

Heimdall's eyes soften. "There comes a point where your love for someone becomes indistinguishable from hurting them. Your intentions are noble, but you already know where you stand."

Bucky quietly turns on his heel and leaves, but the conversation remains heavy on his mind for days to come.

_________

The first time you fall sick, really sick, like you used to be on Earth, Bucky watches from the sidelines as various people tend to you. Those with divinity at their fingertips, those with herbs and concoctions he’d never heard of, others with tools and prayers and everything. 

They try everything. It takes you a full week to recover.

Bucky sits, emotionless by your bedside, and feeds you from a spoon, food that your friends swore you grew up loving. 

Asgard was supposed to work. Being here was supposed to work. No one knows what to do, except to wait it out. As your fever quells and Bucky watches you open your eyes for the first time in a few days, everyone breathes a sigh of relief.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says quietly from your bedside. “How can I help?”

The smile you give him is tired. He gives you a small one in return, and leaves a kiss on your forehead. 

It feels all too familiar. 

God of the Night and the Devil of Cursed Fates.

_________

Thor teaches him the song, the one he caught you humming for months. It sounds different to what he remembers you singing.

He watches you thumb through titles in the Asgardian library, looking for a book of wildlife to show him. It only takes a few seconds for you to hum under your breath again, but Bucky is quick to ask this time. 

“Oh.” You blink. “I may have remembered it wrong.”

He tilts his head at you, but you go back to browsing through library books.

___________

Nights in bed, he spends tracing up and down your arm. He's full from a feast, and he's watched you dance around a courtyard with spirit and joy, and for the first time in years he feels like he can breathe.

You drag him along with you, and while he may have been quick on his feet in the thirties, Bucky was significantly older. You don't seem to care. You laugh like nothing has ever worried you before, and he finds it infectious.  

"D'you s'ppose we'd have been married by now?" he asks, breaking the quiet.

"I remember turning down your offer," you say, the corners of your mouth pulling upwards. "So, who's to say?"

Bucky's face breaks into a smile, one that looks particularly incredible in the moonlight. "You said I knew what the answer was already. Looks like that leaves the ball in my court."

You look at him, a little endearingly, and as he's come to expect, a little sad.

"I think we would have," you hum. "But you wouldn't have survived wedding festivities here."

He scoffs, rolling onto his back and feels his stomach ache dully. "Barely holdin' on now as it is."

You pull closer to him, fingers dancing across his chest. "Why didn't you try to find someone else?"

He exhales, sharper than he intends. "Didn't wan'to," he mumbles.

"I'd hate to think you didn't try to find others who loved you," you tell him, brows pulled together, "You have so much of it to give. It'd be a shame."

"Didn't see the point." Bucky hopes he doesn't sound as sharp as he does in his head.

"If something were to happen tomorrow, and I am no longer here," you begin and he wants to beg you to stop talking about this, "It would break my heart if you didn't go on with life as you were meant to live it."

"This is how I'm meant to live." He sounds pathetic-- obsessed, and entirely dependent but he isn't sure you know. "This is it. This is the best it's ever gonna get for me."

You look at him, eyebrows knitted. Your thumb caresses his jaw, running across the sharp curve.

"You deserve more," you say gently. "You do. Life has been unkind, but you will always deserve more."

You’re doing it again. Preparing him. For the inevitable he knows is looming on the horizon. The one he saw in Heimdall's eyes.

Still, you notice that it is too much for him, and you break the tension with a smile.

Outside the window, the sounds of a party continue on. You would be out there too, if he hadn't noticed the slow in your movements and the dip in your energy. He instead gave his lack of stamania as a reason and asked if you would join him in the room, for which you shot him a grateful look.

"You never gave me a ring," you remind instead, voice teasing.

Bucky looks at you wearily before silently getting up from the bed. 

You sit up in confusion, watching him trail across to the wardrobe and pull out the clothes he was wearing on his first day here.

He shuffles back into bed and turns to you, holding out his hand in a request.

It takes a second but you give him yours, and he silently slides a ring onto your finger. Even in the darkness it glitters like it’s made of light.

"I've had it for ages," he tells you. "Woulda given it to you quicker if you'd just said yes the first time."

You laugh loudly, and hold his face in yours before kissing him hard to the sounds of a fading party.

__________

The effect wears off gradually. It goes the same as it does in the cabin. 

You begin to space out visits. Stay in for a day or two, which increases as time passes. Though the castle help are ever gracious and at your beck and call, you send them away in exchange for quiet nights in.

Bucky wipes your forehead with cool cloth. Feeds you nectar by hand and tells you of everything he's learnt since the time you've arrived there.

You begin to look sick again, and miserably, he does not know what to do. You've been attended to by the best of medicine that the nine realms have to offer. You've spent nights with your friends, drinking in joy and embodying love.

But you are dying. You have been since you came back, and he can no longer choose to look past it in hopes for a remedy.

He looks at you like you've given the world the light it bathes in, and wipes your perspiration with his thumb.

You smile back at him in your sleep, and he lets that slow the march towards the end.

_________

One of the good days, you lead him to the lake. The one where water remembers. You point out faces. He discerns them to be some of your friends a couple of hundred years ago.

He follows as you walk along the banks, letting you show him yourself through the years. Some streaked with tears, others with joy so infectious it has his stomach doing flips.

"That is the last time I came here," you point at the last one. "Two months before it happened."

He remembers the trip. He thought he remembered how you were back then, that he'd etched into the crevices of your mind.

When he looks down, he sees a different person. Your face is light. The weight of circumstance does not weigh you down.

You were right when you said you did not recognise the person you were.

That night in bed, he holds onto you tighter than he has, no longer afraid of causing more damage. He has already done the worst, and you've taken it without a word.

“Bucky,” you call.

He doesn’t trust his voice to answer, so he just makes a noise.

Your eyes meet his intently and he knows. You do not have to say a single word to him. 

You’ve made a decision. It was your will, as Wanda had told him all those months ago.

“I'm sorry,” his voice cracks. “I'm so sorry. It was so selfish.”

“It's okay,” you press a palm against his cheek and shudders from the cold.

“I love you.” His eyes burn, but he forces himself to take more of you in. “I love you so much, I'm sorry. I just wanted a second chance.”

“I know.” You smile but your voice is sad. “I know. I understand.”

“I don't know how you aren’t angry at me." I don’t know why you stayed.

You look him in his eye, giving him no space to run. "I would have done the same. If I could, I would have done the very same thing."

He chooses to believe that, despite what Heimdall has told him. If he tries, he can find heat in the frigid veins.

"But we are simply delaying the inevitable, my love." You press a kiss to his forehead. "I no longer belong here. I am not who I was. I doubt I will ever be."

He loves every version of you. He already loved, and he will always learn to love whoever you change to be.

"I know it is hard, but I have to go," you tell him softly.

His eyes burn and his head stings.

"I grew up with friends I loved, and a family that loved me. My life was good," you tell him. "I didn't realise how much I wanted to give that forward until you happened. I will always love you for that."

Bucky kisses you till you can't breathe and his tears mix with yours.

Till the morning breaks and you have to tell everyone of your decision, he tells you over and over again a tale you already know. Everything he's ever felt. Everything that’s happened in the last few months– his revolving door of therapists and all the movies he’s watched and all the bakery foods he thought you'd like.

You listen, and you tell him stories he memorises to heart. You are still dying. 

But this time he is there, and in that lies his true second chance. 

________

A month later, and not a day before that.

You pass away quietly, surrounded by people instead of rubble. He holds your hand throughout, and for long after even once your chest stops rising.

The Asgardians let him stay for as long as he wants, still and quiet. No one says a word as he presses a kiss to the crown, leaning his forehead against yours for as long as the universe permits.

The funeral goes by in a haze. Everyone gathers, even after such short notice. No matter how much time he had to prepare, the air was thick, and he swallows down his discomfort.

A gentle breeze whispers through the columns of the great hall, carrying with it the soft, mournful melodies of Asgardian lyres and flutes.

In the center of the pyre, you lay, ethereal even in repose. Around you, night-blooming flowers bloom alongside, as if the sky itself was paying its respects.

Thor recites the ancient eulogies. With reverent hands, they guide the vessel into the river that flows through Asgard.

As the vessel drifts away, a hush falls over the assembly. Just before reaching the edge of the waterfall, arrows shoot fire onto the wood, letting the flames consume the casket. Bucky holds back a cry. 

Thor hits the staff, and the casket continues onward instead of falling off the edge. Within a flash Bucky sees an orb rise above you and shoot off towards the sky.

Thousands of lights are let loose into the sky. He closes his eyes, says a few words no one will know except you, and lets go of the soul orb given to him.

And that was it.

________

Bucky looks at the last of his belongings, tied tightly together. 

There were a few things he was allowed to take with him, things that belonged to you while you lived here. He's grateful more than anything, that he's not relegated to photos.

He was made to stay a few more days in Asgard while everything was completed. Though the people were lovely, and he's more than glad he came, he knows that this was where this ended.

He exhales, looking back at the place where he spent the better part of three months.

"You will be alright?" Thor asks, walking with him to the courtyard.

He shrugs. It was still fresh, but the utter despair he had felt the last time had been replaced with a quietness.

"You?" he asks in return.

Thor smiles, and claps his back and Bucky is forced to take a step forward.

"It will be an honour to remember her," he says, and for a moment, Bucky feels a sense of peace at his words. "You are always welcome here."

A small laugh leaves Bucky in the form of an exhale. "Don't be a stranger, Thor."

The God summons the Bifrost and the force is enough to make Bucky hold his hands up to his face.

"I'll see you around. Thanks for everything." His lips pull together in a tight smile.

Thor takes a second, but then says, “You will be alright, James.”

It’s reassuring, he thinks. Bucky nods and turns, taking a step towards the bridge.

"Wait," Thor calls loudly, "I almost forgot."

He turns to him in confusion, and a list of possibilities running through his head.

"She told me to give you this," he says, "She used to carry them around for us."

From around his wrist, he pulls off a hair tie and holds it out to him.

Bucky takes it, a little stunned.

________

Two months pass.

Bucky stands on the threshold of a door that is foreign to him.

His head falls, but his arms raise either way. Two swift knocks and he takes a step back. He looks around nervously, hands stuffing into his pocket. His car lays at the end of the long driveway, ready to leave at any given moment.

For a second, he thinks about making a run for it. But the door swings open and Bucky's eyes quickly dart up.

"Hey," he says, voice coarse. "You got space for one more?"

Sam looks at him in initial surprise, but it fades to softness when he notices the shape the man is in.

“C’mon, Buck,” Sam says softly. “We’ve got you.”

Bucky lets out a staggered breath, and leans over to pick up his backpack that Sam's already beaten him to.

He takes one good look at the sky. Dark, clear and finally returned to the way it had been for centuries.

But he swears that a single star in the corner of his eye shines a little brighter than the rest.

[feverdreamjohnny]

"Why There Will Never Be a Peeb Adventures" otherwise known as "The Peeb Adventures Pre-Mortem"

Since 2020, I've made a good chunk of games. Hell, even though I've been doing this for 10 years to date, the majority of my progress as a creative began over the course of this 4 year period.

Out of all the games I've made - or otherwise had a hand in - there is only one that's apparently struck a chord so deeply with people that to this day I still get messages and comments asking when it will come out.

The title of this post already explains the whole deal so I'm not gonna be dramatic about it right here. As per usual, I will instead get heart-clutchingly dramatic about the subject by the end of this story.

I felt the idea of a "Pre-Mortem" might be a fun way to talk about games that will never be finished. Maybe I'll make more of these down the line for other old games, who knows.

"The Incredibly True Origins of Peeb Adventures" or "Wow! I Hate It!"

Peeb Adventures began as a gift game for my long-time friend Aaron. It was simple, mostly functioning as a fun little gag that stemmed from a 3D model I made of a character he doodled during a drawpile session. I gave Peeb a grapple hook just because I wanted to experiment with swinging mechanics and felt the gag gift was a great space to toy around in without having to actually ask myself how on earth I'd want to structure a game around a grappling hook. Foreshadowing!

Eventually, the gag gift did that classic thing all developers have experienced before where your game spirals out of control and grows into a hideous monster, and what started as a fairly abstract grappling toy convergently evolved into that dreaded state we call a "3D Mascot Platformer."

I made a very short demo in the summer of 2020. It went absolutely nowhere, and after an idol of mine caught wind and asked to play it (before sending about 3 paragraphs of feedback suggesting how to improve what was, in my view, a trainwreck of baby blocks stacked on top of eachother), I shelved the project.

"The Absolutely Tremendulous HPS1 Adventure of Peeb" or "My Friend Jam Suggested I Revive the Project and So I Did"

Shortly after Peeb was shelved for the first time, I joined a community of game developers called Haunted PS1. For those not in the know, HPS1 was essentially the nexus point for "retro horror games" in the indie sphere, and a lot of the resulting deluge (non-perjorative) on itch.io can find its roots in this community.

HPS1 was a good place. Lots of nice, talented people willing to tolerate the kind of mindless riffing I often do in voice calls, anyway. I made a decent chunk of friends there, some of which I'm still quite close to, even today.

HPS1 has this tradition called the HPS1 Demo Disc that began in 2020, and with the year coming to its end, there was talk of a new one set to arrive in spring 2021.

Unlike the first demodisc, however, 2021's disc required you to submit a game in-progress to a panel of judges. They'd then give their yay-or-nay, and you were either in or out.

One day, I was musing over the fact that I didn't really have anything to submit so I would likely have to sit out of 2021's disc. My friend, Jam, who you might know as the developer of the Heilwald Loophole (or Beton Brutal) suggested I consider reviving Peeb Adventures as my submission to the demo disc.

Why did I follow through on this? I don't know. It's funny to think a scenario this simple was the launch point for my career.

Over the next 6 months, I worked on turning the absolutely horrendous gag game into... Something still kinda trite but at least playable. I had some help from my longtime teammate drurylain, my longtime friend Aaron (the creator of Peeb's original design), and my longtime spiritual uncle Tim, and with our powers combined... A new kind of demo experience where you don't do anything of particular note besides swinging around was born.

Also quite important: the very same drawpile session that spawned Peeb also spawned Orbo, who would also make his own appearance in Peeb Adventures as a recurring side character (since I felt like Peeb needed a friend).

"Go! Incredible Friendship Unites in the Gameosphere! Peeb and Orbo are Born!" or "Peeb Adventures: Coming Never"

So the demo for Peeb Adventures was finished early March 2021, and the demo disc went live on itch.io on the 25th of the month.

The demo disc then proceeded to do a backflip and pick up a LOT of traction online. Which then meant Peeb itself was catching little bits of the traction in its mouth and smacking its lips.

I went from "guy who makes games for nobody" to "guy who makes games for that one very specific brand of teen on twitter who loves the object head show", and I was riding high.

Fanart poured in. People showed a lot of love. I was dazzled by it all, really.

Despite the love for the game and the potential on hand, progress was stagnant. My group of friends and I all got together in a google doc and wrote an entire planning bible for the game. Game mechanics, story beats, twists and turns, the whole thing. Despite having the structure lined up, I had other ambitions and began working on a multiplayer deathmatch game that quickly overtook my work schedule.

Peeb sat on the backburner, but at the time I still wanted to finish it one day. My main excuse was "well, I just need more money! If I'm going to work on this game it's gonna need more than one fulltime person and I can't just ask people to work for free!" That excuse worked on me for a while.

"I Don't Think I Want to Play With You Anymore Peeb!" or "There's Such a Thing as Too Much Love"

A while had passed at this point. My ambitions hadn't just grown, they'd completely shifted. Before long, I found myself working on yet another demo for the 2022 HPS1 Demo Disc, "The Spectral Mall."

Nowhere, MI wasn't just some random toy for me, but the culmination of all my love into one game. Despite its silly demeanor, the game was a product of a lot of pain, and even now I still desperately want to finish it. Except I have to make money to live, so... Oops!

Anyhow, there was a shift in demeanor for me during 2022. You have Peeb, a game that I made on a whim as kind of a joke with friends, and you have Nowhere, MI, a game that meant the world to me during really dark times.

And you know what? There were a lot of people that wanted Peeb. People that never stopped asking me about it.

I realized while working on Nowhere that I didn't really know what I would even do if I ever had the chance to work on the full Peeb Adventures. Not only did I find the nagging kind of annoying, Peeb was also something I couldn't really... Wrap my head around?

It occurred to me that Peeb wasn't really "my" game anymore, it was "his" game. The old Johnny.

I'd changed a lot since the game had come out in early 2021. In a year and a half my world got flipped upside down, and... I don't know, Nowhere was way more reflective of who I was now. Sure the humor was still pretty asinine, but there was a shift. It was hard to picture the "Peeb Adventures" people were actually looking forward to when my own sensibilities had drifted so far.

When the Nowhere demo came out along with Spectral Mall, it did... Alright? People liked it, but it wasn't the same as Peeb's release. Hell, even in Nowhere's release there were people pushing it aside to ask the same question they'd been asking every week leading up to it. "When is Peeb Adventures coming out?"

"Goodbye Peeb!"

It was increasingly harder and harder to not look back at Peeb and kind of hate it. It was rough in every respect, and yet it whenever I met people who'd heard of me online, they always cited Peeb Adventures.

Strangers continue to ask me when it's coming out. On rare occasion I'll get someone asking about Nowhere and I'll feel a bit excited anyone else cares about that game besides me and maybe my friends, but most of the time people just ask about Peeb.

To finally answer this question I've been asked for nearly 4 years: There will probably never be a Peeb Adventures.

"Goodbye Johnny."

I like to believe one of the reasons people are attracted to my body of work is because I make games to reach out to other people. That's probably not the real reason, but it's nice to play pretend and imagine your work has more significance than just "ha ha boner."

I put a lot of myself in my games and I rarely hold back, even if an idea is insanely stupid or strange. The result usually becomes something more like a scrapbook than a game.

It's hard to try and expand on a game like Peeb when the Johnny who made it isn't really with us anymore. If I worked on Peeb now, you'd get some kind of irregular frankenstein that'd never be as exciting as the original vision was.

By the time I get around to Nowhere again, am I still going to be this Johnny? Or will the next Johnny look back at Nowhere the same way I look at Peeb now? Who knows.

Anyway, look forward to more games from me and my friends. Even if it's not Peeb Adventures, it'll still be us.

[freakingholland]

"Cold cloths, warm hugs" Jason Todd x gn!reader

A/N: My first ever Jason x reader fic whaaat! I have such a soft spot for this guy ugh <3 also this is so fluffy and silly, I'll see myself out!

Warnings: not proofread, swear words, Jason is feeling unwell so a mention of headaches? use of painkillers

Summary: You and Jay have a night off, what could possibly go wrong? (fluff, hurt/comfort-ish)

Word count: 850 +

If you enjoyed my work: Ko-fi.com/freakingholland

questions/requests/ideas here! - rules here

masterlist (needs a proper update)

-

You were in the middle of watching some kind of lighthearted show on your night off. Jason had a night off as well, the two of you had been sitting on a couch and simply enjoying each other’s presence. Jason had been reading a book curled up next to your tucked figure, as your back was leaning against the opposite arm of the couch. Unexpectedly his reading session got disturbed. At least you thought so since he had gotten up from the couch, tossed his reading glasses aside on the coffee table and went to the kitchen without a word. At least 5 minutes had passed, and he didn’t return.

“Hey- you alright in there?”

-

“-Yup, just a sec.”

He didn’t sound very convincing. His response seemed wavering, and it was enough to make you a bit wary. As you didn’t want to possibly annoy him with your raised voice, not knowing the problem yet, instead of shouting from the sofa, you went to check on him.

His head was hanging low as he was standing with his hands resting on the counter. There was an unscrewed bottle of painkillers and a now empty, wet glass. You went behind him and put your hand on the small of his back.

“What’s going on baby?” Your heart ached at the sight.

“--Headache.” He whispered through gritted teeth. His tone made you uptight.

“I- I- gotta lie down.”

“-can you get me a cold-- towel? Please…” He spoke quietly while turning to go to your bedroom. Your hand dropped to your side.

“Course. You’re nauseous?”

He slightly leaned on the doorframe before going further away from you. He shut his eyes as the light hit his face when leaving the kitchen.

“Yeah…”

He then faltered to rest up.

“Shit.” You cursed under your breath putting your head in your hand when he left.

You were hoping that you’d have a calm evening for once, you deserved to have it. It’s been a while since something bothered Jay to that degree, whether it was a patrol injury or sickness, and the fact that he was hurting on his day off made you genuinely irritated.

On the positive side – at least he didn’t try to hide the fact that he was feeling unwell. He also asked for some help without much frustration. It took months to get to this point, but encouraging Jay to open up and communicate more has been paying off. Grief-stricken conversations still happen every so often. Hell, it would be beyond belief if they weren’t happening considering the extent of past trauma that Jason has suffered through.

But his mental health really did improve over the months of you two dating.

You put on the kettle to make him a nice warm cup of tea. With the help of a stool, you managed to find his old but beloved wonder woman mug. It took some digging in your cabinet that really needed a proper cleanup. When the tea had been made you moved on to rummage through your closet to find a cloth for a cold compress. Placing three cubes of ice in between the layers was enough to make the cloth cold.

“Babe did you drink cof—“ you stopped halfway through your whispered question when you were walking into your shared bedroom.

You suddenly stopped in your tracks realizing your possible mistake. Jay was already dosing off, curled under a blanket. His lips were slightly parted. There was a noticeable change in his posture, there was less tension within his upper body, his arms seemed more relaxed than before. You didn’t think he would be falling asleep this fast, but you figured the headache must have been bad and that the painkillers actually started to kick in.

 The sight made you sigh as you’ve been unnoticeably holding in your breath. You tiptoed to his bed side table and put down his mug of steaming tea. You then carefully kneeled down next to the bed in order to place a compress on his forehead without startling him too much. You gently pressed it onto his skin, making sure to place it slightly over his eyelids.

“That feels so nice.” He muttered.

“Shhh ignore me and go to sleep.”

“I don’t wanna ignore you--, come here.”

You stood up and walked around the bed. Before joining Jay, you opened the window to let some fresh air into the room.

“Baby please…”

“’Kay ‘kay I’m coming.”

You carefully crawled under his blanket and big spooned him.

“You know what? I can already feel the headache going away just cause you’re hugging me.” He continued verbilising his loopy thoughts.

“Oh yeah? It must be some kind of magic.”

“Yeah, it’s Y/N’s magic.”

“Just don’t tell on me. Peeps might burn me at the stake.”

“Fuuuuuuck no I wouldn’t let them.”

“Oh, I know you wouldn’t big guy. ” you said running your hand through his hair.  

Jay rolled to his side to embrace you in a hug. He nuzzled his face into your chest and sighed with relief.

“JACE that’s cold! Stop it!” you winced and laughed as the compress touched your warm skin.

“It wouldn’t feel so cold if you weren’t so hot.”

“I think we gotta check your temperature…”

-

Stay whelmed xx

Tori

[ozzgin]

Heyyy just checked your masterlist and saw that despite you being into obey me! fandom, you don't have a fic. I'm married to Solomon in my mind so how about a situation where the reader (fem or gn your pick) is equally in love with this old man and begs him to recreate that time potion which made him immortal. Oh? Did i mention i want him to be a yandere? Please do that as well ^^

I love me my morally grey wizard ;)

I have 3 unfinished drafts for Diavolo, Barbatos and Satan on my Wattpad, but it was around the time I started getting Baki related requests here so I haven’t had the time to continue them. This goes for everyone reading, if you see a fandom title with no works you can always request something! :) This blog is only a few months old and I wasn’t writing much before (twice or thrice a year if I was generously inspired), so the variety is rather limited still. (I also finish requests at the pace of a snail, sorry about that)

Yandere! Solomon x Reader Headcanons

Featuring your fellow human classmate and now soon-to-be husband who couldn’t be happier about your wish to spend an eternity with him.

Content: gender neutral reader, obsessive behavior

It started rather subtle. Just idle curiosity at first, a mere feigned surprise that was quickly swept aside for more important matters. Sure, Diavolo bringing another fellow human to the Devildom, especially one without any powers, was at least mildly intriguing. Your situation was as tempting as a puzzle to fiddle with in between tasks. Beyond polite offers to help you handle the new challenging environment, Solomon was not planning on prying further. Then the surprises begun to queue one after another. To think that you had barely learned your way around and somehow still forged a contract with one of the devilish siblings. Then another. And another. Fascination crept its way in and the greatest sorcerer found himself begging to learn more about the mysterious (Y/N).

Naturally such fascination should’ve had an intellectual grounding and nothing more. What is it about you that has caused such a ruckus across RAD? All he needed was an answer. Yet he discovered much too late how embarrassingly involved he’d become. Childishly clutching his D.D.D. in the middle of the night, wondering if you’ve already fallen asleep, and grinning when the screen lit up with a response from you. Cancelling all plans the instant you’d ask - casually - if he wanted to join you after class to check out a new café. No, of course he had nothing else to do. Yes, it’s definitely a lucky coincidence that he’s always available when you want to hang out with him.

Once he accepted he was madly in love with you, he began fretting over all possible obstacles. The demon brothers, life after RAD. He’d never engaged much with other humans and his charisma only covered superficial pleasantries. How was he to properly convey that he’s - mildly put - obsessed with you to the point where rejection won’t be taken lightly? Uh oh. Closer to a threat than a confession. Thankfully the Heavens were gracious and you immediately returned his affections. No need for potions or hexes (not that he would’ve…he had them prepared just in case). He remembers it to this day, years after, the wide, innocent smile that you so generously bestowed upon him. Almost like a premonition, he knew you’d be the person to marry. Something he never considered in his long, lonely life.

You lazily lift your hand and admire the ring again. Solomon is quite clumsy and forgetful, but he goes all out for the things that matter. The proposal had been planned to a dizzying amount of detail and you couldn’t believe how much thought he put into it, with many aspects you otherwise assumed he’d forget or omit. Yet staring at the intricately carved band adorning your finger now, you can’t help the pang of melancholy blooming in your chest. Solomon lifts his gaze from the book he’s reading, sensing your discomfort. “Something bothering you?” He inquires with a hint of worry in his voice. “What happens after the wedding?” You demand, turning to face him. “Oh my. I personally prefer to focus on the present.” He answers with a chuckle. “Sure, because you don’t have to worry about your future. It’s mine that will end at some point.” His eyes widen and his hands are suddenly cold. He’s been so entranced by your company that he didn’t even entertain the idea of a potential end to it. He almost strokes his cheek to soothe the hard slap of your words, leaving him in a frightened stupor.

Oh no. No, no, no. Within the blink of an eye he finds himself standing before the alchemy shelves, rattling the bottles for the right ingredients. You didn’t even need to mutter a word. He knew exactly what you’re thinking of. How shameful of him to have caused you this distress in the first place. You’re young, and time for him has lost its human meaning, so your mortality hadn’t crossed his mind this entire time. He would’ve found a solution for it later, most certainly, but he didn’t expect this postponement to make you so anxious. His lips are quivering and his slender fingers are visibly trembling. Partly from the fear of almost failing you as your future husband, partly from the excitement of what’s about to come. He always imagined there’d be nothing more beautiful and precious to witness than you in your wedding attire as you tie the knot. But now? Oh, how ravishingly tempting and seducing, the fact that he can listen to the mundanely repeated words of “Til death do us part” and stare down its meaning until there’s nothing left of it. Not quite. Not for you two. The veil will be lifted and your face will radiate eternity.

After all, nothing will stand between him and his fated soulmate. What’s death to a wizard of his caliber?

[chernabogs]

For da prompt... ‘  i’m  tired  of  being  a  prince.  i  think  i  would  actually  enjoy  being  a  frog.  ’ with Malleus...🐸

can u imagine froglleus...

Hop To It

Inc: Malleus Draconia, Reader/Yuu, 1 goat, 1 cow, 1 frog Warnings: None bc this is actually a really sweet fic I promise. I diverted from angst and more into feel good for once LMAO. WC: 4k Summary: Your nocturnal friend invites you to an event at a local zoo. If he could've adopted that goat from Fleur City, he probably would've.

It’s not often you find yourself able to catch a break. Usually, your weekends are filled with needing to deal with the mountain of homework that’s grown over the week from neglect—not at your fault, of course. When you have a housemate with the mentality of a two-year old toddler, two friends that are magnets for chaos, and an overblot a month, things tend to pile up without you noticing.

But on this fine, dare you even say perfect, weekend you finally find yourself capable of catching your breath for a moment. You glance at your alarm clock to see that it’s well past the time that you usually wake up, and so with a languid air about you, you reach out to grab your phone and check the notifications.

You have a few text messages from the various group chats that you’re in—study ones save for the first year's chat—and then a few private messages. Your eyebrow raises at one in particular as your thumb drifts down to click it open. 

Ominous and to the point, isn’t he? You suppress a low chuckle of amusement as you pull up the keyboard. Despite both you and the Shroud brothers working overtime to teach Malleus the ropes of modern technology, including texting etiquette, he still seems to not grasp it in its entirety.

You think it a perfectly reasonable thing to ask. You know that your friend is of nocturnal affinity, but you’d think he’d realize you’re not apt to reply at 3 am by now. Within seconds of sending your message your phone buzzes again with a reply. 

Cut and dry, much like the man himself. He reminds you vaguely of an older parent trying to get their child's attention as you click the call button and heave a sigh. It rings once, then again, before the sound of someone picking up has a slow smile pulling on your lips. 

“I’m in your 3 am thoughts, am I?” You muse as you roll to the side to keep the charger cable from pulling too much. 

“Incorrect. Small mammals, in fact, are my 3 am thoughts.” Malleus’ smooth voice cuts down your hopes in 10 words as your brow furrows in confusion. 

“Elaborate.” In your time of knowing him, you’ve also come to realize that, to those he feels comfortable with, Malleus has a habit of streamlining his thoughts with little to no interruption from his brain to his mouth. Around politicians and strangers, he was perfectly composed in all ways. Around you, he was a certified yapper. 

“I have been made aware of the Sage Island Zoo hosting an event I’m most keen on attending, and considering what I know of you, I’d say you’d share the sentiment.” You hear a clattering sound from the other side of the line, followed by a mumbled curse before Malleus continues. “I want to pet a goat.” 

“I…” You click the speaker button on your phone before pulling up your browser to type in the zoo. “Hold on, I need to figure out what’s in your brain right now.” 

“Let me know when you succeed in doing so.” Malleus shot back as you scrolled through the zoo’s feed. You soon come across a post that seems to tell you what the man is going on about. There’s a petting zoo and expo happening at the zoo this weekend. Present will be the usual armada: lambs, goats, pigs, and alpacas. But they also highlight a special reptile and amphibian petting area as well. 

You give a small ‘ah’ of understanding as you share the post via text message with him. You doubt he’ll look at it—the complex multitasking of looking at a text message and talking on the line is still something that surpasses your young apprentices’ abilities. “You mean the petting event at the zoo, yeah? They got goats and such there.” 

“Correct! Well done, Prefect. I knew your fantastic abilities of deduction would get you there eventually.” 

You wish you could reach through the phone to pinch his smarmy face for that comment as you roll onto your back again. “And you thought of me when you saw that? Aw, Malleus. I am your 3 am thoughts!” 

“Did you want to go or not? I can easily invite Lilia, or Sebek, or Silver… although I fear Silver may end up falling asleep in the petting area. Or drawing far too many of the animals to him again…that might be quite the mess…” Malleus trails off into a thoughtful silence, which is another thing you’ve come to realize your friend does a lot. 

“Fortunately for you, my super busy calendar actually has an opening today that I can squeeze some ‘you’ time into.” You sit up with a groan of protest before looking over to Grim’s bed, where your companion is still snoring away, his belly and paws to the sky. “I don’t think Grim will be coming with us, though.” 

“That is fine. I fear he may not be compatible with the animals anyway.”

Your eyes narrow at how quickly Malleus is to agree that it would just be you and him going as you shoved the blankets off your legs. “Okay, then. Can you give me 30—” you pause and tug at your shirt sleeve for a moment before grimacing, “—actually, give me an hour. Then we can head out. The event starts at 10?” 

“According to their poster, yes. I saved it so that I may check to be sure.” Malleus sounds pleased of the fact that he’s managed to save an image from social media without a crisis happening. 

“I’m proud of you for that. If that’s the case, then let’s grab a drink beforehand.” You yawn as you finally rouse yourself, unplugging your phone and sliding your feet into your slippers. The floors of Ramshackle still manage to be brutally cold in the mornings, even with the new renovations done. You’d need to question Crowley on the furnace in the future. “I need some kind of breakfast.” 

“Perhaps if you woke at a reasonable hour, breakfast would not be a concern.” You hear the teasing lilt in Malleus’ voice. He’s in a playful mood today—more so then usual. 

He’s probably just pumped to get out and about again. 

Your nose wrinkles as your finger hovers over the ‘end call’ button. “Not everyone is nocturnal. I’ll see you soon.” 

____________________

An hour later finds you yawning in the lineup of a local coffee shop. The weather outside is continuing to be promising, with its blue skies and temperate air. You’re basking in the ambience of it all while Malleus, bless his heart, is pushing a pair of sunglasses onto his face. 

“It isn’t even that bright out,” you smirk at him as the two of you move closer in the line. A few patrons are staring at Malleus as he remains close to your side. You can’t quite blame them. Some might be gawking at the fact that the crown prince is standing in a coffee shop line like everyone else. Others might be doing so at the fact that he’s out again post-overblot. 

It’s been a bit of an uphill battle to get him on his feet—which is partially why you’re keen to keep him in this rare, uplifted mood. 

“To you,” he shoots back as he crosses his arms. A beige bag is slung over his shoulder, and he’s surprisingly dressed down for the occasion, wearing simple black dress pants and a dark long-sleeve shirt. You think the fact that he’s managed to wrangle up a pair of hiking boots from somewhere is quaint, too. He almost looks like he’d fit into a petting zoo environment. “To me, it is borderline blinding.” 

“My condolences for the weakness of your eyes.” You focus your attention back to the menu ahead as you feel his elbow hit into your side, making you hiss before chuckling. This coffee shop in question has become somewhat of a routine visit for you both whenever you’re out in town together, which is often done a) late at night and b) in the company of the rest of the quartet. Your attendance has been frequent enough though that you now know both yours and Malleus’ usual order. 

He likes his coffee black. You like yours with enough sugar that it might appeal to Sebek’s tastes. 

“I feel like you’re being ingenuine with that.” Despite the hurt in his tone, you know it’s all bullshit by the smirk that touches on the edge of his lips as you finally shuffle to the front of the line. After stating your orders to the slightly nervous looking barista behind the counter (who must be new, considering that the others are all used to Malleus by now), you spot Malleus reaching for his wallet in your peripheral. A sharp swat of your hand on his arm stops him in his tracks as you tap the debit card Crowley so kindly loaned you on the machine. 

“You didn’t need to do that.” He sighs as the two of you step aside to wait for the orders as you shrug and lean on the counter. You don’t mind buying something for your friends—especially if it’s Crowley’s money you’re spending. “I have more than enough funds to afford a cup of coffee.” 

“It isn’t about the money, it’s about the satisfaction it brings me to buy you something as a token of appreciation for inviting me out.” You pat his arm as the barista sets your cups on the counter before you hand it to him. You selectively ignore the way his fingers touch your hand for longer than necessary before withdrawing with his beverage. 

“Anyway, let’s go wrestle a kid, hm?” 

____________________

Malleus manages to get his revenge swiftly and without mercy when the two of you arrive at the zoo. Before you can even shift your cup into your other hand to grab your wallet, he’s stepping in front of you and setting down more than enough madol to purchase two passes. A part of you wants to tease him over this matter, but the man looks so damn proud when he turns and hands you the ticket that you just shake your head with a smirk and let him have it. 

Another thing about your friend—you can’t expect to do something for him and not have it returned in kind. You know he’s felt indebted to a lot of people ever since his overblot, and small gestures like this make him feel better in a way. You really have missed seeing his smile. 

You come to a stop when you get into the zoo itself to pull out the map of the area. “Right, so we need to figure out where—”

“Goats.” Malleus is looping your arm with his before you can even finish your sentence and hauling you to the side, leaving you to yelp at the suddenness of the motion. His bicep feels like solid stone against yours, which leaves you to accept the fact that you’re not getting out of this any time soon—and that you should really take Jack up on those workout suggestions. 

You continue to feel the stares as Malleus leads the charge towards whatever destination he has set in mind. A few people scatter off the walkway, and one particularly curious child points up at Malleus’ horns while boldly asking his mother ‘why does that man have horns?,’ but Malleus has blinders on as the two of you finally spot a sign for the petting exhibition ahead. 

The sign is large—as is the crowd. 

“Shit,” you mumble as you step closer to your companion. Usually you’re good with lots of people, but considering that it’s both hot out and now you’re entering a crowded space, you feel a knot of anxiety forming. Malleus’ other hand comes to rest on yours as he easily manoeuvres around with a few murmured apologies. His gaze is sharp and he seems far more alert now.

You figure it must be innate at this point. As a crown prince, being aware in crowds is a given, especially considering the high risk of kidnappings and assassination attempts that seem to plague the upper class of NRC. It’s only when a loud bleating sound cuts through the air that a smile graces his lips again as he pulls you aside. 

“Oh, marvellous,” he chuckles as he releases your arm (your poor, poor arm) and leans against the fence. A small grey goat is standing by the post, a few bits of hay hanging out of its mouth as it languidly chews. It looks like every other goat you’ve seen before—and yet Malleus is beaming like the thing is a divine gift. “Remember when that goat followed me around at Noble Bell, Prefect?” 

“Hard to forget. Sebek wanted to punt it across the square.” You lean against the fence next to him as he reaches down to pet the goat's head between its horns. The goat bleats again and tips its head back to bite at Malleus’ sleeve instead. “Probably because it kept doing that to you.” 

“Oh, you are bold, aren’t you? Unfortunately, I am not the snack that you seek.” Malleus sighs in mock despondence as he pushes the feeder closer to the goat. You jump onto his comment pretty quickly. 

“Did you just call yourself a snack?” You lean forward more to look up at Malleus, who diligently ignores you in face of cooing over the goat. You know this technique—it’s another one that your friend loves to do. 

The ‘I can’t hear you’ method. 

Well, you’re happy his confidence is back at least. You stealthily take a few pictures of him fawning over the animal to send to Lilia later before pocketing your phone and moving down the line. A few piglets are romping around their pen, as well as some ponies in the next, and a baby calf who looks up at you with doe-like brown eyes. It’s enough to make you stop and give the little guy some love as Malleus finally returns to your side. 

“See? Even you cannot resist indulging.” Malleus reaches out to scratch behind the calf’s ear with a smile as the small creature shuffles closer to the fence. “Innocence has a way of pulling us in. This calf knows nothing but what it has seen in the few areas it’s been carried to. It knows its mother, what it eats, its handlers, the stars, and not too much else.” 

“That’s a pretty sentimental way of looking at it,” you concede as you withdraw your hand and straighten up. The calf looks to you with those big brown eyes again before lowering its head to eat some of the hay off the floor. 

It seems utterly at ease with both you and Malleus—which is more than what could be said with the crowd. The stares towards your companion have amplified, and you can see it’s beginning to make him irate by the way he keeps casting a few dark looks over his shoulder. His one hand grips the fence hard enough that you’re worried he might snap the wood in a moment. In a bid to retain some of the peace of the day, you loop your arm with his, which causes his attention to snap back to you in surprise as you slot yourself easily against his side. 

“Wanna see what’s in the reptiles and amphibian section?”

____________________

You must admit, a part of you wants to see if any of the animals would react to Malleus. The man is a dragon-fae, after all. You know that bats flock around Lilia, and you’ve seen more than a few black-feathered birds cluttering around Crowley’s office window, but you’ve never seen any lizards or frogs responding to Malleus. So, when you enter the darkened room with the many tanks illuminated by heating lamps, you’re hopeful to see something amusing. 

Instead, you find that half of the cold-blooded fellows are still in their morning siesta. 

“It appears we’ve come at an inopportune moment for them.” Malleus seems more at ease now with both you at his side and the smaller crowd milling in the reptile section. Because of the darkness of the room, less people take note of the prince as you two make your rounds from tank to tank. A few ball pythons stir and look at you, and a gecko is plastered against the tank at another section, but most of the creatures lose interest and settle back to themselves within a few moments. 

Until you reach the frog tank. 

A sign posted at the side which reads ‘lift the lid at your own risk’ prompts a glimmer of interest in Malleus’ bright green eyes as he nudges the lid open to peer inside. Most of the frogs seem to still be dozing in their makeshift burrows, but one stirs awake when the lid pops open. The frog yawns and reaches a hand to rub its belly, blinking lazily as it does. 

You hear Malleus give a small ‘oh’ as he leans closer in interest. “My, he seems quite at ease, isn’t he?” 

“Probably thinks you’re his cousin or something,” you snicker as you look down at the other frogs in the tank. Malleus shoots you a narrow-eyed look before leaning back again. 

“... it’d be quite nice to be a frog, hm?” He gives a sigh before his gaze drifts to the other amphibians. “No stress, no conversation. Just hopping and eating.”

He does another pause of contemplative silence before continuing. “I’m quite tired of being a prince, you know. I think I would enjoy being a frog.” 

You lean back and look at him with a cross of both concern and amusement on your face. “Don’t the frogs usually try to become princes in the stories?” 

“I like to shake things up.” He flashes you a sharp-toothed grin as he looks back in the tank. Despite the amusement in his words and the smile he gave, you can still see the edges of exhaustion and frustration at the recesses of his expression. The crowd rubbed him wrong. He’s been on edge ever since his overblot, and it’s small things like that which send him back into makeshift pits of both despair and doubt. 

You don’t want to see him go back there, and you certainly don’t want Lilia questioning (again) why Malleus is in a sour mood (again). After the whole fiasco with him, the poor man is stressed enough as is without the addition of Malleus’ mental health. 

“You know what?” Your words come out as stern, causing his attention to snap to you in concern. “I know few people may say this, and many may not feel this way, but I like to consider myself somewhat of a different stock. So, I just want you to know, upon my heart and all the tuna I can offer Grim—”

You pause for a moment to draw it out, relishing in the way Malleus seems increasingly concerned before you finish. “—I’d still like you if you were a frog.” 

Malleus blinks slowly as your words tumble through his mind for a second before his expression falls flat. “I… really, Prefect.” 

You can’t keep the facade of sternness any longer as a grin appears and you nudge your companion in his ribs. A reluctant look of amusement crosses his features at this. “Let’s step outside for a second. This crowd is going to drive me insane.” 

____________________

The air feels fresher once you’re free of the crowds as you settle beneath the shade of a tree to finish your drinks. A breeze brushes over your skin and manages to cool some of the anxiety that blossomed from being amongst so many people after so long of being confined in your dorm on weekends. Malleus seems to grow more at ease as well when it becomes just the two of you again. 

“So.” You begin as you pop the lid off your coffee to slot it into the now empty cup. “You looked a little tense back by the cow pen.” 

Malleus is quiet for a moment as he sips his drink before clearing his throat. “Did I?” 

“Mhm. Are you doing okay?” A glance up at his face reveals his gaze fixated on the crowd beyond. He doesn’t answer you immediately as he takes another drink. When he does speak, his tone is less-guarded then before. 

Another thing about Malleus: somehow, throughout the trials and tribulations, he’s become a lot more open about how he’s feeling with everyone. 

“Not particularly.” He finally comments as he crushes his empty cup and tosses it into a nearby trash. “I don’t like to admit it—for it feels rather ridiculous to get upset over—but it still bothers me to a degree when some people… well. You saw.” 

You toss your cup into the trash alongside his. “Why is that ridiculous? You’re entitled to how you feel about something, you know.”

“It’s below my station.” A frown dances on his lips at this. You send him a sharp look in return. 

“Emotions aren’t below your station, Malleus. You’re allowed to feel upset if something is upsetting to you. Just because you’re a prince doesn’t mean you need to bottle things up all the time. I would hope you’d realize that by now after everything that happened. You and the others all needed a lesson in emotional intelligence.” 

Malleus doesn’t reply, which leads you to keep talking to fill the silence. For a certified talker, he was certainly being mute about this. “I understand that it sucks, like really sucks, when people don’t want to talk to you, or treat you like an outlier because of your looks or your status. I know that you want people to engage with you, and you’re putting in the work to do that! You’re going to the coffee shop and talking to the barista’s; you’re coming out to places like this where people will be. The more they see you and get to know you, the more relaxed they’ll feel.” 

“It takes a long time.” His response is curt as he stares at the crowd. You give a sigh and shuffle to stand in front of him. He doesn’t seem aware of what you’re about to do before you’re moving forward to drag that man into the best hug you can give a guy whose arms are crossed in a huff. He tenses under your hold for a moment, and you begin to think that maybe he really is carved from stone, until he finally relaxes and lets you do what you need to do.

The guys probably only received a hug a good six or seven times in his life. You feel like you both need this. 

“It may take a while, but it does happen. The barista’s talk to you with no issue now, and the new one will get that way too. Again—you’re putting in the work, and I can see that, so please don’t try to bottle up all your feelings again. Or Lilia will kill us both.” 

You feel him huff a chuckle as his hand comes to rest on your back. His touch is warm in a way that doesn’t make you feel uncomfortable or overwhelmed, and you sink into that contact with a content sigh. The two of you remain in this embrace for a few seconds longer before you withdraw and awkwardly pat the prince’s arms. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs as he looks at you, gratitude easing its way into his features. You clear your throat and offer him a lopsided smile.

“Wanna try petting the goats one more time?” You ask softly. “Maybe they won’t try to eat your clothing the second trip through.” 

Malleus exhales, his shoulders relaxing as he takes your arm into his once more. “Yes, although I don’t hold much hope about that being true.”

[imfoive]

The Youngest Son - Chapter 7

Minho x Reader (fem.) Genre: non-idol au!, Suspense, Angst, Romance, Mature Warnings: mentions of drinking, cursing, pregnancy & abortion, power play, physical harm, somewhat proofread WC: 6.8K A/N: Would LOVE to hear everyone’s thoughts/reactions 😁 Feedback is always welcome, enjoy! ── MASTERLIST

Synopsis: The youngest son of the Lee family was stubborn, he was arrogant, he was conniving. Hiding it all behind the mask of a calm and collected man, the youngest son was a master at mind games. Playing a dangerous game where trust is a luxury and betrayal lurks around every corner. He had sworn once, to not let family ties or any feelings hold him back. Yet, against all odds, she had him completely wrapped around her fingers, and he had no desire to break free.

Missed a chapter? - Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6

CHAPTER 7 ────────────────────

Family dinners were never a good occurrence in the Lee residence, still they loved to pretend and pick at each other’s words in the pretense of a get-together.

The awkward tension in the dining room was palpable. Each member shifted uncomfortably, as if they all wanted to speak but were holding back.

The seats at the ends of the table were empty, Lee Joohyeon, still unofficially exiled, Lee Jihoon, who had likely found a place to hide for the evening, and Lee Jookshin, who had recently given birth, were all missing.

   “Why does everyone look so tense? You should be happy. The Parks want L Corp. to have sole industrial contract with their Rose Garden Resort.” The grandfather observed, noting the somber atmosphere.

Lee Mooyoung cleared his throat, casting a glance to his right at his wife, then across the table to where Doyoung sat next to Minho.

   “Park Hyunmin insisted on signing the contract only if Minho was on the board.” Lee Mooyoung said coldly, his irritation clear.

Minho looked up at the mention of his name, but before he could respond, Lee Doyoung’s hand slammed on the table.

   “What’s wrong with my son being on the team? He’s the reason we got the deal. Besides, it was the daughter’s decision.” Doyoung argued.

Minho clenches his jaw at the words “my son”, which he had come to despise, words used only when they wanted to boast about his achievements.

   “So what?! Jungshin has done a lot too!” Mooyoung retorted at his brother with the same anger.

The oldest daughter-in-law laughed scornfully and leaned toward Minho.

   “Is it because you managed to rekindle something with Y/N Park that they made this proposition? Just a few days ago, you barely spoke to each other.”

Jungshin watched as Minho smiled at his mother, then glanced back at him. The older brother’s frustration grew. He had been trying to win over Y/N Park for months, only to be met with indifference. She didn’t even heed to his advances.

   “I don’t mix personal and professional matters, Aunt. I’m sure they had a reason for their decision.” Minho said calmly.

The grandfather groaned, drawing the family’s attention back to him.

It wasn’t deja vu perse, this was more of a routine. They all got together, argued over petty things while the old man ate his dinner alone in their presence.

A meeting disguised as family dinner.

   “I’m sure Minho will do a good job. If not, we can always have Jungshin clean up his mess.” Chairman Lee stated.

Jungshin broke his silence, glaring at the head of the table. “But why am I the second choice? I have an impeccable reputation, and I’m sure people will take me more seriously than this young kid.” He pointed

The grandfather set down his utensils, his expression stern.

   “You’re lucky to even be a second choice. Y/N Park didn’t even consider you.” He admonished, signaling Secretary Cha that he was finished with his meal.

Jungshin fell silent, unable to argue back. He got up angrily, muttering an “excuse me” before storming out the room.

The older daughter-in-law watched the younger one snicker behind her wine glass. Mooyoung clenched his napkin tightly, visibly upset.

The old man finally stood up.

   “Minho, I need to speak with you. Follow me.” He said, heading out of the room.

Despite the chaos, one comment lingered in the Chairman’s mind.

The twenty-seven-year-old vice-president was significantly younger than others at his level, and there was a limit to how seriously he could be taken. He needed to prove his trustworthiness and dedication. He needed to do something that made them find him more responsible.

   “Minho. It’s about time you get married.” The old man said abruptly.

Minho blinked back at his words, taken aback.

The young vice president did not see that coming. He should have. But he didn’t.

He had been distracted.

─────────────────────── The Lee family was known for its business sense, though it varied among them. Each had their own responsibilities.

Every child in the Lee family had a special talent, whether it was a way with words or good luck. Though they all had potential, not everyone pursued it. Take Lee Jookshin, for example. Unlike her mother, who was a trophy wife, Jookshin was highly intelligent and excelled in school. However, in their society, her smarts were less important than finding a husband who could support her, while she provided ideas.

The saying went, “Behind every successful man is a woman.”

Then there was Lee Jihoon, the fourth grandson.

Sure, the man had a list of wild hobbies like racing cars and flying planes. He was nothing but ordinary, unremarkable in the eyes of his family.

And to complicate matters further, Jihoon was gay.

Growing up, Jihoon struggled under the weight of conservative norms that pushed him to rebel. He was always getting punished, often ran away from his parents, family, and responsibilities. From himself. He tried to fit in, dating models and elite women to please his family, as if to show he was making an effort. To prove he was contributing something to the overly expectant Lees.

The first man he kissed was the son of Sorewa Airlines’ founder. This older man left Jihoon, then twenty-three, in a whirlwind of confusion, frustration, and exhilaration.

The first man he kissed promised him the world, only to turn around and marry a woman from their circle instead.

Jihoon hated this damn circle. The world he was trapped in.

He hated the attention, the unspoken rules.

And most of all, Jihoon hated L Corp.

Everytime he returned after his spontaneous ���run-away” trips, he was tied down by someone in his family, whether it was his mother, his father or even that damn Secretary Cha who was just an extension of his Grandfather’s reach. He’d be stuck in their world for a few months before another chance to escape came along.

Two years after his first male lover chose to conform to societal norms and married the daughter of a big-name entrepreneur, Jihoon saw him again at a banquet. Though Jihoon knew the man would be there, the banquet being hosted by his family, he didn’t expect to be so affected by their meeting.

Ben Choi, the son of Sorewa Airline’s head, stole fleeting glances. As Jihoon stood behind his father, who was exchanging hugs and greetings with his grandfather and the rest of the Lee family, he felt the man’s gaze on him. Ben stood with his wife, who smiled brightly at everyone she met. Jihoon tried to avoid looking at him, but with Minho being led away by Y/N and his siblings scattered around the banquet hall, he had no choice but to stay near his grandfather. The Chairman gave him a stern glance, his out-there choice of clothing, something the old man wasn’t fond of, but still he smiled at his old friend, laughing.

Jihoon thought he could enjoy the banquet without running into Ben Choi directly, but as soon as he let his guard down, there he was, alone with his ex-lover. He had slipped out to the balcony for a break from the classical music and to clear his head. The alcohol had him buzzing, and his arms were sore from playing pool.

When the balcony door creaked open, Jihoon quickly tried to hide his lit cigarette. He froze, his expression softening when he saw Ben step outside.

   “I see you haven’t kicked the habit.” Ben said, his voice still deep, as he slid his hands into his pockets, approaching.

Jihoon turned back to the gardens, returning to his cigarette.

   “How have you been?” Ben leaned against the railing, watching Jihoon closely.

   “I’ve been well. You and—” Jihoon glanced back at the banquet hall. “Your wife?”

   “Good. We’re good. As you can see from this grand celebration.”

Jihoon exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Yeah. The last time you had a big event, you announced your marriage. What’s the occasion this time? Kids?”

Ben laughed loudly, shaking his head in denial.

   “Your sense of fashion is still impressive. I was surprised to see you like this.” Ben said, eyeing the blue of Jihoon’s suit.

Jihoon shrugged. “At least you can pick me out of a crowd of those boring outfits inside.” He nodded toward the balcony doors that lead back inside.

Ben’s smile faded, and his expression softened.

   “I’d be able to pick you out from anywhere.” He stated quietly.

Jihoon was silent for a moment before laughing.

   “Except you didn’t pick me, Ben.” He crushed his cigarette on the stone railing.

The balcony door swung open abruptly as Y/N stepped outside, looking for Lee Minho, who had ditched her earlier than usual. She had noticed a mess of spilt wine on him, but now he was nowhere in sight.

As Y/N scanned the balcony, her eyes widened in shock when she saw Ben Choi and Lee Jihoon passionately kissing a few feet away.

The two men froze, surprised at her arrival, Ben shoved Jihoon back instinctively, who stumbled back and collided against the nearby bench with a crash.

Y/N gasped, stunned by the scene. Stunned by the action.

Ben reached out to Jihoon, who was on the ground and appeared hurt, but faltered. He stepped back abruptly and quickly turned to leave. Both Jihoon and a stunned Y/N watched him pass by her figure and run away.

   “Ha. ‘Pick me out’ my ass.” Jihoon muttered, wincing from the pain in his lower abdomen after the collision.

He sat up and looked at Y/N, who now stood in front of him, arms crossed and head tilted.

   “What are you staring at?” He grunted, slowly standing and brushing off his clothes.

Y/N remained silent, her heels clicking on the granite floor as she approached him. Her eyes felt like they were burning him with scrutiny, judging him, squinting as if examining an exhibit in a zoo.

   “Yeah, I like cock. So what?” Jihoon snapped angrily.

But instantly froze, eyes widening as he realized he had said that. Out loud.

Y/N blinked, stunned once again. Speechless at his bold confession.

Jihoon looked away in humiliation and frustration, running his hands through his hair. He then glared at Y/N, trying to maintain his composure.

   “What are you going to do about it?” He demanded, clenching his jaw and trying to appear calm, though he was shaking inside from being caught.

She sighed and uncrossed her arms. “I have my own boy issues to deal with. I don’t have the time or interest to deal with your little affair.” She pointed.

For a moment he felt relieved, but he couldn’t breathe just yet. Everyone knew Y/N was closely tied to Minho, who listened to his parents and grandfather.

   “I know many people in our society who are gay, but have you ever heard me spill those secrets?” Y/N said, as if reading his mind.

   “I was just surprised because Ben Choi is a married man.” She added.

Her words jolted Jihoon back to reality. He had forgotten that Ben Choi had a pretty wife to get back to. And would never acknowledge Jihoon as more than a business acquaintance. His bruised ribs were a painful reminder.

   “Minho was heading to the bathroom with that that Ryu whatever her name is.” Jihoon muttered, brushing past her and returning to the hall.

Lee Jihoon was good at pretending, he was also good at dropping off the map. Finding ways to escape the clutches of his grandfather who seemed to have eyes everywhere. He’d party on the beaches of Bali, sail the waters of Thailand, sleep with European men. He could be himself. Jihoon pretended he wasn’t afraid of his family, always acting out, always rebelling.

But Chairman Lee’s power was a constant source of fear. When Chairman Lee finally discovered Jihoon's secrets. Throwing the pictures of his grandson in the arms of another man at some nightclub, he covered it up, leaving Jihoon feeling cornered.

   “Starting tomorrow, you’ll be working at L Corp.”

And just like that, Jihoon was trapped.

The old chairman had always been traditional, clinging to old ways. He started his business from scratch, driven by the desire to be highly sought after but lacked the funds. He seduced a wealthy investor’s daughter, using her money to grow his company and attract more investors. He had children young, raising them with a businessman’s mindset and marrying them off early.

His rich wife, once a valuable asset for him, became a show-piece in his house after her family name and money was no longer needed for her husband to get his foot into doors, slowly fading away. And suddenly one day, he was a middle-aged widower.

As he got older, he realized that the sons he had conditioned to be the best, the sons trained to take over his company, were incapable.

No, his sons were idiots, and their children were doomed the moment they were born. It was a disappointment he couldn’t bear. He could never disrespect his life’s work like that.

His eldest son spent his time drinking with frauds posing as investors, while his younger son chased after a young maid in the family home.

Both were pathetic.

But the Chairman was no better.

The first time he saw the young assistant was when Secretary Cha introduced her in his office. She stood nervously, straight-backed.

   “Welcome. I hope you assist my secretary well.” He said.

She nodded, shaking his hand quickly and expressing how honored she was to work at L Corp.

The Chairman chuckled and patted her shoulder, trying to ease her nerves.

And throughout their meeting, he watched her scribble notes, tap her foot in anxiety, and fidget with the cross around her neck. When she noticed him watching and smiled, she returned the gesture.

In high society, scandals were unacceptable. One either avoided them or paid to keep them hidden. A messy private life could lead to plummeting stocks, and the Chairman was determined to do anything to maintain L Corp’s pristine image.

The young assistant was driven by greed. She wanted more than just a paycheck. She desired to be the madam of the house, to hold a significant share of the company. She aimed to seduce the Chairman, and she even succeeded.

Though he was just a man, he was also calculating, conniving. Always thinking ahead.

   “Why did you have to be so greedy?”

───────────────────────

The celebration of Lee Jookshin’s firstborn was a grand affair, hosted by her delighted parents, now finally grandparents. Although the baby wasn’t a Lee, he was the first great-grandson of Chairman Lee, making him special.

The mansion bustled with guests. The young prince was showered with gifts, and his parents beamed with pride.

Jihoon scanned the grand hall, now more crowded than usual, with familiar faces moving past him to see the new nephew. The boy would soon learn that the world had a way of surprising him.

His grandfather entertained old friends, while Secretary Cha took a rare break. How he managed to stay glued to the Chairman after all these decades makes the young man ponder in bewilderment everytime he thinks of the secretary.

Everyone was there, but Minho.

That prompt man was always present for events like these, always kissing ass, always at arm’s length. But right now, he was missing.

Jihoon took a drink from a passing server’s tray and glanced around. Park Hyunmin was engaged in conversation with his uncle and father, while his wife mingled with other women. Y/N was busy entertaining Jungshin, though she appeared visibly exhausted by his incessant babbling.

Then he spots Ben Choi. His ex lover.

Ben had aged over the years Jihoon had not seen him. He was still with his pretty wife. He was a father now. Yet, Jihoon no longer felt the sharp pang of emotion for the older man. Even though Ben’s gaze lingered on him with the same intensity as it had six years ago on that balcony, Jihoon no longer cared. He decided to find some other entertainment.

Minho glanced around as he climbed the back stairs to the second floor of the family mansion. The celebration below filled the grand hall and garden with noise, but the second floor was quiet and serene in comparison.

The youngest son of the family walked cautiously, pausing outside the double wooden doors of Chairman Lee’s study. He glanced back to ensure no one had seen him. The last time he had been here, his grandfather had insisted he get married and had presented several profiles of young women from high society. Minho had promised to review the files, but his attention had been drawn to something else when Secretary Cha opened the file cabinet to retrieve them.

His mind stuck on it ever since.

It was only a brief glance from a few feet away, but Minho’s attention was immediately captured by a file at the very bottom of the cabinet. By a familiar name that rang in his mind from time to time.

The youngest son entered the dark, silent study, closing the wooden door behind him with a soft creak and a final click. He made his way to the large curtained window overlooking the back gardens, peering through a crack to scan the guests below. He spotted his grandfather next to some familiar face. Minho knew he needed to act quickly before the Chairman noticed his absence. His initial plan was to slip in and out unnoticed, but after his aunt spotted him and he had made up an excuse about forgetting a gift in his car, he was already running behind. Ten minutes had passed, he had missed a call from his father, and he knew it wouldn’t be long before they became insistent.

As Minho opened the cabinet where he remembered the files had been, he held up his cellphone’s dim flashlight. His fingers froze when he noticed the lock. He hadn’t considered that the cabinet might be secured. He had assumed it was just a regular one.

He suddenly wondered why the cabinet was locked. What could possibly need to be password-protected?

He inhaled sharply with narrowed brows, frustrated before pressing generic combinations, ones an old man might remember.

Wrong.

The machine beeped, flashing red.

He had two more attempts before it would ring loudly. Something he definitely didn’t want. He tried again, thinking hard about any possible combination.

Wrong again.

   “Fuck.” He muttered.

Before he could attempt and most likely fail with a final combination, his phone buzzed, startling him. It was his father, again.

Minho walked back to the curtains, peeking outside as he answered the call.

   “Yes, Father.”

   “Where are you? Your grandfather is looking for you. He wants to introduce you to a friend. Get here now.”

   “Yes, I was entertaining some guests by the front.” Minho lied.

The call ended abruptly. He sighed in defeat, glancing one last time at the locked safe, ultimately making a shuffled exit.

Minho entered the well-lit garden, greeting everyone he passed with a smile.

   “Ah, Mr. Wang, great to see you.” He said, shaking hands as he made his way toward the group where his grandfather and father were gathered.

Chairman Lee’s face lit up with a grin upon seeing Minho. He spread his arms wide in welcome.

   “Look who’s finally arrived, my favorite grandson!” He boomed. Mooyoung’s discomfort was palpable before he exchanged a glance with Jungshin.

   “You haven’t met yet, Minho. This is my old friend Son Hyungdon. He moved to Italy about fifteen years ago.” Chairman Lee introduced.

The older, bigger man chuckled heartily and shook Minho’s hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you. You’ve really made a name for yourself at L Corporation, haven’t you?”

   “You’re giving me too much credit, sir.” Minho replied with a polite smile.

Mr. Son laughed again, glancing at the Chairman and then at the other guests.

   “Humble. I like it.” He patted Minho’s arm before letting go.

As the older men engaged in small talk, their circle gradually shrank. Minho scanned the area for the face he was looking for, and his eyes brightened up spotting Y/N at one of the tables, sipping her drink and observing the scene with a detached air.

God, was she as radiating as ever. He just wished to stride over there and envelop her in his arms, inhale her sweet scent.

   “And what about your granddaughter, did you manage to bring her back from Italy?” The Chairman asked, his words bringing Minho back to their boring conversation.

   “She’s somewhere around here, she’s a little introverted you see. Not a big fan of big crowds.” Son Hyungdon replied.

Minho nodded, scanning the crowd for someone who might be related to Son Hyungdon.

   “Is she in the kiddie section?” The grandson asked, glancing back at the older man.

There was a second of silence before both old men chuckled loudly.

   “I didn’t know your grandson was a jokester too!” Hyungdon laughed while Minho stood genuinely confused.

   “I don’t think he’s joking.” Chairman Lee chuckled along, patting Minho’s back.

   “I’m flattered you think I’m young enough to have tiny grandchildren. But she’s actually twenty-three.”

Minho nodded slowly, letting out a soft “Ah” as he realized his mistake, feeling a bit embarrassed.

   “Why don’t you go find her and keep her company?” Chairman Lee suggested, nudging him.

   “She goes by Sky.” Mr. Son added, both old men practically shooing him away.

The grandson blinked, puzzled by their insistence, wondering why the name sounded so familiar. Despite his curiosity, he began searching for the so-called introverted granddaughter, though he was tempted to find some lame excuse to go bicker with his secret girlfriend.

Then he spotted her and understood why the two old men were so eager for him to meet her.

Sky.

Or, Son Haneul, twenty-three.

One of his marriage candidates.

God damn it. His grandfather was truly a sneaky old man.

He bit the inside of his cheek and slipped his hands into his trouser pockets as he observed the young woman sipping champagne by a stone bench near the rose maze. It took her a few seconds to notice him observing her.

   “Oh. Hi.” She blurted out, startled.

Minho thinned his lips into a smile Y/N would hate to see on his face, and walked toward this young woman

   “You must be Sky.” He extended his hand.

His marriage candidate blinked a few times, either mesmerized by his beauty or surprised by his sudden approach, it was hard to tell.

   “Ah! Yes. I am Sky.” She responded awkwardly, taking his hand for a gentle handshake.

Minho let out a chuckle, nodding.

   “Nice to meet you. I’m Lee Minho, Chairman Lee’s youngest grandson.”

Her mouth opened slightly in silent understanding as she nodded.

   “Your grandfather sent me, asked me to keep you company.”

   “You really don’t have to. I was just admiring the roses.” She glanced down shyly.

Minho chuckled again and returned his hands to his pockets.

   “I can show you around the garden if you’d like. We have more than just roses here.”

She paused for a few seconds before nodding. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

Y/N rested her chin on her palm, her elbow propped on the high table behind which she stood. She watched, irritated, as her boyfriend shamelessly flirted with another young woman.

That asshole.

   “What do you think they’re talking about?” Jihoon’s voice, sudden and close, almost made her jump.

She turned to him in surprise. Her reaction prompted Jihoon to laugh, placing his empty glass on the table and glancing back at the duo by the flower garden.

   “She seems a little young, don’t you think?”

   “That’s because you’re like one hundred years old.” Y/N muttered, downing her drink.

   “I spoke to her briefly earlier. She’s definitely from a foreign country, has a distinct accent... I’m thinking European.” The older man continued, more to himself than to Y/N.

Y/N sighed in frustration. “You really don’t have any friends, do you?” She remarked snarkily.

Jihoon shrugged, glancing around the garden.

   “The only person here worthy of being my friend is the newborn inside.” He responded with a laugh.

   “Besides, you don’t have friends either. The one you had is over there laughing up a storm with that young child.” He said, pointing with his empty glass toward Minho and Hanuel.

   “Minho isn’t my friend.” She spat bitterly.

   “Right, right.” He nodded slowly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

   “Do you want to leave this lame party and do something fun with me?” He asked, leaning into the table with a grin.

Y/N squinted, trying to figure out exactly why he had approached her.

   “Come on, fun with Jihoon, or party for a newborn?” The older man uses his hands as an imaginary scale, weighing the choices.

Y/N looked around, her parents, busy in their own conversation, socializing to their maximum.

Her boyfriend was clearly distracted, and the only people who had approached her, aside from those trying to curry her favor, were that weirdo Jungshin and now his chatty brother.

   “Fine, let's go.”

Minho laughed with Sky, correcting her slip of the tongue due to the language barrier. But his eyes follow Y/N, trailing behind girlfriend and Jihoon, one of his eyebrows raise.

Y/N glanced back and smirked in his direction. He was definitely watching her.

You want to play games, Minho?

But the very next morning, Y/N’s eyes flew open, staring at the white ceiling brightly lit by sun rays filtering through the drawn curtains. Her body shot up, scanning the very familiar room.

She could hear the distant sound of water running in the bathroom. Grabbing her head, and hissing in a sudden pain, she slowly climbed out from under the covers, still dressed in last night’s jumpsuit. Y/N looked around for her purse, grabbed it from the bedside table, and was almost out the door when the door behind opened with a click.

   “Really. Are you really going to bolt on me now?”

She turned around, sheepishly grinning at her boyfriend, who stood half-naked in the bathroom doorway, arms crossed over his chest.

   “No, I was-uh, thirsty!” Y/N attempted to lie, but both their eyes trail to the glass pitcher of water on his bedside table. She groaned and rolled her eyes, sinking back onto the bed.

   “How’d I even end up here?” She asked, rubbing her face and looking down at the bandages on her elbow and knuckles.

   “You and Lee Jihoon got into a fist fight.” Minho said nonchalantly, striding over towards the bedside.

   “Huh?!” She exclaimed, staring at him in shock.

   “You headed to his favorite bar, got drunk. Argued over—I think—who was the better looking brother amongst us, then that clearly escalated.” He said, pointing at her bandages before reaching for the glass and pitcher of water.

   “You’re telling me, I actually hit Jihoon over a stupid drunken argument?” Y/N was still in disbelief.

   “Yeah, hair-pulling and all.” Minho shrugged with a soft chuckle, pouring the water and handing it to her.

   “You called me crying, saying you’d beaten him up and were scared he might die.”

Y/N covered her face in embarrassment, starting to remember bits and pieces of her “fun night” with that stupid Jihoon.

Then she recalled why she had gone with Jihoon in the first place and glared at Minho.

   “I’m sure it must’ve broken your heart to leave your new foreign friend and rush over to help stupid me right?” She jabbed.

Minho stifled another laugh, shaking his head because he knew exactly who she was referring to.

   “Why would it break my heart?” He crosses his arms over his chest.

   “I’m meeting Miss Son again for lunch.”

He watched her expression darken, brows narrowing as she glared at him.

   “That’s fine, I have to meet and apologize to Jihoon anyways.” She downs the water.

It was obvious.

Y/N was jealous.

But she’d never admit it.

He sighed, taking the empty glass from her.

   “If you keep hanging out with him, I’ll get jealous.” He said instead.

His response immediately made her grin, her usual sassy expression returning. Automatic fingers intertwined with his.

Ever so easy to please.

   “I had a question—” Minho began, his words cut short by her pull.

   “Am I close with Jihoon? Not really. He kept going on and on about a fun time so I just humored him—”

   “No, not that.” Minho laughed, shaking his head.

He sat up, playing with her fingers, a little reluctant to ask while Y/N blinked, waiting for him to continue.

   “If you were an old man, right…”

She narrowed her brows, wondering where this was going.

   “Let’s say you had to come up with a four-digit password. What would you set it as?” He asked.

Y/N thought for a moment, the room fell silent with Minho waiting for her response.

   “How old am I?” She countered.

   “In your seventies.”

   “Okay…um, probably something easy to remember, like—”

   “It’s not your birthday or an important anniversary,” Minho interrupted, completing her thought.

Y/N scratched her neck, thinking again. Truly confused.

   “Does this old man have a favorite person or someone important, like a wife or child? It could be their birthday.” She suggested.

Minho began to think but then cut himself off, his mind returning to last night.

“My favorite grandson.”

The woman in his grasp touched his arm, leaning in, bringing him out of his thoughts.

   “Who is this old man anyway?” She asked, genuinely curious.

He smiled and shook his head, brushing it off.

   “It was just a question to get your brain working after all that drinking.” He said playfully, poking her temple. He stood up, and she scrunched up her face.

   “I made breakfast, let’s eat before we have to part ways again.” He smiled at her, fingers gripping her wrist lightly.

Y/N knew it wasn’t just some question. Minho was clearly referring to Chairman Lee. And it had to have been weighing on his mind for him to ask her for help.

Y/N smiled back at him and followed.

It wasn’t something she would have to worry about.

She tried convincing herself.

───────────────────────

There Minho was again, a tall figure in the dark, his eyes locked on the safe’s buttons, illuminated only by the light of his cell phone.

It was much more challenging to sneak in this time. The last time, he had exploited the celebration of the newborn to slip into Chairman Lee’s study again. Finding another opportunity had taken a week and a half.

His grandfather was out with Son Hyungdon at some wineries and wouldn’t return until this evening. Minho was set to join them for dinner, so now was his only chance to access the safe.

Who knew when the old man would leave his office unattended again?

On top of that, he had to watch out for Secretary Cha. There was no time to waste.

His thoughts drifted back to Y/N’s comment about the old man’s favorite person. The possibilities of his safe combination, limited yet still a mystery.

Chairman Lee loved no one but himself. Minho found it hard to believe he had a favorite.

Yet the memory of the Chairman’s smile, the warm welcome at the party, and the words “my favorite grandson” rang in his ears.

It couldn’t be.

Still, Minho pressed the buttons

0-9-2-4

The safe beeped with an error sound.

He was disappointed, for some reason and let out a strained sighed in the dark. It would have been too easy for his birthday to be the password to such an important safe, even if he were the old man’s so-called favorite. Now he was convinced it was just sweet talk spewed in the presence of his friends.

The sound of footsteps jolted him from his thoughts. He turned his head toward the double doors, eyes darting around for a place to hide.

Shit.

The doors creaked open, and footsteps echoed across the tiles. The desk lamp was turned on.

It was Secretary Cha. The old man was always punctual, even on days he wasn’t trailing behind the Chairman.

Minho held his breath, pressing flat against the floor, peeking through a small crack between the desk and the sofa where he hid. The angle was perfect for watching the secretary’s actions.

Secretary Cha tidied the desk, sorting through some files. He picked up a few, then opened the cabinet and pressed the buttons with ease.

1-0-2-5

Minho frowned, trying to decipher the significance of these numbers to the Chairman. The secretary placed the files into the safe, pulled out a small flash drive, and tucked it into one of the corner compartments.

The safe locked with a quick click, and Secretary Cha turned off the lamp and left, closing the study doors behind him.

Minho remained hidden behind the sofa, waiting until the footsteps faded away. Slowly, he got up and approached the safe. Glancing back at the doors, he opened the cabinet door, turned on his phone’s flashlight, and aimed it at the keypad.

1-0-2-5

The light flashed green, accompanied by a different beep, and the safe opened.

Minho blinked, surprised. He knew the numbers represented days in a month, but what did they signify?

There was no time to ponder.

He pulled open the metal door of the locker, scanning the files inside. One was labeled “Lee Doyoung,” another “Lee Joohyeon.” The Chairman had a file on every family member, some thick, some thin.

Minho wasn’t surprised.

He had uncovered some dirt on his so-called family himself. There was even a file for him, but he had no interest in that. His fingers searched through the files until he found the one that had caught his attention. His hand froze as he read the name.

Yoon Sooyeon.

His birth mother.

Of course the bastard son knew who his mother was. He had been taunted throughout his childhood, his brothers teasing and bullying him, calling him names.

   “Dirty Blood”

   “Maid’s Son”

   “That Yoon Sooyeon must have bewitched my husband.”

All directed to a ten year old.

The file was thin compared to the others. Minho opened it, and his breath hitched.

A photograph.

He picked it up slowly, an unknown emotion spreading through his body as he took in the image of the woman.

This was his mother.

   “Yoon Sooyeon.” He whispered.

But the emotion vanished quickly, replaced by unease as he read the death certificate beneath the photo.

Yoon Sooyeon died on September 22nd. Two days before he was even born.

Minho’s heart raced, a tightening sensation in his chest. His mind struggled to process the information. He didn’t know whether to cry or be angry.

He was simply… confused.

How could his birth mother, the maid who had supposedly “bewitched” his father, have died before he was even born?

There had to be a mistake.

No, there must have been some error, either with the date of her death or his birth.

Then something clicked in Minho’s mind.

The passcode numbers.

Was he born a month after the date he’d celebrated his whole life?

Frustrated, he quickly rummaged through the files again, pulling out the one with his name on it, easily finding a copy of his birth certificate.

September, Twenty-Fourth

His parents were the people he’d known as his “mother” and “father” all his life.

But Minho wasn’t convinced. As he sifted through the old man’s collected information, he noticed his school certificates among the documents.

Number one in Math.

Number one in Science.

Number one in Politics.

He hadn’t realized he’d accumulated so many certificates.

His hand stopped flipping through the files as he pulled out a wrinkled, creased paper. Another birth certificate.

Lee Minho.

Born on October Twenty-Fifth.

The names of his parents, blacked out.

He wasn’t shocked. Just, more confused and lost. The deeper he dug, the more in the dark he felt. His gaze returned to the password keypad of the safe.

1-0-2-5.

His real birthday.

But that didn’t explain why Yoon Soo-Yeon’s death date was a whole month before his actual birth.

His brows relaxed, drawing a conclusion.

This woman… was not his real mother. The woman whose name had been imbedded into his head was not his birth mother.

Minho swallowed, trying to ease the dryness in his throat.

A shiver ran down his spine. His gut told him he wasn’t going to like what he was about to discover.

Did he truly wish to uncover such a truth?

───────────────────────

   “What do you mean pregnant?!”

Chairman Lee’s words was strained, shock and a hint of anger in his voice, his wide eyes fixed on the young assistant.

   “Yes. I’m pregnant and it’s your child.” The young assistant whispered, her voice trembling with nerves and fear.

The silence in the office was deafening, the then unretired chairman blinked, looking around as if unable to process what he was hearing. He should have known better.

What else did he expect after taking a fondness to the young assistant, who always drew his attention whenever she entered his office. It was clear now that it was all a ploy, planned to use her beauty and fragile words to catch his eye.

   “Get rid of it.” He said coldly, turning towards the window and sliding his hands into his pockets.

Her head shot up, eyes wide with disbelief.

   “How can you say that? It’s your child. You have to take responsibility!” She yelled, instinctively placing a hand over her stomach.

He turned swiftly at her stupid remark, his cold eyes locking onto hers.

   “What kind of responsibility? We were just having some fun. What do you want me to do? Marry you and tell the world I was seduced by a young secretary assistant only months after my wife passed away?”

Tears welled up in her eyes as she glared at him with disgust.

   “You shouldn’t have slept with me if you didn’t want to marry me.” She snapped, her face reflecting her anger.

The chairman strode forward and grabbed her by the neck, choking her. She clawed at his fingers desperately, gasping for air.

   “That’s not how the world works. If I’d known you were just trying to trap me into marriage, I would’ve dealt with you a long time ago.” He said, tightening his grip as her face turned red. She struggled to free herself.

   “Listen, like a good girl, and disappear from my sight.” He muttered as he finally released her.

She collapsed onto the floor, coughing profusely and clutching her neck, tears streaming down her face.

   “If you tell anyone about this, I’ll make sure you’re gone for good.” He warned, walking out of the room.

Secretary Cha hurried to his side as he exited his office.

   “Get someone to keep an eye on her. I don’t want another mess.” Chairman Lee instructed as he entered the elevator.

The chairman was already dealing with a mess created by his sons, who had soured relations with one of their major clients. A client he himself had built strong ties with years prior.

Upon his arrival at the Lee mansion, he was greeted by the loud screams of a young Jungshin yelling at his caretaker.

   “If you force me to eat I’ll get my father to fire you right away!” Young Joohyeon shouted, arms crossed over his chest.

The grandfather watched with a frown.

These spoiled brats.

He had thought he would be able to be at peace once his sons began slowly taking over the duties at the company. But he was hit with disappointment after disappointment, and looking at the spoiled grandchildren around the house, he couldn’t help but see a doomed future for L Corp.

A few weeks later, Secretary Cha entered his study and closed the door behind him, standing seriously in front of the chairman’s desk.

   “She ran away from the city and is headed towards her hometown.”

The chairman’s expression softened, recognizing who his secretary was referring to.

   “She hasn’t gotten rid of the baby.”

The room fell silent as the older man contemplated.

   “What do you want to do, sir?” Secretary Cha asked.

A sharp thought flashed across the chairman’s mind, his eyes almost lighting up at how brilliant it was.

   “Leave her.” Chairman Lee said.

He suddenly saw this as a chance to start over. A chance to raise another version of himself.

Chairman Lee had always been a conniving and calculating man. A businessman through and through.

   “How can I just waste it all now?”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ to be continued.

── ask to be tagged! - @minh0scat, @qwonyoung23, @tsunderelino, @thecutiepieme, @candyquokka

[fuck-customers]

This situation truly felt like the closest I've ever gotten to reenacting the L vs. Light from Death Note battle lmaoo I kept my cool and plausible deniability, but I was dying laughing internally.

(I think I've won the battle, btw. I'll have to wait and see. There's more to this war, though)

So, for background (and I've complained about this on this blog several times...sorry) my moron boss refuses to put price tags/signs on the products in the store, especially at the register. Considering I work in a retail store...this is obviously a problem. So I've made several attempts to get products priced, in varying degrees of extremity.

1. I made handmade signs/tags out of receipt paper/scratch paper and put them on the products around the register. (Candy, toys etc.) Braindead manager took them down.

2. All but 4 of the shopping carts at work are broken, but customers are stupid and still try to drag them halfway through the store and then abandon them or somehow blame me personally for them being broken. So I put signs on the broken ones and blocked them off. Dumbshit managers keep unblocking them and then customers try and fail to use them and abandon them throughout the store, rinse and repeat daily.

3. I then got the idea to go over my manager's head, but without having it fall back on me. Write to corporate. I originally started snatching receipts to leave negative reviews on the store survey, but that seemed to be a dead end, as the SM and DM are the ones who are supposed to read the surveys, but appear not to, as not a single thing was fixed in over 6 months of "customers" complaining weekly. (Usually at least 1 every 2-4 days)

4. I found a clearance price gun and tagged everything with it, even if it wasn't clearance. One way or another, it had a price on it, right? Of course the braindead moron took them off.

5. I then found actual price tags that were technically for different products, but had the same prices as our current candy, so I tagged the items with that. (For example, we'd have a tag for chocolate that we no longer carry that was $3.99 and we have some current chips on the shelf that are $3.99, so I'd just put the old tag for the current candy, since all customers need is the dollar amount and blacked out the old product description) These lasted longer than the previous attempts, but were ultimately taken down, but this is (hopefully) the turning point.

6. Just to really make sure something would change, a month or so after reusing old price tags, I (simultaneously, while also putting up old tags) made several fake emails posing as disgruntled customers and emailed corporate complaining about the lack of prices and the broken carts (among other things) at my specific location. (I did not name any specific employees or throw anyone under the bus. I just complained about the appearance of the store and any mention of employees was simply left at "the cashier" "the manager" etc. with no personally identifying info) I did this on the feedback section of the company website as well.

This all came to a head today when the braindead's mini-me (the ASM) pulled me aside before I clocked in today to basically call me out. She said that she knew that I was the one who put the handmade tags and also put "broken" signs on the broken carts and blocked them off. I, of course pretended not to know about it, because I'm not THAT stupid. But I'm not in trouble, because she has no real proof. (It was very much "I know that she knows and she knows that I know she knows lol) Anyway, she says (and we'll see about this) that new carts have been ordered and are on their way and also that she had to go around and undo all the tags (oh boohoo, she had to do her job, poor her) and will be putting real, correct tags on the products.

We'll see. In the meantime, "customers" are still going to leave bad reviews and contact corporate until changes are actually made for real. There are still other issues that need to be fixed, but are not as important as the lack of price tags and carts. (Such as the lack of price checkers, the shit radio music, the lack of employees, the dysfunctional inventory system, the bare shelves, the disorganized store, etc.)

Posted by admin Rodney

[arcadia-of-pluto]

Divisa; Two

Pairings; LADS OT4 x reader

Word count; 1, 771

Themes; reality hopping, alt universe (same universe but something is a little...different), doppelganger, multiple endings, slowburn

Warnings; Excessive swearing

Notes; Words with a " * " by them will be explained at the end of the chapter <3

Hey guys! Finally onto chapter 2 of Divisa! I could've made this longer, but I wasn't sure I'd have a stopping point if I continued so if the ending seems abrupt– that's why. Also, there will be a ton of posts today, none are too important. Just the Divisa Masterlist, the page to navigate to each character moodboard, annnd the five moodboards!

Now, please do bear in mind that the Love Interests moodboard will have spoilers pertaining to their backstories, so if you don't want to seem them, then look past the bio and look at the pictures I included! 🩷 I know I probably shouldn't post any spoilers for this since I'm only on chapter two and no character is fully fleshed out just yet but...I wanted to! If anything in their bio changes in the future, I just thought of something better. That's all.

prev || next

☆ Masterlist ☆

“What're you talking about?” Your brows knit toward and you try to grab the photo from him, but Sylus holds it above his head.

“Ezekiel L/n. Forty-five years old. His pregnant girlfriend went missing over twenty-three years ago when a rift opened in their downtown apartment complex.” The man finally decides to quit teasing you and sets the photo in your hand.

“He's been a Hunter for over twenty-six years, so it's hard to not know him.”

That's…odd. From your knowledge of the games, the first Deepspace Tunnel opened in 2034 with the Chronorift Catastrophe…so how come the dates are off?

You clear your throat, snatching your wallet back to tuck the photo back safe inside. “Well, I don't know him.” You look away from Sylus.

Something about this felt…

This whole ordeal felt off.

How the hell was your father from here?? If your mom clearly has pictures with this man, could it just be a coincidence? That, perhaps, your father just so happens to resemble this man?

“You don't know your own father?” Sylus hums, tapping his index finger against his temple.

“Never met him before.” You sigh, setting your coin purse onto the table. “Look, are you going to buy anything or not? I'm done talking about my family issues.” You cross your arms over your chest and you can tell Sylus is thinking about his response before there's a knock on the door.

One of the men walks over to Sylus, whispering something to him, and you hear Sylus click his tongue. “That damn fish…” He sounds annoyed, but he nods his head.

“Sure, let him in.”

“It appears you have another buyer.” Sylus waves his hand and the coin purse gets wrapped in a reddish black mist, before it floats into his hand.

As he opens the purse to look through the coins, a second person enters the room.

What in the main character luck…

A purple haired man dressed in a sleek suit waltzes over to Sylus, crossing his arms over his chest as he stands over the other man. “Were you trying to monopolize all of these rare artifacts?” The man clicks his tongue. “Seriously, Carrion*, you know I need antique coins for my showcase next month.”

“If I were the seller, Betta*, I wouldn't sell you a damn thing. Considering you ignored them.” Sylus glances up from your coin purse and jerks his head in your direction.

You were silent as the familiar purple-haired man turned to look at you. You knew your face was covered so he wouldn't immediately recognize you, but your body broke out in a cold sweat in fear that he might realize who you could be, just by looking at your eyes.

“Wait…” The man's eyes narrow as he takes the seat closest to you. “Can you..” He motions toward his face, miming the action of pulling down a mask. “You seem familiar.”

Your breath hitches in your throat and your eyes dart over to Sylus, coincidentally meeting his eyes and he chuckles. He shakes his head and pats Betta on the shoulder. “Tone it down a bit, yeah? She's in a bit of shock. Introduce yourself first before you scare off a big catch.”

“I'll use my real name then, if she's so worried. Rafayel.” He holds his hand out toward you and you grab his fingers, shaking his hand that way instead. “We use code names at the Nest, not that it matters since we have easily recognizable faces. Carrion is Sylus. But you can use a code name, if you want. It seems like you're a little worried about revealing your identity.”

“Ah…” you ponder for a moment before you finally make a decision on your codename. You definitely couldn't use your own name, so you settled on the nickname your mom gave you in the womb.

“You can call me Comet.”

“Alright then, Comet…So what had her so shocked?” Rafayel turns to look at Sylus and the white haired man pauses his search once more with an annoyed sigh.

“She was shocked to learn that her father is Ezekiel L/n.” Is all he says and Rafayel's head snaps in your direction.

“Wait, seriously?” He looks you up and down before you sigh and pull the photo back out. “So it is true…Wait. I know him. He commissioned a painting a while back and..” he taps his finger against the half with your mom on it.

“He wanted a painting of her. I finished it, but I could never find him again to hand it over.”

“Can I have it?” You can't stop yourself from asking and your hand quickly flies up to cover your masked mouth.

Rafayel chuckles, running a hand through his hair. “If I can find a 2000 Sacagawea, a 1947 Silver Walking Liberty half dollar, and a 2023 Silver Peace Dollar then I'll gladly give you it– as long as I don't have to pay for my coins.” He flashes you a smile. “Deal?”

“I have no idea what my grandma had, but if you can find what you're looking for…” You shrug, clasping your hands together. “Then, sure. It's a done deal.”

“Perfect. You're a lifesaver. My up-coming showcase is called ‘A glimpse into the Past’ and it's going to be filled with unique artworks based on antiques like those.” Then, Rafayel turns to grab the coin purse from Sylus, who promptly smacks his hand.

“Wait your turn, Betta.”

Seems like Sylus refuses to call Rafayel by his name…Either way, it's very odd to see the two of them interacting, however it makes sense. They're the only two that would ever step foot into the Nest, besides Xavier, of course.

“Has Velveteen* stopped by recently? I'm sure he'd love to find some air and space commemorative coins.” Rafayel speaks after he finally got his hands on your coin purse, dumping it out on the table in front of him to sift through the change.

“He just got done with a little hunter's mission, so I'm sure he's gone home for a nap.” Sylus taps his index finger against his temple before he looks through the bills in his hand.

Since all you could do was sit in silence, you could…theorize on who Velveteen is?

It's definitely a type of rabbit…and he's a hunter…and he takes a lot of naps…

There's no way they know Xavier, right?

Nah, that would be…Well, that would be crazy, but everything that's happened today could be considered crazy so it wouldn't be a long shot for Xavier and Velveteen to be the same person…

After a few hours of looking, you finally got your big paycheck. It was a surprisingly large amount of money, and you were left with no leftover coins or bills.

You tuck your cash filled wallet back into your back and stand up. As you do, Rafayel slips a business card into your hand.

“You have a phone, right?” As he asks, he takes his own out and looks at you expectantly. “You can come over to my studio and pick up the painting.”

“Ah…” You'd rather not risk running into yourself– Gemini – so after you type his number in and call him so he can save your number, you clear your throat. “I’d prefer to meet up at Meow’s cafe or in Azure Square, if that's alright.”

“Hmm? Oh, that's fine with me. See you later, Comet.” Rafayel pockets his phone and his three coins before he leaves.

You let out a sigh of relief and put on your backpack, getting ready to leave as well, but then a hand grabs your wrist. Your eyebrows furrow and you turn around with an annoyed look in your eyes before you realize Sylus is who grabbed you.

“You need something else?” You relax your face and glance down at his hand around your wrist.

“I saw you were looking for a place to stay. Try finding the Moonflower apartments. You might find what you're searching for there.” Sylus lets go of your hand with a small smile and you're left wondering what exactly he meant by that.

Once outside of the Nest, you first head to a convenience store to grab some essentials like food, a few drinks, a notepad, and a pen before you try to find a place to crash for the night.

As you walk down the sidewalk, a voice catches your attention.

“Excuse me, Miss?”

You turn in the direction and spot a woman. She looks about ten years older than your mom.

“Me?” You look around, pointing at your chest and she nods, beckoning you over.

While you felt this was a stupid idea, you decided to shove down your instincts and approach the woman. Once you were close enough, her hands darted out to grab your own.

“You seem familiar.” She questions. “You…don't appear to be from here.”

Your eyes widen and you try to pull away from her grip, but she's a lot stronger than she looks.

“What the hell is wrong with you!?”

Bop

“Ouch!” You cover your head with your hands as you pout. “Geez lady, what's your deal?” You rub the back of your head, your skull lightly throbbing from where she smacked you.

“You've got less manners than your mother.” She clicks her tongue, rubbing her palm with a thumb. She must've hurt her hand when she hit you– serves her right.

Wait–

“How did you know my mom?” You ask with a hand on your hip.

“I first met her twenty-four years ago on this very street.” The older woman muses. “She appeared just as confused as you are now…She reminded me of my late daughter, so I took her in for a few days. A few days turned to months…then a year. She told me everything. I was even by her side when she was pregnant with her–” she lightly hits your shoulder, “–ungrateful child.”

“I'm sorry, lady!” You hold your hands up in defeat. “I seriously didn't know who you were.”

“That's alright, dearie. I didn't expect you to…It was just an old crone's wishful thinking.” She laughs before it turns into a hacking cough. “Sorry, the name's Josephine. Enough with all of that, it seems you need a place to stay. Why don't you stay at your mom's old place? I haven't touched it since she left.”

“My mom's…place?” You echo her words. Your nails biting into your palm as your hand clenched into a fist and you quickly nodded your head. “Sure, where is it?”

“I'll take you there…It's room 013 at the Moonflower apartments.”

I know this is really short, but I'm hoping my moodboards and other posts will make up for it! <3 The next chapter will probably be around 2k or 3k, I'm not too sure yet. I've only barely started it.

I hope I didn't lose you on the old coins portion. I was looking up antique coins and I found a bunch of ones that would look pretty as artwork! You don't need to know what they look like to enjoy the story, though.

*Carrion— a species of crow, they're known to harass predators and competitors that come in their territory

*Betta— a type of fish, known for their aggressive personalities. These types of fish are also intelligent; able to make calculated decisions based on specific details

*Velveteen— a breed of rabbit, but also a children's story. This breed of rabbit is most active during dawn or dusk, and prefers to sleep during the day and evening; in the children's story, this rabbit is said to long for love and friendship.

Taglist; @ladyparamount , @the-love-of-my-life96 , @rui-drawsbox , @deputy-videogamer , @yoongi-tunes , @fallenfromgrxce , @msturi2u , @myheartfollower, @schwnapps

[delicateflowerss]

Don't Worry, Darling: Nine

After marrying the love of your life, Rafe Cameron, you thought you couldn't be happier. But when a murder shakes the island, you learn you don't know your husband as well as you thought. When does Paradise become Hell?

Warnings: 18+, mentions of past NON-CON, forced pregnancy, mentions of murder, mentions of drugging, violence, blood, dark!Rafe, kook!reader, non-canon ages

we are finally at the end, i can't believe it! thank you for reading and sticking with this series. please enjoy the final chapter <3

Series Masterlist

Word Count: 4k

The sound of your daughter’s cries barely registers with you.  It’s more so the tugging of your dress to get your attention. You would think it’s something a child would do, but it’s only your husband.

“I think she wants you,” is all he says as he hands her to you.

You’re surprised Rafe wanted to hold her at all, especially at an event like this. But you realize it’s his way of showing how good of a father he is.

At least, that’s how he wants to present to the world.

You try to soothe her cries but when nothing works, you end up apologizing to your friends and finding a quieter place inside.

Your daughter is only a few months old, but Rafe really wanted to go to Topper and Audrey’s end of summer barbeque.

You tried to think like him, that your daughter could handle it. That you could handle it.

But as you stare at her wailing face, the only thing that comes to mind is how you wish you could cry like that.

It’s all over the news. You can’t even look at your phone without seeing a text from someone, shocked that Rafe has been arrested, that he’s been accused of murder.

So you stopped looking at your phone.

You barely got a wink of sleep last night and you’ve been cleaning since you gave up on getting any more rest.

But even when you think you’re occupying your mind, it’s busying itself elsewhere. You can’t get rid of this sinking feeling you have in your chest, like it’s getting harder and harder to breathe.

At this point, you’re not even sure where it comes from.

You haven’t wanted to think about any of it, Rafe being locked away or the pills you found.

Anytime you start to think about that pill bottle, your mind goes to a horrible place. So, you stop, your mind deciding that you’d rather not think at all.

But you ‘ve only done so much mindless cleaning before that familiar sound of a pickup truck in your driveway stops you in your tracks.

It’s a smaller truck than your husband’s, older too. A company logo adorns the side of it.

You expect him to go to the backyard, maintaining the pool like he usually does. But instead, he walks up to your front door, forcing you to move away from the window you’re spying from, hoping he didn’t see you.

The doorbell rings and you consider not answering it.

But it’s like your body screams at you to open the door for him.

He doesn’t look any different when you finally face him, the same worn-out work clothes, and messy blond locks.

He looks almost surprised you even answered the door.

He says your name like it’s unfamiliar to him.

“What are you doing?” you ask, desperately needing to know.

“I just…I heard about…I heard about Rafe,” he finally spits out.

When he doesn’t get a word or a twitch of a muscle in your face from you, he sighs.

“I just wanted to see if you were okay. But I won’t bother you-.”

You can tell by the way he moves his feet that he’s going to leave, so you stop him.

“No. You’re not bothering me,” you explain, opening the door wider. “You want to come in?”

He hesitates only slightly, and a relief floods his eyes as he accepts.

“Can I get you anything? Water, lemonade, I just made some iced tea-.”

You open the fridge, ready to grab whatever he wants.

He stops you merely by saying your name.

“You don’t need to do any of that for me. I want to know how you’re doing.”

You let the fridge door close. You can feel that heaviness that occupies your chest starting to come back.

“I’m sure it was a shock,” he continues. “When he was arrested.”

“Yeah,” you mumble, gaze finding the floor beneath you.

You don’t even realize that your fingers play with a loose thread coming from your dress.

“I can’t believe he was able to get away with it for so long. Even had his own wife fooled.”

“You’re acting like I’m an idiot or something, JJ.”

You see his eyes widen.

“No. Not at all,” he quickly says. “It’s Rafe. He’s a fucking psycho.”

That doesn’t exactly make you feel better.

Your hands unconsciously move to your stomach.

“Sometimes I think I’m just as awful as he is,” you say like you’re thinking aloud.

You look at JJ but it’s almost like you’re looking past him.

He shakes his head and scoffs as if you’ve said something stupid.

“I just feel like if I’m awful too, then what chance do they have?”

JJ freezes then, his eyes finding your tearful ones. A question lingers on his face as he drags his eyes to where your hands are – on your stomach.

He raises his eyebrows. “You’re pregnant?”

All you can do is nod.

“Shit,” he sighs out, running his hand through his hair.

He takes a moment to think, eyes anywhere but you. But they finally find you again.

He gives you an almost pained look before stepping closer to you.

He lets out a ragged breath before saying, “that baby is very lucky to have you as a mom. And I’m sorry if Rafe ever made you feel differently.”

You try to blink away the tears, but instead they fall down your cheeks.

“I just don’t know how everything could go so wrong. And all at once,” you add.

“Just know that you’re not alone. I’ll do anything I can. Also, I’m sure Sarah-.”

“Thanks, JJ,” you interrupt by hugging him.

For a moment, all the noise in your head is gone. There is no sinking feeling in your chest anymore. You can feel his arms wrap around you.

But the serene silence is replaced with an even worse feeling than the one before as you hear the front door being opened.

Fear.

You step back from JJ quickly as if you were burned by being too close to him.

Neither of you are fast enough to get out before he finds you.

“What the hell is this?”

Pure poison drips from his words as he looks between you and JJ.

You’re surprised to find JJ not even a bit scared to see Rafe, now a known murderer. Instead, he looks like he’s gearing up for a fight.

That doesn’t exactly help the mix of fear and worry that paints your face.

“They let you out of jail already?” JJ asks. “Surprising considering you killed two people. But that’s what enough money gets you, huh?”

Rafe seethes from JJ’s taunts, jaw ticking and brow furrowing. He’s spent one night in jail, and he already looks just a little rougher. His hair is messy, and his shirt is wrinkled.

“What the fuck are you doin’ in my house?” Rafe yells, practically lunging toward JJ.

JJ steps out of his way, trying to get closer to the front door.

“Rafe, stop! I invited him,” you try to explain.

“And why the hell would you do that?”

“Because!” You pause for a moment. “Because he’s been cleaning our pool for months.”

“What?” Rafe squints at you, anger pointed toward you now. “So, you’ve been lying to me?”

“I wasn’t lying. You never asked.”

“Have you been cheating on me too?” an accusatory tone in his voice.

“No,” you quickly reply.

“Like I would believe a word you say now.” He turns to JJ again, who has been torn between bolting and trying to help you.

“Have you really been cleaning our pool, or have you just been fucking my wife?” he asks him.

“Rafe,” you yell, disgusted by his words.

He inches closer to JJ, a hard glare set on a face that matches his own expression.

You see how Rafe’s fingers flex, forming into a fist every now and then.

You walk up to them, saying your husband’s name again. You’ve been able to get through to him before, but you don’t think you’ve seen him this furious, ever.

Of course, he ignores you.

“Is this you getting back at me, JJ? For all those times I beat the shit out of you. Cause I can do it again.”

“Rafe, stop it,” you try again.

You grab his arm, hoping it would stop him from punching JJ.

JJ just laughs.

“Wow, man. And Y/N really thought you changed.”

Now you feel like you’ve been the one punched in the gut.

“Just leave, JJ,” you tell him, knowing it’s the only way to keep a fight from happening.

He looks at you, a mix of worry and hurt in his eyes. You think he might argue with you but after a moment, he turns to Rafe.

“I don’t know why, but she really loves you,” he says, giving one last glare to Rafe before slipping through the front door.

“Get the hell outta here, JJ,” Rafe yells at the back of JJ’s head as he walks to his parked truck.

You wish you could feel more relief now that a fight has been averted, but that was just one fight. You know there’s another on the horizon.

“You know,” he starts. “I was really hoping to be coming home to some peace and quiet. Especially, after the night I had.”

His voice getting louder with each word, an anger passing through every syllable.

You can barely look at him, so you don’t.

“Do you know the filth I had to sleep in last night? Actually, I shouldn’t say that. I barely slept at all. And the whole time, you’re here, letting another man in my house.” He jabs his finger into his chest. “No, not a man,” he corrects himself. “A Pogue.”

You can feel your bottom lip trembling.

He digs his nails into the palm of his hand as he brings it to his face. It almost looks like he’s fighting off a migraine, and if he is, you know you’re the cause of it.

“I mean, is the baby even mine?”

“Of course, it’s yours. Why would you even say that?”

He throws his arms in the air, like the answer is obvious.

“I didn’t sleep with him, Rafe! I’ve never cheated on you. JJ is just a friend,” you try to convince him.

But it’s hard to convince someone you’re not lying, even when you’re telling the truth.

“A friend? The pool boy is a friend?” he asks, appalled you would say something like that.

“He’s friends with your sister. Doesn’t that mean anything?”

“Doesn’t mean anything good,” he simply says before walking upstairs.

You follow him, still upset that he thinks you’re lying.

“I need to take a shower,” he tells you, throwing his stuff down on the dresser in your bedroom.

“You don’t get to be mad at me, Rafe. I should be the one who’s mad.”

“And why is that?”

“Look around!” You wave your hands around wildly. “Our house, our life, our marriage, it’s a mess, Rafe. And it’s all your fault.”

“My fault. My fault?” He moves away from the bathroom, getting closer to you. “I was helping us, Y/N. The promotion was to give us more money, and everything else I did was to protect you. To protect our family.”

“Whatever,” you scoff. “You didn’t know I was pregnant when you were protecting your family.

Rafe casts his eyes downward, finding a spot on the floor to be more interesting.

“Right? You didn’t know I was pregnant,” you repeat. “Cause there really wouldn’t be a way for you to know before I did,” you say, knowing you’re actually asking a question.

Finally, he nods. “Yeah, I didn’t know.”

He still doesn’t look at you.

And for some reason, it shatters you. You feel like a million pieces on the floor, needing to be swept up and thrown away.

“What did you do, Rafe?”

You can hear yourself breaking, losing any grip you had on your sanity, dignity, and your hopeful delusion.

You don’t exactly know how, but you know he’s lying to you, and you know it has something to do with the night of Midsummers. The night you can’t remember putting yourself to bed. It has to do with the dream you had and the pills you found. It’s just taken this long to admit it to yourself.

“Please tell me you didn’t do something,” you plead.

The silence is suffocating.

He’s killed two people. Why is it hard for you to realize that he could do something just as evil, if not more?

“Rafe!”

“What?” He finally meets your gaze. “What do you want me to say? I’ve told you that everything I did, I did it for us. I don’t know why you can’t see that.”

You don’t think you can look at him for another second without being violently ill.

Once you storm downstairs, he’s right on your heels, not letting you leave his sight.

You can hear him trying to justify his actions, explaining, but it just sounds like noise to you.

You’re not exactly thinking, more so acting on impulse, on the emotions clouding your mind.

On the kitchen counter, sits the knife block. You barely think about it as you grab the sharpest knife out of the bunch.

He has to step away from you to avoid the knife grazing him. You wave it at him, pointing the shiny steel directly at him – his chest, his neck, somewhere he really wouldn’t want to get stabbed.

“You raped me!” The words erupt out of you. “You drugged me, and you raped me. Tell me I’m wrong.”

His blue eyes widen with shock and traces of fear. He keeps his hands up. His palms open to show that he’s defenseless.

A sick part of you feels satisfied to see him be the one who’s scared and weak.

“Calm down, okay?”

“No! Answer me,” you yell, voice coarse.

“Not until you put the knife down.”

His unusually level tone chips away at your anger and your stubbornness. You readjust your grip on the knife as you glance away from him for a second.

That’s all he needs in order to roughly grab your wrist and to push you into the kitchen counter behind you.

You groan out in pain as your back hits the edge of the marble. Rafe is able to pry the knife out of your hand, also painfully.

You hear the knife clatter to the ground as you realize you might need to admit defeat.

He keeps your body pinned with his, his grasp still on your wrist, meaning you can’t move away from him.

“I can’t rape my own wife.” His tone is cold, and it almost sounds like it comes from a man who only looks like your husband but isn’t actually him. “When I put that ring on your finger, it meant I could crawl on top of you and do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted.”

Your tears don’t stop him.

“What is in between your legs is mine. So that means if I want to get you pregnant, it is my right to do that.”

He pauses, the only sound are the sobs you try to stop from coming out.

“All of this went on for way too long,” he continues. “I didn’t mind you having a job at first, it made you happy, it gave you some semblance of control.”

You wince as his grip on your wrist gets tighter.

“But I didn’t think it would get in the way of us having a family,” he continues. “I didn’t think you would choose it over me.”

You shake your head, wanting to say something, but nothing cohesive can be formed in your head right now.

He lets go of your wrist, taking your hand in his instead.

“All I did…” he pauses, kissing the back of your hand while still holding it. “…was show you what you really wanted.”

“Get off me, Rafe,” you say quietly. But when he doesn’t move, you push him with all your strength and yell, “get off me!”

He looks at you like a wounded puppy, like he feels rejected by you, like he doesn’t know how fucked up what he just said was.

You move back, trying to put enough space between the two of you. You’re still crying, tears streaming down your face as your chest heaves.

You try to speak through ragged breaths.

“I really thought you could have become a good person, Rafe. I really thought all that violence, all that bullying, was just you being young and stupid. But it’s who you are, and you can’t change it.”

You notice his eyes filling with tears before he sniffles, glaring at you to try and prevent any crying.

You continue, “I should have known that you can’t change someone who has a soul so dark, that they suck all the light out of anyone they’re close to. And that’s what you did to me. And that’s what you’ll do to this baby.”

The sobs have stopped, rage replacing the heaving.

“So, you might have been bailed out by your father. But there’s no way you’re not going to prison. Or worse,” you add. “I’ll tell them everything. I’ll make sure that they find you guilty. And I’ll be glad. I’ll be glad that you’ll be far away from me.”

You stare at him, a scowl written on his face until it morphs into laughter.

“And how is that going to work out for you? I’ll tell them everything also.”

He steps closer to you, and you can feel that suffocation again.

“I’ll tell them how you helped me hide the body. How you’ve known for weeks, how you’ve lied to the police and lied to everyone you know. You think they’re not going to send your ass to prison too?” He flashes his teeth at you. “And believe me, you wouldn’t last a day.”

He walks around you, like a predator circling its prey.

“But if you do manage to last,” he continues. “They’ll let you give birth in prison. Then, it’s bye-bye baby. My parents will probably adopt, but even when you get out, doesn’t mean they’ll let you see the kid.”

He stops in front of you, darkness filling his eyes as he sees fear fill yours.

“You’ll never have custody. Your child probably won’t even call you mom.”

“Stop, Rafe.”

“So, if you do what you say you’re going to do, that baby isn’t going to have any parents.”

You can feel your stomach twisting and your chest getting tighter. You don’t want to go to prison, you don’t want to lose your baby, and you absolutely don’t want your in-laws raising your child to be just like Rafe.

You finally look at him, meeting his gaze.

“I don’t want that to happen.”

Your voice barely sounds like your own, it sounds tired and worn-out.

“And I’m not going to let that happen,” he says, a concern in his voice that wasn’t there before, so you wonder if he feigns it. “But you need to be on my side, alright?”

You would rather gouge your eyes out than be on his side, but what other choice do you have?

“Neither of us are going to prison,” he explains. “But that means, someone else killed those guys.”

You furrow your brow, not understanding what he means.

“JJ killed those guys.”

“What?”

“He’s had this revenge plot against me,” he says it like he’s telling the truth. “For all those stupid fights, he decided he wanted to get back at me. So, he became our pool boy, got access inside our house, and framed me. Used my gun, left evidence, just so the police would come after me.”

“What are you talking about?” you ask, in denial, that this is actually Rafe’s plan.

“It’s the perfect story, Y/N. Come on.”

“Rafe, I know you think something happened between-.”

He stops you by softly putting his hands on your shoulders.

“I know nothing happened between you and JJ,” he says calmly. “But he’s the only person that has been to our house. Every week, right? And right around when the first murder happened.”

“Rafe. I’m not putting an innocent man in jail. He’s a good person.”

He just shakes his head.

“It’s either him or us. We have a life, Y/N. A baby on the way.” Rafe’s voice rises with a familiar anger. “What does JJ have? He’s never going to be anything. We’re doing him a favor.”

You close your eyes momentarily, and when you open them, your vision of Rafe is blurry.

“I don’t love you anymore. And if you do this, I know I’ll never love you again,” you tell him as a tear falls onto your lips.

He thinks for a moment before bending down and placing a kiss on your stomach.

He stands to his full height, looking down at you.

“At least, I won’t be in prison.”

You thought you would never be able to do this. To be able to go back to the way things used to be.

Except, things will never be the way they used to be.

Now all you do is pretend. And it makes you wonder if that is what you were doing all along.

Your wrist grows tired from stirring the mashed potatoes. You think you may have been stirring for too long. Your mind and your arm aren’t connected.

It’s almost like you’re a machine, programmed to do the same things every day.

You lock eyes with your daughter who sits in her highchair.

You feel a spark of joy somewhere deep inside.

The fact is you were never the same after that day.

But you did what you were taught, to push down any emotions, to pretend that everything is okay.

Your testimony helped an innocent man be sent to prison for the rest of his life. You watched Rafe lie through his teeth so JJ would be the one taking his spot.

Normally, something like that would make you sick, make you so angry you couldn’t think straight.

But not now.

You thought it would be hard to let Rafe touch you again. You thought you would be reminded of the night you barely remember anytime you could feel his skin on yours. But you just taught yourself to think about it differently, or not at all.

If he hadn’t done it, you wouldn’t have your daughter. You know he loves you. He loves you so much it makes him crazy. That’s what you think about when he’s on top of you at night, thrusting into you so hard it almost hurts.

But that’s what love is, it hurts.

Sometimes, you wonder if you’ll snap one day. Maybe five years from now, it will be Rafe’s murder that everyone will see on the news.

You might not even care when they take you away, handcuffed. You might even feel happy.

But those thoughts are fleeting.

You know Rafe is home because your daughter’s attention is finally taken from you.

She smiles when he steps into the kitchen.

And it almost makes you smile.

“It smells good in here,” he comments.

“It’s almost done.”

“Good. I’m starving. I had such a busy day at work,” he sighs, setting his things down.

“You’ll have to tell me all about it.”

The oven beeps, and before you can open it, Rafe stops you with a hand on your waist.

“Is that a pot roast in there? How did I get so lucky?” he asks against your lips before kissing them with brutal affection.

You meet his roughness, nicking his lip with your teeth in the process.

He pulls back, a bead of crimson pours from his lip.

If there is love between you and Rafe, this is what it is – dark, bloody, and violent for everyone around.

Tags:

@fangirlwithlou @thebuttofcaptainamerica @lovedetlost @kkmstblog @whorefordrew @gillybear17 @alinaharlow @nichmeddar @coriellesmarya @rafeslovergirl @hysteriahall @loves0phelia @igotmessymind @djconde58 @imsorare @bbqsauceonmyt1tties @hotch-meeeeeuppppp @malfoytargaryen @craftyalmondghostflap @maggiec @fulla02 @starkeylover @brunetteonearth @lovurry @ohemgeewhat @babyspice6 @lmg-stilinski24 @f4ll-for-you @deems-16 @rgeraldg @ellabellabus07 @mryneedend @gills-lounge @klips118 @runningfrom2am @ilovesteveharrngton @obaex @spear-bearing-bi-witch @bellstwd @hehehehesthings

[yiffos-official]

I am willing to give you or anyone else on tumblr the skills and advice the helped me get my dream job

the idea of working for TEK a few months ago would just be a fantasy

my background in education is English. I learned what I know now on my own and only by random chance.

This is why I am so critical of the linux commumity on tumblr.

They're tagging themselves as -official when they can't provide casual end user support.

They're entirely too horny to be in this sphere. Computers and linux should not be about how much you want to fuck/be fucked by X

it will deter end users

This is very cool that you will help other tumblr users with this stuff; i may actually take you up on this at some point :3

(my tone here is /g, /pos, /nm, /lh)

I do, however, kind of disagree with the other points. I think that for any other social media it's correct, twt or fb does not have the culture to make these sorts of parody accounts viable or not-counter-productive to increasing the linux market share. But I don't think that tumblr is the same.

I think that tumblr does. I think the tumblr community has always been this somewhat ephemeral yet perpetual inside joke culture where almost every user is in-the-know, and new users to the joke are able generally able to catch on quickly to it due to their general understanding of they way tumblr communities operate.

IMO, it's a somewhat quick pipeline of:

\> find first "x-official" blog -> assume it's real -> see them horny posting about xenia -> infer that RH corporate would probably not approve of such a blog

I can appreciate that it might be intimidating to seek out help as a new linux user, and especially a new linux & tumblr user, but looking through these blogs, you do see them helping out people ^^. heck, my last post was helping someone getting wayland working on an nvidia system.

The main goal of these blogs is not to be a legitimate CS service to general end-users. they aren't affiliated with the software their blog is named after, so in many cases they *cant*. The goal is instead to foster a community around linux, creating a general network of blogs of the various FOSS projects that they enjoy.

I think that final sentiment, of these blogs detering end users, is most likely counter to their actual effect on end users who are considering switching to linux.

We all know a lot of tumblr is 20 or 30 something year olds who have just stuck around since ~2012ish, and new users to tumblr join with pre-existing knowledge of the culture and platform. Almost anyone coming across these blogs are going to be people who can see the "in" joke, and acclimate. I do highly doubt that a random facebook mom who's son convinced her to install mint on her old laptop would find tumblr, find a -official blog, scroll through said blog, and be detered from using mint.

The other side of this is that any tumblr users who come across these blogs, be it with an inkling of desire to switch to linux or not, will see a vibrant and active community that fits very well into the tumblr community. They remember, or have heard of, the amtrac & OSHA blogs, and are therefore probably aware that this is a pre-existing meme on here.

In all likelyhood, this will probably further incentivize them to make the switch, as they would be more attracted to a community of their peers over a community of redditors telling them to read the arch wiki repeatedly

I can, on the other hand, definitely see that for people who have difficulties with parsing tone, and especially sarcasm, would have trouble with this. TBH, I have these difficulties (hence when I was speaking to you yesterday I used the /unjerk indicator, as I couldn't tell what the tone of the conversation was), and so it took me a little while of being in this weird "I'm 99% sure these *aren't* official, but what if?". I have been there forI think that maybe being more transparent with the fact that the blogs are parodies is probably important. I'm guilty of this, and after i post this, i'll add it to my bio.

[grapesrsogood]

After Xanthus turned Love (a phew months later)

Just a short drabble that i thought up and decided to try out writing :3

After writing this: YALL ARE GOING TO DIE FROM THIS TOOTH ROTTING FLUFF IM TELLING YOU NOW

Masterlist here

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Im thinking that maybe we should paint the room a dark green colour? Oh, and we could paint the shutters a darker green to complement it!” I stand beside Xanthus in our new bedroom, we had bought a house a phew weeks back to continue our fresh start together and are considering what colour scheme would work best.

I continue on my rant as i walk around the room aimlessly, “a dark wood book case would look lovely in the corner and having a desk too would be nice,” my excitement grows and i feel Xanthus’s gaze on me as i practically prance around the room, pointing out possible decor and furniture styles.

I giggle to myself, feeling like a kid waking up on their birthday, exited for the day ahead. I turn to look at Xanthus and he’s already looking back, his eyes soft and holding a look that i recognise as intrigue or maybe confusion, he seems to have that look in his eyes more frequently recently.

I move closer to him and turn my whole body to face his, “whats up hun?” I ask as i tilt my head, a soft smile making its way onto my lips and i continue to gaze back at my lover.

“How do you do it?” He finally speaks and im slightly taken aback by his question, “what do you mean?” I ask in return and he looks to the side for a moment.

“You are practically glowing, as you usually are. Your smile is still warm and the comforting tone in your voice hasn’t wavered at all. You are still the same embodiment of life that you were when i first saw you and you are still filled with the same compassion and love, you arent cold or distant or predatory in any way even though your humanity has been stolen from you. I dont feel as though the bond is gone because i still have you, the same you and the you that loved me and saw the good in everybody around you. How do you do it? How are you still so you, when you’re like… me…” his words trail off into silence and my eyes dont leave him for a second, untill his finally meet mine. I bring a hand up to his cheek and he rests his jaw on my palm, bringing his own hand up to cradle mine.

“Xanthus… i love you. Thats never going to change, even if im undead. My humanity doesnt define me, just as being a vampire doesnt either. I choose to love and feel happy and feel alive because even if im not, the world around me is and i want to live with it. Im alive in my heart, and so are you. You love me, you care for people, that isnt proof of your humanity. Thats proof of your life! Thats proof that despite what you’ve been through and what you’ve seen or done, you can still take a breath and appreciate the world around you, the people around you. I refuse to let myself go over something such as death. I dont care because im still myself at heart and thats what really counts.” I dont break eye contact as i see his eyes begin to water and he brings his other hand up to cover his eyes.

“Xanthus, you dont need to hide your emotions, you can pretend being turned changed you, that it took away your right to feel things, but thats not true! You feel just as much as any human. You love just as much as any human. Don’t let any outdated stereotypes about vampires being heartless monsters change that,” i gently tug his hand down and watch as a single tear rolls down his cheek.

He finally talks again, his words wavering and he practically whispered to me, “i love you too.”

I pull him into me carefully, as he buries his face into my neck, soft and quiet sobs coming from him occasionally and his arms tighten around me. I realise then that Xanthus, a 400 year old vampire that claims to be a wise, unfeeling being of the shadows, was simply a man who hadnt felt comfort for over three centuries and just needed a person to really see him for who his is and not what he is to finally feel again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

SUPER SHORT BUT AGHHHHH

I LOVE THIS >v<

Words are so fun teehee

Apologies for any mistakes, its late and i want to post this now so i’ll read over it again in the morning

BAIIIIII

[ms-demeanor]

how do you factor brushing your teeth into the "letting yourself fall asleep while doing stuff" strategy?

Well let's preface this with the fact that I'm kind of a disaster:

I brush my teeth in the morning.

Sometimes I'll brush my teeth right after dinner (and I'm usually finishing dinner at like 10pm) and then I'll be up for another few hours and I just. Like. Try not to sweat it? I probably brush my teeth around 10-12 times a week, which is less than the recommended twice a day but honestly for me is a pretty significant improvement over where I was in, like, 2013. Getting to daily tooth brushing was a significant achievement that I had to start using an activity tracking app for. Washing my face daily is still a struggle. I am *not* great at being what a lot of people seem to consider "normal" or "functional" but I'm getting by and I'm getting better.

Ideally in a perfect world where brushing my teeth wasn't going to mean that I'd be awake for another three hours I'd brush my teeth right before tucking myself into bed in my PJs with the lights off.

But it *is* going to mean that so I brush my teeth and floss when it's not going to impact that and fall asleep in a bright room with my glasses and jeans on.

And TBH it's working out. I've got pretty fucky teeth anyway (double row of wisdom teeth, teeth when i was a couple weeks old, had all my adult teeth by the time I was seven, have had something like eight root canals and have a shitload of crowns) so it's hard to say if this has had an impact on my dental health (had a lot of those crowns and root canals when I was brushing and flossing twice daily because my parents made me as a kid) but since my last "i haven't been to the dentist in nine years and my damaged tooth broke in half during the first month of covid" fiasco I've been brushing every morning and flossing mostly every morning and getting in extra brushing and flossing when I can, I haven't had any further cavities or other issues past treating what nine years of neglect did (it's been 3 years of being pretty okay and they don't tell me that i need to floss more at the dentist so i consider that a success).

At one point a dentist told me that plaque buildup starts after about 24 hours of the bacteria in your mouth being undisturbed and that the 2x daily recommendation is to make sure you don't go 24 hours without shaking the little fuckers up. I don't actually know if that's accurate, but it has helped me to be more regular about brushing my teeth (look; depression and adhd is a bad combo and there were some rough years there) and also helped me to be more regular about brushing my dog's teeth.

So anyway please don't follow my example please do what your dentist tells you to do but also yeah if you're having sleep issues it may be more important for you to get sleep than to get up and brush your teeth right away. Brush in the mornings for sure, try to do it every day, use a toothpaste with fluoride and floss or use a waterpik to get below the gumline; then try to get in another brushing when you can, ideally at least one other time a day.

But you don't have to brush exactly twelve hours apart or right before you go to bed, and if you're eating and drinking after you brush your teeth but before you go to bed it isn't ideal but it also isn't a disaster.

[mixtapedoh]

vernon as highschool crush pls for lonely boy 🧍‍♀️

vernon my bestie beloved bastard ♡ you really are requesting for the people, lindsay.

;༊ — lonely boy

pairing: hansol vernon chwe x gn!reader genre: fluff, high school au word count: ~3.3k warnings: language, mild threats among friends, a lack of originality (but perhaps ameliorated by an understanding of the conventions of trope?)

olive's notes: firstly, hahaha.......... pretend like this wasn't something you sent me actual months ago.... and pretend like i gave the prompt the justice it deserves....... shhhhhh, i answer things in a timely manner and can still be considered a tumblr writer. secondly, this is quite glaringly based off of and colored by my memories of high school, so expect United States education system nonsense <3.

☄. *. ⋆ hansol vernon chwe x high school crush.

— the hardest thing about crushing on this fucker is that he's everywhere

simultaneously the biggest cryptid in the whole student body (if you had a nickel for every time your journalism teacher asked: "has anyone seen hansol this week?" to absolute crickets you'd be able to pay for at least 2 years of college) and also the most social person to ever grace your high school halls, hansol was everywhere all at once, and contradictorily, nowhere when you sought him out.

you wanted to avoid seeing him because of something embarrassing you were sure he had noticed? bam. right there beside you, sitting on the same row of auditorium seats for the assembly.

you wanted to catch a glimpse of him while the both of you were assigned to photograph the basketball game? viola. gone, nowhere to be seen; and yet your friend will tell you later that he was there the whole time, snapping the best photos of boo seungkwan's legendary 3-pointers (which you certainly hadn't missed, so where had he been??).

— yes, having a crush on hansol vernon chwe was exhausting. there was no way to save face — trust hansol to be there at your worst hours (like that chemistry presentation where the color palette you used for your PowerPoint was too light for the old projector screen to show properly, and so you half of your graphics were unreadable, inspiring your professor to dock 10 points, despite that fact that when you pulled it up on a computer screen - or any other device that wasn't an old ass projector at least 15 years out of date - the graphics were just fine and the detail above required). it didn't matter the specifics of the occasion, it was simple fact you'd always somehow manage, in your darkest moment, to look out and see hansol — always a kind smile, with something encouraging in his eye, despite, but still horribly, embarrassingly, and irrevocably present.

— and then, as it if weren't bad enough, hansol vernon chwe had the absolute gall to be unbothered, unfazed, unable to be rattled or shaken in any way, by comparison.

oh sure, you'd seen him cringe before at him friend's (mostly kwon soonyoung's) antics; you were familiar with the way vernon expressed any and all emotion with the whole of him — his every muscle tensing and twisting in a way so visceral and real, you could feel embarrassed, too, by just looking at him — but the envy was this: it was never at his expense that such feelings would arise. vernon was never embarrassed because of something he did or caused or felt. his life was far too chill and unbothered for that. others could be embarrassing around him, but all of his actions flowed so smoothly — rolled over the shoulders of everyone else.

the closest he'd ever get was doing something explicitly stupid just for the enjoyment of others. but, the catch was this: they enjoyed it !!!! it was funny and not cringe worthy !!!!! the net effect was positive.

it was infuriating. sometimes you weren't sure if you wanted to kiss hansol or strangle him with your bare hands.

— but let's take things back to journalism.

— because of course he took journalism.

not exactly the most exalted of the journalism students or anything, hansol was mostly known for his opinion piece articles and, of course, availability and willingness to go to any school event to take pictures and help fill in the blanks of the article anyone was writing.

he had friends in any and all school functions and events. from sports to musicals, science fairs to choir recitals, you could say, "is anyone going to this very obscure and random FBLA presentation?" or "did you know that the coding club is going to be attending an event at another high school this saturday?" and hansol would immediately perk up, pull out one of his headphones and go, "yeah, i'm gonna check it out. did you need a ride?"

— and it was because of that — his being everywhere, inescapable and offhandedly thoughtful, open and so easily warm — that these pesky feelings even started, in the first place.

— just when it happened is perhaps inconsequential (in all actuality, it likely started before your journalism daily exposure, just slowly, more of an itch at the back of your mind than the brash insistence it was, now) but it was definitely the fault of journalism. maybe that band and orchestra festival in 11th grade where you went with hansol to do a write up on all the high schools attending (placing undue emphasis on your high school's multi-talented band leader, lee jihoon, who could play half the instruments in the room), or maybe that series of debate tournaments you both covered in 11th grade, or when the two of you took over the baseball column that same year and when the heatwave spiked early, vernon would attend each game in sleeveless tops, always with an extra ball cap in tow since you would (conveniently, perhaps?) forget one of your own and the sun made it impossible to see what was happening, beyond.

yes, just when it hit was neither here nor there, because at the end of the day, the problem remained: you were hopelessly down bad for one hansol vernon chwe. fuck.

— and you couldn't escape him if you tried.

and trust me, at one point, try, you had.

— after all, at the beginning of your senior year, you somehow ended up being in the same spanish class as him and his friend joshua, and after a whole year (and subsequent summer break, when your journalism teacher found an opportunity to have a section of the city newspaper be dedicated to "the youth of journalism," and weekly, your journalism club was able to publish in the city newspaper) of crushing on hansol with a vehemence perhaps concerning, you knew you couldn't handle having to have embarrassing debates, conversations, and role play scenarios with him.

in perhaps two weeks you were in the counselor's office, exploring alternate class blocks. in the end, you were stuck in a ceramics course instead of your preferred electives, but at least when the unit on "la familia, el amor y todo lo interpersonal" came up, you were role playing as a couple alongside jeon jungkook, who couldn't stop making you wheeze with laughter from his overextention of the r at every available chance, rather than your crush, hansol.

(all it would have taken was one "te extraño" from hansol through your fake hand phones to absolutely floor you. someone call the school nurse, you're fallen and perhaps can never get back up again.)

— so you avoided him there, and even before that, during your junior year, you had mostly eaten off campus on your second schedule days when you and hansol had the same lunch hour and the risk of running into him at a time potentially embarrassing was at an all time high, seeing as nowhere was safe — the social butterfly he was, hansol managed to have business in every hallway of the school. not a single area was risk free.

yeah, junior year really had just been a mess of emotions you hadn't wanted to name, and so instead, elected to pointedly ignore. you were glad to say that while spending your hard earned money to eat out 2-3 times a week was a bit of a low, you had solidly moved out of that phase of your life by spring that year, and could stomach the risk of Being Seen by someone who had captured your attention so strongly.

and yeah, even though you had a bit of a backslide when changing spanish classes senior year (which could be chalked up to self-preservation, truly), you had solidly moved past that whole Avoidance Stage of your Crippling Crush on One Hansol Vernon Chwe.

— so hansol couldn't be avoided. that much was abundantly clear. and you had to interact with him in journalism and (god willing) be normal while doing so, and luckily, while all that exposure didn't exactly desensitize you to his overwhelming charm, admirable confidence, infectious smile, endearing jokes, comfortable aura, and oh so beautiful eyes, it had forced you to just,,,,,,, accept some things.

— accept that you had a raging crush on hansol, but that it could be managed... so long as none of your mutual friends found out.

— you were pretty sure that wonwoo knew, but at least he was ✨subtle✨ and generally checked out of things like that. genuinely, he could not care less, and so he made it no one's problem. you could probably tell him your most rancid, vulgar thoughts, and he would just file it away in his mind as: "nasty shit i can never unhear" and go about his day. compare that to your other mutual acquaintance, seungkwan, and well...

— but for the most part, it seemed that senior year was inching away, another year with a crush on hansol, and another year where you didn't say a damn thing and refused to leave anything close to a hint for him to pick up on.

— but mercy didn't exactly exist for you, now did it.

— the horrible series of Epic Fumblings and Incriminating Moments began in october, when hansol and joshua decided to make a podcast to convince the school that an AV club could be a fun addition to the roster of School Sanctioned Clubs (an idea they really should have had back in august

— the horrible series of Epic Fumblings and Incriminating Moments began in october, when hansol and joshua decided to make a podcast to convince the school that an AV club could be a fun addition to the roster of School Sanctioned Clubs (an idea they really should have had back in august — you know, when clubs were first getting registered and students were accosted in the hallways with club information slapped on astrobrights with strong ~graphic design is my passion~ presentation)

they had needed someone tech savvy enough to get them the podcast equipment and teach them how to use it (and just,,, do all the technical aspects for them 🥺👉👈 pwetty pwease 🥺👉👈 we're just silly boys who want to talk about random shit but are trying to pass it off as being Constructive in Some Sense so that it looks good on college applications) and so obviously their search had sent them in the way of wonwoo, who only seemed to have free time on the exact day and time you two would joint study for your college level government and politics course.

so of course he asked if the two of you could move your study sessions to a different location (he swore he could multitask? okay overacheiver) so that he could both study with you and help the stupidly handsome hansol and joshua with their brilliant podcast idea.

and of course, you'd forget the first time and wonwoo would conveniently not answer his texts for 20 minutes, allowing for the most embarrassing stage of him finally picking up his phone (on speaker?) to you yelling "jeon wonwoo, i will personally castrate you and throw it in the ocean so you can be eaten alive by the creatures birthed from the subsequent sea foam if you don't come to the library to study right now. i have been waiting for 20. minutes. where are you?" and hansol and joshua would hear you. and have the gall to laugh.

and of course wonwoo wouldn't even give you the grace of not having to show up to his house (your new study location) to study for the day. in fact, hansol gave him the brilliant idea of threatening to train an eagle to peck at your liver daily - not eating it fully, just put in it's beak and twist the flesh. since you can't grow another liver overnight, of course. don't you just love mythological punishment.

(and that wouldn't be the end of the embarrassing podcast adventures, either. the time shua cajoled you into being a special guest????? truly, you dodged a bullet not being in spanish with that fool. he's impossible to refuse and the worst of it was that he knew it.)

— or what about the december gift exchange in journalism?? that was certainly not your finest moment, trying to get chaewon to change names with you so that you could gift something to hansol (something lady luck had never granted you despite all the blood, sweat, and tears you sunk into this journalism group of yours), and he heard you, mid-conversation.

seungkwan had told you hansol had been talking about it later, and you quite literally saw him connect the dots in slow-motion as he recounted the story. "y/n, do you have a crush on hansol????" it would have been bad enough that he practically yelled the accusation in the stands of the football field, but then he had the gall to triumphantly gasp and break into hysterical laughter upon your clear embarrassment at being caught. it was during lunch! you're shared lunch break with hansol! who knew where that fucker was! he probably saw the whole exchange!

(in the end, chaewon didn't change names with you (she traded with some other journalism traitor so she could gift to sakura) and even though hansol didn't have your name, he got you something regardless, saying it was thanks for putting up with he and shua stealing wonwoo during your (once peaceful) study sessions. you had decided against getting him a gift regardless, and so you had to awkwardly seek him out during winter break to shove a poorly wrapped box in his hands, with a mumbled apology for your tardiness in gifting, something he pushed away cooly, as expected (but were those red ears of his from just the cold, alone?).)

— and then, well, once everyone came back from winter break and seungkwan knew of your crush on hansol... school became less a Place of Learning and more a Viscous Time Loop of Shutting Seungkwan Up Before He Spilled The Beans.

kicking him under the table. threatening his livelihood. slapping a hand over his mouth on one occasion because seungkwan couldn't take a joke and his retaliation of choice was calling over hansol right there and then and forcing you both to awkwardly sit in the bitter soup of Revelation.

— and then there was february. oh, february. how easy it is to loathe february.

— it was already hard enough getting through the embarrassment of valentine's day themed fundraising — every year, your literature teacher (who oversaw the student body officers — that first exposure to the cruel reality of rigged elections, a popularity win if there ever was one) offered extra credit for students who volunteered time to help the sbo's with their silly little business venture of "roses for $3, sugar cookies with shocking pink frosting for $2, heart suckers for $1, sonnets written by the creative writing and theatre kids for $7.

every year you volunteered for some reason or another - maybe your grade needed it, maybe you were doing sbo president seungcheol a favor because no one signed up, maybe you were following the stupid advice of seokmin and were doing it for the plot (code for: please don't leave me alone at the stand, i will buy you all the sugar cookies you'd like, just don't consign me to spending my lunch break in this particular layer of hell in solitude). this year was no different in you signing up to do time, but seungkwan sure was different, asking you every day if you managed to see if vernon sent anyone something (he had — soonyoung had convinced him to pitch in to send jihoon 16 sonnets, to be read aloud in the middle of class). if he had sent you something (he hadn't).

but when you got an anonymous rose sent to your 2nd class of the day, with a cryptic note attached, your friends wouldn't let you live it down all week. (who had sent it, though? they would have had to be very strategic as to when they placed the order — you had certainly never seen one for yourself in your daily exchange of goods, and seokmin was suspiciously tight lipped about the whole thing (very uncharacteristic of him — who had the ability to buy dk's silence, and better yet, how had they done it???)).

— yes, valentine's day was bad enough. but to add to the mix was always hansol's birthday. last year you'd gotten him a gift since you had worked quite a lot together during that month, and it just felt... normal. comfortable. something kind to do that wasn't weird in anyway. but these days, facing hansol was almost as embarrassing as it had been during junior year when you avoided the mere sight of him like seeing him smile would end in you contracting the plague.

as the day inched ever closer, you were seriously considering missing the day entirely. taking the day off. pretending to be sick. but that wouldn't get you out of seeing him the day after. and the day after that.

perhaps fleeing the country would be a totally normal reaction and solid plan.

— and then joshua invited you to hansol's surprise birthday party.

well. at least that cleared up whether you should get him a gift or not.

— to say that, at that moment and for the subsequent days afterward, were overthinking the whole thing would be to extremely understate reality.

you were about to pop a blood vessel over this shit.

wonwoo was invited, too (how charitable of them. making sure there'd be someone there to scrape you off the floor when you inevitably discovered the power of self combustion) and it was rather comical to see the two of you: cool and calm wonwoo, and you with the internal dialogue of WHATTHEFUCKWHATTHEFUCKWHATTHEFUCKWHATTHEFUCKWHATTHEFUCKWHATTHEFUCKWHA

all holding a cute little gift between you.

— and the surprise birthday party really was a Legitimate, 5-Star, Genuine Quality, Surprise Bona Fide™ - a success by all measures. a shock in more ways than one: a surprise for hansol who had no idea the party was happening in the first place, getting called over for what he expected was a casual videogame night; a surprise for lee chan, somehow, when he saw that shua got you to come 15 minutes before show time to help blow up balloons - a shock so big he started to say something with a wild grin and was immediately dogpiled by mingyu, junhui, and hoshi; a surprise for all the friends amassed when you proved to be quite adept at party games like their incredibly convoluted version of mafia; and a surprise for you, later that night, when hansol offered to take you home

— the two you decided to stop at an empty playground before parting ways and see who could jump farther off of the swings. he won by a wide margin, but you had the skinned knees to prove your effort and the memory of hansol laughing so hard he could barely breathe — his smile so wide it could've filled you completely, banish any longing from your chest for a moment of unique closeness and bliss — and perhaps that was a consolation prize, enough.

but then you and hansol were on the swings again, seeing who could tighten the swing chain the most and spin the longest, and between the motion blur, you heard hansol admit defeat and when the swing stopped, his face was all too close to yours to shrug off as friendly, and his hands were holding the swing chain on either side, and when he spoke soft and low to crown you the victor, you kissed him.

and the biggest surprise of the night was when he kissed you back.

☄. *. ⋆

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